France is honoring the memory of such a man at this moment; one who for forty years sought the vital spark of his country’s existence, striving to resuscitate2 what he called “the great soul of history,” as it developed through successive acts of the vast drama. This employment of his genius is Michelet’s title to fame.
In a sombre structure, the tall windows of which look across the Luxembourg trees to the Pantheon, where her husband’s bust3 has recently been placed, a widow preserves with religious care the souvenirs of this great historian. Nothing that can recall either his life or his labor4 is changed.
Madame Michelet’s life is in strange contrast with the ways of the modern spouse5 who, under pretext6 of grief, discards and displaces every reminder7 of the dead. In our day, when the great art is to forget, an existence consecrated8 to a memory is so rare that the world might be the better for knowing that a woman lives who, young and beautiful, was happy in the society of an old man, whose genius she appreciated and cherished, who loves him dead as she loved him living. By her care the apartment remains9 as it stood when he left it, to die at Hyères,—the furniture, the paintings, the writing-table. No stranger has sat in his chair, no acquaintance has drunk from his cup. This woman, who was a perfect wife and now fills one’s ideal of what a widow’s life should be, has constituted herself the vigilant10 guardian11 of her husband’s memory. She loves to talk of the illustrious dead, and tell how he was fond of saying that Virgil and Vico were his parents. Any one who reads the Georgics or The Bird will see the truth of this, for he loved all created things, his ardent12 spiritism perceiving that the essence which moved the ocean’s tides was the same that sang in the robin13 at the window during his last illness, which he called his “little captive soul.”
The author of La Bible de l’Humanité had to a supreme14 degree the love of country, and possessed15 the power of reincarnating16 with each succeeding cycle of its history. So luminous17 was his mind, so profound and far-reaching his sympathy, that he understood the obscure workings of the mediæval mind as clearly as he appreciated Mirabeau’s transcendent genius. He believed that humanity, like Prometheus, was self-made; that nations modelled their own destiny during the actions and reactions of history, as each one of us acquires a personality through the struggles and temptations of existence, by the evolving power every soul carries within itself.
Michelet taught that each nation was the hero of its own drama; that great men have not been different from the rest of their race—on the contrary, being the condensation18 of an epoch19, that, no matter what the apparent eccentricities20 of a leader may have been, he was the expression of a people’s spirit. This discovery that a race is transformed by its action upon itself and upon the elements it absorbs from without, wipes away at a stroke the popular belief in “predestined races” or providential “great men” appearing at crucial moments and riding victorious22 across the world.
An historian, if what he writes is to have any value, must know the people, the one great historical factor. Radicalism23 in history is the beginning of truth. Guided by this light of his own, Michelet discovered a fresh factor heretofore unnoticed, that vast fermentation which in France transforms all foreign elements into an integral part of the country’s being. After studying his own land through the thirteen centuries of her growth, from the chart of Childebert to the will of Louis XVI., Michelet declared that while England is a composite empire and Germany a region, France is a personality. In consequence he regarded the history of his country as a long dramatic poem. Here we reach the inner thought of the historian, the secret impulse that guided his majestic25 pen.
The veritable hero of his splendid Iliad is at first ignorant and obscure, seeking passionately26 like Œdipus to know himself. The interest of the piece is absorbing. We can follow the gradual development of his nature as it becomes more attractive and sympathetic with each advancing age, until, through the hundred acts of the tragedy, he achieves a soul. For Michelet to write the history of his country was to describe the long evolution of a hero. He was fond of telling his friends that during the Revolution of July, while he was making his translation of Vico, this great fact was revealed to him in the blazing vision of a people in revolt. At that moment the young and unknown author resolved to devote his life, his talents, his gift of clairvoyance28, the magic of his inimitable style and creative genius, to fixing on paper the features seen in his vision.
Conceived and executed in this spirit, his history could be but a stupendous epic29, and proves once again the truth of Aristotle’s assertion that there is often greater truth in poetry than in prose.
Seeking in the remote past for the origin of his hero, Michelet pauses first before the Cathedral. The poem begins like some mediæval tale. The first years of his youthful country are devoted30 to a mystic religion. Under his ardent hands vast naves31 rise and belfries touch the clouds. It is but a sad and cramped32 development, however; statutes33 restrain his young ardor34 and chill his blood. It is not until the boy is behind the plough in the fields and sunlight that his real life begins—a poor, brutish existence, if you will, but still life. The “Jacques,” half man and half beast, of the Middle Ages is the result of a thousand years of suffering.
A woman’s voice calls this brute35 to arms. An enemy is overrunning the land. Joan the virgin—“my Joan,” Michelet calls her—whose heart bleeds when blood is shed, frees her country. A shadow, however, soon obscures this gracious vision from Jacques’s eyes. The vast monarchical36 incubus37 rises between the people and their ideal. Our historian turns in disgust from the later French kings. He has neither time nor heart to write their history, so passes quickly from Louis XI. to the great climax38 of his drama—the Revolution. There we find his hero, emerging at last from tyranny and oppression. Freedom and happiness are before him. Alas39! his eyes, accustomed to the dim light of dungeons40, are dazzled by the sun of liberty; he strikes friend and foe41 alike.
In the solitary42 galleries of the “Archives” Michelet communes with the great spirits of that day, Desaix, Marceau, Kleber,—elder sons of the Republic, who whisper many secrets to their pupil as he turns over faded pages tied with tri-colored ribbons, where the cities of France have written their affection for liberty, love-letters from Jacques to his mistress. Michelet is happy. His long labor is drawing to an end. The great epic which he has followed as it developed through the centuries is complete. His hero stands hand in hand before the altar with the spouse of his choice, for whose smile he has toiled43 and struggled. The poet-historian sees again in the Fête de la Fédération the radiant face of his vision, the true face of France, La Dulce.
