I thus reached the vacation of 1845, which I spent, as I had
the preceding ones, in Brittany. There I had much more time for
reflection. The grains of sand of my doubts accumulated into a solid
mass. My director, who, with the best intentions in the world, gave
me bad advice, was no longer within my reach. I ceased to take part
in the sacraments of the Church, though I still retained my former
fondness for its prayers. Christianity appeared to me greater than
ever before, but I could only cling to the supernatural by an effort
of habit--by a sort of fiction with myself. The task of logic was
done; that of honesty was about to begin. For nearly two months I
was Protestant; I could not make up my mind to abandon altogether the
great religious tradition which had hitherto been part of my life;
I mused upon future reforms, when the philosophy of Christianity,
disencumbered of all superstitious dross and yet preserving its moral
efficacity (that was my great dream), would be left the great school
of humanity and its guide to the future. My readings in German gave
nurture to these ideas. Herder was the German writer with whom I was
most familiar. His vast views delighted me, and I said to myself, with
keen regret, if I could but think all that like a Herder and remain a
priest, a Christian preacher. But with my notions at once precise
and respectful of Catholicism, I could not succeed in conceiving
any honourable way of remaining a Catholic priest while retaining my
opinions. I was Christian after the fashion of a professor of theology
at Halle or Tübingen. An inward voice told me: "Thou art no longer
Catholic; thy robe is a lie; cast it off."
I was a Christian, however; for all the papers of that date which I
have preserved give clear expression to the feeling which I have since
endeavoured to portray in the _Vie de Jésus_, I mean a keen regard
for the evangelic ideal and for the character of the Founder of
Christianity. The idea that in abandoning the Church I should remain
faithful to Jesus got hold upon me, and if I could have brought myself
to believe in apparitions I should certainly have seen Jesus saying
to me: "Abandon Me to become My disciple." This thought sustained and
emboldened me. I may say that from that moment my _Vie de Jésus_ was
mentally written. Belief in the eminent personality of Jesus--which is
the spirit of that book--had been my mainstay in my struggle against
theology. Jesus has in reality ever been my master. In following out
the truth at the cost of any sacrifice I was convinced that I was
following Him and obeying the most imperative of His precepts.
I was at this time so far removed from my old Brittany masters
in respect to disposition, intellectual culture and study that
conversation between us had become almost impossible. One of them
suspected something, and said to me: "I have always thought that you
were being overdone in the way of study." A habit which I had acquired
of reciting the psalms in Hebrew from a small manuscript of my own
which I used as a breviary, surprised them very much. They were half
inclined to ask me if I was a Jew. My mother guessed all that was
taking place without quite understanding it. I continued, as in my
childhood, to take long walks into the country with her. One day, we
sat down in the valley of Guindy, near the Chapelle des Cinq Plaies,
by the side of the spring. For hours I read by her side, without
raising my eyes from the book, which was a very harmless one--M. de
Bonald's _Recherches Philosophiques._ Nevertheless the book displeased
her, and she snatched it away from me, feeling that books of the same
description, if not this particular one, were what she had to dread.
Upon the 6th of September, 1845, I wrote to M. ----, my director, the
following letter, a copy of which I have found among my papers,
and which I reproduce without in any way attenuating its somewhat
inconsistent and feverish tone:--
"SIR,--Having had to make two or three journeys at the beginning of
the vacation, I have been unable to correspond with you as early as I
could have wished. I was none the less urgently in need of unbosoming
myself to you with regard to pangs which increase in intensity each
day, and which I feel all the keener because there is no one here to
whom I can confide them. What ought to make for my happiness causes
me the deepest sorrow. An imperious sense of duty compels me to
concentrate my thoughts upon myself, in order to spare pain to those
who surround me with their affection, and who would moreover be quite
incapable of understanding my perplexity. Their kindness and soothing
words cut me to the quick. Oh, if they only knew what was going on
in the recesses of my heart! Since my stay here I have acquired some
important data towards the solution of the great problem which is
preoccupying my mind. Several circumstances have, to begin with, made
me realise the greatness of the sacrifice which God required of me,
and into what an abyss the course which my conscience prescribes must
plunge me. It is useless to describe them to you in detail, as, after
all, considerations of this kind can be of no weight in the resolution
which has to be taken. To have abandoned a path which I had selected
from my childhood, and which led without danger to the pure and noble
aims which I had set before myself, in order to tread another along
which I could discern nothing but uncertainty and disappointment; to
have disregarded the opinion which will have only blame in store
for what is really an honest act on my part, would have been a small
thing, if I had not at the same time been compelled to tear out part
of my heart, or, to speak more accurately, to pierce another to which
my own was so deeply attached. Filial love had grown in proportion as
so many other affections were crushed out. Well, it is in this part
of my being that duty exacts from me the most painful sacrifice. My
leaving the seminary will be an inexplicable enigma to my mother; she
will believe that I have killed her out of sheer caprice.
"Truly may I say that when I envisage the inextricable mesh in which
God has ensnared me while my reason and freedom were asleep, while I
was following with docile steps the path He had Himself traced out for
me, distracting thoughts crowd themselves upon me. God knows that I
was simple-minded and pure; I took nothing upon myself; I walked with
free and unflagging steps in the path which He disclosed before me,
and behold this path has led me to the brink of a precipice! God has
betrayed me! I never doubted but that a wise and merciful Providence
governed the universe and governed me in the course which I was to
take. It is not, however, without considerable effort that I have been
able to apply so formal a contradiction to apparent facts. I often say
to myself that vulgar common sense is little capable of appreciating
the providential government whether of humanity, of the universe, or
of the individual. The isolated consideration of facts would scarcely
tend to optimism. It requires a strong dose of optimism to credit God
with this generosity in spite of experience. I hope that I shall never
feel any hesitation upon this point, and that whatever may be the ills
which Providence yet has in store for me I shall ever believe that it
is guiding me to the highest possible good through the least possible
evil.
