Many of us will doubtless not have forgotten how we were witnesses a certain number of years since to a season and a society that had found themselves of a sudden roused, as from some deep drugged sleep, to the conception of the “esthetic12” law of life; in consequence of which this happy thought had begun to receive the honours of a lively appetite and an eager curiosity, but was at the same time surrounded and manipulated by as many different kinds of inexpertness as probably ever huddled13 together on a single pretext14. The spectacle was strange and finally was wearisome, for the simple reason that the principle in question, once it was proclaimed—a principle not easily formulated15, but which we may conveniently speak of as that of beauty at any price, beauty appealing alike to the senses and to the mind—was never felt to fall into its place as really adopted and efficient. It remained for us a queer high-flavoured fruit from overseas, grown under another sun than ours, passed round and solemnly partaken of at banquets organised to try it, but not found on the whole really to agree with us, not proving thoroughly16 digestible. It brought with it no repose17, brought with it only agitation18. We were not really, not fully19 convinced, for the state of conviction is quiet. This was to have been the state itself—that is the state of mind achieved and established—in which we were to know ugliness no more, to make the esthetic consciousness feel at home with us, or learn ourselves at any rate to feel at home with it. That would have been the reign20 of peace, the supreme1 beatitude; but stability continued to elude21 us. We had mustered22 a hundred good reasons for it, yet the reasons but lighted up our desert. They failed to flower into a single concrete esthetic “type.” One authentic23, one masterful specimen24 would have done wonders for us, would at least have assuaged25 our curiosity. But we were to be left till lately with our curiosity on our hands.
This is a yearning27, however, that Signor D’Annunzio may at last strike us as supremely formed to gratify; so promptly28 we find in him as a literary figure the highest expression of the reality that our own conditions were to fail of making possible. He has immediately the value of giving us by his mere logical unfolding the measure of our shortcomings in the same direction, that of our timidities and penuries and failures. He throws a straighter and more inevitable30 light on the esthetic consciousness than has, to my sense, in our time, reached it from any other quarter; and there is many a mystery that properly interrogated31 he may help to clear up for us, many an explanation of our misadventure that—as I have glanced at it—he may give. He starts with the immense advantage of enjoying the invoked33 boon34 by grace and not by effort, of claiming it under another title than the sweat of his brow and the aspiration35 of his culture. He testifies to the influence of things that have had time to get themselves taken for granted. Beauty at any price is an old story to him; art and form and style as the aim of the superior life are a matter of course; and it may be said of him, I think, that, thanks to these transmitted and implanted instincts and aptitudes36, his individual development begins where the struggle of the mere earnest questioner ends. Signor D’Annunzio is earnest in his way, quite extraordinarily37—which is a feature of his physiognomy that we shall presently come to and about which there will be something to say; but we feel him all the while in such secure possession of his heritage of favouring circumstance that his sense of intellectual responsibility is almost out of proportion. This is one of his interesting special marks, the manner in which the play of the esthetic instinct in him takes on, for positive extravagance and as a last refinement38 of freedom, the crown of solicitude39 and anxiety. Such things but make with him for ornament40 and parade; they are his tribute to civility; the essence of the matter is meanwhile in his blood and his bones. No mistake was possible from the first as to his being of the inner literary camp—a new form altogether of perceptive41 and expressive42 energy; the question was settled by the intensity43 and variety, to say nothing of the precocity44, of his early poetic45 production.
Born at Pescara, in the Regno, the old kingdom of Naples, “toward” 1863, as I find noted46 by a cautious biographer, he had while scarce out of his teens allowed his lyric47 genius full opportunity of scandalising even the moderately austere48. He defined himself betimes very much as he was to remain, a rare imagination, a poetic, an artistic49 intelligence of extraordinary range and fineness concentrated almost wholly on the life of the senses. For the critic who simplifies a little to state clearly, the only ideas he urges upon us are the erotic and the plastic, which have for him about an equal intensity, or of which it would be doubtless more correct to say that he makes them interchangeable faces of the same figure. He began his career by playing with them together in verse, to innumerable light tunes50 and with an extraordinary general effect of curiosity and brilliancy. He has continued still more strikingly to play with them in prose; they have remained the substance of his intellectual furniture. It is of his prose only, however, that, leaving aside the Intermezzo, L’Isottèo, La Chimera51, Odi Navali and other such matters, I propose to speak, the subject being of itself ample for one occasion. His five novels and his four plays have extended his fame; they suggest by themselves as many observations as we shall have space for. The group of productions, as the literary industry proceeds among us to-day, is not large, but we may doubt if a talent and a temperament52, if indeed a whole “view of life,” ever built themselves up as vividly53 for the reader out of so few blocks. The writer is even yet enviably young; but this solidity of his literary image, as of something already seated on time and accumulation, makes him a rare example. Precocity is somehow an inadequate54 name for it, as precocity seldom gets away from the element of promise, and it is not exactly promise that blooms in the hard maturity55 of such a performance as “The Triumph of Death.” There are certain expressions of experience, of the experience of the whole man, that are like final milestones56, milestones for his possible fertility if not for his possible dexterity57; a truth that has not indeed prevented “Il Fuoco,” with its doubtless still ampler finality, from following the work just mentioned. And we have had particularly before us, in verse, I must add, “Francesca da Rimini,” with the great impression a great actress has enabled this drama to make.
Only I must immediately in this connection also add that Signor D’Annunzio’s plays are, beside his novels, of decidedly minor58 weight; testifying abundantly to his style, his romantic sense and his command of images, but standing59 in spite of their eloquence60 only for half of his talent, largely as he yet appears in “Il Fuoco” to announce himself by implication as an intending, indeed as a pre-eminent dramatist. The example is interesting when we catch in the fact the opportunity for comparing with the last closeness the capacity of the two rival canvases, as they become for the occasion, on which the picture of life may be painted. The closeness is never so great, the comparison never so pertinent61, as when the separate efforts are but different phases of the same talent. It is not at any rate under this juxtaposition62 that the infinitely63 greater amplitude64 of portrayal65 resident in the novel strikes us least. It in fact strikes us the more, in this quarter, for Signor D’Annunzio, that his plays have been with one exception successes. We must none the less take “Francesca” but for a success of curiosity; on the part of the author I mean even more than on the part of the public. It is primarily a pictorial66 and ingenious thing and, as a picture of passion, takes, in the total collection, despite its felicities of surface and arrangement, distinctly a “back seat.” Scarcely less than its companions it overflows67 with the writer’s plenitude of verbal expression, thanks to which, largely, the series will always prompt a curiosity and even a tenderness in any reader interested precisely68 in this momentous69 question of “style in a play”—interested in particular to learn by what esthetic chemistry a play would as a work of art propose to eschew70 it. It is in any such connection so inexpugnable that we have only to be cheated of it in one place to feel the subject cry aloud for it, like a sick man forsaken71, in another.
I may mention at all events the slightly perverse72 fact that, thanks, on this side, to the highest watermark of translation, Signor D’Annunzio makes his best appeal to the English public as a dramatist. Of each of the three English versions of other examples of his work whose titles are inscribed73 at the beginning of these remarks it may be said that they are adequate and respectable considering the great difficulty encountered. The author’s highest good fortune has nevertheless been at the hands of his French interpreter, who has managed to keep constantly close to him—allowing for an occasional inconsequent failure of courage when the directness of the original brave l’honnêteté—and yet to achieve a tone not less idiomatic74, and above all not less marked by “authority,” than his own. Mr. Arthur Symons, among ourselves, however, has rendered the somewhat insistent76 eloquence of “La Gioconda” and the intricate and difficult verse of “Francesca” with all due sympathy, and in the latter case especially—a highly arduous77 task—with remarkably78 patient skill. It is not his fault, doubtless, if the feet of his English text strike us as moving with less freedom than those of his original; such being the hard price paid always by the translator who tries for correspondence from step to step, tries for an identical order. Even less is he responsible for its coming still more home to us in a translation that the meagre anecdote79 here furnishing the subject, and on which the large superstructure rests, does not really lend itself to those developments that make a full or an interesting tragic80 complexity81. Behind the glamour82 of its immense literary association the subject of “Francesca” is for purposes of essential, of enlarged exhibition delusive83 and “short.”
These, however, are for the moment side-issues; what is more relevant is the stride taken by our author’s early progress in his first novel and his second, “Il Piacere” and “L’Innocente”; a pair from the freshness, the direct young energy of which he was, for some of his admirers, too promptly and to markedly to decline. We may take it as characteristic of the intensity of the literary life in him that his brief career falls already thus into periods and supplies a quantity of history sufficient for those differences among students by which the dignity of history appears mainly to be preserved. The nature of his prime inspiration I have already glanced at; and we are helped to a characterisation if I say that the famous enthroned “beauty” which operates here, so straight, as the great obsession84, is not in any perceptible degree moral beauty. It would be difficult perhaps to find elsewhere in the same compass so much expression of the personal life resting so little on any picture of the personal character and the personal will. It is not that Signor D’Annunzio has not more than once pushed his furrow85 in this latter direction; but nothing is exactly more interesting, as we shall see, than the seemingly inevitable way in which the attempt falls short.
“Il Piacere,” the first in date of the five tales, has, though with imperfections, the merit of giving us strongly at the outset the author’s scale and range of view, and of so constituting a sort of prophetic summary of his elements. All that is done in the later things is more or less done here, and nothing is absent here that we are not afterwards also to miss. I propose, however, that it shall not be prematurely86 a question with us of what we miss; no intelligible87 statement of which, for that matter, in such considerations as these, is ever possible till there has been some adequate statement of what we find. Count Andrea Sperelli is a young man who pays, pays heavily, as we take it that we are to understand, for an unbridled surrender to the life of the senses; whereby it is primarily a picture of that life that the story gives us. He is represented as inordinately88, as quite monstrously90, endowed for the career that from the first absorbs and that finally is to be held, we suppose, to engulf92 him; and it is a tribute to the truth with which his endowment is presented that we should scarce know where else to look for so complete and convincing an account of such adventures. Casanova de Seingalt is of course infinitely more copious93, but his autobiography95 is cheap loose journalism96 compared with the directed, finely-condensed iridescent97 epic98 of Count Andrea.
This young man’s years have run but half their course from twenty to thirty when he meets and becomes entangled99 with a woman more infernally expert even than himself in the matters in which he is most expert—and he is given us as a miracle of social and intellectual accomplishment100—the effect of whom is fatally to pervert101 and poison his imagination. As his imagination is applied102 exclusively to the employments of “love,” this means, for him, a frustration103 of all happiness, all comfortable consistency, in subsequent relations of the same order. The author’s view—this is fundamental—is all of a world in which relations of any other order whatever mainly fail to offer themselves in any attractive form. Andrea Sperelli, loving, accordingly—in the manner in which D’Annunzio’s young men love and to which we must specifically return—a woman of good faith, a woman as different as possible from the creature of evil communications, finds the vessel104 of his spirit itself so infected and disqualified that it falsifies and dries up everything that passes through it. The idea that has virtually determined106 the situation appears in fact to be that the hero would have loved in another manner, or would at least have wished to, but that he had too promptly put any such fortune, so far as his capacity is concerned, out of court. We have our reasons, presently manifest, for doubting the possibility itself; but the theory has nevertheless given its direction to the fable107.
