The three friends rode on horseback about the country-side. Nietzsche—perhaps he had appreciated too highly the beer supplied at the neighbouring inn—was less interested in the beauty of the landscape than in the long ears of his mount. He measured them carefully. "It's a donkey," he affirmed. "No," replied Deussen and the other friend, "it's a horse." Nietzsche measured again and maintained, with praiseworthy firmness: "It's a donkey." They came back at the fall of day. They shouted, perorated, and generally scandalised the little town. Nietzsche warbled love songs, and girls, drawn5 by the noise to their windows and half-hidden behind curtains, peeped out at the cavalcade6. Finally an honest citizen, who had left his house for the express[Pg 41] purpose, cried shame on the roisterers, and, not without threats, put them back on the road to their inn.
The three friends installed themselves at Bonn. The Universities enjoyed at that time an uncommon7 prestige. They alone had remained free, and maintained in a divided Germany a powerful life in a weakly body. They had their history, which was glorious, and their legends, which were more glorious still. Every one knew how the young scholars of Leipsic, of Berlin, of Jena, of Heidelberg, and of Bonn, kindled8 by the exhortations10 of their teachers, had armed themselves against Napoleon for the salvation11 of the German race; every one also knew that these valiant12 fellows had fought, and were still fighting, against despots and priests to lay the foundations of German liberty; and the nation loved these grave professors, these tumultuous youths who represented the Fatherland in its most noble aspect, the laborious13 Fatherland, armed for labour. There was not a small boy but dreamt of his student years as the finest time of his life; there was not a tender girl but dreamt of some pure and noble student; and among all the dreams of dreamy Germany there was none more alluring14 than that of the Universities. She was infinitely15 proud of those illustrious schools of knowledge, bravery, virtue16, and joy. Their arrival at Bonn moved Nietzsche and his comrades very deeply. "I arrived at Bonn," says one of the numerous essays in which Nietzsche recounts his own life to himself, "with the proud sense of an inexhaustibly rich future before me." He was conscious of his power, and impatient to make the acquaintance of his contemporaries, with whom, and on whom, his thoughts were to work.
Most of the students at Bonn lived grouped together in associations. Nietzsche hesitated a little before following this custom. But from fear of too unsociable a withdrawal17 should he not impose upon himself some[Pg 42] obligation of comradeship, he joined one of these Vereine. "It was only after ripe reflection that I took this step, which, given my character, seemed to me an almost necessary one," he wrote to his friend Gersdorff.
During the next few weeks he allowed himself to be absorbed by the course of his new life. No doubt he never touched either beer or tobacco. But learned discussions; boatings upon the river; hours of light-headedness in the riverside inns, and, at evening on the way home, improvised18 choruses—Nietzsche made the best of these simple pleasures. He even wished to fight a duel19 so that he might become a "finished" student, and, lacking an enemy, chose for his adversary20 an agreeable comrade. "I am new this year," said he to him, "and I want to fight a duel. I rather like you. Let us fight." "Willingly," said the other. Nietzsche received a rapier thrust.
It was impossible that such a life should content him for long. The mood of infantile gaiety soon passed away. At the beginning of December he withdrew a little from this life. Disquiet21 was again gaining on him. The festival of Christmas and that of the New Year, passed far from his own people, were causes of sadness. A letter to his mother lets us divine his emotion:
"I like anniversaries, the feast of St. Sylvester or birthdays. To them we owe those hours in which the soul, brought to a pause, discovers a fragment of its own existence. No doubt it is in our own power to experience such moments more frequently; but we allow ourselves too few. They favour the birth of decisive resolutions. At such moments it is my custom to take up again the manuscripts, the letters, of the year that has just gone by, and to write for myself alone the reflections which come to me. During[Pg 43] an hour or two, one is, as it were, raised above time, drawn out of one's own existence. One acquires a view of the past that is brief and certain, one resolves with a more valiant and a firmer heart to strike forward on the road once more. And when good wishes and family benedictions22 fall like soft rain on the soul's intents—Ah! that is fine!"
Of the reflections written by the young student "for himself alone" we possess some traces. He reproaches himself for wasted hours, and decides upon a more austere23 and concentrated life. Nevertheless, when the time came for him to break with his companions, he hesitated. They were somewhat coarse, it is true, but yet young and brave, like himself. Should he keep in with them? A delicate fear troubled him; he might, as the result of long indulgence, accustom24 himself to their low way of living, and so come to feel it less acutely. "Habit is a powerful force," he wrote to his friend Gersdorff. "One has already lost much when one has lost one's instinctive25 distrust of the evil things which present themselves in daily life." He took a third course, a very difficult course, and decided26 that he would talk frankly27 to his friends, that he would try to exercise an influence on them, to ennoble their lives. Thus he would commence the apostolate which he dreamed of extending one day over the whole of Germany. He proposed therefore a reform of the rules of the association; he called for the suppression, or at least for a reduction, of those smoking and drinking parties which provoked his disgust.
The proposal met with no success. The preacher was silenced, and set aside. Nietzsche, prompt with sarcasm29, avenged30 himself with words which did not win him any love. Then he knew the worst of solitudes31, the solitude32 of the vanquished33. He had not[Pg 44] retired34 from the world; he had been asked to leave it. He was proud, and his stay at Bonn became a misery35. He worked energetically and joylessly. He studied philology36, which did not interest him. It was an exercise which he had taken up to discipline his mind, to correct his tendencies towards a vague mysticism and dispersion of thought. But it pleased him in no way, this minute analysis of Greek texts the sudden beauty of which he felt by instinct. Ritschl, his master in philology, dissuaded37 him from any other study. "If you wish to become a strong man," he said, "acquire a speciality." Nietzsche obeyed. He renounced39 the idea, which he had entertained, of making a deep study of theology. In December he had composed some melodies: now he decided that he would not, for a whole year, allow himself the enjoyment of so vain a pleasure; he wished to submit, and to break himself in to ennui40. He was recompensed for his pains, and was able to write a work which Ritschl commended for its rigour and sagacity.
A poor pleasure! It was thought that Nietzsche needed. He listened to the talk of the students. Some repeated without any ardour of conviction the formulas of Hegel, of Fichte, of Schelling: those great systems had lost all their power to stimulate41. Others, preferring the positive sciences, read the materialistic42 treatises43 of Vogt and Büchner. Nietzsche read these treatises, but did not re-read them. He was a poet and had need of lyricism, intuition, and mystery; he could not be contented44 with the clear and cold world of science. Those same young people, who called themselves materialists, also called themselves democrats45; they vaunted the humanitarian46 philosophy of Feuerbach; but Nietzsche was again too much of a poet and, by education or by temperament47, too much of an aristocrat48 to interest himself in the[Pg 45] politics of the masses. He conceived beauty, virtue, force, heroism49, as desirable ends, and he desired them for himself. But he had never desired a happy life, a smooth and comfortable life: therefore he could not interest himself in men's happiness, in the poor ideal of moderate joy and moderate suffering.
Little satisfied as he was by all the tendencies of his contemporaries, what joy could he experience? Repelled50 by a base politics, a nerveless metaphysics, a narrow science, whither could he direct his mind? Certainly he had his clear and well-marked preferences. He was certain of his tastes. He loved the Greek poets, he loved Bach, Beethoven, Byron. But what was the drift of his own thought?
