He stopped before the closed gate and rang. Trees hid the house. He looked around, as he waited, and listened: his attentive6 ear caught the resonance7 of a harmony which was soon muffled8 up in the noise of footsteps. A servant opened the door and Nietzsche sent in his card; then he was left to hear once more the same harmony, dolorous9, obstinate10, many times repeated. The invisible master ceased for a moment, but almost at once was busy again with his experiments, raising the strain, modulating11 it, until, by modulating once more, he had brought back the initial harmony. The servant returned. Herr Wagner wished to know if the visitor was the same Herr Nietzsche whom he had met one evening at Leipsic.[Pg 72] "Yes," said the young man. "Then would Herr Nietzsche be good enough to come back at luncheon12 time?" But Nietzsche's friends were awaiting him, and he had to excuse himself. The servant disappeared again, to return with another message. "Would Herr Nietzsche spend the Monday of Pentecost at Triebschen?" This invitation he was able to accept and did accept.
Nietzsche came to know Wagner at one of the finest moments of the latter's life. The great man was alone, far from the public, from journalists, and from crowds. He had just carried off and married the divorced wife of Hans von Bülow, the daughter of Liszt and of Madame d'Agoult, an admirable being who was endowed with the gifts of two races. The adventure had scandalised all the Pharisees of old-fashioned Germany. Richard Wagner was completing his work in retreat: a gigantic work, a succession of four dramas, every one of which was immense: a work which was not conceived for the pleasure of men, but for the trouble and salvation15 of their souls; a work so prodigious16 that no public was worthy17 to hear it, no company of singers worthy to sing it, no stage, in short, vast enough or noble enough to make its representation possible. What matter! The world must stoop to Richard Wagner; it was not for him to yield to it. He had finished Rhinegold, and the Valkyries; Siegfried was soon to be completed; and he began to know the joy of the workman who has mastered his work, and is able at last to view it as a whole.
Restlessness and anger were mixed with his joy, for he was not of those who are content with the approbation18 of an élite. He had been moved by all the dreams of men, and he wished in his turn to move all men. He needed the crowd, wanted to be listened to by it, and never ceased to call to the Germans, always heavy and slow-footed in following him. "Aid me," he cries out in his books, "for you begin to be strong. Because of your[Pg 73] strength do not disdain19, do not neglect those who have been your spiritual masters, Luther, Kant, Schiller and Beethoven: I am the heir of these masters. Assist me. I need a stage where I may be free; give me it! I need a people who shall listen to me; be that people! Aid me, it is your duty. And, in return, I will glorify20 you."
We may picture this first visit: Nietzsche with his soft manners, his nervous voice, his fiery21 and veiled look; his face which was so youthful in spite of the long, drooping22 moustache; Wagner in the strength of the fifty-nine years that he carried without sign of weakness, overflowing23 with intuitions and experiences, desires and expectations, exuberant24 in language and gesture. What was their first interview like? We have no record of it, but no doubt Wagner repeated what he was writing in his books, and said imperiously: "Young man, you too must help me."
The night was fine and conversation spirited. When it was time for Nietzsche to go, Wagner desired to accompany his guest on his way home along the river. They went out together. Nietzsche's joy was great. The want from which he had long suffered was now being supplied; he had needed to love, to admire, to listen. At last he had met a man worthy to be his master; at last he had met him for whom no admiration25, no love could be too strong. He gave himself up entirely26 and resolved to serve this solitary and inspired being, to fight for him against the inert27 multitude, against the Germany of the Universities, of the Churches, of the Parliaments, and of the Courts. What was Wagner's impression? No doubt he too was happy. From the very beginning he had recognised the extraordinary gifts of his young visitor. He could converse28 with him; and to converse means to give and to receive. And so few men had been able to afford him that joy.
On the 22nd of May, eight days after this first visit,[Pg 74] a few very intimate friends came from Germany to Triebschen to celebrate the first day of their master's sixtieth year. Nietzsche was invited, but had to decline, for he was preparing his opening lecture and did not like to be distracted at his task. He was anxious to express straightway the conception that he had formed of his science and of its teaching. For his subject he took the Homeric problem, that problem which is an occasion of division between scholars who analyse antiquity29 and artists who delight in it. His argument was that the scholars must resolve this conflict by accepting the judgment30 of the artists. Their criticism, fecund31 in useful historical results, had restored the legend and the vast frame of the two poems. But it had decided32 nothing, and could have decided nothing. After all, the Iliad and the Odyssey33 were there before the world in clear shapes, and if Goethe chose to say: "The two poems are the work of a single poet "—the scholar had no reply. His task was modest, but useful and deserving of esteem34. Let us not forget, said Nietzsche at the conclusion of his inaugural35 lecture, how but a few years ago these marvellous Greek masterpieces lay buried beneath an enormous accumulation of prejudices. The minute labour of our students has saved them for us. Philology37 is neither a Muse38 nor a Grace; she has not created this enchanted39 world, it is not she who has composed this immortal40 music. But she is its virtuoso41, and we have to thank her that these accents, long forgotten and almost indecipherable, resound42 again, and that is surely a high merit. "And as the Muses43 formerly44 descended45 among the heavy and wretched B?otian peasants, this messenger comes to-day into a world filled with gloomy and baneful46 shapes, filled with profound and incurable47 sufferings, and consoles us by evoking48 the beautiful and luminous49 forms of the Gods, the outlines of a marvellous, an azure50, a distant, a fortunate country...."
[Pg 75]
Nietzsche was highly applauded by the bourgeois51 of Basle, who had come in great numbers to hear the young master whose genius had been announced. His success pleased him, but his thoughts went otherwhere, towards another marvellous, azure, and distant land—Triebschen. On the 4th of June he received a note:
"Come and sleep a couple of nights under our roof," wrote Wagner. "We want to know what you are made of. Little joy I have so far from my German compatriots. Come and save the abiding52 faith which I still cling to, in what I call, with Goethe and some others, German liberty."
Nietzsche was able to spare these two days and henceforward was a familiar of the master's. He wrote to his friends:
"Wagner realises all our desires: a rich, great, and magnificent spirit; an energetic character, an enchanting53 man, worthy of all love, ardent54 for all knowledge. ... But I must stop; I am chanting a p?an....
"I beg you," he says further, "not to believe a word of what is written about Wagner by the journalists and the musicographers. No one in the world knows him, no one can judge him, since the whole world builds on foundations which are not his, and is lost in his atmosphere. Wagner is dominated by an idealism so absolute, a humanity so moving and so profound, that I feel in his presence as if I were in contact with divinity...."
Richard Wagner had written, at the request of Louis II., King of Bavaria, a short treatise55 on social metaphysics. This singular work, which had been conceived to fascinate a young and romantic prince,[Pg 76] was carefully withheld57 from publicity58, and lent only to intimates. Wagner gave it to Nietzsche, and few things surely that the latter ever read went home more deeply. As traces of the impression he received from it are to be discovered in his work down to the very end, it will be worth our while to give some idea of its nature.
Wagner starts by explaining an old error of his: in 1848 he had been a Socialist59. Not that he had ever welcomed the ideal of a levelling of men; his mind, avid60 of beauty and order, in other words, of superiorities, could not have welcomed a notion of the kind. But he hoped that a humanity liberated61 from the baser servitudes would rise with less effort to an understanding of art. In this he was mistaken, as he now understood.
"My friends, despite their fine courage," he wrote, "were vanquished63; the emptiness of their effort proved to me that they were the victims of a basic error and that they had asked from the world what the world could not give them."
His view cleared and he recognised that the masses are powerless, their agitations64 vain, their co-operation illusory. He had believed them capable of introducing into history a progress of culture. Now he saw that they could not collaborate65 towards the mere66 maintenance of a culture already acquired. They experience only such needs as are gross, elementary, and short-lived. For them all noble ends are unattainable. And the problem which reality obliges us to solve is this: how are we to contrive68 things so that the masses shall serve a culture which must always be beyond their comprehension, and serve it with zeal69 and love, even to the sacrifice of life? All politics are comprised within this question, which appears insoluble, and yet is not. Consider Nature: no one understands her ends; and yet all beings serve her. How does Nature obtain their adhesion to life? She deceives her creatures. She puts them in[Pg 77] hope of an immutable70 and ever-delayed happiness. She gives them those instincts which constrain71 the humblest of animals to lengthy72 sacrifices and voluntary pains. She envelops73 in illusion all living beings, and thus persuades them to struggle and to suffer with unalterable constancy.
Society, wrote Wagner, ought to be upheld by similar artifices74. It is illusions that assure its duration, and the task of those who rule men is to maintain and to propagate these conserving76 illusions. Patriotism77 is the most essential. Every child of the people should be brought up in love of the King, the living symbol of the fatherland, and this love must become an instinct, strong enough to render the most sublime78 abnegation an easy thing.
The patriotic79 illusion assures the permanence of the State but does not suffice to guarantee a high culture. It divides humanity, it favours cruelty, hatred80, and narrowness of thought. The King, whose glance dominates the State, measures its limits, and is aware of purposes which extend beyond it. Here a second illusion is necessary, the religious illusion whose dogmas symbolise a profound unity81 and a universal love. The King must sustain it among his subjects.
The ordinary man, if he be penetrated82 with this double illusion, can live a happy and a worthy life: his way is made clear, he is saved. But the life of the prince and his counsellors is a graver and a more dangerous thing. They propagate the illusions, therefore they judge them. Life appears to them unveiled, and they know how tragic83 a thing it is. "The great man, the exceptional man," writes Wagner, "finds himself practically every day in the same condition in which the ordinary man despairs of life, and has recourse to suicide." The prince and the aristocracy which surrounds him, his nobles, are forearmed by their valour against so cowardly a temptation.[Pg 78] Nevertheless, they experience a bitter need to "turn their back on the world." They desire for themselves a restful illusion, of which they may be at the same time the authors and the accessories. Here art intervenes to save them, not to exalt84 the na?ve enthusiasm of the people, but to alleviate85 the unhappy life of the nobles and to sustain their valour. "Art," writes Richard Wagner, addressing Louis II., "I present to my very dear friend as the promised and benignant land. If Art cannot lift us in a real and complete manner above life, at least it lifts us in life itself to the very highest of regions. It gives life the appearance of a game, it withdraws us from the common lot, it ravishes and consoles us."
"Only yesterday"—wrote Nietzsche to Gersdorff on the 4th of August, 1869—"I was reading a manuscript which Wagner confided86 to me, Of the State and Religion, a treatise full of grandeur87, composed in order to explain to 'his young friend,' the little King of Bavaria, his particular way of understanding the State and Religion. Never did any one speak to his King in a tone more worthy, more philosophical89; I felt myself moved and uplifted by that ideality which the spirit of Schopenhauer seems constantly to inspire. Better than any other mortal, the King should understand the tragic essence of life."
In September, Friedrich Nietzsche, after a short stay in Germany, returned to a life divided between Basle and Triebschen. At Basle he had his work, his pupils, who listened to him with attention, the society of amiable90 colleagues. His wit, his musical talent, his friendship with Richard Wagner, his elegant manners and appearance, procured91 him a certain prestige. The best houses[Pg 79] liked his company, and he did not refuse their invitations. But all the pleasures of society are less acceptable than the simplest friendship, and Nietzsche had not a single friend in this honest bourgeois city; at Triebschen alone was he satisfied.
"Now," he writes to Erwin Rohde, who was living at Rome, "I, too, have my Italy, but I am able to visit it only on Saturdays and Sundays. My Italy is called Triebschen, and I already feel as if it were my home. Recently I have been there four times running, and into the bargain a letter travels the same road almost every week. My dear friend, what I see and hear and learn there I find it impossible to tell you. Schopenhauer and Goethe, Pindar and ?schylus are, believe me, still alive."
Each of his returns was an occasion of melancholy93. A feeling of solitude94 depressed95 him. He confided in Erwin Rohde, speaking at the same time of the hopes he had in his work.
"Alas96, dear friend," he said, "I have very few satisfactions, and solitary, always solitary, I must ruminate97 on them all within myself. Ah! I should not fear a good illness, if I could purchase at that price a night's conversation with you. Letters are so little use!... Men are constantly in need of midwives, and almost all go to be delivered in taverns98, in colleges where little thoughts and little projects are as plentiful99 as litters of kittens. But when we are full of our thought no one is there to aid us, to assist us at the difficult accouchment: sombre and melancholy, we deposit in some dark hole our birth of thought, still heavy and shapeless. The sun of friendship does not shine upon them."
[Pg 80]
"I am becoming a virtuoso in the art of solitary walking," he says again; and he adds: "My friendship has something pathological about it." Nevertheless he is happy in the depths of his being; he says so himself one day, and warns his friend Rohde against his own letters:
"Correspondence has this that is vexatious about it: one would like to give the best of oneself, whereas, in fact, one gives what is most ephemeral, the accord and not the eternal melody. Each time that I sit down to write to you, the saying of H?lderlin (the favourite author of my schooldays) comes back to my mind: 'Denn liebend giebt der Sterbliche vom Besten!' And, as well as I remember, what have you found in my last letters? Negations, contrarieties, singularities, solitudes101. Nevertheless, Zeus and the divine sky of autumn know it, a powerful current carries me towards positive ideas, each day I enjoy exuberant hours which delight me with full perceptions, with real conceptions—in such instants of exalting102 impressions, I never miss sending you a long letter full of thoughts and of vows103; and I fling it athwart the blue sky, trusting, for its carriage towards you, to the electricity which is between our souls."
And we can get a glimpse of these positive ideas, these precious impressions, because we are in possession of all the notes and the blunders of the young man who was acquiring, at the price of constant effort, strength and mastery.
"My years of study," he wrote to Ritschl, "what have they been for me? A luxurious104 sauntering across the domains106 of philology and art; hence my gratitude107 is especially lively at this moment that I address you who have been till now the 'destiny' of my life; and hence[Pg 81] I recognise how necessary and opportune108 was the offer which changed me from a wandering into a fixed109 star, and obliged me to taste anew the satisfaction of galling110 but regular work, of an unchanging but certain object. A man's labour is quite another thing, when the holy anangkei of his profession helps him; how peaceful is his slumber111, and, awakening112, how sure is his knowledge of what the day demands. There, there is no philistinism. I feel as if I were gathering113 a multitude of scattered114 pages in a book."