"According to what I hear from Germany, the situation which was
offered me there is still open;[1] only I cannot enter upon it before
the spring. This makes my journey thither very doubtful, and throws me
back into fresh perplexities. I am also advised to go through a year
of free study in Paris, during which time I should be able to reflect
upon my future career, and also take my university degrees. I am very
much inclined to adopt this last-named course, for though I have made
up my mind to come back to the seminary and confer with you and the
superiors, I should nevertheless be very reluctant to make a long
stay there in my present condition of mind. It is with the utmost
apprehension that I mark the near approach of the time when my inward
irresolution must find expression in a most decided course of action.
Hard it is to have thus to reascend the stream down which one has for
so long been gently floated! If only I could be sure of the future,
and of being one day able to secure for my ideas their due place, and
follow up at my ease and free from all external preoccupations the
work of my intellectual and moral improvement! But even could I
be sure of myself, how could I be of the circumstances which force
themselves so pitilessly upon us? In truth, I am driven to regret the
paltry store of liberty which God has given us; we have enough to
make us struggle; not enough to master destiny, just enough to insure
suffering.
"Happy are the children who only sleep and dream, and who never have a
thought of entering upon this struggle with God Himself! I see around me
men of pure and simple mind, whom Christianity suffices to render
virtuous and happy. God grant that they may never develop the miserable
faculty of criticism which so imperiously demands satisfaction, and
which, when once satisfied, leaves such little happiness in the soul!
Would to God that it were in my power to suppress it. I would not
hesitate at amputation if it were lawful and possible. Christianity
satisfies all my faculties except one, which is the most exacting of
them all, because it is by right judge over all the others. Would it not
be a contradiction in terms to impose conviction upon the faculty which
creates conviction? I am well aware that the orthodox will tell me that
it is my own fault if I have fallen into this condition. I will not
argue the point; no man knows whether he is worthy of love or hatred. I
am quite willing, therefore, to say that it is my fault, provided those
who love me promise to pity me and continue me their friendship.
"A result which now seems beyond all doubt is that I shall not revert
to orthodoxy by continuing to follow the same line,--I mean that of
rational and critical self-examination. Up till now, I hoped that
after having travelled over the circle of doubt I should come back
to the starting-point. I have quite lost this hope, and a return
to Catholicism no longer seems possible to me, except by a receding
movement, by stopping short in the path which I have entered, by
stigmatising reason, by declaring it for once and all null and void,
and by condemning it to respectful silence. Each step in my career of
criticism takes me further away from the starting-point. Have I, then,
lost all hope of coming back to Catholicism? That would be too bitter
a thought. No, sir, I have no hopes of reverting to it by rational
progress; but I have often been on the point of repudiating for once
and all the guide whom at times I mistrust. What would then be the
motive of my life? I cannot tell; but activity will ever find scope.
You may be sure that I must have been sorely forced to have dwelt for
one instant upon a thought which seems more cruel to me than death.
And yet, if my conscience represented it to me as lawful, I should
eagerly avail myself of it, if only out of common decency.
"I hope at all events that those who know me will admit that
interested motives have not estranged me from Christianity. Have not
all my material interests tempted me to find it true? The temporal
considerations against which I have had to struggle would have
sufficed to persuade many others; my heart has need of Christianity;
the Gospel will ever be my moral law; the church has given me my
education, and I love her. Could I but continue to style myself her
son! I pass from her in spite of myself; I abhor the dishonest attacks
levelled at her; I frankly confess that I have no complete substitute
for her teaching; but I cannot disguise from myself the weak points
which I believe that I have found in it and with regard to which it
is impossible to effect a compromise, because we have to do with a
doctrine in which all the component parts hold together and cannot be
detached.
"I sometimes regret that I was not born in a land where the bonds of
orthodoxy are less tightly drawn than in Catholic countries. For, at
whatever cost, I am resolved to be a Christian; but I cannot be an
orthodox Catholic. When I find such independent and bold thinkers as
Herder, Kant, and Fichte, calling themselves Christians, I should like
to be so too. But can I be so in the Catholic faith, which is like a
bar of iron? and you cannot reason with a bar of iron. Will not some
one found amongst us a rational and critical Christianity? I will
confess to you that I believe that I have discovered in some German
writers the true kind of Christianity which is adapted to us. May
I live to see this Christianity assuming a form capable of fully
satisfying all the requirements of our age! May I myself cooperate in
the great work! What so grieves me is the thought that perhaps it will
be needful to be a priest in order to accomplish that; and I could not
become a priest without being guilty of hypocrisy.
"Forgive me, sir, these thoughts, which must seem very reprehensible
to you. You are aware that all this has not as yet any dogmatic
consistence in me; I still cling to the Church, my venerable mother; I
recite the Psalms with heartfelt accents; I should, if I followed the
bent of my inclination, pass hours at a time in church; gentle, plain,
and pure piety touches me to the very heart; and I even have sharp
relapses of devotional feeling. All this cannot coexist without
contradiction with my general condition. But I have once for all made
up my mind on the subject; I have cast off the inconvenient yoke
of consistency, at all events for the time. Will God condemn me for
having simultaneously admitted that which my different faculties
simultaneously exact, although I am unable to reconcile their
contradictory demands? Are there not periods in the history of the
human mind when contradiction is necessary? When the moral verities
are under examination, doubt is unavoidable; and yet during this
period of transition the pure and noble mind must still be moral,
thanks to a contradiction. Thus it is that I am at times both Catholic
and Rationalist; but holy orders I can never take, for 'once a priest,
always a priest.'
"In order to keep my letter within due limits, I must bring the long
story of my inward struggles to a close. I thank God, who has seen
fit to put me through so severe a trial, for having brought me into
contact with a mind such as yours, which is so well able to understand
this trial, and to whom I can confide it without reserve."
M---- wrote me a very kind-hearted reply, offering a merely formal
opposition to my project of following my own course of study. My
sister, whose high intelligence had for years been like the pillar of
fire which lighted my path, wrote from Poland to encourage me in my
resolution, which was finally taken at the end of September. It was
a very honest and straightforward act; and it is one which I now look
back upon with the greatest satisfaction. But what a cruel severance.