He had no answer to the problems of life, and now in his twenty-first, as formerly51 in his seventeenth year, preferring silence to uncertain speech, he kept himself under a discipline of silence. In his writings, his letters, his conversation, he was always on his guard. His friend Deussen suggested that prayer has no real virtue, and only gives to the mind an illusory confidence. "That is one of the asininities of Feuerbach," Nietzsche replied tartly52. The same Deussen was speaking on another occasion of the Life of Jesus which Strauss had just published in a new edition, and expressing approval of the sense of the book. Nietzsche refused to pronounce upon the subject. "The question is important," said he. "If you sacrifice Jesus, you must also sacrifice God." These words would seem to show that Nietzsche was still attached to Christianity. A letter addressed to his sister removes this impression. The young girl, who had remained a believer, wrote to him: "One must always seek truth at the most painful side of things. Now one does not believe in the Christian53 mysteries without difficulty. Therefore the Christian mysteries are true." She at once received from her[Pg 46] brother a reply which betrays, by the harshness of its language, the unhappy condition of his soul.
"Do you think that it is really so difficult to receive and accept all the beliefs in which we have been brought up, which little by little have struck deep roots into our lives, which are held as true by all our own kith and kin9, and a vast multitude of other excellent people, and which, whether they be true or not, do assuredly console and elevate humanity? Do you think that such acceptance is more difficult than a struggle against the whole mass of one's habits, waged in doubt and loneliness, and darkened by every kind of spiritual depression, nay54 more, by remorse55; a struggle which leaves a man often in despair, but always loyal to his eternal quest, the discovery of the new paths that lead to the True, the Beautiful, and the Good?
"What will be the end of it all? Shall we recover those ideas of God, the world, and redemption which are familiar to us? To the genuine seeker must not the result of his labours appear as something wholly indifferent? What is it we are seeking? Rest and happiness? No, nothing but Truth, however evil and terrible it may be.
"... So are the ways of men marked out; if you desire peace of soul and happiness, believe; if you would be a disciple56 of Truth, enquire57 ..."
Nietzsche tried to endure this painful life. He walked in the country. Alone in his room he studied the history of art and the life of Beethoven. They were vain efforts; he could not forget the people of Bonn. Twice he went to listen to the musical festivals at Cologne. But each return added to his malaise. In the end he left the town.
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"I left Bonn like a fugitive58. At midnight I was on the quay59 of the Rhine accompanied by my friend M. I was waiting for the steamship60 which comes from Cologne, and I did not experience the slightest impression of pain at the moment of leaving a country-side so flourishing, a place so beautiful, and a band of young comrades. On the contrary, I was actually flying from them. I do not wish to begin again to judge them unjustly, as I have often done. But my nature could find no satisfaction among them. I was still too timidly wrapt up in myself, and I had not the strength to stick to my r?le amid so many influences which were exercising themselves on me. Everything obtruded61 on me, and I could not succeed in dominating my surroundings.... I felt in an oppressive manner that I had done nothing for science, and little for life, and that I had only clogged62 myself with faults. The steamer came, and took me off. I stayed on the bridge in the damp wet night, and as I watched the little lights which marked the river bank at Bonn slowly disappear, everything conspired63 to give me the impression of flight."
He went to spend a fortnight at Berlin with a comrade whose father was a rich bourgeois, ready with his censure64 and his regrets. "Prussia is lost," this old man affirmed; "the Liberals and the Jews have destroyed everything with their babblings ... they have destroyed tradition, confidence, thought itself." Young Nietzsche welcomed these bitter words. He judged Germany from the students of Bonn and saw his own sick discomfort65 everywhere. At the concert he suffered from being in community of impressions with a low public. In the cafés whither his hosts took him he would neither drink nor smoke, nor did he address a word to the people who were introduced to him.
[Pg 48]
He was determined66 not to see Bonn again, and decided to go to Leipsic to complete his studies. He arrived in the unknown town and at once inscribed68 himself on the roll of the University. The day was a festival. A Rector harangued69 the students and told them that on that same date a hundred years before Goethe had come to inscribe67 himself among their elders. "Genius has its own ways," the prudent70 official was quick to add, "and it is dangerous to follow them. Goethe was not a good student; do not take him for model during your years of study." "Hou, hou!" roared the laughing young men; and Friedrich Nietzsche, lost in the crowd, was glad at the chance that had brought him thither71 at the moment of such an anniversary.
He resumed work, burnt some verses which had remained among his papers, and disciplined himself by studying philology according to the most rigorous methods. Alas72, weariness at once laid hold of him again. He feared a year similar to that at Bonn, and one long complaint filled his letters and notebooks. Soon there was an end, and this is the event which delivered his soul. On a bookstall he picked up and turned over the pages of a work by an author then unknown to him: it was Arthur Schopenhauer's The World as Will and Idea. The vigour73 of a phrase, the precision and flair74 of a word struck him. "I do not know," he wrote, "what demon75 whispered to me, 'Go home and take that book with you.' Hardly had I entered my room when I opened the treasure which I had thus acquired, and began to submit myself to the influence of that energetic and sombre genius."
The introduction to the book is grandiose76: it consists of the three prefaces which the neglected author wrote at long intervals77, for each of the three editions of 1818, 1844, and 1859. They are haughty78 and bitter, but in no way unquiet; rich in profound thoughts, and in the sharpest[Pg 49] sarcasm; the lyricism of a Goethe shows itself in union with the cutting realism of a Bismarck. They are beautiful with that classic and measured beauty which is rare in German literature. Friedrich Nietzsche was conquered by their loftiness, their artistic79 feeling, their entire liberty. "I think," wrote Schopenhauer, "that the truth which a man has discovered, or the light which he has projected on some obscure point, may, one day, strike another thinking being, may move, rejoice, and console him; and it is to this man one speaks, as other spirits like to ours have spoken to us and consoled us in this desert of life." Nietzsche was moved: it seemed to him that a strayed genius was addressing him alone.
The world which Schopenhauer describes is formidable. No Providence81 guides it, no God inhabits it, inflexible82 laws draw it in chains through time and space; but its eternal essence is indifferent to laws, a stranger to reason: it is that blind Will which urges us into life. All the phenomena83 of the universe are rays from that Will, just as all the days of the year are rays from a single sun. That Will is invariable, it is infinite; divided, compressed in space. "It nourishes itself upon itself, since outside of it there is nothing, and since it is a famishing Will." Therefore, it tortures itself and suffers. Life is a desire, desire is an unending torment84. The good souls of the nineteenth century believe in the dignity of man, in Progress. They are the dupes of a superstition85. The Will ignores men, the "last comers on the earth who live on an average thirty years." Progress is a stupid invention of the philosophers, under the inspiration of the crowd: Will, an offence to reason, has neither origin nor end; it is absurd, and the universe which it animates86 is without sense....
Friedrich Nietzsche read greedily the two thousand pages of this metaphysical pamphlet, which had struck at all the na?ve beliefs of the nineteenth century with[Pg 50] terrible force, and had struck from the head of puerile87 humanity all its crown of dreams. He experienced a strange and almost startling emotion. Schopenhauer condemns88 life, but so vehement89 an energy is in him that in his accusing work it is yet life that one finds and admires. For fourteen days Nietzsche scarcely slept; he went to bed at two o'clock, rose at six, spent his days between his book and the piano, meditated91, and, in the intervals of his meditations92, composed a Kyrie. His soul was full to the brim: it had found its truth. That truth was hard, but what matter? For a long time his instinct had warned and prepared him for this. "What do we seek?" he had written to his sister. "Is it repose93 or happiness? No, truth alone, however terrible and evil it may be." He recognised the sombre universe of Schopenhauer. He had had a presentiment94 of it in the reveries of his boyhood, in his readings of ?schylus, of Byron, and of Goethe; he had caught a glimpse of it across the symbolism of Christianity. What was this evil Will, the slave of its desires, but under another name, that fallen nature pictured by the Apostle, yet more tragic95, now that it was deprived of the divine ray which a Redeemer had left to it? The young man, in alarm at his inexperience and his temerity96, had recoiled97 before so formidable a vision. Now he dared to look it in the face. He no longer feared, for he was no longer alone. By trusting in Schopenhauer's wisdom he satisfied at last one of the profoundest of his desires—he had a master. He struck even a graver note in giving to Schopenhauer the supreme98 name in which his orphaned99 childhood had enshrined a mystery of strength and tenderness—he called him his father. He was exalted100; then, suddenly swept by a desolating101 regret. Six years earlier Schopenhauer still lived; he might have approached him, listened to him, told him of his veneration102. Destiny had separated them! Intense joy mixed[Pg 51] with intense sorrow overwhelmed him; and he was shattered by a nervous excitement. He grew alarmed, and it needed an energetic effort on his part to bring him back to human life, to the work of the day, to the sleep of the night.
