Hawthorne was close upon fifty years of age when he came to Europe — a fact that should be remembered when those impressions which he recorded in five substantial volumes (exclusive of the novel written in Italy), occasionally affect us by the rigidity1 of their point of view. His Note–Books, kept during his residence in England, his two winters in Rome, his summer in Florence, were published after his death; his impressions of England, sifted3, revised, and addressed directly to the public, he gave to the world shortly before this event. The tone of his European Diaries is often so fresh and unsophisticated that we find ourselves thinking of the writer as a young man, and it is only a certain final sense of something reflective and a trifle melancholy4 that reminds us that the simplicity5 which is on the whole the leading characteristic of their pages, is, though the simplicity of inexperience, not that of youth. When I say inexperience, I mean that Hawthorne’s experience had been narrow. His fifty years had been spent, for much the larger part, in small American towns — Salem, the Boston of forty years ago, Concord6, Lenox, West Newton — and he had led exclusively what one may call a village-life. This is evident, not at all directly and superficially, but by implication and between the lines, in his desultory8 history of his foreign years. In other words, and to call things by their names, he was exquisitely9 and consistently provincial11. I suggest this fact not in the least in condemnation12, but, on the contrary, in support of an appreciative13 view of him. I know nothing more remarkable14, more touching15, than the sight of this odd, youthful — elderly mind, contending so late in the day with new opportunities for learning old things, and on the whole profiting by them so freely and gracefully17. The Note–Books are provincial, and so, in a greatly modified degree, are the sketches19 of England, in Our Old Home; but the beauty and delicacy21 of this latter work are so interwoven with the author’s air of being remotely outside of everything he describes, that they count for more, seem more themselves, and finally give the whole thing the appearance of a triumph, not of initiation22, but of the provincial point of view itself.
I shall not attempt to relate in detail the incidents of his residence in England. He appears to have enjoyed it greatly, in spite of the deficiency of charm in the place to which his duties chiefly confined him. His confinement23, however, was not unbroken, and his published journals consist largely of minute accounts of little journeys and wanderings, with his wife and his three children, through the rest of the country; together with much mention of numerous visits to London, a city for whose dusky immensity and multitudinous interest he professed24 the highest relish25. His Note–Books are of the same cast as the two volumes of his American Diaries, of which, I have given some account — chiefly occupied with external matters, with the accidents of daily life, with observations made during the long walks (often with his son), which formed his most valued pastime. His office, moreover, though Liverpool was not a delectable26 home, furnished him with entertainment as well as occupation, and it may almost be said that during these years he saw more of his fellow-countrymen, in the shape of odd wanderers, petitioners27, and inquirers of every kind, than he had ever done in his native land. The paper entitled “Consular Experiences,” in Our Old Home, is an admirable recital29 of these observations, and a proof that the novelist might have found much material in the opportunities of the consul28. On his return to America, in 1860, he drew from his journal a number of pages relating to his observations in England, re-wrote them (with, I should suppose, a good deal of care), and converted them into articles which he published in a magazine. These chapters were afterwards collected, and Our Old Home (a rather infelicitous30 title), was issued in 1863. I prefer to speak of the book now, however, rather than in touching upon the closing years of his life, for it is a kind of deliberate résumé of his impressions of the land of his ancestors. “It is not a good or a weighty book,” he wrote to his publisher, who had sent him some reviews of it, “nor does it deserve any great amount of praise or censure31. I don’t care about seeing any more notices of it.” Hawthorne’s appreciation32 of his own productions was always extremely just; he had a sense of the relations of things, which some of his admirers have not thought it well to cultivate; and he never exaggerated his own importance as a writer. Our Old Home is not a weighty book; it is decidedly a light one. But when he says it is not a good one, I hardly know what he means, and his modesty33 at this point is in excess of his discretion34. Whether good or not, Our Old Home is charming — it is most delectable reading. The execution is singularly perfect and ripe; of all his productions it seems to be the best written. The touch, as musicians say, is admirable; the lightness, the fineness, the felicity of characterisation and description, belong to a man who has the advantage of feeling delicately. His judgment35 is by no means always sound; it often rests on too narrow an observation. But his perception is of the keenest, and though it is frequently partial, incomplete, it is excellent as far as it goes. The book gave but limited satisfaction, I believe, in England, and I am not sure that the failure to enjoy certain manifestations36 of its sportive irony37, has not chilled the appreciation of its singular grace. That English readers, on the whole, should have felt that Hawthorne did the national mind and manners but partial justice, is, I think, conceivable; at the same time that it seems to me remarkable that the tender side of the book, as I may call it, should not have carried it off better. It abounds38 in passages more delicately appreciative than can easily be found elsewhere, and it contains more charming and affectionate things than, I should suppose, had ever before been written about a country not the writer’s own. To say that it is an immeasurably more exquisite10 and sympathetic work than any of the numerous persons who have related their misadventures in the United States have seen fit to devote to that country, is to say but little, and I imagine that Hawthorne had in mind the array of English voyagers — Mrs. Trollope, Dickens, Marryat, Basil Hall, Miss Martineau, Mr. Grattan — when he reflected that everything is relative and that, as such books go, his own little volume observed the amenities40 of criticism. He certainly had it in mind when he wrote the phrase in his preface relating to the impression the book might make in England. “Not an Englishman of them all ever spared America for courtesy’s sake or kindness; nor, in my opinion, would it contribute in the least to any mutual41 advantage and comfort if we were to besmear each other all over with butter and honey.” I am far from intending to intimate that the vulgar instinct of recrimination had anything to do with the restrictive passages of Our Old Home; I mean simply that the author had a prevision that his collection of sketches would in some particulars fail to please his English friends. He professed, after the event, to have discovered that the English are sensitive, and as they say of the Americans, for whose advantage I believe the term was invented; thin-skinned. “The