Heine gathers up and focuses for us in one vivid point all those influences of his own time which are the forces of to-day. He appears before us, to put it in his own way, as a youthful and militant1 Knight2 of the Holy Ghost, tilting3 against the spectres of the past and liberating4 the imprisoned5 energies of the human spirit. His interest from this point of view lies, largely, apart from his interest as a supreme6 lyric7 poet, the brother of Catullus and Villon and Burns; we here approach him on his prosaic—his relatively8 prosaic—side.
One hemisphere of Heine’s brain was Greek, the other Hebrew. He was born when the genius of Goethe was at its height; his mother had absorbed the frank earthliness, the sane9 and massive Paganism, of the Roman Elegies10, and Heine’s ideals in all things, whether he would or not, were always Hellenic—using that word in the large sense in which Heine himself used it—even while he was the first in rank and the last in time of the Romantic poets of Germany. He sought, even consciously, to mould the modern emotional spirit into classic forms. He wrought11 his art simply and lucidly12, the aspira[69]tions that pervade13 it are everywhere sensuous14, and yet it recalls oftener the turbulent temper of Catullus than any serener15 ancient spirit.
For Heine arose early in active rebellion against a merely passive classicism; in the same way that fiercer and more ardent16 cries, as from the East, pierce through the songs of Catullus. The mischievous17 Hermes was irritated by the calm and quiet activities of the aged18 Zeus of Weimar. And then the earnest Hebrew nature within him, liberated19 by Hegel’s favourite formula of the divinity of man, came into play with its large revolutionary thirsts. Thus it was that he appeared before the world as the most brilliant leader of a movement of national or even world-wide emancipation20. The greater part of his prose works, from the youthful “Reisebilder” onwards, and a considerable portion of his poetic21 work, record the energy with which he played this part.
But whether the Greek or the Hebrew element happened to be most active in Heine, the ideal that he set up for life generally was the equal activity of both sides—in other words, the harmony of flesh and spirit. It is this thought which dominates “The History of Religion and Philosophy in Germany,” his finest achievement in this kind. That book was written at the moment when Heine touched the highest point of his enthusiasm for freedom and his[70] faith in the possibility of human progress. It is a sort of programme for the immediate22 future of the human spirit, in the form of a brief and bold outline of the spiritual history of Germany and Germany’s great emancipators, Luther, Lessing, Kant, and the rest. It sets forth23 in a fresh and fascinating shape that Everlasting24 Gospel which, from the time of Joachim of Flora25 downwards26, has always gleamed in dreams before the minds of men as the successor of Christianity. Heine’s vision of a democracy of cakes and ale, founded on the heights of religious, philosophical28, and political freedom, may still spur and thrill us,—even now-a-days, when we have wearied of stately bills of fare for a sulky humanity that will not feed at our bidding, no, not on cakes and ale. Heine is wise enough to see, however imperfectly, that it is unreasonable30 to expect the speedy erection of any New Jerusalem; for, as he expresses it in his own way, the holy vampires31 of the Middle Ages have sucked away so much of our life-blood that the world has become a hospital. A sudden revolution of fever-stricken or hysterical32 invalids33 can effect little of permanent value; only a long and invigorating course of the tonics34 of life can make free from danger the open-air of nature. “Our first duty,” he asserted in this book, “is to become healthy.”
