The man of toil, for his part, is too crushed, too wretched, and too frightened concerning the future, to enjoy the beauties of the landscape and the charms of rustic11 life. To him also the golden fields, the lovely meadows, the noble animals, represent bags of crowns, of which he will have only a paltry12 share, insufficient13 for his needs, and yet those cursed bags must be filled every year to satisfy the master and pay for the privilege of living sparingly and wretchedly on his domain14.
And still nature is always young and beautiful and generous. She sheds poetry and beauty upon all living things, upon all the plants that are left to develop in their own way. Nature possesses the secret of happiness, and no one has ever succeeded in wresting15 it from her. He would be the most fortunate of men who, possessing the science of his craft and working with his hands, deriving16 happiness and liberty from the exercise of his intelligent strength, should have time to live in the heart and the brain, to understand his work, and to love the work of God. The artist has enjoyment17 of that sort in contemplating18 and reproducing the beauties of Nature; but, when he sees the suffering of the men who people this paradise called the earth, the just, kind-hearted artist is grieved in the midst of his enjoyment. Where the mind, heart, and arms work in concert under the eye of Providence19, true happiness would be found, and a holy harmony would exist between the munificence20 of God and the delights of the human soul. Then, instead of piteous, ghastly Death walking in his furrow21, whip in hand, the painter of allegories could place beside the ploughman a radiant angel, sowing the blessed grain in the smoking furrows22 with generous hand.
And the dream of a peaceful, free, poetical23, laborious, simple existence for the husbandman is not so difficult of conception that it need be relegated25 to a place among chimeras26. The gentle, melancholy27 words of Virgil: "O how happy the life of the husbandman, if he but knew his happiness!" is an expression of regret; but, like all regrets, it is also a prediction. A day will come when the ploughman may be an artist, if not to express,—which will then matter but little, perhaps,—at all events, to feel, the beautiful. Do you believe that this mysterious intuition of poesy does not already exist within him in the state of instinct and vague revery? In those who have a little hoard28 for their protection to-day, and in whom excess of misery29 does not stifle30 all moral and intellectual development, pure happiness, felt and appreciated, is at the elementary stage; and, furthermore, if poets' voices have already arisen from the bosom of sorrow and fatigue, why should it be said that the work of the hands excludes the exercise of the functions of the mind? That exclusion31 is probably the general result of excessive toil and profound misery; but let it not be said that when man shall work only moderately and profitably, then there will be none but bad workmen and bad poets. He who derives32 noble enjoyment from the inward sentiment of poesy is a true poet, though he has never written a line in his life.
My thoughts had taken this course, and I did not notice that this confidence in man's capacity for education was strengthened in my mind by external influences. I was walking along the edge of a field which the peasants were preparing for the approaching sowing. The field was an extensive one, like that in Holbein's picture. The landscape, too, was of great extent and framed in broad lines of verdure, slightly reddened by the approach of autumn, the lusty brown earth, where recent rains had left in some of the furrows lines of water which sparkled in the sun like slender silver threads. It was a blight33, warm day, and the ground, freshly opened by the sharp ploughshares, exhaled34 a slight vapor35. At the upper end of the field, an old man, whose broad back and stern face recalled the man in Holbein's picture, but whose clothing did not indicate poverty, gravely drove his old-fashioned areau, drawn36 by two placid37 oxen, with pale yellow hides, veritable patriarchs of the fields, tall, rather thin, with long, blunt horns, hard-working old beasts whom long companionship has made brothers, as they are called in our country districts, and who, when they are separated, refuse to work with new mates and die of grief. People who know nothing of the country call this alleged38 friendship of the ox for his yoke39-fellow fabulous40. Let them go to the stable and look at a poor, thin, emaciated41 animal, lashing42 his sunken sides with his restless tail, sniffing43 with terror and contempt at the fodder44 that is put before him, his eyes always turned toward the door, pawing the empty place beside him, smelling the yoke and chains his companion wore, and calling him incessantly45 with a pitiful bellow46. The driver will say: "There's a yoke of oxen lost; his brother's dead, and he won't work. We ought to fatten9 him for killing47; but he won't eat, and he'll soon starve to death."