For the rest the author’s three sharpest signs are already unmistakable: first his rare notation108 of states of excited sensibility; second his splendid visual sense, the quick generosity109 of his response to the message, as we nowadays say, of aspects and appearances, to the beauty of places and things; third his ample and exquisite110 style, his curious, various, inquisitive111, always active employment of language as a means of communication and representation. So close is the marriage between his power of “rendering,” in the light of the imagination, and whatever he sees and feels, that we should much mislead in speaking of his manner as a thing distinct from the matter submitted to it. The fusion112 is complete and admirable, so that, though his work is nothing if not “literary,” we see at no point of it where literature or where life begins or ends: we swallow our successive morsels113 with as little question as we swallow food that has by proper preparation been reduced to singleness of savour. It is brought home to us afresh that there is no complete creation without style any more than there is complete music without sound; also that when language becomes as closely applied and impressed a thing as for the most part in the volumes before us the fact of artistic creation is registered at a stroke. It is never more present than in the thick-sown illustrative images and figures that fairly bloom under D’Annunzio’s hand. I find examples in “Il Piacere,” as elsewhere, by simply turning the pages. “His will”—of the hero’s weakness—“useless as a sword of base temper hung at the side of a drunkard or a dullard.” Or of his own southern land in September: “I scarce know why, looking at the country in this season, I always think of some beautiful woman after childbirth, who lies back in her white bed, smiling with a pale astonished inextinguishable smile.” Or the incision114 of this: “Where for him now were those unclean short-lived loves that left in the mouth the strange acidity115 of fruit cut with a steel knife?” Or the felicity of the following, of a southern night seen and felt from the terrace of a villa116. “Clear meteors at intervals117 streaked118 the motionless air, running over it as lightly and silently as drops of water on a crystal pane119.” “The sails on the sea,” he says of the same look-out by day, “were as pious94 and numberless as the wings of cherubim on the gold grounds of old Giottesque panels.”
But it is above all here for two things that his faculty120 is admirable; one of them his making us feel through the windows of his situation, or the gaps, as it were, of his flowering wood, the golden presence of Rome, the charm that appeals to him as if he were one of the pilgrims from afar, save that he reproduces it with an authority in which, as we have seen, the pilgrims from afar have mainly been deficient121. The other is the whole category of the phenomena122 of “passion,” as passion prevails between his men and his women—and scarcely anything else prevails; the states of feeling, of ecstasy123 and suffering engendered124, the play of sensibility from end to end of the scale. In this direction he has left no dropped stitches for any worker of like tapestries125 to pick up. We shall here have made out that many of his “values” are much to be contested, but that where they are true they are as fresh as discoveries; witness the passage where Sperelli, driving back to Rome after a steeplechase in which he has been at the supreme moment worsted, meets nothing that does not play with significance into his vision and act with force on his nerves. He has before the race had “words,” almost blows, on the subject of one of the ladies present, with one of the other riders, of which the result is that they are to send each other their seconds; but the omens126 are not for his adversary127, in spite of the latter’s success on the course.
From the mail-coach, on the return, he overtook the flight toward Rome of Giannetto Rutolo, seated in a small two-wheeled trap, behind the quick trot128 of a great roan, over whom he bent129 with tight reins130, holding his head down and his cigar in his teeth, heedless of the attempts of policemen to keep him in line. Rome, in the distance, stood up dark against a zone of light as yellow as sulphur; and the statues crowning St. John Lateran looked huge, above the zone, in their violet sky. Then it was that Andrea fully knew the pain he was making another soul suffer.
Nothing could be more characteristic of the writer than the way what has preceded flowers into that last reality; and equally in his best manner, doubtless, is such a passage as the following from the same volume, which treats of the hero’s first visit to the sinister131 great lady whose influence on his soul and his senses is to become as the trail of a serpent. She receives him, after their first accidental meeting, with extraordinary promptitude and the last intimacy132, receives him in the depths of a great Roman palace which the author, with a failure of taste that is, unfortunately for him, on ground of this sort, systematic133, makes a point of naming. “Then they ceased to speak. Each felt the presence of the other flow and mingle134 with his own, with her own, very blood; till it was her blood at last that seemed to have become his life, and his that seemed to have become hers. The room grew larger in the deep silence; the crucifix of Guido Reni made the shade of the canopy135 and curtains religious; the rumour136 of the city came to them like the murmur137 of some far-away flood.” Or take for an instance of the writer’s way of showing the consciousness as a full, mixed cup, of touching138 us ourselves with the mystery at work in his characters, the description of the young man’s leaving the princely apartments in question after the initiation139 vouchsafed140 to him. He has found the great lady ill in bed, with remedies and medicine-bottles at her side, but not too ill, as we have seen, to make him welcome. “Farewell,” she has said. “Love me! Remember!”
It seemed to him, crossing the threshold again, that he heard behind him a burst of sobs141. But he went on, a little uncertain, wavering like a man who sees imperfectly. The odour of the chloroform clung to his sense like some fume143 of intoxication144; but at each step something intimate passed away from him, wasting itself in the air, so that, impulsively145, instinctively146, he would have kept himself as he was, have closed himself in, have wrapped himself up to prevent the dispersion. The rooms in front of him were deserted147 and dumb. At one of the doors “Mademoiselle” appeared, with no sound of steps, with no rustle148 of skirts, standing there like a ghost. “This way, signor conte. You won’t find it.” She had an ambiguous, irritating smile, and her curiosity made her grey eyes more piercing. Andrea said nothing. The woman’s presence again disconcerted and troubled him, affected149 him with a vague repugnance150, stirred indeed his wrath151.
Even the best things suffer by detachment from their context; but so it is that we are in possession of the young man’s exit, so it is that the act interests us. Fully announced from the first, among these things, was D’Annunzio’s signal gift of never approaching the thing particularly to be done, the thing that so presents itself to the painter, without consummately152 doing it. Each of his volumes offers thus its little gallery of episodes that stand out like the larger pearls occurring at intervals on a string of beads153. The steeplechase in “Il Piacere,” the auction154 sale of precious trinkets in Via Sistina on the wet afternoon, the morning in the garden at Schifanoia, by the southern sea, when Donna Maria, the new revelation, first comes down to Andrea, who awaits her there in the languor155 of convalescence156 from the almost fatal wound received in the duel157 of which the altercation158 on the race-course has been the issue: the manner of such things as these has an extraordinary completeness of beauty. But they are, like similar pages in “Il Trionfo” and “Il Fuoco,” not things for adequate citation159, not things that lend themselves as some of the briefer felicities. Donna Maria, on the September night at Schifanoia, has been playing for Andrea and their hostess certain old quaint160 gavottes and toccatas.
It lived again wondrously162 beneath her fingers, the eighteenth-century music, so melancholy163 in its dance-tunes—tunes that might have been composed to be danced, on languid afternoons of some St. Martin’s summer, in a deserted park, among hushed fountains and pedestals without their statues, over carpets of dead roses, by pairs of lovers soon to love no more.
Autobiographic in form, “L’Innocente” sticks closely to its theme, and though the form is on the whole a disadvantage to it the texture164 is admirably close. The question is of nothing less than a young husband’s relation to the illegitimate child of his wife, born confessedly as such, and so born, marvellous to say, in spite of the circumstance that the wife adores him, and of the fact that, though long grossly, brutally165 false to her, he also adores his wife. To state these data is sufficiently166 to express the demand truly made by them for superiority of treatment; they require certainly two or three almost impossible postulates167. But we of course never play the fair critical game with an author, never get into relation with him at all, unless we grant him his postulates. His subject is what is given him—given him by influences, by a process, with which we have nothing to do; since what art, what revelation, can ever really make such a mystery, such a passage in the private life of the intellect, adequately traceable for us? His treatment of it, on the other hand, is what he actively169 gives; and it is with what he gives that we are critically concerned. If there is nothing in him that effectually induces us to make the postulate168, he is then empty for us altogether, and the sooner we have done with him the better; little as the truly curious critic enjoys, as a general thing, having publicly to throw up the sponge.
Tullio Hermil, who finally compasses the death of the little “innocent,” the small intruder whose presence in the family life has become too intolerable, retraces170 with a master’s hand each step of the process by which he has arrived at this sole issue. Save that his wife dumbly divines and accepts it his perpetration of the deed is not suspected, and we take the secret confession171 of which the book consists as made for the relief and justification172 of his conscience. The action all goes forward in that sphere of exasperated173 sensibility which Signor D’Annunzio has made his own so triumphantly174 that other story-tellers strike us in comparison as remaining at the door of the inner precinct, as listening there but to catch an occasional faint sound, while he alone is well within and moving through the place as its master. The sensibility has again in itself to be qualified105; the exasperation175 of feeling is ever the essence of the intercourse176 of some man with some woman who has reduced him, as in “L’Innocente” and in “Il Trionfo,” to homicidal madness, or of some woman with some man who, as in “Il Fuoco,” and also again by a strange duplication of its office in “L’Innocente,” causes her atrociously to suffer. The plane of the situation is thus visibly a singularly special plane; that, always, of the more or less insanely demoralised pair of lovers, for neither of whom is any other personal relation indicated either as actual or as conceivably possible. Here, it may be said on such a showing, is material rather alarmingly cut down as to range, as to interest and, not least, as to charm; but here precisely it is that, by a wonderful chance, the author’s magic comes effectively into play.
Little in fact as the relation of the erotically exasperated with the erotically exasperated, when pushed on either side to frenzy177, would appear to lend itself to luminous178 developments, the difficulty is surmounted179 each time in a fashion that, for consistency no less than for brilliancy, is all the author’s own. Though surmounted triumphantly as to interest, that is, the trick is played without the least falsification of the luckless subjects of his study. They remain the abject180 victims of sensibility that his plan has originally made them; they remain exasperated, erotic, hysterical181, either homicidally or suicidally determined, cut off from any personal source of life that does not poison them; notwithstanding all of which they neither starve dramatically nor suffer us to starve with them. How then is this seemingly inevitable catastrophe182 prevented? We ask it but to find on reflection that the answer opens the door to their historian’s whole secret. The unfortunates are deprived of any enlarging or saving personal relation, that is of any beneficent reciprocity; but they make up for it by their relation both to the idea in general and to the whole world of the senses, which is the completest that the author can conceive for them. He may be described as thus executing on their behalf an artistic volte-face of the most effective kind, with results wonderful to note. The world of the senses, with which he surrounds them—a world too of the idea, that is of a few ideas admirably expressed—yields them such a crop of impressions that the need of other occasions to vibrate and respond, to act or to aspire183, is superseded184 by their immense factitious agitation. This agitation runs its course in strangely brief periods—a singular note, the brevity, of every situation; but the period is while it lasts, for all its human and social poverty, quite inordinately peopled and furnished. The innumerable different ways in which his concentrated couples are able to feel about each other and about their enclosing cage of golden wire, the nature and the art of Italy—these things crowd into the picture and pervade185 it, lighting186 it scarcely less, strange to say, because they are things of bitterness and woe187.
It is one of the miracles of the imagination; the great shining element in which the characters flounder and suffer becomes rich and beautiful for them, as well as in so many ways for us, by the action of the writer’s mind. They not only live in his imagination, but they borrow it from him in quantities; indeed without this charitable advance they would be poor creatures enough, for they have in each case almost nothing of their own. On the aid thus received they start, they get into motion; it makes their common basis of “passion,” desire, enchantment188, aversion. The essence of the situation is the same in “Il Trionfo” and “Il Fuoco” as in “L’Innocente”: the temporarily united pair devour189 each other, tear and rend75 each other, wear each other out through a series of erotic convulsions and nervous reactions that are made interesting—interesting to us—almost exclusively by the special wealth of their consciousness. The medium in which they move is admirably reflected in it; the autumn light of Venice, the afterglow of her past, in the drama of the elderly actress and the young rhetorician of “Il Fuoco”; the splendour of the summer by the edge of the lower Adriatic in that of the two isolated190 erotomaniacs of “Il Trionfo,” indissolubly linked at last in the fury of physical destruction into which the man drags the woman by way of retribution for the fury of physical surrender into which she has beguiled192 him.