Heine confesses that he too was among the[71] sick and decrepit35 souls. In reality he was at no period so full of life and health, so harmoniously36 inspired and upborne by a great enthusiasm. He laughs a little at Goethe; he fails to see that the Phidian Zeus, at whose confined position he jests, was the greatest liberator37 of them all; but for the most part his mocking sarcasm38 is here silent. It was not until ten years later, when the subtle seeds of disease had begun to appear, and when, too, he had perhaps gained a clearer insight into the possibilities of life, that Heine realized that the practical reforming movements of his time were not those for which his early enthusiasm had been aroused. With the slow steps of that consuming disease, and after the revolution of 1848, he ceased to recognize as of old any common root for his various activities, or to insist on the fundamental importance of religion. Everything in the world became the sport of his intelligence. The brain still functioned brilliantly in the atrophied39 body; the swift lightning-like wit still struck unerringly; it spared not even himself. The “Confessions” are full of irony40, covering all things with laughter that is half reverence41, or with reverence that is more than half laughter—and woe42 to the reader who is not at every moment alert! In the romantic, satirical poem of “Atta Troll,” written at the commencement of the last period, this, his final altitude, is most completely revealed. It needs a little study to-day, even for a German,[72] but it is well worth that study. The history of a dancing bear who escapes from servitude, “Atta Troll” is a protest against the radical43 party, with their narrow conceptions of progress, their tame ideal of bourgeois44 equality, their little watchwords, their solemnity, their indignation at the human creatures who smile “even in their enthusiasm.” All these serious concerns of the tribunes of the people are bathed in soft laughter as we listen to the delicious child-like monotonous45 melody in which the old bear, surrounded by his family, mumbles46 or mutters of the future. “Atta Troll” is not, as many have thought, a sneer47 at the most sacred ideals of men. It is, rather, the assertion of those ideals against the individuals who would narrow them down to their own petty scope. There are certain mirrors, Heine said, so constructed that they would present even Apollo as a caricature. But we laugh at the caricature, not at the god. It is well to show, even at the cost of some misunderstanding, that above and beyond the little ideals of our immediate political progress, there is built a yet larger ideal city, of which also the human spirit claims citizenship49. The defence of the inalienable rights of the spirit, Heine declares, had been the chief business of his life.
In the history of Germany, it was her two great intellectual liberators, Luther and Lessing, to whom Heine looked up with the most un[73]qualified love and reverence. By his later vindication50 of the rights of the spirit, not less than by his earlier fight for religious and political progress, he may be said to have earned for himself a place below, indeed, but not so very far below, those hearty51 and sound-cored iconoclasts52.
II.
To reach the root of the man’s nature we must glance at the chief facts of his life. He was born at Düsseldorf, on the Rhine, then occupied by the French, probably on the 13th of December, 1799. He came, by both parents, of that Jewish race which is, as he said once, the dough53 whereof gods are kneaded. The family of his mother, Betty van Geldern, had come from Holland a century earlier; Betty herself received an excellent education; she shared the studies of her brother, who became a physician of repute; she spoke54 and read English and French; her favourite books were Rousseau’s “Emile” and Goethe’s elegies. For novels or poetry generally she cared little. She preferred logic55 to sentiment, and was careful of the precise value of words. Some letters written during her twenty-fourth year reveal a frank, brave, and sweet nature; she was a bright, attractive little person, and had many wooers. In the summer of 1796 Samson Heine, bearing a letter of introduction, entered the house of the[74] Van Gelderns. He was the son of a Jewish merchant settled in Hanover, and he had just made a campaign in Flanders and Brabant, in the capacity of commissary with the rank of officer, under Prince Ernest of Cumberland. He was a large and handsome man, with soft blonde hair and beautiful hands; there was something about him, said his son, a little characterless, almost feminine; “he was a great child.” After a brief courtship he married Betty, and settled at Düsseldorf as an agent for English velveteens. Harry56 (so he was named after an Englishman) was the first child. From his rather weak and romantic father came whatever was loose and unbalanced in Heine’s temperament57, and his ineradicable instinct for posing; it was his mother, with her strong and healthy nature, well developed both intellectually and emotionally, and her great ambitions for her son, who, as he himself said, played the chief part in the history of his evolution.
Harry was a quick child; his senses were keen, though he was not physically58 strong; he loved reading, and his favourite books were “Don Quixote” and “Gulliver’s Travels.” He used to make rhymes with his only and much-loved sister Lotte, and at the age of ten he wrote a ghost-poem which his teachers considered a masterpiece. At the Lyceum he worked well, at night as well as by day. Only once, at the[75] public ceremony at the end of a school year, he came to grief; he was reciting a poem, when his eyes fell on a beautiful, fair-haired girl in the audience; he hesitated, stammered59, was silent, fell down fainting. So early he revealed the extreme cerebral60 irritability61 of a nature absorbed in dreams and taken captive by visions. It was not long after this, at the age of seventeen, when his rich uncle at Hamburg was trying in vain to set him forward on a commercial career, that Heine met the woman who aroused his first and last profound passion, always unsatisfied except in so far as it found exquisite62 embodiment in his poems. He never mentioned her name; it was not till after his death that the form standing48 behind this Maria, Zuleima, Evelina of so many sweet, strange, or melancholy63 songs was known to be that of his cousin, Amalie Heine.
