This rage for notoriety does not surge through cracked brains alone, or only in the world of adventurers, charlatans9 and pretenders generally; it has spread abroad in all the domains10 of life, spiritual and material. Politics, literature, even science, and—most odious11 of all—philanthropy and religion are infected. Trumpets12 announce a good deed done, and souls must be saved with din13 and clamor. Pursuing its way of destruction, the rage for noise has entered places ordinarily silent, troubled spirits naturally serene14, and vitiated in large measure all activity for good. The abuse of showing everything, or rather, putting everything on exhibition; the growing incapacity to appreciate that which chooses to remain hidden, and the habit of estimating the value of things by the racket they make, have come to corrupt15 the judgment16 of the most earnest men, and one sometimes wonders if society will not end by transforming itself into a great fair, with each one beating his drum in front of his tent.
[113]Gladly do we quit the dust and din of like exhibitions, to go and breathe peacefully in some far-off nook of the woods, all surprise that the brook17 is so limpid18, the forest so still, the solitude19 so enchanting20. Thank God there are yet these uninvaded corners. However formidable the uproar21, however deafening22 the babel of merry-andrews, it cannot carry beyond a certain limit; it grows faint and dies away. The realm of silence is vaster than the realm of noise. Herein is our consolation23.
REST a moment on the threshold of this infinite world of inglorious good, of quiet activities. Instantly we are under the charm we feel in stretches of untrodden snow, in hiding wood-flowers, in disappearing pathways that seem to lead to horizons without bourn. The world is so made that the engines of labor24, the most active agencies, are everywhere concealed25. Nature affects a sort of coquetry in masking her operations. It costs you pains to spy her out, ingenuity26 to surprise her, if you would see anything but results and penetrate27 the secrets of her laboratories. Likewise in human society, the forces which move for good remain invisible, and even in our individual lives; [114]what is best in us is incommunicable, buried in the depths of us. And the more vital are these sensibilities and intuitions, confounding themselves with the very source of our being, the less ostentatious they are: they think themselves profaned28 by exposure to the light of day. There is a secret and inexpressible joy in possessing at the heart of one's being, an interior world known only to God, whence, nevertheless, come impulses, enthusiasms, the daily renewal29 of courage, and the most powerful motives30 for activity among our fellow men. When this intimate life loses in intensity31, when man neglects it for what is superficial, he forfeits32 in worth all that he gains in appearance. By a sad fatality33, it happens that in this way we often become less admirable in proportion as we are more admired. And we remain convinced that what is best in the world is unknown there; for only those know it who possess it, and if they speak of it, in so doing they destroy its charm.
There are passionate34 lovers of nature whom she fascinates most in by-places, in the cool of forests, in the clefts35 of ca?ons, everywhere that the careless lover is not admitted to her contemplation. Forgetting time and the life of the world, they pass [115]days in these inviolate36 stillnesses, watching a bird build its nest or brood over its young, or some little groundling at its gracious play. So to seek the good within himself—one must go where he no longer finds constraint37, or pose, or "gallery" of any sort, but the simple fact of a life made up of wishing to be what it is good for it to be, without troubling about anything else.
May we be permitted to record here some observations made from life? As no names are given, they cannot be considered indiscreet.
In my country of Alsace, on the solitary38 route whose interminable ribbon stretches on and on under the forests of the Vosges, there is a stone-breaker whom I have seen at his work for thirty years. The first time I came upon him, I was a young student, setting out with swelling39 heart for the great city. The sight of this man did me good, for he was humming a song as he broke his stones. We exchanged a few words, and he said at the end: "Well, good-by, my boy, good courage and good luck!" Since then I have passed and repassed along that same route, under circumstances the most diverse, painful and joyful40. The student has finished his course, the breaker of stones [116]remains what he was. He has taken a few more precautions against the seasons' storms: a rush-mat protects his back, and his felt hat is drawn41 further down to shield his face. But the forest is always sending back the echo of his valiant42 hammer. How many sudden tempests have broken over his bent43 back, how much adverse44 fate has fallen on his head, on his house, on his country! He continues to break his stones, and, coming and going I find him by the roadside, smiling in spite of his age and his wrinkles, benevolent45, speaking—above all in dark days—those simple words of brave men, which have so much effect when they are scanned to the breaking of stones.