It was upon my mother's account that I suffered the most. I was
compelled to inflict a deep wound upon her without being able to
give the slightest explanation. Although gifted with much native
intelligence, she was not sufficiently educated to understand that
a person's religious faith can be affected because he has discovered
that the Messianic explanations of the Psalms are erroneous, and that
Gesenius, in his commentary upon Isaiah, is in nearly every point
right when combating the arguments of the orthodox. It grieved me
much, also, to give pain to my old Brittany masters, who retained such
kindly feelings towards me. The critical question, as it represented
itself to my mind, would have seemed absolutely unintelligible to
them, so plain and unquestioning was their faith. I went back to Paris
therefore without letting them know anything more than that I was
likely to travel, and that my ecclesiastical studies might possibly be
suspended.
The masters of St. Sulpice, accustomed to take a broader view of
things, were not very much surprised. M. Le Hir, who placed an
unlimited confidence in study, and who also knew how steady my conduct
was, did not dissuade me from devoting a few years to free study
in Paris, and sketched out the course which I was to follow at the
Collège de France and at the School of Eastern Languages. M. Carbon
was grieved; he saw how different my position must become, and he
promised to try and find me a quiet and honourable position. M.
Dupanloup[2] displayed in this matter the high and hearty appreciation
of spiritual things which constituted his superiority. I spoke very
frankly to him. The critical side of the question did not in any way
impress him, and my allusion to German criticism took him by surprise.
The labours of M. Le Hir were almost unknown to him. Scripture in his
eyes was only useful in supplying preachers with eloquent passages,
and Hebrew was of no use for that purpose. But how kind and
generous-hearted he was! I have now before me a short note from him,
in which he says: "Do you want any money? This would be natural enough
in your position. My humble purse is at your service. I should like
to be able to offer you more precious gifts. I hope that my plain
and simple offer will not offend you." I declined his kind offer with
thanks, but there was no merit in my refusal, for my sister Henriette
had sent me twelve hundred francs to tide over this crisis. I scarcely
touched this sum, but nevertheless, by relieving me of any immediate
apprehension for the morrow, it was the foundation of the independence
and of the dignity of my whole life.
Thus, on the 6th of October, 1845, I went down, never again to remount
them in priestly dress, the steps of the St. Sulpice seminary. I
crossed the courtyard as quickly as I could, and went to the hotel
which then stood at the north-west corner of the esplanade, not at
that time thrown open, as it is now.
[Footnote 1: This has reference to a post of private tutor which was at my
disposal for a time.]
[Footnote 2: M. Dupanloup was no longer superior of the Petty Seminary
of Saint Nicholas du Chardonnet.]
FIRST STEPS OUTSIDE ST. SULPICE.
PART I.
The name of this hotel I do not remember; it was always spoken of as
"Mademoiselle Céleste's," this being the name of the worthy person who
managed or owned it.
There was certainly no other hotel like it in Paris, for it was a kind
of annex to the seminary, the rules of which were to a great extent
in force there. Lodgers were not admitted without a letter of
introduction from one of the directors of the seminary or some other
notability in the religious world. It was here that students who
wished for a few days to themselves before entering or leaving the
seminary used to stay, while priests and superiors of convents whom
business brought to Paris found it comfortable and inexpensive. The
transition from the priestly to the ordinary dress is like the change
which occurs in a chrysalis; it needs a little shade. Assuredly,
if any one could narrate all the silent and unobtrusive romances
associated with this ancient hotel, now pulled down, we should hear
some very interesting stories. I must not, however, let my meaning be
mistaken, for, like many ecclesiastics still alive, I can testify to
the blameless course of life in Mlle. Céleste's hotel.
While I was awaiting here the completion of my metamorphosis, M.
Carbon's good offices were being busily employed upon my behalf.
He had written to Abbé Gratry, at that time director of the Collège
Stanislas, and the latter offered me a place as usher in the upper
division. M. Dupanloup advised me to accept it, remarking: "You may
rest assured that M. Gratry is a priest of the highest distinction."
I accepted, and was very kindly treated by every one, but I did not
retain the place more than a fortnight. I found that my new situation
involved my making the outward profession of clericalism, the
avoidance of which was my reason for leaving the seminary. Thus my
relations with M. Gratry were but fleeting. He was a kindhearted
man, and a rather clever writer, but there was nothing in him. His
indecision of mind did not suit me at all, M. Carbon and M. Dupanloup
had told him why I had left St. Sulpice. We had two or three
conversations, in the course of which I explained to him my doubts,
based upon an examination of the texts. He did not in the least
understand me, and with his transcendentalism he must have looked upon
my rigid attention to details as very commonplace. He knew nothing of
ecclesiastical science, whether exegesis or theology; his capabilities
not extending beyond hollow phrases, trifling applications of
mathematics, and the region of "matter of fact." I was not slow to
perceive how immensely superior the theology of St. Sulpice was to
these hollow combinations which would fain pass muster as scientific.
St. Sulpice has a knowledge at first hand of what Christianity is;
the Polytechnic School has not. But I repeat, there could be no two
opinions as to the uprightness of M. Gratry, who was a very taking and
highminded man.
I was sorry to part company with him; but there was no help for it.
I had left the first seminary in the world for one in every respect
inferior to it. The leg had been badly set; I had the courage to break
it a second time. On the 2nd or 3rd of November, I passed from out the
last threshold appertaining to the Church, and I obtained a place
as "assistant master _au pair_"--to employ the phrase used in the
Quartier Latin of those days--without salary, in a school of the
St. Jacques district attached to the Lycée Henri IV. I had a small
bedroom, and took my meals with the scholars, and as my time was not
occupied for more than two hours a day, I was able to do a good deal
of work upon my own account. This was just what I wanted.
FIRST STEPS OUTSIDE ST. SULPICE.
PART II.