With his uncle’s help he studied law at Bonn, G?ttingen, and Berlin. At Berlin he fell under the dominant64 influence of Hegel, the vanquisher65 of the romantic school of which Schelling was the philosophic29 representative. Heine afterwards referred to this period as that in which he “herded swine with the Hegelians;” it is certain that Hegel exerted great and permanent influence over him. At Berlin, in 1821, appeared his first volume of poems, and then he began to take his true place.
At this period he is described as a good-natured[76] and gentle youth, but reserved, not caring to show his emotions. He was of middle height and slender, with rather long light brown hair (in childhood it was red, and he was called “Rother Harry”) framing the pale and beardless oval face, the bright, blue, short-sighted eyes, the Greek nose, the high cheek bones, the large mouth, the full—half cynical67, half sensual—lips. He was not a typical German; like Goethe, he never smoked; he disliked beer, and until he went to Paris he had never tasted sauerkraut.
For some years he continued, chiefly at G?ttingen, to study law. But he had no liking68 and no capacity for jurisprudence, and his spasmodic fits of application at such moments as he realized that it was not good for him to depend on the generosity69 of his rich and kind-hearted uncle Solomon, failed to carry him far. A new idea, a sunny day, the opening of some flower-like lied, a pretty girl—and the Pandects were forgotten.
Shortly after he had at last received his doctor’s diploma he went through the ceremony of baptism in hope of obtaining an appointment from the Prussian Government. It was a step which he immediately regretted, and which, far from placing him in a better position, excited the enmity both of Christians70 and Jews, although the Heine family had no very strong views on the matter; Heine’s mother, it should be said, was a Deist, his father indifferent, but the Jewish[77] rites71 were strictly72 kept up. He still talked of becoming an advocate, until, in 1826, the publication of the first volume of the “Reisebilder” gave him a reputation throughout Germany by its audacity73, its charming and picturesque74 manner, its peculiarly original personality. The second volume, bolder and better than the first, was received with delight very much mixed with horror, and it was prohibited by Austria, Prussia, and many minor75 states. At this period Heine visited England; he was then disgusted with Germany and full of enthusiasm for the “land of freedom,” an enthusiasm which naturally met with many rude shocks, and from that time dates the bitterness with which he usually speaks of England. He found London—although, owing to a clever abuse of uncle Solomon’s generosity, exceedingly well supplied with money—“frightfully damp and uncomfortable;” only the political life of England attracted him, and there were no bounds to his admiration76 of Canning. He then visited Italy, to spend there the happiest days of his life; and having at length realized that his efforts to obtain any government appointment in Germany would be fruitless, he emigrated to Paris. There, save for brief periods, he remained until his death.
This entry into the city which he had called the New Jerusalem was an important epoch77 in Heine’s life. He was thirty-one years of age,[78] still youthful, and eager to receive new impressions; he was apparently78 in robust79 health, notwithstanding constant headaches; Gautier describes him as in appearance a sort of German Apollo. He was still developing, as he continued to develop, even up to the end; the ethereal loveliness of the early poems vanished, it is true, but only to give place to a closer grasp of reality, a larger laughter, a keener cry of pain. He was now heartily80 welcomed by the extraordinarily81 brilliant group then living and working in Paris, including Victor Hugo, George Sand, Balzac, Michelet, Alfred de Musset, Gautier, Chopin, Louis Blanc, Dumas, Sainte-Beuve, Quinet, Berlioz, and he entered with eager delight into their manifold activities. For a time also he attached himself rather closely to the school of Saint-Simon, then headed by Enfantin; he was especially attracted by their religion of humanity, which seemed the realization82 of his own dreams. Heine’s book on “Religion and Philosophy in Germany” was written at Enfantin’s suggestion, and the first edition dedicated83 to him; Enfantin’s name was, he said, a sort of Shibboleth84, indicating the most advanced party in the “liberation war of humanity.” In 1855 he withdrew the dedication85; it had become an anachronism; Enfantin was no longer ransacking86 the world in search of la femme libre; the martyrs87 of yesterday no[79] longer bore a cross—unless it were, he added characteristically, the cross of the Legion of Honour.
