To understand Norwegian art—whether in its popular music, with its extremes of melancholy6 or hilarity7, or in its highly-developed literature—we must understand the peculiar2 character of the land which has produced this people. It is a land having, in its most characteristic regions,[134] a year of but one day and night—the summer a perpetual warm sunlit day filled with the aroma8 of trees and plants, and the rest of the year a night of darkness and horror; a land which is the extreme northern limit of European civilization, on the outskirts9 of which the great primitive gods still dwell; and where elves and fairies and mermaids10 are still regarded, according to the expression of Jonas Lie, as tame domestic animals. Such an environment must work mightily12 on the spirit and temper of the race. As one of the persons in Bj?rnson’s “Over ?vne” observes—“There is something in Nature here which challenges whatever is extraordinary in us. Nature herself here goes beyond all ordinary measure. We have night nearly all the winter; we have day nearly all the summer, with the sun by day and by night above the horizon. You have seen it at night half-veiled by the mists from the sea; it often looks three, even four, times larger than usual. And then the play of colours on sky, sea, and rock, from the most glowing red to the softest and most delicate yellow and white! And then the colours of the Northern Lights on the winter sky, with their more suppressed kind of wild pictures, yet full of unrest and forever changing! Then the other wonders of Nature! These millions of sea-birds, and the wandering processions of fish, stretching for miles! These perpendi[135]cular cliffs that rise directly out of the sea! They are not like other mountains, and the Atlantic roars round their feet. And the ideas of the people are correspondingly unmeasured. Listen to their legends and stories.”
So striking are the contrasts in the Norwegian character that they have been supposed to be due to the mingling13 of races; the fair-haired, blue-eyed Norwegian of the old Sagas14, silent and deep-natured, being modified, now (especially in the north) by the darker, brown-eyed Lapp, with his weakness of character, vivid imagination, and tendency to natural mysticism, and, again (especially in the east), by the daring, practical, energetic Finn.
However this may be, among the Norwegian poets and novelists various qualities often meet together in striking opposition16; wild and fantastic imagination stands beside an exact realism and a loving grasp of nature; a tendency to mysticism and symbol beside a healthy naturalism. We find these characteristics variously combined in Ibsen; in Bj?rnson, with his virile17 strength and generous emotions, amid which a mystic influence now and then appears; in Jonas Lie, with his subtle and delicate spirit, so intimately national; in Kielland, a realistic novelist of most dainty and delicate art, beneath which may be heard the sombre undertone of his sympathy with the weak and the oppressed. Of these[136] writers, and others only less remarkable18, one alone is at all well known in England, and even he is known exclusively by his early work, especially by that most delightful19 of peasant stories, “Arne.” In Germany the Scandinavian novelists and dramatists have received much attention, and are widely known through excellent and easily accessible translations. Yet our English race and speech are even more closely allied20 to the northern; our land is studded with easily recognizable Scandinavian place-names and Scandinavian colonies, whose dialects are full of genuine Scandinavian words unknown to literary English. It is not likely that this indifference21 to the social, political, and literary history of our northern kinsmen22 can last much longer.
About 1720 a Danish skipper, one Peter Ibsen, came over from Moen[8] to Bergen and settled there. He married the daughter of a German who had likewise emigrated from his own country: these were the poet’s great-great-grandparents. Peter Ibsen had a son, Henrik Petersen Ibsen, who was also a ship’s captain. He married a lady whose name is given as Wenche[137] Dischington, the daughter of a Scotchman naturalized in Norway. This Henrik Ibsen settled in Skien, and had a son of the same name who married a German wife. All these Ibsens were sailors. Henrik Ibsen’s son, Knud Ibsen, the dramatist’s father, like his father married a wife of German extraction, Maria Cornelia Altenburg, the daughter of a merchant who had begun life as a sailor.
This ancestry24 is very significant. It will be seen that Ibsen is on both sides predominantly German, and that in his German and Danish blood there is an interesting Scotch23 strain. The tendency to philosophic25 abstraction and the strenuous26 earnestness, mingling with the more characteristically northern imaginative influences, are explained by this German and Scotch ancestry; it explains also the peculiarly isolated27 and yet cosmopolitan28 attitude which marks Ibsen—why it is that his works have been so enthusiastically received and so easily naturalized in Germany, and why, now that they are beginning to be known, they promise to make so deep an impression in our own land.
Ibsen’s mother possessed29 a shy, silent, and solitary30 nature, which she imparted to her son. One of her daughters thus describes her: “She was a quiet, lovable woman, the soul of the house, devoted31 to her husband and children. She was always sacrificing herself. There was[138] no bitterness or reproach in her.” The father was of cheerful disposition32, a man of sociable33 tastes, popular in his circle, but also feared, for he had a keen wit, and, like his son, he could use it unmercifully.
Knud Ibsen’s eldest34 son, Henrik,[9] was born at Skien, a busy little town of some 3,000 inhabitants occupied in the timber trade, on the 20th March, 1828. “I was born,” the dramatist writes in some reminiscences published by Mr. Jaeger for the first time, “in a house in the market-place, Stockmann’s house it was then called. The house lay right opposite the church with its high steps and large tower. To the right, in front of the church, stood the town pillory35, and to the left the town-hall, the lock-up, and the ‘madhouse.’ The fourth side of the market-place was occupied by the Latin school and the town school. The church lay free in the middle. This prospect36 was the first view of the earth that presented itself to my eyes. All buildings; no green, no rural open landscape.” It was in the church tower that the[139] baby Henrik received his first conscious and deep impression. The nursemaid took him up and held him out (to the horror of his mother below), and he never forgot that new and strange vision of the world from above. Ibsen goes on to describe the attractions which were held for him in the gloomy town-hall and the pillory, unused for many years, a red-brown post of about a man’s height, with a great round knob which had originally been painted black, but which then looked like a human face. In front of the post hung an iron chain, and in that an iron ring which seemed like two small arms ready to clasp the child’s neck on the least provocation37. And then there was the town-hall. That, too, had high steps like the church, and underneath38 it was the gaol39 with its barred windows: “inside the bars I have seen many pale and dark faces.” And then there was the “madhouse,” which in its time had really been used to confine lunatics. That also was barred, but inside the bars the little window was filled by a massive iron plate with small round holes like a sieve40. This place was said to have been the abode41 of a famous criminal who had been branded.
These early impressions of the dramatist—the church tower, the pillory, the barred windows, the pale criminals—are of no little interest. They help to explain for us the sombre and tragic42 cast, purely43 human and reflective, of[140] Ibsen’s character. They explain, too, the absence in his work of the sea and the forest, of those things which give such a sweet, wild aroma, now and again, to the work of Bj?rnson and Lie. The little town, with its active commercial life and its equally active religious life—for Skien was a centre of pietistic influence—was such a place as is brought before us in “De Unges Forbund” and in “Samfundets St?tter,” and it was a fit birthplace for the author of “Brand.”