It would be quite impossible to express the emotion the sight of this simple man gives me, and certainly he has no suspicion of it. I know of nothing more reassuring46 and at the same time more searching for the vanity which ferments47 in our hearts, than this coming face to face with an obscure worker who does his task as the oak grows and as the good God makes his sun to rise, without asking who is looking on.
I have known, too, a number of old teachers, men and women who have passed their whole life at the [117]same occupation—making the rudiments48 of human knowledge and a few principles of conduct penetrate heads sometimes harder than the rocks. They have done it with their whole soul, throughout the length of a hard life in which the attention of men had little place. When they lie in their unknown graves, no one remembers them but a few humble49 people like themselves. But their recompense is in their love. No one is greater than these unknown.
How many hidden virtues51 may one not discover—if he know how to search—among people of a class he often ridicules52 without perceiving that in so doing he is guilty of cruelty, ingratitude53 and stupidity: I mean old maids. People amuse themselves with remarking the surprising dress and ways of some of them—things of no consequence, for that matter. They persist also in reminding us that others, very selfish, take interest in nothing but their own comfort and that of some cat or canary upon which their powers of affection center; and certainly these are not outdone in egoism by the most hardened celibates55 of the stronger sex. But what we oftenest forget is the amount of self-sacrifice hidden modestly away in so many of these truly admirable lives. Is it nothing to be without home and its love, w[118]ithout future, without personal ambition? to take upon one's self that cross of solitary life, so hard to bear, especially when there is added the solitude of the heart? to forget one's self and have no other interests than the care of the old, of orphans56, the poor, the infirm—those whom the brutal57 mechanism58 of life casts out among its waste? Seen from without, these apparently59 tame and lusterless lives rouse pity rather than envy. Those who approach gently sometimes divine sad secrets, great trials undergone, heavy burdens beneath which too fragile shoulders bend; but this is only the side of shadow. We should learn to know and value this richness of heart, this pure goodness, this power to love, to console, to hope, this joyful giving up of self, this persistence60 in sweetness and forgiveness even toward the unworthy. Poor old maids! how many wrecked lives have you rescued, how many wounded have you healed, how many wanderers have you gently led aright, how many naked have you clothed, how many orphans have you taken in, and how many strangers, who would have been alone in the world but for you—you who yourselves are often remembered of no one. I mistake. Someone knows you; it is that great mysterious Pity which keeps watch over our [119]lives and suffers in our misfortunes. Forgotten like you, often blasphemed, it has confided61 to you some of its heavenliest messages, and that perhaps is why above your gentle comings and goings, we sometimes seem to hear the rustling62 wings of ministering angels.
THE good hides itself under so many different forms, that one has often as much pains to discover it as to unearth63 the best concealed crimes. A Russian doctor, who had passed ten years of his life in Siberia, condemned64 for political reasons to forced labor, used to find great pleasure in telling of the generosity65, courage and humanity he had observed, not only among a large number of the condemned, but also among the convict guards. For the moment one is tempted66 to exclaim: Where will not the good hide away! And in truth life offers here great surprises and embarrassing contrasts. There are good men, officially so recognized, quoted among their associates, I had almost said guaranteed by the Government or the Church, who can be reproached with nothing but dry and hard hearts; while we are astonished to encounter in certain fallen human [120]beings, the most genuine tenderness, and as it were a thirst for self-devotion.
I SHOULD like to speak next—apropos of the inglorious good—of a class that to-day it is thought quite fitting to treat with the utmost one-sidedness. I mean the rich. Some people think the last word is said when they have stigmatized67 that infamy68, capital. For them, all who possess great fortunes are monsters gorged69 with the blood of the miserable70. Others, not so declamatory, persist, however, in confounding riches with egoism and insensibility. Justice should be visited on these errors, be they involuntary or calculated. No doubt there are rich men who concern themselves with nobody else, and others who do good only with ostentation71; indeed, we know it too well. But does their inhumanity or hypocrisy72 take away the value of the good that others do, and that they often hide with a modesty73 so perfect?