The Origin of Tragedy proves to be the book the guiding ideas of which Nietzsche was now elaborating. Greek thought remains115 the centre round which his thought forms, and he meditates117, in audacious fashion, on its history. A true historian, he thinks, should grasp its ensemble118 in a rapid view. "All the great advances in Philology," he writes in his notes, "are the issue of a creative gaze." The eyes of a Goethe discovered a Greece clear and serene119. Being still under the domination of his genius, we continue to perceive the image which he has put before us. But we should seek and discover for ourselves. Goethe fixed his gaze on the centuries of Alexandrine culture. Nietzsche neglects these. He prefers the rude and primitive120 centuries, whither his instinct, since his eighteenth year, had led him when he elected to study the distiches of the aristocrat121, Theognis of Megara. There he inhales122 an energy, a strength of thought, of action, of endurance, of infliction123; a vital poetry, vital dreams which rejoice his soul.
Finally, in this very ancient Greece, he finds again, or thinks that he finds again, the spirit of Wagner, his master. Wagner wishes to renew tragedy, and, by using the theatre, as it were, as a spiritual instrument, to reanimate the diminished sense of poetry in the human soul. The "tragic" Greeks had a similar ambition;[Pg 82] they wished to raise their race and ennoble it again by the most striking evocation125 of myths. Their enterprise was a sublime one, but it failed, for the merchants of the Pir?us, the democracy of the towns, the vulgar herd126 of the market-place and of the port, did not care for a lyrical art which stipulated128 a too lofty manner of thought, too great a nobleness in deed. The noble families were vanquished and tragedy ceased to exist. Richard Wagner encounters similar enemies—they are the democrats129, insipid130 thinkers, and base prophets of well-being131 and peace.
"Our world is being judaised, our prattling132 plebs, given over to politics, is hostile to the idealistic and profound art of Wagner," writes Nietzsche to Gersdorff. "His chivalrous133 nature is contrary to them. Is Wagner's art, as, in other times, ?schylus's art, to suffer defeat?" Friedrich Nietzsche is always occupied with a like combat.
He unfolds these very new views to his master. "We must renew the idea of Hellenism," he says to him; "we live on commonplaces which are false. We speak of the 'Greek joy,' the 'Greek serenity134'; this joy, this serenity, are tardy135 fruits and of poor savour, the graces of centuries of servitudes. The Socratic subtlety136, the Platonic137 sweetness, already bear the mark of the decline. We must study the older centuries, the seventh, the sixth. Then we touch the na?ve force, the original sap. Between the poems of Homer, which are the romance of her infancy138, and the dramas of ?schylus, which are the act of her manhood, Greece, not without long effort, enters into the possession of her instincts and disciplines. It is the knowledge of these times which we should seek, because they resemble our own. Then the Greeks believed, as do the Europeans of to-day, in the fatality139 of natural forces; and they believed also that man must create for himself his virtues140 and his gods.[Pg 83] They were animated142 by a tragic sentiment, a brave pessimism143, which did not turn them away from life. Between them and us there is a complete parallel and correspondence; pessimism and courage, and the will to establish a new beauty...."
Richard Wagner interested himself in the ideas of the young man, and associated him more and more intimately in his life. One day, Friedrich Nietzsche being present, he received from Germany the news that the Rhinegold and the Valkyries, badly executed far from his advice and direction, had had a double failure. He was sad and did not hide his disappointment; he was afflicted144 by this depreciation145 of the immense work which he had destined146 for a non-existent theatre and public, and which now crumbled147 before his eyes. His noble suffering moved Nietzsche.
Nietzsche took part in his master's work. Wagner was then composing the music of the Twilight148 of the Gods. Page after page the work grew, without haste or delay, as though from the regular overflowing of an invisible source. But no effort absorbed Wagner's thought, and, during these same days, he wrote an account of his life. Friedrich Nietzsche received the manuscript with directions to have it secretly printed, and to supervise the publication of an edition limited to twelve copies. He was asked to oblige with more intimate services. At Christmas, Wagner was preparing a Punch and Judy show for his children. He wanted to have pretty figurines, devils and angels. Madame Wagner begged Nietzsche to purchase them in Basle. "I forget that you are a professor, a doctor, and a philologist149," she said graciously, "and remember only your five-and-twenty years." He examined the figurines of Basle, and, not finding them to his liking150, wrote to Paris for the most frightful151 devils, the most beatific152 angels imaginable. Friedrich Nietzsche, admitted to the solemnity of the[Pg 84] Punch and Judy show, spent the Christmas festival with Wagner, his wife and family, in the most charming of intimacies153. Cosima Wagner made him a present; she gave him a French edition of Montaigne, with whom, it seems, he was not acquainted, and of whom he soon became so fond. She was imprudent that day. Montaigne is perilous154 reading for a disciple155.
"This winter I have to give two lectures on the ?sthetic of the Greek tragedies," wrote Nietzsche, about September, to his friend the Baron156 von Gersdorff; "and Wagner will come from Triebschen to hear them." Wagner did not go, but Nietzsche was listened to by a very large public.
He described an unknown Greece, vexed157 by the mysteries and intoxications of the god Dionysius, and through its trouble, through this very intoxication158, initiated159 into poetry, into song, into tragic contemplation. It seems that he wished to define this eternal romanticism, always alike to him, whether in Greece of the sixth century B.C. or in Europe of the thirteenth century; the same, surely, which inspired Richard Wagner in his retreat at Triebschen. Nietzsche, however, abstained160 from mentioning this latter name.
"The Athenian coming to assist at the tragedy of the great Dionysos bore in his heart some spark of that elementary force from which tragedy was born. This is the irresistible161 outburst of springtime, that fury and delirium162 of mingled163 emotions which sweeps in springtime across the souls of all simple peoples and across the whole life of nature. It is an accepted thing that festivals of Easter and Carnival164, travestied by the Church, were in their origin spring festivals. Every such fact can be traced to a most deep-rooted instinct: the old[Pg 85] soil of Greece bore on its bosom165 enthusiastic multitudes, full of Dionysos; in the Middle Ages in the same way the dances of the Feast of Saint John and of Saint Vitus drew out great crowds who went singing, leaping and dancing from town to town, gathering recruits in each. It is, of course, open to the doctors to regard these phenomena166 as diseases of the crowd: we content ourselves with saying that the drama of antiquity was the flower of such a disease, and if that of our modern art does not fountain forth167 from that mysterious source, that is its misfortune."
In his second lecture Nietzsche studied the end of tragic art. It is a singular phenomenon; all the other arts of Greece slowly and gloriously declined. Tragedy had no decline. After Sophocles it disappeared, as though a catastrophe168 had destroyed it. Nietzsche recounts the catastrophe, and names the destroyer, Socrates.
He dared to denounce the most revered169 of men. It was he, the poor Athenian, a man of the people, an ugly scoffer171, who suppressed the ancient poetry. Socrates was neither an artist nor a philosopher; he did not write, he did not teach, he scarcely spoke172; seated in the public place, he stopped the passers-by, astonished them by his pleasant logic100, convinced them of their ignorance and absurdity173, laughed, and obliged them to laugh at themselves. His irony174 dishonoured175 the na?ve beliefs which gave strength to the ancestors of the race, the myths which upheld their virtues. He despised tragedy, and made open declaration of his contempt for it; that was enough. Euripides was troubled, and suppressed his inspiration, while the young Plato, who perhaps would have surpassed Sophocles himself, listened to the new master, burnt his verses, and renounced177 art. He disconcerted the old instinctive178 lyrical humanity of Greece; and, by the voice of Plato, whom he had seduced179, he[Pg 86] imposed the illusion, unknown to the ancients, of Nature as accessible to the reason of man, altogether penetrated by it, and always harmonious180. Friedrich Nietzsche was to insert these pages in his book upon The Birth of Tragedy.
This charge pronounced against Socrates surprised his audience in Basle. Wagner knew it, and in September, 1870, wrote to Nietzsche an enthusiastic but extremely shrewd letter.
"As for me, I cry out to you: That's it! you have got hold of the truth, you touch the exact point with keen accuracy. I await with admiration the series of work in which you will combat the errors of popular dogmatism. But none the less you make me anxious, and I hope with all my heart that you are not going to come a cropper. I would also like to advise you not to expound181 your audacious views, which must be so difficult to establish, in short brochures of limited range. You are, I feel, profoundly penetrated with your ideas: you must gather them together into a larger book of much wider scope. Then you will find and will give us the mot juste on the divine blunders of Socrates and Plato, those creators so wonderful as to exact adoration182 even from us who forswear them! Our words, my dear friend, swell183 into hymns184 when we consider the incomprehensible harmony of those essences, so strange to our world! And what pride and hope animate124 us when, returning on ourselves, we feel strongly and clearly that we can and should achieve a work, outside the reach even of those masters!"
None of the letters addressed by Nietzsche to Wagner have been published. Have they been lost? Were they destroyed? Or are they merely refused by Madame Cosima Wagner, who is perhaps not incapable186 of rancour?[Pg 87] The facts are unknown. However, we may be certain that Nietzsche begged Wagner to ally himself with him, to aid him in rendering187 clear those difficult views of his. Wagner replied:
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—How good it is to be able to exchange such letters! There is no one to-day with whom I can talk as seriously as with you—the Unique[1] excepted. God only knows what would happen to me but for that! But I should be able to give myself up to the pleasure of fighting with you against "Socratism" only on one condition, that of having an enormous deal of time at my disposal, free from the temptation of any better project—to speak quite plainly, I should have to abandon all creative work. Division of labour is a good thing in this connection. You can do much for me: you can take on your shoulders a full half of the task assigned to me by fate. And so doing, you will perhaps achieve the whole of your own destiny. I have never had much success in my essays in Philology: you have never had much success in your essays in music: and it is well that things should be so. As a musician you would have come to much the same end to which I should have come had I stuck obstinately188 to Philology. But Philology remains in my blood; it directs me in my work as a musician. As for you, remain a philologist, and keeping to Philology, allow yourself to be directed by music. I mean what I say in a very serious spirit. You have taught me within what base preconceptions a professional philologist is to-day expected to imprison189 himself—I have taught you in what an unspeakable den5 a genuine 'absolute' musician must to-day waste himself. Show us what Philology ought to be, and help me to prepare the way for that great 'Renaissance190' in which Plato will embrace Homer, and in which Homer, penetrated by the ideas of[Pg 88] Plato, will be at last and for the first time the sublime Homer ..."
At this instant Nietzsche had conceived his work, and was making ready to write it at a spurt191. "Science, art, and philosophy grow so intimately within me," he said in February to Rohde, "that I am about to give birth to a centaur192."
Professional duties, however, interrupted this flight. In March he was appointed titular194 professor. The honour flattered him, the duties kept him occupied. At the same time he was given the care of a class of higher rhetoric195; then he was asked to draw up in the noblest Latin an address of congratulation to Professor Baumbrach, of Fribourg, who had taught for fifty years in the University of that town. Nietzsche, who never shirked anything, applied196 himself to the preparation of his class and the composition of his discourse197. In April, more work. Ritschl founded a review, the Acta societatis philologic? Lipsi?, and desired that his best pupil should contribute to it. Nietzsche did not haggle198 over the help asked of him. He promised his copy, and wrote to Rohde to ask for his collaboration199 also.
"Personally, I feel most strongly that I am under an obligation," he wrote. "And, notwithstanding that this work will put me out at the moment, I am quite committed to it. We must collaborate for the first number. You are aware that certain persons will read it with curiosity, with malevolence200. Therefore, it must be good. I have promised my faithful help—answer me."
May and then June, 1870, came. Friedrich Nietzsche seems to have been occupied, above all else, with his work for the Acta. During the holidays at Pentecost,[Pg 89] Rohde, on his way back from Italy, stopped at Basle. Nietzsche was delighted, he wished Wagner to make his friend's acquaintance, and brought him to Triebschen. They spent a fine day together, on the brink201 of an abyss which none of them apparently202 perceived. Rohde, continuing on his road to Germany, left Basle. Nietzsche remained alone, the victim of a foolish accident. He had given himself a strain and was forced to be up.
Had he given any attention to the rumours203 of war which troubled Europe in 1870? It seems not. He was little curious of news, and scarcely read the newspapers. Not that he was indifferent to his country, but he conceived it, in the manner of Goethe, as a source of art and moral grandeur. One of his thoughts, one alone, is perhaps inspired by the public unrest. "No war," he writes; "the State would become too strong thereby204." No doubt we have here, besides one of Nietzsche's own impressions, an echo of the conversations of Triebschen: Wagner recruited his most ardent admirers in Southern Germany, in the Rhineland, in Bavaria, where his protector Louis II. reigned205; the Germans of the North appreciated him badly, the Berliners worst of all, and he had no wish for a warlike crisis which would certainly have the effect of adding to the weight of Prussian dictation. The State to which Nietzsche pointed193 in his short note was the Prussian State. He foresaw, and like his master dreaded206, the imminent207 hegemony of Berlin, that despised town of bureaucrats208 and bankers, of journalists and Jews.
On July 14th, a convalescent, stretched out on his long chair, he wrote to his comrade, Erwin Rohde. He spoke to him of Richard Wagner and of Hans von Bülow, of art and of friendship. Suddenly he stops in the middle of a phrase, marking with a blank line the interruption of his thought.
[Pg 90]
"Here is a terrible thunderclap," he wrote. "The Franco-German war is declared; a demon209 alights upon all our culture, already worn threadbare. What are we about to experience?
"Friend, dear friend, we met once more in the twilight of peace. To-day what do all our aspirations210 signify? Perhaps we are at the beginning of the end! What a gloomy sight. Cloisters212 will become necessary. And we shall be the first friars."
He signed himself The Loyal Swiss. This unexpected signature may be explained in a literal manner. In order to be appointed a professor at Basle, Friedrich Nietzsche had had to renounce176 his nationality. But assuredly it indicated more than this. It announced his detachment of mind: he had decided on the r?le of the contemplator214.
What a misunderstanding of himself! He was too young, too brave, too much enamoured of his race, to adopt the part of spectator only in the imminent drama. As "a loyal Swiss," and as such dispensed215 from military duties, he quietly took up his abode216 with his sister Lisbeth in a mountain inn, where he wrote out some pages on Greek lyricism. It was then that he formulated217 for the first time his definition of the Dionysian and Apollonian spirits. Nevertheless, the German armies were crossing the Rhine and gaining their first victories, and it was not without emotion that Nietzsche heard the news. The thought of lofty deeds in which he had no part, of perils218 from which he was preserved, troubled his meditations220.