English critics,” he wrote to his publisher, “seem to think me very bitter against their countrymen, and it is perhaps natural that they should, because their self-conceit can accept nothing short of indiscriminate adulation; but I really think that Americans have much more cause than they to complain of me. Looking over the volume I am rather surprised to find that whenever I draw a comparison between the two people, I almost invariably cast the balance against ourselves.” And he writes at another time:—“I received several private letters and printed notices of Our Old Home from England. It is laughable to see the innocent wonder with which they regard my criticisms, accounting42 for them by jaundice, insanity43, jealousy44, hatred45, on my part, and never admitting the least suspicion that there may be a particle of truth in them. The monstrosity of their self-conceit is such that anything short of unlimited46 admiration47 impresses them as malicious48 caricature. But they do me great injustice49 in supposing that I hate them. I would as soon hate my own people.” The idea of his hating the English was of course too puerile50 for discussion; and the book, as I have said, is full of a rich appreciation of the finest characteristics of the country. But it has a serious defect — a defect which impairs51 its value, though it helps to give consistency52 to such an image of Hawthorne’s personal nature as we may by this time have been able to form. It is the work of an outsider, of a stranger, of a man who remains53 to the end a mere54 spectator (something less even than an observer), and always lacks the final initiation into the manners and nature of a people of whom it may most be said, among all the people of the earth, that to know them is to make discoveries. Hawthorne freely confesses to this constant exteriority55, and appears to have been perfectly56 conscious of it. “I remember,” he writes in the sketch20 of “A London Suburb,” in Our Old Home, “I remember to this day the dreary57 feeling with which I sat by our first English fireside and watched the chill and rainy twilight58 of an autumn day darkening down upon the garden, while the preceding occupant of the house (evidently a most unamiable personage in his lifetime), scowled59 inhospitably from above the mantel-piece, as if indignant that an American should try to make himself at home there. Possibly it may appease60 his sulky shade to know that I quitted his abode61 as much a stranger as I entered it.” The same note is struck in an entry in his journal, of the date of October 6th, 1854.
“The people, for several days, have been in the utmost anxiety, and latterly in the highest exultation62, about Sebastopol — and all England, and Europe to boot, have been fooled by the belief that it had fallen. This, however, now turns out to be incorrect; and the public visage is somewhat grim in consequence. I am glad of it. In spite of his actual sympathies, it is impossible for an American to be otherwise than glad. Success makes an Englishman intolerable, and already, on the mistaken idea that the way was open to a prosperous conclusion of the war, the Times had begun to throw out menaces against America. I shall never love England till she sues to us for help, and, in the meantime, the fewer triumphs she obtains, the better for all parties. An Englishman in adversity is a very respectable character; he does not lose his dignity, but merely comes to a proper conception of himself. . . . I seem to myself like a spy or traitor63 when I meet their eyes, and am conscious that I neither hope nor fear in sympathy with them, although they look at me in full confidence of sympathy. Their heart ‘knoweth its own bitterness,’ and as for me, being a stranger and an alien, I ‘intermeddle not with their joy.’”
This seems to me to express very well the weak side of Hawthorne’s work — his constant mistrust and suspicion of the society that surrounded him, his exaggerated, painful, morbid64 national consciousness. It is, I think, an indisputable fact that Americans are, as Americans, the most self-conscious people in the world, and the most addicted65 to the belief that the other nations of the earth are in a conspiracy66 to undervalue them. They are conscious of being the youngest of the great nations, of not being of the European family, of being placed on the circumference67 of the circle of civilisation68 rather than at the centre, of the experimental element not having as yet entirely69 dropped out of their great political undertaking70. The sense of this relativity, in a word, replaces that quiet and comfortable sense of the absolute, as regards its own position in the world, which reigns71 supreme72 in the British and in the Gallic genius. Few persons, I think, can have mingled73 much with Americans in Europe without having made this reflection, and it is in England that their habit of looking askance at foreign institutions — of keeping one eye, as it were, on the American personality, while with the other they contemplate74 these objects — is most to be observed. Add to this that Hawthorne came to England late in life, when his habits, his tastes, his opinions, were already formed, that he was inclined to look at things in silence and brood over them gently, rather than talk about them, discuss them, grow acquainted with them by action; and it will be possible to form an idea of our writer’s detached and critical attitude in the country in which it is easiest, thanks to its aristocratic constitution, to the absence of any considerable public fund of entertainment and diversion, to the degree in which the inexhaustible beauty and interest of the place are private property, demanding constantly a special introduction — in the country in which, I say, it is easiest for a stranger to remain a stranger. For a stranger to cease to be a stranger he must stand ready, as the French say, to pay with his person; and this was an obligation that Hawthorne was indisposed to incur75. Our sense, as we read, that his reflections are those of a shy and susceptible76 man, with nothing at stake, mentally, in his appreciation of the country, is therefore a drawback to our confidence; but it is not a drawback sufficient to make it of no importance that he is at the same time singularly intelligent and discriminating77, with a faculty78 of feeling delicately and justly, which constitutes in itself an illumination. There is a passage in the sketch entitled About Warwick which is a very good instance of what was probably his usual state of mind. He is speaking of the aspect of the High Street of the town.
“The street is an emblem79 of England itself. What seems new in it is chiefly a skilful80 and fortunate adaptation of what such a people as ourselves would destroy. The new things are based and supported on sturdy old things, and derive81 a massive strength from their deep and immemorial foundations, though with such limitations and impediments as only an Englishman could endure. But he likes to feel the weight of all the past upon his back; and moreover the antiquity82 that overburdens him has taken root in his being, and has grown to be rather a hump than a pack, so that there is no getting rid of it without tearing his whole structure to pieces. In my judgment, as he appears to be sufficiently83 comfortable under the mouldy accretion84, he had better stumble on with it as long as he can. He presents a spectacle which is by no means without its charm for a disinterested85 and unincumbered observer.”
