"At this moment," he wrote, the 20th September, 1876, "I have every leisure to think of the past—farthest and nearest—for my oculist6 makes me sit idle for long periods in a darkened room. Autumn, after such a summer, is[Pg 196] for me, and no doubt not only for me, more autumn than any other. After the great event comes an attack of blacker melancholy8, and to escape it one cannot fly too quickly towards Italy or towards work, or towards both."
He had obtained the leave for which he had asked, and the sole gladness which he had in life was the certainty that he would be free for some months from all professional duties.
He left Switzerland at the end of October. Alfred Brenner and Paul Rée accompanied him. The three Germans went down towards Genoa, and thence took a steamer to Naples, where Fr?ulein von Meysenbug was expecting them.
"I found Nietzsche," she writes, "disappointed sufficiently9, because the journey and the arrival in Naples, in the middle of this noisy, clamorous10, importunate11 people, had been very disagreeable to him. In the evening, however, I asked the visitors to take a drive to Pausilippe. It was such an evening as one sees only down here; sky, earth, and sea floated in a glory of indescribable colours, which filled the soul as an enchanting12 music, a harmony from which every discordant14 note was gone. I observed how Nietzsche's face lit up in joyous15 and almost childlike astonishment16, as though he were dominated by a profound emotion; finally he gave vent7 to enthusiastic exclamations17, which I welcomed as a happy augury18 for the efficacy of his visit."
Fr?ulein von Meysenbug had hired a villa—it was an old pension—on that slope which glides19 rapidly towards the sea, carrying its olives, its lemons, its cypresses20, and its vines with it down to the waves. "On the first[Pg 197] floor," she writes, "there were rooms with terraces for the gentlemen; on the second, rooms for myself and my maid, with a big sitting-room21 for our common use."
She installed her guests in this retreat which she had selected for them; but they had to wait a while before they could enjoy the retired22 life for which they were in search. A too illustrious neighbour was stopping hard by—none other than Richard Wagner, who, accompanied by all his people, was resting at Sorrento after the immense effort and triumph of Bayreuth.
He showed no signs of fatigue23. His days were spent in walking, his nights in conversation. With Fr?ulein von Meysenbug and his friends he held a sort of court.
We wonder if Friedrich Nietzsche had expected thus to find his master before him again? He could not avoid taking part in the walks, and in the evening parties: but he displayed a slight reserve. Whilst Richard Wagner talked of his future projects and of his coming work, and of the religious ideas which he wished to express, Nietzsche preferred to isolate24 himself with Paul Rée and to talk of Chamfort and of Stendhal. Richard Wagner observed these conversations. Now, he disliked Jews, and Rée displeased25 him. "Be careful," said he to Nietzsche, "that man will do you no good." Nietzsche did not modify his attitude. He spoke26 little, or, if he did mix in conversation, displayed a forced liveliness and a gaiety which were not altogether natural. Fr?ulein von Meysenbug was more than once surprised:
"But I never suspected," she writes, "that any change had come over his sentiments, and I abandoned myself with a whole heart to the delights which came to complete those of Bayreuth. The joy I experienced in living in a like intimacy27 led me to quote one day, as we sat together at table, a thought from Goethe of which I was very fond: 'Happy he who, without hatred28, withdraws[Pg 198] from the world, presses a friend to his breast, and thus enjoys that something which men know not nor suspect, that which crosses the labyrinth29 of the heart at night.' The Wagners did not know this quotation30, and were so enchanted31 with it that I had to repeat it to them. Alas32! I did not guess that the demons33 who also cross the labyrinth of the heart at night and intimately contemplate34 the divine mystery of sympathy between noble minds, had already begun their work of sowing discord13 and division."
Towards the end of November, Richard Wagner having left Sorrento, Fr?ulein von Meysenbug and her friends were able to regulate their lives with a view to study. They arranged the employment of their time: up to noon, work and solitude35; at noon, breakfast; after breakfast, a walk and conversation; in the evening, work and solitude; at night, after dinner, reading. Paul Rée, the only healthy member in this society of invalid36 intellectuals, read aloud. Nietzsche and Fr?ulein von Meysenbug were short-sighted; Brenner's lungs were affected37. Who were their authors? Jacob Burckhardt, whose course of lectures on Greek culture they were studying (a student of Basle had lent his notes); a little of Michelet; Herodotus; Thucydides. A question posed, a doubt expressed, sometimes interrupted Paul Rée's readings; and it was almost always Friedrich Nietzsche who concluded the short debate.
"Nietzsche was indeed the soul of sweetness and kindliness38!" writes Fr?ulein von Meysenbug in her charming account. "How well his good and amiable39 nature counterbalanced his destructive intelligence! How well he knew how to be gay, and to laugh with a good heart at the jokes which often came to disturb the serious atmosphere of our little circle. When we were together in[Pg 199] the evening, Nietzsche comfortably installed in an arm-chair in the shade of a screen; Dr. Rée, our obliging reader, seated at the table on which the lamp was placed; young Brenner, near the chimney-piece opposite me, helping40 me to peel oranges for dinner; I often said, laughing: 'We represent truly an ideal family; here are we four people, who scarcely knew each other before, who are not united by any tie of relationship, who have no memories in common, and we now live together in absolute concord41, in the most complete personal liberty, and in a perfect content of mind and heart.' So plans were soon sketched42 for the renewal43 and enlargement of this happy experience...."
Would it be impossible to come back each year to this Italian coast, to call one's friends thither44, and thus to found a spiritual refuge, free of every school, of every Church? On the morrow of 1848 Fr?ulein von Meysenbug had inspired at Hamburg a sort of Socialist45 phalanstery, which became the subject of one of the finest chapters of her book, and remained to her as one of the greatest memories of her life. Friedrich Nietzsche in no wise abandoned his ancient dream of a lay cloister46. Thus the memories of the old lady agreed with the hopes of her young companion. Paul Rée and Alfred Brenner did not refuse their co-operation, and the four friends gave the project their serious consideration.
"Already we are in quest of an appropriate locality," writes Fr?ulein von Meysenbug, "for it was at Sorrento, in the heart of this delicious scenery, and not in the close air of a town, that our project was to take shape. We had discovered near the shore various spacious48 grottoes enlarged by the hand of man, veritable rock halls, in which a sort of pulpit is actually to be seen, which seems to be especially put there for a lecturer. It[Pg 200] is here that, during the hot days of summer, we thought of giving our lessons. We had besides conceived the plan of the school rather on the Greek model than according to modern ideas, and the teaching was chiefly to be a mutual49 instruction in the Peripatetic50 manner...."
Nietzsche wrote to his sister: "My idea, the school of the educators, or, if you like, modern cloister, ideal colony, free university, is always floating in the air. What will befall it, who can tell? Already we have, in imagination, named you directress and administrative51 head of our establishment for forty persons."
At the beginning of spring Brenner and Rée left Sorrento. Fr?ulein von Meysenbug and Nietzsche, now alone together, read to one another, but only a little, for reading tried the eyes of both. They preferred to talk. Nietzsche was never tired of listening to his companion's recitals52. She told him of the lofty days of 1848. This he liked and, above all, he liked that she should talk to him of Mazzini.
He did not forget the chance by which he had had the Italian hero as carriage companion in April, 1871, as they were crossing the Alps. No compromise: live resolutely53 in the whole, the good, and the beautiful.... Mazzini had repeated this maxim54 of Goethe's to him, and Nietzsche associated it with his recollection of the man. Fr?ulein von Meysenbug had known Mazzini in London. She had admired his authority in command, his exactitude in obedience55, his readiness to serve every servant of the cause, whether he were called Cavour or Garibaldi. He had paid the price of this humility56; for, forgotten in the hour of victory, the exile's ban had been maintained against him alone. Nevertheless, he had wished to end his days in his well-loved Liguria, and he had come there to die, hiding his name and race.[Pg 201] The doctor who took care of him was astonished—he had taken him for an Englishman—when he heard him speak in so pure an Italian. "Look you," replied the dying man, "no one has ever loved Italy so much as I loved her." Friedrich Nietzsche listened to these stories.
"The man I venerate57 most," said he to Fr?ulein von Meysenbug, "is Mazzini."