On July 20th, writing to Madame Ritschl, he expressed the thoughts which occupied his solitude. First he gave expression to a fear which, as it seemed, the memory of a Greece ruined by the conflict of Sparta and Athens inspired in him. "Unhappy, historical analogies teach us that the very traditions of culture may be[Pg 91] destroyed by the bitterness of such a war of nations." But he also expressed the emotion which had begun to seize him. "How I am ashamed of this inactivity in which I am kept, now that the instant has come when I might be applying what I learned in the artillery221. Naturally I make myself ready for an energetic course of action, in case things should take a bad turn; do you know that the students of Kiel have enlisted223 together, with enthusiasm?" On the morning of August 7th he read in his paper the dispatches from W?rth: German victory: Enormous losses. He could no longer remain in his retreat. He returned to Basle, asked and obtained from the Swiss authorities permission to serve in the ambulance corps224, and proceeded at once to Germany to enlist222 for the war which allured225 him.
He crossed conquered Alsace: he saw the charnel houses of Wissembourg and of W?rth: on August 29th he bivouacked not far from Strassburg, where conflagrations227 lit up the horizon; then he made his way, by Lunéville and Nancy, towards the country around Metz, now converted into an immense ambulance, where the wounded of Mars-la-Tour, Gravelotte and Saint-Privat, so numerous that it was difficult to nurse them, were dying of their wounds and of infectious illnesses. Some unfortunates were given into his charge: he did his duty with kindness and courage, but experienced a singular emotion, a sacred and almost enthusiastic horror. For the first time he considered without repulsion the labour of the masses. He watched those millions of beings, some struck down and marked by death, others marching the roads or standing62 under arms: he considered them without contempt, he esteemed228 their destiny. Under the menaces of war, these men have something momentous229 about them. They forget their vain thoughts; they march, they sing, they obey their chiefs; they die. Friedrich Nietzsche was recompensed for his pains; a fraternal[Pg 92] impulse uplifted his soul, he no longer felt his solitude, he loved the simple people who surrounded him. "All my military passions awake," he writes, "and I cannot satisfy them! I would have been at Rezonville, at Sedan, actively230, passively perhaps. This Swiss neutrality always ties my hands."
His passage through France was rapid. He received orders to convey the wounded in his care to the hospital at Carlsruhe.
He set out and was shut up, for three days and three nights, with eleven men, lying in a market cart closed fast against the cold and the rain. Two of the wounded who accompanied him were attacked by diphtheria, all had dysentery. "To reach truth," says a German mystic, "the most rapid mount is Affliction." Friedrich Nietzsche recalled this maxim231 of which he was so fond. He tried his courage, verified his thoughts. He dressed the sores of his wounded, he listened to their complaints, their appeals, and did not interrupt his meditation219. Till now he had known only his books; now he knew life. He relished232 this bitter ordeal234, always discerning some far-off beauty. "I, also, I have my hopes," he was to write; "thanks to them I was able to look on at the war and to pursue my meditations without pause, in presence of the worst horrors.... I recall a solitary night during which I lay stretched out in a market van with the wounded men confided to me and never ceased to explore in thought the three abysses of tragedy which have for names: Wahn, Wille, Wehe—Illusion, Will, Affliction. Whence then did I draw the confident certitude that he should undergo in birth a similar ordeal, the hero to come of tragic knowledge and Greek gaiety?"
He arrived at Carlsruhe with his sick and wounded; he had contracted their illness and was attacked by dysentery and diphtheria. An unknown who had been his[Pg 93] ambulance companion nursed him devotedly236. As soon as he was well again, Nietzsche went to his home at Naumburg, there to seek not repose237, but an entire leisure from work and thought.
"Yes," he wrote to his friend Gersdorff, who was fighting in France—"Yes, that conception of things which is common to us has undergone the ordeal by fire. I have had the same experience as you. For me, as for you, these weeks will remain in my life as an epoch238 in which each one of my principles re-affirmed itself in me; I would have risked death with them.... Now I am at Naumburg again, but poorly restored to health so far. The atmosphere in which I have lived has been long over me like a dark cloud; I heard an incessant239 lamentation240."
Once already, in July, 1865, during the campaign at Sadowa, he had known war, and undergone its allurement241. A simple and great aspiration211 had laid hold of him; and for a moment he had felt himself in accord with his race. "I feel a patriotic emotion," he wrote; "it is a new experience for me." He grasped at this sudden exaltation and cultivated it.
Indeed, his is a changed soul. He is no longer the "loyal Swiss" of another time; he is a man among men, a German proud of his Germany. A war has transformed him; he glorifies242 war. War awakes the energy of men; it even troubles their spirits. It obliges them to seek in an ideal order, an order of beauty and duty, the ends of a life which is too cruel. The lyric127 poet, the sage13, misunderstood in ages of peace, are heard with respect in ages of war. Then men have need of them, and are conscious of their need. The same necessity which ranges them behind their chiefs renders them attentive to genius. Humanity is made[Pg 94] truly one, and is drawn243 towards the heroic and the sublime, only under the pressure of war.
Friedrich Nietzsche, though still very weak and suffering, again took up the notes of his book that he might record in it his new ideas. In Greece, he argues, art was the visible form of a society, disciplined by struggle, from the workshop, where the captive slave laboured, up to the gymnasium and the agora, where the free man played with arms. Such was that winged figure, that goddess of Samothrace, that had for companion of her flight a bloody244 trireme.
The Greek genius emanated245 from war, it sang war, it had war for its comrade. "It is the people of the tragic mysteries," wrote Friedrich Nietzsche, "who strike the great blow of the Persian battles; in return, the people who have maintained these wars need the salutary beverage246 of tragedy." We follow in his notes the movement of a mind which wishes to grasp the very idea of the tragic, athwart a vaguely-known Greece. Again and again we find this word tragic brought in as if it were a fundamental strain which the young thinker trains himself to repeat, like a child trying to learn a new word:—"Tragic Greece conquers the Persians.... Tragic man is nature itself in its highest strength of creation and knowledge: he trifles with sorrow...." Three formulas satisfy his research for a moment. "The tragic work of Art—the tragic Man—the tragic State." Thus he determined248 the three essential parts of his book, which he would entitle as a whole: The Tragic Man.
Let us not misunderstand the real object of his meditations: this society, this discipline which he discerned in the past, were in reality the ideal forms of the Fatherland which he desired and for which he dared to hope. He saw on the one hand Latin Europe, weakened by utilitarianism and the softness of life, on the other[Pg 95] Germany, rich in poets, in soldiers, in myths, in victories. She was suzerain of those races which were in process of decay. How would she exercise this suzerainty? Might not one augur36 from her triumph a new era, warlike and tragic, chivalrous and lyric? One could conceive it; and therefore one should hope for it, and this was enough to dictate249 one's duty. How glorious this Germany would be, with Bismarck as its chief, Moltke as its soldier, Wagner as its poet—its philosopher, too, existed, and was called Friedrich Nietzsche. This belief, though he expressed it nowhere, he surely had: for he had not a doubt as to his genius.
He was elated, but did not let his dreams lead him astray: he imagined an ideal Fatherland, yet never lost from sight the Fatherland, human, too human, which actually existed.
During October and the first days of November, alone with his own people in that Naumburg whose provincial250 virtues he did not love, he bore hardly with the vulgarity of the little people, of the functionaries251 with whom he mixed. Naumburg was a small Prussian town; Friedrich Nietzsche did not care for this robust252 and vulgar Prussia. Metz had capitulated; the finest army of France was taken captive: a delirium of conceit253 swept all Germany off its feet. Friedrich Nietzsche resisted the general tendency. The sentiment of triumph was a repose which his exacting254 soul might not know. On the contrary, he was disgusted and alarmed.
"I fear," he wrote to his friend Gersdorff, "that we shall have to pay for our marvellous national victories at a price to which I, for my part, will never consent. In confidence—I am of opinion that modern Prussia is a Power highly dangerous to culture.... The enterprise is not easy, but we must be philosophers enough to keep our sang-froid in the midst of all this smoke, we must[Pg 96] keep watch so that no robber may come and steal any part of what, in my opinion, is commensurable with nothing beside, not even the most heroic of military actions, not even our national exaltation."
Then a document appeared which deeply moved Friedrich Nietzsche. It was the date of the centenary of Beethoven. The Germans, occupied with their war, had neglected to commemorate255 it. Richard Wagner's voice was raised, it alone was strong enough to recall to the conquerors256 the memory of another glory: "Germans, you are brave," he cried; "remain brave in peace.... In this marvellous year 1870 nothing is better suited to your pride in being brave than the memory of the great Beethoven.... Let us celebrate that great pioneer and path-hewer, let us celebrate him worthily257, not less worthily than the victory of German courage: for he who gives joy to the world is raised higher among men than he who conquers the world."
Germans, you are brave; remain brave in peace—no saying could move Friedrich Nietzsche more deeply. He desired to be near the master again, and, though not yet restored to health, he left Naumburg.
He saw Richard Wagner again and was not entirely satisfied. This man, who had been so splendid in misfortune, seemed to have lost stature258. There was a vulgar quality in his joy. Well had the German victory avenged259 him for those Parisian cat-calls and railleries which he had had to endure; now he "ate Frenchmen" with an enormous and peaceable relish233. Nevertheless he declined certain offers; he was promised the highest office and honours if he accepted residence in Berlin. He refused, being unwilling260 to let himself be enthroned[Pg 97] as poet-laureate of a Prussian Empire; and his disciple was thankful for the refusal.
Friedrich Nietzsche found at Basle an even better confidant of his anxieties. The historian Jacob Burckhardt, a great scholar of arts and civilisations, was melancholy; all brutality261 was odious262 to him, and he detested263 war and its destruction. A citizen of the last city in Europe which maintained its independence and its old customs, proud of this independence and of these customs, Jacob Burckhardt disliked those nations of thirty or forty millions of souls which he saw establishing themselves. To the designs of Bismarck and of Cavour he preferred the counsel of Aristotle—"So arrange that the number of citizens does not exceed ten thousand; otherwise they would not be able to meet together on the public square."
He had studied Athens, Venice, Florence, and Sienna. He held in high esteem the ancient and Latin disciplines, in very moderate esteem the German disciplines: he dreaded German hegemony. Burckhardt and Nietzsche were colleagues. They often met in the intervals264 between two lectures. Then they would talk and, on fine days, stroll together along that terrace over which all European travellers lean, that is between the cathedral of red sandstone and the Rhine, here so young still but already so strong, as it passes with a long murmur265 of ruffled266 waters. The simply-built University is situated267 quite near, on the slope, between the river and the Museum.
The two colleagues were eternally examining their common thought. How should that tradition of culture and beauty be continued, that fragile and oft-broken tradition which two tiny States, Attica and Tuscany, have transmitted to our care? France had not deserved censure268; she had known how to maintain the methods and a school of taste. But had Prussia the qualities[Pg 98] fitting her heritage? Friedrich Nietzsche repeated the expression of his hope. "Perhaps," said he, "this war will have transformed our old Germany; I see her more virile269, endowed with a firmer and more delicate taste." Jacob Burckhardt listened. "No," said he, "you are always thinking of the Greeks, for whom war had no doubt an educative virtue141. But modern wars are superficial; they do not reach, they do not correct the bourgeois, laissez-aller style of life. They are rare; their impressions are soon effaced270; they are soon forgotten; they do not exercise people's thought." What did Nietzsche answer? A letter to Erwin Rohde enables us to divine the ill-assured accent of his observations. "I am very anxious," he writes, "as regards the immediate272 future. I seem to recognise there the Middle Ages in disguise.... Be careful to free yourself from this fatal Prussia, with its repugnance273 to culture! Flunkeys and priests sprout274 from its soil like mushrooms, and they are going to darken all Germany with their smoke!"
Jacob Burckhardt, long a recluse275 amid his memories and his books, had the habit of melancholy and made the best of it. By way of discreet276 protest against the enthusiasms of his contemporaries, he delivered a lecture upon Historical Greatness. "Do not take for true greatness," said he to the students of Basle, "such and such a military triumph, such and such an expansion of a State. How many nations have been powerful who are forgotten and merit their oblivion! Historical greatness is a rarer thing; it lies wholly in the works of those men whom we call great men, using that vague term because we cannot truly fathom277 their nature. Some unknown genius leaves us Notre Dame14 de Paris; Goethe gives us his Faust; Newton his law of the Solar System. This is greatness, and this alone." Friedrich Nietzsche listened and applauded. "Burckhardt," wrote he, "is becoming a Schopenhauerian...." But a few[Pg 99] wise words do not satisfy his ardour. Nor can he so quickly renounce the hope which he has conceived; he wishes to act, to save his Fatherland from the moral disaster which in his judgment menaces her.
How act? Here was a sluggish278 people, not easily aroused, lacking in sensitiveness, a people stunted279 by democracy, a people in revolt against every noble aspiration: by what artifice75 could one sustain among them the imperilled ideal, the love of heroism280 and of the sublime? Nietzsche formed a project which was so audacious and so advanced that he meditated281 long upon it without confiding282 in any one. Richard Wagner was then working to establish that theatre of Bayreuth in which he hoped to realise his epic283 creation in complete freedom. Nietzsche dared to imagine a different institution, but one of the same order; a kind of seminary where the young philosophers, his friends, Rohde, Gersdorff, Deussen, Overbeck, Romundt should meet, live together and, free from duties, liberated from administrative284 tutelage, meditate116, under the guidance of certain masters, on the problems of the hour. A double home of art and of thought would thus maintain at the heart of Germany, above the crowd and apart from the State, the traditions of the spiritual life. "Cloisters will become necessary," he had written to Erwin Rohde in July; six months' experience brought back this idea. "Here assuredly is the strangest thing which this time of war and victory has raised up; a modern anchoritism—an impossibility of living in accord with the State."
Friedrich Nietzsche let himself be drawn away by this dream, the unreality of which he failed to recognise. He was imagining a reunion of solitaries285, similar to the Port Royal des Champs. He knew that such a society did not accord with the manners and tastes of his times, but he judged it to be necessary and believed that he had strength enough to establish or impose it.
