Виктор Мари Гюго
Les Misérables, v. 2
CHAPTER III
ON WHAT TERMS THE PAST IS VENERABLE
The monastic system, as it existed in Spain, and as it exists now at Thibet, is to civilization a sort of consumption. It stops life short. It depopulates, nothing more nor less, – claustration, castration. It has been the scourge of Europe. Add to this the violence so often done to conscience, the forced vocations, the feudal system resting upon the cloister, primogeniture pouring into the monastic system the overflow of the family, these cruelties of which we have just spoken, the in pace, the mouths sealed, the brains walled up, so many unhappy intellects thrown into the dungeon of eternal vows, the taking of the veil, the burying alive of souls. Add the individual sufferings to the national degradation, and whoever you may be, you feel yourself shudder before the frock and the veil, these two shrouds of human invention.
However, on some points, and in some places, in spite of philosophy, in spite of progress, the monastic spirit persists in the midst of the nineteenth century, and a strange reopening of the monastic sore astonishes at this moment the civilized world. The obstinacy which old institutions show in perpetuating themselves is like the stubbornness of rancid perfume demanding to be used on our hair, the pretension of spoiled fish clamoring to be eaten, the persecution of the child's garment demanding to clothe the man, and the tenderness of corpses coming back to embrace the living.
"Ingrates!" says the garment. "I have sheltered you in the bad weather. Why do you cast me off?" "I come from the deep sea," says the fish. "I was once the rose," says the perfume. "I have loved you," says the corpse. "I have civilized you," says the convent.
To this there is one answer: "Yes, in times past."
To dream of the indefinite prolongation of things that are dead, and the government of men by embalmment, to restore to life dogmas that are rotting away, to regild the shrines, to replaster the cloisters, to reconsecrate the reliquaries, to refurnish the superstitions, to galvanize the fanaticisms, to put new handles on the holy water sprinklers, to set up again monastic and military rule, to believe in the saving of society by the multiplication of parasites, to impose the past on the present, – this seems strange. There are, however, theorists for these theories. These theorists, sensible men in other respects, have a very simple expedient. They varnish the past with a coating which they call social order, divine right, morality, family, respect for ancestors, ancient authority, sacred tradition, legitimacy, religion; and they go about crying, "Here! take this, my good people." This logic was known to the ancients. The soothsayers used to practise it They rubbed with chalk a black heifer, and said, "She is white." Bos cretatus.
As for us, we respect the past here and there, and we spare it always, provided that it consents to stay dead. If it tries to come to life again, we attack it, and we try to kill it.
Superstitions, bigotries, hypocrisies, prejudices, these phantoms, though they are only phantoms, are tenacious of life; they have teeth and claws in their obscurity, and we must grapple with them body to body, and make war upon them, and war without truce; for it is the fate of humanity to be condemned to eternal combat with phantoms. The spectre is hard to take by the throat, and throw to earth.
A convent in France in the full noon of the nineteenth century is a college of owls blinking at the daylight. A cloister in the open act of asceticism, in the very midst of the city of '89, of 1830, and of 1848, – Rome blossoming in Paris, – is an anachronism. At any ordinary time, to lay an anachronism, and make it vanish, we need only to make it spell out the date. But we are not in ordinary times.
Let us fight.
Let us fight; but let us distinguish. The essence of truth consists in never exaggerating. What need has she of exaggerating? There are some things that must be destroyed, and there are some things that need only be lighted up and looked at. Kind and serious examination, what a power it is! Let us not use fire where light will answer even purpose.
Given the nineteenth century, then, we are opposed on general principles, and in all nations, in Asia as well as in Europe, in India as in Turkey, to cloistered asceticism. Convent means bog. Their putrescence is undisguisable, their stagnation is unhealthy, their fermentation breeds fever and wasting pestilence in nations, their increase becomes one of the plagues of Egypt. We cannot think without fright of those countries where fakirs, bonzes, santons, caloyers, marabouts, talapoins, and dervishes multiply like swarms of vermin.
This said, the question of religion still remains. This question has phases which are mysterious and almost fearful. Let us look at it steadily.