I knew a man to whom every misfortune had come which can strike us in our affections. He had lost a beloved wife, had seen all his children buried, one after another. But he had a great fortune, the result of his own labor. Living in the utmost simplicity74, [121]almost without personal wants, he spent his time in searching for opportunities to do good, and profiting by them. How many people he surprised in flagrant poverty, what means he combined for relieving distress75 and lighting76 up dark lives, with what kindly77 thoughtfulness he took his friends unawares, no one can imagine. He liked to do good to others and enjoy their surprise when they did not know whence the relief came. It pleased him to repair the injustices78 of fortune, to bring tears of happiness in families pursued by mischance. He was continually plotting, contriving79, machinating in the dark, with a childish fear of being caught with his hand in the bag. The greater part of these fine deeds were not known till after his death; the whole of them we shall never know.
He was a socialist80 of the right sort! for there are two kinds of them. Those who aspire81 to appropriate to themselves a part of the goods of others, are numerous and commonplace. To belong to their order it suffices to have a big appetite. Those who are hungering to divide their own goods with men who have none, are rare and precious, for to enter this choice company there is need of a brave and noble heart, free from selfishness, and [122]sensitive to both the happiness and unhappiness of its fellows. Fortunately the race of these socialists82 is not extinct, and I feel an unalloyed satisfaction in offering them a tribute they never claim.
I must be pardoned for dwelling83 upon this. It does one good to offset84 the bitterness of so many infamies85, so many calumnies86, so much charlatanism87, by resting the eyes upon something more beautiful, breathing the perfume of these stray corners where simple goodness flowers.
A lady, a foreigner, doubtless little used to Parisian life, just now told me with what horror the things she sees here inspire her:—these vile88 posters, these "yellow" journals, these women with bleached89 hair, this crowd rushing to the races, to dance-halls, to roulette tables, to corruption—the whole flood of superficial and mundane90 life. She did not speak the word Babylon, but doubtless it was out of pity for one of the inhabitants of this city of perdition.
"Alas91, yes, madam, these things are sad, but you have not seen all."
"Heaven preserve me from that!"
"On the contrary, I wish you could see everything; for if the dark side is very ugly, there is so [123]much to atone92 for it. And believe me, madam, you have simply to change your quarter, or observe at another hour. For instance, take the Paris of early morning. It will offer much to correct your impressions of the Paris of the night. Go see, among so many other working people, the street-sweepers, who come out at the hour when the revellers and malefactors go in. Observe beneath these rags those caryatid bodies, those austere93 faces! How serious they are at their work of sweeping94 away the refuse of the night's revelry. One might liken them to the prophets at Ahasuerus's gates. There are women among them, many old people. When the air is cold they stop to blow their fingers, and then go at it again. So it is every day. And they, too, are inhabitants of Paris.
"Go next to the faubourgs, to the factories, especially the smaller ones, where the children or the employers labor with the men. Watch the army of workers marching to their tasks. How ready and willing these young girls seem, as they come gaily95 down from their distant quarters to the shops and stores and offices of the city. Then visit the homes from which they come. See the woman of the people at her work. Her husband's wages are modest, [124]their dwelling is cramped96, the children are many, the father is often harsh. Make a collection of the biographies of lowly people, budgets of modest family life: look at them attentively97 and long.
"After that, go see the students. Those who have scandalized you in the streets are numerous, but those who labor hard are legion—only they stay at home, and are not talked about. If you knew the toil98 and dig of the Latin Quarter! You find the papers full of the rumpus made by a certain set of youths who call themselves students. The papers say enough of those who break windows; but why do they make no mention of those who spend their nights toiling99 over problems? Because it wouldn't interest the public. Yes, when now and then one of them, a medical student perhaps, dies a victim to professional duty, the matter has two lines in the dailies. A drunken brawl100 gets half a column, with every detail elaborated. Nothing is lacking but the portraits of the heroes—and not always that!
"I should never end were I to try to point out to you all that you must go to see if you would see all: you would needs make the tour of society at large, rich and poor, wise and ignorant. And certainly you would not judge so severely101 then. Paris [125]is a world, and here, as in the world in general, the good hides away while the evil flaunts102 itself. Observing only the surface, you sometimes ask how there can possibly be so much riff-raff. When, on the contrary, you look into the depths, you are astonished that in this troublous, obscure and sometimes frightful103 life there can be so much of virtue50."