[Pg 100]
A profound instinct inspired and directed him. That old college of Pforta had been monachal in its origins, in its buildings and in its very walls, in the lasting286 gravity and ordered rule of life. Thus he had, as a child, received the impress of what was almost the life of a religious. He kept the memory of it, and the nostalgia287. During his years at the University he had constantly sought to isolate288 himself from the world by surrounding himself with friends. He studied Greece, and the antique wisdom nourished his soul: he loved Pythagoras and Plato, the one the founder289, the other the poet, of the finest brotherhood290 that man had ever conceived, the close and sovereign aristocracy of sages291 armed, of meditative292 knights294. Thus did Christian295 humanity and Pagan humanity, united by a remote harmony, concur296 with his thoughts and his aspirations.
He wished to write an open letter to his friends, known and unknown; but he would only call them at the favourable297 moment, and till then would keep his secret. "Give me two years," he wrote to his friend Gersdorff enthusiastically and mysteriously, "and you will see a new conception of antiquity diffuse298 itself, which must bring a new spirit into the scientific and moral education of the nation!" Towards mid-December he believed that the moment had come. Erwin Rohde wrote him a melancholy letter, a very feeble echo of the passionate299 letters which Nietzsche had addressed to him. "Soon we shall need cloisters ..." he said, repeating the same idea expressed six months earlier by his friend. It was but a word; Friedrich Nietzsche saw in it a sign of spontaneous agreement, a presage300 of enthusiastic collaboration, and he wrote in a joyous301 transport:
"DEAR FRIEND,—I received your letter and I answer it without losing a minute. Above all I wish to tell you that I feel altogether like you, and that we shall be, in[Pg 101] my opinion, very weak, if, abandoning our feeble complaints, we do not deliver ourselves from ennui302 by an energetic act.... I have at last understood the bearing of Schopenhauer's judgments303 on the philosophy of the universities. No radical304 truth is possible there. No revolutionary truth can come out from there.... We shall reject this yoke305; to me that is certain. And we shall then form a new Greek academy: Romundt will be of our company.
"You know, since your visit to Triebschen, the projects of Bayreuth. For a long time, without confiding in any one, I have been considering whether it would not be suitable for us to break with philology and its perspectives of culture. I am preparing a great adhortatio for all those who are not yet completely captured and stifled306 by the manners of this present time. What a pity that I must write to you, and that for long we have not been able to examine in conversation each of my thoughts! To you who know not their turnings and their consequences, my plan will perhaps appear as an eccentric caprice. That, it is not; it is a necessity.
"... Let us try to reach a little island on which there will be no longer need to close one's ears with wax. Then we shall be one another's masters. Our books, from now till then, are but hooks to catch our friends, a public for our ?sthetic and monachal association. Let us live, let us work, let us enjoy for one another's sake; in that manner only, perhaps, shall we be able to work for the whole. I may tell you (see how serious is my design) that I have already commenced to reduce my expenses in order to constitute a little reserve fund. We shall gamble in order to try our 'luck'; as to the books which we shall be able to write, I shall demand the highest honorarium307 as a provision for coming times. In brief, we shall neglect no lawful308 means of success in founding our cloister213. We also have our duty for the next two years!
[Pg 102]
"May this plan seem to you worthy of meditation! Your last letter, moving as it was, signified to me that the time had come to unveil it for you.
"Shall we not be able to introduce a new form of Academy into the world?
'Und sollt' ich nicht, sehnsuchtigster Gewalt,
In's Leben ziehn die einzigster Gestalt?'
"Thus Faust speaks of Helen. No one knows anything of my project, and now it depends upon you to see that Romundt is advised of it.
"Assuredly, our school of philosophy is neither an historical reminiscence nor an arbitrary caprice; is it not a necessity that pushes us on to that road? It seems that the plan of our student days, that voyage which we were to make together, returns in a new form, symbolic309 now and vaster than it was. On this occasion, I won't leave you in the lurch310 as I then did. That memory always annoys me.
"With my best hopes, your faithful
"FRATER FRIEDRICH.
"From the 23rd of December till the 1st of January I go to Triebschen, near Lucerne."
On the 22nd of December Friedrich Nietzsche left Lucerne: he had received no reply from Rohde. He found the house at Triebschen in high festival with children's games and the preparations for Christmas. Madame Wagner gave him a volume of Stendhal, Les Promenades311 dans Rome. He offered Wagner the famous woodcut of Dürer's of The Knight293, the Dog, and Death, on which he had written a commentary for the book he was then preparing, The Origin of Tragedy: "A spirit which feels itself isolated312, desperate and solitary," he wrote, "could choose no better symbol than that rider of[Pg 103] Dürer's, who, unperturbed by his gruesome companions and yet wholly without hope, pursues his terrible path alone with dog and horse. This rider of Dürer's is our Schopenhauer: he was without hope, but he desired the truth. His like does not exist." Nietzsche would have been happy in the master's house if he had not been expecting Rohde's reply: the waiting worried him. He stopped for a week at Triebschen. Wagner was never done talking about Bayreuth and his vast projects. Nietzsche, too, had his thought which he would have joyfully313 uttered; but first he wanted his friend's approbation, and that approbation did not come. He left without having received a word or spoken one on the subject.
At last, at Basle, he received the too long-desired letter: an honest, affectionate, but negative reply. "You tell me that cloisters are necessary to-day," wrote Rohde. "I believe it. But there are necessities for which no remedy exists. How can we find the money? And even when we shall have found the money, I do not know that I shall follow you; I do not feel in me a creative force which renders me worthy of the solitude whither you call me. For a Schopenhauer, a Beethoven, a Wagner, the case is different, as it is for you, dear friend. But, as I am in question, no! I must hope for a different life. Still let us entertain the wish for such a retreat, among certain friends, in a cloister of the muses; I agree to that. Deprived of desires, what would we become?"
If Rohde refused to follow him, who would follow him? He did not write his Adhortatio; Romundt was not advised, and even Wagner, it seems, knew nothing of the proposal.
Nietzsche made no vain complaints, but set to work to elaborate alone those revolutionary truths for which[Pg 104] he would have wished to contrive a kindlier manner of birth. He turned his back upon Germany, upon those modern States which have it as their mission to flatter the servilities, soften314 the conflicts, and favour the idleness of men. He considered anew primitive Greece, the city of the seventh and the sixth centuries; thither315 a mysterious attraction ever drew him back. Was it the seduction of a perfect beauty? Doubtless, but it was also the seduction of that strength and cruelty which a modern conceals317 as he conceals a stain, and which the old Greeks practised with joy. Nietzsche loved strength; on the battlefield of Metz he had felt within him the appetite and instinct.
"If," he wrote, "genius and art are the final ends of Greek culture, then all the forms of Greek society must appear to us as necessary mechanisms318 and stepping-stones towards that final end. Let us discover what means were utilised by the will to act which animated the Greeks...." He discerns and names one of these means: slavery. "Frederick Augustus Wolf," he notes, "has shown us that slavery is necessary to culture. There is one of the powerful thoughts of my predecessor319." He grasped it, held it to him, and forced it to disclose its whole meaning. This idea, suddenly discovered, inspired him; it was profound and moved him to the depths of his being; it was cruel, almost monstrous320, and satisfied his romantic taste. He shuddered321 before it, he admired its sombre beauty.
"It may be that this knowledge fills us with terror," he wrote; 'I such terror is the almost necessary effect of all the most profound knowledge. For nature is still a frightful thing, even when intent on creating the most beautiful forms. It is so arranged that culture, in its triumphal march, benefits only a trivial minority of privileged mortals, and it is necessary that the slave service of[Pg 105] the great masses be maintained, if one wish to attain67 to a full joy in becoming (werde lust).
"We moderns have been accustomed to oppose two principles against the Greeks, the one and the other invented to reassure322 a society of an altogether servile kind which anxiously avoids the world, slave: we talk of the 'dignity of man' and the 'dignity of labour.'
"The language of the Greeks is other. They declare in simple terms that work is a disgrace, for it is impossible that a man occupied with the labour of gaining a livelihood323 should ever become an artist....
"So let us avow324 this cruel sounding truth: slavery is necessary to culture; a truth which assuredly leaves no doubt as to the absolute value of being.
"The misery325 of those men who live by labour must be made yet more vigorous, in order that a very few Olympian men may create a world of art.... At their expense, by the artifice of unpaid326 labour, the privileged classes should be relieved from the struggle for life, and given such conditions that they can create, and satisfy a new order of needs.... And if it is true to say that the Greeks were destroyed by slavery, this other affirmation is, most certainly, even truer: for lack of slavery, we are perishing."
But what was the origin of this very institution of slavery? How was the submission327 of the slave, that "blind mole328 of culture," secured? The Greeks teach us, answered Nietzsche: "The conquered belongs to the conqueror," they say, "with his wives and his children, his goods and his blood. Power gives the first right, and there is no right which is not at bottom appropriation329, usurpation330, power." Thus Nietzsche's thought was brought back towards its first object. The war had inspired him in the first instance. Now he rediscovers that solution. In sorrow and in tragedy, men had[Pg 106] invented beauty; into sorrow and into tragedy they must be plunged331, and there retained that their sense of beauty might be preserved. In pages which have the accent and rhythm of a hymn185, Friedrich Nietzsche glorifies and invokes332 war:
"Here you have the State, of shameful333 origin; for the greater part of men, a well of suffering that is never dried, a flame that consumes them in its frequent crises. And yet when it calls, our souls become forgetful of themselves; at its bloody appeal the multitude is urged to courage and uplifted to heroism. Yes, the State is to the blind masses, perhaps, the highest and most worthy of aims; it is, perhaps, the State which, in its formidable hours, stamps upon every face the singular expression of greatness.
"Some tie, some mysterious affinity334, exists between the State and art, between political activity and artistic335 production, the battlefield and the work of art. What is the r?le of the State? It is the tenaille of steel which binds336 society together. Without the State, in natural conditions—bellum omnium contra omnes—society would remain limited by the family, and could not project its roots afar. By the universal institution of States, that instinct which formerly determined the bellum omnium contra omnes has been concentrated; at certain epochs terrible clouds of war menace the peoples and discharge themselves at one great clap, in lightnings and thunders, fiercer as they are less frequent. But these crises are not continual; between one and another of them society breathes again; regenerated337 by the action of war, it breaks on every side into blossom and verdure, and, when the first fine days come, puts forth dazzling fruits of genius.
"If I leave the Greek world and examine our own, I recognise, I avow it, symptoms of degeneration which give me fears both for society and for art. Certain men,[Pg 107] in whom the instinct of the State is lacking, wish, no longer to serve it, but to make it serve them, to use it for their personal ends. They see nothing of the divine in it; and, in order to utilise it, in a sure and rational manner, they are concerned to evade338 the shocks of war: they set out deliberately339 to organise340 things in such a manner that war becomes an impossibility. On the one hand they conjure341 up systems of European equilibrium342, on the other hand they do their best to deprive absolute sovereigns of the right to declare war, in order that they may thus appeal the more easily to the egoism of the masses, and of those who represent them. They feel it incumbent343 on them to weaken the monarchical344 instinct of the masses, and do weaken it, by propagating among them the liberal and optimistic conception of the world, a conception which has its roots in the doctrines345 of French rationalism and the Revolution; that is, in a philosophy altogether foreign to the German spirit, a Latin platitude346, devoid347 of any metaphysical meaning.
"The movement, to-day triumphant348, of nationalities, the extension of universal suffrage349 which runs parallel to this movement, seem to me to be determined above all by the fear of war. And behind these diverse agitations, I perceive those who are chiefly moved by this alarm, the solitaries of international finance, who, being by nature denuded350 of any instinct for the State, subordinate politics, the State and society to their money-making and speculative351 ends.
"If the spirit of speculation352 is not thus to debase the spirit of the State, we must have war and war again—there is no other means. In the exaltation which it procures353, it becomes clear to men that the State has not been founded to protect egoistical individuals against the demon of war; quite the contrary: love of country, devotion to one's prince, help to excite a moral impulse which is the symbol of a far higher destiny.... It[Pg 108] will not therefore be thought that I do ill when I raise here the p?an of war. The resonance of its silver bow is terrible. It comes to us sombre as night: nevertheless Apollo accompanies it, Apollo, the rightful leader of states, the god who purifies them.... Let us say it then: war is necessary to the State, as the slave is to society. No one will be able to avoid these conclusions, if he have sought the causes of the perfection which Greek art attained354, and Greek art alone."
War and yet again war which exalts355 the peoples: such was the cry of the solitary. He had but to drop his pen, to listen and look around him, and he saw the pedantic356 empire and repressed his hopes. "We follow the trouble of his thought. He hesitates, he records at the same moment the abiding illusion and the inevitable357 disillusion358:
"I could have imagined," he writes, "that the Germans had embarked359 on this war to save Venus from the Louvre, like a second Helen. It would have been the spiritual interpretation360 of their combat. The fine antique severity inaugurated by this war—for the time to be grave has come—we think that is the time for art also."
He continued to write; his thought becomes clearer and more melancholy: "The State, when it cannot achieve its highest aim, grows beyond measure. The World Empire of the Romans, in face of Athens, has nothing of the sublime. This sap, which should all run to the flowers, resides now in the leaves and stalks, which swell to an immense size."
[Pg 109]
Rome troubled him; he disliked it; he judged it a slur361 upon antiquity. That city, warlike, but ever plebeian362, victorious363, but ever vulgar, filled him with gloomy fore-thought:
"Rome," he wrote, "is the typical barbaric state: the will cannot there attain to its noble ends. The organisation364 is more vigorous, the morality more oppressive ... who venerates365 this colossus?"
Who venerates this colossus? Let us give a modern and pressing application to these interrogatory words. The colossus is not Rome, it is Prussia and her empire. Narrow was the soil of Athens or of Sparta, and brief their day; but what did that matter if the object, which was spiritual strength and beauty, was attained? Friedrich Nietzsche was haunted by this vision of Greece with its hundred rival cities, raising between mountains and sea their acropoles, their temples, their statues, all resounding366 with the rhythm of p?ans, all glorious and alert.
"The sentiment of Hellenism," he wrote, "as soon as it is awakened367, becomes aggressive and translates itself into a combat against the culture of the present day."