As for “L’Innocente” again, briefly193, there is perhaps nothing in it to match the Roman passages of “Il Piacere”; but the harmony of the general, the outer conditions pervades194 the picture; the sweetness of the villeggiatura life, the happiness of place and air, the lovability of the enclosing scene, all at variance195 with the sharpness of the inner tragedy. The inner tragedy of “L’Innocente” has a concentration that is like the carrying, through turns and twists, upstairs and down, of some cup filled to the brim, of which no drop is yet spilled; such cumulative197 truth rules the scene after we have once accepted the postulate. It is true that the situation as exhibited involves for Giuliana, the young wife, the vulgarest of adventures; yet she becomes, as it unfolds, the figure of the whole gallery in whom the pathetic has at once most of immediate29 truth and of investing poetry. I much prefer her for beauty and interest to Donna Maria in “Il Piacere,” the principal other image of faith and patience sacrificed. We see these virtues198 as still supreme in her even while she faces, in advance, her ordeal200, in respect to which it has been her hope, in fact her calculation, that her husband will have been deceived about the paternity of her child; and she is so truthfully touching when this possibility breaks down that even though we rub our eyes at the kind of dignity claimed for her we participate without reserve in her predicament. The origin of the infant is frankly201 ignoble202, whereas it is on the nobleness of Giuliana that the story essentially203 hinges; but the contradiction is wonderfully kept from disconcerting us altogether. What the author has needed for his strangest truth is that the mother shall feel exactly as the husband does, and that the husband shall after the first shock of his horror feel intimately and explicitly204 with the mother. They take in this way the same view of their woeful excrescence; and the drama of the child’s advent32 and of the first months of his existence, his insistent and hated survival, becomes for them in respect to the rest of the world a drama of silence and dissimulation205, in every step of which we feel a terror.
The effect, I may add, gains more than one kind of intensity from that almost complete absence of other contacts to which D’Annunzio systematically206 condemns207 his creatures; introducing here, however, just the two or three that more completely mark the isolation208. It may doubtless be conceded that our English-speaking failure of insistence209, of inquiry210 and penetration211, in certain directions, springs partly from our deep-rooted habit of dealing212 with man, dramatically, on his social and gregarious213 side, as a being the variety of whose intercourse with his fellows, whatever forms his fellows may take, is positively214 half his interesting motion. We fear to isolate191 him, for we remember that as we see and know him he scarce understands himself save in action, action which inevitably mixes him with his kind. To see and know him, like Signor D’Annunzio, almost only in passion is another matter, for passion spends itself quickly in the open and burns hot mainly in nooks and corners. Nothing, too, in the picture is more striking than the manner in which the merely sentimental215 abyss—that of the couple brought together by the thing that might utterly216 have severed217 them—is consistently and successfully avoided. We should have been certain to feel it in many other hands yawning but a few steps off. We see the dreadful facts in themselves, are brought close to them with no interposing vaguenesses or other beggings of the question, and are forcibly reminded how much more this “crudity” makes for the communication of tenderness—what is aimed at—than an attitude conventionally more reticent218. We feel what the tenderness can be when it rests on all the items of a constituted misery219, not one of which is illogically blinked.
For the pangs220 and pities of the flesh in especial D’Annunzio has in all his work the finest hand—those of the spirit exist with him indeed only as proceeding222 from these; so that Giuliana for instance affects us, beyond any figure in fiction we are likely to remember, as living and breathing under our touch and before our eyes, as a creature of organs, functions and processes, palpable, audible, pitiful physical conditions. These are facts, many of them, of an order in pursuit of which many a spectator of the “picture of life” will instinctively desire to stop short, however great in general his professed223 desire to enjoy the borrowed consciousness that the picture of life gives us; and nothing, it may well be said, is more certain than that we have a right in such matters to our preference, a right to choose the kind of adventure of the imagination we like best. No obligation whatever rests on us in respect to a given kind—much light as our choice may often throw for the critic on the nature of our own intelligence. There at any rate, we are disposed to say of such a piece of penetration as “L’Innocente,” there is a particular dreadful adventure, as large as life, for those who can bear it. The conditions are all present; it is only the reader himself who may break down. When in general, it may be added, we see readers do so, this is truly more often because they are shocked at really finding the last consistency than because they are shocked at missing it.
“Il Trionfo della Morte” and “Il Fuoco” stand together as the amplest and richest of our author’s histories, and the earlier, and more rounded and faultless thing of the two, is not unlikely to serve, I should judge, as an unsurpassable example of his talent. His accomplishment here reaches its maximum; all his powers fight for him; the wealth of his expression drapes the situation represented in a mantle224 of voluminous folds, stiff with elaborate embroidery225. The “story” may be told in three words: how Giorgio Aurispa meets in Rome the young and extremely pretty wife of a vulgar man of business, her unhappiness with whom is complete, and, falling in love with her on the spot, eventually persuades her—after many troubled passages—to come and pass a series of weeks with him in a “hermitage” by the summer sea, where, in a delirium226 of free possession, he grows so to hate her, and to hate himself for his subjection to her, and for the prostration227 of all honour and decency228 proceeding from it, that his desire to destroy her even at the cost of perishing with her at last takes uncontrollable form and he drags her, under a pretext, to the edge of a sea-cliff and hurls229 her, interlocked with him in appalled230 resistance, into space. We get at an early stage the note of that aridity232 of agitation in which the narrator has expended233 treasures of art in trying to interest us. “Fits of indescribable fury made them try which could torture each other best, which most lacerate the other’s heart and keep it in martyrdom.” But they understand, at least the hero does; and he formulates234 for his companion the essence of their impasse235. It is not her fault when she tears and rends236.
Each human soul carries in it for love but a determinate quantity of sensitive force. It is inevitable that this quantity should use itself up with time, as everything else does; so that when it is used up no effort has power to prevent love from ceasing. Now it’s a long time that you have been loving me; nearly two years!
The young man’s intelligence is of the clearest; the woman’s here is inferior, though in “Il Fuoco” the two opposed faculties237 are almost equal; but the pair are alike far from living in their intelligence, which only serves to bestrew with lurid238 gleams the black darkness of their sensual life. So far as the intelligence is one with the will our author fundamentally treats it as cut off from all communication with any other quarter—that is with the senses arrayed and encamped. The most his unfortunates arrive at is to carry their extremely embellished239 minds with them through these dusky passages as a kind of gilded240 glimmering241 lantern, the effect of which is merely fantastic and ironic—a thing to make the play of their shadows over the walls of their catacomb more monstrous91 and sinister. Again in the first pages of “Il Trionfo” the glimmer242 is given.
He recognised the injustice243 of any resentment244 against her, because he recognised the fatal necessities that controlled them alike. No, his misery came from no other human creature; it came from the very essence of life. The lover had not the lover to complain of, but simply love itself. Love, toward which his whole being reached out, from within, with a rush not to be checked, love was of all the sad things of this earth the most lamentably245 sad. And to this supreme sadness he was perhaps condemned246 till death.
That, in a nutshell, is D’Annunzio’s subject-matter; not simply that his characters see in advance what love is worth for them, but that they nevertheless need to make it the totality of their consciousness. In “Il Trionfo” and “Il Fuoco” the law just expressed is put into play at the expense of the woman, with the difference, however, that in the latter tale the woman perceives and judges, suffers in mind, so to speak, as well as in nerves and in temper. But it would be hard to say in which of these two productions the inexhaustible magic of Italy most helps the effect, most hangs over the story in such a way as to be one with it and to make the ugliness and the beauty melt together. The ugliness, it is to be noted, is continually presumed absent; the pursuit and cultivation247 of beauty—that fruitful preoccupation which above all, I have said, gives the author his value as our “case”—being the very ground on which the whole thing rests. The ugliness is an accident, a treachery of fate, the intrusion of a foreign substance—having for the most part in the scheme itself no admitted inevitability248. Against it every provision is made that the most developed taste in the world can suggest; for, ostensibly, transcendently, Signor D’Annunzio’s is the most developed taste in the world—his and that of the ferocious249 yet so contracted conoscenti his heroes, whose virtual identity with himself, affirmed with a strangely misplaced complacency by some of his critics, one would surely hesitate to take for granted. It is the wondrous161 physical and other endowments of the two heroines of “Il Piacere,” it is the joy and splendour of the hero’s intercourse with them, to say nothing of the lustre250 of his own person, descent, talents, possessions, and of the great general setting in which everything is offered us—it is all this that makes up the picture, with the constant suggestion that nothing of a baser quality for the esthetic sense, or at the worst for a pampered251 curiosity, might hope so much as to live in it. The case is the same in “L’Innocente,” a scene all primarily smothered252 in flowers and fruits and fragrances253 and soft Italian airs, in every implication of flattered embowered constantly-renewed desire, which happens to be a blighted254 felicity only for the very reason that the cultivation of delight—in the form of the wife’s luckless experiment—has so awkwardly overleaped itself. Whatever furthermore we may reflectively think either of the Ippolita of “Il Trionfo” or of her companion’s scheme of existence with her, it is enchanting255 grace, strange, original, irresistible256 in kind and degree, that she is given us as representing; just as her material situation with her young man during the greater part of the tale is a constant communion, for both of them, with the poetry and the nobleness of classic landscape, of nature consecrated257 by association.
The mixture reaches its maximum, however, in “Il Fuoco,” if not perhaps in “The Virgins258 of the Rocks”; the mixture I mean of every exhibited element of personal charm, distinction and interest, with every insidious259 local influence, every glamour of place, season and surrounding object. The heroine of the first-named is a great tragic actress, exquisite for everything but for being unfortunately middle-aged260, battered261, marked, as we are constantly reminded, by all the after-sense of a career of promiscuous262 carnal connections. The hero is a man of letters, a poet, a dramatist of infinite reputation and resource, and their union is steeped to the eyes in the gorgeous medium of Venice, the moods of whose melancholy and the voices of whose past are an active part of the perpetual concert. But we see all the persons introduced to us yearn26 and strain to exercise their perceptions and taste their impressions as deeply as possible, conspiring263 together to interweave them with the pleasures of passion. They “go in” as the phrase is, for beauty at any cost—for each other’s own to begin with; their creator, in the inspiring quest, presses them hard, and the whole effect becomes for us that of an organised general sacrifice to it and an organised general repudiation264 of everything else. It is not idle to repeat that the value of the Italian background has to this end been inestimable, and that every spark of poetry it had to contribute has been struck from it—with what supreme felicity we perhaps most admiringly learn in “The Virgins of the Rocks.” To measure the assistance thus rendered, and especially the immense literary lift given, we have only to ask ourselves what appearance any one of the situations presented would have made in almost any Cisalpine or “northern” frame of circumstance whatever. Supported but by such associations of local or of literary elegance265 as our comparatively thin resources are able to furnish, the latent weakness in them all, the rock, as to final effect, on which they split and of which I shall presently speak, would be immeasurably less dissimulated266. All this is the lesson of style, by which we here catch a writer in the very act of profiting after a curious double fashion. D’Annunzio arrives at it both by expression and by material—that is, by a whole side of the latter; so that with such energy at once and such good fortune it would be odd indeed if he had not come far. It is verily in the very name and interest of beauty, of the lovely impression, that Giorgio Aurispa becomes homicidal in thought and finally in act.
She would in death become for me matter of thought, pure ideality. From a precarious267 and imperfect existence she would enter into an existence complete and definitive268, forsaking269 forever the infirmity of her weak luxurious270 flesh. Destroy to possess—there is no other way for him who seeks the absolute in love.
To these reflections he has been brought by the long, dangerous past which, as the author says, his connection with his mistress has behind it—a past of recriminations of which the ghosts still walk. “It dragged behind it, through time, an immense dark net, all full of dead things.” To quote here at all is always to desire to continue, and “Il Trionfo” abounds271 in the illustrative episodes that are ever made so masterfully concrete. Offering in strictness, incidentally, the only exhibition in all the five volumes of a human relation other than the acutely sexual, it deals admirably enough with this opportunity when the hero pays his visit to his provincial272 parents before settling with his mistress at their hermitage. His people are of ancient race and have been much at their ease; but the home in the old Apulian town, overdarkened by the misdeeds of a demoralised father, is on the verge273 of ruin, and the dull mean despair of it all, lighted by outbreaks of helpless rage on the part of the injured mother, is more than the visitor can bear, absorbed as he is in impatiences and concupiscences which make everything else cease to exist for him. His terror of the place and its troubles but exposes of course the abjection274 of his weakness, and the sordid275 squabbles, the general misery and mediocrity of life that he has to face, constitute precisely, for his personal design, the abhorred276 challenge of ugliness, the interference of a call other than erotic. He flees before it, leaving it to make shift as it can; but nothing could be more “rendered” in detail than his overwhelmed vision of it.