CHAPTER IV
THE CONVENT FROM MORAL STANDPOINT
Some men unite and live together. By what right? By the right of association.
They shut themselves up at home. By what right? By the right which every man has to keep his door open or shut.
They do not go out. By what right? By the right to go and come, which implies the right to stay at home.
There, at home, what do they do?
They speak in low tones; they lower their eyes; they work. They renounce the world, cities, sensual joys, pleasures, vanity, pride, interest. They are clad in coarse wool, or coarse canvas. Not one of them has any property of his own. In entering, he who was rich makes himself poor. Whatever he has he gives to them all. He who was what the world calls well born, the nobleman and the lord, is the equal of him who was a peasant. All have the same cell. All bear the same tonsure, wear the same frock, eat the same black bread, sleep on the same straw, die on the same ashes. The same sackcloth on the back, the same rope around the loins. If it is the rule to go barefoot, all go barefoot. One of them may have been a prince, this prince is the same shade as the others. No more titles, family names even have disappeared. They bear only Christian names. All bow beneath the equality of baptismal names. They have dissolved the fleshly family, and have formed in their community the spiritual family. They have no longer any other kindred than mankind. They help the poor, they heal the sick. They elect those whom they obey. They call each other "brother."
You stop me, and you exclaim, "But that is an ideal convent."
It is enough that such a convent is possible to make it my duty to take it into account.
This is the reason that in the preceding book I have spoken of a convent in a tone of respect. Putting aside the Middle Ages, putting aside Asia, reserving the consideration of the historical and political question from the purely philosophical point of view, outside of the necessities of militant politics, upon the condition that the monastery should be wholly voluntary, and should shut up only those who freely consent, I should always regard the claustral community with attentive and on some accounts reverend gravity. Where the community is, there is the commune; where the commune is, there is human right. The monastery is the result of the formula: Equality, Fraternity. Oh, how great is Liberty! What a glorious transfiguration! Liberty is all that is needed to transform the monastery into the republic.
Let us go on.
But these men or these women, who are behind these four walls, they wear sackcloth, they are equal, they call each other brother. Very well; but is there anything else that they do?
Yes.
What?
They look into the darkness, they fall upon their knees, and they clasp their hands.
What does that mean?
CHAPTER V
PRAYER
They pray.
To whom?
To God.
To pray to God, – what does this mean?
Is there an infinite power outside of us? Is this infinite power a unity, immanent and enduring, – necessarily material, because it is infinite, and if it lacked matter, in so far it would be circumscribed; necessarily intelligent, because it is infinite, and if it lacked intelligence, again it would be limited? Does this infinite power awaken in us the idea of the essence of things, while we can only ascribe to ourselves the idea of existence? In other words, is it not the Absolute of which we are the Relative?
While there is an infinite power outside of us, is there not an infinite power within us? Do not these two infinites (what a fearful plural!) rest one upon the other? Does not the second infinite depend upon the first? Is it not its mirror, its reflection, its echo, an abyss concentric with another abyss? Is this second infinite also intelligent? Does it think? Does it love? Has it a will? If both these infinites are intelligent, each of them has volition, and there is an Ego in the infinite above, as there is an Ego in the infinite below. The Ego in the one below is the soul; the Ego in the one above is God.
To bring by thought the infinite below in contact with the infinite above is called praying.
Let us take nothing from the human spirit; to suppress anything is wrong. Let us regenerate and transform it. Some of man's faculties are directed toward the Unknown, – thought, revery, prayer. The Unknown is an ocean. What is conscience? It is the mariner's compass of the Unknown. Thought, revery, prayer, these are great mysterious rays; let us respect them. Whither tend these grand radiations of the soul? Into the darkness; that is to say, to the light.
The grandeur of democracy is in its denying nothing and abjuring nothing of humanity. Next to the right of man comes the right of the soul.
To crush out fanaticism, and to reverence the infinite, such is the law. Let us not be content to prostrate ourselves under the tree of Creation, and to contemplate its immense branches full of stars. We have a duty, – to work for the human soul, to distinguish between mystery and miracle; to worship the incomprehensible and reject the absurd; to admit as inexplicable only what we must; to make faith more healthy, to remove from religion the superstitions that encumber it; to brush the cobwebs from the image of God.
