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diff --git a/old/8545-h.htm.2021-01-26 b/old/8545-h.htm.2021-01-26 new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6d0a55f --- /dev/null +++ b/old/8545-h.htm.2021-01-26 @@ -0,0 +1,16633 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Amiel's Journal, by Henri-frédéric Amiel + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .75em; margin-bottom: .75em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + .side { float: right; font-size: 75%; width: 25%; padding-left: 0.8em; + border-left: dashed thin; margin-left: 0.8em; text-align: left; + text-indent: 0; font-weight: bold; font-style: italic; + font-weight: bold; color: black; background: #eeeeee; border: solid 1px;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Amiel's Journal, by Henri-Frédéric Amiel + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Amiel's Journal + +Author: Henri-Frédéric Amiel + +Commentator: Mrs. Humphrey Ward + +Translator: Mrs. Humphrey Ward + + +Release Date: July, 2005 [EBook #8545] +This file was first posted on July 21, 2003 +Last Updated: October 31, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMIEL'S JOURNAL *** + + + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Tonya Allen, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + + + +</pre> + + <div style="height: 8em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h1> + AMIEL’S JOURNAL + </h1> + <h2> + By Henri-Frédéric Amiel + </h2> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <h4> + The Journal Intime of Henri-Frédéric Amiel <br /> <br /> <br /> Translated, + With an Introduction and Notes by Mrs. Humphrey Ward + </h4> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + <b>CONTENTS</b> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF"> PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PREF2"> PREFACE. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_INTR"> INTRODUCTION </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <b>AMIEL’S JOURNAL.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF" id="link2H_PREF"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION. + </h2> + <p> + In this second edition of the English translation of Amiel’s “Journal + Intime,” I have inserted a good many new passages, taken from the last + French edition (<i>Cinquiéme édition, revue et augmentée</i>.) But I have + not translated all the fresh material to be found in that edition nor have + I omitted certain sections of the Journal which in these two recent + volumes have been omitted by their French editors. It would be of no + interest to give my reasons for these variations at length. They depend + upon certain differences between the English and the French public, which + are more readily felt than explained. Some of the passages which I have + left untranslated seemed to me to overweight the introspective side of the + Journal, already so full—to overweight it, at any rate, for English + readers. Others which I have retained, though they often relate to local + names and books, more or less unfamiliar to the general public, yet seemed + to me valuable as supplying some of that surrounding detail, that setting, + which helps one to understand a life. Besides, we English are in many ways + more akin to Protestant and Puritan Geneva than the French readers to whom + the original Journal primarily addresses itself, and some of the entries I + have kept have probably, by the nature of things, more savor for us than + for them. + </p> + <h3> + M. A. W. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PREF2" id="link2H_PREF2"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PREFACE. + </h2> + <p> + This translation of Amiel’s “Journal Intime” is primarily addressed to + those whose knowledge of French, while it may be sufficient to carry them + with more or less complete understanding through a novel or a newspaper, + is yet not enough to allow them to understand and appreciate a book + containing subtle and complicated forms of expression. I believe there are + many such to be found among the reading public, and among those who would + naturally take a strong interest in such a life and mind as Amiel’s, were + it not for the barrier of language. It is, at any rate, in the hope that a + certain number of additional readers may be thereby attracted to the + “Journal Intime” that this translation of it has been undertaken. + </p> + <p> + The difficulties of the translation have been sometimes considerable, + owing, first of all, to those elliptical modes of speech which a man + naturally employs when he is writing for himself and not for the public, + but which a translator at all events is bound in some degree to expand. + Every here and there Amiel expresses himself in a kind of shorthand, + perfectly intelligible to a Frenchman, but for which an English + equivalent, at once terse and clear, is hard to find. Another difficulty + has been his constant use of a technical philosophical language, which, + according to his French critics, is not French—even philosophical + French—but German. Very often it has been impossible to give any + other than a literal rendering of such passages, if the thought of the + original was to be preserved; but in those cases where a choice was open + to me, I have preferred the more literary to the more technical + expression; and I have been encouraged to do so by the fact that Amiel, + when he came to prepare for publication a certain number of “Pensées,” + extracted from the Journal, and printed at the end of a volume of poems + published in 1853, frequently softened his phrases, so that sentences + which survive in the Journal in a more technical form are to be found in a + more literary form in the “Grains de Mil.” + </p> + <p> + In two or three cases—not more, I think—I have allowed myself + to transpose a sentence bodily, and in a few instances I have added some + explanatory words to the text, which wherever the addition was of any + importance, are indicated by square brackets. + </p> + <p> + My warmest thanks are due to my friend and critic, M. Edmond Scherer, from + whose valuable and interesting study, prefixed to the French Journal, as + well as from certain materials in his possession which he has very kindly + allowed me to make use of, I have drawn by far the greater part of the + biographical material embodied in the Introduction. M. Scherer has also + given me help and advice through the whole process of translation—advice + which his scholarly knowledge of English has made especially worth having. + </p> + <p> + In the translation of the more technical philosophical passages I have + been greatly helped by another friend, Mr. Bernard Bosanquet, Fellow of + University College, Oxford, the translator of Lotze, of whose care and + pains in the matter I cherish a grateful remembrance. + </p> + <p> + But with all the help that has been so freely given me, not only by these + friends but by others, I confide the little book to the public with many a + misgiving! May it at least win a few more friends and readers here and + there for one who lived alone, and died sadly persuaded that his life had + been a barren mistake; whereas, all the while—such is the irony of + things—he had been in reality working out the mission assigned him + in the spiritual economy, and faithfully obeying the secret mandate which + had impressed itself upon his youthful consciousness: “<i>Let the living + live; and you, gather together your thoughts, leave behind you a legacy of + feeling and ideas; you will be most useful so</i>.” + </p> + <h3> + MARY A. WARD. + </h3> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_INTR" id="link2H_INTR"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + INTRODUCTION + </h2> + <p> + It was in the last days of December, 1882, that the first volume of Henri + Frédéric Amiel’s “Journal Intime” was published at Geneva. The book, of + which the general literary world knew nothing prior to its appearance, + contained a long and remarkable Introduction from the pen of M. Edmond + Scherer, the well-known French critic, who had been for many years one of + Amiel’s most valued friends, and it was prefaced also by a little <i>Avertissement</i>, + in which the “Editors”—that is to say, the Genevese friends to whom + the care and publication of the Journal had been in the first instance + entrusted—described in a few reserved and sober words the genesis + and objects of the publication. Some thousands of sheets of Journal, + covering a period of more than thirty years, had come into the hands of + Amiel’s literary heirs. “They were written,” said the <i>Avertissement</i>, + “with several ends in view. Amiel recorded in them his various + occupations, and the incidents of each day. He preserved in them his + psychological observations, and the impressions produced on him by books. + But his Journal was, above all, the confidant of his most private and + intimate thoughts; a means whereby the thinker became conscious of his own + inner life; a safe shelter wherein his questionings of fate and the + future, the voice of grief, of self-examination and confession, the soul’s + cry for inward peace, might make themselves freely heard. + </p> + <p> + “... In the directions concerning his papers which he left behind him, + Amiel expressed the wish that his literary executors should publish those + parts of the Journal which might seem to them to possess either interest + as thought or value as experience. The publication of this volume is the + fulfillment of this desire. The reader will find in it, <i>not a volume of + Memoirs</i>, but the confidences of a solitary thinker, the meditations of + a philosopher for whom the things of the soul were the sovereign realities + of existence.” + </p> + <p> + Thus modestly announced, the little volume made its quiet <i>début</i>. It + contained nothing, or almost nothing, of ordinary biographical material. + M. Scherer’s Introduction supplied such facts as were absolutely necessary + to the understanding of Amiel’s intellectual history, but nothing more. + Everything of a local or private character that could be excluded was + excluded. The object of the editors in their choice of passages for + publication was declared to be simply “the reproduction of the moral and + intellectual physiognomy of their friend,” while M. Scherer expressly + disclaimed any biographical intentions, and limited his Introduction as + far as possible to “a study of the character and thought of Amiel.” The + contents of the volume, then, were purely literary and philosophical; its + prevailing tone was a tone of introspection, and the public which can + admit the claims and overlook the inherent defects of introspective + literature has always been a small one. The writer of the Journal had been + during his lifetime wholly unknown to the general European public. In + Geneva itself he had been commonly regarded as a man who had signally + disappointed the hopes and expectations of his friends, whose reserve and + indecision of character had in many respects spoiled his life, and + alienated the society around him; while his professional lectures were + generally pronounced dry and unattractive, and the few volumes of poems + which represented almost his only contributions to literature had nowhere + met with any real cordiality of reception. Those concerned, therefore, in + the publication of the first volume of the Journal can hardly have had + much expectation of a wide success. Geneva is not a favorable + starting-point for a French book, and it may well have seemed that not + even the support of M. Scherer’s name would be likely to carry the volume + beyond a small local circle. + </p> + <p> + But “wisdom is justified of her children!” It is now nearly three years + since the first volume of the “Journal Intime” appeared; the impression + made by it was deepened and extended by the publication of the second + volume in 1884; and it is now not too much to say that this remarkable + record of a life has made its way to what promises to be a permanent place + in literature. Among those who think and read it is beginning to be + generally recognized that another book has been added to the books which + live—not to those, perhaps, which live in the public view, much + discussed, much praised, the objects of feeling and of struggle, but to + those in which a germ of permanent life has been deposited silently, + almost secretly, which compel no homage and excite no rivalry, and which + owe the place that the world half-unconsciously yields to them to nothing + but that indestructible sympathy of man with man, that eternal answering + of feeling to feeling, which is one of the great principles, perhaps the + greatest principle, at the root of literature. M. Scherer naturally was + the first among the recognized guides of opinion to attempt the placing of + his friend’s Journal. “The man who, during his lifetime, was incapable of + giving us any deliberate or conscious work worthy of his powers, has now + left us, after his death, a book which will not die. For the secret of + Amiel’s malady is sublime, and the expression of it wonderful.” So ran one + of the last paragraphs of the Introduction, and one may see in the + sentences another instance of that courage, that reasoned rashness, which + distinguishes the good from the mediocre critic. For it is as true now as + it was in the days when La Bruyère rated the critics of his time for their + incapacity to praise, and praise at once, that “the surest test of a man’s + critical power is his judgment of contemporaries.” M. Renan, I think, with + that exquisite literary sense of his, was the next among the authorities + to mention Amiel’s name with the emphasis it deserved. He quoted a passage + from the Journal in his Preface to the “Souvenirs d’Enfance et de + Jeunesse,” describing it as the saying “<i>d’un penseur distingué, M. + Amiel de Genève</i>.” Since then M. Renan has devoted two curious articles + to the completed Journal in the <i>Journal des Desbats</i>. The first + object of these reviews, no doubt, was not so much the critical + appreciation of Amiel as the development of certain paradoxes which have + been haunting various corners of M. Renan’s mind for several years past, + and to which it is to be hoped he has now given expression with sufficient + emphasis and <i>brusquerie</i> to satisfy even his passion for + intellectual adventure. Still, the rank of the book was fully recognized, + and the first article especially contained some remarkable criticisms, to + which we shall find occasion to recur. “In these two volumes of <i>pensées</i>,” + said M. Renan, “without any sacrifice of truth to artistic effect, we have + both the perfect mirror of a modern mind of the best type, matured by the + best modern culture, and also a striking picture of the sufferings which + beset the sterility of genius. These two volumes may certainly be reckoned + among the most interesting philosophical writings which have appeared of + late years.” + </p> + <p> + M. Caro’s article on the first volume of the Journal, in the <i>Revue des + Deux Mondes</i> for February, 1883, may perhaps count as the first + introduction of the book to the general cultivated public. He gave a + careful analysis of the first half of the Journal—resumed eighteen + months later in the same periodical on the appearance of the second volume—and, + while protesting against what he conceived to be the general tendency and + effect of Amiel’s mental story, he showed himself fully conscious of the + rare and delicate qualities of the new writer. “<i>La rêverie a réussi à + notre auteur</i>,” he says, a little reluctantly—for M. Caro has his + doubts as to the legitimacy of <i>rêverie</i>; “<i>Il en aufait une + oeuvure qui restera</i>.” The same final judgment, accompanied by a very + different series of comments, was pronounced on the Journal a year later + by M. Paul Bourget, a young and rising writer, whose article is perhaps + chiefly interesting as showing the kind of effect produced by Amiel’s + thought on minds of a type essentially alien from his own. There is a + leaven of something positive and austere, of something which, for want of + a better name, one calls Puritanism, in Amiel, which escapes the author of + “Une Cruelle Enigme.” But whether he has understood Amiel or no, M. + Bourget is fully alive to the mark which the Journal is likely to make + among modern records of mental history. He, too, insists that the book is + already famous and will remain so; in the first place, because of its + inexorable realism and sincerity; in the second, because it is the most + perfect example available of a certain variety of the modern mind. + </p> + <p> + Among ourselves, although the Journal has attracted the attention of all + who keep a vigilant eye on the progress of foreign literature, and + although one or two appreciative articles have appeared on it in the + magazines, the book has still to become generally known. One remarkable + English testimony to it, however, must be quoted. Six months after the + publication of the first volume, the late Mark Pattison, who since then + has himself bequeathed to literature a strange and memorable fragment of + autobiography, addressed a letter to M. Scherer as the editor of the + “Journal Intime,” which M. Scherer has since published, nearly a year + after the death of the writer. The words have a strong and melancholy + interest for all who knew Mark Pattison; and they certainly deserve a + place in any attempt to estimate the impression already made on + contemporary thought by the “Journal Intime.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to convey to you, sir,” writes the rector of Lincoln, “the thanks + of one at least of the public for giving the light to this precious record + of a unique experience. I say unique, but I can vouch that there is in + existence at least one other soul which has lived through the same + struggles, mental and moral, as Amiel. In your pathetic description of the + <i>volonté qui voudrait vouloir, mais impuissante à se fournir à elle-même + des motifs</i>—of the repugnance for all action—the soul + petrified by the sentiment of the infinite, in all this I recognize + myself. <i>Celui qui a déchiffré le secret de la vie finie, qui en a lu le + mot, est sorti du monde des vivants, il est mort de fait</i>. I can feel + forcibly the truth of this, as it applies to myself! + </p> + <p> + “It is not, however, with the view of thrusting my egotism upon you that I + have ventured upon addressing you. As I cannot suppose that so peculiar a + psychological revelation will enjoy a wide popularity, I think it a duty + to the editor to assure him that there are persons in the world whose + souls respond, in the depths of their inmost nature, to the cry of anguish + which makes itself heard in the pages of these remarkable confessions.” + </p> + <p> + So much for the place which the Journal—the fruit of so many years + of painful thought and disappointed effort; seems to be at last securing + for its author among those contemporaries who in his lifetime knew nothing + of him. It is a natural consequence of the success of the book that the + more it penetrates, the greater desire there is to know something more + than its original editors and M. Scherer have yet told us about the + personal history of the man who wrote it—about his education, his + habits, and his friends. Perhaps some day this wish may find its + satisfaction. It is an innocent one, and the public may even be said to + have a kind of right to know as much as can be told it of the + personalities which move and stir it. At present the biographical material + available is extremely scanty, and if it were not for the kindness of M. + Scherer, who has allowed the present writer access to certain manuscript + material in his possession, even the sketch which follows, vague and + imperfect as it necessarily is, would have been impossible. + </p> + <p> + [Footnote: Four or five articles on the subject of Amiel’s life have been + contributed to the <i>Révue Internationale</i> by Mdlle. Berthe Vadier + during the passage of the present book through the press. My knowledge of + them, however, came too late to enable me to make use of them for the + purposes of the present introduction.] + </p> + <p> + Henri Frédéric Amiel was born at Geneva in September, 1821. He belonged to + one of the emigrant families, of which a more or less steady supply had + enriched the little republic during the three centuries following the + Reformation. Amiel’s ancestors, like those of Sismondi, left Languedoc for + Geneva after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. His father must have + been a youth at the time when Geneva passed into the power of the French + republic, and would seem to have married and settled in the halcyon days + following the restoration of Genevese independence in 1814. Amiel was born + when the prosperity of Geneva was at its height, when the little state was + administered by men of European reputation, and Genevese society had power + to attract distinguished visitors and admirers from all parts. The veteran + Bonstetten, who had been the friend of Gray and the associate of Voltaire, + was still talking and enjoying life in his <i>appartement</i> overlooking + the woods of La Bâtie. Rossi and Sismondi were busy lecturing to the + Genevese youth, or taking part in Genevese legislation; an active + scientific group, headed by the Pictets, De la Rive, and the botanist + Auguste-Pyrame de Candolle, kept the country abreast of European thought + and speculation, while the mixed nationality of the place—the + blending in it of French keenness with Protestant enthusiasms and + Protestant solidity—was beginning to find inimitable and + characteristic expression in the stories of Töpffer. The country was + governed by an aristocracy, which was not so much an aristocracy of birth + as one of merit and intellect, and the moderate constitutional ideas which + represented the Liberalism of the post-Waterloo period were nowhere more + warmly embraced or more intelligently carried out than in Geneva. + </p> + <p> + During the years, however, which immediately followed Amiel’s birth, some + signs of decadence began to be visible in this brilliant Genevese society. + The generation which had waited for, prepared, and controlled, the + Restoration of 1814, was falling into the background, and the younger + generation, with all its respectability, wanted energy, above all, wanted + leaders. The revolutionary forces in the state, which had made themselves + violently felt during the civil turmoils of the period preceding the + assembly of the French States