So with the other finest passages of the story, notably277 the summer day spent by the lovers in a long dusty dreadful pilgrimage to a famous local miracle-working shrine278, where they mingle with the multitude of the stricken, the deformed279, the hideous280, the barely human, and from which they return, disgusted and appalled, to plunge281 deeper into consoling but too temporary transports; notably also the incident, masterly in every touch, of the little drowned contadino, the whole scene of the small starved dead child on the beach, in all the beauty of light and air and view, with the effusions and vociferations and grimnesses round him, the sights and sounds of the quasi-barbaric life that have the relief of antique rites282 portrayed283 on old tombs and urns196, that quality and dignity of looming284 larger which a great feeling on the painter’s part ever gives to small things. With this ampler truth the last page of the book is above all invested, the description of the supreme moment—for some time previous creeping nearer and nearer—at which the delirious285 protagonist286 beguiles287 his vaguely288 but not fully suspicious companion into coming out with him toward the edge of a dizzy place over the sea, where he suddenly grasps her for her doom289 and the sense of his awful intention, flashing a light back as into their monstrous past, makes her shriek290 for her life. She dodges291 him at the first betrayal, panting and trembling.
“Are you crazy?” she cried with wrath in her throat. “Are you crazy?” But as she saw him make for her afresh in silence, as she felt herself seized with still harsher violence and dragged afresh toward her danger, she understood it all in a great sinister flash which blasted her soul with terror. “No, no, Giorgio! Let me go! Let me go! Another minute—listen, listen! Just a minute! I want to say——!” She supplicated292, mad with terror, getting herself free and hoping to make him wait, to put him off with pity. “A minute! Listen! I love you! Forgive me! Forgive me!” She stammered293 incoherent words, desperate, feeling herself overcome, losing her ground, seeing death close. “Murder!” she then yelled in her fury. And she defended herself with her nails, with her teeth, biting like a wild beast. “Murder!” she yelled, feeling herself seized by the hair, felled to the ground on the edge of the precipice294, lost. The dog meanwhile barked out at the scuffle. The struggle was short and ferocious, as between implacable enemies who had been nursing to this hour in the depths of their souls an intensity of hate. And they plunged295 into death locked together.
The wonder-working shrine of the Abruzzi, to which they have previously296 made their way, is a local Lourdes, the resort from far and wide of the physically297 afflicted298, the evocation299 of whose multitudinous presence, the description of whose unimaginable miseries300 and ecstasies301, grovelling302 struggles and supplications, has the mark of a pictorial energy for such matters not inferior to that of émile Zola—to the degree even that the originality303 of the pages in question was, if I remember rightly, rather sharply impugned304 in Paris. D’Annunzio’s defence, however, was easy, residing as it does in the fact that to handle any subject successfully handled by Zola (his failures are another matter) is quite inevitably to walk more or less in his footsteps, in prints so wide and deep as to leave little margin305 for passing round them. To which I may add that, though the judgment306 may appear odd, the truth and force of the young man’s few abject days at Guardiagrele, his casa paterna, are such as to make us wish that other such corners of life were more frequent in the author’s pages. He has the supremely interesting quality in the novelist that he fixes, as it were, the tone of every cluster of objects he approaches, fixes it by the consistency and intensity of his reproduction. In “The Virgins of the Rocks” we have also a casa paterna, and a thing, as I have indicated, of exquisite and wonderful tone; but the tone here is of poetry, the truth and the force are less measurable and less familiar, and the whole question, after all, in its refined and attenuated307 form, is still that of sexual pursuit, which keeps it within the writer’s too frequent limits. Giorgio Aurispa, in “Il Trionfo,” lives in communion with the spirit of an amiable308 and melancholy uncle who had committed suicide and made him the heir of his fortune, and one of the nephew’s most frequent and faithful loyalties309 is to hark back, in thought, to the horror of his first knowledge of the dead man’s act, put before us always with its accompaniment of loud southern resonance310 and confusion. He is in the place again, he is in the room, at Guardiagrele, of the original appalled vision.
He heard, in the stillness of the air and of his arrested soul, the small shrill311 of an insect in the wainscot. And the little fact sufficed to dissipate for the moment the extreme violence of his nervous tension, as the puncture312 of a needle suffices to empty a swollen313 bladder. Every particular of the terrible day came back to his memory: the news abruptly314 brought to Torretta di Sarsa, toward three in the afternoon, by a panting messenger who stammered and whimpered: the ride on horseback, at lightning speed, under the canicular sky and up the torrid slopes, and, during the rush, the sudden faintnesses that turned him dizzy in his saddle; then the house at home, filled with sobs, filled with a noise of doors slamming in the general scare, filled with the strumming of his own arteries315; and at last his irruption into the room, the sight of the corpse316, the curtains inflated317 and rustling318, the tinkle319 on the wall of the little font for holy water.
This young man’s great mistake, we are told, had been his insistence on regarding love as a form of enjoyment. He would have been in a possible relation to it only if he had learned to deal with it as a form of suffering. This is the lesson brought home to the heroine of “Il Fuoco,” who suffers indeed, as it seems to us, so much more than is involved in the occasion. We ask ourselves continually why; that is we do so at first; we do so before the special force of the book takes us captive and reduces us to mere charmed absorption of its successive parts and indifference320 to its moral sense. Its defect is verily that it has no moral sense proportionate to the truth, the constant high style of the general picture; and this fact makes the whole thing appear given us simply because it has happened, because it was material that the author had become possessed321 of, and not because, in its almost journalistic “actuality,” it has any large meaning. We get the impression of a direct transfer, a “lift,” bodily, of something seen and known, something not really produced by the chemical process of art, the crucible322 or retort from which things emerge for a new function. Their meaning here at any rate, extracted with difficulty, would seem to be that there is an inevitable leak of ease and peace when a mistress happens to be considerably323 older than her lover; but even this interesting yet not unfamiliar324 truth loses itself in the great poetic, pathetic, psychologic ceremonial.
That matters little indeed, as I say, while we read; the two sensibilities concerned bloom, in all the Venetian glow, like wondrous water-plants, throwing out branches and flowers of which we admire the fantastic growth even while we remain, botanically speaking, bewildered. They are other sensibilities than those with which we ourselves have community—one of the main reasons of their appearing so I shall presently explain; and, besides, they are isolated, sequestrated, according to D’Annunzio’s constant view of such cases, for an exclusive, an intensified325 and arid231 development. The mistress has, abnormally, none of the protection, the alternative life, the saving sanity326 of other interests, ties, employments; while the hero, a young poet and dramatist with an immense consciousness of genius and fame, has for the time at least only those poor contacts with existence that the last intimacies327 of his contact with his friend’s person, her poor corpo non più giovane, as he so frequently repeats, represent for him. It is not for us, however, to contest the relation; it is in the penetrating328 way again in which the relation is rendered that the writer has his triumph; the way above all in which the world-weary interesting sensitive woman, with her infinite intelligence, yet with her longing329 for some happiness still among all her experiments untasted, and her genius at the same time for familiar misery, is marked, featured, individualised for us, and, with the strangest art in the world—one of those mysteries of which great talents alone have the trick—at once ennobled with beauty and desecrated330 by a process that we somehow feel to be that of exposure, to spring from some violation331 of a privilege. “?‘Do with me,’?” says the Foscarina on a certain occasion, “?‘whatever you will’; and she smiled in her offered abjection. She belonged to him like the thing one holds in one’s fist, like the ring on one’s finger, like a glove, like a garment, like a word that may be spoken or not, like a draught332 that may be drunk or poured on the ground.” There are some lines describing an hour in which she has made him feel as never before “the incalculable capacity of the heart of man. And it seemed to him as he heard the beating of his own heart and divined the violence of the other beside him that he had in his ears the loud repercussion333 of the hammer on the hard anvil334 where human destiny is forged.” More than ever here the pitch of the personal drama is taken up by everything else in the scene—everything else being in fact but the immediate presence of Venice, her old faded colour and old vague harmonies, played with constantly as we might play with some rosy335 fretted336 faintly-sounding sea-shell.
It would take time to say what we play with in the silver-toned “Virgins of the Rocks,” the history of a visit paid by a transcendent young man—always pretty much the same young man—to an illustrious family whose fortunes have tragically337 shrunken with the expulsion of the Bourbons from the kingdom of Naples, and the three last lovely daughters of whose house are beginning to wither338 on the stem, undiscovered, unsought, in a dilapidated old palace, an old garden of neglected pomp, a place of fountains and colonnades339, marble steps and statues, all circled with hard bright sun-scorched volcanic340 scenery. They are tacitly candidates for the honour of the hero’s hand, and the subject of the little tale, which deals with scarce more than a few summer days, is the manner of their presenting themselves for his admiration341 and his choice. I decidedly name this exquisite composition as my preferred of the series; for if its tone is thoroughly romantic the romance is yet of the happiest kind, the kind that consists in the imaginative development of observable things, things present, significant, related to us, and not in a weak false fumble342 for the remote and the disconnected.
It is indeed the romantic mind itself that makes the picture, and there could be no better case of the absolute artistic vision. The mere facts are soon said; the main fact, above all, of the feeble remnant of an exhausted343 race waiting in impotence to see itself cease to be. The father has nothing personal left but the ruins of his fine presence and of his old superstitions344, a handful of silver dust; the mother, mad and under supervision345, stalks about with the delusion346 of imperial greatness (there is a wonderful page on her parading through the gardens in her rococo347 palanquin, like a Byzantine empress, attended by sordid keepers, while the others are hushed into pity and awe); the two sons, hereditarily348 tainted349, are virtually imbecile; the three daughters, candidly350 considered, are what we should regard in our Anglo-Saxon world as but the stuff of rather particularly dreary351 and shabby, quite unutterably idle old maids. Nothing, within the picture, occurs; nothing is done or, more acutely than usual, than everywhere, suffered; it is all a mere affair of the rich impression, the complexity of images projected upon the quintessential spirit of the hero, whose own report is what we have—an affair of the quality of observation, sentiment and eloquence brought to bear. It is not too much to say even that the whole thing is in the largest sense but a theme for style, style of substance as well as of form. Within this compass it blooms and quivers and shimmers352 with light, becomes a wonderful little walled garden of romance. The young man has a passage of extreme but respectful tenderness with each of the sisters in turn, and the general cumulative effect is scarcely impaired353 by the fact that “nothing comes” of any of these relations. Too little comes of anything, I think, for any very marked human analogy, inasmuch as if it is interesting to be puzzled to a certain extent by what an action, placed before us, is designed to show or to signify, so we require for this refined amusement at least the sense that some general idea is represented. We must feel it present.
Therefore if making out nothing very distinct in “Le Vergini” but the pictorial idea, and yet cleaving354 to the preference I have expressed, I let the anomaly pass as a tribute extorted355 by literary art, I may seem to imply that a book may have a great interest without showing a perfect sense. The truth is undoubtedly356 that I am in some degree beguiled and bribed357 by the particularly intense expression given in these pages to the author’s esthetic faith. If he is so supremely a “case” it is because this production has so much to say for it, and says it with such a pride of confidence, with an assurance and an elegance that fairly make it the last conceivable word of such a profession. The observations recorded have their origin in the narrator’s passionate358 reaction against the vulgarity of the day. All the writer’s young men react; but Cantelmo, in the volume before us, reacts with the finest contempt. He is, like his brothers, a raffiné conservative, believing really, so far as we understand it, only in the virtue199 of “race” and in the grand manner. The blighted Virgins, with all that surrounds them, are an affirmation of the grand manner—that is of the shame and scandal of what in an odious359 age it has been reduced to. It consists indeed of a number of different things which I may not pretend to have completely fitted together, but which are, with other elements, the sense of the supremacy360 of beauty, the supremacy of style and, last not least, of the personal will, manifested for the most part as a cold insolence361 of attitude—not manifested as anything much more edifying362. What it really appears to come to is that the will is a sort of romantic ornament, the application of which, for life in the present and the future, remains363 awkwardly vague, though we are always to remember that it has been splendidly forged in the past. The will in short is beauty, is style, is elegance, is art—especially in members of great families and possessors of large fortunes. That of the hero of “Le Vergini” has been handed down to him direct, as by a series of testamentary provisions, from a splendid young ancestor for whose memory and whose portrait he has a worship, a warrior364 and virtuoso365 of the Renaissance366, the model of his spirit.