Young people experience a need to admire, it is a form of love. When they admire, when they love, all the servitudes of life become easy to bear. It was as Schopenhauer's disciple that Friedrich Nietzsche knew his first happiness. Philology caused him less weariness. Some pupils of Ritschl, his comrades, founded a society of studies. He joined with them, and, on the 18th of January, 1866, some weeks after his great reading of Schopenhauer, he expounded103 to them the result of his researches on the manuscripts and the vari? lectiones of Theognis. He spoke80 with vigour and freedom, and was applauded. Nietzsche liked success and tasted it with the simple vanity which he always avowed105. He was happy. When he brought his memoir106 to Ritschl and was congratulated very warmly upon it, he was happier yet. He wished to become, and in fact did become, his master's favourite pupil.
No doubt he had not ceased to consider philology as an inferior duty, as a mere107 intellectual exercise and means of livelihood108, and his soul was hardly satisfied; but what vast soul is ever satisfied? Often, after a day of parching109 labour, he was melancholy110, but what young and ardent111 soul is ignorant of melancholy? At least his sadness had ceased to be mournful, and a fragment of a letter like the following, which opens with a complaint and ends in enthusiastic emotion, suggests an excessive plenitude rather than pain.
"Three things are my consolations113," he wrote in April, 1866. "Rare consolations! My Schopenhauer, the music of Schumann, and lastly solitary114 walks. Yesterday a heavy storm gathered in the sky; I hastened towards a[Pg 52] neighbouring hill (it is called Leusch, can you explain the word to me?), I climbed it; at the summit I found a hut and a man, who, watched by his children, was cutting the throats of two lambs. The storm broke in all its power, discharging thunder and hail, and I felt inexpressibly well, full of strength and élan, and I realised with a wonderful clearness that to understand Nature one must, as I had just done, go to her to be saved, far from all worries and all our heavy constraints115. What mattered to me, then, man and his troubled Will! What mattered to me then the Eternal Thou Shalt and Thou Shalt Not! How different are lightning, storm, and hail, free powers without ethics116! How happy they are, how strong they are, those pure wills which the mind has not troubled!"
At the beginning of the summer of 1866 Nietzsche was spending all his days in the library of Leipsic, engaged in deciphering difficult Byzantine manuscripts. Suddenly he allowed his attention to be distracted by a spectacle of a grandiose kind; Prussia, discreetly117 active for fifty years, reappeared in a warlike r?le. Frederick the Great's kingdom once more found a chief: Bismarck, the passionate118, irascible, and crafty119 aristocrat who wished to realise at last the dream of all Germans and to found an empire above all the little States. He quarrelled with Austria, whom Moltke humiliated120 after twenty days of fighting. "I am finishing my Theognidea for the Rheinisches Museum during the week of Sadowa," we read in a memorandum121 made by Nietzsche. He did not stop his work, but political preoccupations entered into his thoughts. He felt the pride of national victory; he recognised himself as a Prussian patriot122, and a little astonishment123 was mixed with his pleasure: "For me this is a wholly new and rare enjoyment," he writes. Then he reflected on this victory, and discerned its consequences, which he enunciated124 with lucidity125.
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"We hold the cards; but as long as Paris remains126 the centre of Europe, things will remain in the old condition. It is inevitable127 that we should make an effort to upset this equilibrium128, or at least to try to upset it. If we fail, then let us hope to fall, each of us, on a field of battle, struck by some French shell."
He is not troubled by this view of the future, which satisfies his taste for the sombre and the pathetic. On the contrary, he grows animated129 and is ready to admire.
"At certain moments," he writes, "I make an effort to free my opinions from the turn which my momentary130 passion and my natural sympathies for Prussia give them, and then what I see is this: an action conducted with grandeur131 by a State, by a chief; an action carved out of the true substance of which history is really made; assuredly by no means moral; but, for him who contemplates132 it, sufficiently133 edifying134 and beautiful."
Was it not a similar sentiment which he had experienced on that hill with the queer name, Leusch, on a stormy day, by the side of that peasant who was cutting the throats of two lambs with such calm simplicity135? "Free powers, without ethics! How happy they are, how strong, those pure Wills which the mind has not troubled!"
The second year which he passed at Leipsic was perhaps the happiest of his life. He enjoyed to the full that intellectual security which his adhesion to his master Schopenhauer assured him. "You ask me for a vindication136 of Schopenhauer," he wrote to his friend Deussen; "I will simply say this to you: I look life in the face, with courage and liberty, since my feet have found firm soil. The waters of trouble, to express myself in images, do not sweep me out of my road, because they come no higher than my head; I am at home in those obscure regions."
It was a year of composure and of comradeship. He[Pg 54] did not worry himself about public affairs. Prussia, on the morrow of her victory, fell back to the low level of everyday life. The babblings of the tribune and the press succeeded the action of great men, and Nietzsche turned away from it all. "What a multitude of mediocre137 brains are occupied with things of real importance and real effect!" he writes. "It is an alarming thought." Perhaps he regretted having allowed himself to be seduced138 by a dramatic incident. Nevertheless he knew—Schopenhauer had taught him—that history and politics are illusory games. He had not forgotten; he wrote in order to affirm his thought, and to define the mediocre meaning and value of human agitations139.
"What is history but the endless struggle for existence of innumerable and diverse interests? The great 'ideas' in which many people believe that they find the directing forces of this combat are but reflections which pass across the surface of the swelling140 sea. They have no action on the sea; but it often happens that they embellish141 the waves and thus deceive him who contemplates them. It matters little whether this light emanates142 from a moon, a sun, or a lighthouse; the waves will be a little more or a little less lit up—that is all."
His enthusiasm had no other object but art and thought, the study of the genius of antiquity143. He conceived a passion for his master Ritschl: "That man is my scientific conscience," said he. He took part in the friendly soirées of the Verein, spoke, and discussed. He planned more undertakings144 than he had time for, and then proposed them to his friends. He elected to study the sources of Diogenes Laertius—that compiler who has preserved for us such precious information with regard to the philosophers of Greece. He dreamed of composing a memoir which should be sagacious and rigorous, but also beautiful: "All important work," he wrote to Deussen, "you must have felt it yourself, exercises a moral[Pg 55] influence. The effort to concentrate a given material, and to find a harmonious145 form for it, I compare to a stone thrown into our inner life: the first circle is narrow, but it multiplies itself, and other more ample circles disengage themselves from it."
In April Nietzsche collected and systematised his notes, wholly preoccupied146 with this concern for beauty. He did not wish to write in the manner of scholars who misunderstand the savour of words, the equilibrium of phrases. He wished to write, in the difficult and classical sense of the word.