Constituted as I am to find my own company quite sufficient, the
humble dwelling in the Rue des Deux Eglises (now the Rue de l'Abbé
de l'Épée) would have been a paradise for me had it not been for
the terrible crisis which my conscience was passing through, and the
altered direction which I was compelled to give to my existence. The
fish in Lake Baïkal have, it is said, taken thousands of years in
their transformation from salt to fresh water fish. I had to effect
my transition in a few weeks. Catholicism, like a fairy circle, casts
such a powerful spell upon one's whole life, that when one is deprived
of it everything seems aimless and gloomy. I felt terribly out of
my element. The whole universe seemed to me like an arid and chilly
desert. With Christianity untrue, everything else appeared to me
indifferent, frivolous, and undeserving of interest. The shattering of
my career left me with a sense of aching void, like what may be felt
by one who has had an attack of fever or a blighted affection. The
struggle which had engrossed my whole soul had been so ardent that
all the rest appeared to me petty and frivolous. The world discovered
itself to me as mean and deficient in virtue. I seemed to have lost
caste, and to have fallen upon a nest of pigmies.
My sorrow was much increased by the grief which I had been compelled
to inflict upon my mother. I resorted, perhaps wrongly, to certain
artifices with the view, as I hoped, of sparing her pain. Her letters
went to my heart. She supposed my position to be even more painful
than it was in reality, and as she had, despite our poverty, rather
spoilt me, she thought that I should never be able to withstand any
hardship. "When I remember how a poor little mouse kept you from
sleeping, I am at a loss to know how you will get on," she wrote to
me. She passed her time singing the Marseilles hymns,[1] of which she
was so fond, especially the hymn of Joseph, beginning--
"O Joseph, ô mon aimable
Fils affable."
When she wrote to me in this strain, my heart was fit to break. As a
child, I was in the habit of asking her ten times over in the course
of the day--"Mother, have I been good?" The idea of a rupture between
us was most cruel. I accordingly resorted to various devices in order
to prove to her that I was still the same tender son that I had been
in the past. In time the wound healed, and when she saw that I was as
tender and loving towards her as ever, she readily agreed that there
might be more than one way of being a priest, and that nothing was
changed in me except the dress, which was the literal truth.
My ignorance of the world was thorough-paced. I knew nothing except
of literary matters, and as my only real knowledge was that which I
gained at St. Sulpice, I have always been like a child in all worldly
matters. I did not therefore make any effort to render my material
position as good as the circumstances admitted. The one object of life
seemed to me to be thought. The educational profession being the one
which comes nearest to the clerical one, I selected it almost without
reflection. It was hard, no doubt, after having reached the maximum
of intellectual culture, and having held a post of some honour,
to descend to the lowest rank. I was better versed than any living
Frenchman, with the exception of M. Le Hir, in the comparative theory
of the Semitic languages, and my position was no better than that of
an under-master; I was a savant, and I had not taken a degree. But
the inward contentment of my own conscience was enough for me. I
never felt a shadow of regret at the decision which I had come to in
October, 1845.
I had my reward, moreover, the day after I entered the humble school
in which I was to occupy for three years and a-half such a lowly
position. Among the pupils was one who, owing to his successes and
rapid progress, held a place of his own in the school. He was eighteen
years old, and even at that early age the philosophical spirit, the
concentrated ardour, the passionate love of truth, and the inventive
sagacity which have since made his name celebrated were apparent to
those who knew him. I refer to M. Berthelot, whose room was next to
mine. From the day that we knew each other, we became fast friends.
Our eagerness to learn was equally great, and we had both had very
different kinds of culture. We accordingly threw all that we knew
into the same seething cauldron which served to boil joints of very
different kinds. Berthelot taught me what was not to be learnt in the
seminary, while I taught him theology and Hebrew. Berthelot purchased
a Hebrew Bible, which, I believe, is still in his library with its
leaves uncut. He did not get much beyond the _Shevas_, the counter
attractions of the laboratory being too great. Our mutual honesty and
straightforwardness brought us closer together. Berthelot introduced
me to his father, one of those gifted doctors such as may be found in
Paris. The father was a Galilean of the old school, and very advanced
in his political views. He was the first Republican I had ever seen,
and it took me some time to familiarize myself with the idea. But
he was something more than that: he was a model of charity and
self-devotion. He assured the scientific career of his son by enabling
him to devote himself up to the age of thirty to his speculative
researches without having to obtain any remunerative post which would
have interfered with his studies. In politics, Berthelot remained true
to the principles of his father. This is the only point upon which
we have not always been agreed. For my part I should willingly resign
myself, if the opportunity arose (I must say that it seems to grow
more distant every day), to serve, for the greater good of
humanity now so sadly out of gear, a tyrant who was philanthropic,
well-instructed, intelligent, and liberal.
Our discussions were interminable, and we were always resuming the
same subject. We passed part of the night in searching out together
the topics upon which we were engaged. After some little time, M.
Berthelot, having completed his special mathematical studies at the
Lycée Henri IV., went back to his father, who lived at the foot of
the Tour Saint Jacques de la Boucherie. When he came to see me in the
evening at the Rue de l'Abbé de l'Épée, we used to converse for hours,
and then I used to walk back with him to the Tour Saint Jacques. But
as our conversation was rarely concluded when we got back to his
door, he returned with me, and then I went back with him, this game
of battledore and shuttlecock being renewed several times. Social and
philosophical questions must be very hard to solve, seeing that we
could not with all our energy settle them. The crisis of 1848 had a
very great effect upon us. This fateful year was not more successful
than we had been in solving the problems which it had set itself, but
it demonstrated the fragility of many things which were supposed to be
solid, and to young and active minds it seemed like the lowering of a
curtain of clouds upon the horizon.
The profound affection which thus bound M. Berthelot and myself
together was unquestionably of a very rare and singular kind. It
so happened that we were both of an essentially objective nature; a
nature, that is to say, perfectly free from the narrow whirlwind which
converts most consciences into an egotistical gulf like the conical
cavity of the formica-leo. Accustomed each to pay very little
attention to himself, we paid very little attention to one another.
Our friendship consisted in what we mutually learnt, in a sort of
common fermentation which a remarkable conformity of intellectual
organization produced in us in regard to the same objects. Anything
which we had both seen in the same light seemed to us a certainty.
When we first became acquainted, I still retained a tender attachment
for Christianity. Berthelot also inherited from his father a remnant
of Christian belief. A few months sufficed to relegate these vestiges
of faith to that part of our souls reserved for memory. The statement
that everything in the world is of the same colour, that there is no
special supernatural or momentary revelation, impressed itself upon
our minds as unanswerable. The scientific purview of a universe in
which there is no appreciable trace of any free will superior to that
of man became, from the first months of 1846, the immovable anchor
from which we never shifted. We shall never move from this position
until we shall have encountered in nature some one specially
intentional fact having its cause outside the free will of man or the
spontaneous action of the animal.