The old ploughman was working slowly, in silence, without useless expenditure48 of strength. His docile49 team seemed in no greater hurry than he; but as he kept constantly at work, never turning aside, and exerting always just the requisite50 amount of sustained power, his furrow was as quickly cut as his son's, who was driving four less powerful oxen on some harder and more stony51 land a short distance away.
But the spectacle that next attracted my attention was a fine one indeed, a noble subject for a painter. At the other end of the arable53 tract52, a young man of attractive appearance was driving a superb team: four yoke of young beasts, black-coated with tawny54 spots that gleamed like fire, with the short, curly heads that suggest the wild bull, the great, wild eyes, the abrupt55 movements, the nervous, jerky way of doing their work, which shows that the yoke and goad56 still irritate them and that they shiver with wrath57 as they yield to the domination newly imposed upon them. They were what are called oxen freshly yoked58. The man who was guiding them had to clear a field until recently used for pasturage, and filled with venerable stumps—an athlete's task which his energy, his youth, and his eight almost untamed beasts were hardly sufficient to accomplish.
A child of six or seven years, as beautiful as an angel, with a lamb's fleece covering his shoulders, over his blouse, so that he resembled the little Saint John the Baptist of the painters of the Renaissance59, was trudging60 along in the furrow beside the plough and pricking61 the sides of the oxen with a long, light stick, the end of which was armed with a dull goad. The proud beasts quivered under the child's small hand, and made the yokes62 and the straps63 about their foreheads groan64, jerking the plough violently forward. When the ploughshare struck a root, the driver shouted in a resonant65 voice, calling each beast by his name, but rather to soothe66 than to excite them; for the oxen, annoyed by the sudden resistance, started forward, digging their broad forked feet into the ground, and would have turned aside and dragged the plough across the field, had not the young man held the four leaders in check with voice and goad, while the child handled the other four. He, too, shouted, poor little fellow, in a voice which he tried to render terrible, but which remained as sweet as his angelic face. The whole picture was beautiful in strength and in grace: the landscape, the man, the child, the oxen under the yoke; and, despite the mighty67 struggle in which the earth was conquered, there was a feeling of peace and profound tranquillity68 hovering69 over everything. When the obstacle was surmounted70 and the team resumed its even, solemn progress, the ploughman, whose pretended violence was only to give his muscles a little practice and his vitality71 an outlet72, suddenly resumed the serenity73 of simple souls and cast a contented74 glance upon his child, who turned to smile at him. Then the manly75 voice of the young paterfamilias would strike up the solemn, melancholy tune76 which the ancient tradition of the province transmits, not to all ploughmen without distinction, but to those most expert in the art of arousing and sustaining the spirit of working-cattle. That song, whose origin was perhaps held sacred, and to which mysterious influences seem to have been attributed formerly77, is reputed even to the present day to possess the virtue78 of keeping up the courage of those animals, of soothing79 their discontent, and of whiling away the tedium80 of their long task. It is not enough to have the art of driving them so as to cut the furrow in an absolutely straight line, to lighten their labor5 by raising the share or burying it deeper in the ground: a man is not a perfect ploughman if he cannot sing to his cattle, and that is a special science which requires special taste and powers.
