Among the Victorian novelists, George Meredith occupies a place apart. Unlike Dickens, Thackeray, and Eliot, he appeals to a select few. Those who appreciate him are folk of his own temper — cultivated, intellectual, urbane2. They are persons of taste and discernment. They are generally the aged4" target="_blank">middle-aged3 rather than the young. They are those who, aloof5 and contemplative, relish6 the comedy of life, rather than those who throw themselves whole-heartedly into the game. It is not to be marvelled7 at, therefore, that Meredith should have won his way slowly, or that recognition, when it came, should have rendered his position unique and secure.
Meredith’s career as a writer of prose was opened, in 1856, with The Shaving of Shagpat, an experiment in fantastic Oriental romance. In the following year, he exploited German romance less successfully in Farina, a Legend of Cologne. Having thus trained his ‘prentice hand, he passed to mastery of his craft in The Ordeal10 of Richard Feverel, published in 1859. This was his first modern novel, and probably his best. It showed him, not only expert in the use of language and original in literary technic, but distinguished11, also, as an observer of the world and an analyst12 of character. The psychological novel of George Eliot, just emerging, found here a rival even more subtle. Adam Bede, a twin-birth with Feverel, although detailed13 in its exploration of motive14 and feeling, demanded less mental effort on the part of its readers; it accordingly attracted much greater attention. Whereas it was often reprinted, no second edition of Feverel came from the press for nearly two decades.
In the meantime, Meredith had continued his course undeterred by lack of popular approval, writing six other novels before the appearance, in 1879, of The Egoist— most characteristic of all. Two novels in particular reflected his experience of Italy, gained while acting16 there as war correspondent in 1866. The first was Emilia in England (1864), later rechristened Sandra Belloni. The second was its sequel Vittoria (1867). The other works of the period comprise the semi-farcical Evan Harrington (1861); the serious Rhoda Fleming (1865); the clever Harry17 Richmond (1870–71); and Meredith’s favorite —Beauchamp’s Career (1874–75). It is The Egoist, however, that most completely illustrates18 its author’s conception of the novel of types. In this work, with rare skill and comic élan, if with a persistency19 a little wearisome, he lays bare the secrets of a heart and intellect thoroughly20 self-centered, proceeding21 so obviously from the desire to make out a case that he is likely to displease22 those who value story, yet satisfying those who enjoy brilliant comment on character and a study of its intricacies.
In his later novels, Meredith never forgot the typical in attending to the particular, even though The Tragic23 Comedians24 (1880) reflected incidents in the life of the socialist25 leader Lassalle, and Diana of the Crossways (1885) certain traits of Sheridan’s granddaughter, Mrs. Norton. One of Our Conquerors26 (1891), Lord Ormont and his Aminta (1894), and The Amazing Marriage (1895) bring to a close the catalogue of Meredith’s fiction, except for the unfinished Celt and Saxon published after his death.
Of Meredith as a poet this is not the place to speak. Suffice it to say that he did his first writing in verse, issuing a volume when twenty-three, and several others later in life, the best known being his sequence of irregular sonnets27 entitled Modern Love (1867). His poetry, like his prose, is rich in content but difficult at times by reason of its crabbed28 and meticulous29 expression — a trait due to no obscurity of thought or lack of feeling, but rather to the desire to compress much meaning within a cryptic30 phrase. As a playwright31, Meredith attempted comedy in The Sentimentalists, which was acted posthumously33. As an essayist, he fathered a memorable34 discussion of the comic spirit and its uses, made concrete in his novels.
Meredith’s life was comparatively uneventful. He was born in 1828 at Portsmouth, the son of a naval35 outfitter. Early left an orphan36, he was educated in Germany, and, returning to England, studied law, experimented in journalism37, and fell in with a group of intellectuals led by Frederic Harrison and John Morley. He became literary adviser38 to the publishers Chapman and Hall; he edited for a short period The Fortnightly Review, and served abroad as correspondent for The Morning Post. But most of his maturity39 was passed in rural retirement40 in Surrey. He was twice married, at first unhappily to a daughter of the novelist, Thomas Love Peacock, and then more fortunately to a Miss Vulliamy, who bore him two children. His fame grew very slowly. Not until the age of sixty was he recognized as among the chief English novelists. But at the time of his death, in 1909, he was admittedly the foremost man of letters in Great Britain.
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Meredith is first and last an intellectualist. Hence his preference for the psychological novel, for the novel of types, for the novel that is half essay, for the novel of distinctive41 style. Hence, also, his conception of the importance for the novelist of comedy and the comic spirit. Comedy, according to Meredith, is embodied42 mind, and its function is to expose violations43 of rational law. It is common sense chastising44 with the laughter of reason aberrations45 from the sensible. Comedy measures individual shortcomings by the social norm. It results from “the broad Alpine46 survey of the spirit born of our united social intelligence.” It is “a game played to throw reflections upon social life, and it deals with human nature in the drawing-room of civilized47 men and women, where we have no dust of the struggling outer world, no mire48, no violent crashes, to make the correctness of the representation convincing.” Comedy is thus refined rather than Rabelaisian; it is impartial49 rather than sentimental32. It relies upon creating ideal figures that epitomize mankind in certain follies50. It is typical and general in character, whereas tragedy is concerned primarily with the individual.
“The comic spirit conceives a definite situation for a number of characters, and rejects all accessories in the exclusive pursuit of them and their speech.” On the stage, the great master of such comedy is Molière, and in the novel, we might add, Meredith. Meredith’s confession51 of faith in the efficacy of the comic spirit is given in the prelude52 to The Egoist, and in these words of his famous Essay: “If you believe that our civilization is founded in common-sense, you will, when contemplating53 men, discern a Spirit overhead. . . . It has the sage’s brows, and the sunny malice54 of a faun lurks55 at the corners of the half-closed lips. . . . Its common aspect is one of unsolicitous observation. . . . Men’s future upon earth does not attract it; their honesty and shapeliness in the present does; and whenever they wax out of proportion, overblown . . .; whenever they offend sound reason, fair justice; are false in humility56 or mined with conceit57, . . . the Spirit overhead will look humanly malign58 and cast an oblique59 light on them, followed by volleys of silvery laughter. That is the Comic Spirit.”