CHAPTER VI
ABSOLUTE GOODNESS OF PRATER
As to the manner of prayer, all are good, provided that they are sincere. Turn your book upside down, and be in the infinite.
There is, as we know, a philosophy which denies the infinite. There is also a philosophy, in pathological classification, which denies the sun; this philosophy is called blindness.
To set up as a source of truth a sense which we lack is the consummate assurance of a blind man.
The strange part of it lies in the lofty, superior, and pitying airs which this groping philosophy takes on in the presence of the philosophy which sees God. You fancy you hear the mole exclaim, "How I pity the poor men with their sun!"
There are some eminent and able atheists, we admit. These at bottom being brought back to the truth by their very ability, are not sure that they are atheists; it is scarcely more than a matter of definition with them; and at any rate, if they do not believe in God, being great minds, they bear unconscious witness to His existence.
We hail in them the philosopher, while we deny relentlessly their philosophy.
Let us go on.
It is wonderful, too, to see how easily they amuse themselves with words, A metaphysical school of the North, a little impregnated with fog, thought that it was making a revolution in the human understanding when it replaced the word "Force" by the word "Will."
To say "the plant wills" instead of "the plant grows;" this would amount to something, if they added "the universe wills," Why? Because it would lead to this: the plant wills, then it has a self; the universe wills, then it has a God.
To us, however, who, unlike this school, reject nothing a priori, a will in the plant, which this school admits, seems more difficult to admit than a will in the universe, which this school denies.
To deny the will of the infinite, that is to say, God, is impossible without denying the infinite. This we have demonstrated.
The denial of the infinite leads straight to nihilism. Everything becomes "a conception of the mind."
With nihilism no argument is possible; for the logical nihilist doubts the existence of his opponent in the discussion, and is not quite sure that he exists himself.
From his point of view it may be that his own existence is only a "conception of his mind."
He does not see, however, that all that he has denied he admits in the lump by merely using this word "mind."
In short, no way is left open for thought by a philosophy which makes everything end in the mono-syllable "No."
To "No," there is but one answer, "Yes."
Nihilism has no range.
There is no nothing. Zero does not exist. Everything is something. Nothing is nothing.
Man lives by affirmation even more than by bread.
To see and point out the way is not enough. Philosophy ought to be a living force; it ought to have for end and aim the amelioration of mankind. Socrates ought to enter into Adam, and produce Marcus Aurelius; in other words, turn the man of selfish enjoyment into the wise and good man. Change Eden into the Lyceum. Knowledge ought to be a stimulant. To enjoy life, what a poor aim, what a mean ambition! The brute enjoys. To think, that is the true triumph of the soul.
To hold out thought to quench men's thirst, to give to all men as an elixir the idea of God, to make conscience and knowledge fraternize in them, and by this mysterious partnership to make them just, – this is the work for real philosophy. Morality is a blossoming of truths. Thought leads to action. The absolute ought to be practical. The ideal must be brought into such form that it can be breathed, drunk, and eaten by the human soul. The ideal is the very one to say, "Take, eat; this is my body, this is my blood." Knowledge is a holy communion. Thus it ceases to be a sterile love of knowledge to become the one and sovereign means of human advancement, and from philosophy it is exalted to religion.
Philosophy ought not to be an arch built over mystery, the better to look down on it, merely as a convenience for curiosity.
Postponing to another time the development of this thought, we content ourselves now with saying that we understand neither man as the point of departure nor progress as the goal, without these two motive forces, faith and love.
Progress is the goal, the ideal is the type.
What is the ideal? It is God.
Ideal, absolute, perfection, infinite, – all mean the same.
CHAPTER VII
CARE TO BE EXERCISED IN CONDEMNING
History and philosophy have eternal duties which are at the same time simple duties. To oppose Caiaphas as a high priest, Draco as a judge, Trimalcion as a law-giver, Tiberius as an emperor, – that is a duty simple, direct, and clear, and gives no room for doubt. But the right to live apart, even with its objections and its abuse, must be demonstrated and handled carefully; monasticism is a human problem.