BUT why linger over these things? Am I not blowing trumpets for those who hold trumpet-blowing in horror? Do not understand me so. My aim is this—to make men think about unostentatious goodness; above all, to make them love it and practice it. The man who finds his satisfaction in things which glitter and hold his eyes, is lost: first, because he will thus see evil before all else; then, because he gets accustomed to the sight of only such good as seeks for notice, and therefore easily succumbs104 to the temptation to live himself for appearances. Not only must one be resigned to obscurity, he must love it, if he does not wish to slip insensibly into the ranks of figurants, who preserve their parts only while under the eyes of the spectators, and put off in the wings the restraints imposed on the stage. [126]Here we are in the presence of one of the essential elements of the moral life. And this which we say is true not only for those who are called humble and whose lot it is to pass unremarked; it is just as true, and more so, for the chief actors. If you would not be a brilliant inutility, a man of gold lace and plumes105, but empty inside, you must play the star r?le in the simple spirit of the most obscure of your collaborators. He who is nothing worth except on hours of parade, is worth less than nothing. Have we the perilous106 honor of being always in view, of marching in the front ranks? Let us take so much the greater care of the sanctuary107 of silent good within us. Let us give to the structure whose fa?ade is seen of our fellow-men, a wide foundation of simplicity, of humble fidelity108. And then, out of sympathy, out of gratitude54, let us stay near our brothers who are unknown to fame. We owe everything to them—do we not? I call to witness everyone who has found in life this encouraging experience, that stones hidden in the soil hold up the whole edifice109. All those who arrive at having a public and recognized value, owe it to some humble spiritual ancestors, to some forgotten inspirers. A small number of the good, among them [127]simple women, peasants, vanquished110 heroes, parents as modest as they are revered111, personify for us beautiful and noble living; their example inspires us and gives us strength. The remembrance of them is forever inseparable from that conscience before which we arraign112 ourselves. In our hours of trial, we think of them, courageous113 and serene, and our burdens lighten. In clouds they compass us about, these witnesses invisible and beloved who keep us from stumbling and our feet from falling in the battle; and day by day do they prove to us that the treasure of humanity is its hidden goodness.
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1
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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itch
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| n.痒，渴望，疥癣；vi.发痒，渴望 | |
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publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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wrecked
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| adj.失事的，遇难的 | |
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crackers
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| adj.精神错乱的，癫狂的n.爆竹( cracker的名词复数 )；薄脆饼干；（认为）十分愉快的事；迷人的姑娘 | |
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perfidy
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| n.背信弃义，不忠贞 | |
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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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atrocity
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| n.残暴，暴行 | |
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charlatans
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| n.冒充内行者，骗子( charlatan的名词复数 ) | |
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domains
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| n.范围( domain的名词复数 )；领域；版图；地产 | |
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odious
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| adj.可憎的，讨厌的 | |
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trumpets
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| 喇叭( trumpet的名词复数 )； 小号； 喇叭形物； （尤指）绽开的水仙花 | |
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din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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serene
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| adj. 安详的，宁静的，平静的 | |
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corrupt
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| v.贿赂，收买；adj.腐败的，贪污的 | |
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judgment
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| n.审判；判断力，识别力，看法，意见 | |
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brook
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| n.小河，溪；v.忍受，容让 | |
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limpid
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| adj.清澈的，透明的 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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enchanting
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| a.讨人喜欢的 | |
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uproar
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| n.骚动，喧嚣，鼎沸 | |
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deafening
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| adj. 振耳欲聋的, 极喧闹的 动词deafen的现在分词形式 | |
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consolation
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| n.安慰，慰问 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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ingenuity
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| n.别出心裁；善于发明创造 | |
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penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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profaned
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| v.不敬( profane的过去式和过去分词 )；亵渎，玷污 | |
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renewal
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| adj.(契约)延期，续订，更新，复活，重来 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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intensity
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| n.强烈，剧烈；强度；烈度 | |
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forfeits
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| 罚物游戏 | |
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fatality
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| n.不幸，灾祸，天命 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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clefts
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| n.裂缝( cleft的名词复数 )；裂口；cleave的过去式和过去分词；进退维谷 | |
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inviolate
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| adj.未亵渎的，未受侵犯的 | |
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constraint
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| n.(on)约束，限制；限制(或约束)性的事物 | |
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solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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swelling
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| n.肿胀 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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adverse
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| adj.不利的；有害的；敌对的，不友好的 | |
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benevolent
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| adj.仁慈的，乐善好施的 | |
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reassuring
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| a.使人消除恐惧和疑虑的，使人放心的 | |
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ferments
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| n.酵素( ferment的名词复数 )；激动；骚动；动荡v.（使）发酵( ferment的第三人称单数 )；（使）激动；骚动；骚扰 | |
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rudiments
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| n.基础知识，入门 | |
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humble
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| adj.谦卑的，恭顺的；地位低下的；v.降低，贬低 | |
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virtue
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| n.德行，美德；贞操；优点；功效，效力 | |