Unquestionably it is by the aid of this spirit that Meredith writes his novels, even including such a tragedy from the victim’s point of view as Richard Feverel. For Meredith is theoretic or nothing. Conceiving of a folly60 to be displayed and made ridiculous, he invents persons and situations best to accomplish his purpose. He is, therefore, no mere1 realist examining the confused detail of actual life “by the watchmaker’s eye in luminous61 rings eruptive of the infinitesimal.” He is rather an idealist, who holds it to be the business of art to render life in quintessence. The artist must both simplify and elaborate. First, he must simplify experience into typical deeds and persons, eliminating from his scheme the merely accidental and particular. Second, he must elaborate his simplification, presenting it through representative concrete instances that it may lose the aspect of an abstract formula and acquire emotional significance. Meredith is thus an intellectualist engaged in playing a game of literary chess. He has made the pattern on his board and designed the pieces, and he moves them according to a prearranged plan. Just as his Sir Austin seeks to enact62 the r?le of Providence63 in determining the career of Richard Feverel, so Meredith plays Providence to his personages, and, more than most novelists, he visibly controls their fate.
Since Meredith’s folk are etherealized specimens64 of humanity set and kept in motion by their creator, it is his attitude toward them that interests us quite as much as their actions. Meredith’s attitude is determined65 by his comic outlook upon life. Unswayed by the petty prejudices of his people, he surveys them with Olympian serenity66, aware of a hundred impulses and errors in their conduct that will lead to conclusions undreamt of by themselves but clearly foreseen by the novelist and his readers. From a rarer atmosphere than that in which his people move, Meredith looks down upon their whimsies67 and their deeds with a smile of calm omniscience68.
Moreover, he separates himself from them by a wall of clever comment, sometimes sparkling and ironical69, sometimes soberly extended to the proportions of an essay. Indeed, his novels are sometimes one-third narrative71 and two-thirds essay, with the dissertational72 manner infecting the narrative parts incurably73. No one, I suppose, would continue reading The Egoist merely from interest in its plot. To enjoy it one must relish inspecting at leisure the artificial attitudes of artificial people and listening, not merely to their smart chatter74, but to the smarter discourse75 of the master of the puppets, who, while making them dance, lectures for the edification of the elect. Thus Meredith, having shown his hero touched by jealousy76, lapses77 into a little essay on the theme. “Remember the poets upon Jealousy,” he writes. “It is to be haunted in the heaven of two by a Third; preceded or succeeded, therefore surrounded, embraced, hugged by this infernal Third; it is love’s bed of burning marl; to see and taste the withering78 Third in the bosom79 of sweetness; to be dragged through the past and find the fair Eden of it sulphurous; to be dragged to the gates of the future and glory to behold80 them blood; to adore the bitter creature trebly and with treble power to clutch her by the windpipe; it is to be cheated, derided81, shamed, and abject82 and supplicating83, and consciously demoniacal in treacherousness84, and victoriously85 self-justified86 in revenge.” Needless to say, generalizations87 of this sort, intruding89 upon the narrative at every turn, choke its progress and prove distracting.
Almost equally distracting is Meredith’s predilection90 for resorting to the methods of comedy while writing fiction. As W. C. Brownell has put it; “The necessities of comedy, the irruption of new characters, their disappearance91 after they have done their turn, expectation balked92 by shifting situations, the frequent postponement93 of the dénouement when it particularly impends94, and the alleviation95 of impatience96 by a succession of subordinate climaxes97 — all the machinery98 of the stage, in fact — impair99 the narrative.”
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But if the tricks of the essayist and the playwright are freely borrowed by Meredith, sometimes to his disadvantage and to ours, they are nevertheless in a measure appropriate to the kind of fiction he affects. For Meredith is a psychological novelist. He is bent100 upon displaying the inward process of the mind. As Richard Le Galliene has said of him: “The passion of his genius is . . . the tracing of the elemental in the complex; the registration101 of the infinitesimal vibrations102 of first causes, the tracking in human life of the shadowiest trail of primal103 instinct, the hairbreadth measurement of subtle psychological tangents: and the embodiment of these results in artistic104 form.” Meredith, in Richard Feverel, declares that for the novel “An audience will come to whom it will be given to see the elementary machinery at work. . . . To them nothing will be trivial. . . . They will see the links of things as they pass, and wonder not, as foolish people now do, that this great matter came out of that small one.” Certainly Meredith’s efforts have tended to realize that time. But the psychology105 of his characters is general rather than individual. You are conscious that these minds are typical, or even symbolic106. They belong to an imaginary and rational world treated as though it were real.
An incidental passage in Beauchamp’s Career shows that Meredith has understood both his limitations and his peculiar107 ability. “My way,” he writes, “is like a Rhone island in the summer drought, stony108, unattractive, and difficult between the two forceful streams of the unreal and the over-real which delight mankind — honour to the conjurors! My people conquer nothing, win none! they are actual yet uncommon109. It is the clockwork of the brain that they are directed to set in motion, and — poor troop of actors to vacant benches! — the conscience residing in thoughtfulness which they would appeal to; and if you are there impervious110 to them we are lost.”
In Meredith’s novels, which indeed reveal in operation “the clockwork of the brain,” the author has taken care still further to intellectualize his appeal by means of his style. His technic holds attention; he is an artificer of style, and, as such, he writes a style of artifice111. He seeks to express himself with novelty and distinction. If a boy runs, Meredith speaks of him as being seen to bound “and taking a lift of arms, fly aloft, clapping heels.” If a woman runs, Meredith writes: “She was fleet; she ran as though a hundred little feet were bearing her onward112 smooth as water over the lawn and the sweeps of grass of the park, so swiftly did the hidden pair multiply one another to speed her. . . . Suddenly her flight wound to an end in a dozen twittering steps, and she sank.” If a heroine of eighteen would take leave of her admirer, she says: “We have met. It is more than I have merited. We part. In mercy let it be forever. Oh, terrible word! Coined by the passions of our youth, it comes to us for our sole riches when we are bankrupt of earthly treasures, and is the passport given by Abnegation unto Woe113 that prays to quit this probationary114 sphere.”