There is all Hawthorne, with his enjoyment86 of the picturesque87, his relish of chiaroscuro88, of local colour, of the deposit of time, and his still greater enjoyment of his own dissociation from these things, his “disinterested and unincumbered” condition. His want of incumbrances may seem at times to give him a somewhat naked and attenuated89 appearance, but on the whole he carries it off very well. I have said that Our Old Home contains much of his best writing, and on turning over the book at hazard, I am struck with his frequent felicity of phrase. At every step there is something one would like to quote — something excellently well said. These things are often of the lighter90 sort, but Hawthorne’s charming diction lingers in the memory — almost in the ear. I have always remembered a certain admirable characterisation of Doctor Johnson, in the account of the writer’s visit to Lichfield — and I will preface it by a paragraph almost as good, commemorating91 the charms of the hotel in that interesting town.
“At any rate I had the great, dull, dingy92, and dreary coffee-room, with its heavy old mahogany chairs and tables, all to myself, and not a soul to exchange a word with except the waiter, who, like most of his class in England, had evidently left his conversational93 abilities uncultivated. No former practice of solitary94 living, nor habits of reticence95, nor well-tested self-dependence for occupation of mind and amusement, can quite avail, as I now proved, to dissipate the ponderous96 gloom of an English coffee-room under such circumstances as these, with no book at hand save the county directory, nor any newspaper but a torn local journal of five days ago. So I buried myself, betimes, in a huge heap of ancient feathers (there is no other kind of bed in these old inns), let my head sink into an unsubstantial pillow, and slept a stifled97 sleep, compounded of the night-troubles of all my predecessors98 in that same unrestful couch. And when I awoke, the odour of a bygone century was in my nostrils99 — a faint, elusive100 smell, of which I never had any conception before crossing the Atlantic.”
The whole chapter entitled “Lichfield and Uttoxeter” is a sort of graceful16 tribute to Samuel Johnson, who certainly has nowhere else been more tenderly spoken of.
“Beyond all question I might have had a wiser friend than he. The atmosphere in which alone he breathed was dense101; his awful dread102 of death showed how much muddy imperfection was to be cleansed103 out of him, before he could be capable of spiritual existence; he meddled104 only with the surface of life, and never cared to penetrate105 further than to ploughshare depth; his very sense and sagacity were but a one-eyed clear-sightedness. I laughed at him, sometimes standing106 beside his knee. And yet, considering that my native propensities107 were toward Fairy Land, and also how much yeast108 is generally mixed up with the mental sustenance109 of a New Englander, it may not have been altogether amiss, in those childish and boyish days, to keep pace with this heavy-footed traveller and feed on the gross diet that he carried in his knapsack. It is wholesome110 food even now! And then, how English! Many of the latent sympathies that enabled me to enjoy the Old Country so well, and that so readily amalgamated111 themselves with the American ideas that seemed most adverse112 to them, may have been derived113 from, or fostered and kept alive by, the great English moralist. Never was a descriptive epithet114 more nicely appropriate than that! Doctor Johnson’s morality was as English an article as a beef-steak.”
And for mere beauty of expression I cannot forbear quoting this passage about the days in a fine English summer:—
“For each day seemed endless, though never wearisome. As far as your actual experience is concerned, the English summer day has positively115 no beginning and no end. When you awake, at any reasonable hour, the sun is already shining through the curtains; you live through unnumbered hours of Sabbath quietude, with a calm variety of incident softly etched upon their tranquil116 lapse117; and at length you become conscious that it is bedtime again, while there is still enough daylight in the sky to make the pages of your book distinctly legible. Night, if there be any such season, hangs down a transparent118 veil through which the bygone day beholds119 its successor; or if not quite true of the latitude120 of London, it may be soberly affirmed of the more northern parts of the island that To-morrow is born before its Yesterday is dead. They exist together in the golden twilight, where the decrepit121 old day dimly discerns the face of the ominous122 infant; and you, though a mere mortal, may simultaneously123 touch them both, with one finger of recollection and another of prophecy.”
The Note–Books, as I have said, deal chiefly with, the superficial aspect of English life, and describe the material objects with which the author was surrounded. They often describe them admirably, and the rural beauty of the country has never been more happily expressed. But there are inevitably124 a great many reflections and incidental judgments125, characterisations of people he met, fragments of psychology126 and social criticism, and it is here that Hawthorne’s mixture of subtlety127 and simplicity, his interfusion of genius with what I have ventured to call the provincial quality, is most apparent. To an American reader this later quality, which is never grossly manifested, but pervades128 the Journals like a vague natural perfume, an odour of purity and kindness and integrity, must always, for a reason that I will touch upon, have a considerable charm; and such a reader will accordingly take an even greater satisfaction in the Diaries kept during the two years Hawthorne spent in Italy; for in these volumes the element I speak of is especially striking. He resigned his consulate129 at Liverpool towards the close of 1857 — whether because he was weary of his manner of life there and of the place itself, as may well have been, or because he wished to anticipate supersession130 by the new government (Mr. Buchanan’s) which was just establishing itself at Washington, is not apparent from the slender sources of information from which these pages have been compiled. In the month of January of the following year he betook himself with his family to the Continent, and, as promptly131 as possible, made the best of his way to Rome. He spent the remainder of the winter and the spring there, and then went to Florence for the summer and autumn; after which he returned to Rome and passed a second season. His Italian Note–Books are very pleasant reading, but they are of less interest than the others, for his contact with the life of the country, its people and its manners, was simply that of the ordinary tourist — which amounts to saying that it was extremely superficial. He appears to have suffered a great deal of discomfort132 and depression in Rome, and not to have been on the whole in the best mood for enjoying the place and its resources. That he did, at one time and another, enjoy these things keenly is proved by his beautiful romance, Transformation133, which could never have been written by a man who had not had many hours of exquisite appreciation of the lovely land of Italy. But he took It hard, as it were, and suffered himself to be painfully discomposed by the usual accidents of Italian life, as foreigners learn to know it. His future was again uncertain, and during his second winter in Rome he was in danger of losing his elder daughter by a malady134 which he speaks of as a trouble “that pierced to my very vitals.” I may mention, with regard to this painful episode, that Franklin Pierce, whose presidential days were over, and who, like other ex-presidents, was travelling in Europe, came to Rome at the time, and that the Note–Books contain some singularly beautiful and touching allusions135 to his old friend’s gratitude136 for his sympathy, and enjoyment of his society. The sentiment of friendship has on the whole been so much less commemorated137 in literature than might have been expected from the place it is supposed to hold in life, that there is always something striking in any frank and ardent138 expression of it. It occupied, in so far as Pierce was the object of it, a large place in Hawthorne’s mind, and it is impossible not to feel the manly139 tenderness of such lines as these:—
“I have found him here in Rome, the whole of my early friend, and even better than I used to know him; a heart as true and affectionate, a mind much widened and deepened by the experience of life. We hold just the same relation to one another as of yore, and we have passed all the turning-off places, and may hope to go on together, still the same dear friends, as long as we live. I do not love him one whit140 the less for having been President, nor for having done me the greatest good in his power; a fact that speaks eloquently142 in his favour, and perhaps says a little for myself. If he had been merely a benefactor143, perhaps I might not have borne it so well; but each did his best for the other, as friend for friend.”
