‘WHAT IS CARTESIANISM?’
With the return of hope quite involuntarily Madeleine began once more to
pray. But to whom was she praying? Surely not to the hard, remote God of
the Jansenists, for that, she knew by bitter experience, would avail her
nothing. Jansenism led straight to the ‘Heavenly Rape’; of that she was
convinced. If, as in spite of herself she could not doubt, there was only
one God, and He such a Being as the Jansenists presented Him, then she
must not pray, for prayers only served to remind Him of her existence,
and that He should completely forget her was her only hope of escape from
the ‘ravishing arms.’
But ghostly weapons she _must_ have with which to fight for success
on Saturday. If not prayers, then something she could _do_; if not
the belief in a Divine Ally, then some theory of the universe which
justified her in hoping. For in Madeleine there was this much of
rationalism—perverted and scholastic though it might be—that for her most
fantastic superstitions she always felt the need of a semi-philosophical
basis.
Suddenly she remembered Jacques’s words in the Place Maubert: ‘’Tis
the will that Descartes writes of—a magic sword like to the ones in
_Amadis_.’ To will, was not that the same as to desire? Mère Agnès had
insisted on the importance of desiring. She had talked about the _adamant
of desire that neither the tools of earth can break nor the chemistry of
Hell resolve_. Hours of anguish could testify to that adamant being hers,
but what if the adamant were a talisman, and that in its possession lay
the certainty of success? She must find out about Cartesianism.
She ran into the parlour.
‘Jacques, I would fain learn something of Descartes,’ she cried.
‘Descartes? Oh, he’s the rarest creature! ’Tis reported he never
ceases from sniffling in his nose, and like Allah, he sits clad in a
dressing-gown and makes the world.’
Monsieur Troqueville cocked an eye full of intelligent interest and said,
in his prim company voice: ‘In good earnest, is that so?’ But Madeleine
gave one of Jacques’s ringlets a sharp tweak, and asked indignantly what
he meant by ‘dressing-gowns and Allah.’
‘Why, Allah is the Turk’s God,’ then, seeing that Monsieur Troqueville
with pursed-up lips was frowning and shaking his head with the air of a
judge listening to an over-specious counsel, he added,—
‘Well, uncle, do you lean to a contrary opinion?’
‘All the world is aware that Mohammed is the Turk’s God—_Mohammed_. But
you have ever held opinions eccentric to those of all staid and learned
doctors!’
‘Uncle, I would have you know that _Allah_ is the Turk’s God.’
‘Mohammed!’
‘Allah, I say, and as there is good ground for holding that he is ever
clad in a Turkish dressing-gown, thus....’
‘They dub their God Mohammed,’ roared Monsieur Troqueville, purple in the
face.
‘Mohammed or Allah, ’tis of little moment which. But I would fain learn
something of Descartes’ philosophy,’ said Madeleine wearily.
‘Well,’ began Jacques, delighted to hold forth, ‘’Tis comprised in the
axiom, _cogito, ergo sum_—I think, therefore I am—whence he deduces....’
‘Yes, but is it not he who holds that by due exercise of the will one can
compass what one chooses?’ broke in Madeleine, to the evident delight of
Monsieur Troqueville, for he shot a triumphant glance at Jacques which
seemed to say, ‘she had you there!’
Jacques gave her a strange little look. ‘I fear not,’ he answered dryly;
‘the Will is not the bountiful beneficent Venus of the Sapphic Ode.’
Madeleine’s face fell.
‘’Tis the opinion he holds with regard to the power exercised by the will
over the passions that you had in mind,’ he went on. ‘He holds the will
to be the passions’ lawful king, and though at times ’tis but an English
king pining in banishment, by rallying its forces it can decapitate “_mee
lord protectour_” and re-ascend in triumph the steps of its ancient
throne. This done, ’tis no longer an English king but an Emperor of
Muscovy—so complete and absolute is its sway over the passions.
‘Ainsi de vos désirs toujours reine absolue
De la plus forte ardeur vous portez vos esprits
Jusqu’à l’indifférence, et peut-être au mépris,
Et votre fermeté fait succéder sans peine
La faveur au dédain, et l’amour à la haine.
‘There is a pretty dissertation for you, adorned with a most apt
quotation from Corneille. Why, I could make my fortune in the Ruelles
as a Professor of _philosophie pour les dames_!’ he cried with an
affectionate little _moue_ at Madeleine, restored to complete good humour
by the sound of his own voice. But Madeleine looked vexed, and Monsieur
Troqueville, his eyes starting from his head with triumph, spluttered
out, ‘’Twas from _Polyeucte_, those lines you quoted, and how does
Pauline answer them?
‘Ma raison, il est vrai, dompte mes sentiments;
Mais, quelque authorité que sur eux elle ait prise,
Elle n’y règne pas, elle les tyrannise,
Et quoique le dehors soit sans émotion,
Le dedans n’est que trouble et que sédition.
‘So you see, my young gallant, I know my Corneille as well as you do!’
and he rubbed his hands in glee. ‘“Le dedans n’est que trouble et que
sédition,” how would your old Descartes answer that? ’Tis better surely
to yield to every Passion like a gentleman, than to have a long solemn
face and a score of devils fighting in your heart like a knavish Huguenot
... _hein_, Jacques? _hein?_’ (It was not that Monsieur Troqueville felt
any special dislike to the tenets of Cartesianism in themselves, he
merely wished to prove that Jacques had been talking rubbish.)
‘Well, uncle, there is no need to be so splenetic, ’tis not my
philosophy; ’tis that of Descartes, and though doubtless——’
But Madeleine interrupted a discussion that threatened to wander far away
from the one aspect of the question in which she was interested.
‘If I take your meaning, Descartes doesn’t teach one how to compass what
one wishes, he only teaches us how to be virtuous?’
Monsieur Troqueville gave a sudden wild tavern guffaw, and rubbing his
hands delightedly, cried, ‘Pitiful dull reading, Jacques, _hein?_’
‘You took his book for a manual of love-potions, did you?’ Jacques said
in a low voice, with a hard, mocking glint in his eyes.
He had divined her thought, and Madeleine blushed. Then his face
softened, and he said gently,—
‘I will get you his works, nor will it be out of your gain to read them
diligently.’