Fancy any human being — least of all a girl — discoursing115 thus! But, no matter how simple a thought or action, Meredith sends it forth116 arrayed in finer gear than Solomon in all his glory. It is beribboned with metaphor117 and personification; it is beflounced with epigram and allegory. It is truth rendered more precious, as the medieval critics advised, by being wrapped in sayings not to be lightly understood by the vulgar. So, when a lover admires the chasteness118 of his lady, Meredith remarks: “He saw the Goddess Modesty119 guarding Purity; and one would be bold to say that he did not hear the precepts120, Purity’s aged grannams maternal121 and paternal122, cawing approval of her over their munching123 gums.”
But Meredith’s gift of phrase and his knack124 of knocking out epigrams, and his mastery over metaphor and lyrical description cannot be too highly commended. Diana is “wind-blown but ascending126.” When Redworth sees her kindling127 a fire, “a little mouse of a thought scampered128 out of one of the chambers129 of his head and darted130 along the passages, fetching a sweat to his brows.” After Sandra’s singing, the stillness settled back again “like one folding up a precious jewel.” A dull professor “pores over a little inexactitude in phrases and pecks at it like a domestic fowl131.” Of one who has ceased to love we hear that “the passion in her was like a place of waves evaporated to a crust of salt.” Of a lady’s letter we learn that it “flourished with light strokes all over, like a field of the bearded barley133.” Of a heroine we are told that: “She was not of the creatures who are excited by an atmosphere of excitement; she took it as the nymph of the stream her native wave, and swam on the flood with expansive languor134, happy to have the master passions about her; one or two of which her dainty hand caressed136 fearless of a sting; the lady patted them as her swans.” There is brilliant illumination in such comparisons, a light shed instantaneously upon traits and mental experiences otherwise not to be revealed. When the Egoist would affectionately approach his shrinking Clara, nothing could better deliver the situation than Meredith’s simile137: “The gulf138 of a caress135 hove in view like an enormous billow hollowing under the curled ridge139. She stooped to a buttercup; the monster swept by.”
It is felicity in the use of rhetorical figure that enables Meredith to characterize the style of a Carlyle as, “resembling either early architecture or utter dilapidation140, so loose and rough it seemed; a wind-inthe-orchard style, that tumbled down here and there an appreciable141 fruit with uncouth142 bluster143; sentences without commencement running to abrupt144 endings and smoke, like waves against a sea wall, learned dictionary words giving a hand to street slang, and accents falling on them haphazard145, like slant146 rays from driving clouds; all the pages in a breeze, the whole book producing a kind of electrical agitation147 in the mind and the joints148.” It is Meredith’s gift for phrase that enables him to paint those wonderful backgrounds for action which are the despair of common writers. Sometimes the scenes are sketched149 in with but a touch or two of suggestion. So, when Richard Feverel and Lucy spend an evening afloat, Meredith writes: “Hanging between two heavens on the lake: floating to her voice: the moon stepping over and through white shoals of soft high clouds above and below: floating to her voice — no other breath abroad! His soul went out of his body as he listened.” Or, when Richard, in gay company, passes a night at Richmond, Meredith says simply: “Silver was seen far out on Thames. The wine ebbed150, and the laughter. Sentiment and cigars took up the wondrous151 tale.”
Sometimes the description is long and minute, but always it is beautifully fresh. Thus the coming of dawn is pictured in The Amazing Marriage: “The smell of rock-waters and roots of herb and moss152 grew keen; air became a wine that raised the breast high to drink it; an uplifting coolness pervaded153 the heights. . . . The plumes154 of cloud now slowly entered into the lofty arch of dawn and melted from brown to purple black. . . . The armies of the young sunrise in mountain-lands neighbouring the plains, vast shadows, were marching over woods and meads, black against the edge of golden; and great heights were cut with them, and bounding waters took the leap in a silvery radiance to gloom; the bright and dark-banded valleys were like night and morning taking hands down the sweep of their rivers.”
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Meredith’s style receives its final and distinctive flavor, however, from the liberal dash of aphorism155 with which his books are sprinkled. Often an epigram will turn upon some metaphor. Such is the statement that: “A bone in a boy’s mind for him to gnaw156 and worry corrects the vagrancies and promotes the healthy activities, whether there be marrow157 in it or not,” or the exclamation158: “Who are not fools to be set spinning, if we choose to whip them with their vanity! It is the consolation159 of the great to watch them spin.” Such, too, is the reflection that: “Most of the people one has at table are drums. A rub-a-dub-dub on them is the only way to get a sound. When they can be persuaded to do it upon one another, they call it conversation.” More frequently, the epigram is a neat generalization88 left abstract, as for example: “Who rises from prayer a better man, his prayer is answered”; “Cynics are only happy in making the world as barren to others as they have made it for themselves”; “Fools run jabbering160 of the irony161 of fate to escape the annoyance162 of tracing the causes”; “Expediency163 is man’s wisdom; doing right is God’s”; “Women cannot repose164 on a man who is not positive; nor have they much gratification in confounding him”; “Convictions are generally first impressions sealed with later prejudices”; “The hero of two women must die and be wept over in common before they can appreciate one another.”
A thousand such jewels glitter in the richly wrought165 tapestry166 of Meredith’s style. That he painstakingly167 inserted them and wove this fabric168 to attract attention by its singularity and beauty, he cheerfully admits in a passage of Emilia in England. “The point to be considered,” he there remarks, “is whether fiction demands a perfectly169 smooth surface. Undoubtedly170 a scientific work does, and a philosophical171 work should. When we ask for facts simply we feel the intrusion of style. Of fiction it is a part. In the one case the classical robe, in the other any medieval phantasy of clothing.”