Could Fr?ulein von Meysenbug have guessed that her young companion, this young, tender, and enthusiastic German, had just declared war within himself on those instincts of tenderness and enthusiasm which obstructed58 the clarity of his views?—that Nietzsche, the continuator of Schopenhauer, the friend of Wagner, was now choosing La Rochefoucauld, Chamfort, Stendhal for masters? Could she have guessed that this friend who dreamed with her of setting up a lay cloister was training himself, during his long walks, to face the melancholy of a life of revolt and of solitude? He formulated59 the rules of such a life:
You must neither love nor hate the people.
You must in no way occupy yourself with politics.
You must be neither rich nor poor.
You must avoid the path of those who are illustrious and powerful.
You must take a wife from outside your people.
You must leave to your friends the care of bringing up your children.
You must accept none of the ceremonies of the Church.
Fr?ulein von Meysenbug knew at last. One day Nietzsche handed to her a pile of MSS. "Read," said he; "here are some impressions which came to me down there, under that tree; I have never sat down in its shade[Pg 202] without plucking a thought." Fr?ulein von Meysenbug read, and discovered an unsuspected Nietzsche, a critic and a denier. "Do not publish that," she said. "Wait, reflect!" Nietzsche's only answer was a smile. She insisted; the conversation grew animated60; they made peace in reading Thucydides.
At the beginning of May, Nietzsche, incommoded by the heat, wished to leave. Fr?ulein von Meysenbug wanted him to postpone61 his departure in order that he might master his first fatigue before he began the trying voyage. He would not listen to her.
"Nietzsche is really going to-morrow," she wrote to Rée; "you know that when he is thus determined62 upon something he carries it out, even though the sky sends the most serious warnings to turn him from it. In that he is no longer a Greek, as he is not attentive63 to oracles64. Just as, in the most frightful65 weather, he starts out on an excursion, so now he goes, tired to death, in defiance66 of the raging wind which is lashing67 up the sea, and will certainly make him ill, for he is determined to make the voyage from Naples to Genoa by sea."
"Yes, he has gone," she wrote in another letter. "The charm of Sorrento in flower could not keep him; he must go, but it is horribly painful to me to let him travel thus; he is unpractical and so bad at extricating68 himself from a difficulty. Luckily the sea is a little calmer to-day.... Alas, there is so much to regret! Eight days ago we had sketched plans for his near and distant future. Was his brusque resolution dictated69 by a feverish70 desire to fly from his malady71, which he suddenly fancied had some connection with our spring temperature, which is truly a little abnormal? But how could he have been any better elsewhere this miserable72 spring? I think that at the last moment it occurred to him[Pg 203] that his departure was nevertheless precipitate73. But it was too late.... This melancholy multiplication74 of departures has quite upset me...."
Friedrich Nietzsche went to take a cure at the waters of Rosenlaui. He experienced very little benefit from it, and his immediate75 future preoccupied76 his thoughts. In September he had to resume his professorial duties. It was his daily bread, and a daily discipline from which he feared to be freed. But he also knew the horrible ennui77 of it. He had been given reason to hope that the authorities at Basle would consent to grant him, in consideration of his services and of his illness, a definite discharge with a sufficient pension. Fr?ulein von Meysenbug advised him to retire; his sister, on the contrary, advised him to retain his office, and Nietzsche chose to listen to his sister. But the nearer came the date of his return, the more lively grew his revolt.
"It is a thing which I know, which I feel," he then wrote to a woman who was helping him in his work, the mother of one of his pupils, Marie Baumgarten, "that I have in store a loftier destiny. I can make use of Philology78, but I am more than a Philologist79. 'I misrepresent myself.' Such was the persistent80 theme of my last ten years. Now that a year of retired life has made everything so visible and so clear (I cannot express how rich I feel and how much of a creator of joy, in spite of every affliction, as soon as I am left alone with myself), now, I tell you with complete confidence that I am not returning to Basle to stay there. How will it come about? I do not know, but my liberty (Ah! how modest my material necessities are; little matters to me), my liberty, I shall conquer it for myself."
[Pg 204]
His sister came to join him at Basle and lived with him. At first his pleasure was great, but he soon recognised that he could not talk with this girl who was altogether a Wagnerian and quite devoted81 to the ideas of Bayreuth. Paul Rée was the only man whose company he liked; but Paul Rée was detained in North Germany by considerations of health, and could not, as Nietzsche had hoped, come to Basle.
"I hope that I shall soon learn," he wrote to him, "that the evil demons of sickness are leaving you in peace. All that I wish for you in the New Year is that you remain as you are, and that you remain for me as you have been.... Let me tell you that friendship has never been so sweet to me as in this last year, thanks to you.... When I hear of your work, my mouth waters, for I desire to be with you so much. We have been made to understand each other aright; we always come together, I think, like good neighbours, to whom the idea occurs, at the same moment, that they should pay each other a visit, and who meet on the confines of their lands.... When shall we have a good conversation upon human affairs, a personal, not an epistolary conversation?"
In December he wrote to Rée: "Ten times a day I wish to be near you." Nevertheless he finished his book, or, to be more accurate, he did not finish it, for he preserved the attractive freedom of his notes. It was thus that they came to him, one after another, without any connection; and it pleased him that they should thus remain. His deplorable health prevented him from putting a weft across them, from imposing82 an order upon them. And what did it matter? He recalled those French writers whose loyalty83 he loved: Pascal, Larochefoucauld, Vauvenargues, Montaigne. He wished[Pg 205] to leave, after their example, some disorder84 and some discontinuity in his thoughts. He wished to write a simple book which should call the most urgent enthusiasts85 back to prudence86. Round Wagner and Bayreuth, "beautiful souls" were innumerable. Friedrich Nietzsche, who had just missed being one of these, wished, by talking in the manner of old Socrates, to make them feel the absurdity87 of their faith. Human, All Too Human, was the title which he had chosen. Right at the end of his conscious life, he recounted the object of his book.
"A torch in my hand," he writes, "and the light not smoky,[1] I have cast a lively light upon this subterranean88 world of the Ideal. It is war, but war without powder and without smoke, without war-like attitudes, without pathos89, without dislocated limbs—all that would still be 'idealism.' Error after error, I took them and placed them on the ice, and the ideal was not even refuted—it froze. Here, for example, freezes 'the Genius'; in this other corner freezes 'the Saint'; beneath a thick stopper of frozen ice 'the Hero'; and, lastly, it is 'the Faith' which freezes, she who is named 'Conviction'; and then here is 'Pity,' which notably90 grows cold—in fact, nearly everywhere freezes 'the thing in itself.'"
Certainly this work is paradoxical. No one is so ardent91 as Friedrich Nietzsche, no one has such a belief in his work, in his mission, in the sublime92 ends of life; and yet he labours to scoff93 at them. He reverses every thesis that he has hitherto upheld. Pereat Veritas, fiat94 vita!—he had once written. Now he writes, Pereat vita, fiat Veritas! Above poetry he places science; above ?schylus, that same Socrates whom he had at other times denounced. No doubt it is only a pretence95, and he[Pg 206] knows it. The ideas which he expresses are not really his own. He arms himself with irony96 for a combat which will be short: for he is not an ironist. He wants to find, and is convinced that he will find, an unknown lyricism which shall inspire his great works. Human, All Too Human, is the sign of a time of crisis and of passage, but what a surprising crisis, what a difficult passage! "The book is there," wrote Nietzsche, "to the great astonishment of the prostrate97 invalid."
On January 3, 1879, he received the poem Parsifal, which Richard Wagner sent him. He read it, and could better measure the always increasing distance which separated him from his old master. He wrote to the Baron98 von Seydlitz:
"Impression from the first reading: more Liszt than Wagner; the spirit of the counter-reformation; for me who am too accustomed to the Greek and human atmosphere, all this belongs to a too limited Christianity; the psychology100 is fantastic; there is no flesh and far too much blood (the Last Supper especially has far too much blood about it for me); I do not like hysterical101 chambermaids. The style seems like a translation from a foreign language. But the situations and their developments—are they not in a vein102 of the greatest poetry? Never did a musician propose a higher task to his music."
Friedrich Nietzsche, in this letter, did not speak all his thoughts. Certain features of it (no flesh and far too much blood) let us divine, as already active and vehement103 within him, that repugnance104 which he was to express ten years later. Nevertheless he loved this incomparable master, and for the first time he was obliged to put clearly to himself the problem of the rupture105. He had received the poem Parsifal; should he reply, and, if so,[Pg 207] in what terms? or should he take the more frank and simple course of leaving it unanswered?