A few years after his arrival in Paris Heine entered on a relationship which occupied a large place in his life. Mathilde Mirat, a lively grisette of sixteen, was the illegitimate daughter of a man of wealth and position in the provinces, and she had come up from Normandy to serve in her aunt’s shoe-shop. Heine often passed this shop, and an acquaintance, at first carried on silently through the shop-window, gradually ripened89 into a more intimate relationship. Mathilde could neither read nor write; it was decided90 that she should go to school for a time; after that they established a little common household, one of those ménages parisiens, recognized as almost legitimate88, for which Heine had always had a warm admiration, because, as he said, he meant by “marriage” something quite other than the legal coupling effected by parsons and bankers. As in the case of Goethe, it was not until some years later that he went through the religious ceremony, as a preliminary to a duel91 in which he had become involved by his remarks on B?rne’s friend, Madame Strauss; he wished to give Mathilde an assured position in case of his death. After the ceremony at St. Sulpice he invited to dinner all those of his friends who had contracted similar relations, in[80] order that they might be influenced by his example. That they were so influenced is not recorded.
It is not difficult to understand the strong and permanent attraction that drew the poet, who had so many intellectual and aristocratic women among his friends, to this pretty, laughter-loving grisette. It lay in her bright and wild humour, her childlike impulsiveness92, not least in her charming ignorance. It was delightful93 to Heine that Mathilde had never read a line of his books, did not even know what a poet was, and loved him only for himself. He found in her a continual source of refreshment94.
He had need of every source of refreshment. In the years that followed his formal marriage in 1841, the dark shadows, within and without, began to close round him. Although he was then producing his most mature work, chiefly in poetry—“Atta Troll,” “Romancero,” “Deutschland”—his income from literary sources remained small. Mathilde was not a good housekeeper95; and even with the aid of a considerable allowance from his uncle Solomon, Heine was frequently in pecuniary96 difficulties, and was consequently induced to accept a small pension from the French Government, which has sometimes been a matter of concern to those who care for his fame. As years passed, the enmities that he suffered from or cherished increased[81] rather than diminished, and his bitterness found expression in his work. Even Mathilde was not an unalloyed source of joy; the charming child was becoming a middle-aged97 woman, and was still like a child. She could not enter into Heine’s interests; she delighted in theatres and circuses, to which he could not always accompany her: and he experienced the pangs98 of an unreasonable jealousy99 more keenly than he cared to admit. Then uncle Solomon died, and his son refused, until considerable pressure was brought to bear on him, to continue the allowance which his father had intended Heine to receive. This was a severe blow, and the excitement it produced developed the latent seeds of his disease. It came on with symptoms of paralysis100, which even in a few months gave him, he says, the appearance of a dying man. During the next two years, although his brain remained clear, the long pathological tragedy was unfolded.
He went out for the last time in May, 1848. Half blind and half lame101, he slowly made his way out of the streets, filled with the noise of revolution, into the silent Louvre, to the shrine102 dedicated to “the goddess of beauty, our dear lady of Milo.” There he sat long at her feet; he was bidding farewell to his old gods; he had become reconciled to the religion of sorrow; tears streamed from his eyes, and she looked[82] down at him, compassionate103 but helpless: “Dost thou not see, then, that I have no arms, and cannot help thee?”
“On e?t dit un Apollon germanique”—so Gautier said of the Heine of 1835; twenty years later an English visitor wrote of him—“He lay on a pile of mattresses104, his body wasted so that it seemed no bigger than a child under the sheet which covered him—his eyes closed, and the face altogether like the most painful and wasted ‘Ecce Homo’ ever painted by some old German painter.”
His sufferings were only relieved by ever larger doses of morphia; but although still more troubles came to him, and the failure of a bank robbed him of his small savings105, his spirit remained unconquered. “He is a wonderful man,” said one of his doctors; “he has only two anxieties—to conceal106 his condition from his mother, and to assure his wife’s future.” His literary work, though it decreased in amount, never declined in power; only, in the words of his friend Berlioz, it seemed as though the poet was standing at the window of his tomb, looking around on the world in which he had no longer a part.