General, and had afterward produced the + miniature Terror which forced Sismondi into exile, had been for awhile + laid to sleep by the events of 1814. But the slumber was a short one at + Geneva as elsewhere, and when Rossi quitted the republic for France in + 1833, he did so with a mind full of misgivings as to the political future + of the little state which had given him—an exile and a Catholic—so + generous a welcome in 1819. The ideas of 1830 were shaking the fabric and + disturbing the equilibrium of the Swiss Confederation as a whole, and of + many of the cantons composing it. Geneva was still apparently tranquil + while her neighbors were disturbed, but no one looking back on the history + of the republic, and able to measure the strength of the Radical force in + Europe after the fall of Charles X., could have felt much doubt but that a + few more years would bring Geneva also into the whirlpool of political + change. + </p> + <p> + In the same year—1833—that M. Rossi had left Geneva, Henri + Frédéric Amiel, at twelve years old, was left orphaned of both his + parents. They had died comparatively young—his mother was only just + over thirty, and his father cannot have been much older. On the death of + the mother the little family was broken up, the boy passing into the care + of one relative, his two sisters into that of another. Certain notes in M. + Scherer’s possession throw a little light here and there upon a childhood + and youth which must necessarily have been a little bare and forlorn. They + show us a sensitive, impressionable boy, of health rather delicate than + robust, already disposed to a more or less melancholy and dreamy view of + life, and showing a deep interest in those religious problems and ideas in + which the air of Geneva has been steeped since the days of Calvin. The + religious teaching which a Genevese lad undergoes prior to his admission + to full church membership, made a deep impression on him, and certain + mystical elements of character, which remained strong in him to the end, + showed themselves very early. At the college or public school of Geneva, + and at the académie, he would seem to have done only moderately as far as + prizes and honors were concerned. We are told, however, that he read + enormously, and that he was, generally speaking, inclined rather to make + friends with men older than himself than with his contemporaries. He fell + specially under the influence of Adolphe Pictet, a brilliant philologist + and man of letters belonging to a well-known Genevese family, and in later + life he was able, while reviewing one of M. Pictet’s books, to give + grateful expression to his sense of obligation. + </p> + <p> + Writing in 1856 he describes the effect produced in Geneva by M. Pictet’s + Lectures on Aesthetics in 1840—the first ever delivered in a town in + which the Beautiful had been for centuries regarded as the rival and enemy + of the True. “He who is now writing,” says Amiel, “was then among M. + Pictet’s youngest hearers. Since then twenty experiences of the same kind + have followed each other in his intellectual experience, yet none has + effaced the deep impression made upon him by these lectures. Coming as + they did at a favorable moment, and answering many a positive question and + many a vague aspiration of youth, they exercised a decisive influence over + his thought; they were to him an important step in that continuous + initiation which we call life, they filled him with fresh intuitions, they + brought near to him the horizons of his dreams. And, as always happens + with a first-rate man, what struck him even more than the teaching was the + teacher. So that this memory of 1840 is still dear and precious to him, + and for this double service, which is not of the kind one forgets, the + student of those days delights in expressing to the professor of 1840 his + sincere and filial gratitude.” + </p> + <p> + Amiel’s first literary production, or practically his first, seems to have + been the result partly of these lectures, and partly of a visit to Italy + which began in November, 1841. In 1842, a year which was spent entirely in + Italy and Sicily, he contributed three articles on M. Rio’s book, “L’Art + Chrétien,” to the <i>Bibliothèque Universelle de Genève</i>. We see in + them the young student conscientiously writing his first review—writing + it at inordinate length, as young reviewers are apt to do, and treating + the subject <i>ab ovo</i> in a grave, pontifical way, which is a little + naïve and inexperienced indeed, but still promising, as all seriousness of + work and purpose is promising. All that is individual in it is first of + all the strong Christian feeling which much of it shows, and secondly, the + tone of melancholy which already makes itself felt here and there, + especially in one rather remarkable passage. As to the Christian feeling, + we find M. Rio described as belonging to “that noble school of men who are + striving to rekindle the dead beliefs of France, to rescue Frenchmen from + the camp of materialistic or pantheistic ideas, and rally them round that + Christian banner which is the banner of true progress and true + civilization.” The Renaissance is treated as a disastrous but inevitable + crisis, in which the idealism of the Middle Ages was dethroned by the + naturalism of modern times—“The Renaissance perhaps robbed us of + more than it gave us”—and so on. The tone of criticism is + instructive enough to the student of Amiel’s mind, but the product itself + has no particular savor of its own. The occasional note of depression and + discouragement, however, is a different thing; here, for those who know + the “Journal Intime,” there is already something characteristic, something + which foretells the future. For instance, after dwelling with evident zest + on the nature of the metaphysical problems lying at the root of art in + general, and Christian art in particular, the writer goes on to set the + difficulty of M. Rio’s task against its attractiveness, to insist on the + intricacy of the investigations involved, and on the impossibility of + making the two instruments on which their success depends—the + imaginative and the analytical faculty—work harmoniously and + effectively together. And supposing the goal achieved, supposing a man by + insight and patience has succeeded in forcing his way farther than any + previous explorer into the recesses of the Beautiful or the True, there + still remains the enormous, the insuperable difficulty of expression, of + fit and adequate communication from mind to mind; there still remains the + question whether, after all, “he who discovers a new world in the depths + of the invisible would not do wisely to plant on it a flag known to + himself alone, and, like Achilles, ‘devour his heart in secret;’ whether + the greatest problems which have ever been guessed on earth had not better + have remained buried in the brain which had found the key to them, and + whether the deepest thinkers—those whose hand has been boldest in + drawing aside the veil, and their eye keenest in fathoming the mysteries + beyond it—had not better, like the prophetess of Ilion, have kept + for heaven, and heaven only, secrets and mysteries which human tongue + cannot truly express, nor human intelligence conceive.” + </p> + <p> + Curious words for a beginner of twenty-one! There is a touch, no doubt, of + youth and fatuity in the passage; one feels how much the vague sonorous + phrases have pleased the writer’s immature literary sense; but there is + something else too—there is a breath of that same speculative + passion which burns in the Journal, and one hears, as it were, the first + accents of a melancholy, the first expression of a mood of mind, which + became in after years the fixed characteristic of the writer. “At twenty + he was already proud, timid, and melancholy,” writes an old friend; and a + little farther on, “Discouragement took possession of him <i>very early</i>.” + </p> + <p> + However, in spite of this inbred tendency, which was probably hereditary + and inevitable, the years which followed these articles, from 1842 to + Christmas, 1848, were years of happiness and steady intellectual + expansion. They were Amiel’s <i>Wanderjahre</i>, spent in a free, + wandering student life, which left deep marks on his intellectual + development. During four years, from 1844 to 1848, his headquarters were + at Berlin; but every vacation saw him exploring some new country or fresh + intellectual center—Scandinavia in 1845, Holland in 1846, Vienna, + Munich, and Tübingen in 1848, while Paris had already attracted him in + 1841, and he was to make acquaintance with London ten years later, in + 1851. No circumstances could have been more favorable, one would have + thought, to the development of such a nature. With his extraordinary power + of “throwing himself into the object”—of effacing himself and his + own personality in the presence of the thing to be understood and absorbed—he + must have passed these years of travel and acquisition in a state of + continuous intellectual energy and excitement. It is in no spirit of + conceit that he says in 1857, comparing himself with Maine de Biran, “This + nature is, as it were, only one of the men which exist in me. My horizon + is vaster; I have seen much more of men, things, countries, peoples, + books; I have a greater mass of experiences.” This fact, indeed, of a wide + and varied personal experience, must never be forgotten in any critical + estimate of Amiel as a man or writer. We may so easily conceive him as a + sedentary professor, with the ordinary professorial knowledge, or rather + ignorance, of men and the world, falling into introspection under the + pressure of circumstance, and for want, as it were, of something else to + think about. Not at all. The man who has left us these microscopic + analyses of his own moods and feelings, had penetrated more or less into + the social and intellectual life of half a dozen European countries, and + was familiar not only with the books, but, to a large extent also, with + the men of his generation. The meditative and introspective gift was in + him, not the product, but the mistress of circumstance. It took from the + outer world what that world had to give, and then made the stuff so gained + subservient to its own ends. + </p> + <p> + Of these years of travel, however, the four years spent at Berlin were by + far the most important. “It was at Heidelberg and Berlin,” says M. + Scherer, “that the world of science and speculation first opened on the + dazzled eyes of the young man. He was accustomed to speak of his four + years at Berlin as ‘his intellectual phase,’ and one felt that he inclined + to regard them as the happiest period of his life. The spell which Berlin + laid upon him lasted long.” Probably his happiness in Germany was partly + owing to a sense of reaction against Geneva. There are signs that he had + felt himself somewhat isolated at school and college, and that in the + German world his special individuality, with its dreaminess and its + melancholy, found congenial surroundings far more readily than had been + the case in the drier and harsher atmosphere of the Protestant Rome. + However this may be, it is certain that German thought took possession of + him, that he became steeped not only in German methods of