His doubts and vexations increased. It is not easy to gauge106 his condition at this time. He scarcely confided107 in his sister. His letters to Paul Rée, which would no doubt enlighten us, are not printed.
Since Christmas, 1877, Friedrich Nietzsche had more leisure, his professional work having been reduced by some hours. He took advantage of this to leave Basle every week and wander alone in the neighbouring regions. He did not go to the high mountains; he had little taste for these "monsters" and preferred the Jura, the Black Forest, whose wooded heights reminded him of the places of his childhood.
What were his thoughts? We may conjecture108 that he was occupied solely109 with Wagner and his book. One month, two months had passed, and he had not acknowledged the receipt of Parsifal. Human, All Too Human was printed, and the publisher was waiting. But how should he forewarn the master, how prepare him for this surprising document? His disciples111 had accustomed him to the most obsequious112 homage113, the most profound intellectual deference114. Nietzsche knew that his independent work would scandalise the dovecot of Bayreuth. When the moment for his pronouncement came he took fright. He was as much concerned for the public as for Wagner himself. He was ashamed of the philosophy which he was giving forth115 as his own. He had written these pages, and he regretted nothing; he had followed, as he had the right to follow, the vital logic1 which ruled his mind. But he also knew that this same logic would bring him back one day towards a new lyricism, and it would have suited him to disguise somewhat the interlude of his years of crisis. He then conceived a singular idea: he would not sign his book; he would publish it in an enigmatical manner, anonymously117; Richard Wagner[Pg 208] alone would know the mystery and know that Human, All Too Human was the work of his friend, of his disciple110, who at the bottom of his soul remained still faithful. He wrote out a long draft of a letter which is preserved to us:
"I send you this book: Human, All Too Human; and at the same time I tell you, you and your noble companion, in complete confidence, my secret; it suits me that it should be also yours. The book is mine....
"I find myself in the condition of mind of an officer who has carried a redoubt. Though wounded he is upon the heights and waves his standard. More joy, far more joy than sorrow, though the neighbouring spectacle be terrible.
"I have told you that I know no one who is really in agreement with me in thought. And yet I fancy that I have thought, not as an individual, but as the representative of a group; the most singular sentiment of solitude and of society....
"... The swiftest herald118 who does not know precisely119 if the cavalry120 is coming behind him, or even if it exists."
The publisher rejected the proposal and Nietzsche had to abandon it. At last his mind was made up. Europe was about to celebrate, in May, 1878, the hundredth anniversary of Voltaire's death. Friedrich Nietzsche decided121 that he would publish his book at this time, and he would dedicate it to the memory of the great pamphleteer.
"In Norway those periods during which the sun remains122 all day beneath the horizon are called times of obscurity," he wrote in 1879; "during that time the temperature[Pg 209] goes down slowly and incessantly124. What a marvellous symbol for all thinkers for whom the sun of man's future has been obscured for a time!" Nietzsche knew his time of obscurity. Erwin Rohde disapproved126 of his book, Richard Wagner made no reply; but Nietzsche knew how he was being judged in the master's circle. "The caricaturist of Bayreuth," said they, "is either an ingrate127 or a madman." An unknown donor128 (Gersdorff, was it not?) sent from Paris a box in which Friedrich and Lisbeth Nietzsche found a bust129 of Voltaire and a short note: The soul of Monsieur Voltaire presents his compliments to Monsieur Friedrich Nietzsche. Lisbeth Nietzsche could not tolerate the idea that her brother, pure German at heart, should range himself under the banner of a Frenchman, and of such a Frenchman! She wept.
No doubt some of his friends passed a different judgment130. "Your book," said Jacob Burckhardt, "enlarges the independence of the mind." "Only one book," wrote Paul Rée, "has suggested as many thoughts to me as has yours—the conversations of Goethe and Eckermann." Peter Gast remained faithful, Overbeck and his wife were sure friends. Nietzsche did not feel his defeat the less for it "Human, All Too Human" had no success. Richard Wagner, it was said, was amused by the smallness of the sales. He chaffed the publisher: "Ah, ah! now you see Nietzsche is read only when he defends our cause; otherwise, no."
In August, 1878, Human, All Too Human was judged and condemned131 in the Journal of Bayreuth. "Every German professor," wrote the anonymous116 author, in whom Nietzsche recognised, or believed that he recognised, Richard Wagner, "has to write once in his life a book to consecrate132 his fame. But as it is not given to all the world to find a truth, one contents oneself, to obtain the desired effect, with proving the radical133 nonsense of[Pg 210] the views of a predecessor134, and the effect is so much the greater when the predecessor who is put to shame was the more considerable man."
This low style of judgment grieved Friedrich Nietzsche. He now proposed to explain, in a tone of serenity135 and respect, his attitude in respect to his old masters, Schopenhauer and Wagner. Only it seemed to him that the time for courtesies had gone by, and, after reconsidering his Sorrento notes, he undertook to write a sequel to the thoughts of Human, All Too Human.
His sister had left him; in September he was leading a painful and miserable life, a few features of which we can apprehend136. He was avoided, for his agitated137 condition gave alarm. Often, on coming out of the University, he would meet Jacob Burckhardt. The wise historian would slip off by a clever man?uvre; he esteemed138 his colleague, but dreaded139 him. In vain Nietzsche sought to gather new disciples around him. "I am hunting for men," he wrote, "like a veritable corsair, not to sell them into slavery, but to carry them off with me to liberty." This unsociable liberty which he proposed failed to seduce140 the young men. A student, Herr Schaffler, has recorded his recollections: "I attended Nietzsche's lectures," says he; "I knew him very slightly. Once, at the end of a lecture, he chanced to be near me, and we walked out side by side. There were light clouds passing over the sky. 'The beautiful clouds,' he said to me, 'how rapid they are!' 'They resemble the clouds of Paul Veronese,' I answered. Suddenly his hand seized my arm. 'Listen,' said he; 'the holidays are coming; I am leaving soon, come with me, and we shall go together to see the clouds at Venice.' ... I was surprised, I stammered141 out some hesitating words; then I saw Nietzsche turn from me, his face icy and rigid142 as death. He moved away without saying a word, leaving me alone."
[Pg 211]
The break with Wagner was his great and lasting143 sorrow. "Such a farewell," he wrote, "when one parts because agreement is impossible between one's manner of feeling and one's manner of judging, puts us back in contact with that other person, and we throw ourselves with all our strength against that wall which nature has set up between us and him." In February, 1879, Lisbeth Nietzsche wrote to Cosima Wagner: had her brother advised her to make the overture144? Did he know of it? Did he approve of it? We cannot say. Cosima answered with an imperial and sweet firmness. "Do not speak to me of Human, All Too Human," she wrote. "The only thing that I care to remember in writing to you is this, that your brother once wrote for me some of the most beautiful pages that I know.... I bear no malice145 against him: he has been broken by suffering. He has lost the mastery of himself, and this explains his felony." She added, with more spirit than sense, "To say that his present writings are not definitive146, that they represent the stages of a mind that seeks itself, is, I think, curious. It is almost as if Beethoven had said: 'See me in my third manner!' Moreover, one recognises as one reads that the author is not convinced by his work; it is merely sophism147 without impulse, and one is moved to pity."
Miscellaneous Opinions and Apophthegms, which formed the sequel to Human, All Too Human, appeared in 1879. But the offence which this second volume might have given was attenuated148 and, as it were, warded149 off, by reason of the pity which Nietzsche now inspired in those who had formerly150 known him. His state of health grew worse. His head, his stomach, his eyes, tormented151 him without intermission. The doctors began to be disquieted153 by symptoms which they could not ascertain154, by an invalid whom they could not cure. It appeared to them that his eyesight, and perhaps his reason, were threatened. He divined their alarms. Peter Gast[Pg 212] waited at Venice, called to him from there; but Nietzsche was forced to abandon the project of a voyage; he had to shut himself up in his room at Basle behind closed shutters155 and drawn156 curtains.