He saw a few friends, of whom Ferdinand Lassalle, with his exuberant107 power and enthusiasm, was the most interesting to him, as the representative of a new age and a new social[83] faith; and the most loved, that girl-friend who sat for hours or days at a time by the “mattress-grave” in the Rue66 d’Amsterdam, reading to him or writing his letters or correcting proofs. To the last the loud, bright voice of Mathilde, when he chanced to hear it, scolding the servants or in other active exercise, often made him stop speaking, while a smile of delight passed over his face. He died on the 16th of February, 1856. He was buried, silently, in Montmartre, according to his wish; for, as he said, it is quiet there.
III.
Throughout and above all, Heine was a poet. From first to last he was led by three angels who danced for ever in his brain, and guided him, singly or together, always. They were the same as in “Atta Troll” he saw in the moonlight from the casement108 of Uraka’s hut—the Greek Diana, grown wanton, but with the noble marble limbs of old; Abunde, the blonde and gay fairy of France; Herodias, the dark Jewess, like a palm of the oasis109, with all the fragrance110 of the East between her breasts: “O, you dead Jewess, I love you most, more than the Greek goddess, more than that fairy of the North.”[4]
[84]
Those genii of three ideal lands danced for ever in his brain, and that is but another way of indicating the opposition111 that lay at the root of his nature. From one point of view, it may well be, he continued the work of Luther and Lessing, though he was less great-hearted, less sound at core, though he had not that element of sane Philistinism which marks the Shakespeares and Goethes of the world. But he was, more than anything else, a poet, an artist, a dreamer, a perpetual child. The practical reformers among whom at one time he placed himself, the men of one idea, were naturally irritated and suspicious; there was a flavour of aristocracy in such idealism. In the poem called “Disputation” a Capuchin and a Rabbi argued before the King and Queen at Toledo concerning the respective merits of the Christian27 and Jewish religions. Both spoke at great length and with great fervour, and in the end the King appealed to the beautiful Queen by his side. She replied that she could not tell which of[85] them was right, but that she did not like the smell of either; and Heine was generally of the Queen’s mind. He sighed for the restoration of Barbarossa, the long-delayed German Empire, and his latest biographer asserts that he would have greeted the discovery of Barbarossa under the disguise of the King of Prussia, with Bismarckian insignia of blood and iron, as the realization of all his dreams. It is doubtful, however, whether the meeting would be very cordial on either side. It would probably be the painful duty of the Emperor, as of the Emperor of the vision in “Deutschland,” to tell Heine, in very practical language, that he was wanting in respect, wanting in all sense of etiquette112; and Heine would certainly reply to the Emperor, as under the same circumstances he replied to the visionary Barbarossa, that that gentleman had better go home again, that during his long absence Emperors had become unnecessary, and that, after all, sceptres and crowns made admirable playthings for monkeys.
“We are founding a democracy of gods,” he wrote in 1834, “all equally holy, blessed and glorious. You desire simple clothing, ascetic113 morals, and unseasoned enjoyments114; we, on the contrary, desire nectar and ambrosia115, purple mantles116, costly117 perfumes, pleasure and splendour, dances of laughing nymphs, music and plays.—Do not be angry, you virtuous118 republicans; we answer[86] all your reproaches in the words of one of Shakespeare’s fools: ‘Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale?’” What could an austere119 republican, a Puritanic Liberal, who scorned the vision of roses and myrtles and sugar-plums all round, say to this? B?rne answered, “I can be indulgent to the games of children, indulgent to the passions of a youth, but when on the bloody120 day of battle a boy who is chasing butterflies gets between my legs; when at the day of our greatest need, and we are calling aloud on God, the young coxcomb121 beside us in the church sees only the pretty girls, and winks122 and flirts—then, in spite of all our philosophy and humanity, we may well grow angry.... Heine, with his sybaritic nature, is so effeminate that the fall of a rose-leaf disturbs his sleep; how, then, should he rest comfortably on the knotty123 bed of freedom? Where is there any beauty without a fault? Where is there any good thing without its ridiculous side? Nature is seldom a poet and never rhymes; let him whom her rhymeless prose cannot please turn to poetry!” B?rne was right; Heine was not the man to plan a successful revolution, or defend a barricade124, or edit a popular democratic newspaper, or represent adequately a radical constituency—all this was true. Let us be thankful that it was true; B?rnes are ever with us, and we are grateful: there is but one Heine.