The difficulty with a style so artificial and intellectualized is obvious. Meredith, according to Brownell, “flatters one’s cleverness at first, but in the end he fatigues172 it.” The perpetual crackle of aphorism and metaphor surprises, gratifies, and then wearies; for a writer who will never say a plain thing plainly, not only keeps his readers under strain, but soon seems himself to be straining. Nowhere is this more evident than in Meredith’s predilection for repeating a single happy phrase such as the epithet173 “rogue in porcelain” applied174 to a heroine. Since the phrase tickles175 his fancy, he plays with it, drops it, picks it up, mumbles176 it over and over as a dog might a bone, and through chapter after chapter is ready at any pretext177 to run round and round with it barking. Despite his assiduous striving for novelty, therefore, Meredith is often tedious, an effect induced, not merely by his style (whether repetitious or gasping178 after eccentricity), but also by his method. He is so intent upon weaving his commentary upon every speech and action that the occasion of the commentary is smothered179. A phrase becomes the text of a sermon, a gesture the excuse for paragraphs of oblique reflection. Thus he forfeits180 the advantage of downright sincerity181 and of forthright182 progress, and teases interest out of all patience.
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Since Meredith is an intellectualist, we naturally ask what may be his philosophy. Unlike Ibsen or Browning, he preaches no doctrine183. He offers no explicit184 theory of life. Nor does he, like Dickens or Reade or Brieux, advocate any special reform. He is never a propagandist. Some have lamented185 this fact; more have seen in it an argument for his universality and permanence. Though he fight no battles for specific causes, his influence is arrayed in general against certain tendencies that he disapproves186 and would laugh to defeat. Egoism, sentimentalism, hypocrisy187, are fair game for his comedy. As an intellectualist he dislikes and distrusts excess of emotion — feeling indulged for its own sake. “Sentimentalists,” he declares, “are they who seek to enjoy without incurring188 the immense debtorship for a thing done.”
Well might Mrs. Carlyle complain that Meredith’s work lacked tears. That it does so he would be the first to admit, for he questions the worth of pathos189 for any true captain of his soul. “Pathos is a tide; often it carries the awakener of it off his feet,” Meredith writes. “We cannot quite preserve our dignity when we stoop to the work of calling forth tears. Moses had probably to take a nimble jump away from the rock after that venerable lawgiver had knocked the water out of it.” So Meredith sacrifices passion to analysis. His heroes and heroines rarely love so simply and so ardently190 as do Richard and Lucy; but the affection of even this delectable191 pair is modified in presentation by the playful cynicism of the narrator of their story. On the other hand, it is futile192 to cavil193 at Meredith or any other artist for lacking such qualities as are incompatible194 with those he most notably195 possesses. You cannot expect abandon of passion in the characters of a novelist whose forte196 is detachment and sublimated197 common sense. Your intellectualist is not to be blamed if he fails to write as a sentimentalist.
Meredith’s positive philosophy has been formulated198 by Elmer J. Bailey in terms that may be briefly199 paraphrased200: Meredith thinks of man as torn between Nature and Circumstance. By Nature is meant the world of instinct, of healthy normal impulse. By Circumstance is meant the world of artificial laws erected201 by society as the machinery for its conduct and control. Nature is spontaneous; Circumstance is traditional. Man may err15 by allowing to either undue202 dominance. His only safety lies in the use of his reason which will enable him to keep both Nature and Circumstance in proper equipoise. And the most serviceable instrument of reason for detecting the follies of convention or of feeling is the comic spirit. Without this spirit we are not truly intellectual, for, as Meredith has said: “Not to have a sympathy with the playful mind is not to have a mind.” Let us possess mind, he seems to urge, and through mind cultivate the soul. In The Tragic Comedians he remarks: “It is the soul which does things in life — the rest is vapor132. . . . Action means life to the soul as to the body. . . . Compromise is virtual death; it is the pact203 between cowardice204 and comfort, under the title of expediency. So do we gather dead matter about us. So are we gradually self-stifled, corrupt205. The war with evil in every form must be incessant206; we cannot have peace.” The serious note here sounded may be heard again in his letter to a friend, Mrs. Gilman. There Meredith says: “I have written always with the perception that there is no life but of the spirit; that the concrete is the shadowy; yet that the way to spiritual life lies in the complete unfolding of the creature, not in the nipping of his passions. An outrage207 to nature helps to extinguish his light.”
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Just such an outrage to nature perpetrated with the best intentions, but in blind folly, is the subject of Meredith’s novel, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel. A dogmatic and conventional father endeavors to determine his son’s life according to an infallible system of parental208 dictation. Instead of allowing the boy to develop naturally from within, Sir Austin seeks to mould him absolutely from without. The failure of this experiment makes the story. The first eleven chapters are in a sense introductory. They present to the reader the members of the Feverel family and describe with gusto a poaching escapade of Richard’s youth. From this first ordeal he emerges triumphant209 by obeying the impulse of his heart to make frank confession, despite his father’s endeavor to patch up the matter by plotting. Then, in the next twenty chapters, follows the account of Richard’s passion for the lovely Lucy and of the machinations of those who would nip it in the bud. All these checks are for the moment overcome when Richard, after having suffered separation from Lucy, is again thrown with her by chance and impulsively210 marries her.
In the chapters next ensuing Sir Austin, instead of gracefully211 accepting defeat, masks and crushes his emotions and permits his Mephistophelian nephew, the cynical212 Adrian, to scheme for Richard’s alienation213 from his bride. Richard is lured214 away and succumbs215 to the spell of a wicked enchantress whom at first he has thought to reform; and then, shamed and distraught, he wanders abroad, seeking a purge216 for his sin. Meanwhile, the deserted217 wife, at Adrian’s instigation, has been assailed218 by a villain219, the husband of Richard’s enchantress. Issuing unscathed from her ordeal, Lucy is tardily220 accepted by the complacent221 Sir Austin and received, with her child, at his house. Since Richard has at length achieved self-mastery and has resolved to return and confess to his wife, and plead for her grace, a general reconciliation222 seems imminent223. But the novelist will not allow his tale to end happily lest its moral be frustrate224. Accordingly, although Richard returns for an hour to be freely forgiven by Lucy, he dashes away forthwith, despite her entreaties225, to duel226 with her persecutor227. Joy, even yet, might emerge from disaster, since Richard escapes from the duel with only a wound, but the author continues implacable. His heroine, in nursing her husband, succumbs to a strain long protracted228, and Richard, though recovered in body, is left but a wreck229 of his former self. Such is the desolating230 outcome of attempting to regulate healthy human loves by a worldly system.