What was to become of him? Rohde, Gersdorff, touched by the wreck157 of this man of whom they had hoped so much, wrote to Overbeck: "They say that Nietzsche is lost, advise us." "Alas," replied Overbeck, "his condition is desperate." Even Richard Wagner remembered and was touched. "Can I forget him," he wrote to Overbeck, "my friend who separated from me with such violence? I clearly see that it would not have been right to demand conventional considerations from a soul torn by such passions. One must be silent and have pity. But I am in absolute ignorance of his life, and of his sufferings; this afflicts158 me. Would it be indiscreet if I asked you to write me news of my friend?"
Apparently159 Nietzsche did not know of this letter. He had written, a few months earlier, among other notes: "Gratitude160 is a bourgeois161 virtue162; it cannot be applied163 to a man like Wagner." His happiness would have been great, had he been able to read the identical thought, written by his master, "It would not have been right to demand conventional considerations from a Nietzsche."
Overbeck and his wife attended the invalid. They wrote to his sister that she ought to be at his side. She came at once and scarcely recognised the stooping, devastated164 man, aged165 in one year by ten years, who thanked her for coming with a gesture of his hand.
Friedrich Nietzsche gave up his professorship; he sent in his resignation, which was accepted. In recompense for his services he was to receive a pension of three thousand francs.
Lisbeth took him away. He thought himself a lost[Pg 213] man, and expressed his last wishes. "Make me a promise, Lisbeth; let my friends only accompany my corpse166; let none who are merely indifferent or curious be present. I shall no longer be able to defend myself, and you must do it. Let no priest, let no one come and speak insincere words over my coffin167. See that I am buried like a loyal pagan, with no lies told."
He longed for the most desert and silent places, for the most complete solitude; she brought him to the valleys of the Upper Engadine. At that time very few people went up there. Nietzsche discovered this remote Switzerland and derived168 an unexpected comfort from the light and pure quality of the air, and the kindly169 light of the meadows, which soothed170 his worn-out eyes. He liked the scattered171 lakes, which recalled a Finland, the villages with their singing names, the fine peasant race, which proclaimed the presence of Italy beyond the glaciers172. "This nature is familiar to me," he wrote to Rée; "it does not astonish me, there is an understanding between us." With a convalescent's surprise he began to live again. He wrote scarcely any letters; he wrote for himself, and it is in his work that we must seek the information which his correspondence formerly gave us. This is how he narrates173 his ascent174 towards the Engadine.
"Et in Arcadia ego175.—Above the hills which take the shape of waves, across the austere176 pines and the old fir-trees, I have turned my gaze upon a little lake whose water is green and milky177. Around me were rocks of every contour, a soil painted in discordant colours with grasses and flowers. Before me a flock moved, now scattering178, now closing up its ranks; some cows, grouped afar-off, below a forest of pines, stood out in relief under the evening light; others, nearer, more sombre; and everything calm in the peace of the approaching twilight179. My watch registered half-past five. The monarch180 of the[Pg 214] herd181 was walking in the foam-white brook182; he stepped out slowly, now stemming the fierce tide, now giving way to it: no doubt he found a kind of ferocious183 delight in so doing. Two human beings, brown skinned, of Bergamesque origin, were the shepherds of this flock: the young girl dressed almost like a boy. To the right, above a large belt of forest, edges of rocks, fields of snow; to the left, two enormous prongs of ice, far over me, in a veil of clear mist. Everything grand, calm, luminous184. This beauty, thus suddenly perceived, thrilled, so as to bring into the soul a mute adoration185 of this moment of revelation. Into this world of pure light and sharp outline (exempt from disquiet152 and desire, expectation and regret), one was tempted186 to introduce Grecian heroes—involuntarily, as though it were the most natural thing. One had to feel in the manner of Poussin and his pupils; in a thoroughly187 heroic and idyllic188 manner. And it is thus that certain men have lived, thus that they have felt life, lastingly189, within and without themselves; and I recognise among them one of the greatest of all men, one who discovered a style of heroic and idyllic philosopher: Epicurus."
Friedrich Nietzsche stayed in the Engadine, poorly lodged190, sparingly fed, till September came; but he was satisfied, though deprived of friends, with his music and books. His sufferings were not intolerable: he could work and had soon filled six copybooks with pencil notes of his calmer thoughts, which, though always sceptical, were not bitter, but seemed, as it were, tempered by the unexpected indulgence. He had no illusions concerning this respite191 which he had received. It was a respite and no more, and he did not hope. Nevertheless he rejoiced that, before his breakdown192, he had the opportunity of saying what happiness had been procured193 him by the simple contemplation of things, of human nature, of the[Pg 215] mountains and the sky; he hastened to harvest this last felicity. At the beginning of September, 1879, he sent his completed work to Peter Gast.
"My dear, dear friend," he wrote, "when you receive these lines my manuscript will be in your hands. Perhaps you will feel a little of the pleasure which I have myself when I think of my work that is now completed. I am at the end of my thirty-fifth year, 'the middle of life,' they used to say some thousand years ago: it is the age at which Dante had his vision, as he tells us in the first verses of his poem. I am now in this middle of life, and on all sides so hard pressed by death, that at any hour it may take me; my life is such that I must foresee a rapid death, in spasms194.... So I feel like a very old man, and the more because I have done the work of my life. I have poured out a good drop of oil, I know it, it will be accounted to me. I have experienced my manner of life to the full; many will experience it after me. My continual, my bitter sufferings have not altered my humour up to the present. On the contrary, it seems to me that I feel gayer, more kindly, than ever I was: whence comes this influence which fortifies195 me and ameliorates my condition? Not from men, for all but a few are provoked against me,[2] and do not grudge196 the trouble of letting me know it. Dear friend, read this last manuscript from end to end, and see if any trace of suffering or of depression is there disclosed. I think not, and this very conviction assures me that there must be some hidden strength in my thoughts, and not that lassitude, that powerlessness, which those who do not approve of me would like to find in them."
[Pg 216]
At this instant of his life Nietzsche made ready to die. How? It is not too hazardous197 to guess. He was waiting for that "rapid end in spasms," which had swept off his father in madness, and a pious198 sentiment brought him back to the domestic hearth199. Released from the obligations which kept him at Basle, free to choose his retreat, he resisted the call of Peter Gast from Venice. It was no time for learning to know and to love a new beauty. "No," said he, "in spite of Overbeck, in spite of my sister, who press me to rejoin you, I shall not go. In certain circumstances, as I think, it is fitting that one should be closer to one's mother, one's hearth, one's souvenirs of childhood...."
It was to Naumburg, therefore, that he proceeded. He wished to lead there a life of entire peace, and to distract himself from thought by manual labour. In a tower of the old ramparts he hired a great room. Below the old wall there extended an unused piece of land, and this he took on lease and cultivated. "I have ten fruit trees," he wrote, "and roses, lilacs, carnations200, strawberries, goose-berry bushes, and green gooseberries. At the beginning of next year I shall have ten rows of vegetables growing."
But the invalid was soon obliged to abandon these plans. The winter was rigorous. Friedrich Nietzsche could not withstand either the glare of the snow which dazzled his eyes, or the humid air which depressed201 and shattered his nerves. In a few weeks he had lost the benefit derived from his visit to the Engadine.
The Traveller and his Shadow, the proofs of which Peter Gast had corrected, was published. Apparently it was better understood than the preceding collections had been. Rohde wrote Nietzsche a letter which pleased him. Certainly he did not express unqualified admiration202. "This clear but never emotional view of humanity," said he, "pains him who loves you and who hears the friend in every word." But, on the whole, he admired.
[Pg 217]
"What you give to your readers," he wrote, "you can scarcely surmise203, for you live in your own mind. But a voice like yours is one which we never hear, either in life or in books. And, as I read you, I continue to experience what I experienced at your side in the time of our comradeship: I feel myself raised into a higher order of things, and spiritually ennobled. The conclusion of your book penetrates204 the soul. You can and you should, after these discordant harmonies, give us yet softer, yet diviner strains.... Farewell, my dear friend, you are always he who gives, I am always he who receives...."
Nietzsche was happy. "Thanks, dear friend," he wrote on the 28th of December, 1879; "your old affection sealed anew—it is the most precious gift which these Christmas days have brought me." But his answer was brief, and the last two lines of his letter give the reason: "My condition has again become terrible, my tortures are atrocious; sustineo, abstineo; and I am astonished at it myself."