[87]
The same complexity125 of nature that made Heine an artist made him a humorist. But it was a more complicated complexity now, a cosmic game between the real world and the ideal world; he could go no farther. The young Catullus of 1825, with his fiery126 passions crushed in the wine-press of life and yielding such divine ambrosia, soon lost his faith in passion. The militant soldier in the liberation-war of humanity of 1835 soon ceased to flourish his sword. It was only with the full development of his humour, when his spinal127 cord began to fail and he had taken up his position as a spectator of life, that Heine attained128 the only sort of unity129 possible to him—the unity that comes of a recognized and accepted lack of unity. In the lambent flames of this unequalled humour—“the smile of Mephistopheles passing over the face of Christ”—he bathed all the things he counted dearest; to its service he brought the secret of his poet’s nature, the secret of speaking with a voice that every heart leaps up to answer. It is scarcely the humour of Aristophanes, though it is a greater force, even in moulding our political and social ideals, than B?rne knew; it is oftener a modern development of the humour of the mad king and the fool in “Lear”—that humour which is the last concentrated word of the human organism under the lash130 of Fate.
And if it is still asked why Heine is so modern,[88] it can only be said that these discords131 out of which his humour exhaled132 are those which we have nearly all of us known, and that he speaks with a voice that seems to arise from the depth of our own souls. He represents our period of transition; he gazed, from what seemed the vulgar Pisgah of his day, behind on an Eden that was for ever closed, before on a promised land he should never enter. While with clear sight he announced things to come, the music of the past floated up to him; he brooded wistfully over the vision of the old Olympian gods, dying, amid faint music of cymbals133 and flutes134, forsaken135, in the medi?val wilderness136; he heard strange sounds of psaltries and harps137, the psalms138 of Israel, the voice of Princess Sabbath, across the waters of Babylon.—In a few years this significance of Heine will be lost; that it is not yet lost the eagerness with which his books are read and translated sufficiently139 testifies.
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militant
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| adj.激进的，好斗的；n.激进分子，斗士 | |
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knight
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| n.骑士，武士；爵士 | |
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tilting
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| 倾斜，倾卸 | |
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liberating
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| 解放，释放( liberate的现在分词 ) | |
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imprisoned
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| 下狱，监禁( imprison的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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relatively
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sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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elegies
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wrought
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lucidly
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pervade
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| v.弥漫，遍及，充满，渗透，漫延 | |
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sensuous
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| adj.激发美感的；感官的，感觉上的 | |
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serener
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| serene（沉静的，宁静的，安宁的）的比较级形式 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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mischievous
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| adj.调皮的，恶作剧的，有害的，伤人的 | |
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aged
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liberated
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| a.无拘束的，放纵的 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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forth
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everlasting
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| adj.永恒的，持久的，无止境的 | |
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flora
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downwards
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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30
unreasonable
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| adj.不讲道理的，不合情理的，过度的 | |
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31
vampires
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| n.吸血鬼( vampire的名词复数 )；吸血蝠；高利贷者；（舞台上的）活板门 | |
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32
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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34
tonics
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| n.滋补品( tonic的名词复数 )；主音；奎宁水；浊音 | |
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35
decrepit
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| adj.衰老的，破旧的 | |
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36
harmoniously
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| 和谐地，调和地 | |
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37
liberator
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| 解放者 | |
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38
sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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atrophied
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| adj.萎缩的，衰退的v.（使）萎缩，（使）虚脱，（使）衰退( atrophy的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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40
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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41
reverence
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| n.敬畏，尊敬，尊严；Reverence:对某些基督教神职人员的尊称；v.尊敬，敬畏，崇敬 | |
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42
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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43
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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44
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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45
monotonous
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| adj.单调的，一成不变的，使人厌倦的 | |
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46
mumbles
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| 含糊的话或声音，咕哝( mumble的名词复数 ) | |
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47
sneer
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| v.轻蔑；嘲笑；n.嘲笑，讥讽的言语 | |
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48
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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49
citizenship
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| n.市民权，公民权，国民的义务(身份) | |
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50
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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51
hearty
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| adj.热情友好的；衷心的；尽情的，纵情的 | |
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52
iconoclasts
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| n.攻击传统观念的人( iconoclast的名词复数 )；反对崇拜圣像者 | |
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53
dough
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| n.生面团；钱，现款 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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56
harry
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| vt.掠夺，蹂躏，使苦恼 | |
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57
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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58
physically
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| adj.物质上，体格上，身体上，按自然规律 | |
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59
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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60
cerebral
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| adj.脑的，大脑的；有智力的，理智型的 | |
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61
irritability
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| n.易怒 | |
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62
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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63
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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64
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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65
vanquisher
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| 征服者，胜利者 | |
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66
rue
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| n.懊悔，芸香，后悔；v.后悔，悲伤，懊悔 | |
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67