To speak accurately81, this song is only a sort of recitative, broken off and taken up again at pleasure. Its irregular form and its intonations82, false according to the rules of musical art, make it impossible to reproduce. But it is a fine song none the less, and so entirely83 appropriate to the nature of the work it accompanies, to the gait of the ox, to the tranquillity of rural scenes, to the simple manners of the men who sing it, that no genius unfamiliar84 with work in the fields could have invented it, and no singer other than a cunning ploughman of that region would know how to render it. At the time of year when there is no other work and no other sign of activity in the country than the ploughing, that sweet and powerful chant rises like the voice of the breeze, which it resembles somewhat in its peculiar85 pitch. The final word of each phrase, sustained at incredible length, and with marvellous power of breath, ascends86 a fourth of a tone, purposely making a discord87. That is barbarous, perhaps, but the charm of it is indescribable, and when one is accustomed to hear it, one cannot conceive of any other song at that time and in those localities that would not disturb the harmony.
It happened, therefore, that I had before my eyes a picture in striking contrast with Holbein's, although it might be a similar scene. Instead of a sad old man, a cheerful young man; instead of a team of thin, sorry horses, two yoke of four sturdy, spirited cattle; instead of Death, a lovely child; instead of an image of despair and a suggestion of destruction, a spectacle of energetic action and a thought of happiness.
Then it was that the French quatrain:
"A la sueur de ton visaige," etc.,
and the O fortunatos——agricolas of Virgil, came to my mind simultaneously88, and when I saw that handsome pair, the man and the child, performing a grand and solemn task under such poetic24 conditions, and with so much grace combined with so much strength, I had a feeling of profound compassion89 mingled90 with involuntary respect. Happy the husbandman. Yes, so I should be in his place, if my arm should suddenly become strong and my chest powerful, so that they could thus fertilize91 nature and sing to her, without my eyes losing the power to see and my brain to understand the harmony of colors and sounds, the delicacy92 of tones, and the gracefulness93 of contours,—in a word, the mysterious beauty of things, and, above all, without my heart ceasing to be in relation with the divine sentiment that presided at the immortal94 and sublime95 creation.
But, alas96! that man has never understood the mystery of the beautiful, that child will never understand it! God preserve me from the thought that they are not superior to the animals they guide, and that they have not at times a sort of ecstatic revelation that charms away their weariness and puts their cares to sleep! I see upon their noble brows the seal of the Lord God, for they are born kings of the earth much more truly than they who possess it, because they have paid for it. And the proof that they feel that it is so is found in the fact that you cannot expatriate them with impunity97, and that they love the ground watered by the sweat of their brow, that the true peasant dies of homesickness in the uniform of the soldier, far from the fields where he was born. But that man lacks a part of the enjoyments98 I possess, immaterial enjoyments to which he is abundantly entitled, he the workman in the vast temple which the heavens are vast enough to embrace. He lacks knowledge of his own sentiments. They who condemned99 him to servitude from his mother's womb, being unable to take from him the power of reverie, have taken the power of reflection.
Ah! well, such as he is, incomplete and doomed100 to never-ending childhood, he is nobler even so than he in whom knowledge has stifled101 sentiment. Do not place yourselves above him, you who consider yourselves endowed with the lawful102 and inalienable right to command him, for that terrible error proves that in you the mind has killed the heart and that you are the most incomplete and the blindest of men!—I prefer the simplicity103 of his mind to the false enlightenment of yours; and if I had to tell his life, it would be more pleasant for me to bring out its attractive and affecting aspects than it is creditable to you to depict104 the abject105 condition to which the scornful rigor106 of your social precepts107 may debase him.
I knew that young man and that beautiful child; I knew their story, for they had a story, everybody has his story, and everybody might arouse interest in the romance of his own life if he but understood it. Although a peasant and a simple ploughman, Germain had taken account of his duties and his affections. He had detailed108 them to me ingenuously109 one day, and I had listened to him with interest. When I had watched him at work for a considerable time, I asked myself why his story should not be written, although it was as simple, as straightforward110, and as devoid111 of ornament112 as the furrow he made with his plough.
Next year that furrow will be filled up and covered by a new furrow. Thus the majority of men make their mark and disappear in the field of humanity. A little earth effaces113 it, and the furrows we have made succeed one another like graves in the cemetery114. Is not the furrow of the ploughman as valuable as that of the idler, who has a name, however, a name that will live, if, by reason of some peculiarity115 or some absurd exploit, he makes a little noise in the world?