He represents for me the mysterious meaning of the power of style, not violable by any one, and least of all ever by myself in my own person.
And elsewhere:—
The sublime367 hands of Violante [the beauty and interest of hands play a great part, in general, in the picture], pressing out in drops the essence of the tender flowers and letting them fall bruised368 to the ground, performed an act which, as a symbol, corresponded perfectly142 to the character of my style; this being ever to extract from a thing its very last scent6 of life, to take from it all it could give and leave it exhausted. Was not this one of the most important offices of my art of life?
The book is a singularly rich exhibition of an inward state, the state of private poetic intercourse with things, the kind of current that in a given personal experience flows to and fro between the imagination and the world. It represents the esthetic consciousness, proud of its conquests and discoveries, and yet trying, after all, as with the vexed369 sense of a want, to look through other windows and eyes. It goes all lengths, as is of course indispensable on behalf of a personage constituting a case. “I firmly believe that the greatest sum of future dominion370 will be precisely that which shall have its base and its apex371 in Rome”—such being in our personage the confidence of the “Latin” spirit. Does it not really all come back to style? It was to the Latin spirit that the Renaissance was primarily vouchsafed; and was not, for a simplified statement, the last word of the Renaissance the question of taste? That is the esthetic question; and when the Latin spirit after many misadventures again clears itself we shall see how all the while this treasure has been in its keeping. Let us as frankly as possible add that there is a whole side on which the clearance372 may appear to have made quite a splendid advance with Signor D’Annunzio himself.
But there is another side, which I have been too long in coming to, yet which I confess is for me much the more interesting. No account of our author is complete unless we really make out what becomes of that esthetic consistency in him which, as I have said, our own collective and cultivated effort is so earnestly attempting and yet so pathetically, if not so grotesquely373, missing. We are struck, unmistakably, early in our acquaintance with these productions, by the fact that their total beauty somehow extraordinarily fails to march with their beauty of parts, and that something is all the while at work undermining that bulwark374 against ugliness which it is their obvious theory of their own office to throw up. The disparity troubles and haunts us just in proportion as we admire; and our uneasy wonderment over the source of the weakness fails to spoil our pleasure only because such questions have so lively an interest for the critic. We feel ourselves somehow in presence of a singular incessant375 leak in the effect of distinction so artfully and copiously376 produced, and we apply our test up and down in the manner of the inquiring person who, with a tin implement377 and a small flame, searches our premises378 for an escape of gas. The bad smell has, as it were, to be accounted for; and yet where, amid the roses and lilies and pomegranates, the thousand essences and fragrances, can such a thing possibly be? Quite abruptly, I think, at last (if we have been much under the spell) our test gives us the news, not unaccompanied with the shock with which we see our escape of gas spring into flame. There is no mistaking it; the leak of distinction is produced by a positive element of the vulgar; and that the vulgar should flourish in an air so charged, intellectually speaking, with the “aristocratic” element, becomes for us straightway the greatest of oddities and at the same time, critically speaking, one of the most interesting things conceivable.
The interest then springs from its being involved for us in the “case.” We recognise so many suggested consequences if the case is really to prove responsible for it. We ask ourselves if there be not a connection, we almost tremble lest there shouldn’t be; since what is more obvious than that, if a high example of exclusive estheticism—as high a one as we are likely ever to meet—is bound sooner or later to spring a leak, the general question receives much light? We recognise here the value of our author’s complete consistency: he would have kept his bottom sound, so to speak, had he not remained so long at sea. If those imperfect exponents379 of his faith whom we have noted among ourselves fail to flower, for a climax380, in any proportionate way, we make out that they are embarrassed not so much by any force they possess as by a force—a force of temperament—that they lack. The anomaly I speak of presents itself thus as the dilemma381 in which Signor D’Annunzio’s consistency has inexorably landed him; and the disfigurement breaks out, strikingly enough, in the very forefront of his picture, at the point where he has most lavished382 his colour. It is where he has most trusted and depended that he is most betrayed, the traitor383 sharing certainly his tent and his confidence. What is it that in the interest of beauty he most elaborately builds on if not on the love-affairs of his heroes and heroines, if not on his exhibition of the free play, the sincere play, the play closely studied and frankly represented, of the sexual relation? It is round this exercise, for him, that expressible, demonstrable, communicable beauty prevailingly clusters; a view indeed as to which we all generously go with him, subject to the reserve for each of us of our own expression and demonstration384. It is these things on his part that break down, it is his discrimination that falls short, and thereby385 the very kind of intellectual authority most implied by his pretension386. There is according to him an immense amenity387 that can be saved—saved by style—from the general wreck388 and welter of what is most precious, from the bankruptcy389 determined more and more by our basely democratic conditions. As we watch the actual process, however, it is only to see the lifeboat itself founder390. The vulgarity into which he so incongruously drops is, I will not say the space he allots391 to love-affairs, but the weakness of his sense of “values” in depicting392 them.
We begin to ask ourselves at an early stage what this queer passion may be in the representation of which the sense of beauty ostensibly finds its richest expression and which is yet attended by nothing else at all—neither duration, nor propagation, nor common kindness, nor common consistency with other relations, common congruity393 with the rest of life—to make its importance good. If beauty is the supreme need so let it be; nothing is more certain than that we can never get too much of it if only we get it of the right sort. It is therefore on this very ground—the ground of its own sufficiency—that Signor D’Annunzio’s invocation of it collapses395 at our challenge. The vulgarity comes from the disorder396 really introduced into values, as I have called them; from the vitiation suffered—that we should have to record so mean an accident—by taste, impeccable taste, itself. The truth of this would come out fully in copious examples, now impossible; but it is not too much to say, I think, that in every principal situation presented the fundamental weakness causes the particular interest to be inordinately compromised.
I must not, I know, make too much of “Il Piacere”—one of those works of promising397 youth with which criticism is always easy—and I should indeed say nothing of it if it were also a work of less ability. It really, however, to my mind, quite gives us the key, all in the morning early, to our author’s general misadventure. Andrea Sperelli is the key; Donna Maria is another key of a slightly different shape. They have neither of them the esthetic importance, any more than the moral, that their narrator claims for them and in his elaborate insistence on which he has so hopelessly lost his way. If they were important—by which I mean if they showed in any other light than that of their particular erotic exercise—they would justify398 the claim made for them with such superior art. They have no general history, since their history is only, and immediately and extravagantly399, that of their too cheap and too easy romance. Why should the career of the young man be offered as a sample of pathetic, of tragic, of edifying corruption401?—in which case it might indeed be matter for earnest exhibition. The march of corruption, the insidious influence of propinquity, opportunity, example, the ravage402 of false estimates and the drama of sterilising passion—all this is a thinkable theme, thinkable especially in the light of a great talent. But for Andrea Sperelli there is not only no march, no drama, there is not even a weakness to give him the semblance403 of dramatic, of plastic material; he is solidly, invariably, vulgarly strong, and not a bit more corrupt400 at the end of his disorders404 than at the beginning. His erudition, his intellectual accomplishments405 and elevation406, are too easily spoken for; no view of him is given in which we can feel or taste them. Donna Maria is scarcely less signal an instance of the apparent desire on the author’s part to impute407 a “value” defeated by his apparently408 not knowing what a value is. She is apparently an immense value for the occasions on which the couple secretly meet, but how is she otherwise one? and what becomes therefore of the beauty, the interest, the pathos409, the struggle, or whatever else, of her relation—relation of character, of judgment, even of mere taste—to her own collapse394? The immediate physical sensibility that surrenders in her is, as throughout, exquisitely410 painted; but since nothing operates for her, one way or the other, but that familiar faculty, we are left casting about us almost as much for what else she has to give as for what, in any case, she may wish to keep.
The author’s view of the whole matter of durations and dates, in these connections, gives the scale of “distinction” by itself a marked downward tilt411; it confounds all differences between the trivial and the grave. Giuliana, in “L’Innocente,” is interesting because she has had a misadventure, and she is exquisite in her delineator’s view because she has repented412 of it. But the misadventure, it appears, was a matter but of a minute; so that we oddly see this particular romance attenuated on the ground of its brevity. Given the claims of the exquisite, the attenuation413 should surely be sought in the very opposite quarter; since, where these remarkable414 affections are concerned, how otherwise than by the element of comparative duration do we obtain the element of comparative good faith, on which we depend for the element, in turn, of comparative dignity? Andrea Sperelli becomes in the course of a few weeks in Rome the lover of some twenty or thirty women of fashion—the number scarce matters; but to make this possible his connection with each has but to last a day or two; and the effect of that in its order is to reduce to nothing, by vulgarity, by frank grotesqueness415 of association, the romantic capacity in him on which his chronicler’s whole appeal to us is based. The association rising before us more nearly than any other is that of the manners observable in the most mimetic department of any great menagerie.
The most serious relation depicted416—in the sense of being in some degree the least suggestive of mere zoological sociability—is that of the lovers in “Il Fuoco,” as we also take this pair for their creator’s sanest417 and most responsible spirits. It is a question between them of an heroic affection, and yet the affection appears to make good for itself no place worth speaking of in their lives. It holds but for a scant418 few weeks; the autumn already reigns419 when the connection begins, and the connection is played out (or if it be not the ado is about nothing) with the first flush of the early Italian spring. It suddenly, on our hands, becomes trivial, with all our own estimate of reasons and realities and congruities420 falsified. The Foscarina has, on professional business, to “go away,” and the young poet has to do the same; but such a separation, so easily bridged over by such great people, makes a beggarly climax for an intercourse on behalf of which all the forces of poetry and tragedy have been set in motion. Where then we ask ourselves is the weakness?—as we ask it, very much in the same way, in respect to the vulgarised aspect of the tragedy of Giorgio Aurispa. The pang221 of pity, the pang that springs from a conceivable community in doom, is in this latter case altogether wanting. Directly we lift a little the embroidered421 mantle of that gift for appearances which plays, on Signor D’Annunzio’s part, such tricks upon us, we find ourselves put off, as the phrase is, with an inferior article. The inferior article is the hero’s poverty of life, which cuts him down for pathetic interest just as the same limitation in “Il Piacere” cuts down Donna Maria. Presented each as victims of another rapacious422 person who has got the better of them, there is no process, no complexity, no suspense423 in their story; and thereby, we submit, there is no esthetic beauty. Why shouldn’t Giorgio Aurispa go mad? Why shouldn’t Stelio Effrena go away? We make the inquiry as disconcerted spectators, not feeling in the former case that we have had any communication with the wretched youth’s sanity, and not seeing in the latter why the tie of all the passion that has been made so admirably vivid for us should not be able to weather change.
Nothing is so singular with D’Annunzio as that the very basis and subject of his work should repeatedly go aground on such shallows as these. He takes for treatment a situation that is substantially none—the most fundamental this of his values, and all the more compromising that his immense art of producing illusions still leaves it exposed. The idea in each case is superficially specious424, but where it breaks down is what makes all the difference. “Il Piacere” would have meant what it seems to try to mean only if a provision had been made in it for some adequate “inwardness” on the part either of the nature disintegrated425 or of the other nature to which this poisoned contact proves fatal. “L’Innocente,” of the group, comes nearest to justifying426 its idea; and I leave it unchallenged, though its meaning surely would have been written larger if the attitude of the wife toward her misbegotten child had been, in face of the husband’s, a little less that of the dumb detached animal suffering in her simplicity427. As a picture of such suffering, the pain of the mere dumb animal, the work is indeed magnificent; only its connections are poor with the higher dramatic, the higher poetic, complexity of things.
