One of the most generous of the dead is Daudet, who, with a prodigality7 approaching magnificence, gave himself up to us without reserve in his work, with all his qualities and all his faults. Neither his qualities nor his faults were great, though they were by no means imperceptible. It is only his generosity that is out of the common. What strikes one most in his work is the disinterestedness8 of the toiler9. With more talent than many bigger men, he did not preach about himself, he did not attempt to persuade mankind into a belief of his own greatness. He never posed as a scientist or as a seer, not even as a prophet; and he neglected his interests to the point of never propounding10 a theory for the purpose of giving a tremendous significance to his art, alone of all things, in a world that, by some strange oversight11, has not been supplied with an obvious meaning. Neither did he affect a passive attitude before the spectacle of life, an attitude which in gods — and in a rare mortal here and there — may appear godlike, but assumed by some men, causes one, very unwillingly12, to think of the melancholy13 quietude of an ape. He was not the wearisome expounder14 of this or that theory, here to-day and spurned15 to-morrow. He was not a great artist, he was not an artist at all, if you like — but he was Alphonse Daudet, a man as naively16 clear, honest, and vibrating as the sunshine of his native land; that regrettably undiscriminating sunshine which matures grapes and pumpkins17 alike, and cannot, of course, obtain the commendation of the very select who look at life from under a parasol.
Naturally, being a man from the South, he had a rather outspoken18 belief in himself, but his small distinction, worth many a greater, was in not being in bondage20 to some vanishing creed21. He was a worker who could not compel the admiration22 of the few, but who deserved the affection of the many; and he may be spoken of with tenderness and regret, for he is not immortal23 — he is only dead. During his life the simple man whose business it ought to have been to climb, in the name of Art, some elevation24 or other, was content to remain below, on the plain, amongst his creations, and take an eager part in those disasters, weaknesses, and joys which are tragic25 enough in their droll26 way, but are by no means so momentous27 and profound as some writers — probably for the sake of Art — would like to make us believe. There is, when one thinks of it, a considerable want of candour in the august view of life. Without doubt a cautious reticence28 on the subject, or even a delicately false suggestion thrown out in that direction is, in a way, praiseworthy, since it helps to uphold the dignity of man — a matter of great importance, as anyone can see; still one cannot help feeling that a certain amount of sincerity29 would not be wholly blamable. To state, then, with studied moderation a belief that in unfortunate moments of lucidity30 is irresistibly31 borne in upon most of us — the blind agitation32 caused mostly by hunger and complicated by love and ferocity does not deserve either by its beauty, or its morality, or its possible results, the artistic33 fuss made over it. It may be consoling — for human folly34 is very bizarre— but it is scarcely honest to shout at those who struggle drowning in an insignificant35 pool: You are indeed admirable and great to be the victims of such a profound, of such a terrible ocean!
And Daudet was honest; perhaps because he knew no better — but he was very honest. If he saw only the surface of things it is for the reason that most things have nothing but a surface. He did not pretend — perhaps because he did not know how — he did not pretend to see any depths in a life that is only a film of unsteady appearances stretched over regions deep indeed, but which have nothing to do with the half-truths, half-thoughts, and whole illusions of existence. The road to these distant regions does not lie through the domain36 of Art or the domain of Science where well-known voices quarrel noisily in a misty37 emptiness; it is a path of toilsome silence upon which travel men simple and unknown, with closed lips, or, maybe, whispering their pain softly — only to themselves.
But Daudet did not whisper; he spoke19 loudly, with animation38, with a clear felicity of tone — as a bird sings. He saw life around him with extreme clearness, and he felt it as it is — thinner than air and more elusive39 than a flash of lightning. He hastened to offer it his compassion40, his indignation, his wonder, his sympathy, without giving a moment of thought to the momentous issues that are supposed to lurk41 in the logic42 of such sentiments. He tolerated the little foibles, the small ruffianisms, the grave mistakes; the only thing he distinctly would not forgive was hardness of heart. This unpractical attitude would have been fatal to a better man, but his readers have forgiven him. Withal he is chivalrous43 to exiled queens and deformed44 sempstresses, he is pityingly tender to broken-down actors, to ruined gentlemen, to stupid Academicians; he is glad of the joys of the commonplace people in a commonplace way — and he never makes a secret of all this. No, the man was not an artist. What if his creations are illumined by the sunshine of his temperament45 so vividly46 that they stand before us infinitely more real than the dingy47 illusions surrounding our everyday existence? The misguided man is for ever pottering amongst them, lifting up his voice, dotting his i’s in the wrong places. He takes Tartarin by the arm, he does not conceal48 his interest in the Nabob’s cheques, his sympathy for an honest Academician plus bete que Nature, his hate for an architect plus mauvais que la gale49; he is in the thick of it all. He feels with the Duc de Mora and with Felicia Ruys — and he lets you see it. He does not sit on a pedestal in the hieratic and imbecile pose of some cheap god whose greatness consists in being too stupid to care. He cares immensely for his Nabobs, his kings, his book-keepers, his Colettes, and his Saphos. He vibrates together with his universe, and with lamentable50 simplicity51 follows M. de Montpavon on that last walk along the Boulevards.