Knud Ibsen belonged to the aristocracy of Skien, and his house was a centre of its social life. When Henrik was eight years old there was an end of this, for his father became a bankrupt. After the catastrophe44 the family retired45 to a small and humble46 home outside Skien, where they lived with a frugality47 which was in marked contrast with their former life. There can be no doubt that this sudden change of circumstances, and the insight which it brought into the social cleavage of a provincial48 town, counted for much in Ibsen’s development. It is certain that at this period his marked individuality began to be perceived. He did not play like the other children; while they romped49 in the yard, he retired into a little inclosure in an alley50 that led to the kitchen, and barricaded51 himself against the heedless incursions of the younger members of the family. Here he kept guard, not only in summer, but in the depth of[141] winter. It is clear that even at this early age Ibsen had reached the point of proud isolation52 and defiance53 of his fellow-citizens which Stockmann ultimately attained54. One of his sisters describes how they used to throw stones and snowballs at his retreat to make him come out to join their play, but when he could no longer withstand the attack and yielded to the assailants, he could display no skill in any kind of sport, and soon retired again to his den15. Reading appears to have been one of his chief occupations there, and Jaeger assures us that the words which many years afterwards Ibsen put into the mouth of the little girl Hedwig, who is so pathetic and tender a figure in one of his latest dramas, “Vildanden,” contain a reminiscence of childhood. “And do you read the books?” asked Gregers. “Oh, yes, when I can. But most of them are English, and I can’t read those. But then I can look at the pictures. There is one big black book, called Harryson’s ‘History of London;’ it must be a hundred years old, and that has such a number of pictures in it. First there is a picture of Death with an hourglass and a girl. I think that is hideous56. But then there are all sorts of other pictures, with churches and castles and streets and great ships that sail on the sea.” He also amused himself with pencil and colour-box. Meanwhile he went to school, going through the usual[142] course and learning a little Latin; he appears to have taken a special interest in the Biblical instruction. At fourteen he was confirmed, and the time came for him to make his way in the world.
At this period he wished to become a painter; he devoted himself with zeal57 to drawing, and an interest in painting has remained with him, the formation of an excellent little collection of Renaissance58 pictures becoming in later life one of his chief hobbies. In the existing state of the family means, this career was out of the question, and he was sent to an apothecary59 at Grimstad, a little town containing at that time not more than 800 inhabitants. The apothecary’s shop, Jaeger remarks, is the place where all the loungers meet in the evening to discuss the events of the day, and doubtless the apothecary’s shop was an element in the education of the future dramatist. In his interesting preface to the second edition of “Catilina” he has himself described the five years of development that he went through in this little town. He did not wish to become a chemist; he would become a student and study medicine. At the same time his poetical60 activity and the eventful year of 1848 came to arouse in the silent, solitary boy a healthy interest in the outside world.
It was while reading Sallust and Cicero for his matriculation examination that he conceived,[143] and wrote at midnight, his first play, “Catilina.” With the help of two enthusiastic young friends the tragedy was published and some thirty copies sold—a result which did not permit of the proposed tour in the East on which the three friends had decided61 to expend62 the profits of the sale. Ibsen was now in his twenty-second year, and he came up to Christiania to carry on his studies at the school of Heltberg, who seems to have had a singularly stimulating63 influence on young men, and at the university. Here Ibsen was the comrade of Bj?rnson, Jonas Lie, and others who have since become famous. At a later date Bj?rnson condensed his youthful impression of his friend in two vigorous lines:
“Tense and lean, the colour of gypsum,
Behind a vast coal-black beard, Henrik Ibsen.”
The period now arrived at which Ibsen’s career was definitely settled. He had been making several unsuccessful literary attempts at Christiania, having finally abandoned the intention to study medicine, when, in 1851, the famous violinist, Ole Bull, who has done so much to give artistic64 shape and energy to the modern Norwegian spirit, gave him an appointment at the National Theatre which he had recently established at Bergen. Ibsen’s prentice hand was now trained by the writing of several dramas not included among his published works;[144] and, like Shakespeare and Molière in somewhat similar circumstances, he here acquired his mastery of the technical demands of dramatic form. In 1855 his apprenticeship65 may be said to have ended, and he produced “Fru Inger til ?straat” (Dame Inger of ?straat), an historical prose drama of great energy and concentration. In 1858 he married Susanna Thoresen, the daughter of a Bergen clergyman, whose second wife, Magdalene Thoresen, is a well-known authoress. At the same period he was appointed artistic director of the Norwegian theatre at Christiania, a post previously66 occupied by Bj?rnson, who had just inaugurated the Norwegian peasant novel by the publication of “Synn?ve Solbakken.” In 1864, having acquired the means, Ibsen found it desirable to quit the somewhat provincial and uncongenial atmosphere of his native country, and has since lived in Rome, in Ischia, in Dresden, and at other places, but mainly at Munich, producing on an average a drama every two years. In 1885 he revisited Norway. Time had brought its revenges, and he was enthusiastically received everywhere. At Drontheim he made a remarkable speech to a club of working-men. “Mere68 democracy,” he said, “cannot solve the social question. An element of aristocracy must be introduced into our life. Of course I do not mean the aristocracy of birth or of the purse, or even the aristocracy of intellect. I mean[145] the aristocracy of character, of will, of mind. That only can free us. From two groups will this aristocracy I hope for come to our people—from our women and our workmen. The revolution in the social condition, now preparing in Europe, is chiefly concerned with the future of the workers and the women. In this I place all my hopes and expectations; for this I will work all my life and with all my strength.” In private conversation, it is said, Ibsen describes himself as a Socialist69, although he has not identified himself with any definite school of Socialism.
In personal appearance he is rather short, but impressive and very vigorous. He has a peculiarly broad and high forehead, with small, keen, blue-grey eyes “which seem to penetrate70 to the heart of things.” His firm and compressed mouth is characteristic of “the man of the iron will,” as he has been called by a fellow-countryman. Altogether it is a remarkable and significant face, clear-seeing and alert, with a decisive energy of will about it that none can fail to recognize. It is far indeed from the typical “pure, extravagant71, yearning72, questioning artist’s face.” In middle age it recalled, rather, the faces of some of our most distinguished73 surgeons; as is perhaps meet in the case of a writer who has used so skilful74 and daring a scalpel to cut to the core of social diseases. In society, although he likes talking to the common people, Ibsen is[146] usually reserved and silent; or his conversation deals with the most ordinary topics; “he talks like a wholesale75 tradesman,” it has been said.