Friedrich Nietzsche suffered from the wounds which life inflicted368 upon his lyrical dream. His friends listened to him, but followed him imperfectly. The professor, Franz Overbeck, who lived in his house and saw him every day, was a man of distinction, with a strong and acute mind. A German by birth, a Frenchman by education, he understood the problems of the day, and joined in the anxieties and intentions of Nietzsche; but his ardour could not equal Nietzsche's. Jacob Burckhardt was a man of noble intellect and character, but he was[Pg 110] without hope, and Friedrich Nietzsche passionately369 desired to hope. No doubt, there was Wagner, whom neither passion nor hope ever could surprise, but he had just published an Aristophanic buffoonery directed against the conquered Parisians. Friedrich Nietzsche read this gross work, and condemned370 it. Overbeck and Burckhardt lacked ardour; Wagner lacked delicacy371; and Nietzsche confided in no one. A chair of philosophy had just been vacated in the University of Basle. Nietzsche took fire at once. He wrote to Erwin Rohde, and told him that he should apply for this chair, and that he would assuredly secure it. Thus the two friends were to meet again. Vain hope! Erwin Rohde presented himself as a candidate, but was not accepted. Nietzsche reproached himself for having lured226 on his friend. He grew melancholy. He felt himself drawn "like a little whirlpool into a dead sea of night and oblivion."
He had never recovered entirely from the ordeals372 of the war. Neither sleep nor sure and certain health were ever at his call again. In February the nervous force which had sustained him suddenly gave way, and his disorders373 assumed an acute form. Violent neuralgas, insomnia375, troubles and weaknesses of the eyesight, stomach ills, jaundice represented the nature of the crisis which had been tormenting376 him for five months. The doctors, quite at a loss, advised him to give up work and to take a voyage. Friedrich Nietzsche sent for his sister, who came to Naumburg. He brought her to pay a farewell visit to Triebschen, and left for Lugano.
At that time the railway did not cross the Alps. Travellers went by diligence over the ridge377 of the St. Gothard. Chance furnished Nietzsche with a remarkable378 companion, an old man of a talkative humour, and with no desire to conceal316 his identity: it was Mazzini. The old humanitarian379 and the young apostle of slavery hit it off wonderfully well. Mazzini cited Goethe's phrase:
[Pg 111]
"Sich des halben zu entwohnen und im Ganzen, Vollen, Sch?nen resolut zu leben" (To abjure380 half-measures, and to live resolutely381 in the Whole, the Full, the Beautiful). Friedrich Nietzsche never forgot the energetic maxim, nor the man who had transmitted it to him, nor this day of rapid and healthful travel, not far from those summits which he was afterwards to love so much.
The fine mountain crossing amid the snow and silence of the Alps had sufficed. He was almost cured on his arrival at Lugano. His nature was still supple382 and youthful; his returns to life were prompt and radiant; a na?ve gaiety re-animated all his being. He spent two happy months in Italian Switzerland. A Prussian officer, a relation of General von Moltke, was staying at his hotel. He lent him his manuscripts and often talked to him of the destinies of the new German Empire and of the aristocratic warrior's mission which the victory had conferred upon it. It was a fine springtide for the numerous Germans who had come to rest at the place: they liked to gather round their young philosopher and listen to him. February began, the war was over, and these happy people, freed from all anxieties, abandoned themselves for the first time to the pleasure of their triumph. They sang; they danced in public up to the Market-place, and Nietzsche was not the least prompt to rejoice with them, to dance and sing. "When I recall these days," writes Madame F?rster-Nietzsche, who gives us a sad and gracious account of the time, "it seems to me that I am having a veritable dream of Carnival."
From Lugano, Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to Erwin Rohde:
"I have very often suffered from a heavy and depressed mood. But more than once inspiration has returned to me; my manuscript has benefited from it. I have given[Pg 112] the go-by to philology in the most cavalier fashion. They may praise me, they may blame me, they may promise me the highest honours, they may talk as they choose; I turn my back upon it. Every day I go deeper into my philosophic88 domain105, and I begin to have confidence in myself; better still, if I am ever to be a poet, from to-day I feel myself disposed towards it. I do not know, I have no means of knowing, whither my destiny guides me. And nevertheless, when I examine myself, everything is in perfect accord within me, as though I had followed some good genius. My ends are extremely hidden from me; no concern for office, for hierarchic383 honours, directs my efforts; and none the less I live in a surprising condition of clarity, of serenity. What a sensation it is to see one's world before one, a fine globe, round and complete! Now it is some fragment of a new metaphysic, now it is a new ?sthetic which grows up within me, now another idea claims me, a new principle of education which entails384 the complete rejection385 of our Universities and gymnasia. I never learn any fact but it immediately finds a good place in some corner that has been long prepared for it. This sentiment of an interior world which springs up within me I feel in all its force when I think not coldly, but quietly and without exaggerated enthusiasm, on the history of these last ten months, on these events which I consider as the instruments of my noble designs. Pride, folly386, are words that feebly express my condition of mental 'insomnia.'
"Ah, how I desire health! As soon as one has something in view which must last longer than oneself—how one gives thanks for every good night, for every mild ray of sun, even for every occasion on which one digests aright!"
On the 10th of April, Nietzsche had returned to Basle.[Pg 113] He gathered his notes together, re-read them for the last time, and fixed definitely the plan of his work. He allowed those digressions upon war, slavery, the city, of which we have already given some extracts, to drop, and—Wagner, it is said, desired it—limited himself to his first subject: ancient tragedy, the model and precursor387 of German musical drama. Wagner's advice, Madame F?rster-Nietzsche insinuates388, was not altogether disinterested389; it suited him that his disciple's first work should be consecrated390 to his fame. This has an air of probability; still it certainly seems that Nietzsche had let himself be captured and seduced by too many ideas, that he had not so much amassed391 the matter for one book as begun, rather at hazard, a whole series of studies in ?sthetics, history, and politics. He needed to restrict himself, and yet could not make up his mind to it. If Wagner helped him here, he did well. Perhaps we owe the happy completion of this book to him—the only real book which Nietzsche ever completed.
What was it that he had to say? He was to analyse the origin and the essence of the Greek lyric spirit; he was to set the two Greeces over against one another, the one intoxicated392 by its myths and Dionysian chants, strong in illusions—?schylus's Greece, tragic and conquering Greece; the other impious, rational, an?mic—Socratic Greece, Alexandrine Greece, which in dying corrupted393 the peoples who had remained young around her, the pure blood of primitive humanity. Then he was to display the two Germanys in conflict in a like manner, the Germany of the Democrats and the savants, the Germany of the soldiers and the poets; between these two one had to choose. Nietzsche declared his choice: beholden to Wagner, as he was, for all his tranquillity394 of thought, for all his joys, he indicated Wagner to his compatriots. While the peace was being signed at Frankfort between the nations, Friedrich Nietzsche,[Pg 114] thus establishing peace within himself, ended the rough draft of his work. He remarked upon this coincidence of dates, for his internal conflicts and the revolutions of his thought did not appear to him less important events than external conflicts and the revolutions of races.
But the Peace of Frankfort did not terminate all the conflicts of this terrible year. A civil war now broke out in France, and its calamities395 stirred Europe even more profoundly than the battles of Fr?schwiller or Sedan. On the morning of the 23rd of May, the newspapers of Basle announced the destruction of Paris and the burning of the Louvre. Nietzsche learnt the news with a feeling of dismay: the most beautiful works, the flower of human labour, were ruined; human hands, an unhappy people, had dared this profanation396. All Nietzsche's alarms were thus confirmed. Without discipline, without an hierarchy397, culture, he had written, cannot subsist398. All have not the right to share in beauty; the immense majority should live humbly399, work for their masters and revere170 their lives. Such is the economy which assures strength to societies, and, in return for their strength, delicacy, grace, beauty; and this is the order which Europe hesitates to maintain. Nietzsche might now have boasted of the correctness of his judgment; it was far from him to do so. It was with alarm that he considered his perspicacity400, his solitude, and his responsibility. His thoughts suddenly turned to Jacob Burckhardt; what melancholy must be his! He wished to see him, to talk to him, to listen to him, to make his desolation his own. He hurried to Burckhardt's house; but Burckhardt, though the hour was early, had gone out. Nietzsche walked the roads like a desperate man. Finally he went back. Jacob Burckhardt was in his study, and awaited him. He had gone to seek his friend, as his friend had gone to[Pg 115] seek him. The two men remained for long together, and Fr?ulein Nietzsche, alone in the next room, heard their sobs401 through the closed door.
"Let us avow it," he writes to his friend, the Baron von Gersdorff, "we are all, with all our past, responsible for the terrors which menace us to-day. We shall do wrong, if we consider with a peaceful conceit the unchaining of a war against culture, and if we impute402 the fault merely to the unfortunates who do the deed. When I heard of the firing of Paris, I was for some days utterly403 powerless, lost in tears and doubts; the life of science, of philosophy and of art appeared to me as an absurdity when I saw a single day suffice for the ruin of the finest works of art; what do I say?—of entire periods of art. I profoundly deplored404 the fact that the metaphysical value of art could not manifest itself to the lower classes; but it has a higher mission to fulfil. Never, however lively my affliction were, would I have cast the stone at the sacrilegious, who in my eyes are only carriers of the mistake of all—a mistake which gives cause for much thought...."
In the autobiographical notes written in 1878 these words may be read: "The War: my profoundest affliction, the burning of the Louvre."
Friedrich Nietzsche had gone back to his old way of life; almost every week he was Wagner's guest. But soon he perceived that since the German victory Triebschen had changed. Too many intimates made haste to the master's house, too many unknown people invaded the abode whose peaceful seclusion405 he had loved. They were not all of the sort that Nietzsche would have desired; but Wagner talked, discoursed406, overflowed407 with them all.[Pg 116] Judging that the favourable moment had come, he had set out to rouse Germany and secure at last the construction and gift of the hall which he needed, the theatre, or the temple, of Bayreuth.
Friedrich Nietzsche heard and took part in these discussions with an uneasy ardour. Wagner's idea exalted408 him. But he had the soul of a solitary, and could not help being worried, and sometimes shocked, by these noises from the world which had to be tolerated. Wagner did not suffer: on the contrary, he seemed elated by the joy of feeling the crowd nearer to him; and Nietzsche, a little surprised, a little disappointed, sought, without precisely409 finding again, his hero. "To sway the people," he had written in his student notebooks, "is to put passions in the service of an idea." Wagner adapted himself to work of this kind. In the service of his art and of his fame he accepted all the passions. A Chauvinist410 with the Chauvinists, an idealist with the idealists, as much of a Gallophobe as was desired; restoring the ?schylian tragedy for some, for others re-animating the old German myths; willingly a pessimist411, a Christian if it pleased, sincere moreover from moment to moment, this prodigious being, a great leader of men as well as a great poet, handled his compatriots most dexterously412.
No one could resist the impulse which he gave: every one had to yield and to follow. He fixed the very details of the plans of the theatre whose site had just been chosen. He studied the practical organisation of the work, and laboured to create those Vereine in which propagandists and subscribers were to be grouped. He set himself out to procure92 rare and unexpected delights for the faithful. One day he surprised them with a performance for their benefit alone, in the gardens of Triebschen, of the Siegfried-Idyll, a gracious interlude written for the churching of his wife, a noble echo of the[Pg 117] most intimate times. He gave Nietzsche his r?le, for he could not allow that voice, so passionate and hard to control, and yet so eloquent413, to be lost. The young man offered to set out on a mission. He would stir up those circles in Northern Germany, so slow and heavy in its emotions. Bus proposal was not accepted; Wagner, no doubt, feared the violence of his apostolate: "No," he said to him, "finish and publish your book." Nietzsche felt somewhat melancholy at the refusal. Henceforth, it seems, difficulties began to arise between the two.
Moreover, the advice of the master was less easy to follow than it seemed. The Origin of Tragedy did not find a publisher. Nietzsche's applications failed, and his summer was spoilt by the check. He decided to print certain chapters of it in the reviews. "I put my little book into the world bit by bit," he wrote in July to Erwin Rohde; "what a childbirth! what tortures!"
At the beginning of October he was staying at Leipsic. Here he saw again his master Ritschl, and his friends Rohde, Gersdorff, who had come to meet him, and spent with them some happy days of conversation and comradeship. But the fate of his book remained uncertain: all the publishers of scientific and philological414 works bowed the author out. They were not tempted415 by a bizarre work, in which learning was allied416 with lyricism and the problems of ancient Greece with the problems of modern Germany. "The book is a centaur," said Nietzsche. This mythological417 assurance did not satisfy the book-sellers. Finally he had to address himself, not without regret—for he maintained that his work was a scientific work—to Richard Wagner's publisher, from whom he received, after a month's delay, a favourable reply. He wrote to his friend Gersdorff, in a free and relieved tone, which helps us to measure the vexation from which he had suffered.
[Pg 118]
"BASLE, November 19, 1871. "Pardon me, dear friend, I ought to have thanked you sooner. I had felt in your last letter, in every one of your words, your strong intellectual life. It seemed to me that you remained a soldier at soul and brought your military nature to art and philosophy. And that is good, for we have no right to live to-day, if we are not militants418, militants who prepare a s?culum to come, something of which we can guess at in ourselves, across our best instants. For those instants, which are what there is of best in us, draw us away in spirit from our time; nevertheless, in some manner, they need to have their hearthstone somewhere: whence I infer that at such instants we feel a confused breath of coming times pass over us. For instance, take our last meeting at Leipsic; has it not left in your memory the impression of such instants, as seemed to be strangers to everything, linked with another century? Whatever may be, this remains, 'Im Ganzen, Vollen, Sch?nen, resolut zu leben.' But it needs a strong will, such as is not given to the first comer!... To-day, only to-day, the excellent publisher Fritzsch replies to me."
Fritzsch proposed to him that he should give his book the format419 and character of a recent work of Wagner's: Die Bestimmung der Oper. Nietzsche rejoiced at the idea, and he wrote five concluding chapters which accentuated420 the Wagnerian tendency of the work. This rapid composition and the correction of the proofs did not deter247 him from another enterprise.
The Origin of Tragedy was about to appear. He did not doubt for a moment that it would be read, understood, acclaimed421. His comrades, his masters, had always acknowledged the strength of his thought. Apparently, it never occurred to him that a vaster public remained callous422; but he wished to affect it profoundly, at the first[Pg 119] blow, and he formed new projects by which he might make the most of his success. He wanted to talk: speech was a livelier weapon. He recalled the emotions which he had experienced when, as a young professor, he was given the singular task of teaching the most delicate language, the most difficult works, to chance audiences; he remembered his perhaps fanciful design: that seminary of philologists423, that house of study and retreat, of which he was always dreaming. He wanted to denounce the schools, the gymnasia, the Universities, the heavy apparatus424 of pedantry425 which was stifling426 the German spirit, and define the new and necessary institutions, destined, no longer for the emancipation427 of the masses, but for the culture of the State. He had written to Erwin Rohde as early as the month of March: "A new idea claims me, a new principle of education which points to the entire rejection of oar428 Universities, of our gymnasia...." In December, he announced at Basle, for January, 1872, a series of lectures upon The Future of our Educational Institutions.
