The foremost, the immense impression is of course the constant, the permanent, the ever-supreme—the impression of that greatest glory of our race, its passionate23 feeling for trade. I doubt if the commercial instinct be not, as London now feels it throb24 and glow, quite as striking as any conceivable projection25 of it that even our American pressure of the pump might, at the highest, produce. That is the real tent of the circus—that is the real back of the tapestry. There have long, I know, been persons ready to prove by book that the explanation of the “historical event” has always been somebody’s desire to make money; never, at all events, from the near view, will that explanation have covered so much of the ground. No result of the fact that the Queen has reigned26 sixty years—no sort of sentimental27 or other association with it—begins to have the air of coming home to the London conscience like this happy consequence of the chance in it to sell something dear. As yet that chance is the one sound that fills the air, and will probably be the only note audibly struck till the plaudits of the day itself begin to substitute, none too soon, a more mellifluous28 one. When the people are all at the windows and in the trees and on the water-spouts, house-tops, scaffolds and other ledges29 and coigns of vantage set as traps for them by the motive30 power, then doubtless there will be another aspect to reckon with—then we shall see, of the grand occasion, nothing but what is decently and presentably historic. All I mean is that, pending31 the apotheosis32, London has found in this particular chapter of the career of its aged33 sovereign only an enormous selfish advertisement. It came to me the other day in a quoted epigram that the advertisement shows as far off as across the Channel and all the way to Paris, where one of the reflections it has suggested—as it must inevitably34 suggest many—appears to be that, in contrast, when, a year ago, the Russian sovereigns were about to arrive no good Parisian thought for a moment of anything but how he could most work for the adornment35 of his town. I dare say that in fact from a good Parisian or two a window or a tree was to be hired; but the echo is at least interesting as an echo, not less than as a reminder36 of how we still wait here for the outbreak of the kind of enthusiasm that shall take the decorative37 form. The graceful38 tip of its nose has, it must be admitted, yet to show. But there are other sides still, and one of them immense—the light we may take as flooding, I mean, the whole question of the solidity of the throne. It is impossible to live long in England without feeling that the monarchy39 is—below-ground, so to speak, in particular—a rock; but it was reserved for these days to accentuate40 the immobility of even that portion of the rock which protrudes41 above the surface. It is being tested in a manner by fire, and it resists with a vitality42 nothing short of prophetic. The commercial instinct, as I say, perches43 upon it with a security and a success that banish44 a rival from the field. It is the biggest of all draws for the biggest of all circuses; it will bring more money to more doors than anything that can be imagined in its place. It will march through the ages unshaken. The coronation of a new sovereign is an event, at the worst, well within the compass of the mind, and what will that bring with it so much as a fresh lively market and miles of new posters and new carpentry? Then, who knows?—coronations will, for a stretch and a change perhaps, be more frequent than anniversaries; and the bargains struck over the last will, again at the worst, carry an hilarious45 country well on to the next. Has not the monarchy moreover—besides thus periodically making trade roar—the lively merit, for such an observer as I fancy considering these things, of helping46 more than anything else the answers to the questions into which our actual curiosity most overflows47; the question for instance of whether in the case before us the triumph of vulgarity be not precisely48 the flushed but muscular triumph of the inevitable? If vulgarity thrones now on the house-tops, “blown” and red in the face, is it not because it has been pushed aloft by deep forces and is really after all itself the show? The picturesque49 at any rate has to meet the conditions. We miss, we regret the old “style” of history; but the style would, I think, be there if we let it: the age has a manner of its own that disconcerts, that swamps it. The age is the loudest thing of all. What has altered is simply the conditions. Poor history has to meet them, these conditions; she must accommodate herself. She must accept vulgarity or perish. Some day doubtless she will perish, but for a little while longer she remembers and struggles. She becomes indeed, as we look up Piccadilly in the light of this image, perhaps rather more dramatic than ever—at any rate more pathetic, more noble in her choked humiliation50. Then even as we pity her we try perhaps to bring her round, to make her understand a little better. We try to explain that if we are dreadful to deal with it is only, really, a good deal because we so detestably grow and grow. There is so horribly much of us—that’s where our style breaks down. Small crowds and paltry51 bargains didn’t matter, and a little vulgarity—just a very little—could in other times manage to pass. Our shame, alas52, is our quantity.