Ibsen’s dramas (excluding two or three which have not been published) may be conveniently divided into three groups, but the division is a rough one, for the groups merge76 one into another; Ibsen’s artistic development has been gradual and continuous.—1. Historical and Legendary77 Dramas, chiefly in Prose: The youthful “Catilina” (written in 1850, but revised at a later period), which stands by itself, and contains the germ of much of his later work; “Fru Inger til ?straat” (Dame Inger of ?straat), 1855, an effective melodramatic play of great technical skill; “Gildet paa Solhaug” (The Feast at Solhaug), an historical play of the fourteenth century, written in 1855, and reprinted in 1883, with a preface explaining its genesis; “H?rm?ndene paa Helgeland” (The Warriors80 at Helgeland), 1858, a noble version of the Volsunga-Saga, here brought down to more historical times, so as to present a vivid and human picture of the Viking period; “Kongs-emnerne” (The Pretenders), 1864, dealing81 with Norwegian history in the twelfth century; “Keiser og Galil?er” (Emperor and Galilean), finished in 1873, but begun many years earlier. 2. Dramatic Poems: “Kj?rlighedens Komedie” (Love’s Comedy), 1862; “Brand,” 1866; “Peer Gynt,” 1867. 3. Social Dramas: “De Unges Forbund”[147] (The Young Men’s League), 1869; “Samfundets St?tter” (The Pillars of Society), 1877; “Et Dukkehjem” (A Doll’s House), 1879; “Gengangere” (Ghosts), 1881; “En Folkefiende” (An Enemy of Society), 1882; “Vildanden” (The Wild Duck), 1884; “Rosmersholm,” 1886; “Fruen fra Havet” (The Lady from the Sea), 1888.
“H?rm?ndene paa Helgeland” is Ibsen’s first great drama; it has, indeed, been called the most perfect of his plays. The antique form and substance which he imposed upon himself compelled him to a severe self-restraint; the style also of the drama, which is in prose, is austerely82 simple and strong. Yet there is at the same time a curious and undisguised modern note about this work, and we feel throughout the presence of that spirit which gives life to Ibsen’s plays of to-day. The strong, passionate83 figure of Hj?rdis fills most of the field, however finely the lesser84 figures are moulded. She is the Brunhild of the ancient story, yet she is the same woman who is the heroine and the hero of all Ibsen’s social dramas; a strong and passionate woman, instinct with suppressed energy to which the natural outlets85 have been closed, and which is transformed into volcanic86 outbreaks of disaster. “A woman, a woman,” she says to Dagny, who is shocked at a remark about using the armour87 and weapons of a man, and mixing among men, “there is no one who knows what a woman can do.” Her[148] father having been slain88, she is brought as a young girl into the conqueror’s household. She finds a temporary satisfaction in the exercise of her physical strength. When the mild and honourable89 warrior79 Sigurd comes with his feeble friend Gunnar, both fall in love with her, and she, without speaking it, returns Sigurd’s love. She promises to give herself to him who can perform the greatest feat90 of strength, and Sigurd, by a ruse91, wins her for his friend Gunnar, himself taking to wife the gentle Dagny. Henceforth there is something strange and incalculable in all the deeds of Hj?rdis, and a concentrated bitterness in her words. When afterwards she learns that Sigurd had once loved her, the proud and reserved woman offers in vain to put on helmet and breastplate and to follow him through the earth. “I have been homeless in the world from the day that you took another to wife. Ill was that deed of yours. All good gifts may a man give to his trothful friend,—all, but not the woman he holds dear. When he does that deed, he breaks the thread that the Norns have spun92, and wastes two lives.” Hj?rdis is the woman of the social dramas, but it has not yet occurred to her that she has a life of her own.
“Emperor and Galilean,”[10] although historical[149] and written in prose, is very unlike “H?rm?ndene paa Helgeland”; it belongs, indeed, in date as well as in character, almost as much to the second group. It is made up of two five-act dramas, presenting a series of brilliant and powerful scenes in the life of the Emperor Julian, lacking, however, dramatic unity93 and culminating interest. It is probable that the disconnected character of the work, and its undue94 length, is owing to the long period which intervened between its commencement in Norway and its completion at Rome. It is, in its parts, undoubtedly95 a fascinating work; we trace Julian’s life from his youth as a student of philosophy to his death as Emperor conquered by the Galilean. The interest of his life lies in his various relations to the growing Christianity and decaying Paganism by which he is surrounded. Julian realizes the possibility of a third religion—“the reconciliation96 between nature and spirit, the return to nature through spirit: that is the task for humanity.” But he imagines that he is himself the divine representative of this new religion. His friend Maximus prophesies97 at the end “The third kingdom shall come! The spirit of man[150] shall take its inheritance once more.” Julian failed because he was weak and vain, and because the age was against him; he dies with the cry on his lips, “Thou hast conquered, O Galilean!”
“Love’s Comedy,” the earliest of the poems of the second group, is the first work in which Ibsen’s characteristic modern tone appears, not again to vanish. It is a satire98 on the various conventional phases of love, exquisite99 in form but comparatively slight in texture100. In “Brand” Ibsen produced a poem which for imagination and sombre energy stands alone. It is perhaps the most widely known of all his works; in Germany it has already found four translators, and there is reason to hope that before long a translation will appear in England. “Brand” is the tragedy of will and self-sacrifice in the service of the ideal—a narrow ideal, but less narrow, Ibsen seems sometimes to hint, than the ideals of most of us. The motto on which Brand acts in all the crises of his life is, “All or nothing;” and with him it means in every case the crushing of some human emotion or relationship for the fulfilment of a religious duty. Soon after the commencement of the poem Brand became the pastor101 of a gloomy little northern valley, between mountains and glaciers102, into which the sun seldom penetrates103. He is accompanied by his wife Agnes, a pathetic image of love and devotion. A child[151] is born to them, but soon dies in this sun-forsaken104 valley. There are few passages in literature of more penetrating pathos105 than the scene in the fourth act in which, one Christmas eve, the first anniversary of the child’s death, Brand persuades Agnes to give her Alf’s clothes—the last loved relics—to a beggar-woman who comes to the door with her child during a snowstorm. Soon Agnes also dies. In the end, stoned by his flock, Brand makes his way, bleeding, up into the mountains. Here, amid the wild rocks and his own hallucinations, he is met by a mad girl who mistakes him for the thorn-crowned Christ. This scene, in which, overwhelmed at last by an avalanche106, Brand dies amid his broken ideals, attains107 an imaginative height not elsewhere reached in modern literature, and for the like of which we have to look back to the great scene on the heath in “Lear.” Here and elsewhere, however, Ibsen brings in supernatural voices, which scarcely heighten the natural grandeur108 of the scene, and which seem out of place altogether in a poem so entirely109 modern. “Brand” brings before us a wealth of figures and of discussions, carried on in brief, clear, musical, though irregular, metrical form, and it would be impossible to analyze110 so complex a work within moderate compass.