What is tragic for hero and heroine is gravely comic to the eye of the intellectualist surveying the folly of men from a height far above the troubled waves of their passion. For Meredith, Sir Austin incarnates231 a comic error. His story is the comedy of one who theorizes at length upon life, but utterly232 fails to deal with it practically. Of course Sir Austin takes no blame to himself. It is useless, he reflects, “to base any system on a human being,” even though this is precisely233 what he has done. And when Richard is to return to his wife, and Sir Austin has at last grown kind to her, we hear that: “He could now admit that instinct had so far beaten science; for, as Richard was coming, as all were to be happy, his wisdom embraced them all paternally234 as the author of their happiness.” Of Sir Austin, Meredith remarks: “He had experimented on humanity in the person of the son he loved as his life, and at once, when the experiment appeared to have failed, all humanity’s failings fell on the shoulders of his son.” The reader’s inevitable235 reaction to the novel is expressed by Lady Blandish: “Oh! how sick I am of theories and systems and the pretensions236 of men! . . . I shall hate the name of science till the day I die. Give me nothing but commonplace, unpretending people!”
That the plot of Richard Feverel unduly237 tantalizes238 goes without saying. The author keeps his hero and heroine apart by main force. Granting that Richard is the victim of rascals239, as well as of a ridiculous system, his easy desertion of the wife whom he loves and his continued separation from her seem to lie in Meredith’s will rather than in that of his hero. Richard’s yielding to Mrs. Mount, described with remarkable240 power, is more natural, but his mooning about Germany while Lucy is left to struggle alone is as exasperating241 as her failure to apprise242 him of the fact that she is to bear him a child. Splendid as is the last meeting of Richard and Lucy, declared by Stevenson to be “the strongest scene since Shakespeare in the English tongue,” it forfeits something of greatness because of perversity243. More natural is the faint sub-plot intended to echo the central theme of the book in its story of Clare’s hopeless love for Richard, at first reciprocated244, and then blocked by Sir Austin and the girl’s mother.
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In characterization, this novel excels. Its folk are persons and not alone types. Chief of the Feverel clan245 is Richard’s father, Sir Austin, wounded by the infidelity of his wife and his friend, yet an intellectual egoist, proud of his plans for ruling the family and equally proud of his epigrams. Given less fully9 are Richard’s aunt, the worldly mother of Clare, and his uncles — the guardsman Algernon, who has lost a leg at cricket, and crochety Hippias, “the dyspepsy.” Of Richard’s cousins one is sympathetic, and the other is Satanic. The first, Austin Wentworth, lives in disgrace for having repaired a youthful indiscretion by marrying a housemaid. As for the second, Adrian Harley, “the Wise Youth,” he is Richard’s tutor, whose heart has dropped to his stomach, a clever worldling and the contemner246 of honest passion, one of the most accomplished247 cynics of all literature. There are minor248 characters, too, but equally vital, from blunt Farmer Blaize and his son, and the disgruntled farm-hand Tom Bakewell, to Sir Austin’s sentimental companion Lady Blandish, and Ripton, the faithful old dog.
Of the women three stand to the fore8 — Lucy, Mrs. Mount, and Mrs. Berry. The adorable Lucy is a northern Juliet brought to sudden maturity by her passion for Richard. Beneath him in birth, she is more than his equal in manner and mind and spirit. Though shown only in glimpses, she is never less than entrancing. Mrs. Mount is the dashing temptress, a little worn and half-hearted until piqued249 by Richard’s indifference250 into playing her game more earnestly, and then exerting all the fascinations251 of the wicked. Most original of the three is Lucy’s vulgar befriender, Mrs. Berry, a lovable “old-black-satin bunch,” as Meredith tags her, wise but irrelevant252, aware of the sensual springs beneath our polite pretenses253, a Juliet’s nurse grown mellow254. It is to be noted255, however, that none of these characters is really dynamic, unless it be Mrs. Doria Forey, who suffers a change of heart after sacrificing that of her daughter, and Richard who somewhat alters under the stress of his ordeal.
Subordinate to character, plot, and central idea, yet scarcely less effective in producing the total effect of the novel, are its setting, its style, and its author’s point of view. Already Meredith’s point of view has been defined as that of the writer of comedy. In the dinner scene at Richmond, for example, you are conscious of the author smiling apart upon callow Richard and Ripton caught in the snares256 of the demi-monde. It is Thackeray over again, letting us see the self-deception of Pendennis in his admiration257 of the Fotheringay. Sometimes, in this novel, Meredith apostrophizes his people, emitting lyrical exclamations258 of admiration or disgust at their conduct. More often, he remains259 aloof, though none the less present in spirit. Rarely does he here conform to Brownell’s statement, more applicable to his later fictions, that: “He is not merely detached, he is obliterated260. All he shows us of himself is his talent; his standpoint is to be divined.”
That which especially reveals the author’s standpoint is what Professor Saintsbury, in referring to this novel, has termed its “style saturated261 with epigrammatic quality; and of strange ironic70 persiflage262 permeating263 thought, picture, and expression.” The persiflage appears, above all, in the speeches of the saturnine264 Adrian. As for the epigrams, their number is justified in part by supposing them to come from Sir Austin’s collection entitled “The Pilgrim’s Scrip.” They abound265, however, in the speech of others and in the narrative proper. Typical spicings of style are the following: “To anchor the heart by any object ere we have half traversed the world is youth’s foolishness”; “It is difficult for those who think very earnestly for their children to know when their children are thinking on their own account”; “If immeasurable love were perfect wisdom, one human being might almost impersonate Providence to another”; “The ways of women, which are involution, and their practices, which are opposition266, are generally best hit upon by guesswork and a bold word”; “The God of this world is in the machine, not out of it”; “Sentimentalism is a happy pastime and an important science to the timid, the idle, and the heartless; but a damning one to them who have anything to forfeit”; “The task of reclaiming267 a bad man is extremely seductive to good women. Dear to their tender hearts as old china is a bad man they are mending.” Even illiterate268 Mrs. Berry talks in epigram, now on checked matrimony, which she holds to be as injurious as checked perspiration269, and now on the wickedness of old people, which, she affirms, is the excuse for the wildness of young ones. “I think it’s always the plan in a ‘dielemmer,’” she says, “to pray God and walk forward.” To Lucy, the bride, she gives this advice: “When the parlour fire gets low, put coals on the kitchen fire. . . . Don’t neglect your cookery. Kissing don’t last; cookery do.”