Towards mid-December, he accompanied Richard Wagner to Mannheim, where a two days' festival was being devoted235 to the works of the master.
"Oh, what a pity you were not there!" he wrote to Erwin Rohde. "All the sensations, all the recollections of art, what are they compared to these? I am like a man whose ideal has been realised. It is Music, and Music alone!... When I say to myself that a certain number of men of the generations to come—at least some hundreds among them—will be moved by this music as I am myself, I cannot augur for less than an entire renewal429 of our culture!"
He returned to his house in Basle: but the impression of his days in Mannheim remained with him. The[Pg 120] details of his everyday life caused him a strange and tenacious430 disgust. "All that cannot be translated into music," he wrote, "is repulsive431 and repugnant to me.... I have a horror of reality. Or, rather, I no longer see anything of the real, it is only a phantasmagoria." Under the stress of this emotion he acquired a clearer view of the problem which occupied him, he formulated more clearly the principle for which he was seeking. To "teach," to "uplift" men, what does that mean? It is to dispose their minds in such sort that the productions of genius will be assured, not of the understanding of all, for that cannot be, but of the respect of all.
As in the preceding years, Richard and Cosima Wagner invited him to spend Christmas at Triebschen. He excused himself; the work of his lectures occupied all his time. He offered Cosima Wagner, by way of homage432, a musical fantasy on Saint Sylvester's Night, composed some weeks earlier. "I am very impatient to know what they will think of it down there," he wrote to Rohde. "I have never been criticised by any competent person." In reality, good judges had already often discouraged his musical enterprises, but he soon forgot their vexatious advice.
On the last day of 1871, his book appeared: Die Gebürt der Trag?die aus dem Geiste der Musik (The Birth of Tragedy from the Spirit of Music). The sub-title which the current editions give, Hellenism and Pessimism, was added in 1885 on the issue of the second edition. Friedrich Nietzsche sent the first copy to Richard Wagner, from whom he received almost at once a frenzied433 letter.
"DEAR FRIEND,—I have never read a finer book than yours. It is all splendid! At this moment, I write to you very hurriedly because the reading has profoundly[Pg 121] moved me, and I expect that I wait for the return of my sang-froid to re-read you methodically. I said to Cosima: After you, he it is whom I love most; and then, at a long distance, Lenbach, who has made so striking and so true a portrait of me.... Adieu! Come soon to see us!
"Yours,
"R. W."
On the 10th of January Wagner wrote again:
"You have just published a book which is incomparable. All the influences which you may have undergone are reduced to nothing by the character of your book: what distinguishes it from every other, is the complete confidence with which a penetrating434 individuality displays itself. It is here that you satisfy the ardent desire of myself and of my wife: in short, a strange voice might have been talking of us, and we would have fully56 approved it! Twice we have read your book from the first line to the last—in the daytime, separately—at night, together—and we were lamenting435 that we had not at our disposal that second copy which you had promised. We deliver battle over that sole copy. I am constantly in need of it; between my breakfast and my working hours, it is it that sets me going; for since I have read you, I have begun again to work on my last act. Our readings, whether together or separately, are constantly interrupted by our exclamations436. I am not yet recovered from the emotion which I experienced. There is the condition we are in!"
And Cosima Wagner wrote, for her part: "Oh, how fine your book is! How beautiful it is and how profound, how profound it is and how audacious!" On January 16th he delivered his first lecture. His[Pg 122] joy, his sense of security, were extreme. He knew that Jacob Burckhardt read and approved him; he knew that he had the admiration of Rohde, Gersdorff, Overbeck. "What they say of my book is incredible," he wrote to a friend. "... I have concluded an alliance with Wagner. You cannot imagine how we are bound to one another, and how identical are our views." He conceived his second work without delay; he would publish his lectures. It would be a popular book, an exoteric translation of his Tragedy. But the idea of an even more decisive action at once supervened. Germany was preparing to inaugurate the new University of Strassburg; and an apotheosis437 of professors on a soil that had been conquered by soldiers awoke the indignation of Friedrich Nietzsche. He wished to address a pamphlet to Bismarck, "under the form of an interpellation in the Reichstag." Have our pedants438, he would ask, the right to go in triumph to Strassburg? Our soldiers have conquered the French soldiers, and that is glorious. But has our culture humiliated439 French culture? Who would dare to say so?
Some days went by. Whence came the less happy tone of his letters? Why was it that he did not write his interpellation, that he gave up the idea of it? We know: except for a few friends who had understood his book, no one read it, no one bought it; not a review, not a newspaper deigned440 to take notice of it. Ritchsl, the great philologist of Leipsic, kept silent. Friedrich Nietzsche wrote to him: "I want to know what you think." He received in reply a severe criticism and a reproof441. Erwin Rohde offered an article for the Litterarische Centralblatt; it was not inserted. "It was the last chance of a serious voice being upraised for me in a scientific sheet," he wrote to Gersdorff; "now I expect nothing more—except spite or idiocy442. But, as[Pg 123] I have told you, I count upon the peaceful journey of my book through the centuries with perfect confidence. For in it certain eternal verities443 are said for the first time: they must resound...."
Certainly Friedrich Nietzsche had not foreseen his ill-success: it astonished and disconcerted him. A sore throat obliged him to interrupt his lectures, and he found pleasure in the contretemps. He had let himself be drawn towards ideas which were very lofty and delicate, and difficult even to himself. He wished to show that two sorts of schools should be instituted, the one professional, for the majority; the other, classical and truly superior, for an infinitesimal number of chosen individuals, whose course would be extended as far as their thirtieth year. How was this isolated circle, aloof444 from the common herd, to be formed, and how was it to be taught? Friedrich Nietzsche recurred445 to his most intimate and familiar thought, to that aristocratic ideal to which his meditations always led him. He had often studied its problems. But to examine them in public he needed his whole strength, and also a sympathetic audience. He felt that he had been weakened by the failure of his book. His very slight indisposition did not last long: nevertheless he did not return to his lectures. It was vain to ask him to do so: he refused. It was vain to press him to have them published; Richard Wagner strongly insisted: he eluded446 this insistence447. His notes have come to us in a sorry condition of incompleteness and disorder374. They are the echoes, the vestiges448 of a dream.
"The aristocracy of the mind must conquer its entire liberty in respect of the State, which is now keeping Science in curb449.
"Later, men will have to raise the tables of a new culture ... then destruction of the gymnasia, destruction[Pg 124] of the University ... an areopagus, for the justice of the mind.
"The culture of the future: its ideal of social problems. The imperative450 world of the beautiful and the sublime ... the only safeguard against Socialism ..."
Finally these three interrogatory words, which sum up his doubts, his desires, and perhaps his whole work: "Ist Veredlung m?glich?" (Is ennoblement possible?)
Friedrich Nietzsche courageously451 renounced his hope and was silent. He had lost his country: Prussia would not be the invincible452 framework of a lyrical race; the German Empire would not realise the "imperative world of the beautiful and the sublime." On April 30th the new University of Strassburg was inaugurated. "I hear from here the patriotic rejoicings," he wrote to Erwin Rohde. In January he had refused an offer of employment which would have withdrawn453 him from Basle. In April he spoke of leaving Basle and of going to Italy for two or three years. "The first review of my book has at last appeared," he wrote, "and I find it very good. But where has it appeared? In an Italian publication, La Rivista Europea! That is pleasant and symbolical454!"
He had a second reason for melancholy: Richard Wagner was leaving to make his home at Bayreuth. A letter of Cosima Wagner announced the departure: "Yes, Bayreuth!... Adieu to dear Triebschen, where the Origin of Tragedy was conceived, and so many other things which perhaps will never begin again!"
Three years before, in this spring season, Nietzsche had hazarded his first visit to Triebschen; he wished to return again. He did return, and found the house desolate455. A few pieces of furniture, covered over with horse-cloths[Pg 125] and dispersed456 from room to room, seemed like flotsam and jetsam from another time. Every small object, all the family knick-knacks, had disappeared. The light entered, hard and crude, through the curtainless windows. Wagner and his wife were completing then-last packages, throwing the last of the books into the last of the baskets. They welcomed the faithful Nietzsche, asked his aid; he gave it at once. He wrapped up in packets the letters, the precious manuscripts; then more books and scores. Suddenly his heart failed him. So it was all over, Triebschen was done with! Three years of his life, and what years they had been! How unexpected, how moving, how delicious, and they were to escape in a day! Now he must renounce the past, and follow the master without regret. Now he must forget Triebschen and, for the future, think only of Bayreuth. No sooner was this magical name pronounced than it fascinated Nietzsche and troubled him. His hours at Triebschen had been so fine, hours of repose and meditation, hours of work and silence. A man, a woman of genius; a nest of children; an infinity457 of happy conversations, of beauty—Triebschen had given all that. What would Bayreuth give? The crowd would come there, and what would it bring with it? Friedrich Nietzsche left the books which he was engaged in packing. The grand piano had remained in the middle of the salon458. He opened it, preluded459, then improvised460. Richard and Cosima Wagner, leaving aside all their affairs, listened. A harrowing, unforgettable rhapsody resounded461 through the empty salon. It was the adieu.
In November, 1888, Friedrich Nietzsche, already stricken with madness, set himself to recount his history. "Since I am here recalling the consolations462 of my life, I ought to express in a word my gratitude for what was by far my most profound and best-loved joy—my intimacy463 with Richard Wagner. I wish to be[Pg 126] just with regard to the rest of my human relationships; but I absolutely cannot efface271 from my life the days at Triebschen, days of confidence, of gaiety, of sublime flashes—days of profound perceptions. I do not know what Wagner was for others: our sky was never darkened by a cloud."
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21 fiery | |
adj.燃烧着的,火红的;暴躁的;激烈的 | |
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22 drooping | |
adj. 下垂的,无力的 动词droop的现在分词 | |
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23 overflowing | |
n. 溢出物,溢流 adj. 充沛的,充满的 动词overflow的现在分词形式 | |
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24 exuberant | |
adj.充满活力的;(植物)繁茂的 | |
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25 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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26 entirely | |
ad.全部地,完整地;完全地,彻底地 | |
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27 inert | |
adj.无活动能力的,惰性的;迟钝的 | |
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28 converse | |
vi.谈话,谈天,闲聊;adv.相反的,相反 | |
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29 antiquity | |
n.古老;高龄;古物,古迹 | |
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30 judgment | |
n.审判;判断力,识别力,看法,意见 | |
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31 fecund | |
adj.多产的,丰饶的,肥沃的 | |
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32 decided | |
adj.决定了的,坚决的;明显的,明确的 | |
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33 odyssey | |
n.长途冒险旅行;一连串的冒险 | |
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34 esteem | |
n.尊敬,尊重;vt.尊重,敬重;把…看作 | |
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35 inaugural | |
adj.就职的;n.就职典礼 | |
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36 augur | |
n.占卦师;v.占卦 | |
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37 philology | |
n.语言学;语文学 | |
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38 muse | |
n.缪斯(希腊神话中的女神),创作灵感 | |
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39 enchanted | |
adj. 被施魔法的,陶醉的,入迷的 动词enchant的过去式和过去分词 | |
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40 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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41 virtuoso | |
n.精于某种艺术或乐器的专家,行家里手 | |
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42 resound | |
v.回响 | |
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43 muses | |
v.沉思,冥想( muse的第三人称单数 );沉思自语说(某事) | |
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44 formerly | |
adv.从前,以前 | |
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45 descended | |
a.为...后裔的,出身于...的 | |
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46 baneful | |
adj.有害的 | |
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47 incurable | |
adj.不能医治的,不能矫正的,无救的;n.不治的病人,无救的人 | |
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48 evoking | |
产生,引起,唤起( evoke的现在分词 ) | |
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49 luminous | |
adj.发光的,发亮的;光明的;明白易懂的;有启发的 | |
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50 azure | |
adj.天蓝色的,蔚蓝色的 | |
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51 bourgeois | |
adj./n.追求物质享受的(人);中产阶级分子 | |
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52 abiding | |
adj.永久的,持久的,不变的 | |
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53 enchanting | |
a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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54 ardent | |
adj.热情的,热烈的,强烈的,烈性的 | |
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55 treatise | |
n.专著;(专题)论文 | |
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56 fully | |
adv.完全地,全部地,彻底地;充分地 | |
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57 withheld | |
withhold过去式及过去分词 | |
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58 publicity | |
n.众所周知,闻名;宣传,广告 | |
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59 socialist | |
n.社会主义者;adj.社会主义的 | |
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60 avid | |
adj.热心的;贪婪的;渴望的;劲头十足的 | |
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61 liberated | |
a.无拘束的,放纵的 | |
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62 standing | |
n.持续,地位;adj.永久的,不动的,直立的,不流动的 | |
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63 vanquished | |
v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 );战胜;克服;抑制 | |
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64 agitations | |
(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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65 collaborate | |
vi.协作,合作;协调 | |
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66 mere | |
adj.纯粹的;仅仅,只不过 | |
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67 attain | |
vt.达到,获得,完成 | |
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68 contrive | |
vt.谋划,策划;设法做到;设计,想出 | |
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69 zeal | |
n.热心,热情,热忱 | |
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70 immutable | |
adj.不可改变的,永恒的 | |
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71 constrain | |
vt.限制,约束;克制,抑制 | |
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72 lengthy | |
adj.漫长的,冗长的 | |
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73 envelops | |
v.包围,笼罩,包住( envelop的第三人称单数 ) | |
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74 artifices | |
n.灵巧( artifice的名词复数 );诡计;巧妙办法;虚伪行为 | |
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75 artifice | |
n.妙计,高明的手段;狡诈,诡计 | |
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76 conserving | |
v.保护,保藏,保存( conserve的现在分词 ) | |
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77 patriotism | |
n.爱国精神,爱国心,爱国主义 | |
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78 sublime | |
adj.崇高的,伟大的;极度的,不顾后果的 | |
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79 patriotic | |
adj.爱国的,有爱国心的 | |
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80 hatred | |
n.憎恶,憎恨,仇恨 | |
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81 unity | |
n.团结,联合,统一;和睦,协调 | |
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82 penetrated | |
adj. 击穿的,鞭辟入里的 动词penetrate的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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83 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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84 exalt | |
v.赞扬,歌颂,晋升,提升 | |
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85 alleviate | |
v.减轻,缓和,缓解(痛苦等) | |
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86 confided | |
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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87 grandeur | |
n.伟大,崇高,宏伟,庄严,豪华 | |
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88 philosophic | |
adj.哲学的,贤明的 | |
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89 philosophical | |
adj.哲学家的,哲学上的,达观的 | |
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90 amiable | |
adj.和蔼可亲的,友善的,亲切的 | |
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91 procured | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的过去式和过去分词 );拉皮条 | |
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92 procure | |