"The scales fall from my eyes," he wrote; "I have lived too long in a state of innocence147 as regards style. The categorical imperative148, 'Thou shalt write, it is necessary that thou writest,' has awakened149 me. I have tried to write well It is a thing which I had forgotten since leaving Pforta, and all at once my pen lost its shape between my fingers. I was impotent, out of temper. The principles of style enunciated by Lessing, Lichtenberger, Schopenhauer were scolding in my ears. At least I remembered, and it was my consolation112, that these three authorities agreed in saying that it is difficult to write well, that no man naturally writes well, and that one must, in order to acquire a style, work strenuously150, hew151 blocks of hard wood.... Above all, I wish to imprison152 in my style some joyous153 spirits; I shall apply myself to it as I apply myself upon the keyboard, and I hope to play at length, not only the pieces that I have learnt, but free fantasies, free as far as possible, though always logical and beautiful."
A sentimental154 joy completed his happiness: he found a friend. Nietzsche had long been faithful to the comrades of his early childhood: one was dead, and the other, their lives and occupations having been separate for ten years, was becoming a stranger to him. At Pforta he had been fond of the studious Deussen, the faithful[Pg 56] Gersdorff: the one was studying at Tübingen, the other at Berlin. He wrote to them with much zeal155, but an exchange of letters could not satisfy that need for friendship which was an instinct of his soul. Finally, he made the acquaintance of Erwin Rohde, a vigorous and perspicacious156 spirit; he liked him at once; he admired him, for he was incapable157 of loving without admiring; he adorned158 him with the sublime159 qualities with which his soul overflowed160. Every evening, after laborious hours, the young men came together. They walked or rode, talking incessantly161. "I experience for the first time," wrote Nietzsche, "the pleasure of a friendship founded on a moral and philosophic163 groundwork. Ordinarily, we dispute strongly, for we are in disagreement on a multitude of points. But it suffices for our conversation to take a more profound turn; and then at once our dissonant164 thoughts are silenced, and nothing resounds165 between us but a peaceable and total accord."
They had promised each other that they would spend their first holiday weeks together. At the beginning of August, being both free, they left Leipsic and sought isolation166 in walks in a tramp on the frontiers of Bohemia. It is a region of wooded heights, which recalls, with less grandeur, the Vosges. Nietzsche and Rohde led the life of wandering philosophers. Their luggage was light, they had no books, they walked from inn to inn, and, throughout the days unspoilt by a care, they talked about Schopenhauer, about Beethoven, about Germany, about Greece. They judged and condemned167, with youthful promptitude; they were never weary of defaming their science. "Oh childishness of erudition!" they said. "It was a poet, it was Goethe, who discovered the genius of Greece. He it was who held it up to the Germans, absorbed always on the confines of a dream, as an example of rich and clear beauty, a model of perfect form. The professors followed him. They have explained the[Pg 57] ancient world, and, under their myopic168 eyes, that wonderful work of art has become the object of a science. What is there that they have not studied? In Tacitus, the ablative case, the evolution of the gerund in the Latin authors of Africa; they have analysed to the last detail the language of the Iliad, determined in what respect it is connected with this other and that other Aryan language. What does it all signify? The beauty of the Iliad is unique; it was felt by Goethe, and they ignore it. We shall stop this game; that will be our task. We shall go back to the tradition of Goethe; we shall not dissect169 the Greek genius, we shall revitalise it, and teach men to feel it. For long enough the scholars have carried out their minute enquiries. It is time to make an end. The work of our generation shall be definitive170; our generation shall enter into possession of the grand legacy171 transmitted by the past. And science, too, must serve progress."
After a month of conversation, the young men left the forest and went to Meiningen, a little town in which the musicians of the Pessimist172 school were giving a series of concerts. A letter of Friedrich Nietzsche's has preserved a chronicle of the performance. "The Abbé Liszt presided," he wrote. "They played a symphonic poem by Hans von Bülow, Nirvana, an explanation of which was given on the programme in maxims173 from Schopenhauer. But the music was awful. Liszt, on the contrary, succeeded remarkably175 in finding the character of the Indian Nirvana in some of his religious compositions; for example, in his Beatitudes." Nietzsche and Rohde separated on the morrow of these festivals, and returned to their families.
Alone at Naumburg, Nietzsche took up work of various kinds and read widely. He studied the works of the young German philosophers, Hartmann, Dühring, Lange, Bahnsen; he admired them all, with the indulgence of a[Pg 58] brother-in-arms, and dreamt of making their acquaintance and collaborating176 with them in a review which they should found together. He projected an essay, perhaps a sort of manifesto177 upon the man whom he wished to give to his contemporaries as a master, Schopenhauer. "Of all the philosophers," he writes, "he is the truest." No false sensibility shackles178 his mind. He is brave, it is the first quality of a chief. Friedrich Nietzsche notes rapidly: "Ours is the age of Schopenhauer: a sane179 pessimism180 founded upon the ideal; the seriousness of manly181 strength, the taste for what is simple and sane. Schopenhauer is the philosopher of a revived classicism, of a Germanic Hellenism...."
He was working ardently182, and then, suddenly, his life was turned upside down. He had been exempted183 from military service on account of his very short sight. But the Prussian army in 1867 had great need of men; and he was enrolled184 in a regiment185 of artillery186, in barracks at Naumburg.
Nietzsche made the best of this vexation. It was always a maxim174 of his that a man should know how to utilise the chances of his life, extracting from them, as an artist does, the elements of a richer destiny. Therefore, since he had to be a soldier, he resolved that he would learn his new trade. The military obligation had, in this time of war, a solemnity which it lacks to-day. Nietzsche thought it a good and healthy thing that he should shut his dictionaries and get on horseback; that he should become an artilleryman and a good artilleryman, a sort of ascetic187 in the service of his fatherland, etwas ασκησι? zu treiben, he wrote in his German, mottled with Greek.
"This life is full of inconvenience," he wrote again, "but, tasted as one would an entremets, it impresses me as altogether profitable. It is a constant appeal to the energy of man which has a value above all as an antidote188 against that paralysing scepticism the effects of which[Pg 59] we have observed together. In the barracks one learns to know one's nature, to know what it has to give among strange men, the greater part of whom are very rough.... Hitherto it has appeared to me that all have felt kindly189 towards me, captain and privates alike; moreover, everything that I must do, I do it with zeal and interest. Has one not reason to be proud, if one be noted190, among thirty recruits, as the best rider? In truth, that is worth more than a philological191 diploma."
Whereupon he cites in full the fine Latin and Ciceronian testimonial written by old Ritschl in praise of his memoir, De fontibus Laertii Diogenii. He is happy in his success and does not conceal192 his pleasure at it. The fact amuses him. "Thus are we made," he writes; "we know what such praise is worth, and, in spite of everything, an agreeable chuckle194 puts a grimace195 on our countenance196."
This valiant mood lasted only a short time. Nietzsche was soon to avow104 that an artilleryman on horseback is a very unhappy animal when he has literary tastes, and reflected in the mess-room on the problems of Democritus.
He deplored197 his slavery, and was delivered from it by an accident. He fell from his horse and injured his side. He suffered, but he was able to study and meditate90 at leisure, which was what he liked in life. However, when the exquisite198 May days arrived and he had been laid up for a long month, he grew impatient and sighed for the hours of exercise. "I who used to ride the most difficult mounts!" he wrote to Gersdorff. To distract himself he undertook a short work on a poem of Simonides, The Complaint of Dana?. He corrected the doubtful words in the text and wrote to Ritschl about a new study: "Since my schooldays," he wrote, "this beautiful song of Dana? has remained in my memory as an unforgettable melody: in this time of May can one do better than become a trifle lyrical oneself? provided that on this[Pg 60] occasion at least you do not find in my essay too 'lyrical' a conjecture199."