Aside from its aphorisms270, the style of Feverel is essentially271 clever, but by no means so artificial as that of Meredith’s later novels. If a stage direction seem occasionally over-elaborate, as: “Adrian gesticulated an acquiesced272 withdrawal,” others are felicitous273, as: “At last Hippias perspired274 in conviction,” or: “He set his sight hard at the blue ridges275 of the hills,” or, of Ripton draining a bumper276 at a gulp277: “The farthing rushlight of his reason leapt and expired. He tumbled to the sofa and there stretched.” There are fine passages, too, of description, like those concerned with the boyish adventures of Richard and Ripton, the Ferdinand and Miranda meeting of hero and heroine, the temptation episode, and the storm in the German forest by night. “Up started the whole forest in violet fire. He saw the country at the foot of the hills to the bounding Rhine gleam, quiver, extinguished. . . . Lower down the abysses of air rolled the wrathful crash; then white thrusts of light were darted from the sky, and great curving ferns, seen steadfast278 in pallor a second, were supernaturally agitated279 and vanished. Then a shrilling280 song roused in the leaves and the herbage. Prolonged and louder it sounded, as deeper and heavier the deluge281 pressed. A mighty282 force of water satisfied the desire of the earth.” Admirable, also, are the mere hints of background given in a flashing phrase that conjures283 up the scene: “Look at those old elm branches! How they seem to mix among the stars! — glittering prints of winter.”
Taken all in all, The Ordeal of Richard Feverel may be reckoned as Meredith’s masterpiece. “My old conviction grows stronger,” writes Le Galliene, “that it will be Richard Feverel and perhaps no other of his novels . . . that will keep his name alive in English literature.” Certainly, Meredith has here allowed to his characters a charm of personality that later he tends to sacrifice in stressing their purely284 typical traits. He shows here a fire of sincerity rarely afterwards burning so brightly. He is less the mere essayist and more the lyric125 and dramatic tale-teller. He has set forth with skill the elements of a large problem, confirming the truth of Chesterton’s remark that he combines subtlety285 with primal energy, and criticizes life without losing his appetite for it.
Frank Wadleigh Chandler.
University of Cincinnati.
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1
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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urbane
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| adj.温文尔雅的，懂礼的 | |
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middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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aloof
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| adj.远离的；冷淡的，漠不关心的 | |
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relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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marvelled
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| v.惊奇，对…感到惊奇( marvel的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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fore
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| adv.在前面；adj.先前的；在前部的；n.前部 | |
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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ordeal
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| n.苦难经历，（尤指对品格、耐力的）严峻考验 | |
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distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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analyst
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| n.分析家，化验员；心理分析学家 | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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err
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| vi.犯错误，出差错 | |
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acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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illustrates
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| 给…加插图( illustrate的第三人称单数 )； 说明； 表明； （用示例、图画等）说明 | |
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persistency
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| n. 坚持(余辉, 时间常数) | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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displease
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| vt.使不高兴，惹怒；n.不悦，不满，生气 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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comedians
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| n.喜剧演员，丑角( comedian的名词复数 ) | |
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socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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conquerors
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| 征服者，占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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sonnets
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| n.十四行诗( sonnet的名词复数 ) | |
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crabbed
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| adj.脾气坏的；易怒的；（指字迹）难辨认的；（字迹等）难辨认的v.捕蟹( crab的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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cryptic
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| adj.秘密的，神秘的，含义模糊的 | |
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playwright
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| n.剧作家，编写剧本的人 | |
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sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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posthumously
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| adv.于死后，于身后；于著作者死后出版地 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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naval
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| adj.海军的，军舰的，船的 | |
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orphan
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| n.孤儿；adj.无父母的 | |
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journalism
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| n.新闻工作，报业 | |
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adviser
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| n.劝告者，顾问 | |
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maturity
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| n.成熟；完成；(支票、债券等)到期 | |
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retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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distinctive
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| adj.特别的，有特色的，与众不同的 | |
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embodied
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| v.表现( embody的过去式和过去分词 )；象征；包括；包含 | |
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43
violations
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| 违反( violation的名词复数 )； 冒犯； 违反（行为、事例）； 强奸 | |
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44
chastising
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| v.严惩（某人）（尤指责打）( chastise的现在分词 ) | |
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aberrations
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| n.偏差( aberration的名词复数 )；差错；脱离常规；心理失常 | |
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46
alpine
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| adj.高山的；n.高山植物 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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48
mire
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| n.泥沼，泥泞；v.使...陷于泥泞，使...陷入困境 | |
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49
impartial
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| adj.(in,to)公正的，无偏见的 | |
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50
follies
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| 罪恶，时事讽刺剧； 愚蠢，蠢笨，愚蠢的行为、思想或做法( folly的名词复数 ) | |
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51
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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52
prelude
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| n.序言，前兆，序曲 | |
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53
contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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54
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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55
lurks
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| n.潜在，潜伏；（lurk的复数形式）vi.潜伏，埋伏（lurk的第三人称单数形式） | |
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56
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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57
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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58
malign
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| adj.有害的；恶性的；恶意的；v.诽谤，诬蔑 | |
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oblique
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| adj.斜的，倾斜的，无诚意的，不坦率的 | |
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60
folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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enact
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| vt.制定(法律)；上演，扮演 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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specimens
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| n.样品( specimen的名词复数 )；范例；（化验的）抽样；某种类型的人 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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66
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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67
whimsies
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| n.怪念头( whimsy的名词复数 )；异想天开；怪脾气；与众不同的幽默感 | |
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omniscience
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| n.全知，全知者，上帝 | |
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69
ironical
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| adj.讽刺的，冷嘲的 | |
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ironic
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| adj.讽刺的，有讽刺意味的，出乎意料的 | |
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71
narrative
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| n.叙述，故事；adj.叙事的，故事体的 | |
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dissertational
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| 学术讲演的； 论述的 | |
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incurably
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| ad.治不好地 | |
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chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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discourse
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| n.论文，演说；谈话；话语；vi.讲述，著述 | |
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jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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lapses
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| 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 | |
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withering
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| 使人畏缩的，使人害羞的，使人难堪的 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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80
behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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81
derided
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| v.取笑，嘲笑( deride的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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82
abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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83
supplicating
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| v.祈求，哀求，恳求( supplicate的现在分词 ) | |
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84
treacherousness
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| 背信弃义； 背叛； 奸诈 | |
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85
victoriously
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| adv.获胜地，胜利地 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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generalizations
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| 一般化( generalization的名词复数 )； 普通化； 归纳； 概论 | |
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generalization
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| n.普遍性，一般性，概括 | |
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intruding
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| v.侵入，侵扰，打扰( intrude的现在分词)；把…强加于 | |
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predilection
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| n.偏好 | |
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91
disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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92
balked