vt.获得,取得,促成;vi.拉皮条 | |
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93 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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94 solitude | |
n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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95 depressed | |
adj.沮丧的,抑郁的,不景气的,萧条的 | |
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96 alas | |
int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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97 ruminate | |
v.反刍;沉思 | |
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98 taverns | |
n.小旅馆,客栈,酒馆( tavern的名词复数 ) | |
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99 plentiful | |
adj.富裕的,丰富的 | |
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100 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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101 solitudes | |
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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102 exalting | |
a.令人激动的,令人喜悦的 | |
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103 vows | |
誓言( vow的名词复数 ); 郑重宣布,许愿 | |
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104 luxurious | |
adj.精美而昂贵的;豪华的 | |
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105 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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106 domains | |
n.范围( domain的名词复数 );领域;版图;地产 | |
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107 gratitude | |
adj.感激,感谢 | |
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108 opportune | |
adj.合适的,适当的 | |
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109 fixed | |
adj.固定的,不变的,准备好的;(计算机)固定的 | |
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110 galling | |
adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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111 slumber | |
n.睡眠,沉睡状态 | |
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112 awakening | |
n.觉醒,醒悟 adj.觉醒中的;唤醒的 | |
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113 gathering | |
n.集会,聚会,聚集 | |
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114 scattered | |
adj.分散的,稀疏的;散步的;疏疏落落的 | |
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115 remains | |
n.剩余物,残留物;遗体,遗迹 | |
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116 meditate | |
v.想,考虑,(尤指宗教上的)沉思,冥想 | |
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117 meditates | |
深思,沉思,冥想( meditate的第三人称单数 ); 内心策划,考虑 | |
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118 ensemble | |
n.合奏(唱)组;全套服装;整体,总效果 | |
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119 serene | |
adj. 安详的,宁静的,平静的 | |
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120 primitive | |
adj.原始的;简单的;n.原(始)人,原始事物 | |
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121 aristocrat | |
n.贵族,有贵族气派的人,上层人物 | |
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122 inhales | |
v.吸入( inhale的第三人称单数 ) | |
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123 infliction | |
n.(强加于人身的)痛苦,刑罚 | |
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124 animate | |
v.赋于生命,鼓励;adj.有生命的,有生气的 | |
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125 evocation | |
n. 引起,唤起 n. <古> 召唤,招魂 | |
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126 herd | |
n.兽群,牧群;vt.使集中,把…赶在一起 | |
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127 lyric | |
n.抒情诗,歌词;adj.抒情的 | |
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128 stipulated | |
vt.& vi.规定;约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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129 democrats | |
n.民主主义者,民主人士( democrat的名词复数 ) | |
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130 insipid | |
adj.无味的,枯燥乏味的,单调的 | |
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131 well-being | |
n.安康,安乐,幸福 | |
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132 prattling | |
v.(小孩般)天真无邪地说话( prattle的现在分词 );发出连续而无意义的声音;闲扯;东拉西扯 | |
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133 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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134 serenity | |
n.宁静,沉着,晴朗 | |
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135 tardy | |
adj.缓慢的,迟缓的 | |
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136 subtlety | |
n.微妙,敏锐,精巧;微妙之处,细微的区别 | |
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137 platonic | |
adj.精神的;柏拉图(哲学)的 | |
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138 infancy | |
n.婴儿期;幼年期;初期 | |
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139 fatality | |
n.不幸,灾祸,天命 | |
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140 virtues | |
美德( virtue的名词复数 ); 德行; 优点; 长处 | |
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141 virtue | |
n.德行,美德;贞操;优点;功效,效力 | |
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142 animated | |
adj.生气勃勃的,活跃的,愉快的 | |
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143 pessimism | |
n.悲观者,悲观主义者,厌世者 | |
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144 afflicted | |
使受痛苦,折磨( afflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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145 depreciation | |
n.价值低落,贬值,蔑视,贬低 | |
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146 destined | |
adj.命中注定的;(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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147 crumbled | |
(把…)弄碎, (使)碎成细屑( crumble的过去式和过去分词 ); 衰落; 坍塌; 损坏 | |
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148 twilight | |
n.暮光,黄昏;暮年,晚期,衰落时期 | |
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149 philologist | |
n.语言学者,文献学者 | |
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150 liking | |
n.爱好;嗜好;喜欢 | |
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151 frightful | |
adj.可怕的;讨厌的 | |
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152 beatific | |
adj.快乐的,有福的 | |
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153 intimacies | |
亲密( intimacy的名词复数 ); 密切; 亲昵的言行; 性行为 | |
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154 perilous | |
adj.危险的,冒险的 | |
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155 disciple | |
n.信徒,门徒,追随者 | |
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156 baron | |
n.男爵;(商业界等)巨头,大王 | |
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157 vexed | |
adj.争论不休的;(指问题等)棘手的;争论不休的问题;烦恼的v.使烦恼( vex的过去式和过去分词 );使苦恼;使生气;详细讨论 | |
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158 intoxication | |
n.wild excitement;drunkenness;poisoning | |
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159 initiated | |
n. 创始人 adj. 新加入的 vt. 开始,创始,启蒙,介绍加入 | |
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160 abstained | |
v.戒(尤指酒),戒除( abstain的过去式和过去分词 );弃权(不投票) | |
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161 irresistible | |
adj.非常诱人的,无法拒绝的,无法抗拒的 | |
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162 delirium | |
n. 神智昏迷,说胡话;极度兴奋 | |
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163 mingled | |
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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164 carnival | |
n.嘉年华会,狂欢,狂欢节,巡回表演 | |
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165 bosom | |
n.胸,胸部;胸怀;内心;adj.亲密的 | |
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166 phenomena | |
n.现象 | |
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167 forth | |
adv.向前;向外,往外 | |
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168 catastrophe | |
n.大灾难,大祸 | |
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169 revered | |
v.崇敬,尊崇,敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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170 revere | |
vt.尊崇,崇敬,敬畏 | |
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171 scoffer | |
嘲笑者 | |
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172 spoke | |
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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173 absurdity | |
n.荒谬,愚蠢;谬论 | |
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174 irony | |
n.反语,冷嘲;具有讽刺意味的事,嘲弄 | |
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175 dishonoured | |
a.不光彩的,不名誉的 | |
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176 renounce | |
v.放弃;拒绝承认,宣布与…断绝关系 | |
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177 renounced | |
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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178 instinctive | |
adj.(出于)本能的;直觉的;(出于)天性的 | |
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179 seduced | |
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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180 harmonious | |
adj.和睦的,调和的,和谐的,协调的 | |
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181 expound | |
v.详述;解释;阐述 | |
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182 adoration | |
n.爱慕,崇拜 | |
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183 swell | |
vi.膨胀,肿胀;增长,增强 | |
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184 hymns | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌( hymn的名词复数 ) | |
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185 hymn | |
n.赞美诗,圣歌,颂歌 | |
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186 incapable | |
adj.无能力的,不能做某事的 | |
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187 rendering | |
n.表现,描写 | |
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188 obstinately | |
ad.固执地,顽固地 | |
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189 imprison | |
vt.监禁,关押,限制,束缚 | |
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190 renaissance | |
n.复活,复兴,文艺复兴 | |
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191 spurt | |
v.喷出;突然进发;突然兴隆 | |
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192 centaur | |
n.人首马身的怪物 | |
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193 pointed | |
adj.尖的,直截了当的 | |
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194 titular | |
adj.名义上的,有名无实的;n.只有名义(或头衔)的人 | |
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195 rhetoric | |
n.修辞学,浮夸之言语 | |
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196 applied | |
adj.应用的;v.应用,适用 | |
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197 discourse | |
n.论文,演说;谈话;话语;vi.讲述,著述 | |
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198 haggle | |
vi.讨价还价,争论不休 | |
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199 collaboration | |
n.合作,协作;勾结 | |
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200 malevolence | |
n.恶意,狠毒 | |
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201 brink | |
n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘,边沿 | |
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202 apparently | |
adv.显然地;表面上,似乎 | |
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203 rumours | |
n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 );风闻;谣言;谣传 | |
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204 thereby | |
adv.因此,从而 | |
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205 reigned | |
vi.当政,统治(reign的过去式形式) | |
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206 dreaded | |
adj.令人畏惧的;害怕的v.害怕,恐惧,担心( dread的过去式和过去分词) | |
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207 imminent | |
adj.即将发生的,临近的,逼近的 | |
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208 bureaucrats | |
n.官僚( bureaucrat的名词复数 );官僚主义;官僚主义者;官僚语言 | |
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209 demon | |
n.魔鬼,恶魔 | |
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210 aspirations | |
强烈的愿望( aspiration的名词复数 ); 志向; 发送气音; 发 h 音 | |
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211 aspiration | |
n.志向,志趣抱负;渴望;(语)送气音;吸出 | |
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212 cloisters | |
n.(学院、修道院、教堂等建筑的)走廊( cloister的名词复数 );回廊;修道院的生活;隐居v.隐退,使与世隔绝( cloister的第三人称单数 ) | |
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213 cloister | |
n.修道院;v.隐退,使与世隔绝 | |
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214 contemplator | |
沉思者,静观者 | |
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215 dispensed | |
v.分配( dispense的过去式和过去分词 );施与;配(药) | |
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216 abode | |
n.住处,住所 | |
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217 formulated | |
v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 );规划;确切地阐述;用公式表示 | |
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218 perils | |
极大危险( peril的名词复数 ); 危险的事(或环境) | |
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219 meditation | |
n.熟虑,(尤指宗教的)默想,沉思,(pl.)冥想录 | |
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220 meditations | |
默想( meditation的名词复数 ); 默念; 沉思; 冥想 | |
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221 artillery | |
n.(军)火炮,大炮;炮兵(部队) | |
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222 enlist | |
vt.谋取(支持等),赢得;征募;vi.入伍 | |
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223 enlisted | |
adj.应募入伍的v.(使)入伍, (使)参军( enlist的过去式和过去分词 );获得(帮助或支持) | |
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224 corps | |
n.(通信等兵种的)部队;(同类作的)一组 | |
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225 allured | |
诱引,吸引( allure的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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226 lured | |
吸引,引诱(lure的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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227 conflagrations | |
n.大火(灾)( conflagration的名词复数 ) | |
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228 esteemed | |
adj.受人尊敬的v.尊敬( esteem的过去式和过去分词 );敬重;认为;以为 | |
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229 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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230 actively | |
adv.积极地,勤奋地 | |
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231 maxim | |
n.格言,箴言 | |
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232 relished | |
v.欣赏( relish的过去式和过去分词 );从…获得乐趣;渴望 | |
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233 relish | |
n.滋味,享受,爱好,调味品;vt.加调味料,享受,品味;vi.有滋味 | |
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234 ordeal | |
n.苦难经历,(尤指对品格、耐力的)严峻考验 | |
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235 devoted | |
adj.忠诚的,忠实的,热心的,献身于...的 | |
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236 devotedly | |
专心地; 恩爱地; 忠实地; 一心一意地 | |
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237 repose | |
v.(使)休息;n.安息 | |
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238 epoch | |
n.(新)时代;历元 | |
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239 incessant | |
adj.不停的,连续的 | |
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240 lamentation | |
n.悲叹,哀悼 | |
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241 allurement | |
n.诱惑物 | |
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242 glorifies | |
赞美( glorify的第三人称单数 ); 颂扬; 美化; 使光荣 | |
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243 drawn | |
v.拖,拉,拔出;adj.憔悴的,紧张的 | |
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244 bloody | |
adj.非常的的;流血的;残忍的;adv.很;vt.血染 | |
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245 emanated | |
v.从…处传出,传出( emanate的过去式和过去分词 );产生,表现,显示 | |
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246 beverage | |
n.(水,酒等之外的)饮料 | |
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247 deter | |
vt.阻止,使不敢,吓住 | |
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248 determined | |
adj.坚定的;有决心的 | |
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249 dictate | |
v.口授;(使)听写;指令,指示,命令 | |
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250 provincial | |
adj.省的,地方的;n.外省人,乡下人 | |
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251 functionaries | |
n.公职人员,官员( functionary的名词复数 ) | |
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252 robust | |
adj.强壮的,强健的,粗野的,需要体力的,浓的 | |
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253 conceit | |
n.自负,自高自大 | |
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254 exacting | |
adj.苛求的,要求严格的 | |
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255 commemorate | |
vt.纪念,庆祝 | |
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256 conquerors | |
征服者,占领者( conqueror的名词复数 ) | |
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257 worthily | |
重要地,可敬地,正当地 | |
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258 stature | |
n.(高度)水平,(高度)境界,身高,身材 | |
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259 avenged | |
v.为…复仇,报…之仇( avenge的过去式和过去分词 );为…报复 | |
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260 unwilling | |
adj.不情愿的 | |
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261 brutality | |
n.野蛮的行为,残忍,野蛮 | |
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262 odious | |
adj.可憎的,讨厌的 | |
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263 detested | |
v.憎恶,嫌恶,痛恨( detest的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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264 intervals | |
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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265 murmur | |
n.低语,低声的怨言;v.低语,低声而言 | |
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266 ruffled | |
adj. 有褶饰边的, 起皱的 动词ruffle的过去式和过去分词 | |
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267 situated | |
adj.坐落在...的,处于某种境地的 | |
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268 censure | |
v./n.责备;非难;责难 | |
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269 virile | |
adj.男性的;有男性生殖力的;有男子气概的;强有力的 | |
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270 effaced | |
v.擦掉( efface的过去式和过去分词 );抹去;超越;使黯然失色 | |
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271 efface | |
v.擦掉,抹去 | |
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272 immediate | |
adj.立即的;直接的,最接近的;紧靠的 | |
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273 repugnance | |
n.嫌恶 | |
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274 sprout | |
n.芽,萌芽;vt.使发芽,摘去芽;vi.长芽,抽条 | |
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275 recluse | |
n.隐居者 | |
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276 discreet | |
adj.(言行)谨慎的;慎重的;有判断力的 | |
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277 fathom | |
v.领悟,彻底了解 | |
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278 sluggish | |
adj.懒惰的,迟钝的,无精打采的 | |
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279 stunted | |
adj.矮小的;发育迟缓的 | |
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280 heroism | |
n.大无畏精神,英勇 | |