Dana? occupied him, and the complaints of the goddess, abandoned with her child to the caprice of malevolent200 billows, mingled201 in his letters with his own complaints. For he was suffering; his wound remained open, and a splinter of a bone appeared one day with the discharge of matter. "I had a queer impression at the sight," he wrote, "and little by little it became clear to me that my plans for the examination, for a voyage to Paris, might very easily be thwarted202. The frailty203 of our being never appears so plainly ad oculos as at the moment when one has just seen a little piece of one's own skeleton."
The voyage to Paris, here mentioned, was the last conceived, and the dearest of his dreams. He caressed204 the idea of it, and, as he was never able to keep a joy to himself alone, he must write to Gersdorff and then to Rohde, and to two other comrades, Kleimpaul and Romundt: "After the last year of our studies," he said to them, "let us go to Paris together and spend a winter there: let us forget our learning: let us dispedantise ourselves (dépédantisons-nous); let us make the acquaintance of the divin cancan, the green absinthe: we will drink of it; let us go to Paris and live en camarades, and, marching the boulevards, let us represent Germanism and Schopenhauer down there; we shall not be altogether idle: from time to time we will send a little copy to the newspapers, casting a few Parisian anecdotes205 athwart the world; after a year and a half, after two years [he never ceased to prolong the imaginary period], we will come back to pass our examination." Rohde having promised his company, Nietzsche bore less impatiently the weariness of a convalescence206 which lasted until the summer.
[Pg 61]
At last he was cured. In the first days of October, feeling a lively need for the pleasures which Naumburg had not to offer—music, society, conversation, the theatre—he reinstalled himself at Leipsic. Both masters and comrades gave him a warm welcome. His re-entry was happy. He had scarcely completed his twenty-third year and a glorious dawn already preceded him. An important review in Berlin asked him for some historical studies, and he gave them. In Leipsic itself he was offered the editorship of a musical review: this he refused, although importuned207. "Nego ac pernego," wrote he to Rohde, now in residence in another University city.
He interested himself in everything, except politics. The din28 and confusion of men in public meeting assembled was insupportable to him. "Decidedly," said he, "I am not a ζ?ον πολιτικον." And he wrote to his friend Gersdorff, who had been giving him some information about Parliamentary intrigues208 in Berlin:
"The course of events astonishes me; but I cannot well understand them, nor take them in, unless I draw out of the crowd and consider apart the activity of a determined man. Bismarck gives me immense satisfaction. I read his speeches as though I were drinking a strong wine; I hold back my tongue that it may not swallow too quickly and that my enjoyment may last. The machinations of his adversaries209, as you relate them to me, I conceive without difficulty; for it is a necessity that everything that is small, narrow, sectarian and limited should rebel against such natures and wage an eternal war upon them."
Then to so many satisfactions, new and old, was added the greatest of joys: the discovery of a new genius, Richard Wagner. The whole of Germany was making[Pg 62] the same discovery about this time. Already she knew and admired this tumultuous man, poet, composer, publicist, philosopher; a revolutionary at Dresden, a "damned" author at Paris, a favourite at the Court of Munich; she had discussed his works and laughed over his debts and his scarlet210 robes. It was by no means easy to pass a clear judgment211 on this life which was a mixture of faith and insincerity, of meanness and greatness; on this thought which was sometimes so strong and often so wordy. What kind of man was Richard Wagner? An uneasy spirit? a genius? One scarcely knew, and Nietzsche had remained for a long time in a state of indecision. Tristan and Isolde moved him infinitely; other works disconcerted him. "I have just read the Valkyrie," he wrote to Gersdorff, in October, 1866, "and I find myself impressed so confusedly that I can reach no judgment. Its great beauties and virtutes are counterbalanced by so many defects and deformities equally great; 0 + a + (-a) gives 0, all calculations made." "Wagner is an insoluble problem," he said on another occasion. The musician whom he then preferred was Schumann.
Wagner had the art of imposing212 his glory on the world. In July, 1868, he produced at Munich the Meistersinger, that noble and familiar poem in which the German people, heroes of the action, filled the stage with their arguments, their sports, their labours, their loves, and themselves glorified213 their own art, music. Germany was then experiencing the proud desire of greatness. She had the confidence and the élan which dare recognise the genius of an artist. Wagner was acclaimed214; he passed during the last months of 1868 that invisible border-line above which a man is transfigured and exalted, above glory itself, into a light of immortality215.
Friedrich Nietzsche heard the Meistersinger. He was touched by its marvellous beauty and his critical fancies[Pg 63] vanished. "To be just towards such a man," he wrote to Rohde, "one must have a little enthusiasm.... I try in vain to listen to his music in a cold and reserved frame of mind; every nerve vibrates in me...." This miraculous216 art had taken hold of him; he wished that his friends should share his new passion; he confided217 his Wagnerian impressions to them: "Last night at the concert," he wrote, "the overture218 to the Meistersinger caused me so lasting219 a thrill that it was long since I had felt anything like it." Wagner's sister, Madame Brockhaus, was living in Leipsic. She was a woman out of the ordinary; and her friends affirmed that they recognised in her a little of the genius of her brother. Nietzsche wanted to approach her. This modest desire was soon satisfied.
"The other evening," he writes to Rohde, "on returning home I found a letter addressed to me, a very short note: 'If you would care to meet Richard Wagner come to the Café zum Theater at a quarter to four.—W. ... SCH.' The news, if you will forgive me, positively220 turned my head, and I found myself as if tossed about by a whirlwind. It goes without saying that I went out at once to seek the excellent Windisch, who was able to give me some further information. He told me that Wagner was at Leipsic, at his sister's, in the strictest incognito221; that the Press knew nothing about his visit, and that all the servants in the Brockhaus household were as mute as liveried gravediggers. Madame Brockhaus, Wagner's sister, had presented to him only one visitor, Madame Ritschl, whose judgment and penetration222 of mind you know, thus allowing herself the pleasure of being proud of her friend before her brother and proud of her brother before her friend, the happy creature! While Madame Ritschl was in the room Wagner played the Lied from the Meistersinger, which you know well;[Pg 64] and the excellent lady informed him that the music was already familiar to her, mea opera. Thereupon pleasure and surprise on the part of Wagner: he expresses a keen desire to meet me incognito. They decide to invite me for Friday evening. Windisch explains that that day is impossible to me on account of my duties, my work, my engagements: and Sunday afternoon is suggested. We went to the house, Windisch and I, and found the professor's family there, but not Richard: he had gone out with his vast skull223 hidden under some prodigious224 headdress. I was presented to this very distinguished225 family, and received a most cordial invitation for Sunday evening, which I accepted.
"I spent the next few days, I assure you, in a highly romantic mood: and you must admit that this début, this unapproachable hero, have something about them bordering on the world of legend.
"With such an important function before me I decide to dress in my best. It so chanced that my tailor had promised to deliver me on Sunday a black coat: everything promised well. Sunday was a frightful226 day of snow and rain. One shuddered227 at the idea of leaving the house. So I was far from displeased228 to receive a call during the afternoon from R——, who babbled229 about the Eleatics and the nature of God in their philosophy—because as candidandus he is going to take the thesis prescribed by Abrens, The Development of the Idea of God down to Aristotle, while Romundt proposes to solve the problem Of the Will, and thereby230 to win the University prize. The evening draws on, the tailor fails to arrive and Romundt departs. I go with him as far as my tailor's, and entering the shop, I find his slaves very busy on my coat: they promise that it will be delivered in three hours. I leave, more content with the course of things; on my way home I pass Kintschy, read the Kladderadatsch, and find with satisfaction a newspaper paragraph[Pg 65] to the effect that Wagner is in Switzerland, but that a beautiful house is being built for him at Munich. As for me, I know that I am about to see him, and that a letter arrived for him yesterday from the little King, bearing the address: To the great German composer, Richard Wagner.