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| v.畏缩不前，犹豫( balk的过去式和过去分词 )；（指马）不肯跑 | |
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postponement
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| n.推迟 | |
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impends
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| v.进行威胁，即将发生( impend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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alleviation
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| n. 减轻，缓和，解痛物 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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climaxes
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| n.顶点( climax的名词复数 )；极点；高潮；性高潮 | |
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machinery
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| n.(总称)机械，机器；机构 | |
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impair
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| v.损害，损伤；削弱，减少 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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registration
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| n.登记，注册，挂号 | |
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102
vibrations
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| n.摆动( vibration的名词复数 )；震动；感受；（偏离平衡位置的）一次性往复振动 | |
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primal
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| adj.原始的；最重要的 | |
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artistic
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| adj.艺术(家)的，美术(家)的；善于艺术创作的 | |
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105
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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106
symbolic
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| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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107
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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108
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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109
uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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110
impervious
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| adj.不能渗透的，不能穿过的，不易伤害的 | |
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111
artifice
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| n.妙计，高明的手段；狡诈，诡计 | |
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112
onward
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| adj.向前的，前进的；adv.向前，前进，在先 | |
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113
woe
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| n.悲哀，苦痛，不幸，困难；int.用来表达悲伤或惊慌 | |
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114
probationary
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| 试用的，缓刑的 | |
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115
discoursing
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| 演说（discourse的现在分词形式） | |
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116
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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117
metaphor
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| n.隐喻，暗喻 | |
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118
chasteness
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| n.贞操，纯洁，简洁 | |
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119
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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120
precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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121
maternal
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| adj.母亲的，母亲般的，母系的，母方的 | |
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122
paternal
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| adj.父亲的，像父亲的，父系的，父方的 | |
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123
munching
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| v.用力咀嚼（某物），大嚼( munch的现在分词 ) | |
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124
knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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125
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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126
ascending
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| adj.上升的，向上的 | |
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127
kindling
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| n. 点火, 可燃物 动词kindle的现在分词形式 | |
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128
scampered
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| v.蹦蹦跳跳地跑，惊惶奔跑( scamper的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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129
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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130
darted
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| v.投掷，投射( dart的过去式和过去分词 )；向前冲，飞奔 | |
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131
fowl
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| n.家禽，鸡，禽肉 | |
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132
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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133
barley
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| n.大麦，大麦粒 | |
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134
languor
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| n.无精力，倦怠 | |
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135
caress
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| vt./n.爱抚，抚摸 | |
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136
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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137
simile
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| n.直喻，明喻 | |
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138
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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139
ridge
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| n.山脊；鼻梁；分水岭 | |
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140
dilapidation
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| n.倒塌；毁坏 | |
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141
appreciable
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| adj.明显的，可见的，可估量的，可觉察的 | |
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142
uncouth
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| adj.无教养的，粗鲁的 | |
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143
bluster
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| v.猛刮；怒冲冲的说；n.吓唬，怒号；狂风声 | |
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144
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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145
haphazard
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| adj.无计划的，随意的，杂乱无章的 | |
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146
slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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147
agitation
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| n.搅动；搅拌；鼓动，煽动 | |
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148
joints
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| 接头( joint的名词复数 )； 关节； 公共场所（尤指价格低廉的饮食和娱乐场所） （非正式）； 一块烤肉 （英式英语） | |
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149
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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150
ebbed
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| （指潮水）退( ebb的过去式和过去分词 )； 落； 减少； 衰落 | |
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151
wondrous
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| adj.令人惊奇的，奇妙的；adv.惊人地；异乎寻常地；令人惊叹地 | |
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152
moss
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| n.苔，藓，地衣 | |
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153
pervaded
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| v.遍及，弥漫( pervade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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155
aphorism
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| n.格言，警语 | |
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156
gnaw
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| v.不断地啃、咬；使苦恼，折磨 | |
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157
marrow
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| n.骨髓；精华；活力 | |
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158
exclamation
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| n.感叹号，惊呼，惊叹词 | |
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159
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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160
jabbering
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|
| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的现在分词 )；急促兴奋地说话；结结巴巴 | |
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161
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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162
annoyance
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| n.恼怒，生气，烦恼 | |
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163
expediency
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| n.适宜；方便；合算；利己 | |
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164
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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165
wrought
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| v.引起；以…原料制作；运转；adj.制造的 | |
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166
tapestry
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| n.挂毯，丰富多采的画面 | |
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167
painstakingly
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| adv. 费力地 苦心地 | |
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168
fabric
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| n.织物，织品，布；构造，结构，组织 | |
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169
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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170
undoubtedly
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| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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171
philosophical
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|
| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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172
fatigues
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| n.疲劳( fatigue的名词复数 )；杂役；厌倦；（士兵穿的）工作服 | |
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173
epithet
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| n.（用于褒贬人物等的）表述形容词，修饰语 | |
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174
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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175
tickles
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| （使）发痒( tickle的第三人称单数 )； （使）愉快，逗乐 | |
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176
mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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177
pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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178
gasping
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| adj. 气喘的, 痉挛的 动词gasp的现在分词 | |
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179
smothered
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| （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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180
forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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181
sincerity
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| n.真诚，诚意；真实 | |
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182
forthright
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| adj.直率的，直截了当的 [同]frank | |
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183
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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184
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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185
lamented
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|
| adj.被哀悼的，令人遗憾的v.（为…）哀悼，痛哭，悲伤( lament的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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186
disapproves
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|
| v.不赞成( disapprove的第三人称单数 ) | |
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187
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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188
incurring
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| 遭受，招致，引起( incur的现在分词 ) | |
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189
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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190
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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191
delectable