I can only repeat that to make “The Triumph of Death” a fruitful thing we should have been able to measure the triumph by its frustration of some conceivable opportunity at least for life. There is a moment at which we hope for something of this kind, the moment at which the young man pays his visit to his family, who have grievous need of him and toward whom we look to see some one side or other of his fine sensibility turn. But nothing comes of that for the simple reason that the personage is already dead—that nothing exists in him but the established fear of life. He turns his back on everything but a special sensation, and so completely shuts the door on the elements of contrast and curiosity. Death really triumphs, in the matter, but over the physical terror of the inordinate89 woman; a pang perfectly communicated to us, but too small a surface to bear the weight laid on it, which accordingly affects us as that of a pyramid turned over on its point. It is throughout one of D’Annunzio’s strongest marks that he treats “love” as a matter not to be mixed with life, in the larger sense of the word, at all—as a matter all of whose other connections are dropped; a sort of secret game that can go on only if each of the parties has nothing to do, even on any other terms, with any one else.
I have dwelt on the fact that the sentimental intention in “Il Fuoco” quite bewilderingly fails, in spite of the splendid accumulation of material. We wait to the end to see it declare itself, and then are left, as I have already indicated, with a mere meaningless anecdote on our hands. Brilliant and free, each freighted with a talent that is given us as incomparable, the parties to the combination depicted have, for their affection, the whole world before them—and not the simple terraqueous globe, but that still vaster sphere of the imagination in which, by an exceptionally happy chance, they are able to move together on very nearly equal terms. A tragedy is a tragedy, a comedy is a comedy, when the effect, in either sense, is determined for us, determined by the interference of some element that starts a complication or precipitates428 an action. As in “Il Fuoco” nothing whatever interferes—or nothing certainly that need weigh with the high spirits represented—we ask why such precious revelations are made us for nothing. Admirably made in themselves they yet strike us as, esthetically speaking, almost cruelly wasted.
This general remark would hold good, as well, of “Le Vergini,” if I might still linger, though its application has already been virtually made. Anatolia, in this tale, the most robust429 of the three sisters, declines marriage in order to devote herself to a family who have, it would certainly appear, signal need of her nursing. But this, though it sufficiently represents her situation, covers as little as possible the ground of the hero’s own, since he, quivering intensely with the treasure of his “will,” inherited in a straight line from the cinque-cento, only asks to affirm his sublimated430 energy. The temptation to affirm it erotically, at least, has been great for him in relation to each of the young women in turn; but it is for Anatolia that his admiration and affection most increase in volume, and it is accordingly for her sake that, with the wonderful moral force behind him (kept as in a Florentine casket,) we most look to see him justified431. He has a fine image—and when has the author not fine images?—to illustrate432 the constant readiness of this possession. The young woman says something that inspires him, whereupon, “as a sudden light playing over the dusky wall of a room causes the motionless sword in a trophy433 to shine, so her word drew a great flash from my suspended volontà. There was a virtue in her,” the narrator adds, “which could have produced portentous434 fruit. Her substance might have nourished a superhuman germ.” In spite of which it never succeeds in becoming so much as a question that his affection for her shall act, that this grand imagination in him shall operate, that he himself is, in virtue of such things, exactly the person to come to her aid and to combine with her in devotion. The talk about the volontà is amusing much in the same way as the complacency of a primitive435 man, unacquainted with the uses of things, who becomes possessed by some accident of one of the toys of civilisation436, a watch or a motor-car. And yet artistically437 and for our author the will has an application, since without it he could have done no rare vivid work.
Here at all events we put our finger, I think, on the very point at which his esthetic plenitude meets the misadventure that discredits438 it. We see just where it “joins on” with vulgarity. That sexual passion from which he extracts such admirable detached pictures insists on remaining for him only the act of a moment, beginning and ending in itself and disowning any representative character. From the moment it depends on itself alone for its beauty it endangers extremely its distinction, so precarious at the best. For what it represents, precisely, is it poetically439 interesting; it finds its extension and consummation only in the rest of life. Shut out from the rest of life, shut out from all fruition and assimilation, it has no more dignity than—to use a homely440 image—the boots and shoes that we see, in the corridors of promiscuous hotels, standing, often in double pairs, at the doors of rooms. Detached and unassociated these clusters of objects present, however obtruded441, no importance. What the participants do with their agitation, in short, or even what it does with them, that is the stuff of poetry, and it is never really interesting save when something finely contributive in themselves makes it so. It is this absence of anything finely contributive in themselves, on the part of the various couples here concerned, that is the open door to the trivial. I have said, with all appreciation442, that they present the great “relation,” for intimacy, as we shall nowhere else find it presented; but to see it related, in its own turn, to nothing in the heaven above or the earth beneath, this undermines, we definitely learn, the charm of that achievement.
And so it is, strangely, that our esthetic “case” enlightens us. The only question is whether it be the only case of the kind conceivable. May we not suppose another with the elements differently mixed? May we not in imagination alter the proportions within or the influences without, and look with cheerfulness for a different issue? Need the esthetic adventure, in a word, organised for real discovery, give us no more comforting news of success? Are there not, so to speak, finer possible combinations? are there not safeguards against futility443 that in the example before us were but too presumably absent? To which the sole answer probably is that no man can say. It is Signor D’Annunzio alone who has really sailed the sea and brought back the booty. The actual case is so good that all the potential fade beside it. It has for it that it exists, and that, whether for the strength of the original outfit444 or for the weight of the final testimony445, it could scarce thinkably be bettered.
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1 supreme | |
adj.极度的,最重要的;至高的,最高的 | |
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2 supremely | |
adv.无上地,崇高地 | |
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3 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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4 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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5 expenditure | |
n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出;使用,消耗 | |
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6 scent | |
n.气味,香味,香水,线索,嗅觉;v.嗅,发觉 | |
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7 scented | |
adj.有香味的;洒香水的;有气味的v.嗅到(scent的过去分词) | |
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8 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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9 analyst | |
n.分析家,化验员;心理分析学家 | |
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10 consistency | |
n.一贯性,前后一致,稳定性;(液体的)浓度 | |
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11 enjoyment | |
n.乐趣;享有;享用 | |
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12 esthetic | |
adj.美学的,审美的;悦目的,雅致的 | |
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13 huddled | |
挤在一起(huddle的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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14 pretext | |
n.借口,托词 | |
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15 formulated | |
v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 );规划;确切地阐述;用公式表示 | |
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16 thoroughly | |
adv.完全地,彻底地,十足地 | |
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17 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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18 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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19 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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20 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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21 elude | |
v.躲避,困惑 | |
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22 mustered | |
v.集合,召集,集结(尤指部队)( muster的过去式和过去分词 );(自他人处)搜集某事物;聚集;激发 | |
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23 authentic | |
a.真的,真正的;可靠的,可信的,有根据的 | |
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24 specimen | |
n.样本,标本 | |
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25 assuaged | |
v.减轻( assuage的过去式和过去分词 );缓和;平息;使安静 | |
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26 yearn | |
v.想念;怀念;渴望 | |
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27 yearning | |
a.渴望的;向往的;怀念的 | |
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28 promptly | |
adv.及时地,敏捷地 | |
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29 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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30 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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31 interrogated | |
v.询问( interrogate的过去式和过去分词 );审问;(在计算机或其他机器上)查询 | |
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32 advent | |
n.(重要事件等的)到来,来临 | |
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33 invoked | |
v.援引( invoke的过去式和过去分词 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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34 boon | |
n.恩赐,恩物,恩惠 | |
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35 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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36 aptitudes | |
(学习方面的)才能,资质,天资( aptitude的名词复数 ) | |
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37 extraordinarily | |
adv.格外地;极端地 | |
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38 refinement | |
n.文雅;高尚;精美;精制;精炼 | |
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39 solicitude | |
n.焦虑 | |
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40 ornament | |
v.装饰,美化;n.装饰,装饰物 | |
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41 perceptive | |
adj.知觉的,有洞察力的,感知的 | |
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42 expressive | |
adj.表现的,表达…的,富于表情的 | |
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43 intensity | |
n.强烈,剧烈;强度;烈度 | |
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44 precocity | |
n.早熟,早成 | |
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45 poetic | |
adj.富有诗意的,有诗人气质的,善于抒情的 | |
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46 noted | |
adj.著名的,知名的 | |
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47 lyric | |
n.抒情诗,歌词;adj.抒情的 | |
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48 austere | |
adj.艰苦的;朴素的,朴实无华的;严峻的 | |
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49 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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50 tunes | |
n.曲调,曲子( tune的名词复数 )v.调音( tune的第三人称单数 );调整;(给收音机、电视等)调谐;使协调 | |
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51 chimera | |
n.神话怪物;梦幻 | |
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52 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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53 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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54 inadequate | |
adj.(for,to)不充足的,不适当的 | |
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55 maturity | |
n.成熟;完成;(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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56 milestones | |
n.重要事件( milestone的名词复数 );重要阶段;转折点;里程碑 | |
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57 dexterity | |
n.(手的)灵巧,灵活 | |
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58 minor | |
adj.较小(少)的,较次要的;n.辅修学科;vi.辅修 | |
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59 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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60 eloquence | |
n.雄辩;口才,修辞 | |
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61 pertinent | |
adj.恰当的;贴切的;中肯的;有关的;相干的 | |
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62 juxtaposition | |
n.毗邻,并置,并列 | |
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63 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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64 amplitude | |
n.广大;充足;振幅 | |
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65 portrayal | |
n.饰演;描画 | |
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66 pictorial | |
adj.绘画的;图片的;n.画报 | |
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67 overflows | |
v.溢出,淹没( overflow的第三人称单数 );充满;挤满了人;扩展出界,过度延伸 | |
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68 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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69 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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70 eschew | |
v.避开,戒绝 | |
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71 Forsaken | |
adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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72 perverse | |
adj.刚愎的;坚持错误的,行为反常的 | |
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73 inscribed | |
v.写,刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 );内接 | |
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74 idiomatic | |
adj.成语的,符合语言习惯的 | |
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75 rend | |
vt.把…撕开,割裂;把…揪下来,强行夺取 | |
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76 insistent | |
adj.迫切的,坚持的 | |
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77 arduous | |
adj.艰苦的,费力的,陡峭的 | |
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78 remarkably | |
ad.不同寻常地,相当地 | |
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79 anecdote | |
n.轶事,趣闻,短故事 | |
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80 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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81 complexity | |
n.复杂(性),复杂的事物 | |
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82 glamour | |
n.魔力,魅力;vt.迷住 | |
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83 delusive | |
adj.欺骗的,妄想的 | |
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84 obsession | |
n.困扰,无法摆脱的思想(或情感) | |
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85 furrow | |
n.沟;垄沟;轨迹;车辙;皱纹 | |
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86 prematurely | |
adv.过早地,贸然地 | |
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87 intelligible | |
adj.可理解的,明白易懂的,清楚的 | |
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88 inordinately | |
adv.无度地,非常地 | |
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89 inordinate | |
adj.无节制的;过度的 | |
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90 monstrously | |
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91 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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92 engulf | |
vt.吞没,吞食 | |
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93 copious | |
adj.丰富的,大量的 | |
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94 pious | |
adj.虔诚的;道貌岸然的 | |
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95 autobiography | |
n.自传 | |
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96 journalism | |
n.新闻工作,报业 | |
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97 iridescent | |
adj.彩虹色的,闪色的 | |
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98 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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99 entangled | |
adj.卷入的;陷入的;被缠住的;缠在一起的v.使某人(某物/自己)缠绕,纠缠于(某物中),使某人(自己)陷入(困难或复杂的环境中)( entangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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100 accomplishment | |
n.完成,成就,(pl.)造诣,技能 | |
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101 pervert | |
n.堕落者,反常者;vt.误用,滥用;使人堕落,使入邪路 | |
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102 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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103 frustration | |
n.挫折,失败,失效,落空 | |
