Monsieur Leterrier, the rector, who was of an arbitrary turn of mind,
and whose philosophy leaned towards spiritualism, had never felt much
sympathy for the critical intellect of M. Bergeret. A circumstance,
memorable enough, had, however, brought them together. M. Leterrier had
taken part in the Affair. He had signed a protest against the verdict,
which he conscientiously considered illegal and mistaken. No sooner had
he done so than he became the object of public anger and contempt.
The town, which numbered 150,000 inhabitants, only contained five
people of the same opinion as himself with regard to the Affair; these
were M. Bergeret, his colleague at the Faculté, two artillery officers,
and M. Eusèbe Boulet. The two officers maintained the strictest silence
on the subject, and the position of M. Eusèbe Boulet, as editor of the
_Phare_, compelled him to express daily, and with no little violence,
ideas which were contrary to his convictions, to rail at M. Leterrier,
and hold him up to the scorn of all right-minded people.
M. Bergeret had written a letter of congratulation to his rector, and
M. Leterrier called upon him.
“Do you not think,” said M. Leterrier, “that truth contains a power
that renders her invincible, and, sooner or later, ensures her final
triumph? This was the belief of the great Ernest Renan; it has also
been expressed more recently in words worthy to be engraved in bronze.”
“It is precisely what I, personally, do not think,” returned M.
Bergeret. “On the contrary, I opine that in the majority of cases truth
is likely to fall a victim to the disdain or insults of mankind and to
perish in obscurity. I could give you many instances of this. Remember,
my dear sir, that truth has so many points of inferiority to falsehood
as practically to be doomed to extinction. To begin with, truth stands
alone; she stands alone as M. l’Abbé Lantaigne says; for which reason
he admires her. But there are no real grounds for such admiration,
for falsehood is manifold, and so truth has numbers arrayed against
her. That is not her only shortcoming. She is inert, is not capable of
modification, is not adapted to those machinations which would enable
her to win her way into the hearts and minds of men. Falsehood, on
the other hand, possesses the most wonderful resources. She is pliant
and tractable, and, what is more (we must not shrink from admitting
as much), she is natural and moral. She is natural, as being the
product of the working of the senses, the source and fountain-head of
all illusion; she is moral, because she fits in with the habits and
customs of the human race, who, living in common as they do, founded
their ideas of good and evil, their human and divine laws, upon the
oldest, most sacred, most irrational, most noble, most barbarous, and
most erroneous interpretations of natural phenomena. Falsehood is the
principle of all that is beautiful and of good report amongst men. Do
we not see winged figures and mythical pictures adorning their gardens,
their palaces, and their temples? They lend a willing ear only to
the lies of the poets. What makes you wish to destroy falsehood and
to seek truth? Such an enterprise can only be inspired by decadent
curiosity and culpable intellectual temerity. It is an attempt against
the moral nature of man and the laws of society. It is a sin against
the sentiments as well as the virtues of the nations. The growth of so
great a calamity might well be fatal; were it possible to precipitate
matters in that direction, everything would go to rack and ruin. But
we know quite well that, as a matter of fact, the progress of truth is
very slight and very slow, and encroaches but little upon falsehood.”
“You are evidently not here referring to scientific truths,” said M.
Leterrier. “Their progress is rapid, irresistible, and salutary.”
“It is, unfortunately, beyond all question,” replied M. Bergeret,
“that the scientific verities which penetrate the average mind sink as
though in a swamp, and drown. They cause no upheaval and are powerless
to destroy error and prejudice. Truths of the laboratory which hold
sovereign sway over you and me, Monsieur, have no authority over the
minds of the general public. I will mention one example only, to prove
this. The system of Copernicus and Galileo is absolutely irreconcilable
with Christian philosophy, and yet you know that, both in France itself
and the world over, it has penetrated even into the elementary schools
without the very smallest modification being made in the theological
conceptions it was calculated to annihilate. It is certain that the
ideas of a man like Laplace make the old Judæo-Christian cosmogony
appear as puerile as the painting upon the dial of a Swiss clock.
