PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING.
The Senator, to whom we have already alluded, was a skilful man,
who had made his way with a rectitude that paid no attention to all
those things which constitute obstacles, and are called conscience,
plighted word, right, and duty: he had gone straight to his object
without once swerving from the line of his promotions and his interest.
He was an ex-procureur, softened by success, anything but a wicked
man, doing all the little services in his power for his sons, his
sons-in-law, his relatives, and even his friends: he had selected the
best opportunities, and the rest seemed to him something absurd. He was
witty, and just sufficiently lettered to believe himself a disciple
of Epicurus, while probably only a product of Pigault Lebrun. He was
fond of laughing pleasantly at things infinite and eternal, and at the
crotchets "of our worthy Bishop." He even laughed at them with amiable
authority in M. Myriel's presence. On some semi-official occasion the
Count--(this Senator) and M. Myriel met at the Prefect's table. At the
dessert the Senator, who was merry but quite sober, said,--
"Come, Bishop, let us have a chat. A senator and a bishop can hardly
meet without winking at each other, for we are two augurs, and I am
about to make a confession to you. I have my system of philosophy."
"And you are right," the Bishop answered; "as you make your philosophy,
so you must lie on it. You are on the bed of purple."
The Senator, thus encouraged, continued,--"Let us be candid."
"Decidedly."
"I declare to you," the Senator went on, "that the Marquis d'Argens,
Pyrrho, Hobbes, and Naigeon are no impostors. I have in my library all
my philosophers with gilt backs."
"Like yourself, Count," the Bishop interrupted him.
The Senator proceeded,--
"I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist,
believing in his heart in Deity, and more bigoted than Voltaire. The
latter ridiculed Needham, and was wrong, for Needham's eels prove that
God is unnecessary. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour supplies
the _fiat lux_; suppose the drop larger, and the spoonful bigger, and
you have the world. Man is the eel; then, of what use is the Eternal
Father? My dear Bishop, the Jehovah hypothesis wearies me; it is only
fitted to produce thin people who think hollow. Down with the great
All which annoys me! Long live Zero, who leaves me at peace! Between
ourselves, and in order to confess to my pastor, as is right and
proper, I confess to you that I possess common sense. I am not wild
about your Saviour, who continually preaches abnegation and sacrifice.
It is advice offered by a miser to beggars. Abnegation, why? Sacrifice,
for what object? I do not see that one wolf sacrifices itself to cause
the happiness of another wolf. Let us, therefore, remain in nature.
We are at the summit, so let us have the supreme philosophy. What is
the use of being at the top, if you cannot see further than the end of
other people's noses? Let us live gayly, for life is all in all. As
for man having a future elsewhere, up there, down there, somewhere,
I do not believe a syllable of it. Oh yes! recommend sacrifices and
abnegation to me. I must take care of all I do. I must rack my brains
about good and evil, justice and injustice, fas et nefas. Why so?
because I shall have to give account for my actions. When? after my
death. What a fine dream! after death! He will be a clever fellow who
catches me. Just think of a lump of ashes seized by a shadowy hand. Let
us speak the truth, we who are initiated and have raised the skirt of
Isis; there is no good, no evil, but there is vegetation. Let us seek
reality and go to the bottom; hang it all, we must scent the truth,
dig into the ground for it and seize it. Then it offers you exquisite
delights; then you become strong and laugh. I am square at the base,
my dear Bishop, and human immortality is a thing which anybody who
likes may listen to. Oh! what a charming prospect! What a fine billet
Adam has! You are a soul, you will be an angel, and have blue wings
on your shoulder-blades. Come, help me, is it not Tertullian who says
that the blessed will go from one planet to the other? Very good; they
will be the grasshoppers of the planets. And then they will see God;
Ta, ta, ta. These paradises are all nonsense, and God is a monstrous
fable. I would not say so in the _Moniteur_, of course, but I whisper
it between friends, _inter pocula_. Sacrificing the earth for paradise
is giving up the substance for the shadow. I am not such an ass as to
be the dupe of the Infinite. I am nothing, my name is Count Nothing,
Senator. Did I exist before my birth? no; shall I exist after my death?
no. What am I? a little dust aggregated by an organism. What have I to
do on this earth? I have the choice between suffering and enjoyment.
To what will suffering lead me? to nothingness, but I shall have
suffered. To what will enjoyment lead me? to nothingness, but I shall
have enjoyed. My choice is made; a man must either eat or be eaten, and
so I eat, for it is better to be the tooth than the grass. That is my
wisdom; after which go on as I impel you; the grave-digger is there,
the Pantheon for such as us, and all fall into the large hole. _Finis_,
and total liquidation, that is the vanishing point Death is dead, take
my word for it; and I laugh at the idea of any one present affirming
the contrary. It is an invention of nurses, old Bogey for children,
Jehovah for men. No, our morrow is night; behind the tomb there is
nothing but equal nothings. You may have been Sardanapalus, you may
have been St. Vincent de Paul: it all comes to the same--nothing.
That is the truth, so live above all else; make use of your _me_, so
long as you hold it. In truth, I tell you, my dear Bishop, I have my
philosophy, and I have my philosophers, and I do not let myself be
deluded by fables. After all, something must be offered persons who
are down in the world,--the barefooted, the strugglers for existence
and the wretched: and so they are offered pure legends--chimeras--the
soul--immortality--paradise--the stars--to swallow. They chew that and
put it on their dry bread. The man who has nothing has God, and that is
something at any rate. I do not oppose it, but I keep M. Naigeon for
myself; God is good for the plebs."
The Bishop clapped his hands.
"That is what I call speaking," he exclaimed. "Ah, what an excellent
and truly wonderful thing this materialism is! it is not every man
who wishes that can have it. Ah! when a man has reached that point,
he is no longer a dupe; he does not let himself be stupidly exiled,
like Cato; or stoned, like St. Stephen; or burnt, like Joan of Arc.
Those who have succeeded in acquiring this materialism have the joy of
feeling themselves irresponsible, and thinking that they can devour
everything without anxiety, places, sinecures, power well or badly
gained, dignities, lucrative tergiversations, useful treachery, folly,
capitulations with their consciences, and that they will go down to
the tomb after digesting it all properly. How agreeable this is! I am
not referring to you, my dear Senator, still I cannot refrain from
congratulating you. You great gentlemen have, as you say, a philosophy
of your own, and for yourselves, exquisite, refined, accessible to the
rich alone, good with any sauce, and admirably seasoning the joys of
life. This philosophy is drawn from the profundities, and dug up by
special searchers. But you are kind fellows, and think it no harm that
belief in God should be the philosophy of the populace, much in the
same way as a goose stuffed with chestnuts is the truffled turkey of
the poor."