Through all the lyricism of this master’s work one feels that he has “lived” history as he wrote it, following his subject from its obscure genesis to a radiant apotheosis44. The faithful companion of Michelet’s age has borne witness to this power which he possessed of projecting himself into another age and living with his subject. She repeats to those who know her how he trembled in passion and burned with patriotic45 emotion in transcribing47 the crucial pages of his country’s history, rejoicing in her successes and depressed48 by her faults, like the classic historian who refused with horror to tell the story of his compatriots’ defeat at Cannæ, saying, “I could not survive the recital49.”
“Do you remember,” a friend once asked Madame Michelet, “how, when your husband was writing his chapters on the Reign24 of Terror, he ended by falling ill?”
“Ah, yes!” she replied. “That was the week he executed Danton. We were living in the country near Nantes. The ground was covered with snow. I can see him now, hurrying to and fro under the bare trees, gesticulating and crying as he walked, ‘How can I judge them, those great men? How can I judge them?’ It was in this way that he threw his ‘thousand souls’ into the past and lived in sympathy with all men, an apostle of universal love. After one of these fecund50 hours he would drop into his chair and murmur51, ‘I am crushed by this work. I have been writing with my blood!’”
Alas, his aged27 eyes were destined21 to read sadder pages than he had ever written, to see years as tragic52 as the “Terror.” He lived to hear the recital of (having refused to witness) his country’s humiliation53, and fell one April morning, in his retirement54 near Pisa, unconscious under the double shock of invasion and civil war. Though he recovered later, his horizon remained dark. The patriot46 suffered to see party spirit and warring factions55 rending56 the nation he had so often called the pilot of humanity’s bark, which seemed now to be going straight on the rocks. “Finis Galliæ,” murmured the historian, who to the end lived and died with his native land.
Thousands yearly mount the broad steps of the Panthéon to lay their wreaths upon his tomb, and thousands more in every Gallic schoolroom are daily learning, in the pages of his history, to love France la Dulce.
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1
forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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resuscitate
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| v.使复活，使苏醒 | |
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bust
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| vt.打破；vi.爆裂；n.半身像；胸部 | |
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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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spouse
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| n.配偶(指夫或妻) | |
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pretext
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| n.借口，托词 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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consecrated
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| adj.神圣的，被视为神圣的v.把…奉为神圣，给…祝圣( consecrate的过去式和过去分词 )；奉献 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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vigilant
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| adj.警觉的，警戒的，警惕的 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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ardent
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，强烈的，烈性的 | |
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robin
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| n.知更鸟，红襟鸟 | |
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supreme
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| adj.极度的，最重要的；至高的，最高的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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reincarnating
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| v.赋予新形体，使转世化身( reincarnate的现在分词 ) | |
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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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condensation
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| n.压缩，浓缩；凝结的水珠 | |
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epoch
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| n.(新)时代；历元 | |
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eccentricities
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| n.古怪行为( eccentricity的名词复数 )；反常；怪癖 | |
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destined
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| adj.命中注定的；(for)以…为目的地的 | |
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victorious
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| adj.胜利的，得胜的 | |
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radicalism
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| n. 急进主义, 根本的改革主义 | |
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reign
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| n.统治时期，统治，支配，盛行；v.占优势 | |
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majestic
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| adj.雄伟的，壮丽的，庄严的，威严的，崇高的 | |
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passionately
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| ad.热烈地，激烈地 | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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clairvoyance
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| n.超人的洞察力 | |
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epic
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| n.史诗，叙事诗；adj.史诗般的，壮丽的 | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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31
naves
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| n.教堂正厅( nave的名词复数 )；本堂；中央部；车轮的中心部 | |
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cramped
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| a.狭窄的 | |
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statutes
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| 成文法( statute的名词复数 )； 法令； 法规； 章程 | |
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ardor
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| n.热情，狂热 | |
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brute
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| n.野兽，兽性 | |
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monarchical
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| adj. 国王的，帝王的，君主的，拥护君主制的 =monarchic | |
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incubus
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| n.负担；恶梦 | |
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climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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dungeons
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| n.地牢( dungeon的名词复数 ) | |
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41
foe
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| n.敌人，仇敌 | |
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42
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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toiled
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| 长时间或辛苦地工作( toil的过去式和过去分词 )； 艰难缓慢地移动，跋涉 | |
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apotheosis
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| n.神圣之理想；美化；颂扬 | |
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patriotic
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| adj.爱国的，有爱国心的 | |
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patriot
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| n.爱国者，爱国主义者 | |
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47
transcribing
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| （用不同的录音手段）转录( transcribe的现在分词 )； 改编（乐曲）（以适应他种乐器或声部）； 抄写； 用音标标出（声音） | |
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48
depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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49
recital
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| n.朗诵，独奏会，独唱会 | |
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50
fecund
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| adj.多产的，丰饶的，肥沃的 | |
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51
murmur
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| n.低语，低声的怨言；v.低语，低声而言 | |
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52
tragic
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| adj.悲剧的，悲剧性的，悲惨的 | |
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53
humiliation
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| n.羞辱 | |
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54
retirement
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| n.退休，退职 | |
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55
factions
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| 组织中的小派别，派系( faction的名词复数 ) | |
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56
rending
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| v.撕碎( rend的现在分词 )；分裂；（因愤怒、痛苦等而）揪扯（衣服或头发等）；（声音等）刺破 | |
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