speculation, but + in German modes of expression, in German forms of sentiment, which clung + to him through life, and vitally affected both his opinions and his style. + M. Renan and M. Bourget shake their heads over the Germanisms, which, + according to the latter, give a certain “barbarous” air to many passages + of the Journal. But both admit that Amiel’s individuality owes a great + part of its penetrating force to that intermingling of German with French + elements, of which there are such abundant traces in the “Journal Intime.” + Amiel, in fact, is one more typical product of a movement which is + certainly of enormous importance in the history of modern thought, even + though we may not be prepared to assent to all the sweeping terms in which + a writer like M. Taine describes it. “From 1780 to 1830,” says M. Taine, + “Germany produced all the ideas of our historical age, and during another + half-century, perhaps another century, <i>notre grande affaire sera de les + repenser</i>.” He is inclined to compare the influence of German ideas on + the modern world to the ferment of the Renaissance. No spiritual force + “more original, more universal, more fruitful in consequences of every + sort and bearing, more capable of transforming and remaking everything + presented to it, has arisen during the last three hundred years. Like the + spirit of the Renaissance and of the classical age, it attracts into its + orbit all the great works of contemporary intelligence.” Quinet, pursuing + a somewhat different line of thought, regards the worship of German ideas + inaugurated in France by Madame de Staël as the natural result of reaction + from the eighteenth century and all its ways. “German systems, German + hypotheses, beliefs, and poetry, all were eagerly welcomed as a cure for + hearts crushed by the mockery of Candide and the materialism of the + Revolution.... Under the Restoration France continued to study German + philosophy and poetry with profound veneration and submission. We + imitated, translated, compiled, and then again we compiled, translated, + imitated.” The importance of the part played by German influence in French + Romanticism has indeed been much disputed, but the debt of French + metaphysics, French philology, and French historical study, to German + methods and German research during the last half-century is beyond + dispute. And the movement to-day is as strong as ever. A modern critic + like M. Darmstetter regards it as a misfortune that the artificial + stimulus given by the war to the study of German has, to some extent, + checked the study of English in France. He thinks that the French have + more to gain from our literature—taking literature in its general + and popular sense—than from German literature. But he raises no + question as to the inevitable subjection of the French to the German mind + in matters of exact thought and knowledge. “To study philology, mythology, + history, without reading German,” he is as ready to confess as any one + else, “is to condemn one’s self to remain in every department twenty years + behind the progress of science.” + </p> + <p> + Of this great movement, already so productive, Amiel is then a fresh and + remarkable instance. Having caught from the Germans not only their love of + exact knowledge but also their love of vast horizons, their insatiable + curiosity as to the whence and whither of all things, their sense of + mystery and immensity in the universe, he then brings those elements in + him which belong to his French inheritance—and something individual + besides, which is not French but Genevese—to bear on his new + acquisitions, and the result is of the highest literary interest and + value. Not that he succeeds altogether in the task of fusion. For one who + was to write and think in French, he was perhaps too long in Germany; he + had drunk too deeply of German thought; he had been too much dazzled by + the spectacle of Berlin and its imposing intellectual activities. “As to + his <i>literary</i> talent,” says M. Scherer, after dwelling on the rapid + growth of his intellectual powers under German influence, “the profit + which Amiel derived from his stay at Berlin is more doubtful. Too long + contact with the German mind had led to the development in him of certain + strangenesses of style which he had afterward to get rid of, and even + perhaps of some habits of thought which he afterward felt the need of + checking and correcting.” This is very true. Amiel is no doubt often + guilty, as M. Caro puts it, of attempts “to write German in French,” and + there are in his thought itself veins of mysticism, elements of <i>Schwärmerei</i>, + here and there, of which a good deal must be laid to the account of his + German training. + </p> + <p> + M. Renan regrets that after Geneva and after Berlin he never came to + Paris. Paris, he thinks, would have counteracted the Hegelian influences + brought to hear upon him at Berlin, [Footnote: See a not, however, on the + subject of Amiel’s philosophical relationships, printed as an Appendix to + the present volume.] would have taught him cheerfulness, and taught him + also the art of writing, not beautiful fragments, but a book. Possibly—but + how much we should have lost! Instead of the Amiel we know, we should have + had one accomplished French critic the more. Instead of the spiritual + drama of the “Journal Intime,” some further additions to French <i>belles + lettres</i>; instead of something to love, something to admire! No, there + is no wishing the German element in Amiel away. Its invading, troubling + effect upon his thought and temperament goes far to explain the interest + and suggestiveness of his mental history. The language he speaks is the + language of that French criticism which—we have Sainte-Beuve’s + authority for it—is best described by the motto of Montaigne, “<i>Un + peu de chaque chose et rien de l’ensemble, à la française</i>,” and the + thought he tries to express in it is thought torn and strained by the + constant effort to reach the All, the totality of things: “What I desire + is the sum of all desires, and what I seek to know is the sum of all + different kinds of knowledge. Always the complete, the absolute, the <i>teres + atque rotundum</i>.” And it was this antagonism, or rather this fusion of + traditions in him, which went far to make him original, which opened to + him, that is to say, so many new lights on old paths, and stirred in him + such capacities of fresh and individual expression. + </p> + <p> + We have been carried forward, however, a little too far by this general + discussion of Amiel’s debts to Germany. Let us take up the biographical + thread again. In 1848 his Berlin apprenticeship came to an end, and he + returned to Geneva. “How many places, how many impressions, observations, + thoughts—how many forms of men and things—have passed before + me and in me since April, 1843,” he writes in the Journal, two or three + months after his return. “The last seven years have been the most + important of my life; they have been the novitiate of my intelligence, the + initiation of my being into being.” The first literary evidence of his + matured powers is to be found in two extremely interesting papers on + Berlin, which he contributed to the <i>Bibliothèque Universelle</i> in + 1848, apparently just before he left Germany. Here for the first time we + have the Amiel of the “Journal Intime.” The young man who five years + before had written his painstaking review of M. Rio is now in his turn a + master. He speaks with dignity and authority, he has a graphic, vigorous + prose at command, the form of expression is condensed and epigrammatic, + and there is a mixture of enthusiasm and criticism in his description of + the powerful intellectual machine then working in the Prussian capital + which represents a permanent note of character, a lasting attitude of + mind. A great deal, of course, in the two papers is technical and + statistic, but what there is of general comment and criticism is so good + that one is tempted to make some melancholy comparisons between them and + another article in the <i>Bibliothèque</i>, that on Adolphe Pictet, + written in 1856, and from which we have already quoted. In 1848 Amiel was + for awhile master of his powers and his knowledge; no fatal divorce had + yet taken place in him between the accumulating and producing faculties; + he writes readily even for the public, without labor, without + affectations. Eight years later the reflective faculty has outgrown his + control; composition, which represents the practical side of the + intellectual life, has become difficult and painful to him, and he has + developed what he himself calls “a wavering manner, born of doubt and + scruple.” + </p> + <p> + How few could have foreseen the failure in public and practical life which + lay before him at the moment of his reappearance at Geneva in 1848! “My + first meeting with him in 1849 is still vividly present to me,” says M. + Scherer. “He was twenty-eight, and he had just come from Germany laden + with science, but he wore his knowledge lightly, his looks were + attractive, his conversation animated, and no affectation spoiled the + favorable impression he made on the bystander—the whole effect, + indeed, was of something brilliant and striking. In his young alertness + Amiel seemed to be entering upon life as a conqueror; one would have said + the future was all his own.” + </p> + <p> + His return, moreover, was marked by a success which seemed to secure him + at once an important position in his native town. After a public + competition he was appointed, in 1849, professor of esthetics and French + literature at the Academy of Geneva, a post which he held for four years, + exchanging it for the professorship of moral philosophy in 1854. Thus at + twenty-eight, without any struggle to succeed, he had gained, it would + have seemed, that safe foothold in life which should be all the + philosopher or the critic wants to secure the full and fruitful + development of his gifts. Unfortunately the appointment, instead of the + foundation and support, was to be the stumbling block of his career. + Geneva at the time was in a state of social and political ferment. After a + long struggle, beginning with the revolutionary outbreak of November, + 1841, the Radical party, led by James Fazy, had succeeded in ousting the + Conservatives—that is to say, the governing class, which had ruled + the republic since the Restoration—from power. And with the advent + of the democratic constitution of 1846, and the exclusion of the old + Genevese families from the administration they had so long monopolized, a + number of subsidiary changes were effected, not less important to the + ultimate success of Radicalism than the change in political machinery + introduced by the new constitution. Among them was the disappearance of + almost the whole existing staff of the academy, then and now the center of + Genevese education, and up to 1847 the stronghold of the moderate ideas of + 1814, followed by the appointment of new men less likely to hamper the + Radical order of things. + </p> + <p> + Of these new men Amiel was one. He had been absent from Geneva during the + years of conflict which had preceded Fazy’s triumph; he seems to have had + no family or party connections with the leaders of the defeated side, and + as M. Scherer points out, he could accept a non-political post at the + hands of the new government, two years after the violent measures which + had marked its accession, without breaking any pledges or sacrificing any + convictions. But none the less the step was a fatal one. M. Renan is so + far in the right. If any timely friend had at that moment succeeded in + tempting Amiel to Paris, as Guizot tempted Rossi in 1833, there can be + little question that the young professor’s after life would have been + happier and saner. As it was, Amiel threw himself into the competition for + the chair, was appointed professor, and then found himself in a hopelessly + false position, placed on the threshold of life, in relations and + surroundings for which he was radically unfitted, and cut off by no fault + of his own from the <i>milieu</i> to which he rightly belonged, and in + which his sensitive individuality might have expanded normally and freely. + For the defeated upper class very naturally shut their doors on the + nominees of the new <i>régime</i>, and as this class represented at that + moment almost everything that was intellectually distinguished in Geneva, + as it was the guardian, broadly speaking, of the scientific and literary + traditions of the little state, we can easily imagine how galling such a + social ostracism must have been to the young professor, accustomed to the + stimulating atmosphere, the common intellectual interests of Berlin, and + tormented with perhaps more than the ordinary craving of youth for + sympathy and for affection. In a great city, containing within it a number + of different circles of life, Amiel would easily have found his own + circle, nor could political discords have affected his social comfort to + anything like the same extent. But in a town not much larger than Oxford, + and in which the cultured class had hitherto formed a more or less + homogeneous and united whole, it was almost impossible for Amiel to escape + from his grievance and establish a sufficient barrier of friendly + interests between himself and the society which ignored him. There can be + no doubt that he suffered, both in mind and character, from the struggle + the position involved. He had no natural sympathy with radicalism. His + taste, which was extremely fastidious, his judgment, his passionate + respect for truth, were all offended by the noise, the narrowness, the + dogmatism of the triumphant democracy. So that there was no making up on + the one side for what he had lost on the other, and he proudly resigned + himself to an isolation and a reserve which, reinforcing, as they did, + certain native weaknesses of character, had the most unfortunate effect + upon his life. + </p> + <p> + In a passage of the Journal written nearly thirty years after his election + he allows himself a few pathetic words, half of accusation, half of + self-reproach, which make us realize how deeply this untowardness of + social circumstance had affected him. He is discussing one of Madame de + Staël’s favorite words, the word <i>consideration</i>. “What is <i>consideration</i>?” + he asks. “How does a man obtain it? how does it differ from fame, esteem, + admiration?” And then he turns upon himself. “It is curious, but the idea + of consideration has been to me so little of a motive that I have not even + been conscious of such an idea. But ought I not to have been conscious of + it?” he asks himself anxiously—“ought I not to have been more + careful to win the good opinion of others, more determined to conquer + their hostility or indifference? It would have been a joy to me to be + smiled upon, loved, encouraged, welcomed, and to obtain what I was so + ready to give, kindness and goodwill. But to hunt down consideration and + reputation—to force the esteem of others—seemed to me an + effort unworthy of myself, almost a degradation. A struggle with + unfavorable opinion has seemed to me beneath me, for all the while my + heart has been full of sadness and disappointment, and I have known and + felt that I have been systematically and deliberately isolated. Untimely + despair and the deepest discouragement have been my constant portion. + Incapable of taking any interest in my talents for their own sake, I let + everything slip as soon as the hope of being loved for them and by them + had forsaken me. A hermit against my will, I have not even found peace in + solitude, because my inmost conscience has not been any better satisfied + than my heart.” + </p> + <p> + Still one may no doubt easily exaggerate this loneliness of Amiel’s. His + social difficulties represent rather a dull discomfort in his life, which + in course of time, and in combination with a good many other causes, + produced certain unfavorable results on his temperament and on his public + career, than anything very tragic and acute. They were real, and he, being + what he was, was specially unfitted to cope with and conquer them. But he + had his friends, his pleasures, and even to some extent his successes, + like other men. “He had an elasticity of mind,” says M. Scherer, speaking + of him as he knew him in youth, “which reacted against vexations from + without, and his cheerfulness was readily restored by conversation and the + society of a few kindred spirits. We were accustomed, two or three friends + and I, to walk every Thursday to the Salève, Lamartine’s <i>Salève aux + flancs azurés</i>; we dined there, and did not return till nightfall.” + They were days devoted to <i>débauches platoniciennes</i>, to “the free + exchange of ideas, the free play of fancy and of gayety. Amiel was not one + of the original members of these Thursday parties; but whenever he joined + us we regarded it as a fête-day. In serious discussion he was a master of + the unexpected, and his energy, his <i>entrain</i>, affected us all. If + his grammatical questions, his discussions of rhymes and synonyms, + astonished us at times, how often, on the other hand, did he not give us + cause to admire the variety of his knowledge, the precision of his ideas, + the charm of his quick intelligence! We found him always, besides, kindly + and amiable, a nature one might trust and lean upon with perfect security. + He awakened in us but one regret; <i>we could not understand how it was a + man so richly gifted produced nothing, or only trivialities</i>.” + </p> + <p> + In these last words of M. Scherer’s we have come across the determining + fact of Amiel’s life in its relation to the outer world—that + “sterility of genius,” of which he was the victim. For social ostracism + and political anxiety would have mattered to him comparatively little if + he could but have lost himself in the fruitful activities of thought, in + the struggles and the victories of composition and creation. A German + professor of Amiel’s knowledge would have wanted nothing beyond his <i>Fach</i>, + and nine men out of ten in his circumstances would have made themselves + the slave of a <i>magnum opus</i>, and forgotten the vexations of everyday + life in the “<i>douces joies de la science</i>.” But there were certain + characteristics in Amiel which made it impossible—which neutralized + his powers, his knowledge, his intelligence, and condemned him, so far as + his public performance was concerned, to barrenness and failure. What were + these characteristics, this element of unsoundness and disease, which M. + Caro calls “<i>la maladie de l’idéal</i>?” + </p> + <p> + Before we can answer the question we must go back a little and try to + realize the intellectual and moral equipment of the young man of + twenty-eight, who seemed to M. Scherer to have the world at his feet. What + were the chief qualities of mind and heart which Amiel brought back with + him from Berlin? In the first place, an omnivorous desire to know: + “Amiel,” says M. Scherer, “read everything.” In the second, an + extraordinary power of sustained and concentrated thought, and a + passionate, almost a religious, delight in the exercise of his power. + Knowledge, science, stirred in him no mere sense of curiosity or cold + critical instinct—“he came to his desk as to an altar.” “A friend + who knew him well,” says M. Scherer, “remembers having heard him speak + with deep emotion of that lofty serenity of mood which he had experienced + during his years in Germany whenever, in the early morning before dawn, + with his reading-lamp beside him, he had found himself penetrating once + more into the region of pure thought, ‘conversing with ideas, enjoying the + inmost life of things.’” “Thought,” he says somewhere in the Journal, “is + like opium. It can intoxicate us and yet leave us broad awake.” To this + intoxication of thought he seems to have been always specially liable, and + his German experience—unbalanced, as such an experience generally is + with a young man, by family life, or by any healthy commonplace interests + and pleasures—developed the intellectual passion in him to an + abnormal degree. For four years he had devoted himself to the alternate + excitement and satisfaction of this passion. He had read enormously, + thought enormously, and in the absence of any imperative claim on the + practical side of him, the accumulative, reflective faculties had grown + out of all proportion to the rest of the personality. Nor had any special + subject the power to fix him. Had he been in France, what Sainte-Beuve + calls the French “<i>imagination de détail</i>” would probably have + attracted his pliant, responsive nature, and he would have found happy + occupation in some one of the innumerable departments of research on which + the French have been patiently spending their analytical gift since that + general widening of horizons which accompanied and gave value to the + Romantic movement. But instead he was at Berlin, in the center of that + speculative ferment which followed the death of Hegel and the break-up of + the Hegelian idea into a number of different and conflicting sections of + philosophical opinion. He was under the spell of German synthesis, of that + traditional, involuntary effort which the German mind makes, generation + after generation, to find the unity of experience, to range its + accumulations from life and thought under a more and more perfect, a more + and more exhaustive, formula. Not this study or that study, not this + detail or that, but the whole of things, the sum of Knowledge, the + Infinite, the Absolute, alone had value or reality. In his own words: + “There is no repose for the mind except in the absolute; for feeling + except in the infinite; for the soul except in the divine. Nothing finite + is true, is interesting, is worthy to fix my attention. All that is + particular is exclusive, and all that is exclusive repels me. There is + nothing non-exclusive but the All; my end is communion with Being through + the whole of Being.” + </p> + <p> + It was not, indeed, that he neglected the study of detail; he had a strong + natural aptitude for it, and his knowledge was wide and real; but detail + was ultimately valuable to him, not in itself, but as food for a + speculative hunger, for which, after all, there is no real satisfaction. + All the pleasant paths which traverse the kingdom of Knowledge, in which + so many of us find shelter and life-long means of happiness, led Amiel + straight into the wilderness of abstract speculation. And