The Note–Books are chiefly taken up with descriptions of the regular sights and “objects of interest,” which we often feel to be rather perfunctory and a little in the style of the traditional tourist’s diary. They abound39 in charming touches, and every reader of Transformation will remember the delightful144 colouring of the numerous pages in that novel, which are devoted145 to the pictorial146 aspects of Rome. But we are unable to rid ourselves of the impression that Hawthorne was a good deal bored by the importunity147 of Italian art, for which his taste, naturally not keen, had never been cultivated. Occasionally, indeed, he breaks out into explicit148 sighs and groans149, and frankly150 declares that he washes his hands of it. Already, in England, he had made the discovery that he could, easily feel overdosed with such things. “Yesterday,” he wrote in 1856, “I went out at about twelve and visited the British Museum; an exceedingly tiresome151 affair. It quite crushes a person to see so much at once, and I wandered from hall to hall with a weary and heavy heart, wishing (Heaven forgive me!) that the Elgin marbles and the frieze152 of the Parthenon were all burnt into lime, and that the granite153 Egyptian statues were hewn and squared into building stones.”
The plastic sense was not strong in Hawthorne; there can be no better proof of it than his curious aversion to the representation of the nude154 in sculpture. This aversion was deep-seated; he constantly returns to it, exclaiming upon the incongruity155 of modern artists making naked figures. He apparently156 quite failed to see that nudity is not an incident, or accident, of sculpture, but its very essence and principle; and his jealousy of undressed images strikes the reader as a strange, vague, long-dormant heritage of his straight-laced Puritan ancestry157. Whenever he talks of statues he makes a great point of the smoothness and whiteness of the marble — speaks of the surface of the marble as if it were half the beauty of the image; and when he discourses158 of pictures, one feels that the brightness or dinginess159 of the frame is an essential part of his impression of the work — as he indeed somewhere distinctly affirms. Like a good American, he took more pleasure in the productions of Mr. Thompson and Mr. Brown, Mr. Powers and Mr. Hart, American artists who were plying160 their trade in Italy, than in the works which adorned161 the ancient museums of the country. He suffered greatly from the cold, and found little charm in the climate, and during the weeks of winter that followed his arrival in Rome, he sat shivering by his fire and wondering why he had come to such a land of misery162. Before he left Italy he wrote to his publisher —“I bitterly detest163 Rome, and shall rejoice to bid it farewell for ever; and I fully18 acquiesce164 in all the mischief165 and ruin that has happened to it, from Nero’s conflagration166 downward. In fact, I wish the very site had been obliterated167 before I ever saw it.” Hawthorne presents himself to the reader of these pages as the last of the old-fashioned Americans — and this is the interest which I just now said that his compatriots would find in his very limitations. I do not mean by this that there are not still many of his fellow-countrymen (as there are many natives of every land under the sun,) who are more susceptible of being irritated than of being soothed168 by the influences of the Eternal City. What I mean is that an American of equal value with Hawthorne, an American of equal genius, imagination, and, as our forefathers169 said, sensibility, would at present inevitably accommodate himself more easily to the idiosyncrasies of foreign lands. An American as cultivated as Hawthorne, is now almost inevitably more cultivated, and, as a matter of course, more Europeanised in advance, more cosmopolitan170. It is very possible that in becoming so, he has lost something of his occidental savour, the quality which excites the goodwill171 of the American reader of our author’s Journals for the dislocated, depressed172, even slightly bewildered diarist. Absolutely the last of the earlier race of Americans Hawthorne was, fortunately, probably far from being. But I think of him as the last specimen173 of the more primitive174 type of men of letters; and when it comes to measuring what he succeeded in being, in his unadulterated form, against what he failed of being, the positive side of the image quite extinguishes the negative. I must be on my guard, however, against incurring175 the charge of cherishing a national consciousness as acute as I have ventured to pronounce his own.