“Peer Gynt,” is regarded in his own country as Ibsen’s most important achievement, for it is a[152] great modern national epic111, the Scandinavian “Faust.” A successful attempt has even been made to represent it on the stage, the incidental music being composed by Grieg. The name of its hero and many incidents in his career have their home in old Norwegian folk-lore, and Ibsen has himself declared that Peer Gynt is intended as the representative of the Norwegian people. Peer is the child of imagination who lives in a world in which fantasy and reality can scarcely be distinguished. He is an egoist with colossal112 ambitions; at the same time he is by no means wanting in worldly wisdom; he goes to America, and makes a large fortune (later on suddenly lost) by the importation of slaves and the exportation of idols113 to China, a trade which he reconciles to his conscience by opening up another branch of business for supplying missionaries114 (at a considerable profit) with Bibles and rum. The whole is a series of scenes and adventures, often fantastic or symbolic115 in character, always touched by that profound irony116 which is Ibsen’s most marked feature. One scene is so original and penetrative that it stands alone in literature. It is that scene of peculiarly Norwegian essence in which Peer Gynt enters the hut in which his mother lies dying, with the fire on the hearth117 and the old tom-cat on a stool at the bottom of the bed. He talks to her in the tone of the days of childhood, reminding her[153] how they used to play at driving to the fairy-tale castle of Soria Moria. He sits at the foot of the bed, throws a string round the stool on which the cat lies, takes a stick in his hand, imagines a journey to Heaven—the altercation118 with St. Peter at the gate, the deep bass119 voice of God declaring that Mother Aase shall enter free—and lulls120 her to death with the stories with which she had once lulled121 him to sleep. At a much later date in his career Peer finds himself in a madhouse at Cairo, where he is assured that his own guiding principle of the self-sufficiency of the individual, without regard for the actions or opinions of others, is carried out to its extreme limits. He is here acclaimed122 as emperor and crowned with a garland of straw. Thus are his dreams of power fulfilled. In the end he returns, a white-haired old man, to be eagerly welcomed by the faithful Solveig, whom, as a girl, he had forsaken, and who is now an old woman, still waiting for him with the kingdom of love that he had missed. The poem ends with the picture of Solveig singing over her lover a cradle-song of death. The failure of an over-mastering imagination and weak will to attain55 the love that alone satisfies, that is the last lesson of this marvellous work, so full of manifold meaning.
It is certainly by the third and latest group—the Social Dramas—that Ibsen has attracted most attention both in his own country and abroad.[154] They are all written in mature life, and he has here devoted his early acquired mastery of the technical requirements of the drama, as well as the later acquired experiences of men, to a keen criticism of the social life of to-day. He himself, it is said, regards these plays as his chief title to remembrance. It is scarcely possible to say so much as this when we think of “H?rm?ndene paa Helgeland,” of “Brand,” and of “Peer Gynt.” But it certainly does not befit us of to-day to complain that Ibsen has devoted his most mature art to work which has a significance which to-day at all events cannot be over-estimated. That significance may be very easily set forth; the spirit that works through Ibsen’s latest dramas is the same that may be detected in his earliest, “Catilina;” it is an eager insistance that the social environment shall not cramp123 the reasonable freedom of the individual, together with a passionately124 intense hatred125 of all those conventional lies which are commonly regarded as “the pillars of society.” But this impulse that underlies126 nearly all Ibsen’s dramas of the last group is always under the control of a great dramatic artist. The dialogue is brief and incisive127; every word tells, and none is superfluous128; there is no brilliant play of dialogue for its own sake. “The illusion I wish to produce,” he has himself said, “is that of truth itself, I want to produce upon the reader the impression[155] that what he is reading is actually taking place before him.” In the hands of a meaner artist such an attempt would be fatal; to Ibsen it has brought greater strength. If there is fault to find in the construction of Ibsen’s prose dramas, it lies in their richness of material; the subsidiary episodes are frequently dramas in themselves, although duly subordinate to the main purpose of the play. The care lavished129 on the development and episodes of these dramas is equalled by the reality and variety of the persons presented. These are never mere embodied130 “humours” or sarcastic131 caricatures; the terrible keenness of Ibsen’s irony comes of the simple truth and moderation with which he describes these social humbugs132 who are yet so eminently134 reasonable and like ourselves. Every figure brought before us, even the most insignificant135, is an organic and complex personality, to be recognized without trick or catchword.
“The Young Men’s League,” the earliest of the series, deals with the rise and progress of one Stensgaard. He is a man whose character is essentially136 vulgar and commonplace, but who is undoubtedly clever, and whose ambition it is to gain political success. At the same time he is short-sighted, conceited137, absolutely wanting in tact138. He is even unstable139, save in the great central aim of his life, which he seeks to bring about by the formation of a compact majority[156] of voters, of which the nucleus140 is the Young Men’s League. Stensgaard is always at his best as an orator141; he is a Numa Roumestan, genial67, almost childishly open-hearted, with a flow of facile emotion and a great mastery of phrases. We leave him under a cloud of contempt but nowise defeated; and we are given to understand that he is on his way to the highest offices of state. In this vivid and skilful portrait of the representative leader of semi-democratized societies, Ibsen has given his chief utterance142 on current political methods. It is scarcely favourable143. He realizes that government by party mobs, each headed by a Stensgaard—a phase in the progress towards complete democratization illustrated144 in England to-day—is by no means altogether satisfactory. “A party,” remarks Dr. Stockmann, in “An Enemy of Society,” “is like a sausage-machine: it grinds all the heads together in one mash145.” Something more fundamental even than party government is needed, and in some words written in 1870 Ibsen has briefly146 expressed what he conceives to be the pith of the matter:—
“The coming time—how all our notions will fall into the dust then! And truly it is high time. All that we have lived on up till now has been the remnants of the revolutionary dishes of the last century, and we have been long enough chewing these over and over again.[157] Our ideas demand a new substance and a new interpretation147. Liberty, equality, and fraternity are no longer the same things that they were in the days of the blessed guillotine; but it is just this that the politicians will not understand, and that is why I hate them. These people only desire partial revolutions, revolutions in externals, in politics. But these are mere trifles. There is only one thing that avails—to revolutionize people’s minds.”
He is not an aristocrat148 of the school of Carlyle, eager to put everything beneath the foot of a Cromwell or a Bismarck. The great task for democracy is, as Rosmer says in “Rosmersholm,” “to make every man in the land a nobleman.” “The State must go!” Ibsen wrote to G. Brandes in 1870. “That will be a revolution which will find me on its side. Undermine the idea of the State, set up in its place spontaneous action, and the idea that spiritual relationship is the only thing that makes for unity, and you will start the elements of a liberty which will be something worth possessing.” It is only by the creation of great men and women, by the enlargement to the utmost of the reasonable freedom of the individual, that the realization149 of Democracy is possible. And herein, as in other fundamental matters, Ibsen is at one with the American, with whom he would appear at first sight to have little in common.[158] “Where the men and women think lightly of the laws; ... where the populace rise at once against the never-ending audacity150 of elected persons; ... where outside authority enters always after the precedence of inside authority; where the citizen is always the head and ideal; where children are taught to be laws to themselves; ... there the great city stands!” exclaims Walt Whitman.