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virtues
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| 美德( virtue的名词复数 )； 德行； 优点； 长处 | |
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ridicules
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| n.嘲笑( ridicule的名词复数 )；奚落；嘲弄；戏弄v.嘲笑，嘲弄，奚落( ridicule的第三人称单数 ) | |
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ingratitude
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| n.忘恩负义 | |
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gratitude
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| adj.感激，感谢 | |
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celibates
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| n.独身者( celibate的名词复数 ) | |
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orphans
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| 孤儿( orphan的名词复数 ) | |
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brutal
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| adj.残忍的，野蛮的，不讲理的 | |
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mechanism
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| n.机械装置；机构，结构 | |
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apparently
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| adv.显然地；表面上，似乎 | |
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persistence
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| n.坚持，持续，存留 | |
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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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62
rustling
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| n. 瑟瑟声，沙沙声 adj. 发沙沙声的 | |
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63
unearth
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| v.发掘，掘出，从洞中赶出 | |
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64
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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65
generosity
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| n.大度，慷慨，慷慨的行为 | |
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66
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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67
stigmatized
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| v.使受耻辱，指责，污辱( stigmatize的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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68
infamy
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| n.声名狼藉，出丑，恶行 | |
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69
gorged
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| v.（用食物把自己）塞饱，填饱( gorge的过去式和过去分词 )；作呕 | |
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70
miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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71
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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72
hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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73
modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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74
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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75
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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76
lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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77
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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injustices
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| 不公平( injustice的名词复数 )； 非正义； 待…不公正； 冤枉 | |
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79
contriving
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| （不顾困难地）促成某事( contrive的现在分词 )； 巧妙地策划，精巧地制造（如机器）； 设法做到 | |
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80
socialist
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| n.社会主义者；adj.社会主义的 | |
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81
aspire
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| vi.(to，after)渴望，追求，有志于 | |
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82
socialists
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| 社会主义者( socialist的名词复数 ) | |
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83
dwelling
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| n.住宅，住所，寓所 | |
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84
offset
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| n.分支，补偿；v.抵消，补偿 | |
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85
infamies
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| n.声名狼藉( infamy的名词复数 )；臭名；丑恶；恶行 | |
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86
calumnies
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| n.诬蔑，诽谤，中伤（的话）( calumny的名词复数 ) | |
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charlatanism
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| n.庸医术，庸医的行为 | |
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88
vile
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| adj.卑鄙的，可耻的，邪恶的；坏透的 | |
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bleached
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| 漂白的，晒白的，颜色变浅的 | |
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90
mundane
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| adj.平凡的；尘世的；宇宙的 | |
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91
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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92
atone
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| v.赎罪，补偿 | |
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93
austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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94
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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95
gaily
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| adv.欢乐地，高兴地 | |
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96
cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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97
attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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98
toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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99
toiling
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的现在分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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100
brawl
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| n.大声争吵，喧嚷；v.吵架，对骂 | |
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101
severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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102
flaunts
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| v.炫耀，夸耀( flaunt的第三人称单数 )；有什么能耐就施展出来 | |
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103
frightful
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| adj.可怕的；讨厌的 | |
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104
succumbs
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| 不再抵抗（诱惑、疾病、攻击等）( succumb的第三人称单数 )； 屈从； 被压垮； 死 | |
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105
plumes
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| 羽毛( plume的名词复数 )； 羽毛饰； 羽毛状物； 升上空中的羽状物 | |
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106
perilous
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| adj.危险的，冒险的 | |
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107
sanctuary
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| n.圣所，圣堂，寺庙；禁猎区，保护区 | |
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108
fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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109
edifice
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| n.宏伟的建筑物(如宫殿，教室) | |
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110
vanquished
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| v.征服( vanquish的过去式和过去分词 )；战胜；克服；抑制 | |
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111
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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112
arraign
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| v.提讯；控告 | |
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113
courageous
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| adj.勇敢的，有胆量的 | |
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