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104 vessel | |
n.船舶;容器,器皿;管,导管,血管 | |
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105 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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106 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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107 fable | |
n.寓言;童话;神话 | |
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108 notation | |
n.记号法,表示法,注释;[计算机]记法 | |
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109 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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110 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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111 inquisitive | |
adj.求知欲强的,好奇的,好寻根究底的 | |
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112 fusion | |
n.溶化;熔解;熔化状态,熔和;熔接 | |
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113 morsels | |
n.一口( morsel的名词复数 );(尤指食物)小块,碎屑 | |
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114 incision | |
n.切口,切开 | |
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115 acidity | |
n.酸度,酸性 | |
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116 villa | |
n.别墅,城郊小屋 | |
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117 intervals | |
n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 );间隔时间;[数学]区间;(戏剧、电影或音乐会的)幕间休息 | |
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118 streaked | |
adj.有条斑纹的,不安的v.快速移动( streak的过去式和过去分词 );使布满条纹 | |
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119 pane | |
n.窗格玻璃,长方块 | |
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120 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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121 deficient | |
adj.不足的,不充份的,有缺陷的 | |
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122 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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123 ecstasy | |
n.狂喜,心醉神怡,入迷 | |
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124 engendered | |
v.产生(某形势或状况),造成,引起( engender的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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125 tapestries | |
n.挂毯( tapestry的名词复数 );绣帷,织锦v.用挂毯(或绣帷)装饰( tapestry的第三人称单数 ) | |
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126 omens | |
n.前兆,预兆( omen的名词复数 ) | |
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127 adversary | |
adj.敌手,对手 | |
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128 trot | |
n.疾走,慢跑;n.老太婆;现成译本;(复数)trots:腹泻(与the 连用);v.小跑,快步走,赶紧 | |
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129 bent | |
n.爱好,癖好;adj.弯的;决心的,一心的 | |
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130 reins | |
感情,激情; 缰( rein的名词复数 ); 控制手段; 掌管; (成人带着幼儿走路以防其走失时用的)保护带 | |
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131 sinister | |
adj.不吉利的,凶恶的,左边的 | |
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132 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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133 systematic | |
adj.有系统的,有计划的,有方法的 | |
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134 mingle | |
vt.使混合,使相混;vi.混合起来;相交往 | |
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135 canopy | |
n.天篷,遮篷 | |
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136 rumour | |
n.谣言,谣传,传闻 | |
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137 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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138 touching | |
adj.动人的,使人感伤的 | |
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139 initiation | |
n.开始 | |
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140 vouchsafed | |
v.给予,赐予( vouchsafe的过去式和过去分词 );允诺 | |
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141 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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142 perfectly | |
adv.完美地,无可非议地,彻底地 | |
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143 fume | |
n.(usu pl.)(浓烈或难闻的)烟,气,汽 | |
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144 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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145 impulsively | |
adv.冲动地 | |
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146 instinctively | |
adv.本能地 | |
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147 deserted | |
adj.荒芜的,荒废的,无人的,被遗弃的 | |
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148 rustle | |
v.沙沙作响;偷盗(牛、马等);n.沙沙声声 | |
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149 affected | |
adj.不自然的,假装的 | |
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150 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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151 wrath | |
n.愤怒,愤慨,暴怒 | |
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152 consummately | |
adv.完成地,至上地 | |
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153 beads | |
n.(空心)小珠子( bead的名词复数 );水珠;珠子项链 | |
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154 auction | |
n.拍卖;拍卖会;vt.拍卖 | |
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155 languor | |
n.无精力,倦怠 | |
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156 convalescence | |
n.病后康复期 | |
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157 duel | |
n./v.决斗;(双方的)斗争 | |
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158 altercation | |
n.争吵,争论 | |
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159 citation | |
n.引用,引证,引用文;传票 | |
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160 quaint | |
adj.古雅的,离奇有趣的,奇怪的 | |
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161 wondrous | |
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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162 wondrously | |
adv.惊奇地,非常,极其 | |
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163 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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164 texture | |
n.(织物)质地;(材料)构造;结构;肌理 | |
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165 brutally | |
adv.残忍地,野蛮地,冷酷无情地 | |
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166 sufficiently | |
adv.足够地,充分地 | |
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167 postulates | |
v.假定,假设( postulate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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168 postulate | |
n.假定,基本条件;vt.要求,假定 | |
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169 actively | |
adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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170 retraces | |
v.折回( retrace的第三人称单数 );回忆;回顾;追溯 | |
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171 confession | |
n.自白,供认,承认 | |
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172 justification | |
n.正当的理由;辩解的理由 | |
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173 exasperated | |
adj.恼怒的 | |
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174 triumphantly | |
ad.得意洋洋地;得胜地;成功地 | |
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175 exasperation | |
n.愤慨 | |
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176 intercourse | |
n.性交;交流,交往,交际 | |
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177 frenzy | |
n.疯狂,狂热,极度的激动 | |
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178 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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179 surmounted | |
战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 ); 克服(困难); 居于…之上; 在…顶上 | |
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180 abject | |
adj.极可怜的,卑屈的 | |
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181 hysterical | |
adj.情绪异常激动的,歇斯底里般的 | |
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182 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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183 aspire | |
vi.(to,after)渴望,追求,有志于 | |
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184 superseded | |
[医]被代替的,废弃的 | |
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185 pervade | |
v.弥漫,遍及,充满,渗透,漫延 | |
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186 lighting | |
n.照明,光线的明暗,舞台灯光 | |
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187 woe | |
n.悲哀,苦痛,不幸,困难;int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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188 enchantment | |
n.迷惑,妖术,魅力 | |
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189 devour | |
v.吞没;贪婪地注视或谛听,贪读;使着迷 | |
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190 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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191 isolate | |
vt.使孤立,隔离 | |
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192 beguiled | |
v.欺骗( beguile的过去式和过去分词 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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193 briefly | |
adv.简单地,简短地 | |
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194 pervades | |
v.遍及,弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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195 variance | |
n.矛盾,不同 | |
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196 urns | |
n.壶( urn的名词复数 );瓮;缸;骨灰瓮 | |
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197 cumulative | |
adj.累积的,渐增的 | |
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198 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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199 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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200 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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201 frankly | |
adv.坦白地,直率地;坦率地说 | |
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202 ignoble | |
adj.不光彩的,卑鄙的;可耻的 | |
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203 essentially | |
adv.本质上,实质上,基本上 | |
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204 explicitly | |
ad.明确地,显然地 | |
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205 dissimulation | |
n.掩饰,虚伪,装糊涂 | |
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206 systematically | |
adv.有系统地 | |
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207 condemns | |
v.(通常因道义上的原因而)谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 );宣判;宣布…不能使用;迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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208 isolation | |
n.隔离,孤立,分解,分离 | |
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209 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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210 inquiry | |
n.打听,询问,调查,查问 | |
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211 penetration | |
n.穿透,穿人,渗透 | |
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212 dealing | |
n.经商方法,待人态度 | |
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213 gregarious | |
adj.群居的,喜好群居的 | |
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214 positively | |
adv.明确地,断然,坚决地;实在,确实 | |
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215 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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216 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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217 severed | |
v.切断,断绝( sever的过去式和过去分词 );断,裂 | |
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218 reticent | |
adj.沉默寡言的;言不如意的 | |
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219 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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220 pangs | |
突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 ); 悲痛 | |
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221 pang | |
n.剧痛,悲痛,苦闷 | |
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222 proceeding | |
n.行动,进行,(pl.)会议录,学报 | |
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223 professed | |
公开声称的,伪称的,已立誓信教的 | |
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224 mantle | |
n.斗篷,覆罩之物,罩子;v.罩住,覆盖,脸红 | |
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225 embroidery | |
n.绣花,刺绣;绣制品 | |
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226 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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227 prostration | |
n. 平伏, 跪倒, 疲劳 | |
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228 decency | |
n.体面,得体,合宜,正派,庄重 | |
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229 hurls | |
v.猛投,用力掷( hurl的第三人称单数 );大声叫骂 | |
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230 appalled | |
v.使惊骇,使充满恐惧( appall的过去式和过去分词)adj.惊骇的;丧胆的 | |
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231 arid | |
adj.干旱的;(土地)贫瘠的 | |
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232 aridity | |
n.干旱,乏味;干燥性;荒芜 | |
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233 expended | |
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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234 formulates | |
v.构想出( formulate的第三人称单数 );规划;确切地阐述;用公式表示 | |
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235 impasse | |
n.僵局;死路 | |
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236 rends | |
v.撕碎( rend的第三人称单数 );分裂;(因愤怒、痛苦等而)揪扯(衣服或头发等);(声音等)刺破 | |
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237 faculties | |
n.能力( faculty的名词复数 );全体教职员;技巧;院 | |
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238 lurid | |
adj.可怕的;血红的;苍白的 | |
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239 embellished | |
v.美化( embellish的过去式和过去分词 );装饰;修饰;润色 | |
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240 gilded | |
a.镀金的,富有的 | |
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241 glimmering | |
n.微光,隐约的一瞥adj.薄弱地发光的v.发闪光,发微光( glimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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242 glimmer | |
v.发出闪烁的微光;n.微光,微弱的闪光 | |
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243 injustice | |
n.非正义,不公正,不公平,侵犯(别人的)权利 | |
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244 resentment | |
n.怨愤,忿恨 | |
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245 lamentably | |
adv.哀伤地,拙劣地 | |
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246 condemned | |
adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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247 cultivation | |
n.耕作,培养,栽培(法),养成 | |
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248 inevitability | |
n.必然性 | |
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249 ferocious | |
adj.凶猛的,残暴的,极度的,十分强烈的 | |
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250 lustre | |
n.光亮,光泽;荣誉 | |
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251 pampered | |
adj.饮食过量的,饮食奢侈的v.纵容,宠,娇养( pamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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252 smothered | |
(使)窒息, (使)透不过气( smother的过去式和过去分词 ); 覆盖; 忍住; 抑制 | |
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253 fragrances | |
n.芳香,香味( fragrance的名词复数 );香水 | |
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254 blighted | |
adj.枯萎的,摧毁的 | |
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255 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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256 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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257 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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258 virgins | |
处女,童男( virgin的名词复数 ); 童贞玛利亚(耶稣之母) | |
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259 insidious | |
adj.阴险的,隐匿的,暗中为害的,(疾病)不知不觉之间加剧 | |
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260 middle-aged | |
adj.中年的 | |
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261 battered | |
adj.磨损的;v.连续猛击;磨损 | |
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262 promiscuous | |
adj.杂乱的,随便的 | |
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263 conspiring | |
密谋( conspire的现在分词 ); 搞阴谋; (事件等)巧合; 共同导致 | |
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264 repudiation | |
n.拒绝;否认;断绝关系;抛弃 | |
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265 elegance | |
n.优雅;优美,雅致;精致,巧妙 | |
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266 dissimulated | |
v.掩饰(感情),假装(镇静)( dissimulate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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267 precarious | |
adj.不安定的,靠不住的;根据不足的 | |
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268 definitive | |
adj.确切的,权威性的;最后的,决定性的 | |
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269 forsaking | |
放弃( forsake的现在分词 ); 弃绝; 抛弃; 摒弃 | |
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270 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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271 abounds | |
v.大量存在,充满,富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
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272 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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273 verge | |
n.边,边缘;v.接近,濒临 | |
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274 abjection | |
n. 卑鄙, 落魄 | |
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275 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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276 abhorred | |
v.憎恶( abhor的过去式和过去分词 );(厌恶地)回避;拒绝;淘汰 | |