"I return home; no tailor. I read very comfortably a dissertation231 on the Eudocia, a little distracted from time to time by a troublesome though distant noise. At last I hear the sound of knocking at the old iron grille, which is closed ..."
It was the tailor; Nietzsche tried on the suit, which fitted him well; he thanked the journeyman, who, however, stayed on, and asked to be paid. Nietzsche, being short of money, was of another opinion; the journeyman repeated his demand, Nietzsche reiterated232 his refusal; the journeyman would not yield, went off with the suit, and Nietzsche, left abashed233 in his room, considered with displeasure a black frock-coat, greatly doubting whether it would "do for Richard." Finally he put it on again:
"Outside the rain is falling in torrents234. A quarter past eight! At half past Windisch is to meet me at the Café zum Theater. I precipitate235 myself into the dark and rainy night, I too a poor man, all in black, without a dress coat, but in the most romantic of humours. Fortune favours me; there is something mysterious and unusual in the very aspect of the streets on this night of snow.
"We enter the very comfortable parlour of the Brockhaus's; there is no one there but the closest relations of the family, and we two. I am introduced to Richard, to whom I express my veneration in a few words; he asks me very minutely how I became a faithful disciple[Pg 66] of his music, bursts out in invectives against all the productions of his work, those of Munich, which are admirable, alone excepted; and gibes236 of the orchestra conductors who counsel paternally237: 'Now, if you please, a little passion, gentlemen, a little more passion, my friends!' He imitates the accent of Leipsic very well.
"How I would like to give you an idea of the pleasures of the evening, of our enjoyments238, which have been so lively, so peculiar239, were it not that even to-day I have not yet recovered my old equilibrium, and cannot do better than tell you as I chatter240 along a 'fairy tale.' Afterwards, before dinner, Wagner played all the principal passages from the Meistersinger; he himself imitated all the voices: I can leave you to imagine that much was lost. As a talker he is incredibly swift and animated, and his abundance and humour are enough to convulse with gaiety a circle of intimates such as we were. Between whiles I had a long conversation with him about Schopenhauer. Ah, you wall understand what a joy it was for me to hear him speak with an indescribable warmth, explaining what he owes to our Schopenhauer, and telling me that Schopenhauer, alone among the philosophers, understood the essence of music. Then he wanted to know what is the present attitude of the philosophers with regard to Schopenhauer; he laughed very heartily241 at the Congress of Philosophers at Prague, and spoke of philosophical242 domesticity. Afterwards he read us a fragment of his Memoirs243, which he is now writing, a scene from his student-life at Leipsic, overwhelmingly funny, of which I cannot think even now without laughing. His mind is amazingly supple244 and witty245.
"At last, as we were preparing to leave, Windisch and I, he gave me a very warm handshake, and invited me, in the most friendly fashion, to pay him a visit, to talk of music and philosophy. He also entrusted246 me with the[Pg 67] mission of making his music known to his sister and his parents: a mission which I shall discharge with enthusiasm. I will write you of the evening at greater length when I am able to review it from a little further off, and more objectively. To-day, a cordial greeting and, for your health, my best wishes."
That day of calm appreciation247, which Nietzsche was waiting for, did not come. He had come in contact with a godlike man. He had felt the shock of genius, and his soul remained shaken by it. He studied the theoretical writings of Wagner, which he had hitherto neglected, and meditated seriously on the idea of the unique work of art which was to be a synthesis of the scattered248 beauties of poetry, the plastic arts, and harmony. He saw the German spirit renovated249 through the Wagnerian ideal, and his swift mind went off in that direction.
Ritschl said to him one day: "I am going to surprise you. Would you like to be appointed a Professor in the University of Basle?" Nietzsche's surprise was, in fact, extreme. He was in his twenty-fourth year, and had not obtained his final degrees. The astonishing proposition had to be repeated to him Ritschl explained that he had received a letter from Basle; he was asked what sort of man was Herr Friedrich Nietzsche, author of the fine essays published in the Rheinisches Museum; could he be entrusted with a Chair of Philology? Ritschl had answered that Herr Friedrich Nietzsche was a young man who had ability enough to do anything he chose to do. He had even dared to write that Herr Nietzsche had genius. The matter, though suspended for the moment, had already gone pretty far.
Nietzsche listened to the news with infinite anxiety. It made him proud and yet left him broken-hearted. The[Pg 68] whole year of liberty which he had thought to be still before him suddenly vanished, and with it his projects of study, of vast reading, of travel. He was losing a happy life swollen250 with dreams. How could he reject so flattering an offer? He had, it appears, contrary to all good sense, a certain hesitation251 against which Ritschl had to fight. The old savant felt a real tenderness for this singular pupil of his, this sagacious philologist252, metaphysician and poet; he loved him and believed in him. But he had one anxiety: he feared lest Nietzsche, under the incessant162 solicitation253 of instincts almost too numerous and too fine, should disperse254 his energy on too many objects and waste his gifts. For four years he had been iterating in his ears the same counsel: Restrict yourself in order to be strong; and he now repeated it in pressing terms. Nietzsche understood, and gave way. He wrote at once to Erwin Rohde: "As to our Parisian voyage, think of it no longer; it is certain that I am to be appointed to this Professorship at Basle; I who wished to study Chemistry! Henceforward I must learn how to renounce38. Down there how much alone I shall be—without a friend whose thought resounds to mine like beautiful thirds, minor255 or major!"
He obtained his final diploma without examination, in consideration of his past performances and of the unique circumstance. The professors of Leipsic did not like the notion of examining their colleague of Basle.
Friedrich Nietzsche remained some weeks at Naumburg with his own people. The family were full of joy and pride: so young and a University professor! "What great matter is it?" retorted Nietzsche impatiently; "there is an usher256 the more in the world, that is all!" On April 13th he writes to his friend Gersdorff:
"Here I am at the last term, the last evening that I shall spend beside my hearth257; to-morrow morning I[Pg 69] strike out into the great world; I enter a profession which is new to me, in an atmosphere heavy and oppressive with duties and obligations. Once more I must say adieu: the golden time in which one's activities are free and unfettered; in which every instant is sovereign; in which art and the world are spread out before our eyes as a pure spectacle in which we hardly participate—that time is past beyond recall. Now begins the reign258 of the harsh goddess of daily duty. Bemooster Bursche zieh? ich aus. ... You know that poignant259 student-song. Yes, yes! now comes my turn to be a philistine260!
"One day or another, here or there, the saying always comes true. Offices and dignities are not to be accepted with impunity261. The whole thing is to know whether the chains which you are forced to carry are of iron or of thread. And I still have courage enough to break some link on occasion, and to risk some plunge262 or other into the perilous264 life. Of the compulsory265 gibbosity of the professor I do not as yet discern in myself any trace. To become a philistine, a man of the crowd, ?νθρωπο? ?μουσο?—Zeus and the Muses193 preserve me from such a fate! Moreover, I find it hard to see how I could contrive266 to become what I am not. I am more afraid of another kind of philistinism, the professional species. It is only too natural that a daily task, an incessant concentration on certain facts and certain problems, should hang like a weight on the free sensibility of the mind, and strike at the roots of the philosophic sense. But I imagine that I can confront this peril263 more calmly than most philologists267: philosophical seriousness is too deeply rooted in me: the true and essential problems of life and thought have been too clearly revealed to me by the great mystagogue Schopenhauer to permit me to be ever guilty of shameful268 treachery to the 'Idea.' To vivify my science with this new blood; to communicate to my hearers that Schopenhauerian earnestness[Pg 70] which glitters on the brow of that sublime thinker—such is my desire, my audacious hope: I want to be more than a pedagogue269 to honest savants. I am thinking of the duties of the masters of our time; I look forward, and my mind is filled with the thought of that next generation which follows at our heels. Since we must endure life, let us at least endeavour so to use it as to give it some worth in the eyes of others when we are happily delivered from it."