So let us, if we can, rescue from oblivion the furrow of Germain, the cunning ploughman. He will know nothing about it, and will not be disturbed; but I shall have had a little pleasure in making the attempt.
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收听单词发音
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1
musing
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| n. 沉思，冥想 adj. 沉思的, 冥想的 动词muse的现在分词形式 | |
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bosom
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| n.胸，胸部；胸怀；内心；adj.亲密的 | |
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fecundity
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| n.生产力；丰富 | |
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duress
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| n.胁迫 | |
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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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laborious
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| adj.吃力的，努力的，不流畅 | |
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toil
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| vi.辛劳工作，艰难地行动；n.苦工，难事 | |
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8
fattening
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| adj.（食物）要使人发胖的v.喂肥( fatten的现在分词 )；养肥（牲畜）；使（钱）增多；使（公司）升值 | |
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fatten
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| v.使肥，变肥 | |
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fatigue
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| n.疲劳，劳累 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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paltry
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| adj.无价值的，微不足道的 | |
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insufficient
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| adj.(for，of)不足的，不够的 | |
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domain
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| n.(活动等)领域，范围；领地，势力范围 | |
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wresting
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| 动词wrest的现在进行式 | |
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deriving
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| v.得到( derive的现在分词 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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enjoyment
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| n.乐趣；享有；享用 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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munificence
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| n.宽宏大量，慷慨给与 | |
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furrow
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| n.沟；垄沟；轨迹；车辙；皱纹 | |
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furrows
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| n.犁沟( furrow的名词复数 )；（脸上的）皱纹v.犁田，开沟( furrow的第三人称单数 ) | |
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23
poetical
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| adj.似诗人的；诗一般的；韵文的；富有诗意的 | |
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poetic
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| adj.富有诗意的，有诗人气质的，善于抒情的 | |
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relegated
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| v.使降级( relegate的过去式和过去分词 )；使降职；转移；把…归类 | |
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chimeras
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| n.（由几种动物的各部分构成的）假想的怪兽( chimera的名词复数 )；不可能实现的想法；幻想；妄想 | |
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melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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hoard
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| n./v.窖藏，贮存，囤积 | |
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misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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stifle
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| vt.使窒息；闷死；扼杀；抑止，阻止 | |
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exclusion
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| n.拒绝，排除，排斥，远足，远途旅行 | |
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derives
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| v.得到( derive的第三人称单数 )；（从…中）得到获得；源于；（从…中）提取 | |
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blight
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| n.枯萎病；造成破坏的因素；vt.破坏，摧残 | |
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exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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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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placid
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| adj.安静的，平和的 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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yoke
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| n.轭；支配；v.给...上轭，连接，使成配偶 | |
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fabulous
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| adj.极好的；极为巨大的；寓言中的，传说中的 | |
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41
emaciated
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| adj.衰弱的，消瘦的 | |
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42
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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43
sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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44
fodder
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| n.草料；炮灰 | |
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45
incessantly
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| ad.不停地 | |
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46
bellow
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| v.吼叫，怒吼；大声发出，大声喝道 | |
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47
killing
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| n.巨额利润；突然赚大钱，发大财 | |
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48
expenditure
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| n.(时间、劳力、金钱等)支出；使用，消耗 | |
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49
docile
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| adj.驯服的，易控制的，容易教的 | |
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50
requisite
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| adj.需要的，必不可少的；n.必需品 | |
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51
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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52
tract
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| n.传单，小册子，大片(土地或森林) | |
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53
arable
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| adj.可耕的，适合种植的 | |
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54
tawny
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| adj.茶色的，黄褐色的；n.黄褐色 | |
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55
abrupt
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| adj.突然的，意外的；唐突的，鲁莽的 | |
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56
goad
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| n.刺棒，刺痛物；激励；vt.激励，刺激 | |
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wrath
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| n.愤怒，愤慨，暴怒 | |