In “The Pillars of Society”—which was separated from “The Young Men’s League” by the appearance of “Emperor and Galilean”—Ibsen pours delicious irony on those conventional lies which are regarded as the foundations of social and domestic life. Here also he presents us with one of the most eminent133 of the group of “governors, teachers, spiritual pastors151 and masters” that throughout these plays strive to act as the pillars of the social system. Straamand in “Love’s Comedy,” Manders in “Ghosts,” the schoolmaster, R?rlund, here, with many minor152 figures scattered153 through other plays, notwithstanding slight differences, are closely allied. The clergyman is for Ibsen the supreme155 representative and exponent156 of conventional morality. Yet the dramatist never falls into the mistake of some of his Scandinavian contemporaries who make their clerical figures mere caricatures. Here, as always, it is because it is so reasonable and truthful157 that Ibsen’s irony[159] is so keen. R?rlund is honest and conscientious158, but the thinnest veils of propriety159 are impenetrable to him; he can see nothing but the obvious and external aspects of morality; he is incapable160 of grasping a new idea, or of sympathizing with any natural instinct or generous emotion; it is his part to give utterance, impressive with the sanction of religion, to the traditional maxims161 of the society he morally supports. Pastor Manders, in “Ghosts,” is less fluent than R?rlund, and of stronger character. His training and experience have fitted him to deal in all dignity with the proprieties162 and conventions of social morality; but when he is in the presence of the realities of life, or when a generous human thought or emotion flashes out before him, he shrinks back, shocked and cowed. He is then, as Mrs. Alving says, nothing but a great child. That Ibsen is, in his clerical personages, as some have said, covertly163 attacking Protestantism, it is not necessary to assert. It is the traditional morality, of which the priesthood everywhere are the chief and authorized164 exponents165, with which he is chiefly concerned. His attitude towards Christianity generally we may perhaps gather from the intensity166 of feeling with which Julian, in “Emperor and Galilean,” expresses his passionate repugnance167 to its doctrine168 of the evil of human nature and its policy of suppression.[160] “You can never understand it, you,” he continues, “who have never been in the power of this God-Man. It is more than a doctrine which he has spread over the world; it is a charm which has fettered169 the senses. Whoever falls once into his hands—I think he never becomes free again. We are like vines planted in a foreign soil; plant us back again and we should perish; yet we languish170 in this new earth.”
“A Doll’s House” contains Ibsen’s most elaborate portrait of a woman, and it is his chief contribution to the elucidation171 of the questions relating to the social functions and position of women in the modern world. It is the tragedy of marriage, and on this ground it has excited much discussion, and is perhaps the most widely known of Ibsen’s social dramas. As a work of art it is probably the most perfect of them. He has here thrown off the last fragments of that conventionality in treatment which frequently mars the two previous plays, and has reached the full development of his own style. The play is an organic whole, all its parts are intimately bound together, and every step in the development is vital and inevitable172. Nora herself, the occupant of the doll’s house, is a being whose adult instincts have been temporarily arrested by the influences which have made her an overgrown child. She is the daughter of a[161] frivolous173 official of doubtful honesty; she has been fed on those maxims of conventional morality of which R?rlund is so able an exponent; and her chief recreation has been in the servants’ room. She is now a mother, and the wife of a man who shields her carefully from all contact with the world. He refrains from sharing with her his work or his troubles; he fosters all her childish instincts; she is a source of enjoyment174 to him, a precious toy. He is a man of ?sthetic tastes, and his love for her has something of the delight that one takes in a work of art. Nora’s conduct is the natural outcome of her training and experience. She tells lies with facility; she flirts175 almost recklessly to attain her own ends; when money is concerned her conceptions of right are so elementary that she forges her father’s name. But she acts from the impulses of a loving heart; her motives176 are always good; she is not conscious of guilt177. Her education in life has not led her beyond the stage of the affectionate child with no sense of responsibility. But the higher instincts are latent within her; and they awake when the light of day at length penetrates her doll’s house, and she learns the judgment178 of the world, of which her husband now stands forth as the stern interpreter. In the clash and shock of that moment she realizes that her marriage has been no marriage, that she has been living all these[162] years with a “strange man,” and that she is no fit mother for her children. She leaves her home, not to return until, as she says, to live with her husband will be a real marriage. Will she ever return?—The Norwegian poets, it has been said, like to end their dramas, as such end in life, with a note of interrogation.
Nora is one of a group of women, more or less highly developed, who are distributed throughout Ibsen’s later plays. They stand, in their stagnant179 conventional environment, as, either instinctively180 or intelligently, actually or potentially, the representatives of freedom and truth; they contain the promise of a new social order. The men in these plays, who are able to estimate their social surroundings at a just value, have mostly been wounded or paralyzed in the battle of life; they stand by, half-cynical, and are content to be merely spectators. But the women—Selma, Lona, Nora, Mrs. Alving, Rebecca—are full of unconquerable energy. There is a new life in their breasts that surges, often tumultuously, into very practical expression.
As “The Doll’s House” is the tragedy of marriage, so “Ghosts” is the tragedy of heredity. This wonderful play is the logical outcome and continuation of “The Doll’s House.” Mrs. Alving is a Nora who had resolved to cling to her husband in spite of all, and here is the result. She is a woman of energy and intellect, who has[163] managed the estate, and devoted herself successfully to the task of creating an artificial odour of sanctity around the memory of her late husband. At the same time she has been gradually throwing aside the precepts181 of the morality in which she has been educated, and has learned to think for herself. When her son Oswald returns home, in reality dying of disease that has been latent from his birth, he seems to her the ghost of his father. His own life has been free from excess, but he now drinks too much; and he begins to make love to the girl who is really his half-sister, exactly as his father had done to her mother in the same place. The scene finally closes over the first clear signs of his madness. The irony of the play is chiefly brought about by the involuntary agency of Pastor Manders, the consummate182 flower of conventional morality, and in the few hours which the action covers the tragedy of heredity is slowly and relentlessly183 unfolded, with the vanity of all efforts to conceal184 or suppress the great natural forces of life.
In “Ghosts,” it seems to me, Ibsen reached the highest point of his art. He deals here with commonplace characters and everyday scenes; most of the action is conveyed in mere drawing-room dialogue; but we feel how the clearness and completeness of this play, its tragic intensity, its immense concentration, have at the back the whole of Ibsen’s various achievement. When we reach[164] the end we experience that prolonged shudder185 of horror, in which, as Aristotle said, the purification of tragedy lies, and we involuntarily recall whatever is most awful in literature, the “Oresteia” of ?schylus, Shakespeare’s “Macbeth,” Shelley’s “Cenci.” It is only on more intimate acquaintance that we are able to look beyond the horror of it, and that we realize here, better than elsewhere, how Ibsen has absorbed the scientific influences of his time, the attitude of unlimited186 simplicity187 and trust in the face of reality. “I almost think,” Mrs. Alving says, “that we are all of us ghosts, Pastor Manders. It is not only what we have inherited from our father and mother that ‘walks’ in us,—it is all sorts of dead ideas and lifeless old beliefs and so forth. They have no vitality188, but they cling to us all the same, and we can’t get rid of them. Whenever I take up a newspaper I seem to see ghosts gliding189 between the lines. There must be ghosts all the country over, as thick as the sand of the sea.” There is the absolute acceptance of facts, however disagreeable. But, beside it, is the hope that lies in the skilful probing of the wound that the ignorant have foolishly smothered190 up; the hope also that lies in a glad trust of nature and of natural instincts. Nowhere else in Ibsen’s work can we feel so strong and invigorating a breath of new life.