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281 meditated | |
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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282 confiding | |
adj.相信人的,易于相信的v.吐露(秘密,心事等)( confide的现在分词 );(向某人)吐露(隐私、秘密等) | |
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283 epic | |
n.史诗,叙事诗;adj.史诗般的,壮丽的 | |
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284 administrative | |
adj.行政的,管理的 | |
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285 solitaries | |
n.独居者,隐士( solitary的名词复数 ) | |
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286 lasting | |
adj.永久的,永恒的;vbl.持续,维持 | |
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287 nostalgia | |
n.怀乡病,留恋过去,怀旧 | |
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288 isolate | |
vt.使孤立,隔离 | |
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289 Founder | |
n.创始者,缔造者 | |
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290 brotherhood | |
n.兄弟般的关系,手中情谊 | |
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291 sages | |
n.圣人( sage的名词复数 );智者;哲人;鼠尾草(可用作调料) | |
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292 meditative | |
adj.沉思的,冥想的 | |
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293 knight | |
n.骑士,武士;爵士 | |
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294 knights | |
骑士; (中古时代的)武士( knight的名词复数 ); 骑士; 爵士; (国际象棋中)马 | |
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295 Christian | |
adj.基督教徒的;n.基督教徒 | |
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296 concur | |
v.同意,意见一致,互助,同时发生 | |
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297 favourable | |
adj.赞成的,称赞的,有利的,良好的,顺利的 | |
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298 diffuse | |
v.扩散;传播;adj.冗长的;四散的,弥漫的 | |
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299 passionate | |
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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300 presage | |
n.预感,不祥感;v.预示 | |
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301 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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302 ennui | |
n.怠倦,无聊 | |
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303 judgments | |
判断( judgment的名词复数 ); 鉴定; 评价; 审判 | |
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304 radical | |
n.激进份子,原子团,根号;adj.根本的,激进的,彻底的 | |
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305 yoke | |
n.轭;支配;v.给...上轭,连接,使成配偶 | |
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306 stifled | |
(使)窒息, (使)窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 ); 镇压,遏制; 堵 | |
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307 honorarium | |
n.酬金,谢礼 | |
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308 lawful | |
adj.法律许可的,守法的,合法的 | |
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309 symbolic | |
adj.象征性的,符号的,象征主义的 | |
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310 lurch | |
n.突然向前或旁边倒;v.蹒跚而行 | |
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311 promenades | |
n.人行道( promenade的名词复数 );散步场所;闲逛v.兜风( promenade的第三人称单数 ) | |
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312 isolated | |
adj.与世隔绝的 | |
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313 joyfully | |
adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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314 soften | |
v.(使)变柔软;(使)变柔和 | |
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315 thither | |
adv.向那里;adj.在那边的,对岸的 | |
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316 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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317 conceals | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,遮住( conceal的第三人称单数 ) | |
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318 mechanisms | |
n.机械( mechanism的名词复数 );机械装置;[生物学] 机制;机械作用 | |
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319 predecessor | |
n.前辈,前任 | |
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320 monstrous | |
adj.巨大的;恐怖的;可耻的,丢脸的 | |
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321 shuddered | |
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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322 reassure | |
v.使放心,使消除疑虑 | |
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323 livelihood | |
n.生计,谋生之道 | |
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324 avow | |
v.承认,公开宣称 | |
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325 misery | |
n.痛苦,苦恼,苦难;悲惨的境遇,贫苦 | |
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326 unpaid | |
adj.未付款的,无报酬的 | |
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327 submission | |
n.服从,投降;温顺,谦虚;提出 | |
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328 mole | |
n.胎块;痣;克分子 | |
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329 appropriation | |
n.拨款,批准支出 | |
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330 usurpation | |
n.篡位;霸占 | |
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331 plunged | |
v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 );暴跌;骤降;突降 | |
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332 invokes | |
v.援引( invoke的第三人称单数 );行使(权利等);祈求救助;恳求 | |
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333 shameful | |
adj.可耻的,不道德的 | |
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334 affinity | |
n.亲和力,密切关系 | |
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335 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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336 binds | |
v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 );装订;捆绑;(用长布条)缠绕 | |
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337 regenerated | |
v.新生,再生( regenerate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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338 evade | |
vt.逃避,回避;避开,躲避 | |
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339 deliberately | |
adv.审慎地;蓄意地;故意地 | |
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340 organise | |
vt.组织,安排,筹办 | |
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341 conjure | |
v.恳求,祈求;变魔术,变戏法 | |
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342 equilibrium | |
n.平衡,均衡,相称,均势,平静 | |
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343 incumbent | |
adj.成为责任的,有义务的;现任的,在职的 | |
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344 monarchical | |
adj. 国王的,帝王的,君主的,拥护君主制的 =monarchic | |
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345 doctrines | |
n.教条( doctrine的名词复数 );教义;学说;(政府政策的)正式声明 | |
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346 platitude | |
n.老生常谈,陈词滥调 | |
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347 devoid | |
adj.全无的,缺乏的 | |
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348 triumphant | |
adj.胜利的,成功的;狂欢的,喜悦的 | |
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349 suffrage | |
n.投票,选举权,参政权 | |
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350 denuded | |
adj.[医]变光的,裸露的v.使赤裸( denude的过去式和过去分词 );剥光覆盖物 | |
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351 speculative | |
adj.思索性的,暝想性的,推理的 | |
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352 speculation | |
n.思索,沉思;猜测;投机 | |
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353 procures | |
v.(努力)取得, (设法)获得( procure的第三人称单数 );拉皮条 | |
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354 attained | |
(通常经过努力)实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 ); 达到; 获得; 达到(某年龄、水平、状况) | |
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355 exalts | |
赞扬( exalt的第三人称单数 ); 歌颂; 提升; 提拔 | |
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356 pedantic | |
adj.卖弄学问的;迂腐的 | |
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357 inevitable | |
adj.不可避免的,必然发生的 | |
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358 disillusion | |
vt.使不再抱幻想,使理想破灭 | |
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359 embarked | |
乘船( embark的过去式和过去分词 ); 装载; 从事 | |
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360 interpretation | |
n.解释,说明,描述;艺术处理 | |
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361 slur | |
v.含糊地说;诋毁;连唱;n.诋毁;含糊的发音 | |
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362 plebeian | |
adj.粗俗的;平民的;n.平民;庶民 | |
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363 victorious | |
adj.胜利的,得胜的 | |
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364 organisation | |
n.组织,安排,团体,有机休 | |
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365 venerates | |
敬重(某人或某事物),崇敬( venerate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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366 resounding | |
adj. 响亮的 | |
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367 awakened | |
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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368 inflicted | |
把…强加给,使承受,遭受( inflict的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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369 passionately | |
ad.热烈地,激烈地 | |
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370 condemned | |
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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371 delicacy | |
n.精致,细微,微妙,精良;美味,佳肴 | |
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372 ordeals | |
n.严峻的考验,苦难的经历( ordeal的名词复数 ) | |
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373 disorders | |
n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 );凌乱;骚乱;(身心、机能)失调 | |
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374 disorder | |
n.紊乱,混乱;骚动,骚乱;疾病,失调 | |
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375 insomnia | |
n.失眠,失眠症 | |
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376 tormenting | |
使痛苦的,使苦恼的 | |
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377 ridge | |
n.山脊;鼻梁;分水岭 | |
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378 remarkable | |
adj.显著的,异常的,非凡的,值得注意的 | |
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379 humanitarian | |
n.人道主义者,博爱者,基督凡人论者 | |
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380 abjure | |
v.发誓放弃 | |
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381 resolutely | |
adj.坚决地,果断地 | |
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382 supple | |
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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383 hierarchic | |
等级制的,按等级划分的 | |
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384 entails | |
使…成为必要( entail的第三人称单数 ); 需要; 限定继承; 使必需 | |
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385 rejection | |
n.拒绝,被拒,抛弃,被弃 | |
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386 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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387 precursor | |
n.先驱者;前辈;前任;预兆;先兆 | |
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388 insinuates | |
n.暗示( insinuate的名词复数 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入v.暗示( insinuate的第三人称单数 );巧妙或迂回地潜入;(使)缓慢进入;慢慢伸入 | |
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389 disinterested | |
adj.不关心的,不感兴趣的 | |
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390 consecrated | |
adj.神圣的,被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣,给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 );奉献 | |
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391 amassed | |
v.积累,积聚( amass的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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392 intoxicated | |
喝醉的,极其兴奋的 | |
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393 corrupted | |
(使)败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 ); (使)腐化; 引起(计算机文件等的)错误; 破坏 | |
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394 tranquillity | |
n. 平静, 安静 | |
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395 calamities | |
n.灾祸,灾难( calamity的名词复数 );不幸之事 | |
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396 profanation | |
n.亵渎 | |
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397 hierarchy | |
n.等级制度;统治集团,领导层 | |
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398 subsist | |
vi.生存,存在,供养 | |
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399 humbly | |
adv. 恭顺地,谦卑地 | |
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400 perspicacity | |
n. 敏锐, 聪明, 洞察力 | |
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401 sobs | |
啜泣(声),呜咽(声)( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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402 impute | |
v.归咎于 | |
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403 utterly | |
adv.完全地,绝对地 | |
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404 deplored | |
v.悲叹,痛惜,强烈反对( deplore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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405 seclusion | |
n.隐遁,隔离 | |
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406 discoursed | |
演说(discourse的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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407 overflowed | |
溢出的 | |
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408 exalted | |
adj.(地位等)高的,崇高的;尊贵的,高尚的 | |
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409 precisely | |
adv.恰好,正好,精确地,细致地 | |
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410 chauvinist | |
n.沙文主义者 | |
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411 pessimist | |
n.悲观者;悲观主义者;厌世 | |
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412 dexterously | |
adv.巧妙地,敏捷地 | |
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413 eloquent | |
adj.雄辩的,口才流利的;明白显示出的 | |
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414 philological | |
adj.语言学的,文献学的 | |
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415 tempted | |
v.怂恿(某人)干不正当的事;冒…的险(tempt的过去分词) | |
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416 allied | |
adj.协约国的;同盟国的 | |
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417 mythological | |
adj.神话的 | |
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418 militants | |
激进分子,好斗分子( militant的名词复数 ) | |
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419 format | |
n.设计,版式;[计算机]格式,DOS命令:格式化(磁盘),用于空盘或使用过的磁盘建立新空盘来存储数据;v.使格式化,设计,安排 | |
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420 accentuated | |
v.重读( accentuate的过去式和过去分词 );使突出;使恶化;加重音符号于 | |
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421 acclaimed | |
adj.受人欢迎的 | |
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422 callous | |
adj.无情的,冷淡的,硬结的,起老茧的 | |
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423 philologists | |
n.语文学( philology的名词复数 ) | |
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424 apparatus | |
n.装置,器械;器具,设备 | |
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425 pedantry | |
n.迂腐,卖弄学问 | |
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426 stifling | |
a.令人窒息的 | |
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427 emancipation | |
n.(从束缚、支配下)解放 | |
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428 oar | |
n.桨,橹,划手;v.划行 | |
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429 renewal | |
adj.(契约)延期,续订,更新,复活,重来 | |
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430 tenacious | |
adj.顽强的,固执的,记忆力强的,粘的 | |
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431 repulsive | |
adj.排斥的,使人反感的 | |
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432 homage | |
n.尊敬,敬意,崇敬 | |
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433 frenzied | |
a.激怒的;疯狂的 | |
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434 penetrating | |
adj.(声音)响亮的,尖锐的adj.(气味)刺激的adj.(思想)敏锐的,有洞察力的 | |
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435 lamenting | |
adj.悲伤的,悲哀的v.(为…)哀悼,痛哭,悲伤( lament的现在分词 ) | |
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436 exclamations | |
n.呼喊( exclamation的名词复数 );感叹;感叹语;感叹词 | |
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437 apotheosis | |
n.神圣之理想;美化;颂扬 | |
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438 pedants | |
n.卖弄学问的人,学究,书呆子( pedant的名词复数 ) | |
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439 humiliated | |
感到羞愧的 | |
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440 deigned | |
v.屈尊,俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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441 reproof | |
n.斥责,责备 | |
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442 idiocy | |
n.愚蠢 | |
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443 verities | |
n.真实( verity的名词复数 );事实;真理;真实的陈述 | |
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444 aloof | |
adj.远离的;冷淡的,漠不关心的 | |
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445 recurred | |
再发生,复发( recur的过去式和过去分词 ); 治愈 | |
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446 eluded | |
v.(尤指机敏地)避开( elude的过去式和过去分词 );逃避;躲避;使达不到 | |
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447 insistence | |
n.坚持;强调;坚决主张 | |
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448 vestiges | |
残余部分( vestige的名词复数 ); 遗迹; 痕迹; 毫不 | |
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449 curb | |
n.场外证券市场,场外交易;vt.制止,抑制 | |
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450 imperative | |
n.命令,需要;规则;祈使语气;adj.强制的;紧急的 | |
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451 courageously | |
ad.勇敢地,无畏地 | |
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452 invincible | |
adj.不可征服的,难以制服的 | |
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453 withdrawn | |
vt.收回;使退出;vi.撤退,退出 | |
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454 symbolical | |
a.象征性的 | |
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455 desolate | |
adj.荒凉的,荒芜的;孤独的,凄凉的;v.使荒芜,使孤寂 | |
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456 dispersed | |
adj. 被驱散的, 被分散的, 散布的 | |
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457 infinity | |
n.无限,无穷,大量 | |
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458 salon | |
n.[法]沙龙;客厅;营业性的高级服务室 | |
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459 preluded | |
v.为…作序,开头(prelude的过去式与过去分词形式) | |
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460 improvised | |
a.即席而作的,即兴的 | |
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461 resounded | |
v.(指声音等)回荡于某处( resound的过去式和过去分词 );产生回响;(指某处)回荡着声音 | |
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462 consolations | |
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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463 intimacy | |
n.熟悉,亲密,密切关系,亲昵的言行 | |
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