Out of his mingled sensations, his pleasure and his weariness, his discomforts176 and his reveries, there sprang another beautiful work. During the summer of 1858, he hired a picturesque old villa7 on the hill of Bellosguardo, near Florence, a curious structure with a crenelated tower, which, after having in the course of its career suffered many vicissitudes177 and played many parts, now finds its most vivid identity in being pointed178 out to strangers as the sometime residence of the celebrated179 American romancer. Hawthorne took a fancy to the place, as well he might, for it is one of the loveliest spots on earth, and the great view that stretched itself before him contains every element of beauty. Florence lay at his feet with her memories and treasures; the olive-covered hills bloomed around him, studded with villas180 as picturesque as his own; the Apennines, perfect in form and colour, disposed themselves opposite, and in the distance, along its fertile valley, the Arno wandered to Pisa and the sea. Soon after coming hither he wrote to a friend in a strain of high satisfaction:—
“It is pleasant to feel at last that I am really away from America — a satisfaction that I never really enjoyed as long as I stayed in Liverpool, where it seemed to be that the quintessence of nasal and hand-shaking Yankeedom was gradually filtered and sublimated181 through my consulate, on the way outward and homeward. I first got acquainted with my own countrymen there. At Rome too it was not much better. But here in Florence, and in the summer-time, and in this secluded182 villa, I have escaped out of all my old tracks, and am really remote. I like my present residence immensely. The house stands on a hill, overlooking Florence, and is big enough to quarter a regiment183, insomuch that each member of the family, including servants, has a separate suite184 of apartments, and there are vast wildernesses185 of upper rooms into which we have never yet sent exploring expeditions. At one end of the house there is a moss-grown tower, haunted by owls186 and by the ghost of a monk187 who was confined there in the thirteenth century, previous to being burnt at the stake in the principal square of Florence. I hire this villa, tower and all, at twenty-eight dollars a month; but I mean to take it away bodily and clap it into a romance, which I have in my head, ready to be written out.”
This romance was Transformation, which he wrote out during the following winter in Rome, and re-wrote during the several months that he spent in England, chiefly at Leamington, before returning to America. The Villa Montauto figures, in fact, in this tale as the castle of Monte–Beni, the patrimonial188 dwelling189 of the hero. “I take some credit to myself,” he wrote to the same friend, on returning to Rome, “for having sternly shut myself up for an hour or two every day, and come to close grips with a romance which I have been trying to tear out of my mind.” And later in the same winter he says —“I shall go home, I fear, with a heavy heart, not expecting to be very well contented190 there. . . . If I were but a hundred times richer than I am, how very comfortable I could be! I consider it a great piece of good fortune that I have had experience of the discomforts and miseries191 of Italy, and did not go directly home from England. Anything will seem like a Paradise after a Roman winter.” But he got away at last, late in the spring, carrying his novel with him, and the book was published, after, as I say, he had worked it over, mainly during some weeks that he passed at the little watering-place of Redcar, on the Yorkshire coast, in February of the following year. It was issued primarily in England; the American edition immediately followed. It is an odd fact that in the two countries the book came out under different titles. The title that the author had bestowed192 upon it did not satisfy the English publishers, who requested him to provide it with another; so that it is only in America that the work bears the name of The Marble Fawn193. Hawthorne’s choice of this appellation194 is, by the way, rather singular, for it completely fails to characterise the story, the subject of which is the living faun, the faun of flesh and blood, the unfortunate Donatello. His marble counterpart is mentioned only in the opening chapter. On the other hand Hawthorne complained that Transformation “gives one the idea of Harlequin in a pantomime.” Under either name, however, the book was a great success, and it has probably become the most popular of Hawthorne’s four novels. It is part of the intellectual equipment of the Anglo–Saxon visitor to Rome, and is read by every English-speaking traveller who arrives there, who has been there, or who expects to go.
It has a great deal of beauty, of interest and grace; but it has to my sense a slighter value than its companions, and I am far from regarding it as the masterpiece of the author, a position to which we sometimes hear it assigned. The subject is admirable, and so are many of the details; but the whole thing is less simple and complete than either of the three tales of American life, and Hawthorne forfeited195 a precious advantage in ceasing to tread his native soil. Half the virtue196 of The Scarlet197 Letter and The House of the Seven Gables is in their local quality; they are impregnated with the New England air. It is very true that Hawthorne had no pretension198 to pourtray actualities and to cultivate that literal exactitude which is now the fashion. Had this been the case, he would probably have made a still graver mistake in transporting the scene of his story to a country which he knew only superficially. His tales all go on more or less “in the vague,” as the French say, and of course the vague may as well be placed in Tuscany as in Massachusetts. It may also very well be urged in Hawthorne’s favour here, that in Transformation he has attempted to deal with actualities more than he did in either of his earlier novels. He has described the streets and monuments of Rome with a closeness which forms no part of his reference to those of Boston and Salem. But for all this he incurs199 that penalty of seeming factitious and unauthoritative, which is always the result of an artist’s attempt to project himself into an atmosphere in which he has not a transmitted and inherited property. An English or a German writer (I put poets aside) may love Italy well enough, and know her well enough, to write delightful fictions about her; the thing has often been done. But the productions in question will, as novels, always have about them something second-rate and imperfect. There is in Transformation enough beautiful perception of the interesting character of Rome, enough rich and eloquent141 expression of it, to save the book, if the book could be saved; but the style, what the French call the genre200, is an inferior one, and the thing remains a charming romance with intrinsic weaknesses.