[165]
“An Enemy of Society” is closely connected in its origin with “Ghosts.” When “Ghosts” was published it aroused fierce antagonism191. Such a subject was not suited, it was said, to artistic treatment. The discussion was foolish enough; the wise saying of Goethe still remains192 true, that “no real circumstance is unpoetic so long as the poet knows how to use it.” All the worthy193 people, however, in whose name Pastor Manders is entitled to speak, declared, further, that the play was immoral—as it certainly is from their point of view—and it was some time before its first representation on the stage, with the distinguished northern actor, Lindberg, in the part of Oswald. Ibsen had expected a storm, but the storm was even greater than he had anticipated; and in the history of Dr. Stockmann he has given an artistic version of his own experiences at this time. It is pleasant that the only figure in these plays that we can intimately associate with Ibsen himself is that of the manly194 and genial Stockmann. When he discovers that the water at the Baths, of which he is the medical director, and which are the chief cause of the town’s prosperity, are infected and producing disastrous195 results to the invalids196, he resolves that the matter shall at once be made known and remedied. It is in the shock of the universal disapprobation that this resolution arouses that our genial and homely197 doctor is[166] lifted into heroism198, and becomes the mouthpiece of truths with far-reaching significance. The great scene in the fourth act, in which he calls a public meeting as the only remaining way to make his discovery public, and, amid general clamour, sets forth his opinions, is one of the most powerful and genuinely dramatic that Ibsen has ever written.
“The Wild Duck” is, as a drama, the least remarkable of Ibsen’s plays of this group. There is no central personage who absorbs our attention, and no great situation. For the first time also we detect a certain tendency to mannerism199, and the dramatist’s love of symbolism, here centred in the wild duck, becomes obtrusive200 and disturbing. Yet this play has a distinct and peculiar interest for the student of Ibsen’s works. The satirist201 who has so keenly pursued others has never spared himself; in the lines that he has set at the end of the charming little volume in which he has collected his poems, he declares that, “to write poetry is to hold a doomsday over oneself.” Or, as he has elsewhere expressed it: “All that I have written corresponds to something that I have lived through, if not actually experienced. Every new poem has served as a spiritual process of emancipation202 and purification.” In both “Brand” and “Peer Gynt” we may detect this process. In “The Wild Duck” Ibsen has set himself on the side of his enemies,[167] and written, as a kind of anti-mask to “The Doll’s House” and “The Pillars of Society,” a play in which, from the standpoint to which the dramatist has accustomed us, everything is topsy-turvy. Gregers Werle is a young man, possessing something of the reckless will-power of Brand, who is devoted to the claims of the ideal, and who is doubtless an enthusiastic student of Ibsen’s social dramas. On returning home after a long absence he learns that his father has provided for a cast-off mistress by marrying her to an unsuspecting man who is an old friend of Gregers’. He resolves at once that it is his duty at all costs to destroy the element of falsehood in this household, and to lay the foundations of a true marriage. His interference ends in disaster; the weak average human being fails to respond properly to “the claims of the ideal;” while Werle’s father, the chief pillar of conventional society in the play, spontaneously forms a true marriage, founded on mutual203 confessions205 and mutual trust. If the play may be regarded, not quite unfairly, as a burlesque206 of possible deductions207 from the earlier plays, it witnesses also, like “Ghosts,” to Ibsen’s profound conviction that all vital development must be spontaneous and from within, conditioned by the nature of the individual.
In “The Wild Duck” Ibsen approaches in his own manner, without, however, much insis[168]tence, the mural aspects of the equality of the sexes. Is a woman, who has had no relationships with a man before marriage, entitled to expect the same in her husband? Is a man, who has had relationships with other women before marriage, entitled to complain if his wife has also had such relationships? These are the sort of questions which the Scandinavian and Danish dramatists—Bj?rnson, Eduard Brandes, Charlotte Edgren, Benzon—seem never tired of discussing. Eduard Brandes makes his admirable little drama “Et Bes?g,” published about the same time as “Vildanden,” hang on this problem, and although he brings no new idea into the play, he settles the question in the same spirit as his great fellow-dramatist. “En Hanske,” also published about the same time, gives us Bj?rnson’s contribution to the question. In this play a young woman is in love with a young man who, as she learns accidentally at the moment of formally engaging herself to him, has had previous relationships with other women. At the same time she discovers that her own father, an amiable208 old élégant, has been frequently unfaithful to his wife, and that her mother still carries about a suppressed bitterness. The girl realizes that life is not like what she has been brought up to believe; she rejects her lover, and after some unexpected and quite unnecessary brutalities from him, flings her[169] glove in his face. All Bj?rnson’s genial vivacity209 and emotional expansiveness come out in the earlier scenes of this play, and there is some pleasant comedy, especially when the easy-going father tries to lecture his daughter, to the accompaniment of her acute comments and the wife’s sarcastic exclamations210, on a wife’s privileges. “Here,” he says, “is woman’s noblest calling.” “As what?” asks the daughter. “As what?—Have you not listened? As—as the ennobling influence in marriage, as that which makes man purer, as, as——” “Soap?” “Soap? what on earth makes you think of soap?” “You make out that marriage is a great laundry for men. We girls are to stand ready, each at her wash-tub, with her piece of soap. Is that how you mean it?” On this ground, however, it is difficult to avoid comparisons with Ibsen, and we miss here both the artistic and moral grip of the greater dramatist. Ibsen’s solution of the matter in “The Wild Duck” seems to be that there can be no true marriage without mutual knowledge and mutual confession204.
In “Rosmersholm,” social questions have passed into the background: they are present, indeed, throughout; and to some extent they cause the tragedy of the drama, as the numberless threads that bind211 a man to his past, and that cut and oppress him when he strives to take a step forward. But on this grey background the[170] passionate figure of Rebecca West forms a vivid and highly-wrought portrait. Ibsen has rarely shown such intimate interest in the development of passion. The whole life and soul of this ardent212, silent woman, whom we see in the first scene quietly working at her crochet213, while the housekeeper214 prepares the supper, are gradually revealed to us in brief flashes of light between the subsidiary episodes, until at last she ascends215 and disappears down the inevitable path to the mill stream. The touches which complete this picture are too many and too subtle to allow of analysis; in the last scene Ibsen’s concentrated prose reaches as high a pitch of emotional intensity as he has ever cared to attain.