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| adj.使人愉快的；美味的 | |
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192
futile
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| adj.无效的，无用的，无希望的 | |
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193
cavil
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| v.挑毛病，吹毛求疵 | |
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194
incompatible
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| adj.不相容的，不协调的，不相配的 | |
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195
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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196
forte
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| n.长处，擅长；adj.(音乐)强音的 | |
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197
sublimated
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| 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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198
formulated
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| 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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199
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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200
paraphrased
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| v.释义，意译( paraphrase的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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201
ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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202
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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203
pact
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| n.合同，条约，公约，协定 | |
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204
cowardice
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| n.胆小，怯懦 | |
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205
corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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206
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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207
outrage
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| n.暴行，侮辱，愤怒；vt.凌辱，激怒 | |
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208
parental
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| adj.父母的；父的；母的 | |
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209
triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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210
impulsively
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| adv.冲动地 | |
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211
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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212
cynical
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| adj.(对人性或动机)怀疑的，不信世道向善的 | |
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213
alienation
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| n.疏远；离间；异化 | |
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214
lured
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| 吸引，引诱（lure的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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215
succumbs
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的第三人称单数 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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216
purge
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| n.整肃，清除，泻药，净化；vt.净化，清除，摆脱；vi.清除，通便，腹泻，变得清洁 | |
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217
deserted
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| adj.荒芜的，荒废的，无人的，被遗弃的 | |
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218
assailed
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| v.攻击( assail的过去式和过去分词 )；困扰；质问；毅然应对 | |
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219
villain
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| n.反派演员，反面人物；恶棍；问题的起因 | |
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220
tardily
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| adv.缓慢 | |
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221
complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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222
reconciliation
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| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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223
imminent
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| adj.即将发生的，临近的，逼近的 | |
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224
frustrate
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| v.使失望；使沮丧；使厌烦 | |
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225
entreaties
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| n.恳求，乞求( entreaty的名词复数 ) | |
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226
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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227
persecutor
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| n. 迫害者 | |
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228
protracted
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| adj.拖延的；延长的v.拖延“protract”的过去式和过去分词 | |
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229
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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230
desolating
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| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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231
incarnates
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|
| v.赋予（思想、精神等）以人的形体( incarnate的第三人称单数 )；使人格化；体现；使具体化 | |
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232
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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233
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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234
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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235
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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236
pretensions
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| 自称( pretension的名词复数 )； 自命不凡； 要求； 权力 | |
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237
unduly
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| adv.过度地，不适当地 | |
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238
tantalizes
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| v.逗弄，引诱，折磨( tantalize的第三人称单数 ) | |
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239
rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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240
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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241
exasperating
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| adj. 激怒的 动词exasperate的现在分词形式 | |
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242
apprise
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| vt.通知，告知 | |
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243
perversity
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| n.任性；刚愎自用 | |
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244
reciprocated
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| v.报答，酬答( reciprocate的过去式和过去分词 )；（机器的部件）直线往复运动 | |
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245
clan
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| n.氏族，部落，宗族，家族，宗派 | |
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246
contemner
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| n.谴责者，宣判者，定罪者 | |
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247
accomplished
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| adj.有才艺的；有造诣的；达到了的 | |
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248
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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249
piqued
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| v.伤害…的自尊心( pique的过去式和过去分词 )；激起（好奇心） | |
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250
indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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251
fascinations
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| n.魅力( fascination的名词复数 )；有魅力的东西；迷恋；陶醉 | |
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252
irrelevant
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| adj.不恰当的，无关系的，不相干的 | |
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253
pretenses
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| n.借口（pretense的复数形式） | |
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254
mellow
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| adj.柔和的；熟透的；v.变柔和；(使)成熟 | |
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255
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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256
snares
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| n.陷阱( snare的名词复数 )；圈套；诱人遭受失败（丢脸、损失等）的东西；诱惑物v.用罗网捕捉，诱陷，陷害( snare的第三人称单数 ) | |
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257
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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258
exclamations
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| n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 )；感叹；感叹语；感叹词 | |
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259
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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260
obliterated
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| v.除去( obliterate的过去式和过去分词 )；涂去；擦掉；彻底破坏或毁灭 | |
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261
saturated
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| a.饱和的，充满的 | |
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262
persiflage
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| n.戏弄；挖苦 | |
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263
permeating
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| 弥漫( permeate的现在分词 )； 遍布； 渗入； 渗透 | |
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264
saturnine
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| adj.忧郁的，沉默寡言的，阴沉的，感染铅毒的 | |
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265
abound
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| vi.大量存在；(in，with)充满，富于 | |
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266
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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267
reclaiming
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| v.开拓( reclaim的现在分词 )；要求收回；从废料中回收（有用的材料）；挽救 | |
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268
illiterate
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| adj.文盲的；无知的；n.文盲 | |
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269
perspiration
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| n.汗水；出汗 | |
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270
aphorisms
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| 格言，警句( aphorism的名词复数 ) | |
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271
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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272
acquiesced
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| v.默认，默许( acquiesce的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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273
felicitous
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| adj.恰当的，巧妙的；n.恰当，贴切 | |
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274
perspired
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| v.出汗，流汗( perspire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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275
ridges
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| n.脊( ridge的名词复数 )；山脊；脊状突起；大气层的)高压脊 | |
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276
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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277
gulp
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| vt.吞咽，大口地吸（气）；vi.哽住；n.吞咽 | |
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278
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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279
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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280
shrilling
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| （声音）尖锐的，刺耳的，高频率的( shrill的现在分词 )； 凄厉 | |
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281
deluge
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| n./vt.洪水，暴雨，使泛滥 | |
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282
mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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283
conjures
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| 用魔术变出( conjure的第三人称单数 )； 祈求，恳求； 变戏法； （变魔术般地） 使…出现 | |
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284
purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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285
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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