Allowing for this, however, some of the finest pages in all Hawthorne are to be found in it. The subject, as I have said, is a particularly happy one, and there is a great deal of interest in the simple combination and opposition201 of the four actors. It is noticeable that in spite of the considerable length of the story, there are no accessory figures; Donatello and Miriam, Kenyon and Hilda, exclusively occupy the scene. This is the more noticeable as the scene is very large, and the great Roman background is constantly presented to us. The relations of these four people are full of that moral picturesqueness202 which Hawthorne was always looking for; he found it in perfection in the history of Donatello. As I have said, the novel is the most popular of his works, and every one will remember the figure of the simple, joyous203, sensuous204 young Italian, who is not so much a man as a child, and not so much a child as a charming, innocent animal, and how he is brought to self-knowledge and to a miserable205 conscious manhood, by the commission of a crime. Donatello is rather vague and impalpable; he says too little in the book, shows himself too little, and falls short, I think, of being a creation. But he is enough of a creation to make us enter into the situation, and the whole history of his rise, or fall, whichever one chooses to call it — his tasting of the tree of knowledge and finding existence complicated with a regret — is unfolded with a thousand ingenious and exquisite touches. Of course, to make the interest complete, there is a woman in the affair, and Hawthorne has done few things more beautiful than the picture of the unequal complicity of guilt206 between his immature207 and dimly-puzzled hero, with his clinging, unquestioning, unexacting devotion, and the dark, powerful, more widely-seeing feminine nature of Miriam. Deeply touching is the representation of the manner in which these two essentially208 different persons — the woman intelligent, passionate209, acquainted with life, and with a tragic210 element in her own career; the youth ignorant, gentle, unworldly, brightly and harmlessly natural — are equalised and bound together by their common secret, which insulates them, morally, from the rest of mankind. The character of Hilda has always struck me as an admirable invention — one of those things that mark the man of genius. It needed a man of genius and of Hawthorne’s imaginative delicacy, to feel the propriety211 of such a figure as Hilda’s and to perceive the relief it would both give and borrow. This pure and somewhat rigid2 New England girl, following the vocation212 of a copyist of pictures in Rome, unacquainted with evil and untouched by impurity213, has been accidentally the witness, unknown and unsuspected, of the dark deed by which her friends, Miriam and Donatello, are knit together. This is her revelation of evil, her loss of perfect innocence214. She has done no wrong, and yet wrongdoing has become a part of her experience, and she carries the weight of her detested215 knowledge upon her heart. She carries it a long time, saddened and oppressed by it, till at last she can bear it no longer. If I have called the whole idea of the presence and effect of Hilda in the story a trait of genius, the purest touch of inspiration is the episode in which the poor girl deposits her burden. She has passed the whole lonely summer in Rome, and one day, at the end of it, finding herself in St. Peter’s, she enters a confessional, strenuous216 daughter of the Puritans as she is, and pours out her dark knowledge into the bosom217 of the Church — then comes away with her conscience lightened, not a whit the less a Puritan than before. If the book contained nothing else noteworthy but this admirable scene, and the pages describing the murder committed by Donatello under Miriam’s eyes, and the ecstatic wandering, afterwards, of the guilty couple, through the “blood-stained streets of Rome,” it would still deserve to rank high among the imaginative productions of our day.
Like all of Hawthorne’s things, it contains a great many light threads of symbolism, which shimmer218 in the texture219 of the tale, but which are apt to break and remain in our fingers if we attempt to handle them. These things are part of Hawthorne’s very manner — almost, as one might say, of his vocabulary; they belong much more to the surface of his work than to its stronger interest. The fault of Transformation is that the element of the unreal is pushed too far, and that the book is neither positively of one category nor of another. His “moonshiny romance,” he calls it in a letter; and, in truth, the lunar element is a little too pervasive220. The action wavers between the streets of Rome, whose literal features the author perpetually sketches, and a vague realm of fancy, in which quite a different verisimilitude prevails. This is the trouble with Donatello himself. His companions are intended to be real — if they fail to be so, it is not for want of intention; whereas he is intended to be real or not, as you please. He is of a different substance from them; it is as if a painter, in composing a picture, should try to give you an impression of one of his figures by a strain of music. The idea of the modern faun was a charming one; but I think it a pity that the author should not have made him more definitely modern, without reverting221 so much to his mythological222 properties and antecedents, which are very gracefully touched upon, but which belong to the region of picturesque conceits223, much more than to that of real psychology. Among the young Italians of today there are still plenty of models for such an image as Hawthorne appears to have wished to present in the easy and natural Donatello. And since I am speaking critically, I may go on to say that the art of narration224, in Transformation, seems to me more at fault than in the author’s other novels. The story straggles and wanders, is dropped and taken up again, and towards the close lapses225 into an almost fatal vagueness.
收听单词发音 |
1
rigidity
|
|
| adj.钢性，坚硬 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
2
rigid
|
|
| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
3
sifted
|
|
| v.筛( sift的过去式和过去分词 )；筛滤；细查；详审 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
4
melancholy
|
|
| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
5
simplicity
|
|
| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
6
concord
|
|
| n.和谐；协调 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
7
villa
|
|
| n.别墅，城郊小屋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
8
desultory
|
|
| adj.散漫的，无方法的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
9
exquisitely
|
|
| adv.精致地；强烈地；剧烈地；异常地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
10
exquisite
|
|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
11
provincial
|
|
| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
12
condemnation
|
|
| n.谴责; 定罪 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
13
appreciative
|
|
| adj.有鉴赏力的，有眼力的；感激的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
14
remarkable
|
|
| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
15
touching
|
|
| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
16
graceful
|
|
| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
17
gracefully
|
|
| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
18
fully
|
|
| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
19
sketches
|
|
| n.草图( sketch的名词复数 )；素描；速写；梗概 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
20
sketch
|
|
| n.草图；梗概；素描；v.素描；概述 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
21
delicacy
|
|
| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
22
initiation
|
|
| n.开始 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
23
confinement
|
|
| n.幽禁，拘留，监禁；分娩；限制，局限 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
24
professed
|
|
| 公开声称的，伪称的，已立誓信教的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
25
relish
|
|
| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
26
delectable
|
|
| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
27
petitioners
|
|
| n.请求人，请愿人( petitioner的名词复数 )；离婚案原告 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
28
consul