I have no sooner, none the less, qualified53 it so ungraciously than I ask myself what after all we should do without it. If we have opened the floodgates we have at least opened them wide, and it is our very quantity that perhaps in the last resort will save us. It cuts both ways, as the phrase is—it covers all the ground; it helps the escape as well as produces the assault. If retreat for instance at the present juncture54 is, as I began by hinting, urgently imposed, it is thanks to our having so much of everything that we find a bridge for our feet. We hope to get off in time, but meanwhile even on the spot there are blessed alternatives and reliefs. I have been trying a number very hard, but I have expatiated55 so on the complaint that I have left little room for the remedy. London reminds one of nothing so often as of the help she gives one to forget her. One of the forms actually taken by this happy habit is the ingenious little exhibition, at the Grafton Galleries, of so-called Dramatic and Musical Art. The name is rather a grand one and the show has many gaps; but it profits, as such places in London so often profit, by the law that makes you mostly care less what you get into than what you get out of. With its Hogarths and Zoffanys—none too many, I admit—its other last-century portraits and relics56, its numerous ghosts of Garrick, its old play-bills and prints, its echoes of dead plaudits and its very thin attendance, it happens to be for the moment a quiet bower57 in the bear-garden. It is a “scratch” company, but only—and I can scarce say why—in the portion in which the portraits of the day prevail is the impression vulgar. Even there indeed this suspicion receives a grand lift from Mr. Whistler’s exquisite58 image of Henry Irving as the Philip of Tennyson’s “Queen Mary.” To pause before such a work is in fact to be held to the spot by just the highest operation of the charm one has sought there—the charm of a certain degree of melancholy59 meditation60. Meditation indeed forgets Garrick and Hogarth and all the handsome heads of the Kembles in wonder reintensified at the attitude of a stupid generation toward an art and a taste so rare. Wonder is perhaps after all not the word to use, for how should a stupid generation, liking61 so much that it does like and with a faculty62 trained to coarser motions, recognise in Mr. Whistler’s work one of the finest of all distillations of the artistic63 intelligence? To turn from his picture to the rest of the show—which, of course, I admit, is not a collection of masterpieces—is to drop from the world of distinction, of perception, of beauty and mystery and perpetuity, into—well, a very ordinary place. And yet the effect of Whistler at his best is exactly to give to the place he hangs in—or perhaps I should say to the person he hangs for—something of the sense, of the illusion, of a great museum. He isolates64 himself in a manner all his own; his presence is in itself a sort of implication of a choice corner. Have we in this a faint foresight65 of the eventual66 turn of the wheel—of one of the nooks of honour, those innermost rooms of great collections, in which our posterity67 shall find him? Look at him at any rate on any occasion, but above all at his best, only long enough, and hallucination sets in. We are in the presence of one of the prizes marked with two stars in the guidebook; the polished floor is beneath us and the rococo68 roof above; the great names are ranged about, and the eye is aware of the near window, in its deep recess69, that overhangs old gardens or a celebrated square.