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58
yoked
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| 结合（yoke的过去式形式） | |
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renaissance
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| n.复活，复兴，文艺复兴 | |
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60
trudging
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| vt.& vi.跋涉，吃力地走（trudge的现在分词形式） | |
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61
pricking
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| 刺，刺痕，刺痛感 | |
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62
yokes
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| 轭( yoke的名词复数 )； 奴役； 轭形扁担； 上衣抵肩 | |
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63
straps
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| n.带子( strap的名词复数 )；挎带；肩带；背带v.用皮带捆扎( strap的第三人称单数 )；用皮带抽打；包扎；给…打绷带 | |
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64
groan
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| vi./n.呻吟，抱怨；(发出)呻吟般的声音 | |
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resonant
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| adj.(声音)洪亮的，共鸣的 | |
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66
soothe
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| v.安慰；使平静；使减轻；缓和；奉承 | |
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mighty
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| adj.强有力的；巨大的 | |
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tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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69
hovering
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| 鸟( hover的现在分词 )； 靠近（某事物）； （人）徘徊； 犹豫 | |
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surmounted
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| 战胜( surmount的过去式和过去分词 )； 克服（困难）； 居于…之上； 在…顶上 | |
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vitality
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| n.活力，生命力，效力 | |
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outlet
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| n.出口/路；销路；批发商店；通风口；发泄 | |
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serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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contented
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| adj.满意的，安心的，知足的 | |
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manly
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| adj.有男子气概的；adv.男子般地，果断地 | |
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tune
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| n.调子；和谐，协调；v.调音，调节，调整 | |
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formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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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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soothing
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| adj.慰藉的；使人宽心的；镇静的 | |
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tedium
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| n.单调；烦闷 | |
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accurately
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| adv.准确地，精确地 | |
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intonations
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| n.语调，说话的抑扬顿挫( intonation的名词复数 )；（演奏或唱歌中的）音准 | |
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83
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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unfamiliar
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| adj.陌生的，不熟悉的 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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86
ascends
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| v.上升，攀登( ascend的第三人称单数 ) | |
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discord
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| n.不和，意见不合，争论，（音乐）不和谐 | |
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simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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compassion
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| n.同情，怜悯 | |
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90
mingled
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| 混合，混入( mingle的过去式和过去分词 )； 混进，与…交往[联系] | |
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fertilize
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| v.使受精，施肥于，使肥沃 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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gracefulness
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immortal
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| adj.不朽的；永生的，不死的；神的 | |
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sublime
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| adj.崇高的，伟大的；极度的，不顾后果的 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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impunity
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| n.(惩罚、损失、伤害等的)免除 | |
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enjoyments
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| 愉快( enjoyment的名词复数 )； 令人愉快的事物； 享有； 享受 | |
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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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doomed
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| 命定的 | |
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101
stifled
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| （使）窒息， （使）窒闷( stifle的过去式和过去分词 )； 镇压，遏制； 堵 | |
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lawful
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| adj.法律许可的，守法的，合法的 | |
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103
simplicity
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| n.简单，简易；朴素；直率，单纯 | |
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depict
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| vt.描画，描绘；描写，描述 | |
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abject
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| adj.极可怜的，卑屈的 | |
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rigor
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| n.严酷，严格，严厉 | |
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precepts
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| n.规诫，戒律，箴言( precept的名词复数 ) | |
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detailed
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| adj.详细的，详尽的，极注意细节的，完全的 | |
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ingenuously
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| adv.率直地，正直地 | |
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straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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112
ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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113
effaces
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| v.擦掉( efface的第三人称单数 )；抹去；超越；使黯然失色 | |
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114
cemetery
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| n.坟墓，墓地，坟场 | |
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115
peculiarity
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| n.独特性，特色；特殊的东西；怪癖 | |
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