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277 notably | |
adv.值得注意地,显著地,尤其地,特别地 | |
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278 shrine | |
n.圣地,神龛,庙;v.将...置于神龛内,把...奉为神圣 | |
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279 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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280 hideous | |
adj.丑陋的,可憎的,可怕的,恐怖的 | |
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281 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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282 rites | |
仪式,典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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283 portrayed | |
v.画像( portray的过去式和过去分词 );描述;描绘;描画 | |
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284 looming | |
n.上现蜃景(光通过低层大气发生异常折射形成的一种海市蜃楼)v.隐约出现,阴森地逼近( loom的现在分词 );隐约出现,阴森地逼近 | |
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285 delirious | |
adj.不省人事的,神智昏迷的 | |
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286 protagonist | |
n.(思想观念的)倡导者;主角,主人公 | |
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287 beguiles | |
v.欺骗( beguile的第三人称单数 );使陶醉;使高兴;消磨(时间等) | |
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288 vaguely | |
adv.含糊地,暖昧地 | |
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289 doom | |
n.厄运,劫数;v.注定,命定 | |
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290 shriek | |
v./n.尖叫,叫喊 | |
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291 dodges | |
n.闪躲( dodge的名词复数 );躲避;伎俩;妙计v.闪躲( dodge的第三人称单数 );回避 | |
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292 supplicated | |
v.祈求,哀求,恳求( supplicate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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293 stammered | |
v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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294 precipice | |
n.悬崖,危急的处境 | |
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295 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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296 previously | |
adv.以前,先前(地) | |
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297 physically | |
adj.物质上,体格上,身体上,按自然规律 | |
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298 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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299 evocation | |
n. 引起,唤起 n. <古> 召唤,招魂 | |
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300 miseries | |
n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 );痛苦的事;穷困;常发牢骚的人 | |
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301 ecstasies | |
狂喜( ecstasy的名词复数 ); 出神; 入迷; 迷幻药 | |
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302 grovelling | |
adj.卑下的,奴颜婢膝的v.卑躬屈节,奴颜婢膝( grovel的现在分词 );趴 | |
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303 originality | |
n.创造力,独创性;新颖 | |
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304 impugned | |
v.非难,指谪( impugn的过去式和过去分词 );对…有怀疑 | |
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305 margin | |
n.页边空白;差额;余地,余裕;边,边缘 | |
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306 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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307 attenuated | |
v.(使)变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)变薄;(使)变小;减弱 | |
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308 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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309 loyalties | |
n.忠诚( loyalty的名词复数 );忠心;忠于…感情;要忠于…的强烈感情 | |
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310 resonance | |
n.洪亮;共鸣;共振 | |
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311 shrill | |
adj.尖声的;刺耳的;v尖叫 | |
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312 puncture | |
n.刺孔,穿孔;v.刺穿,刺破 | |
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313 swollen | |
adj.肿大的,水涨的;v.使变大,肿胀 | |
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314 abruptly | |
adv.突然地,出其不意地 | |
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315 arteries | |
n.动脉( artery的名词复数 );干线,要道 | |
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316 corpse | |
n.尸体,死尸 | |
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317 inflated | |
adj.(价格)飞涨的;(通货)膨胀的;言过其实的;充了气的v.使充气(于轮胎、气球等)( inflate的过去式和过去分词 );(使)膨胀;(使)通货膨胀;物价上涨 | |
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318 rustling | |
n. 瑟瑟声,沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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319 tinkle | |
vi.叮当作响;n.叮当声 | |
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320 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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321 possessed | |
adj.疯狂的;拥有的,占有的 | |
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322 crucible | |
n.坩锅,严酷的考验 | |
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323 considerably | |
adv.极大地;相当大地;在很大程度上 | |
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324 unfamiliar | |
adj.陌生的,不熟悉的 | |
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325 intensified | |
v.(使)增强, (使)加剧( intensify的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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326 sanity | |
n.心智健全,神智正常,判断正确 | |
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327 intimacies | |
亲密( intimacy的名词复数 ); 密切; 亲昵的言行; 性行为 | |
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328 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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329 longing | |
n.(for)渴望 | |
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330 desecrated | |
毁坏或亵渎( desecrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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331 violation | |
n.违反(行为),违背(行为),侵犯 | |
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332 draught | |
n.拉,牵引,拖;一网(饮,吸,阵);顿服药量,通风;v.起草,设计 | |
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333 repercussion | |
n.[常pl.](不良的)影响,反响,后果 | |
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334 anvil | |
n.铁钻 | |
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335 rosy | |
adj.美好的,乐观的,玫瑰色的 | |
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336 fretted | |
焦躁的,附有弦马的,腐蚀的 | |
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337 tragically | |
adv. 悲剧地,悲惨地 | |
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338 wither | |
vt.使凋谢,使衰退,(用眼神气势等)使畏缩;vi.枯萎,衰退,消亡 | |
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339 colonnades | |
n.石柱廊( colonnade的名词复数 ) | |
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340 volcanic | |
adj.火山的;象火山的;由火山引起的 | |
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341 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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342 fumble | |
vi.笨拙地用手摸、弄、接等,摸索 | |
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343 exhausted | |
adj.极其疲惫的,精疲力尽的 | |
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344 superstitions | |
迷信,迷信行为( superstition的名词复数 ) | |
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345 supervision | |
n.监督,管理 | |
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346 delusion | |
n.谬见,欺骗,幻觉,迷惑 | |
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347 rococo | |
n.洛可可;adj.过分修饰的 | |
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348 hereditarily | |
世袭地,遗传地 | |
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349 tainted | |
adj.腐坏的;污染的;沾污的;感染的v.使变质( taint的过去式和过去分词 );使污染;败坏;被污染,腐坏,败坏 | |
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350 candidly | |
adv.坦率地,直率而诚恳地 | |
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351 dreary | |
adj.令人沮丧的,沉闷的,单调乏味的 | |
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352 shimmers | |
n.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的名词复数 )v.闪闪发光,发微光( shimmer的第三人称单数 ) | |
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353 impaired | |
adj.受损的;出毛病的;有(身体或智力)缺陷的v.损害,削弱( impair的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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354 cleaving | |
v.劈开,剁开,割开( cleave的现在分词 ) | |
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355 extorted | |
v.敲诈( extort的过去式和过去分词 );曲解 | |
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356 undoubtedly | |
adv.确实地,无疑地 | |
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357 bribed | |
v.贿赂( bribe的过去式和过去分词 );向(某人)行贿,贿赂 | |
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358 passionate | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,激昂的,易动情的,易怒的,性情暴躁的 | |
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359 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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360 supremacy | |
n.至上;至高权力 | |
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361 insolence | |
n.傲慢;无礼;厚颜;傲慢的态度 | |
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362 edifying | |
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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363 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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364 warrior | |
n.勇士,武士,斗士 | |
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365 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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366 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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367 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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368 bruised | |
[医]青肿的,瘀紫的 | |
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369 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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370 dominion | |
n.统治,管辖,支配权;领土,版图 | |
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371 apex | |
n.顶点,最高点 | |
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372 clearance | |
n.净空;许可(证);清算;清除,清理 | |
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373 grotesquely | |
adv. 奇异地,荒诞地 | |
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374 bulwark | |
n.堡垒,保障,防御 | |
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375 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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376 copiously | |
adv.丰富地,充裕地 | |
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377 implement | |
n.(pl.)工具,器具;vt.实行,实施,执行 | |
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378 premises | |
n.建筑物,房屋 | |
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379 exponents | |
n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 );说明者;指数;能手 | |
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380 climax | |
n.顶点;高潮;v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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381 dilemma | |
n.困境,进退两难的局面 | |
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382 lavished | |
v.过分给予,滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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383 traitor | |
n.叛徒,卖国贼 | |
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384 demonstration | |
n.表明,示范,论证,示威 | |
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385 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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386 pretension | |
n.要求;自命,自称;自负 | |
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387 amenity | |
n.pl.生活福利设施,文娱康乐场所;(不可数)愉快,适意 | |
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388 wreck | |
n.失事,遇难;沉船;vt.(船等)失事,遇难 | |
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389 bankruptcy | |
n.破产;无偿付能力 | |
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390 Founder | |
n.创始者,缔造者 | |
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391 allots | |
分配,拨给,摊派( allot的第三人称单数 ) | |
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392 depicting | |
描绘,描画( depict的现在分词 ); 描述 | |
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393 congruity | |
n.全等,一致 | |
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394 collapse | |
vi.累倒;昏倒;倒塌;塌陷 | |
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395 collapses | |
折叠( collapse的第三人称单数 ); 倒塌; 崩溃; (尤指工作劳累后)坐下 | |
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396 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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397 promising | |
adj.有希望的,有前途的 | |
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398 justify | |
vt.证明…正当(或有理),为…辩护 | |
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399 extravagantly | |
adv.挥霍无度地 | |
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400 corrupt | |
v.贿赂,收买;adj.腐败的,贪污的 | |
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401 corruption | |
n.腐败,堕落,贪污 | |
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402 ravage | |
vt.使...荒废,破坏...;n.破坏,掠夺,荒废 | |
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403 semblance | |
n.外貌,外表 | |
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404 disorders | |
n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 );凌乱;骚乱;(身心、机能)失调 | |
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405 accomplishments | |
n.造诣;完成( accomplishment的名词复数 );技能;成绩;成就 | |
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406 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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407 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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408 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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409 pathos | |
n.哀婉,悲怆 | |
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410 exquisitely | |
adv.精致地;强烈地;剧烈地;异常地 | |
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411 tilt | |
v.(使)倾侧;(使)倾斜;n.倾侧;倾斜 | |
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412 repented | |
对(自己的所为)感到懊悔或忏悔( repent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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413 attenuation | |
n.变薄;弄细;稀薄化;减少 | |
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414 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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415 grotesqueness | |
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416 depicted | |
描绘,描画( depict的过去式和过去分词 ); 描述 | |
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417 sanest | |
adj.心智健全的( sane的最高级 );神志正常的;明智的;稳健的 | |
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418 scant | |
adj.不充分的,不足的;v.减缩,限制,忽略 | |
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419 reigns | |
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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420 congruities | |
n.适合,一致( congruity的名词复数 );全等 | |
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421 embroidered | |
adj.绣花的 | |
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422 rapacious | |
adj.贪婪的,强夺的 | |
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423 suspense | |
n.(对可能发生的事)紧张感,担心,挂虑 | |
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424 specious | |
adj.似是而非的;adv.似是而非地 | |
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425 disintegrated | |
v.(使)破裂[分裂,粉碎],(使)崩溃( disintegrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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426 justifying | |
证明…有理( justify的现在分词 ); 为…辩护; 对…作出解释; 为…辩解(或辩护) | |
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427 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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428 precipitates | |
v.(突如其来地)使发生( precipitate的第三人称单数 );促成;猛然摔下;使沉淀 | |
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429 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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430 sublimated | |
v.(使某物质)升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 );使净化;纯化 | |
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431 justified | |
a.正当的,有理的 | |
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432 illustrate | |
v.举例说明,阐明;图解,加插图 | |
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433 trophy | |
n.优胜旗,奖品,奖杯,战胜品,纪念品 | |
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434 portentous | |
adj.不祥的,可怕的,装腔作势的 | |
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435 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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436 civilisation | |
n.文明,文化,开化,教化 | |
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437 artistically | |
adv.艺术性地 | |
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438 discredits | |
使不相信( discredit的第三人称单数 ); 使怀疑; 败坏…的名声; 拒绝相信 | |
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439 poetically | |
adv.有诗意地,用韵文 | |
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440 homely | |
adj.家常的,简朴的;不漂亮的 | |
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441 obtruded | |
v.强行向前,强行,强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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442 appreciation | |
n.评价;欣赏;感谢;领会,理解;价格上涨 | |
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443 futility | |
n.无用 | |
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444 outfit | |
n.(为特殊用途的)全套装备,全套服装 | |
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445 testimony | |
n.证词;见证,证明 | |
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