“The Lady from the Sea” seems to carry us into an atmosphere rather different from that of the early social dramas. An element of melodrama78 mingles216 here with the social interest, and makes this play one of the least characteristic, but certainly one of the most dramatically effective of the group. Ellida, a morbid217, romantic young woman, whose mother died insane, has met before her marriage the second mate of an American ship, a “stranger;” he attracts her with all the charm of the wild life of the sea and the fascination218 of the unknown. Having perpetrated a more or less justifiable219 homicide, the second mate is compelled to flee, not before he has gone through a form of betrothal220 with Ellida.[171] Subsequently she marries a well-meaning, commonplace widower221, but she wanders helplessly and uselessly through life, like a mermaid11 among the children of men, still held, in spite of herself, by the old fascination of the sea. At length the mysterious “stranger” turns up again, resolved, if she wishes, to carry her off in spite of everything. She feels that she must be free—free to go or free to stay. The husband, naturally, refuses to hear of this, proposes to send the man about his business. At length he consents to allow her to choose as she will. Then at once she feels able to decide against the “stranger,” who leaps over the wall and disappears. The charm is broken for ever, and she has the chance to make something of her life. The moral is evident: without freedom of choice there can be no real emancipation or development.
The men of our own great dramatic period wrote plays which are the expression of mere gladness of heart and childlike pleasure in the splendid and various spectacle of the world. Hamlet and Falstaff, the tragic De Flores and the comic Simon Eyre, they are all merely parts of the play. It is all play. The breath of Ariosto’s long song of delight and Boccaccio’s virile joy in life was still on these men, and for the organization of society, or even for the development and fate of the individual save as a spectacle, they took little thought. In the modern[172] world this is no longer possible; rather, it is only possible for an occasional individual who is compelled to turn his back on the world. Ibsen, like Aristophanes, like Molière, and like Dumas to-day, has given all his mature art and his knowledge of life and men to the service of ideas. “Overthrowing society means an inverted222 pyramid getting straight”—one of the audacious sayings of James Hinton—might be placed as a motto on the title-page of all Ibsen’s later plays. His work throughout is the expression of a great soul crushed by the weight of an antagonistic223 social environment into utterance that has caused him to be regarded as the most revolutionary of modern writers.
An artist and thinker, whose gigantic strength has been nourished chiefly in solitude224, whose works have been, as he himself says in one of his poems, “deeds of night,” written from afar, can never be genuinely popular. Everything that he writes is received in his own country with attention and controversy225; but he is mistaken for a cynic and pessimist226; he is not loved in Norway as Bj?rnson is loved, although Bj?rnson, in the fruitful dramatic activity of his second period, has but followed in Ibsen’s steps;—just as Goethe was never so well understood and appreciated as Schiller. Bj?rnson, with his genial exuberance227, his popular sympathies and hopes, never too far in advance of his fellows,[173] invigorates and refreshes like one of the forces of nature. He represents the summer side of his country, in its bright warmth and fragrance228. Ibsen, standing154 alone in the darkness in front, absorbed in the problems of human life, indifferent to the aspects of external nature, has closer affinities229 to the stern winter-night of Norway. But there is a mighty230 energy in this man’s work. The ideas and instincts, developed in silence, which inspire his art, are of the kind that penetrate men’s minds slowly. Yet they penetrate surely, and are proclaimed at length in the market-place.
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primitive
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| adj.原始的；简单的；n.原(始)人，原始事物 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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penetrating
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| adj.（声音）响亮的，尖锐的adj.（气味）刺激的adj.（思想）敏锐的，有洞察力的 | |
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scenically
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forth
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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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hilarity
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| n.欢乐；热闹 | |
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aroma
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| n.香气，芬芳，芳香 | |
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outskirts
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mermaids
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| n.（传说中的）美人鱼( mermaid的名词复数 ) | |
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mermaid
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mightily
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mingling
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sagas
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| n.萨迦（尤指古代挪威或冰岛讲述冒险经历和英雄业绩的长篇故事）( saga的名词复数 )；（讲述许多年间发生的事情的）长篇故事；一连串的事件（或经历）；一连串经历的讲述（或记述） | |
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den
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opposition
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virile
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| adj.男性的；有男性生殖力的；有男子气概的；强有力的 | |
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remarkable
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delightful
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allied
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indifference
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| n.不感兴趣，不关心，冷淡，不在乎 | |
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kinsmen
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| n.家属，亲属( kinsman的名词复数 ) | |
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scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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ancestry
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philosophic
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strenuous
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isolated
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cosmopolitan
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possessed
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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devoted
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disposition
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| n.性情，性格；意向，倾向；排列，部署 | |
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sociable
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eldest
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pillory
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prospect
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provocation
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| n.激怒，刺激，挑拨，挑衅的事物，激怒的原因 | |
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underneath
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| adj.在...下面，在...底下；adv.在下面 | |
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gaol
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| n.(jail)监狱；(不加冠词)监禁；vt.使…坐牢 | |
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sieve
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| n.筛，滤器，漏勺 | |
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abode
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| n.住处，住所 | |
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tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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purely
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| adv.纯粹地，完全地 | |
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catastrophe
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| n.大灾难，大祸 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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48
provincial
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| adj.省的，地方的；n．外省人，乡下人 | |
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49
romped
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| v.嬉笑玩闹( romp的过去式和过去分词 )；（尤指在赛跑或竞选等中）轻易获胜 | |
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50
alley
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| n.小巷，胡同；小径，小路 | |
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51
barricaded
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| 设路障于，以障碍物阻塞( barricade的过去式和过去分词 )； 设路障[防御工事]保卫或固守 | |
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52
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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53
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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54
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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55
attain
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| vt.达到，获得，完成 | |
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56
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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57
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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58
renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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59
apothecary
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| n.药剂师 | |
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60
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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61
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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62
expend
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| vt.花费，消费，消耗 | |
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63
stimulating
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|
| adj.有启发性的，能激发人思考的 | |
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64
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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65
apprenticeship
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| n.学徒身份；学徒期 | |
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66
previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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67
genial
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|
| adj.亲切的，和蔼的，愉快的，脾气好的 | |
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68
mere
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|
| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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69
socialist
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|
| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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70
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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71
extravagant
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|
| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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72
yearning
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| a.渴望的；向往的；怀念的 | |
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73
distinguished
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|
| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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74
skilful
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| (=skillful)adj.灵巧的，熟练的 | |
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75
wholesale
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|
| n.批发；adv.以批发方式；vt.批发，成批出售 | |
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76
merge
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| v.(使)结合，(使)合并，(使)合为一体 | |
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77
legendary
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|
| adj.传奇（中）的，闻名遐迩的；n.传奇（文学） | |
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78
melodrama
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|
| n.音乐剧；情节剧 | |
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79
warrior
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|
| n.勇士，武士，斗士 | |
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80
warriors
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| 武士，勇士，战士( warrior的名词复数 ) | |
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81
dealing
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|
| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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82
austerely
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|
| adv.严格地，朴质地 | |
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83
passionate
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|
| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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84
lesser
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|
| adj.次要的，较小的；adv.较小地，较少地 | |
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85
outlets
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|
| n.出口( outlet的名词复数 )；经销店；插座；廉价经销店 | |
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86
volcanic
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|
| adj.火山的；象火山的；由火山引起的 | |
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87
armour
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| （=armor）n.盔甲；装甲部队 | |
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88
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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89
honourable
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|
| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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90
feat
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|
| n.功绩；武艺，技艺；adj.灵巧的，漂亮的，合适的 | |
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91
ruse
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|
| n.诡计，计策；诡计 | |
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92
spun
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| v.纺，杜撰，急转身 | |
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93
unity
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|
| n.团结，联合，统一；和睦，协调 | |
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94
undue
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|
| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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95
undoubtedly
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|
| adv.确实地，无疑地 | |
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96
reconciliation
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|
| n.和解，和谐，一致 | |
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97
prophesies
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|
| v.预告，预言( prophesy的第三人称单数 ) | |
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98
satire
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|
| n.讽刺，讽刺文学，讽刺作品 | |
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99
exquisite
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|
| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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100
texture
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| n.(织物)质地；(材料)构造；结构；肌理 | |
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101
pastor
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|
| n.牧师，牧人 | |
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102
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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103
penetrates
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|
| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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104
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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105