点击收听单词发音
1 plunge | |
v.跳入,(使)投入,(使)陷入;猛冲 | |
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2 turbid | |
adj.混浊的,泥水的,浓的 | |
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3 jubilee | |
n.周年纪念;欢乐 | |
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4 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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5 scramble | |
v.爬行,攀爬,杂乱蔓延,碎片,片段,废料 | |
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6 scurry | |
vi.急匆匆地走;使急赶;催促;n.快步急跑,疾走;仓皇奔跑声;骤雨,骤雪;短距离赛马 | |
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7 crest | |
n.顶点;饰章;羽冠;vt.达到顶点;vi.形成浪尖 | |
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8 fugitives | |
n.亡命者,逃命者( fugitive的名词复数 ) | |
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9 prospect | |
n.前景,前途;景色,视野 | |
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10 celebrated | |
adj.有名的,声誉卓著的 | |
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11 tapestry | |
n.挂毯,丰富多采的画面 | |
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12 reign | |
n.统治时期,统治,支配,盛行;v.占优势 | |
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13 momentary | |
adj.片刻的,瞬息的;短暂的 | |
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14 sordid | |
adj.肮脏的,不干净的,卑鄙的,暗淡的 | |
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15 plausible | |
adj.似真实的,似乎有理的,似乎可信的 | |
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16 wretch | |
n.可怜的人,不幸的人;卑鄙的人 | |
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17 consort | |
v.相伴;结交 | |
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18 penance | |
n.(赎罪的)惩罪 | |
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19 indifference | |
n.不感兴趣,不关心,冷淡,不在乎 | |
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20 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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21 vociferous | |
adj.喧哗的,大叫大嚷的 | |
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22 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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23 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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24 throb | |
v.震颤,颤动;(急速强烈地)跳动,搏动 | |
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25 projection | |
n.发射,计划,突出部分 | |
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26 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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27 sentimental | |
adj.多愁善感的,感伤的 | |
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28 mellifluous | |
adj.(音乐等)柔美流畅的 | |
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29 ledges | |
n.(墙壁,悬崖等)突出的狭长部分( ledge的名词复数 );(平窄的)壁架;横档;(尤指)窗台 | |
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30 motive | |
n.动机,目的;adv.发动的,运动的 | |
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31 pending | |
prep.直到,等待…期间;adj.待定的;迫近的 | |
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32 apotheosis | |
n.神圣之理想;美化;颂扬 | |
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33 aged | |
adj.年老的,陈年的 | |
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34 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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35 adornment | |
n.装饰;装饰品 | |
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36 reminder | |
n.提醒物,纪念品;暗示,提示 | |
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37 decorative | |
adj.装饰的,可作装饰的 | |
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38 graceful | |
adj.优美的,优雅的;得体的 | |
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39 monarchy | |
n.君主,最高统治者;君主政体,君主国 | |
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40 accentuate | |
v.着重,强调 | |
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41 protrudes | |
v.(使某物)伸出,(使某物)突出( protrude的第三人称单数 ) | |
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42 vitality | |
n.活力,生命力,效力 | |
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43 perches | |
栖息处( perch的名词复数 ); 栖枝; 高处; 鲈鱼 | |
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44 banish | |
vt.放逐,驱逐;消除,排除 | |
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45 hilarious | |
adj.充满笑声的,欢闹的;[反]depressed | |
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46 helping | |
n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的,辅助的 | |
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47 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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48 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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49 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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50 humiliation | |
n.羞辱 | |
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51 paltry | |
adj.无价值的,微不足道的 | |
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52 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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53 qualified | |
adj.合格的,有资格的,胜任的,有限制的 | |
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54 juncture | |
n.时刻,关键时刻,紧要关头 | |
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55 expatiated | |
v.详述,细说( expatiate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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56 relics | |
[pl.]n.遗物,遗迹,遗产;遗体,尸骸 | |
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57 bower | |
n.凉亭,树荫下凉快之处;闺房;v.荫蔽 | |
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58 exquisite | |
adj.精美的;敏锐的;剧烈的,感觉强烈的 | |
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59 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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60 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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61 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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62 faculty | |
n.才能;学院,系;(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
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63 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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64 isolates | |
v.使隔离( isolate的第三人称单数 );将…剔出(以便看清和单独处理);使(某物质、细胞等)分离;使离析 | |
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65 foresight | |
n.先见之明,深谋远虑 | |
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66 eventual | |
adj.最后的,结局的,最终的 | |
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67 posterity | |
n.后裔,子孙,后代 | |
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68 rococo | |
n.洛可可;adj.过分修饰的 | |
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69 recess | |
n.短期休息,壁凹(墙上装架子,柜子等凹处) | |
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