In speaking of convents, these homes of error but of innocence, of wanderings from the true path but of good intentions, of ignorance but of devotion, of torture but of martyrdom, we must almost always say yes and no.
A convent is a contradiction: its aim, salvation; its means, sacrifice. The convent is supreme selfishness having as its result supreme abnegation.
To abdicate in order to reign seems to be the motto of monasticism.
In the convent, they suffer in order to enjoy. They take out a letter of credit on death. They discount in earthly night the light of heaven. In the convent hell is endured in advance of the heirship to paradise.
The taking of the veil or the frock is a suicide recompensed by eternity.
Mockery on such a subject does not seem to us to be in place. Everything there is serious, the good as well as the bad.
The just man frowns, but never sneers at it We can sympathize with indignation, but not with malignity.
CHAPTER VIII
FAITH, LAW
A few words more. We blame the Church when it is steeped in intrigues. We scorn the spiritual when it is not in accord with the temporal; but we honor the thoughtful man wherever we find him.
We bow to the man who kneels.
A faith of some kind is necessary to man. Alas for him who believes nothing!
We are not necessarily idle because we are absorbed. Labor may be invisible as well as visible.
To reflect is to labor; to think is to act.
The folded arms labor, the clasped hands work. The gaze directed to heaven is a labor.
Thales stayed immovable for four years. He founded philosophy.
In our opinion, monks are not drones, and hermits are not idlers.
To think of the future life is a serious business.
Without withdrawing at all from the position which we have just taken, we believe that a continual reminder of the tomb is good for the living. On this point the priest and the philosopher agree. We must die. The Trappist Abbé replies to Horace.
To mix with his life some presence of the tomb is the law of the wise man; and it is also the law of the recluse. Here recluse and wise man agree.
There is such a thing as material growth; we are glad of it. There is also such a thing as moral grandeur; we insist upon it.
Thoughtless and hasty spirits say: "What is the use of these figures motionless by the side of mystery? What purpose do they serve? What good do they do?"
Alas! In presence of the darkness which envelops us, and which awaits us, not knowing what will become of us in the dispersion of all things, we answer, "There is no work more sublime, perhaps, than that which these souls are doing." And we add, "There is, perhaps, no work more useful."
Those who always pray are needed for those who never pray.
In our opinion, it all depends on the amount of thought that enters into the prayer.
Leibnitz in prayer, this is grand. Voltaire in adoration, this is sublime. Deo erexit Voltaire.
We are on the side of religion against religions.
We believe in the worthlessness of supplications and the sublimity of worship.
Besides, at this moment through which we are passing, a moment which luckily will not leave its imprint upon the nineteenth century, at this hour when so many men have the forehead low and the soul far from lofty, among so many beings whose code is selfish enjoyment, and who are taken up with material things, ephemeral and shapeless, he who exiles himself seems to us worthy of veneration.
The monastery is a renunciation. Mistaken sacrifice is still sacrifice. To mistake for duty a serious error, this has its noble side.
Taken by itself ideally, and looking on all sides of truth until we have exhausted impartially all its aspects, the monastery and still more the convent for women, – for in our society woman is the greatest sufferer, and her protest appears in this exile of the cloister, – the convent for women has undeniably a certain grandeur.
This cloistered life so austere and so sad, some of whose features we have pointed out, is not life, for it is not liberty; it is not the tomb, for it is not lasting. It is the weird place from which is seen as from the crest of a high mountain on one side the abyss in which we now are, on the other, the abyss in which we shall be; it is a narrow and misty boundary which separates two worlds, cast into light and into shadow by both at a time, where the weak ray of life blends with the flickering ray of death; it is the penumbra of the tomb.
While we do not believe as these women do, we live like them by faith; and we have never been able to think, without a kind of terror, religious and tender, without a sort of pity mixed with envy, of these devoted creatures, trembling and trusting, these souls humble and proud, who dare to live on the very border of mystery, waiting between the world which is closed, and heaven which is not yet open, faced toward the light which they do not see, having only the consolation of thinking that they know where it is, longing for the gulf and the unknown, with eyes fixed upon the motionless darkness, kneeling, distracted, stupefied, shuddering, half lifted at times by the deep breathing of eternity.