Thus our friendship was somewhat analogous to that of two eyes when
they look steadily at the same object, and when from two images the
brain receives one and the same perception. Our intellectual growth
was like the phenomenon which occurs through a sort of action due
to close contact and to passive complicity. M. Berthelot looked as
favourably upon what I did as myself; I liked his ways as much as
he could have done himself. There was never so much as a trivial
vulgarity--I will not say a moral slackening of affection--between us.
We were invariably upon the same terms with each other that people are
with a woman for whom they feel respect. When I want to typify what an
unexampled pair of friends we were, I always represent two priests
in their surplices walking arm in arm. This dress does not debar them
from discussing elevated subjects; but it would never occur to them
in such a dress to smoke a cigar, to talk about trifles, or to satisfy
the most legitimate requirements of the body. Flaubert, the novelist,
could never understand that, as Sainte-Beuve relates, the recluses of
Port Royal lived for years in the same house and addressed each other
as Monsieur to the day of their death. The fact of the matter is that
Flaubert had no sort of idea as to what abstract natures are. Not only
did nothing approaching to a familiarity ever pass between us, but
we should have hesitated to ask each other for help, or almost for
advice. To ask a service would, in our view, be an act of corruption,
an injustice towards the rest of the human race; it would, at all
events, be tantamount to acknowledging that there was something to
which we attached a value. But we are so well aware that the temporal
order of things is vain, empty, hollow, and frivolous, that we
hesitate at giving a tangible shape even to friendship. We have too
much regard for each other to be guilty of a weakness towards each
other. Both alike convinced of the insignificance of human affairs,
and possessed of the same aspirations for what is eternal, we could
not bring ourselves to admit having of a set purpose concentrated our
thoughts upon what is casual and accidental. For there can be no doubt
that ordinary friendship presupposes the conviction that all things
are not vain and empty.
Later in life an intimacy of this kind may at times cease to be felt
as a necessity. It recovers all its force whenever the globe of this
world, which is ever changing, brings round some new aspect with
regard to which we want to consult each other. Whichever of us dies
first will leave a great void in the existence of the other. Our
friendship reminds me of that of François de Sales and President
Favre: "They pass away these years of time, my brother, their months
are reduced to weeks, their weeks to days, their days to hours, and
their hours to moments, which latter alone we possess, and these only
as they fleet." The conviction of the existence of an eternal object
embraced in youth, gives a peculiar stability to life. All this is
anything but human or natural, you may say! No doubt, but strength is
only manifested by running counter to nature. The natural tree does
not bear good fruit. The fruit is not good until the tree is trained;
that is to say, until it has ceased to be a tree.
[Footnote 1: A collection of hymns of the sixteenth century, touching
in their simplicity. I have my mother's old copy; I may perhaps write
something about them hereafter.]
FIRST STEPS OUTSIDE ST. SULPICE.
PART III.
The friendship of M. Berthelot, and the approbation of my sister,
were my two chief consolations during this painful period, when the
sentiment of an abstract duty towards truth compelled me at the age
of three and twenty to alter the course of a career already fairly
entered upon. The change was, in reality, only one of domicile, and of
outward surroundings. At bottom I remained the same; the moral course
of my life was scarcely affected by this trial; the craving for truth,
which was the mainspring of my existence, knew no diminution. My
habits and ways were but very little modified.
St. Sulpice, in truth, had left its impress so deeply upon me, that
for years I remained a St. Sulpice man, not in regard to faith but in
habit. The excellent education imparted there, which had exhibited
to me the perfection of politeness in M. Gosselin, the perfection of
kindness in M. Carbon, the perfection of virtue in M. Pinault, M.
Le Hir and M. Gottofrey, made an indelible impression upon my docile
nature. My studies, prosecuted without interruption after I had left
the seminary, so completely confirmed me in my presumptions against
orthodox theology, that at the end of a twelvemonth, I could scarcely
understand how I had formerly been able to believe. But when faith has
disappeared, morality remains; for a long time, my programme was to
abandon as little as possible of Christianity, and to hold on to all
that could be maintained without belief in the supernatural. I sorted,
so to speak, the virtues of the St. Sulpice student, discarding those
which appertain to a positive belief, and retaining those of which
a philosopher can approve. Such is the force of habit. The void
sometimes has the same effect as its opposite. _Est pro corde locus_.
The fowl whose brain has been removed, will nevertheless, under the
influence of certain stimulants, continue to scratch its beak.
I endeavoured, therefore, on leaving St. Sulpice to remain as much of
a St. Sulpice man as possible. The studies which I had begun at the
seminary had so engrossed me, that my one desire was to resume them.
One only occupation seemed worthy to absorb my life, and that was the
pursuit of my critical researches upon Christianity by the much larger
means which lay science offered me. I also imagined myself to be
in the company of my teachers, discussing objections with them, and
proving to them that whole pages of ecclesiastical teaching require
alteration.
For some little time, I kept up my relations with them, notably with
M. Le Hir, but I gradually came to feel that relations of this kind,
between the believer and the unbeliever, grow strained, and I broke
off an intimacy which could be profitable and pleasant to myself
alone.
In respect to matters of critique, I also held my ground as closely as
I possibly could, and thus it comes that, while being unrestrictedly
rationalist, I have none the less seemed a thorough conservative in
the discussions relating to the age and authenticity of Holy Writ. The
first edition of my _Histoire Générale des Langues Sémitiques_, for
instance, contains so far as regards the book of Ecclesiastes and the
Song of Solomon, several concessions to traditional opinions which
I have since eliminated one after the other. In my _Origines du
Christianisme_, upon the other hand, this reserved attitude has stood
me in good stead, for in writing this essay, I had to face a very
exaggerated school--that of the Tübingen Protestants--composed of men
devoid of literary tact and moderation, by whom, through the fault of
the Catholics, researches as to Jesus and the apostolic age have been
almost entirely monopolised. When a reaction sets in against this
school, it will be recognised perhaps that my critique, Catholic in
its origin, and by degrees freed from the shackles of tradition, has
enabled me to see many things in their true light, and has preserved
me from more than one mistake.