the longer he + lingered in the wilderness, unchecked by any sense of intellectual + responsibility, and far from the sounds of human life, the stranger and + the weirder grew the hallucinations of thought. The Journal gives + marvelous expression to them: “I can find no words for what I feel. My + consciousness is withdrawn into itself; I hear my heart beating, and my + life passing. It seems to me that I have become a statue on the banks of + the river of time, that I am the spectator of some mystery, and shall + issue from it old, or no longer capable of age.” Or again: “I am a + spectator, so to speak, of the molecular whirlwind which men call + individual life; I am conscious of an incessant metamorphosis, an + irresistible movement of existence, which is going on within me—and + this phenomenology of myself serves as a window opened upon the mystery of + the world. I am, or rather my sensible consciousness is, concentrated upon + this ideal standing-point, this invisible threshold, as it were, whence + one hears the impetuous passage of time, rushing and foaming as it flows + out into the changeless ocean of eternity. After all the bewildering + distractions of life—after having drowned myself in a multiplicity + of trifles and in the caprices of this fugitive existence, yet without + ever attaining to self-intoxication or self-delusion—I come again + upon the fathomless abyss, the silent and melancholy cavern, where dwell ‘<i>Die + Mütter</i>,’ where sleeps that which neither lives nor dies, which has + neither movement nor change, nor extension, nor form, and which lasts when + all else passes away.” + </p> + <p> + Wonderful sentences! “<i>Prodiges de la pensée speculative, décrits dans + une langue non moins prodigieuse</i>,” as M. Scherer says of the + innumerable passages which describe either this intoxication of the + infinite, or the various forms and consequences of that deadening of + personality which the abstract processes of thought tend to produce. But + it is easy to understand that a man in whom experiences of this kind + become habitual is likely to lose his hold upon the normal interests of + life. What are politics or literature to such a mind but fragments without + real importance—dwarfed reflections of ideal truths for which + neither language nor institutions provide any adequate expression! How is + it possible to take seriously what is so manifestly relative and temporary + as the various existing forms of human activity? Above all, how is it + possible to take one’s self seriously, to spend one’s thought on the petty + interests of a petty individuality, when the beatific vision of universal + knowledge, of absolute being, has once dawned on the dazzled beholder? The + charm and the savor of everything relative and phenomenal is gone. A man + may go on talking, teaching, writing—but the spring of personal + action is broken; his actions are like the actions of a somnambulist. + </p> + <p> + No doubt to some extent this mood is familiar to all minds endowed with + the true speculative genius. The philosopher has always tended to become + unfit for practical life; his unfitness, indeed, is one of the comic + motives, so to speak, of literature. But a mood which, in the great + majority of thinkers, is intermittent, and is easily kept within bounds by + the practical needs, the mere physical instincts of life, was in Amiel + almost constant, and the natural impulse of the human animal toward + healthy movement and a normal play of function, never very strong in him, + was gradually weakened and destroyed by an untoward combination of + circumstances. The low health from which he suffered more or less from his + boyhood, and then the depressing influences of the social difficulties we + have described, made it more and more difficult for the rest of the + organism to react against the tyranny of the brain. And as the normal + human motives lost their force, what he calls “the Buddhist tendency in + me” gathered strength year by year, until, like some strange misgrowth, it + had absorbed the whole energies and drained the innermost life-blood of + the personality which had developed it. And the result is another soul’s + tragedy, another story of conflict and failure, which throws fresh light + on the mysterious capacities of human nature, and warns us, as the letters + of Obermann in their day warned the generation of George Sand, that with + the rise of new intellectual perceptions new spiritual dangers come into + being, and that across the path of continuous evolution which the modern + mind is traversing there lies many a <i>selva oscura</i>, many a lonely + and desolate tract, in which loss and pain await it. The story of the + “Journal Intime” is a story to make us think, to make us anxious; but at + the same time, in the case of a nature like Amiel’s, there is so much high + poetry thrown off from the long process of conflict, the power of vision + and of reproduction which the intellect gains at the expense of the rest + of the personality is in many respects so real and so splendid, and + produces results so stirring often to the heart and imagination of the + listener, that in the end we put down the record not so much with a throb + of pity as with an impulse of gratitude. The individual error and + suffering is almost forgotten; all that we can realize is the enrichment + of human feeling, the quickened sense of spiritual reality bequeathed to + us by the baffled and solitary thinker whose <i>via dolorosa</i> is before + us. + </p> + <p> + The manner in which this intellectual idiosyncrasy we have been describing + gradually affected Amiel’s life supplies abundant proof of its actuality + and sincerity. It is a pitiful story. Amiel might have been saved from + despair by love and marriage, by paternity, by strenuous and successful + literary production; and this mental habit of his—this tyranny of + ideal conceptions, helped by the natural accompaniment of such a tyranny, + a critical sense of abnormal acuteness—stood between him and + everything healing and restoring. “I am afraid of an imperfect, a faulty + synthesis, and I linger in the provisional, from timidity and from + loyalty.” “As soon as a thing attracts me I turn away from it; or rather, + I cannot either be content with the second-best, or discover anything + which satisfies my aspiration. The real disgusts me, and I cannot find the + ideal.” And so one thing after another is put away. Family life attracted + him perpetually. “I cannot escape,” he writes, “from the ideal of it. A + companion, of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, of my hopes; within a + common worship—toward the world outside kindness and beneficence; + education to undertake; the thousand and one moral relations which develop + round the first—all these ideas intoxicate me sometimes.” But in + vain. “Reality, the present, the irreparable, the necessary, repel and + even terrify me. I have too much imagination, conscience, and penetration + and not enough character. <i>The life of thought alone seems to me to have + enough elasticity and immensity, to be free enough from the irreparable; + practical life makes me afraid.</i> I am distrustful of myself and of + happiness because I know myself. The ideal poisons for me all imperfect + possession. And I abhor useless regrets and repentance.” + </p> + <p> + It is the same, at bottom, with his professional work. He protects the + intellectual freedom, as it were, of his students with the same jealousy + as he protects his own. There shall be no oratorical device, no + persuading, no cajoling of the mind this way or that. “A professor is the + priest of his subject, and should do the honors of it gravely and with + dignity.” And so the man who in his private Journal is master of an + eloquence and a poetry, capable of illuminating the most difficult and + abstract of subjects, becomes in the lecture-room a dry compendium of + universal knowledge. “Led by his passion for the whole,” says M. Scherer, + “Amiel offered his hearers, not so much a series of positive teachings, as + an index of subjects, a framework—what the Germans call a <i>Schematismus</i>. + The skeleton was admirably put together, and excellent of its kind, and + lent itself admirably to a certain kind of analysis and demonstration; but + it was a skeleton—flesh, body, and life were wanting.” + </p> + <p> + So that as a professor he made no mark. He was conscientiousness itself in + whatever he conceived to be his duty. But with all the critical and + philosophical power which, as we know from the Journal, he might have + lavished on his teaching, had the conditions been other than they were, + the study of literature, and the study of philosophy as such, owe him + nothing. But for the Journal his years of training and his years of + teaching would have left equally little record behind them. “His pupils at + Geneva,” writes one who was himself among the number, [Footnote: M. + Alphonse Rivier, now Professor of International Law at the University of + Brussels.] “never learned to appreciate him at his true worth. We did + justice no doubt to a knowledge as varied as it was wide, to his vast + stores of reading, to that cosmopolitanism of the best kind which he had + brought back with him from his travels; we liked him for his indulgence, + his kindly wit. But I look back without any sense of pleasure to his + lectures.” + </p> + <p> + Many a student, however, has shrunk from the burden and risks of family + life, and has found himself incapable of teaching effectively what he + knows, and has yet redeemed all other incapacities in the field of + literary production. And here indeed we come to the strangest feature in + Amiel’s career—his literary sterility. That he possessed literary + power of the highest order is abundantly proved by the “Journal Intime.” + Knowledge, insight, eloquence, critical power—all were his. And the + impulse to produce, which is the natural, though by no means the + invariable, accompaniment of the literary gift, must have been fairly + strong in him also. For the “Journal Intime” runs to 17,000 folio pages of + MS., and his half dozen volumes of poems, though the actual quantity is + not large, represent an amount of labor which would have more than carried + him through some serious piece of critical or philosophical work, and so + enabled him to content the just expectations of his world. He began to + write early, as is proved by the fact that at twenty he was a contributor + to the best literary periodical which Geneva possessed. He was a charming + correspondent, and in spite of his passion for abstract thought, his + intellectual interest, at any rate, in all the activities of the day—politics, + religious organizations, literature, art—was of the keenest kind. + And yet at the time of his death all that this fine critic and profound + thinker had given to the world, after a life entirely spent in the pursuit + of letters, was, in the first place, a few volumes of poems which had had + no effect except on a small number of sympathetic friends; a few pages of + <i>pensées</i> intermingled with the poems, and, as we now know, extracted + from the Journal; and four or five scattered essays, the length of + magazine articles, on Mme. de Staël, Rousseau, the history of the Academy + of Geneva, the literature of French-speaking