|
|
| n.领事；执政官 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
29
recital
|
|
| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
30
infelicitous
|
|
| adj.不适当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
31
censure
|
|
| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
32
appreciation
|
|
| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
33
modesty
|
|
| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
34
discretion
|
|
| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
35
judgment
|
|
| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
36
manifestations
|
|
| n.表示，显示（manifestation的复数形式） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
37
irony
|
|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
38
abounds
|
|
| v.大量存在，充满，富于( abound的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
39
abound
|
|
| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
40
amenities
|
|
| n.令人愉快的事物；礼仪；礼节；便利设施；礼仪( amenity的名词复数 )；便利设施；（环境等的）舒适；（性情等的）愉快 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
41
mutual
|
|
| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
42
accounting
|
|
| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
43
insanity
|
|
| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
44
jealousy
|
|
| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
45
hatred
|
|
| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
46
unlimited
|
|
| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
47
admiration
|
|
| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
48
malicious
|
|
| adj.有恶意的，心怀恶意的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
49
injustice
|
|
| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
50
puerile
|
|
| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
51
impairs
|
|
| v.损害，削弱( impair的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
52
consistency
|
|
| n.一贯性，前后一致，稳定性；(液体的)浓度 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
53
remains
|
|
| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
54
mere
|
|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
55
exteriority
|
|
| n.在外，外在性 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
56
perfectly
|
|
| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
57
dreary
|
|
| adj.令人沮丧的，沉闷的，单调乏味的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
58
twilight
|
|
| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
59
scowled
|
|
| 怒视，生气地皱眉( scowl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
60
appease
|
|
| v.安抚，缓和，平息，满足 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
61
abode
|
|
| n.住处，住所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
62
exultation
|
|
| n.狂喜，得意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
63
traitor
|
|
| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
64
morbid
|
|
| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
65
addicted
|
|
| adj.沉溺于....的，对...上瘾的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
66
conspiracy
|
|
| n.阴谋，密谋，共谋 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
67
circumference
|
|
| n.圆周，周长，圆周线 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
68
civilisation
|
|
| n.文明，文化，开化，教化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
69
entirely
|
|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
70
undertaking
|
|
| n.保证，许诺，事业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
71
reigns
|
|
| n.君主的统治( reign的名词复数 )；君主统治时期；任期；当政期 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
72
supreme
|
|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
73
mingled
|
|
| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
74
contemplate
|
|
| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
75
incur
|
|
| vt.招致，蒙受，遭遇 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
76
susceptible
|
|
| adj.过敏的，敏感的；易动感情的，易受感动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
77
discriminating
|
|
| a.有辨别能力的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
78
faculty
|
|
| n.才能；学院，系；(学院或系的)全体教学人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
79
emblem
|
|
| n.象征，标志；徽章 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
80
skilful
|
|
| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
81
derive
|
|
| v.取得；导出；引申；来自；源自；出自 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
82
antiquity
|
|
| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
83
sufficiently
|
|
| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
84
accretion
|
|
| n.自然的增长，增加物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
85
disinterested
|
|
| adj.不关心的，不感兴趣的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
86
enjoyment
|
|
| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
87
picturesque
|
|
| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
88
chiaroscuro
|
|
| n.明暗对照法 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
89
attenuated
|
|
| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
90
lighter
|
|
| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
91
commemorating
|
|
| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
92
dingy
|
|
| adj.昏暗的，肮脏的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
93
conversational
|
|
| adj.对话的，会话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
94
solitary
|
|
| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
95
reticence
|
|
| n.沉默，含蓄 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
96
ponderous
|
|
| adj.沉重的，笨重的，(文章)冗长的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
97
stifled
|
|
| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
98
predecessors
|
|
| n.前任( predecessor的名词复数 )；前辈；（被取代的）原有事物；前身 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
99
nostrils
|
|
| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
100
elusive
|
|
| adj.难以表达(捉摸)的；令人困惑的；逃避的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
101
dense
|
|
| a.密集的，稠密的，浓密的；密度大的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
102
dread
|
|
| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
103
cleansed
|
|
| 弄干净，清洗( cleanse的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
104
meddled
|
|
| v.干涉，干预（他人事务）( meddle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
105
penetrate
|
|
| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
106
standing
|
|
| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
107
propensities
|
|
| n.倾向，习性( propensity的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
108
yeast
|
|
| n.酵母；酵母片；泡沫；v.发酵；起泡沫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
109
sustenance
|
|
| n.食物，粮食；生活资料；生计 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
110
wholesome
|
|
| adj.适合；卫生的；有益健康的；显示身心健康的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
111
amalgamated
|
|
| v.（使）（金属）汞齐化( amalgamate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）合并；联合；结合 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
112
adverse
|
|
| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
113
derived
|
|
| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
114
epithet
|
|
| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
115
positively
|
|
| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
116
tranquil
|
|
| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
117
lapse
|
|
| n.过失，流逝，失效，抛弃信仰，间隔；vi.堕落，停止，失效，流逝；vt.使失效 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
118
transparent
|
|
| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
119
beholds
|
|
| v.看，注视( behold的第三人称单数 )；瞧；看呀；（叙述中用于引出某人意外的出现）哎哟 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
120
latitude
|
|
| n.纬度，行动或言论的自由(范围)，(pl.)地区 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
121
decrepit
|
|
| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
122
ominous
|
|
| adj.不祥的，不吉的，预兆的，预示的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
123
simultaneously
|
|
| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
124
inevitably
|
|
| adv.不可避免地；必然发生地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
125
judgments
|
|
| 判断( judgment的名词复数 )； 鉴定； 评价； 审判 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
126
psychology
|
|
| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
127
subtlety
|
|
| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
128
pervades
|
|
| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