But it is in regard to my temperament, more especially, that I have
remained in reality the pupil of my old masters. My life, when I pass
it in review, has been one long application of their good qualities
and their defects; with this difference, that these qualities and
defects, having been transferred to the world's stage, have brought
out inconsistencies more strongly marked. All's well that ends well,
and as my existence has, upon the whole, been a pleasant one, I often
amuse myself, like Marcus Aurelius, by calculating how much I owe to
the various influences which have traversed my life, and woven the
tissue of it. In these calculations, St. Sulpice always comes out
as the principal factor. I can venture to speak very freely on this
point, for little of the credit is due to me. I was well trained, and
that is the secret of the whole matter. My amiability, which is in
many cases the result of indifference; my indulgency, which is sincere
enough, and is due to the fact that I see clearly how unjust men
are to one another; my conscientious habits, which afford me real
pleasure, and my infinite capacity for enduring ennui, attributable
perhaps to my having been so well inoculated by ennui during my youth
that it has never taken since, are all to be explained by the circle
in which I lived, and the profound impressions which I received. Since
I left St. Sulpice, I have been constantly losing ground, and yet,
with only a quarter the virtues of a St. Sulpice man, I have, I think,
been far above the average.
I should like to explain in detail and show how the paradoxical
resolve to hold fast to the clerical virtues, without the faith upon
which they are based, and in a world for which they are not designed,
produced so far as I was concerned, the most amusing encounters. I
should like to relate all the adventures which my Sulpician habits
brought about, and the singular tricks which they played me. After
leading a serious life for sixty years, mirth is no offence, and what
source of merriment can be more abundant, more harmless, and more
ready to hand than oneself? If a comedy writer should ever be inclined
to amuse the public by depicting my foibles I would readily give my
assent if he agreed to let me join him in the work, as I could relate
things far more amusing than any which he could invent. But I find
that I am transgressing the first rule which my excellent masters laid
down, viz., never to speak of oneself. I will therefore treat this
latter part of my subject very briefly.
FIRST STEPS OUTSIDE ST. SULPICE.
PART IV.
The moral teaching inculcated by the pious masters who watched over me
so tenderly up to the age of three-and-twenty may be summed up in the
four virtues of disinterestedness or poverty, modesty, politeness,
and strict morality. I propose to analyse my conduct under these four
heads, not in any way with the intention of advertising my own merits,
but in order to give those who profess the philosophy of good-natured
scepticism an opportunity of exercising their powers of observation at
my expense.
I. Poverty is of all the clerical virtues the one which I have
practised the most faithfully. M. Olier had painted for his church
a picture in which St. Sulpice was represented as laying down the
fundamental rule of life for his clerks: _Habentes alimenta et quibus
tegamur, his contenti sumus_. This was just my idea, and I could
desire nothing better than to be provided with lodging, board, lights,
and firing, without any intervention of my own, by some one who
would charge me a fixed sum and leave me entirely my own master. The
arrangement which dated from my settlement in the little _pension_ of
the Faubourg St. Jacques was destined to become the economic basis of
my whole life. One or two private lessons which I gave saved me from
the necessity of breaking into the twelve hundred francs sent me by my
sister. This was just the rule laid down and observed by my masters
at Tréguier and St. Sulpice: _Victum vestitum_, board and lodging and
just enough money to buy a new cassock once a year. I had never wished
for anything more myself. The modest competence which I now possess
only fell to my share later in life, and quite independently of my
own volition. I look upon the world at large as belonging to me, but
I only spend the interest of my capital. I shall depart this life
without having possessed anything save "that which it is usual to
consume," according to the Franciscan code. Whenever I have been
tempted to buy some small plot of ground, an inward voice has
prevented me. To have done so would have seemed to me gross, material,
and opposed to the principle: _Non habemus hic manentem civitatem_.
Securities are lighter, more ethereal, and more fragile; they do not
exercise the same amount of attachment, and there is more risk of
losing them.
At the present rate this is a bitter contradiction, and though the
rule which I have followed has given me happiness, I would not advise
any one to adopt it. I am too old to change now, and besides I have
nothing to complain of; but I should be afraid of misleading young
people if I told them to do the same. To get the most one can out of
oneself is becoming the rule of the world at large. The idea that the
nobleman is the man who does not make money, and that any commercial
or industrial pursuit, no matter how honest, debases the person
engaged in it, and prevents him from belonging to the highest circle
of humanity is fast fading away. So great is the difference which an
interval of forty years brings about in human affairs. All that I once
did now appears sheer folly, and sometimes in looking around me I fail
to recognise that it is the same world.
The man whose life is devoted to immaterial pursuits is a child in
worldly affairs; he is helpless without a guardian. The world in which
we live is wide enough for every place which is worth taking to be
occupied; every post to be held creates, so to speak, the person to
fill it. I had never imagined that the product of my thought could
have any market value. I had always had an idea of writing, but it
had never occurred to me that it would bring me in any money. I was
greatly astonished, therefore, when a man of pleasant and intelligent
appearance called upon me in my garret one day, and, after
complimenting me upon several articles which I had written, offered
to publish them in a collected form. A stamped agreement which he had
with him specified terms which seemed to me so wonderfully liberal
that when he asked me if all my future writings should be included
in the agreement, I gave my assent. I was tempted to make one or
two observations, but the sight of the stamp stopped me, and I was
unwilling that so fine a piece of paper should be wasted. I did well
to forego them, for M. Michel Lévy must have been created by a special
decree of Providence to be my editor. A man of letters who has any
self-respect should write in only one journal and in one review, and
should have only one publisher. M. Michel Lévy and myself always got
on very well together. At a subsequent date, he pointed out to me that
the agreement which he had prepared was not sufficiently remunerative
for me, and he substituted for it one much more to my advantage. I am
told that he has not made a bad speculation out of me. I am delighted
to hear it. In any event, I may safely say that if I possessed a fund
of literary wealth it was only fair that he should have a large share
of it, as but for him I should never have suspected its existence.