pathos
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|
| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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106
avalanche
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|
| n.雪崩，大量涌来 | |
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107
attains
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的第三人称单数 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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108
grandeur
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|
| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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109
entirely
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|
| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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110
analyze
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|
| vt.分析，解析 (=analyse) | |
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111
epic
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|
| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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112
colossal
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|
| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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113
idols
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|
| 偶像( idol的名词复数 )； 受崇拜的人或物； 受到热爱和崇拜的人或物； 神像 | |
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114
missionaries
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| n.传教士( missionary的名词复数 ) | |
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115
symbolic
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|
| adj.象征性的，符号的，象征主义的 | |
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116
irony
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|
| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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117
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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118
altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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119
bass
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| n.男低音(歌手)；低音乐器；低音大提琴 | |
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120
lulls
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| n.间歇期（lull的复数形式）vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的第三人称单数形式） | |
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121
lulled
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| vt.使镇静，使安静（lull的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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122
acclaimed
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|
| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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123
cramp
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| n.痉挛；[pl.](腹)绞痛；vt.限制，束缚 | |
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124
passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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125
hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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126
underlies
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的第三人称单数 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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127
incisive
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|
| adj.敏锐的，机敏的，锋利的，切入的 | |
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128
superfluous
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|
| adj.过多的，过剩的，多余的 | |
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129
lavished
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| v.过分给予，滥施( lavish的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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130
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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131
sarcastic
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|
| adj.讥讽的，讽刺的，嘲弄的 | |
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132
humbugs
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| 欺骗( humbug的名词复数 )； 虚伪； 骗子； 薄荷硬糖 | |
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133
eminent
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| adj.显赫的，杰出的，有名的，优良的 | |
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134
eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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135
insignificant
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|
| adj.无关紧要的，可忽略的，无意义的 | |
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136
essentially
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|
| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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137
conceited
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|
| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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138
tact
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| n.机敏，圆滑，得体 | |
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139
unstable
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| adj.不稳定的，易变的 | |
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140
nucleus
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| n.核，核心，原子核 | |
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141
orator
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| n.演说者，演讲者，雄辩家 | |
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142
utterance
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| n.用言语表达，话语，言语 | |
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143
favourable
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|
| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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144
illustrated
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|
| adj. 有插图的，列举的 动词illustrate的过去式和过去分词 | |
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145
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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146
briefly
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| adv.简单地，简短地 | |
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147
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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148
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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149
realization
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| n.实现；认识到，深刻了解 | |
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150
audacity
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| n.大胆，卤莽，无礼 | |
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151
pastors
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| n.（基督教的）牧师( pastor的名词复数 ) | |
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152
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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153
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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154
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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155
supreme
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|
| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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156
exponent
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|
| n.倡导者，拥护者；代表人物；指数，幂 | |
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157
truthful
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| adj.真实的，说实话的，诚实的 | |
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158
conscientious
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|
| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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159
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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160
incapable
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|
| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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161
maxims
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|
| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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162
proprieties
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|
| n.礼仪，礼节；礼貌( propriety的名词复数 )；规矩；正当；合适 | |
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163
covertly
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|
| adv.偷偷摸摸地 | |
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164
authorized
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| a.委任的，许可的 | |
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165
exponents
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|
| n.倡导者( exponent的名词复数 )；说明者；指数；能手 | |
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166
intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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167
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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168
doctrine
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| n.教义；主义；学说 | |
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169
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170
languish
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| vi.变得衰弱无力，失去活力，（植物等）凋萎 | |
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171
elucidation
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| n.说明，阐明 | |
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172
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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173
frivolous
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| adj.轻薄的；轻率的 | |
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174
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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175
flirts
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| v.调情，打情骂俏( flirt的第三人称单数 ) | |
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176
motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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177
guilt
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| n.犯罪；内疚；过失，罪责 | |
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178
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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stagnant
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| adj.不流动的，停滞的，不景气的 | |
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instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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consummate
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| adj.完美的；v.成婚；使完美 [反]baffle | |
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relentlessly
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| adv.不屈不挠地；残酷地；不间断 | |
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184
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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185
shudder
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| v.战粟，震动，剧烈地摇晃；n.战粟，抖动 | |
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unlimited
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| adj.无限的，不受控制的，无条件的 | |
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simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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189
gliding
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| v. 滑翔 adj. 滑动的 | |
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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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antagonism
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| n.对抗，敌对，对立 | |
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192
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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disastrous
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| adj.灾难性的，造成灾害的；极坏的，很糟的 | |
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invalids
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| 病人，残疾者( invalid的名词复数 ) | |
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homely
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| adj.家常的，简朴的；不漂亮的 | |
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heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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199
mannerism
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| n.特殊习惯，怪癖 | |
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200
obtrusive
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| adj.显眼的；冒失的 | |
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201
satirist
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| n.讽刺诗作者，讽刺家，爱挖苦别人的人 | |
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emancipation
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| n.（从束缚、支配下）解放 | |
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mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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confessions
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| n.承认( confession的名词复数 )；自首；声明；（向神父的）忏悔 | |
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206
burlesque
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| v.嘲弄，戏仿；n.嘲弄，取笑，滑稽模仿 | |
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deductions
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| 扣除( deduction的名词复数 )； 结论； 扣除的量； 推演 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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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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bind
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| vt.捆，包扎；装订；约束；使凝固；vi.变硬 | |
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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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crochet
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| n.钩针织物；v.用钩针编制 | |
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214
housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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mingles
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| 混合，混入( mingle的第三人称单数 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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morbid
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| adj.病的；致病的；病态的；可怕的 | |
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fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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justifiable
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| adj.有理由的，无可非议的 | |
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220
betrothal
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| n. 婚约, 订婚 | |
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widower
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| n.鳏夫 | |
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222
inverted
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| adj.反向的，倒转的v.使倒置，使反转( invert的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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antagonistic
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| adj.敌对的 | |
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224
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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225
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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226
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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227
exuberance
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| n.丰富；繁荣 | |
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228
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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229
affinities
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| n.密切关系( affinity的名词复数 )；亲近；（生性）喜爱；类同 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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