This very strong language contains no exaggeration. His mother and sister, who saw him suffer, bear witness to the awful days through which he passed. He accepted suffering as a test, as a spiritual exercise. He compared his destiny to that of men who were great in sorrow—Leopardi, for instance. But Leopardi was not brave, for, in his sickness, he defamed life, and—Nietzsche discovered this hard truth—an invalid has not the right to be a pessimist205. Or the Christ. But even Christ weakened upon the cross. "Father, Father!" He cried out, "why hast Thou forsaken206 Me?" Friedrich Nietzsche had no God, no father, no faith, no friends. Every prop47 he had taken from himself, and yet he did not bend. To complain, even in a passing manner, would be to avow207 defeat. He refused to make the avowal208. Suffering did not[Pg 218] overwhelm him; on the contrary, it instructed him, and animated his thought.
"The enormous tension of the intellect, bent209 on the mastery of pain," he writes, "shows everything in a new light: and the unspeakable charm of every new light is often powerful enough to overcome all the allurements210 of suicide, and to make the continuance of life appear as most desirable to the sufferer. Scornfully he reviews the warm and comfortable dream-world, wherein the healthy man moves unthinkingly; scornfully he reviews the noblest and dearest of the illusions in which he formerly indulged; this contempt is his joy, it is the counterpoise which enables him to hold his own against physical pain, a counterpoise the necessity of which he now feels.... Our pride revolts as it never did before: joyfully212 does it defend life against such a tyrant213 as pain, that tyrant that would force us to testify against life. To stand for life in the face of this tyrant is a task of infinite fascination214."[3]
Friedrich Nietzsche supposed that his end was close at hand. On the 14th of January, wishing to give a last indication of his thought to some friend, he wrote Fr?ulein von Meysenbug a letter which is a farewell and a spiritual testament215. What an effort it must have cost him!
"Although to write is one of the fruits which is most strongly forbidden me, still I want you to have one more letter from me, you whom I love and venerate like a beloved sister—it will be the last! For the awful and almost incessant123 martyrdom of my life gives me a thirst[Pg 219] for death, and, according to certain signs, I am now near enough to that access of fever, which shall save me, to be permitted to hope. I have suffered so much, I have renounced216 so many things that there is no ascetic217, of any time, to whose life I have not the right to compare my life in this last year. Nevertheless I have acquired a great deal. My soul has gained in purity, in sweetness, and I no longer need religion or art for that. (You will remark that I have some pride; that is because in my state of entire abandonment I have been able finally to discover my intimate sources of consolation218.) I think that I have done the work of my life as a man may to whom no time is left. But I know that for many men I have poured out a drop of good oil, that many men will be guided by me towards a higher, a more serene219, and lucid220 life. I give you this supplementary221 information: when my humanity shall have ceased to be, men will say so. No sorrow has been or will be able to induce me to give false evidence on life, as I know it.
"To whom should I say all this if not to you? I think—but it is immodest to say so—that our characters resemble each other. For instance: both of us are brave, and neither distress222 nor contempt has been able to turn us from the path which we recognised as the right path. And both of us have known, in us, around us, many a truth, the dazzling splendour of which few of our contemporaries have perceived—we hope for humanity and, silently, offer ourselves in sacrifice for it, do we not?
"Have you good news of the Wagners? For three years I have heard nothing of them. They, too, have forsaken me. I knew for long that Wagner would separate from me as soon as he should have recognised the difference of our efforts. I have been told that he writes against me. Let him: all means must be used to bring the truth to light! I think of him with a lasting[Pg 220] gratitude, for I owe him some of the strongest incitements towards spiritual liberty. Madame Wagner, as you know, is the most sympathetic woman whom I have met. But our relations are ended, and assuredly I am not the man to resume them. It is too late.
"Receive, dear friend, who are a sister to me, the salutation of a young old man to whom life has not been cruel, although it has come about that he desires to die."
He lived, nevertheless. Paul Rée came to see him, read to him, and succeeded in distracting his thoughts. The weather, which had tried him so severely223, grew warmer, and the snow, which had dimmed his eyesight, melted. Peter Gast, living as in the previous year at Venice, steadily224 wrote and called to him. In the middle of February he felt, with surprise, a reawakening of strength; his desires, his curiosities returned to him, and he set out at once.
He stayed for a month on the shores of Lake Garda, at Riva, and the improvement in his letters gave his relatives some hope. On the 13th of March he was at Venice: from that day the end of this crisis and his convalescence225 must be dated.
He had not yet loved Italy. What parts of it did he know? The Lakes: but their somewhat oppressive tepidity226 was ill-suited to him, and he did not relish227 their over-soft harmonies. Naples and its Gulf228: but he was repelled229 by the Neapolitan crowd; the splendour of the spectacle had no doubt conquered, but it had scarcely charmed him. No intimate union had been established between this dazzling scenery and his spiritual passions. But from the first moment he yielded to the fascination of Venice. In Venice he found, at a glance, without effort, what his Greek masters—Homer, Theognis, Thucydides—had formerly given him: the sensation of[Pg 221] a lucid intellect, which lived without dreams or scruples230. Against dreams, against scruples, against the prestige of a romantic art, he had been fighting for four years. The beauty of Venice was his deliverance. He remembered his agonies and smiled at himself. Had he not flattered himself in supposing that he was the most wretched of men? What man who suffered has not had this thought, this childish conceit231?
"When a first dawn of assuagement232, of recovery, supervenes," he wrote, "then we ungratefully humiliate233 the pride which formerly made us bear our sorrow, we deal with ourselves like na?ve simpletons—as if something unique had happened to us! Again we look around at men and at nature, with desire; the tempered lights of life recomfort us; again health plays its magical tricks with us. We contemplate the spectacle as if we were transformed, benevolent234 and still fatigued235. In this condition one cannot hear music without weeping."
Peter Gast attended him with touching236 kindness. He accompanied him in his walks, read to him, played him his favourite music. At this period Friedrich Nietzsche liked Chopin above all musicians; he discovered a daring, a freedom of passion in his rhapsodies, which is seldom the gift of German art. Doubtless we must think of Chopin in reading those last words, "In this condition one cannot hear music without weeping."
Peter Gast also played the part of secretary, for Nietzsche had recovered his ardour for work. Day by day he dictated his thoughts. He chose, immediately, the title for a new collection (he gave up the idea quickly), L'Ombra di Venezia. Indeed, did he not owe to the presence of Venice this richness, this force, this subtlety237 of his mind? He essayed new researches. Was[Pg 222] it true, as he had written, that a cold calculation of interest determines the actions of men? that a mean desire for safety, for ease, for happiness, had created that excessive beauty to which Venice stands witness? Venice is unique; nevertheless, she exists and must be explained. A spiritual portent238 must explain the physical marvel125. What, then, are the hidden springs which determine our acts? Life, Schopenhauer used to say, is a pure Will to Live; every being desires to persevere239 in being. We may go further, thinks Friedrich Nietzsche, and say that life aspires240 ever to extend and surpass itself. Its desire is, not conservation, but growth; a principle of conquest and of exaltation must be linked to its essence. How is this principle to be formulated? Nietzsche did not yet know; but the idea was with him, and importunate. He felt that he was on the eve of a discovery, on the threshold of an unknown world; and he wrote, or dictated, to his friend:
"Actions are never what they appear to be. We have had such difficulty in learning that external things are not what they appear to us. Well, it is the same with the internal world! Deeds are in reality 'something other'—more we cannot say of them, and all deeds are essentially241 unknown."
In July he tried the waters of Marienbad. He lived in a little inn, situated242 opposite the wood, where he walked all the length of the day.
"I am absorbed, and excavate243 zealously244 in my moral mines," he wrote to Peter Gast, "and it seems to me that I have become an altogether subterranean being—it seems to me, at this moment, that I have found a passage, an opening; a hundred times I shall be thus persuaded and then deceived."
[Pg 223]
In September he was at Naumburg; he seemed to be in a joyful211 and talkative humour; his sister Lisbeth recognised on his face that expression of cheerful sweetness which denotes good mental work, a plenitude and an afflux of thoughts. On the 8th of October, fearing the fogs, he descended245 towards Italy. He stopped at Stresa, on the shore of the Lake Maggiore. But the climate did not agree with his nerves, and unsettled his meditations246. It was with terror that he recognised once more that the tyranny of external influences held him at its mercy. He took fright; could he, if he lived always in a state of suffering, express those innumerable ideas, philosophical247 and lyrical, which pressed on him? To acquire health was, he thought, his first duty. He left Stresa and travelled towards Sorrento.