Friedrich Nietzsche disquieted270 himself needlessly. If he could have guessed what the approaching days held for him, his joy would have been immense. Richard Wagner lived not far from Basle, and was to become his friend.
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1
enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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exuberant
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| adj.充满活力的；（植物）繁茂的 | |
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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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pranks
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| n.玩笑，恶作剧( prank的名词复数 ) | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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cavalcade
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| n.车队等的行列 | |
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uncommon
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| adj.罕见的，非凡的，不平常的 | |
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kindled
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| （使某物）燃烧，着火( kindle的过去式和过去分词 )； 激起（感情等）； 发亮，放光 | |
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kin
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| n.家族，亲属，血缘关系；adj.亲属关系的，同类的 | |
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exhortations
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| n.敦促( exhortation的名词复数 )；极力推荐；（正式的）演讲；（宗教仪式中的）劝诫 | |
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salvation
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| n.（尤指基督）救世，超度，拯救，解困 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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alluring
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| adj.吸引人的，迷人的 | |
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infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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improvised
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| a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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duel
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| n./v.决斗；(双方的)斗争 | |
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adversary
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disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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benedictions
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| n.祝福( benediction的名词复数 )；（礼拜结束时的）赐福祈祷；恩赐；（大写）（罗马天主教）祈求上帝赐福的仪式 | |
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austere
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accustom
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| vt.使适应，使习惯 | |
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instinctive
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| adj.(出于)本能的；直觉的；(出于)天性的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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din
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sarcasm
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| n.讥讽，讽刺，嘲弄，反话 （adj.sarcastic） | |
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avenged
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| v.为…复仇，报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 )；为…报复 | |
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solitudes
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| n.独居( solitude的名词复数 )；孤独；荒僻的地方；人迹罕至的地方 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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vanquished
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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philology
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| n.语言学；语文学 | |
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dissuaded
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| 劝（某人）勿做某事，劝阻( dissuade的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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renounce
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| v.放弃；拒绝承认，宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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stimulate
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| vt.刺激，使兴奋；激励，使…振奋 | |
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materialistic
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| a.唯物主义的，物质享乐主义的 | |
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treatises
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| n.专题著作，专题论文，专著( treatise的名词复数 ) | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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democrats
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| n.民主主义者，民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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humanitarian
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| n.人道主义者，博爱者，基督凡人论者 | |
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47
temperament
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| n.气质，性格，性情 | |
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48
aristocrat
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| n.贵族，有贵族气派的人，上层人物 | |
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49
heroism
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| n.大无畏精神，英勇 | |
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50
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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51
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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52
tartly
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| adv.辛辣地，刻薄地 | |
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53
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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54
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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55
remorse
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| n.痛恨，悔恨，自责 | |
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56
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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57
enquire
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| v.打听，询问；调查，查问 | |
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58
fugitive
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| adj.逃亡的，易逝的；n.逃犯，逃亡者 | |
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59
quay
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| n.码头，靠岸处 | |
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60
steamship
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| n.汽船，轮船 | |
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61
obtruded
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| v.强行向前，强行，强迫( obtrude的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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62
clogged
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| （使）阻碍( clog的过去式和过去分词 )； 淤滞 | |
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63
conspired
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| 密谋( conspire的过去式和过去分词 )； 搞阴谋； （事件等）巧合； 共同导致 | |
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64
censure
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| v./n.责备；非难；责难 | |
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65
discomfort
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| n.不舒服，不安，难过，困难，不方便 | |
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66
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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67
inscribe
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| v.刻；雕；题写；牢记 | |
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68
inscribed
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| v.写，刻( inscribe的过去式和过去分词 )；内接 | |
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69
harangued
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| v.高谈阔论( harangue的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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70
prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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71
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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72
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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73
vigour
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| （=vigor）n.智力，体力，精力 | |
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74
flair
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| n.天赋，本领，才华；洞察力 | |
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75
demon
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| n.魔鬼，恶魔 | |
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76
grandiose
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|
| adj.宏伟的，宏大的，堂皇的，铺张的 | |
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77
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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78
haughty
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|
| adj.傲慢的，高傲的 | |
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79
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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80
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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81
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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82
inflexible
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|
| adj.不可改变的，不受影响的，不屈服的 | |
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83
phenomena
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| n.现象 | |
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84
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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85
superstition
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| n.迷信，迷信行为 | |
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86
animates
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| v.使有生气( animate的第三人称单数 )；驱动；使栩栩如生地动作；赋予…以生命 | |
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87
puerile
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| adj.幼稚的，儿童的 | |
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88
condemns
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|
| v.（通常因道义上的原因而）谴责( condemn的第三人称单数 )；宣判；宣布…不能使用；迫使…陷于不幸的境地 | |
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89
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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90
meditate
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| v.想，考虑，（尤指宗教上的）沉思，冥想 | |
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91
meditated
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| 深思，沉思，冥想( meditate的过去式和过去分词 )； 内心策划，考虑 | |
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92
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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93
repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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94
presentiment
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| n.预感，预觉 | |
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95
tragic
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|
| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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96
temerity
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| n.鲁莽，冒失 | |
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97
recoiled
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| v.畏缩( recoil的过去式和过去分词 )；退缩；报应；返回 | |
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98
supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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99
orphaned
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| [计][修]孤立 | |
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100
exalted
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|
| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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101
desolating
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|
| 毁坏( desolate的现在分词 )； 极大地破坏； 使沮丧； 使痛苦 | |
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102
veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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103
expounded
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| 论述，详细讲解( expound的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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104
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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105
avowed
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|
| adj.公开声明的，承认的v.公开声明，承认( avow的过去式和过去分词) | |
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106
memoir
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|
| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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107
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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108
livelihood
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| n.生计，谋生之道 | |
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109
parching
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|
| adj.烘烤似的，焦干似的v.（使）焦干， （使）干透( parch的现在分词 )；使（某人）极口渴 | |
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110
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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111
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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112
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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113
consolations
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| n.安慰，慰问( consolation的名词复数 )；起安慰作用的人（或事物） | |
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114
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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115
constraints
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| 强制( constraint的名词复数 )； 限制； 约束 | |
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116
ethics
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| n.伦理学；伦理观，道德标准 | |
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117
discreetly
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| ad.(言行)审慎地，慎重地 | |
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118
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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119
crafty
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| adj.狡猾的，诡诈的 | |
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120
humiliated
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| 感到羞愧的 | |
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121
memorandum
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| n.备忘录，便笺 | |
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122
patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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123
astonishment
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| n.惊奇，惊异 | |
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124
enunciated
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| v.（清晰地）发音( enunciate的过去式和过去分词 )；确切地说明 | |
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125
lucidity
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| n.明朗，清晰，透明 | |
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126
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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127
inevitable
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| adj.不可避免的，必然发生的 | |
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128
equilibrium
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| n.平衡，均衡，相称，均势，平静 | |
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129
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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130
momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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131
grandeur
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| n.伟大，崇高，宏伟，庄严，豪华 | |
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132
contemplates
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的第三人称单数 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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133
sufficiently
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| adv.足够地，充分地 | |
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134
edifying
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| adj.有教训意味的，教训性的，有益的v.开导，启发( edify的现在分词 ) | |
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135
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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136
vindication
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| n.洗冤，证实 | |
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137
mediocre
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| adj.平常的，普通的 | |
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138
seduced
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| 诱奸( seduce的过去式和过去分词 )； 勾引； 诱使堕落； 使入迷 | |
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139
agitations
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| （液体等的）摇动( agitation的名词复数 )； 鼓动； 激烈争论； （情绪等的）纷乱 | |
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140
swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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141