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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68
liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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69
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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70
Christians
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| n.基督教徒( Christian的名词复数 ) | |
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71
rites
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| 仪式，典礼( rite的名词复数 ) | |
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72
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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73
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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74
picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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75
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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76
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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77
epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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78
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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79
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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81
extraordinarily
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| adv.格外地；极端地 | |
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82
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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83
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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84
shibboleth
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| n.陈规陋习；口令；暗语 | |
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85
dedication
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| n.奉献，献身，致力，题献，献辞 | |
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86
ransacking
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| v.彻底搜查( ransack的现在分词 )；抢劫，掠夺 | |
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87
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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88
legitimate
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| adj.合法的，合理的，合乎逻辑的；v.使合法 | |
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89
ripened
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| v.成熟，使熟( ripen的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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90
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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91
duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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92
impulsiveness
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| n.冲动 | |
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93
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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94
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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95
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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96
pecuniary
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| adj.金钱的；金钱上的 | |
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97
middle-aged
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| adj.中年的 | |
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98
pangs
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| 突然的剧痛( pang的名词复数 )； 悲痛 | |
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99
jealousy
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| n.妒忌，嫉妒，猜忌 | |
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100
paralysis
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| n.麻痹(症)；瘫痪(症) | |
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101
lame
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| adj.跛的，(辩解、论据等)无说服力的 | |
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102
shrine
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| n.圣地，神龛，庙；v.将...置于神龛内，把...奉为神圣 | |
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103
compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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104
mattresses
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| 褥垫，床垫( mattress的名词复数 ) | |
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105
savings
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| n.存款，储蓄 | |
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106
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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107
exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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108
casement
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| n.竖铰链窗；窗扉 | |
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109
oasis
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| n.（沙漠中的）绿洲，宜人的地方 | |
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110
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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111
opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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112
etiquette
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| n.礼仪，礼节；规矩 | |
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113
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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114
enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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115
ambrosia
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| n.神的食物；蜂食 | |
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116
mantles
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| vt.&vi.覆盖（mantle的第三人称单数形式） | |
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117
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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118
virtuous
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| adj.有品德的，善良的，贞洁的，有效力的 | |
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119
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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120
bloody
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| adj.非常的的；流血的；残忍的；adv.很；vt.血染 | |
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121
coxcomb
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| n.花花公子 | |
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122
winks
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| v.使眼色( wink的第三人称单数 )；递眼色（表示友好或高兴等）；（指光）闪烁；闪亮 | |
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123
knotty
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| adj.有结的，多节的，多瘤的，棘手的 | |
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124
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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125
complexity
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| n.复杂(性)，复杂的事物 | |
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126
fiery
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| adj.燃烧着的，火红的；暴躁的；激烈的 | |
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127
spinal
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| adj.针的，尖刺的，尖刺状突起的；adj.脊骨的，脊髓的 | |
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128
attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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129
unity
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| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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130
lash
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| v.系牢；鞭打；猛烈抨击；n.鞭打；眼睫毛 | |
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131
discords
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| 不和（discord的复数形式） | |
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132
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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133
cymbals
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| pl.铙钹 | |
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134
flutes
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| 长笛( flute的名词复数 )； 细长香槟杯（形似长笛） | |
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135
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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136
wilderness
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| n.杳无人烟的一片陆地、水等，荒漠 | |
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137
harps
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| abbr.harpsichord 拨弦古钢琴n.竖琴( harp的名词复数 ) | |
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138
psalms
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| n.赞美诗( psalm的名词复数 )；圣诗；圣歌；(中的) | |
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139
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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