129
consulate
|
|
| n.领事馆 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
130
supersession
|
|
| 取代，废弃； 代谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
131
promptly
|
|
| adv.及时地，敏捷地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
132
discomfort
|
|
| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
133
transformation
|
|
| n.变化；改造；转变 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
134
malady
|
|
| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
135
allusions
|
|
| 暗指，间接提到( allusion的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
136
gratitude
|
|
| adj.感激，感谢 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
137
commemorated
|
|
| v.纪念，庆祝( commemorate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
138
ardent
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
139
manly
|
|
| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
140
whit
|
|
| n.一点，丝毫 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
141
eloquent
|
|
| adj.雄辩的，口才流利的；明白显示出的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
142
eloquently
|
|
| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
143
benefactor
|
|
| n. 恩人，行善的人，捐助人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
144
delightful
|
|
| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
145
devoted
|
|
| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
146
pictorial
|
|
| adj.绘画的；图片的；n．画报 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
147
importunity
|
|
| n.硬要，强求 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
148
explicit
|
|
| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
149
groans
|
|
| n.呻吟，叹息( groan的名词复数 )；呻吟般的声音v.呻吟( groan的第三人称单数 )；发牢骚；抱怨；受苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
150
frankly
|
|
| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
151
tiresome
|
|
| adj.令人疲劳的，令人厌倦的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
152
frieze
|
|
| n.(墙上的)横饰带，雕带 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
153
granite
|
|
| adj.花岗岩，花岗石 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
154
nude
|
|
| adj.裸体的；n.裸体者，裸体艺术品 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
155
incongruity
|
|
| n.不协调，不一致 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
156
apparently
|
|
| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
157
ancestry
|
|
| n.祖先，家世 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
158
discourses
|
|
| 论文( discourse的名词复数 )； 演说； 讲道； 话语 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
159
dinginess
|
|
| n.暗淡，肮脏 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
160
plying
|
|
| v.使用（工具）( ply的现在分词 )；经常供应（食物、饮料）；固定往来；经营生意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
161
adorned
|
|
| [计]被修饰的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
162
misery
|
|
| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
163
detest
|
|
| vt.痛恨，憎恶 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
164
acquiesce
|
|
| vi.默许，顺从，同意 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
165
mischief
|
|
| n.损害，伤害，危害；恶作剧，捣蛋，胡闹 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
166
conflagration
|
|
| n.建筑物或森林大火 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
167
obliterated
|
|
| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
168
soothed
|
|
| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
169
forefathers
|
|
| n.祖先，先人；祖先，祖宗( forefather的名词复数 )；列祖列宗；前人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
170
cosmopolitan
|
|
| adj.世界性的，全世界的，四海为家的，全球的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
171
goodwill
|
|
| n.善意，亲善，信誉，声誉 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
172
depressed
|
|
| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
173
specimen
|
|
| n.样本，标本 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
174
primitive
|
|
| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
175
incurring
|
|
| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
176
discomforts
|
|
| n.不舒适( discomfort的名词复数 )；不愉快，苦恼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
177
vicissitudes
|
|
| n.变迁，世事变化；变迁兴衰( vicissitude的名词复数 )；盛衰兴废 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
178
pointed
|
|
| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
179
celebrated
|
|
| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
180
villas
|
|
| 别墅，公馆( villa的名词复数 )； （城郊）住宅 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
181
sublimated
|
|
| v.（使某物质）升华( sublimate的过去式和过去分词 )；使净化；纯化 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
182
secluded
|
|
| adj.与世隔绝的；隐退的；偏僻的v.使隔开，使隐退( seclude的过去式和过去分词) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
183
regiment
|
|
| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
184
suite
|
|
| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
185
wildernesses
|
|
| 荒野( wilderness的名词复数 )； 沙漠； （政治家）在野； 不再当政（或掌权） | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
186
owls
|
|
| n.猫头鹰( owl的名词复数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
187
monk
|
|
| n.和尚，僧侣，修道士 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
188
patrimonial
|
|
| adj.祖传的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
|
189
dwelling
|
|
| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
190
contented
|
|
| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
191
miseries
|
|
| n.痛苦( misery的名词复数 )；痛苦的事；穷困；常发牢骚的人 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
192
bestowed
|
|
| 赠给，授予( bestow的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
193
fawn
|
|
| n.未满周岁的小鹿；v.巴结，奉承 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
194
appellation
|
|
| n.名称，称呼 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
195
forfeited
|
|
| （因违反协议、犯规、受罚等）丧失，失去( forfeit的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
196
virtue
|
|
| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
197
scarlet
|
|
| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
198
pretension
|
|
| n.要求；自命，自称；自负 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
199
incurs
|
|
| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的第三人称单数 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
200
genre
|
|
| n.(文学、艺术等的)类型，体裁，风格 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
201
opposition
|
|
| n.反对，敌对 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
202
picturesqueness
|
|
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
203
joyous
|
|
| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
204
sensuous
|
|
| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
205
miserable
|
|
| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
206
guilt
|
|
| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
207
immature
|
|
| adj.未成熟的，发育未全的，未充分发展的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
208
essentially
|
|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
209
passionate
|
|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
210
tragic
|
|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
211
propriety
|
|
| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
212
vocation
|
|
| n.职业，行业 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
213
impurity
|
|
| n.不洁，不纯，杂质 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
214
innocence
|
|
| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
215
detested
|
|
| v.憎恶，嫌恶，痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
216
strenuous
|
|
| adj.奋发的，使劲的；紧张的；热烈的，狂热的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
217
bosom
|
|
| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
218
shimmer
|
|
| v./n.发微光，发闪光；微光 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
219
texture
|
|
| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
220
pervasive
|
|
| adj.普遍的；遍布的，(到处)弥漫的；渗透性的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
221
reverting
|
|
| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
222
mythological
|
|
| adj.神话的 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
223
conceits
|
|
| 高傲( conceit的名词复数 )； 自以为； 巧妙的词语； 别出心裁的比喻 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
224
narration
|
|
| n.讲述，叙述；故事；记叙体 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
|
225
lapses
|
|
| n.失误，过失( lapse的名词复数 )；小毛病；行为失检；偏离正道v.退步( lapse的第三人称单数 )；陷入；倒退；丧失 | |
参考例句： |
|
|
|
| 欢迎访问英文小说网 |