Genoa was on his road, and there he stopped. The place charmed him at first sight. Its people were vigorous, frugal248, and gay; the temperature, in November, almost that of summer. In Genoa was combined the double energy of mountain and of sea. Nietzsche liked those robust249 palaces that stood athwart the little streets. Such monuments had been raised by Corsair merchants to their own glory, by men whose instincts were fettered250 by no scruples. And his visionary spirit evoked251 them, for he stood in need of those Italians of a former time who were so lucid, so grasping, and who had in them so little of the Christian99; who lied to others, but were frank towards themselves, without sophistry252. He needed them in order to repress that romantic reverie which was not to be extinguished in him. He desired, like Rousseau, a return to nature. But Rousseau's Europe was one thing, and Nietzsche's another. Rousseau's offended against the sentiments of piety253, against human sympathy, against goodness; Nietzsche's was a sluggish254 Europe under the domination of the herd, and it offended against other sentiments; very different, too, was the[Pg 224] oppressed nature which he exalted255 and in which he sought the cure and the refreshment256 of his soul.
He wished to make a stay at Genoa. After some trouble he found a perfect home: a garret, with a very good bed, at the top of a staircase of a hundred and four steps, in a house which looked out on a path so steep and stiff that no one passed that way, and that grass grew between the paving stones—Salita delle Battistine, 8.
He arranged his life in a manner as simple as his domicile, and thus realised one of his many dreams. Often he used to say to his mother: "How do the common people live? I would like to live like them." His mother would laugh. "They eat potatoes and greasy257 meat; they drink bad coffee and alcohol...." Nietzsche sighed: "Oh, those Germans!" In his Genoese house, with its poor inmates258, customs were different. His neighbours lived soberly. He imitated them and ate sparely; his thought was quicker and livelier. He bought a spirit lamp, and, under his land-lady's teaching, learnt how to prepare his own risotto, and fry his own artichokes. He was popular in the big house. When he suffered from headaches, he had many visitors, full of concern for him. "I need nothing," he would say, simply: "Sono contento."
In the evening, in order to rest his eyes, he would lie stretched out on his bed, without light in the room. "It is poverty," opined the neighbours; "the German professor is too poor to burn candles." He was offered some: he was grateful, smiled, and explained the circumstances. They called him Il Santo, il piccolo Santo. He knew it, and it amused him. "I think," he wrote, "that many among us, with their abstemious259, regular habits, their kindliness and their clear sense, would, were they transported into the semi-barbarism of the sixth to the tenth centuries, be revered260 like Saints." He conceived and drew up a rule of life:
[Pg 225]
"An independence which offends no one; a mollified, veiled pride, a pride which does not discharge itself upon others because it does not envy their honours or their pleasures, and is able to stand the test of mockery. A light sleep, a free and peaceful bearing, no alcohol, no illustrious or princely friendships, neither women nor newspapers, no honours, no society—except with superior minds; in default of them, the simple people (one cannot dispense261 with them; to see them is to contemplate a sane262 and powerful vegetation); the dishes which are most easily prepared, and, if possible, prepared by oneself, and which do not bring us into contact with the greedy and lip-smacking rabble263."
For Friedrich Nietzsche health was a fragile possession, and the more precious in that it must be incessantly conquered, lost, and reconquered. Every favourable264 day made him feel that surprise which constitutes the happiness of convalescents.
On jumping from his bed, he equipped himself, stuffed into his pouch265 a bundle of notes, a book, some fruit and bread; and then started out on the road. "As soon as the sun is risen," he wrote, "I go to a solitary266 rock near the waves and lie out on it beneath my umbrella, motionless as a lizard267, with nothing before me but the sea and the pure sky." There he would remain for a long time, till the very last hours of the twilight. For these hours were kindly to those weak eyes of his, that were so often deprived of light and so often blinded by it—those menaced eyes, the least of whose joys was a delight.
"Here is the sea," he wrote, "here we may forget the town. Though its bells are still ringing the Angelus—that sad and foolish, yet sweet sound at the parting of day and night—only another minute! Now all is hushed! There lies the broad ocean, pale and glittering, but it cannot speak. The sky is glistening268 in its eternal mute[Pg 226] evening glory, in red, yellow, green hues269; it cannot speak either. The small cliffs and crags, projecting into the sea—as though trying to find the most lonely spot—not any of them can speak. This eternal muteness which suddenly overcomes us is beautiful and awful; it makes the heart swell270...."[4]
How often has he celebrated271 this hour, when, as he says, the humblest fisherman "rows with golden oars272." Then he collected the fruits of the day; he wrote the thoughts which had come to him, clothed in the form and the music of their words. He continued the researches which he had begun at Venice. What is human energy? What is the drift of its desires? How are the disorders273 of its history, the quagmire274 of its manners, to be explained? He now knows the answer, and it is this, that the same cruel and ambitious force thrusts man against man, and the ascetic against himself. Nietzsche had to analyse and to define this force in order to direct it; this was the problem which he set himself, and he was confident that he would one day resolve it. Willingly he compared himself to the great navigators, to that Captain Cook who for three months navigated275 the coral-reefs, fathom-line in hand. In this year 1881, his hero was the Genoese, Christopher Columbus, who, when no land had yet appeared, recognised on the waves meadow grasses which had been carried into the open sea by some unknown river, the waters of which were milky and still free from salt.
"Whither do we wish to go?" he wrote. "Do we long to cross the sea? Whither does this powerful desire urge us which we value above all our other passions? Why this mad flight towards that place[Pg 227] where every sun has hitherto sunk and perished? Will they, perhaps, one day, relate of us that we also steered276 westward277, hoping to reach an unknown India, but that it was our fate to suffer shipwreck278 on the Infinite? Or else, my brothers, or else?"
Nietzsche liked this lyrical page; he placed it at the end of his book as a final hymn279. "What other book," he wrote, "concludes with an Or Else?"
By the end of January he had finished his work. But he was not able to re-copy his manuscript; his hand was too nervous, his eyesight too weak. He sent it on to Peter Gast. On the 13th of March the copy was ready, and Nietzsche announced it to the publisher.
"Here is the manuscript, from which I find it hard to part.... Now, hurry, hurry, hurry! I shall leave Genoa as soon as the book is out, and till then I shall live on cinders280. Be quick, hurry up the printer! Can't he give you a written promise that by the end of April, at the latest, I shall have my book in hand, ready, complete?... My dear Herr Schmeitzner, let us all, for this once, do our best. The contents of my book are so important! It is a matter involving our honour that it be faulty in nothing, that it come into the world worthy281 and stainless282. I conjure283 you, do that for me; no advertising284. I could tell you a great deal more about it, but you will be able to understand it all by yourself when you have read my book."
The publisher read the manuscript, but understood it ill; he displayed no enthusiasm. In April, Nietzsche, still at Genoa, was still waiting for his proofs. He had hoped to surprise his friends by despatching an unexpected piece of work, and had said nothing to anyone, Peter Gast excepted. At last he renounced[Pg 228] the pleasure of having a secret. "Good news!" he wrote to his sister. "A new book, a big book, a decisive book! I cannot think of it without a lively emotion...." In May, he rejoined Peter Gast in a village of Venetia, Recoaro, at the foot of the Alps. His impatience285 grew every day. The delays of his publisher prevented him from clearing up the new thoughts which already pressed hard on him.
The Dawn of Day—this was the title which he finally selected—appeared at the most unfavourable time of the year, in July.
[1] Lit. torchlike.
[2] This is an evangelical reminiscence, thinks Peter Gast. Scriptural suggestions are frequent in the language and thought of Nietzsche.
[3] The Dawn of Day, cxiv. This book, published in June, 1881, gives very reliable autobiographical indications on the period here studied.
[4] The Dawn of Day, p. 301. This passage is taken from Miss Johanna Volz's translation. London: T. Fisher Unwin.