II. It is very difficult to prove that one is modest, for the very
assertion of one's modesty destroys one's claim to it. As I have said,
our old Christian teachers had an excellent rule upon this score,
which was never to speak of oneself either in praise or depreciation.
This is the true principle, but the general reader will not have
it so, and is the cause of all the mischief. He leads the writer to
commit faults upon which he is afterwards very hard, just as the staid
middle classes of another age applauded the actor, and yet excluded
him from the Church. "Incur your own damnation, as long as you amuse
us" is often the sentiment which lurks beneath the encouragement,
often flattering in appearance, of the public. Success is more often
than not acquired by our defects. When I am very well pleased with
what I have written, I have perhaps nine or ten persons who approve
of what I have said. When I cease to keep a strict watch upon myself,
when my literary conscience hesitates, and my hand shakes, thousands
are anxious for me to go on.
But notwithstanding all this, and making due allowance for venial
faults, I may safely claim that I have been modest, and in this
respect, at all events, I have not come short of the St. Sulpice
standard. I am not afflicted with literary vanity. I do not fall into
the error which distinguishes the literary views of our day. I am well
assured that no really great man has ever imagined himself to be one,
and that those who during their lifetime browse upon their glory while
it is green, do not garner it ripe after their death. I only feigned
to set store by literature for a time to please M. Sainte-Beuve who
had great influence over me. Since his death, I have ceased to attach
any value to it. I see plainly enough that talent is only prized
because people are so childish. If the public were wise, they would
be content with getting the truth. What they like is in most cases
imperfections. My adversaries, in order to deny me the possession
of other qualities which interfere with their apologeticum, are so
profuse in their allowance of talent to me that I need not scruple
to accept an encomium which, coming from them, is a criticism. In any
event, I have never sought to gain anything by the display of this
inferior quality, which has been more prejudicial to me as a _savant_
than it has been useful of itself. I have not based any calculations
upon it. I have never counted upon my supposed talent for a
livelihood, and I have not in any way tried to turn it to account.
The late M. Beulé, who looked upon me with a kind of good-natured
curiosity mingled with astonishment, could not understand why I made
so little use of it. I have never been at all a literary man. In the
most decisive moments of my life I had not the least idea that my
prose would secure any success.
I have never done anything to foster my success, which, if I may be
permitted to say so, might have been much greater if I had so willed.
I have in no wise followed up my good fortune; upon the contrary, I
have rather tried to check it. The public likes a writer who sticks
closely to his line, and who has his own specialty; placing but little
confidence in those who try to shine in contradictory subjects. I
could have secured an immense amount of popularity if I had gone in
for a _crescendo_ of anti-clericalism after the _Vie de Jésus_. The
general reader likes a strong style. I could easily have left in the
flourishes and tinsel phrases which excite the enthusiasm of those
whose taste is not of a very elevated kind, that is to say, of the
majority. I spent a year in toning down the style of the _Vie de
Jésus_, as I thought that such a subject could not be treated
too soberly or too simply. And we know how fond the masses are of
declamation. I have never accentuated my opinions in order to gain the
ear of my readers. It is no fault of mine if, owing to the bad taste
of the day, a slender voice has made itself heard athwart the darkness
in which we dwell, as if reverberated by a thousand echoes.
III. With regard to my politeness, I shall find fewer cavillers than
with regard to my modesty, for, so far as mere externals go, I have
been endowed with much more of the former than of the latter. The
extreme urbanity of my old masters made so great an impression upon
me that I have never broken away from it. Theirs was the true French
politeness; that which is shown not only towards acquaintances but
towards all persons without exception.[1] Politeness of this kind
implies a general standard of conduct, without which life cannot, as I
hold, go on smoothly; viz. that every human creature should, be given
credit for goodness failing proof to the contrary, and treated kindly.
Many people, especially in certain countries, follow the opposite
rule, and this leads to great injustice. For my own part, I cannot
possibly be severe upon any one _à priori_. I take for granted that
every person I see for the first time is a man of merit and of good
repute, reserving to myself the right to alter my opinions (as I often
have to do) if facts compel me to do so. This is the St. Sulpice rule,
which, in my contact with the outside world, has placed me in very
singular positions, and has often made me appear very old-fashioned,
a relic of the past, and unfamiliar with the age in which we live. The
right way to behave at table is to help oneself to the worst piece in
the dish, so as to avoid the semblance of leaving for others what
one does not think good enough--or, better still, to take the piece
nearest to one without looking at what is in the dish. Any one who
was to act in this delicate way in the struggle of modern life,
would sacrifice himself to no purpose. His delicacy would not even
be noticed. "First come, first served," is the objectionable rule of
modern egotism. To obey, in a world which has ceased to have any heed
of civility, the excellent rules of the politeness of other days,
would be tantamount to playing the part of a dupe, and no one would
thank you for your pains. When one feels oneself being pushed by
people who want to get in front of one, the proper thing to do is to
draw back with a gesture tantamount to saying: "Do not let me prevent
you passing." But it is very certain that any one who adhered to this
rule in an omnibus would be the victim of his own deference; in fact,
I believe that he would be infringing the bye-laws. In travelling by
rail, how few people seem to see that in trying to force their way
before others on the platform in order to secure the best seats, they
are guilty of gross discourtesy.
In other words, our democratic machines have no place for the man of
polite manners. I have long since given up taking the omnibus; the
conductor came to look upon me as a passenger who did not know what
he was about. In travelling by rail, I invariably have the worst seat,
unless I happen to get a helping hand from the station-master. I was
fashioned for a society based upon respect, in which people could be
treated, classified, and placed according to their costume, and in
which they would not have to fight for their own hand. I am only at
home at the Institute or the Collège de France, and that because our
officials are all well-conducted men and hold us in great respect. The
Eastern habit of always having a _cavass_ to walk in front of one in
the public thoroughfares suited me very well; for modesty is seasoned
by a display of force. It is agreeable to have under one's orders
a man armed with a kourbash which one does not allow him to use. I
should not at all mind having the power of life and death without ever
exercising it, and I should much like to own some slaves in order to
be extremely kind to them and to make them adore me.