“Monsieur de Montpavon marche e la mort,” and the creator of that unlucky gentilhomme follows with stealthy footsteps, with wide eyes, with an impressively pointing finger. And who wouldn’t look? But it is hard; it is sometimes very hard to forgive him the dotted i’s, the pointing finger, this making plain of obvious mysteries. “Monsieur de Montpavon marche e la mort,” and presently, on the crowded pavement, takes off his hat with punctilious52 courtesy to the doctor’s wife, who, elegant and unhappy, is bound on the same pilgrimage. This is too much! We feel we cannot forgive him such meetings, the constant whisper of his presence. We feel we cannot, till suddenly the very naivete of it all touches us with the revealed suggestion of a truth. Then we see that the man is not false; all this is done in transparent53 good faith. The man is not melodramatic; he is only picturesque54. He may not be an artist, but he comes as near the truth as some of the greatest. His creations are seen; you can look into their very eyes, and these are as thoughtless as the eyes of any wise generation that has in its hands the fame of writers. Yes, they are seen, and the man who is not an artist is seen also commiserating55, indignant, joyous56, human and alive in their very midst. Inevitably57 they marchent e la mort — and they are very near the truth of our common destiny: their fate is poignant58, it is intensely interesting, and of not the slightest consequence.
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1 scramble | |
v.爬行,攀爬,杂乱蔓延,碎片,片段,废料 | |
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2 benevolent | |
adj.仁慈的,乐善好施的 | |
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3 infinitely | |
adv.无限地,无穷地 | |
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4 generosity | |
n.大度,慷慨,慷慨的行为 | |
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5 discretion | |
n.谨慎;随意处理 | |
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6 disdain | |
n.鄙视,轻视;v.轻视,鄙视,不屑 | |
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7 prodigality | |
n.浪费,挥霍 | |
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8 disinterestedness | |
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9 toiler | |
辛劳者,勤劳者 | |
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10 propounding | |
v.提出(问题、计划等)供考虑[讨论],提议( propound的现在分词 ) | |
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11 oversight | |
n.勘漏,失察,疏忽 | |
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12 unwillingly | |
adv.不情愿地 | |
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13 melancholy | |
n.忧郁,愁思;adj.令人感伤(沮丧)的,忧郁的 | |
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14 expounder | |
陈述者,说明者 | |
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15 spurned | |
v.一脚踢开,拒绝接受( spurn的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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16 naively | |
adv. 天真地 | |
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17 pumpkins | |
n.南瓜( pumpkin的名词复数 );南瓜的果肉,南瓜囊 | |
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18 outspoken | |
adj.直言无讳的,坦率的,坦白无隐的 | |
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19 spoke | |
n.(车轮的)辐条;轮辐;破坏某人的计划;阻挠某人的行动 v.讲,谈(speak的过去式);说;演说;从某种观点来说 | |
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20 bondage | |
n.奴役,束缚 | |
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21 creed | |
n.信条;信念,纲领 | |
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22 admiration | |
n.钦佩,赞美,羡慕 | |
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23 immortal | |
adj.不朽的;永生的,不死的;神的 | |
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24 elevation | |
n.高度;海拔;高地;上升;提高 | |
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25 tragic | |
adj.悲剧的,悲剧性的,悲惨的 | |
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26 droll | |
adj.古怪的,好笑的 | |
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27 momentous | |
adj.重要的,重大的 | |
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28 reticence | |
n.沉默,含蓄 | |
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29 sincerity | |
n.真诚,诚意;真实 | |
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30 lucidity | |
n.明朗,清晰,透明 | |
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31 irresistibly | |
adv.无法抵抗地,不能自持地;极为诱惑人地 | |
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32 agitation | |
n.搅动;搅拌;鼓动,煽动 | |
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33 artistic | |
adj.艺术(家)的,美术(家)的;善于艺术创作的 | |
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34 folly | |
n.愚笨,愚蠢,蠢事,蠢行,傻话 | |
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35 insignificant | |
adj.无关紧要的,可忽略的,无意义的 | |
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36 domain | |
n.(活动等)领域,范围;领地,势力范围 | |
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37 misty | |
adj.雾蒙蒙的,有雾的 | |
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38 animation | |
n.活泼,兴奋,卡通片/动画片的制作 | |
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39 elusive | |
adj.难以表达(捉摸)的;令人困惑的;逃避的 | |
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40 compassion | |
n.同情,怜悯 | |
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41 lurk | |
n.潜伏,潜行;v.潜藏,潜伏,埋伏 | |
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42 logic | |
n.逻辑(学);逻辑性 | |
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43 chivalrous | |
adj.武士精神的;对女人彬彬有礼的 | |
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44 deformed | |
adj.畸形的;变形的;丑的,破相了的 | |
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45 temperament | |
n.气质,性格,性情 | |
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46 vividly | |
adv.清楚地,鲜明地,生动地 | |
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47 dingy | |
adj.昏暗的,肮脏的 | |
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48 conceal | |
v.隐藏,隐瞒,隐蔽 | |
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49 gale | |
n.大风,强风,一阵闹声(尤指笑声等) | |
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50 lamentable | |
adj.令人惋惜的,悔恨的 | |
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51 simplicity | |
n.简单,简易;朴素;直率,单纯 | |
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52 punctilious | |
adj.谨慎的,谨小慎微的 | |
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53 transparent | |
adj.明显的,无疑的;透明的 | |
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54 picturesque | |
adj.美丽如画的,(语言)生动的,绘声绘色的 | |
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55 commiserating | |
v.怜悯,同情( commiserate的现在分词 ) | |
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56 joyous | |
adj.充满快乐的;令人高兴的 | |
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57 inevitably | |
adv.不可避免地;必然发生地 | |
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58 poignant | |
adj.令人痛苦的,辛酸的,惨痛的 | |
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