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logic
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| n.逻辑(学)；逻辑性 | |
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prudent
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| adj.谨慎的，有远见的，精打细算的 | |
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emphatic
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| adj.强调的，着重的；无可置疑的，明显的 | |
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repose
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renouncement
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oculist
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vent
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melancholy
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sufficiently
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clamorous
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importunate
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enchanting
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discord
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discordant
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joyous
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astonishment
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exclamations
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augury
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glides
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| n.滑行( glide的名词复数 )；滑音；音渡；过渡音v.滑动( glide的第三人称单数 )；掠过；（鸟或飞机 ） 滑翔 | |
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cypresses
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sitting-room
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retired
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fatigue
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isolate
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displeased
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spoke
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intimacy
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hatred
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| n.迷宫；难解的事物；迷路 | |
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quotation
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| n.引文，引语，语录；报价，牌价，行情 | |
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enchanted
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| 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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32
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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33
demons
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| n.恶人( demon的名词复数 )；恶魔；精力过人的人；邪念 | |
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34
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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35
solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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36
invalid
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| n.病人，伤残人；adj.有病的，伤残的；无效的 | |
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37
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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38
kindliness
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| n.厚道，亲切，友好的行为 | |
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39
amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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40
helping
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| n.食物的一份&adj.帮助人的，辅助的 | |
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41
concord
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| n.和谐；协调 | |
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42
sketched
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| v.草拟（sketch的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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43
renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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44
thither
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| adv.向那里；adj.在那边的，对岸的 | |
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45
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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46
cloister
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| n.修道院；v.隐退，使与世隔绝 | |
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47
prop
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| vt.支撑；n.支柱，支撑物；支持者，靠山 | |
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48
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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49
mutual
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| adj.相互的，彼此的；共同的，共有的 | |
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50
peripatetic
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| adj.漫游的，逍遥派的，巡回的 | |
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51
administrative
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| adj.行政的，管理的 | |
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52
recitals
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| n.独唱会( recital的名词复数 )；独奏会；小型音乐会、舞蹈表演会等；一系列事件等的详述 | |
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53
resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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54
maxim
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| n.格言，箴言 | |
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55
obedience
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| n.服从，顺从 | |
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56
humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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57
venerate
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| v.尊敬，崇敬，崇拜 | |
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58
obstructed
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| 阻塞( obstruct的过去式和过去分词 )； 堵塞； 阻碍； 阻止 | |
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59
formulated
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| v.构想出( formulate的过去式和过去分词 )；规划；确切地阐述；用公式表示 | |
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60
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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61
postpone
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| v.延期，推迟 | |
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62
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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63
attentive
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| adj.注意的，专心的；关心(别人)的，殷勤的 | |
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64
oracles
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| 神示所( oracle的名词复数 )； 神谕； 圣贤； 哲人 | |
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65
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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66
defiance
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| n.挑战，挑衅，蔑视，违抗 | |
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67
lashing
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| n.鞭打；痛斥；大量；许多v.鞭打( lash的现在分词 )；煽动；紧系；怒斥 | |
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68
extricating
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| v.使摆脱困难，脱身( extricate的现在分词 ) | |
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69
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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70
feverish
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| adj.发烧的，狂热的，兴奋的 | |
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71
malady
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| n.病，疾病(通常做比喻) | |
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72
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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73
precipitate
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| adj.突如其来的；vt.使突然发生；n.沉淀物 | |
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74
multiplication
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| n.增加，增多，倍增；增殖，繁殖；乘法 | |
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75
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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76
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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77
ennui
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| n.怠倦，无聊 | |
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78
philology
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| n.语言学；语文学 | |
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79
philologist
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| n.语言学者，文献学者 | |
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80
persistent
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| adj.坚持不懈的，执意的；持续的 | |
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81
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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82
imposing
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| adj.使人难忘的，壮丽的，堂皇的，雄伟的 | |
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83
loyalty
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| n.忠诚，忠心 | |
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84
disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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85
enthusiasts
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| n.热心人，热衷者( enthusiast的名词复数 ) | |
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86
prudence
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| n.谨慎，精明，节俭 | |
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87
absurdity
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| n.荒谬，愚蠢；谬论 | |
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88
subterranean
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| adj.地下的，地表下的 | |
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89
pathos
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| n.哀婉，悲怆 | |
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90
notably
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| adv.值得注意地，显著地，尤其地，特别地 | |
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91
ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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92
sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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93
scoff
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| n.嘲笑，笑柄，愚弄；v.嘲笑，嘲弄，愚弄，狼吞虎咽 | |
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94
fiat
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| n.命令，法令，批准；vt.批准，颁布 | |
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95
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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96
irony
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| n.反语，冷嘲；具有讽刺意味的事，嘲弄 | |
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97
prostrate
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| v.拜倒，平卧，衰竭；adj.拜倒的，平卧的，衰竭的 | |
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98
baron
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| n.男爵；(商业界等)巨头，大王 | |
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99
Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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100
psychology
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| n.心理，心理学，心理状态 | |
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101
hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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102
vein
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| n.血管，静脉；叶脉，纹理；情绪；vt.使成脉络 | |
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103
vehement
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| adj.感情强烈的；热烈的；(人)有强烈感情的 | |
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104
repugnance
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| n.嫌恶 | |
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105
rupture
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| n.破裂；(关系的)决裂；v.(使)破裂 | |
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106
gauge
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| v.精确计量；估计；n.标准度量；计量器 | |
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107
confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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108
conjecture
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| n./v.推测，猜测 | |
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109
solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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110
disciple
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| n.信徒，门徒，追随者 | |
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111
disciples
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| n.信徒( disciple的名词复数 )；门徒；耶稣的信徒；（尤指）耶稣十二门徒之一 | |
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112
obsequious
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| adj.谄媚的，奉承的，顺从的 | |
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113
homage
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| n.尊敬，敬意，崇敬 | |
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114
deference
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| n.尊重，顺从；敬意 | |
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115
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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116
anonymous
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| adj.无名的；匿名的；无特色的 | |
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117
anonymously
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| ad.用匿名的方式 | |
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118
herald
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| vt.预示...的来临，预告，宣布，欢迎 | |
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119
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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120
cavalry
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| n.骑兵；轻装甲部队 | |
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121
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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122
remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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123
incessant
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| adj.不停的，连续的 | |
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124
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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125
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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126
disapproved
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| v.不赞成( disapprove的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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127
ingrate
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| n.忘恩负义的人 | |
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128
donor
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| n.捐献者；赠送人；(组织、器官等的)供体 | |
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129
bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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130
judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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131
condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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132
consecrate
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| v.使圣化，奉…为神圣；尊崇；奉献 | |
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133
radical
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| n.激进份子，原子团，根号；adj.根本的，激进的，彻底的 | |
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134
predecessor
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| n.前辈，前任 | |
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135
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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136
apprehend
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| vt.理解，领悟，逮捕，拘捕，忧虑 | |
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137
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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138
esteemed
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| 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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139
dreaded
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| 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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140
seduce
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| vt.勾引，诱奸，诱惑，引诱 | |
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141
stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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142
rigid
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| adj.严格的，死板的；刚硬的，僵硬的 | |
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143
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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144
overture
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| n.前奏曲、序曲，提议，提案，初步交涉 | |
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145
malice
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| n.恶意，怨恨，蓄意；[律]预谋 | |
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146
definitive
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| adj.确切的，权威性的；最后的，决定性的 | |
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147
sophism
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| n.诡辩 | |
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148
attenuated
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| v.（使）变细( attenuate的过去式和过去分词 )；（使）变薄；（使）变小；减弱 | |
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149
warded
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| 有锁孔的，有钥匙榫槽的 | |
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150
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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151
tormented
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| 饱受折磨的 | |
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152
disquiet