IV. My clerical ideas have exercised a still greater influence over
me in all that relates to the rules of morality. I should have looked
upon it as a lack of decorum if I had made any change in my austere
habits upon this score. The world at large, in its ignorance of
spiritual things, believes that men only abandon the ecclesiastical
calling because they find its duties too severe. I should never have
forgiven myself if I had done anything to lend even a semblance of
reason to views so superficial. With my extreme conscientiousness
I was anxious to be at rest with myself, and I continued to live in
Paris the life which I had led in the seminary. As time went on, I
recognised that this virtue was as vain as all the others; and more
especially I noted that nature does not in the least encourage man
to be chaste. I none the less persevered in the mode of life I had
selected, and I deliberately imposed upon myself the morals of a
Protestant clergyman. A man should never take two liberties with
popular prejudice at the same time. The freethinker should be very
particular as to his morals. I know some Protestant ministers, very
broad in their ideas, whose stiff white ties preserve them from all
reproach. In the same way I have, thanks to a moderate style and
blameless morals, secured a hearing for ideas which, in the eyes of
human mediocrity, are advanced.
The worldly views in regard to the relations between the sexes are as
peculiar as the biddings of nature itself. The world, whose; judgments
are rarely altogether wrong, regards it as more or less ridiculous
to be virtuous, when one is not obliged to be so as a matter of
professional duty. The priest, whose place it is to be chaste as it
is that of the soldier to be brave, is, according to this view,
almost the only person who can, without incurring ridicule, stand by
principles over which morality and fashion are so often at variance.
There can be no doubt that, upon this point, as on many others,
adherence to my clerical principles has been injurious to me in the
eyes of the world. These principles have not affected my happiness.
Women have, as a rule, understood how much respect and sympathy for
them my affectionate reserve implied. In fine, I have been beloved by
the four women whose love was of the most comfort to me: My mother,
my sister, my wife and my daughter. I have had the better part, and it
will not be taken from me, for I often fancy that the judgments which
will be passed upon us in the valley of Jehosophat, will be neither
more nor less than those of women, countersigned by the Almighty.
Thus it may, upon the whole, be said that I have come short in little
of my clerical promises. I have exchanged spirituality for ideality.
I have been truer to my engagements than many priests apparently more
regular in their conduct. In resolutely clinging to the virtues of
disinterestedness, politeness, and modesty in a world to which they
are not applicable I have shown how very simple I am. I have never
courted success; I may almost say that it is distasteful to me. The
pleasure of living and of working is quite enough for me. Whatever may
be egotistical in this way of engaging the pleasure of existence is
neutralized by the sacrifices which I believe that I have made for the
public good. I have always been at the orders of my country; at the
first sign from it, in 1869, I placed myself at its disposal. I might
perhaps have rendered it some service; the country did not think so,
but I have done my part. I have never flattered the errors of public
opinion; and I have been so careful not to lose a single opportunity
of pointing out these errors, that superficial persons have regarded
me as wanting in patriotism. One is not called upon to descend to
charlatanism or falsehood to obtain a mandate, the main condition of
which is independence and sincerity. Amidst the public misfortunes
which may be in store for us, my conscience will, therefore, be quite
at rest.
All things considered, I should not, if I had to begin my life
over again, with the right of making what erasures I liked, change
anything. The defects of my nature and education have, by a sort of
benevolent Providence, been so attenuated and reduced as to be of very
little moment. A certain apparent lack of frankness in my relations
with them is forgiven me by my friends, who attribute it to my
clerical education. I must admit that in the early part of my life I
often told untruths, not in my own interest, but out of good-nature
and indifference, upon the mistaken idea which always induces me to
take the view of the person with whom I may be conversing. My sister
depicted to me in very vivid colours the drawbacks involved in acting
like this, and I have given up doing so. I am not aware of having told
a single untruth since 1851, with the exception, of course, of the
harmless stories and polite fibs which all casuists permit, as also
the literary evasions which, in the interests of a higher truth, must
be used to make up a well-poised phrase, or to avoid a still greater
misfortune--that of stabbing an author. Thus, for instance, a poet
brings you some verses. You must say that they are admirable, for if
you said less it would be tantamount to describing them as worthless,
and to inflicting a grievous insult upon a man who intended to show
you a polite attention.
My friends may have well found it much more difficult to forgive me
another defect, which consists in being rather slow not to show them
affection but to render them assistance. One of the injunctions most
impressed upon us at the seminary was to avoid "special friendships."
Friendships of this kind were described as being a fraud upon the rest
of the community. This rule has always remained indelibly impressed
upon my mind. I have never given much encouragement to friendship; I
have done little for my friends, and they have done little for me. One
of the ideas which I have so often to cope with is that friendship, as
it is generally understood, is an injustice and a blunder, which only
allows you to distinguish the good qualities of a single person, and
blinds you to those of others who are perhaps more deserving of your
sympathy. I fancy to myself at times, like my ancient masters, that
friendship is a larceny committed at the expense of society at large,
and that, in a more elevated world, friendship would disappear. In
some cases, it has seemed to me that the special attachment which
unites two individuals is a slight upon good-fellowship generally; and
I am always tempted to hold aloof from them as being warped in their
judgment and devoid of impartiality and liberty. A close association
of this kind between two persons must, in my view, narrow the
mind, detract from anything like breadth of view, and fetter the
independence. Beulé often used to banter me upon this score. He was
somewhat attached to me, and was anxious to render me a service,
though I had not done the equivalent for him. Upon a certain
occasion I voted against him in favour of some one who had been very
ill-natured towards me, and he said to me afterwards: "Renan, I shall
play some mean trick upon you; out of impartiality you will vote for
me."
While I have been very fond of my friends, I have done very little for
them. I have been as much at the disposal of the public as of them.
This is why I receive so many letters from unknown and anonymous
correspondents; and this is also why I am such a bad correspondent. It
has often happened to me while writing a letter to break off suddenly
and convert into general terms the ideas which have occurred to me.
The best of my life has been lived for the public, which has had all I
have to give. There is no surprise in store for it after my death, as
I have kept nothing back for anybody.