embellish
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| v.装饰，布置；给…添加细节，润饰 | |
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142
emanates
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| v.从…处传出，传出( emanate的第三人称单数 )；产生，表现，显示 | |
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143
antiquity
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| n.古老；高龄；古物，古迹 | |
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144
undertakings
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| 企业( undertaking的名词复数 )； 保证； 殡仪业； 任务 | |
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145
harmonious
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| adj.和睦的，调和的，和谐的，协调的 | |
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146
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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147
innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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148
imperative
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| n.命令，需要；规则；祈使语气；adj.强制的；紧急的 | |
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149
awakened
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| v.（使）醒( awaken的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）觉醒；弄醒；（使）意识到 | |
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150
strenuously
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| adv.奋发地，费力地 | |
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151
hew
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| v.砍；伐；削 | |
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152
imprison
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| vt.监禁，关押，限制，束缚 | |
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153
joyous
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| adj.充满快乐的；令人高兴的 | |
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154
sentimental
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| adj.多愁善感的，感伤的 | |
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155
zeal
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| n.热心，热情，热忱 | |
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156
perspicacious
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| adj.聪颖的，敏锐的 | |
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157
incapable
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| adj.无能力的，不能做某事的 | |
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158
adorned
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| [计]被修饰的 | |
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159
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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160
overflowed
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| 溢出的 | |
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161
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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162
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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163
philosophic
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| adj.哲学的，贤明的 | |
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164
dissonant
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| adj.不和谐的；不悦耳的 | |
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165
resounds
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| v.（指声音等）回荡于某处( resound的第三人称单数 )；产生回响；（指某处）回荡着声音 | |
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166
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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167
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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168
myopic
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| adj.目光短浅的，缺乏远见的 | |
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169
dissect
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| v.分割；解剖 | |
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170
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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171
legacy
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| n.遗产，遗赠；先人(或过去)留下的东西 | |
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172
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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173
maxims
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| n.格言，座右铭( maxim的名词复数 ) | |
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174
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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175
remarkably
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| ad.不同寻常地，相当地 | |
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176
collaborating
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| 合作( collaborate的现在分词 )； 勾结叛国 | |
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177
manifesto
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| n.宣言，声明 | |
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178
shackles
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| 手铐( shackle的名词复数 )； 脚镣； 束缚； 羁绊 | |
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179
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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180
pessimism
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| n.悲观者，悲观主义者，厌世者 | |
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181
manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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182
ardently
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| adv.热心地，热烈地 | |
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183
exempted
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| 使免除[豁免]( exempt的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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184
enrolled
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| adj.入学登记了的v.[亦作enrol]( enroll的过去式和过去分词 )；登记，招收，使入伍（或入会、入学等），参加，成为成员；记入名册；卷起，包起 | |
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185
regiment
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| n.团，多数，管理；v.组织，编成团，统制 | |
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186
artillery
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| n.(军)火炮，大炮；炮兵(部队) | |
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187
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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188
antidote
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| n.解毒药，解毒剂 | |
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189
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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190
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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191
philological
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| adj.语言学的，文献学的 | |
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192
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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193
muses
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的第三人称单数 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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194
chuckle
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| vi.／n.轻声笑，咯咯笑 | |
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195
grimace
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| v.做鬼脸，面部歪扭 | |
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196
countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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197
deplored
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| v.悲叹，痛惜，强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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198
exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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199
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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200
malevolent
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| adj.有恶意的，恶毒的 | |
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201
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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202
thwarted
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| 阻挠( thwart的过去式和过去分词 )； 使受挫折； 挫败； 横过 | |
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203
frailty
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| n.脆弱；意志薄弱 | |
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204
caressed
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| 爱抚或抚摸…( caress的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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205
anecdotes
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| n.掌故，趣闻，轶事( anecdote的名词复数 ) | |
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206
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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207
importuned
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| v.纠缠，向（某人）不断要求( importune的过去式和过去分词 )；（妓女）拉（客） | |
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208
intrigues
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| n.密谋策划( intrigue的名词复数 )；神秘气氛；引人入胜的复杂情节v.搞阴谋诡计( intrigue的第三人称单数 )；激起…的好奇心 | |
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209
adversaries
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| n.对手，敌手( adversary的名词复数 ) | |
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210
scarlet
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| n.深红色，绯红色，红衣；adj.绯红色的 | |
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211
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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212
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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213
glorified
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| 美其名的，变荣耀的 | |
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214
acclaimed
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| adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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215
immortality
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| n.不死，不朽 | |
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216
miraculous
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| adj.像奇迹一样的，不可思议的 | |
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217
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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218
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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219
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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220
positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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221
incognito
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| adv.匿名地；n.隐姓埋名；adj.化装的，用假名的，隐匿姓名身份的 | |
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222
penetration
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| n.穿透，穿人，渗透 | |
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223
skull
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| n.头骨；颅骨 | |
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224
prodigious
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| adj.惊人的，奇妙的；异常的；巨大的；庞大的 | |
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225
distinguished
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| adj.卓越的，杰出的，著名的 | |
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226
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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227
shuddered
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| v.战栗( shudder的过去式和过去分词 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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228
displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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229
babbled
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| v.喋喋不休( babble的过去式和过去分词 )；作潺潺声（如流水）；含糊不清地说话；泄漏秘密 | |
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230
thereby
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| adv.因此，从而 | |
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231
dissertation
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| n.（博士学位）论文，学术演讲，专题论文 | |
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232
reiterated
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| 反复地说，重申( reiterate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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233
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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234
torrents
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| n.倾注；奔流( torrent的名词复数 )；急流；爆发；连续不断 | |
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235
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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236
gibes
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| vi.嘲笑，嘲弄（gibe的第三人称单数形式） | |
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237
paternally
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| adv.父亲似地；父亲一般地 | |
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238
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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239
peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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240
chatter
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| vi.／n.喋喋不休；短促尖叫；(牙齿)打战 | |
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241
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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242
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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243
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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244
supple
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| adj.柔软的，易弯的，逢迎的，顺从的，灵活的；vt.使柔软，使柔顺，使顺从；vi.变柔软，变柔顺 | |
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245
witty
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| adj.机智的，风趣的 | |
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246
entrusted
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| v.委托，托付( entrust的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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247
appreciation
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| n.评价；欣赏；感谢；领会，理解；价格上涨 | |
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248
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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249
renovated
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| 翻新，修复，整修( renovate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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250
swollen
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| adj.肿大的，水涨的；v.使变大，肿胀 | |
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251
hesitation
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| n.犹豫，踌躇 | |
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252
philologist
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| n.语言学者，文献学者 | |
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253
solicitation
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| n.诱惑；揽货；恳切地要求；游说 | |
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254
disperse
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| vi.使分散；使消失；vt.分散；驱散 | |
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255
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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256
usher
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| n.带位员，招待员；vt.引导，护送；vi.做招待，担任引座员 | |
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257
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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258
reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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259
poignant
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| adj.令人痛苦的，辛酸的，惨痛的 | |
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260
philistine
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| n.庸俗的人；adj.市侩的，庸俗的 | |
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261
impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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262
plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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263
peril
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| n.(严重的)危险；危险的事物 | |
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264
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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265
compulsory
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| n.强制的，必修的；规定的，义务的 | |
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266
contrive
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| vt.谋划，策划；设法做到；设计，想出 | |
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267
philologists
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| n.语文学( philology的名词复数 ) | |
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268
shameful
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| adj.可耻的，不道德的 | |
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269
pedagogue
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| n.教师 | |
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270
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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