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| n.担心，焦虑 | |
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153
disquieted
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| v.使不安，使忧虑，使烦恼( disquiet的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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154
ascertain
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| vt.发现，确定，查明，弄清 | |
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155
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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156
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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157
wreck
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| n.失事，遇难；沉船；vt.(船等)失事，遇难 | |
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158
afflicts
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| 使受痛苦，折磨( afflict的名词复数 ) | |
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159
apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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160
gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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161
bourgeois
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| adj./n.追求物质享受的(人)；中产阶级分子 | |
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162
virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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163
applied
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| adj.应用的；v.应用，适用 | |
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164
devastated
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| v.彻底破坏( devastate的过去式和过去分词)；摧毁；毁灭；在感情上（精神上、财务上等）压垮adj.毁坏的；极为震惊的 | |
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165
aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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166
corpse
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| n.尸体，死尸 | |
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167
coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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168
derived
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| vi.起源；由来；衍生；导出v.得到( derive的过去式和过去分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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169
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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170
soothed
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| v.安慰( soothe的过去式和过去分词 )；抚慰；使舒服；减轻痛苦 | |
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171
scattered
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| adj.分散的，稀疏的；散步的；疏疏落落的 | |
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172
glaciers
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| 冰河，冰川( glacier的名词复数 ) | |
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173
narrates
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| v.故事( narrate的第三人称单数 ) | |
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174
ascent
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| n.(声望或地位)提高；上升，升高；登高 | |
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175
ego
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| n.自我，自己，自尊 | |
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176
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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177
milky
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| adj.牛奶的，多奶的；乳白色的 | |
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178
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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179
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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180
monarch
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| n.帝王，君主，最高统治者 | |
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181
herd
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| n.兽群，牧群；vt.使集中，把…赶在一起 | |
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182
brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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183
ferocious
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| adj.凶猛的，残暴的，极度的，十分强烈的 | |
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184
luminous
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| adj.发光的，发亮的；光明的；明白易懂的；有启发的 | |
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185
adoration
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| n.爱慕，崇拜 | |
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186
tempted
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| v.怂恿（某人）干不正当的事；冒…的险（tempt的过去分词） | |
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187
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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188
idyllic
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| adj.质朴宜人的，田园风光的 | |
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189
lastingly
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| [医]有残留性，持久地，耐久地 | |
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190
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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191
respite
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| n.休息，中止，暂缓 | |
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192
breakdown
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| n.垮，衰竭；损坏，故障，倒塌 | |
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193
procured
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| 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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194
spasms
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| n.痉挛( spasm的名词复数 )；抽搐；（能量、行为等的）突发；发作 | |
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195
fortifies
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| 筑防御工事于( fortify的第三人称单数 )； 筑堡于； 增强； 强化（食品） | |
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196
grudge
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| n.不满，怨恨，妒嫉；vt.勉强给，不情愿做 | |
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197
hazardous
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| adj.(有)危险的，冒险的；碰运气的 | |
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198
pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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199
hearth
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| n.壁炉炉床，壁炉地面 | |
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200
carnations
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| n.麝香石竹，康乃馨( carnation的名词复数 ) | |
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201
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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202
admiration
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| n.钦佩，赞美，羡慕 | |
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203
surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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204
penetrates
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| v.穿过( penetrate的第三人称单数 )；刺入；了解；渗透 | |
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205
pessimist
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| n.悲观者；悲观主义者；厌世 | |
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206
Forsaken
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| adj. 被遗忘的, 被抛弃的 动词forsake的过去分词 | |
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207
avow
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| v.承认，公开宣称 | |
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208
avowal
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| n.公开宣称，坦白承认 | |
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209
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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210
allurements
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| n.诱惑( allurement的名词复数 )；吸引；诱惑物；有诱惑力的事物 | |
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211
joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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212
joyfully
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|
| adv. 喜悦地, 高兴地 | |
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213
tyrant
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| n.暴君，专制的君主，残暴的人 | |
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214
fascination
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| n.令人着迷的事物，魅力，迷恋 | |
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215
testament
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| n.遗嘱；证明 | |
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216
renounced
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| v.声明放弃( renounce的过去式和过去分词 )；宣布放弃；宣布与…决裂；宣布摒弃 | |
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217
ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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218
consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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219
serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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220
lucid
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| adj.明白易懂的，清晰的，头脑清楚的 | |
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221
supplementary
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| adj.补充的，附加的 | |
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222
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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223
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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224
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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225
convalescence
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| n.病后康复期 | |
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226
tepidity
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| 微温，微热； 温热 | |
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227
relish
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| n.滋味，享受，爱好，调味品；vt.加调味料，享受，品味；vi.有滋味 | |
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228
gulf
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| n.海湾；深渊，鸿沟；分歧，隔阂 | |
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229
repelled
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| v.击退( repel的过去式和过去分词 )；使厌恶；排斥；推开 | |
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230
scruples
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|
| n.良心上的不安( scruple的名词复数 )；顾虑，顾忌v.感到于心不安，有顾忌( scruple的第三人称单数 ) | |
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231
conceit
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| n.自负，自高自大 | |
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232
assuagement
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| n.缓和；减轻；缓和物 | |
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233
humiliate
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| v.使羞辱，使丢脸[同]disgrace | |
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234
benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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235
fatigued
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| adj. 疲乏的 | |
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236
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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237
subtlety
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| n.微妙，敏锐，精巧；微妙之处，细微的区别 | |
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238
portent
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| n.预兆；恶兆；怪事 | |
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239
persevere
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| v.坚持，坚忍，不屈不挠 | |
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240
aspires
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| v.渴望，追求( aspire的第三人称单数 ) | |
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241
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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242
situated
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| adj.坐落在...的，处于某种境地的 | |
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243
excavate
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| vt.挖掘，挖出 | |
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244
zealously
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| adv.热心地；热情地；积极地；狂热地 | |
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245
descended
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| a.为...后裔的，出身于...的 | |
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246
meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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247
philosophical
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| adj.哲学家的，哲学上的，达观的 | |
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248
frugal
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| adj.节俭的，节约的，少量的，微量的 | |
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249
robust
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| adj.强壮的，强健的，粗野的，需要体力的，浓的 | |
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250
fettered
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| v.给…上脚镣，束缚( fetter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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251
evoked
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| [医]诱发的 | |
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252
sophistry
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| n.诡辩 | |
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253
piety
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| n.虔诚，虔敬 | |
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254
sluggish
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| adj.懒惰的，迟钝的，无精打采的 | |
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255
exalted
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| adj.(地位等)高的，崇高的；尊贵的，高尚的 | |
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256
refreshment
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| n.恢复，精神爽快，提神之事物；（复数）refreshments:点心，茶点 | |
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257
greasy
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| adj. 多脂的，油脂的 | |
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258
inmates
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| n.囚犯( inmate的名词复数 ) | |
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259
abstemious
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| adj.有节制的，节俭的 | |
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260
revered
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| v.崇敬，尊崇，敬畏( revere的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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261
dispense
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| vt.分配，分发；配(药)，发(药)；实施 | |
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262
sane
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| adj.心智健全的，神志清醒的，明智的，稳健的 | |
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263
rabble
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| n.乌合之众，暴民；下等人 | |
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264
favourable
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| adj.赞成的，称赞的，有利的，良好的，顺利的 | |
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265
pouch
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| n.小袋，小包，囊状袋；vt.装...入袋中，用袋运输；vi.用袋送信件 | |
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266
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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267
lizard
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| n.蜥蜴，壁虎 | |
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268
glistening
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| adj.闪耀的，反光的v.湿物闪耀，闪亮( glisten的现在分词 ) | |
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269
hues
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| 色彩( hue的名词复数 )； 色调； 信仰； 观点 | |
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270
swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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271
celebrated
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| adj.有名的，声誉卓著的 | |
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272
oars
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| n.桨，橹( oar的名词复数 )；划手v.划（行）( oar的第三人称单数 ) | |
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273
disorders
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| n.混乱( disorder的名词复数 )；凌乱；骚乱；（身心、机能）失调 | |
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274
quagmire
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| n.沼地 | |
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275
navigated
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| v.给（船舶、飞机等）引航，导航( navigate的过去式和过去分词 )；（从海上、空中等）横越；横渡；飞跃 | |
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276
steered
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| v.驾驶( steer的过去式和过去分词 )；操纵；控制；引导 | |
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277
westward
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| n.西方，西部；adj.西方的，向西的；adv.向西 | |
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278
shipwreck
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| n.船舶失事，海难 | |
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279
hymn
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| n.赞美诗，圣歌，颂歌 | |
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280
cinders
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| n.煤渣( cinder的名词复数 )；炭渣；煤渣路；煤渣跑道 | |
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281
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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282
stainless
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| adj.无瑕疵的，不锈的 | |
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283
conjure
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| v.恳求，祈求；变魔术，变戏法 | |
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284
advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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285
impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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