And yet the theories of Laplace have been clearly exposed for nearly
a century without in the least depreciating the value of the little
Jewish or Chaldean legends which are still found in the Christian books
on religion. Science has never harmed religion, and the absurdity of
a religious practice may be clearly demonstrated without lessening the
number of the persons who indulge in it. Scientific truths are not
acceptable to the public. Nations live on mythology, Monsieur; from
legends they draw all the ideas necessary to their existence. They do
not need many, and a few simple fables suffice to gild millions of
lives. In short, truth has no hold on mankind, and it would be a pity
if she had, for her ways are contrary to their nature, as well as to
their interests.”
“You are like the Greeks, M. Bergeret,” said M. Leterrier. “You indulge
in fine sophisms, and your reasonings are tuned to the flute of Pan.
And yet, I believe with Renan, I believe with Émile Zola, that truth
possesses within herself a penetrating force, unknown alike to error
and to falsehood. I say ‘truth,’ and you understand my meaning, M.
Bergeret. For the beautiful words, truth and justice, need not be
defined in order to be understood in their true sense. They bear within
them a shining beauty and a heavenly light. I firmly believe in the
triumph of truth; that is what upholds me in the time of trial through
which I am now passing.”
“And may you be right, Monsieur le Recteur,” replied M. Bergeret.
“But, generally speaking, I think that the knowledge we have of men
and facts seldom corresponds to the men themselves, or to the facts
accomplished; that the means by which our minds can attain this
correspondence are incomplete and insufficient, and that if time
reveals new ways of doing so, it destroys more than it produces. Madame
Roland in prison displayed, to my mind, a somewhat childlike trust in
human justice when she appealed with so firm a faith and so confident a
mind to impartial posterity. Posterity is never impartial unless it is
indifferent, and what ceases to interest it it straightway forgets. It
is no judge, as Madame Roland fondly believed. It is a mob, as blind,
wonder-stricken, miserable, and violent as any other. It has its likes,
and, more especially, its dislikes. It is prejudiced, and lives in
the present, knowing nothing of the past. There is no such thing as
posterity.”
“But,” objected M. Leterrier, “there is such a thing as the hour of
justice and reparation.”
“Do you think,” demanded M. Bergeret, “that the hour of justice and
reparation ever sounded for Macbeth?”
“Macbeth?”
“Yes, Macbeth, son of Finleg, King of Scotland. Two great powers,
legend and Shakespeare, have made of him a criminal. Now I am
convinced, Monsieur, that he was a most excellent man. He protected
the people and the clergy against the violence of the nobles. He was
a thrifty king, a just judge, and the friend of the working classes.
History bears witness to it. He did not murder King Duncan; his wife
was not a wicked woman. She was called Gruoch, and had three vendettas
against the family of Malcolm. Her first husband had been burned alive
in his castle. I have here on my table an English review containing
materials which prove the goodness of Macbeth and the innocence of his
wife. Do you think that if I were to publish these proofs I should
succeed in altering public opinion?”
“I do not think so,” replied M. Leterrier.
“Neither do I,” said M. Bergeret, with a sigh.
At this moment a great clamour arose from the market-place. Some
citizens, actuated by zeal for the Army, and in conformity with their
recently formed custom, were on their way to break the windows of Meyer
the bootmaker.
“_Mort à Zola! Mort à Leterrier! Mort à Bergeret! Mort aux juifs!_”
they shouted; and as the rector gave way to some symptoms of distress
and indignation, M. Bergeret pointed out to him that he must try and
comprehend the enthusiasm of mobs such as this one.
“These people,” he said, “are going to break the windows of a
bootmaker, and will succeed in doing so without any trouble. Do you
think they would be as successful, if, for instance, they had to
put in windows or bells at General Cartier de Chalmot’s? No, indeed!
Popular enthusiasm is never constructive, but, on the contrary,
essentially destructive. This time it aims at our destruction; you must
not attach too much importance to this particular instance, but rather
seek out the laws which govern it.”
“No doubt,” replied M. Leterrier, who was frankness personified. “But,
all the same, these events fill me with consternation. Can we callously
look on at the overthrow of justice and truth by a people from whom
Europe first learned the law, and who taught the meaning of justice to
the whole world?”