Switzerland, and so on! And + more than this, the production, such as it was, had been a production born + of effort and difficulty; and the labor squandered on poetical forms, on + metrical experiments and intricate problems of translation, as well as the + occasional affectations of the prose style, might well have convinced the + critical bystander that the mind of which these things were the offspring + could have no real importance, no profitable message, for the world. + </p> + <p> + The whole “Journal Intime” is in some sense Amiel’s explanation of these + facts. In it he has made full and bitter confession of his weakness, his + failure; he has endeavored, with an acuteness of analysis no other hand + can rival, to make the reasons of his failure and isolation clear both to + himself and others. “To love, to dream, to feel, to learn, to understand—all + these are possible to me if only I may be dispensed from willing—I + have a sort of primitive horror of ambition, of struggle, of hatred, of + all which dissipates the soul and makes it dependent on external things + and aims. The joy of becoming once more conscious of myself, of listening + to the passage of time and the flow of the universal life, is sometimes + enough to make me forget every desire and to quench in me both the wish to + produce and the power to execute.” It is the result of what he himself + calls <i>“l’éblouissement de l’infini</i>.” He no sooner makes a step + toward production, toward action and the realization of himself, than a + vague sense of peril overtakes him. The inner life, with its boundless + horizons and its indescribable exaltations, seems endangered. Is he not + about to place between himself and the forms of speculative truth some + barrier of sense and matter—to give up the real for the apparent, + the substance for the shadow? One is reminded of Clough’s cry under a + somewhat similar experience: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “If this pure solace should desert my mind, + What were all else? I dare not risk the loss. + To the old paths, my soul!” + </pre> + <p> + And in close combination with the speculative sense, with the tendency + which carries a man toward the contemplative study of life and nature as a + whole, is the critical sense—the tendency which, in the realm of + action and concrete performance, carries him, as Amiel expresses it, <i>“droit + au défaut,”</i> and makes him conscious at once of the weak point, the + germ of failure in a project or an action. It is another aspect of the + same idiosyncrasy. “The point I have reached seems to be explained by a + too restless search for perfection, by the abuse of the critical faculty, + and by an unreasonable distrust of first impulses, first thoughts, first + words. Confidence and spontaneity of life are drifting out of my reach, + and this is why I can no longer act.” For abuse of the critical faculty + brings with it its natural consequences—timidity of soul, paralysis + of the will, complete self-distrust. “To know is enough for me; expression + seems to me often a profanity. What I lack is character, will, + individuality.” “By what mystery,” he writes to M. Scherer, “do others + expect much from me? whereas I feel myself to be incapable of anything + serious or important.” <i>Défiance</i> and <i>impuissance</i> are the + words constantly on his lips. “My friends see what I might have been; I + see what I am.” + </p> + <p> + And yet the literary instinct remains, and must in some way be satisfied. + And so he takes refuge in what he himself calls scales, exercises, <i>tours + de force</i> in verse-translation of the most laborious and difficult + kind, in ingenious <i>vers d’occasion</i>, in metrical experiments and + other literary trifling, as his friends think it, of the same sort. “I am + afraid of greatness. I am not afraid of ingenuity; all my published + literary essays are little else than studies, games, exercises, for the + purpose of testing myself. I play scales, as it were; I run up and down my + instrument. I train my hand and make sure of its capacity and skill. But + the work itself remains unachieved. I am always preparing and never + accomplishing, and my energy is swallowed up in a kind of barren + curiosity.” + </p> + <p> + Not that he surrenders himself to the nature which is stronger than he all + at once. His sense of duty rebels, his conscience suffers, and he makes + resolution after resolution to shake himself free from the mental + tradition which had taken such hold upon him—to write, to produce, + to satisfy his friends. In 1861, a year after M. Scherer had left Geneva, + Amiel wrote to him, describing his difficulties and his discouragements, + and asking, as one may ask an old friend of one’s youth, for help and + counsel. M. Scherer, much touched by the appeal, answered it plainly and + frankly—described the feeling of those who knew him as they watched + his life slipping away unmarked by any of the achievements of which his + youth had given promise, and pointed out various literary openings in + which, if he were to put out his powers, he could not but succeed. To + begin with, he urged him to join the <i>Revue Germanique,</i> then being + started by Charles Dollfus, Renan, Littré, and others. Amiel left the + letter for three months unanswered and then wrote a reply which M. Scherer + probably received with a sigh of impatience. For, rightly interpreted, it + meant that old habits were too strong, and that the momentary impulse had + died away. When, a little later, “Les Etrangères,” a collection of + verse-translations, came out, it was dedicated to M. Scherer, who did not, + however, pretend to give it any very cordial reception. Amiel took his + friend’s coolness in very good part, calling him his “dear Rhadamanthus.” + “How little I knew!” cries M. Scherer. “What I regret is to have + discovered too late by means of the Journal, the key to a problem which + seemed to me hardly serious, and which I now feel to have been tragic. A + kind of remorse seizes me that I was not able to understand my friend + better, and to soothe his suffering by a sympathy which would have been a + mixture of pity and admiration.” + </p> + <p> + Was it that all the while Amiel felt himself sure of his <i>revanche</i> + that he knew the value of all those sheets of Journal which were slowly + accumulating under his hand? Did he say to himself sometimes: “My friends + are wrong; my gifts and my knowledge are not lost; I have given expression + to them in the only way possible to me, and when I die it will be found + that I too, like other men, have performed the task appointed me, and + contributed my quota to the human store?” It is clear that very early he + began to regard it as possible that portions of the Journal should be + published after his death, and, as we have seen, he left certain “literary + instructions,” dated seven years before his last illness, in which his + executors were directed to publish such parts of it as might seem to them + to possess any general interest. But it is clear also that the Journal was + not, in any sense, written for publication. “These pages,” say the Geneva + editors, “written <i>au courant de la plume</i>—sometimes in the + morning, but more often at the end of the day, without any idea of + composition or publicity—are marked by the repetition, the <i>lacunae</i>, + the carelessness, inherent in this kind of monologue. The thoughts and + sentiments expressed have no other aim than sincerity of rendering.” + </p> + <p> + And his estimate of the value of the record thus produced was, in general, + a low one, especially during the depression and discouragement of his + later years. “This Journal of mine,” he writes in 1876, “represents the + material of a good many volumes; what prodigious waste of time, of + thought, of strength! It will be useful to nobody, and even for myself—it + has rather helped me to shirk life than to practice it.” And again: “Is + everything I have produced, taken together—my correspondence, these + thousands of Journal pages, my lectures, my articles, my poems, my notes + of different kinds—anything better than withered leaves? To whom and + to what have I been useful? Will my name survive me a single day, and will + it ever mean anything to anybody? A life of no account! When all is added + up—nothing!” In passages like these there is no anticipation of any + posthumous triumph over the disapproval of his friends and the criticism + of his fellow-citizens. The Journal was a relief, the means of satisfying + a need of expression which otherwise could find no outlet; “a + grief-cheating device,” but nothing more. It did not still the sense of + remorse for wasted gifts and opportunities which followed poor Amiel + through the painful months of his last illness. Like Keats, he passed + away, feeling that all was over, and the great game of life lost forever. + </p> + <p> + It still remains for us to gather up a few facts and impressions of a + different kind from those which we have been dwelling on, which may serve + to complete and correct the picture we have so far drawn of the author of + the Journal. For Amiel is full of contradictions and surprises, which, are + indeed one great source of his attractiveness. Had he only been the + thinker, the critic, the idealist we have been describing, he would never + have touched our feeling as he now does; what makes him so interesting is + that there was in him a <i>fond</i> of heredity, a temperament and + disposition, which were perpetually reacting against the oppression of the + intellect and its accumulations. In his hours of intellectual + concentration he freed himself from all trammels of country or society, or + even, as he insists, from all sense of personality. But at other times he + was the dutiful son of a country which he loved, taking a warm interest in + everything Genevese, especially in everything that represented the older + life of the town. When it was a question of separating the Genevese state + from the church, which had been the center of the national life during + three centuries of honorable history, Amiel the philosopher, the + cosmopolitan, threw himself ardently on to the side of the opponents of + separation, and rejoiced in their victory. A large proportion of his poems + deal with national subjects. He was one of the first members of “<i>L’Institut + Genevois</i>,” founded in 1853, and he took a warm interest in the + movement started by M. Eugene Rambert toward 1870, for the improvement of + secondary education throughout French-speaking Switzerland. One of his + friends dwells with emphasis on his “<i>sens profond des nationalités, des + langues, des villes</i>”—on his love for local characteristics, for + everything deep-rooted in the past, and helping to sustain the present. He + is convinced that no state can live and thrive without a certain number of + national prejudices, without <i>à priori</i> beliefs and traditions. It + pleases him to see that there is a force in the Genevese nationality which + resists the leveling influences of a crude radicalism; it rejoices him + that Geneva “has not yet become a mere copy of anything, and that she is + still capable of deciding for herself. Those who say to her, ‘Do as they + do at New York, at Paris, at Rome, at Berlin,’ are still in the minority. + The <i>doctrinaires</i> who would split her up and destroy her unity waste + their breath upon her. She divines the snare laid for her, and turns away. + I like this proof of vitality.” + </p> + <p> + His love of traveling never left him. Paris attracted him, as it attracts + all who cling to letters, and he gained at one time or another a certain + amount of acquaintance with French literary men. In 1852 we find him for a + time brought into contact with Thierry, Lamennais, Béranger, Mignet, etc., + as well as with Romantics like Alfred de Vigny and Théophile Gautier. + There are poems addressed to De Vigny and Gautier in his first published + volume of 1854. He revisited Italy and his old haunts and friends in + Germany more than once, and in general kept the current of his life fresh + and vigorous by his openness to impressions and additions from without. + </p> + <p> + He was, as we have said, a delightful correspondent, “taking pains with + the smallest note,” and within a small circle of friends much liked. His + was not a nature to be generally appreciated at its true value; the + motives which governed his life were too remote from the ordinary motives + of human conduct, and his characteristics just those which have always + excited the distrust, if not the scorn, of the more practical and vigorous + order of minds. Probably, too—especially in his later years—there + was a certain amount of self-consciousness and artificiality in his + attitude toward the outer world, which was the result partly of the social + difficulties we have described, partly of his own sense of difference from + his surroundings, and partly again of that timidity of nature, that + self-distrust, which is revealed to us in the Journal. So that he was by + no means generally popular, and the great success of the Journal is still + a mystery to the majority of those who knew him merely as a fellow-citizen + and acquaintance. But his friends loved him and believed in him, and the + reserved student, whose manners were thought affected in general society, + could and did make himself delightful to those who understood him, or + those who looked to him for affection. “According to my remembrance of + him,” writes M. Scherer, “he was bright, sociable, a charming companion. + Others who knew him better and longer than I say the same. The mobility of + his disposition counteracted his tendency to exaggerations of feeling. In + spite of his fits of melancholy, his natural turn of mind was cheerful; up + to the end he was young, a child even, amused by mere nothings; and + whoever had heard him laugh his hearty student’s laugh would have found it + difficult to identify him with the author of so many somber pages.” M. + Rivier, his old pupil, remembers him as “strong and active, still + handsome, delightful in conversation, ready to amuse and be amused.” + Indeed, if the photographs of him are to be trusted, there must have been + something specially attractive in the sensitive, expressive face, with its + lofty brow, fine eyes, and kindly mouth. It is the face of a poet rather + than of a student, and makes one understand certain other little points + which his friends lay stress on—for instance, his love for and + popularity with children. + </p> + <p> + In his poems, or at any rate in the earlier ones, this lighter side finds + more expression, proportionally, than in the Journal. In the volume called + “Grains de Mil,” published in 1854, and containing verse written between + the ages of eighteen and thirty, there are poems addressed, now to his + sister, now to old Genevese friends, and now to famous men of other + countries whom he had seen and made friends with in passing, which, read + side by side with the “Journal Intime,” bring a certain gleam and sparkle + into an otherwise somber picture. Amiel was never a master of poetical + form; his verse, compared to his prose, is tame and fettered; it never + reaches the glow and splendor of expression which mark the finest passages + of the Journal. It has ability, thought—beauty even, of a certain + kind, but no plastic power, none of the incommunicable magic which a + George Eliot seeks for in vain, while it comes unasked, to deck with + imperishable charm the commonplace metaphysic and the simpler emotions of + a Tennyson or a Burns. Still as Amiel’s work, his poetry has an interest + for those who are interested in him. Sincerity is written in every line of + it. Most of the thoughts and experiences with which one grows familiar in + the Journal are repeated in it; the same joys, the same aspirations, the + same sorrows are visible throughout it, so that in reading it one is more + and more impressed with the force and reality of the inner life which has + left behind it so definite an image of itself. And every now and then the + poems add a detail, a new impression, which seems by contrast to give + fresh value to the fine-spun speculations, the lofty despairs, of the + Journal. Take these verses, written at twenty-one, to his younger sister: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Treize ans! et sur ton front aucun baiser de mère + Ne viendra, pauvre enfant, invoquer le bonheur; + Treize ans! et dans ce jour mil regard de ton père + Ne fera d’allégresse épanouir ton coeur. + + “Orpheline, c’est là le nom dont tu t’appelles, + Oiseau né dans un nid que la foudre a brisé; + De la couvée, hélas! seuls, trois petits, sans ailes + Furent lancés au vent, loin du reste écrasé. + + “Et, semés par l’éclair sur les monts, dans les plaines, + Un même toit encor n’a pu les abriter, + Et du foyer natal, malgré leurs plaintes vaines + Dieu, peut-être longtemps, voudra les écarter. + + “Pourtant console-toi! pense, dans tes alarmes, + Qu’un double bien te reste, espoir et souvenir; + Une main dans le ciel pour essuyer tes larmes; + Une main ici-bas, enfant, pour te bénir.” + </pre> + <p> + The last stanza is especially poor, and in none of them is there much + poetical promise. But the pathetic image of a forlorn and orphaned + childhood, “<i>un nid que la foudre a brisé</i>,” which it calls up, and + the tone of brotherly affection, linger in one’s memory. And through much + of the volume of 1863, in the verses to “My Godson,” or in the charming + poem to Loulou, the little girl who at five years old, daisy in hand, had + sworn him eternal friendship over Gretchen’s game of “<i>Er liebt mich—liebt + mich nicht</i>,” one hears the same tender note. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Merci, prophétique fleurette, + Corolle à l’oracle vainqueur, + Car voilà trois ans, paquerette, + Que tu m’ouvris un petit coeur. + + “Et depuis trois hivers, ma belle, + L’enfant aux grands yeux de velours + Maintient son petit coeur fidèle, + Fidèle comme aux premiers jours.” + </pre> + <p> + His last poetical volume, “Jour à Jour,” published in 1880, is far more + uniformly melancholy and didactic in tone than the two earlier collections + from which we have been quoting. But though the dominant note is one of + pain and austerity, of philosophy touched with emotion, and the general + tone more purely introspective, there are many traces in it of the younger + Amiel, dear, for very ordinary human reasons, to his sisters and his + friends. And, in general, the pathetic interest of the book for all whose + sympathy answers to what George Sand calls “<i>les tragédies que la pensée + aperçoit et que l’oeil ne voit point</i>” is very great. Amiel published + it a year before his death, and the struggle with failing power which the + Journal reveals to us in its saddest and most intimate reality, is here + expressed in more reserved and measured form. Faith, doubt, submission, + tenderness of feeling, infinite aspiration, moral passion, that straining + hope of something beyond, which is the life of the religious soul—they + are all here, and the <i>Dernier Mot</i> with which the sad little volume + ends is poor Amiel’s epitaph on himself, his conscious farewell to that + more public aspect of his life in which he had suffered much and achieved + comparatively so little. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nous avons à plaisir compliqué le bonheur, + Et par un idéal frivole et suborneur + Attaché nos coeurs à la terre; + Dupes des faux dehors tenus pour l’important, + Mille choses pour nous ont du prix ... et pourtant + Une seule était nécessaire. + + “Sans fin nous prodiguons calculs, efforts, travaux; + Cependant, au milieu des succès, des bravos + En nous quelque chose soupire; + Multipliant nos pas et nos soins de fourmis, + Nous vondrions nous faire une foule d’amis.... + Pourtant un seul pouvait suffire. + + “Victime des désirs, esclave des regrets, + L’homme s’agite, et s’use, et vieillit sans progrès + Sur sa toile de Pénélope; + Comme un sage mourant, puissions-nous dire en paix + J’ai trop longtemps erré, cherché; je me trompais; + Tout est bien, mon Dieu m’enveloppe.” + </pre> + <p> + Upon the small remains of Amiel’s prose outside the Journal there is no + occasion to dwell. The two essays on Madame de Staël and Rousseau contain + much fine critical remark, and might find a place perhaps as an appendix + to some future edition of the Journal; and some of the “Pensées,” + published in the latter half of the volume containing the “Grains de + Mils,” are worthy of preservation. But in general, whatever he himself + published was inferior to what might justly have been expected of him, and + no one was more conscious of the fact than himself. + </p> + <p> + The story of his fatal illness, of the weary struggle for health which + filled the last seven years of his life, is abundantly told in the Journal—we + must not repeat it here. He had never been a strong man, and at + fifty-three he received, at his doctor’s hands, his <i>arrêt de mort</i>. + We are told that what killed him was “heart disease, complicated by + disease of the larynx,” and that he suffered “much and long.” He was + buried in the cemetery of Clarens, not far from his great contemporary + Alexander Vinet; and the affection of a sculptor friend provided the + monument which now marks his resting-place. + </p> + <p> + We have thus exhausted all the biographical material which is at present + available for the description of Amiel’s life and relations toward the + outside world. It is to be hoped that the friends to whom the charge of + his memory has been specially committed may see their way in the future, + if not to a formal biography, which is very likely better left + unattempted, at least to a volume of Letters, which would complete the + “Journal Intime,” as Joubert’s “Correspondence” completes the “Pensées.” + There must be ample material for it; and Amiel’s letters would probably + supply us with more of that literary and critical reflection which his + mind produced so freely and so well, as long as there was no question of + publication, but which is at present somewhat overweighted in the “Journal + Intime.” + </p> + <p> + But whether biography or correspondence is ever forthcoming or not, the + Journal remains—and the Journal is the important matter. We shall + read the Letters if they appear, as we now read the Poems, for the + Journal’s sake. The man himself, as poet, teacher, and <i>littérateur</i>, + produced no appreciable effect on his generation; but the posthumous + record of his inner life has stirred the hearts of readers all over + Europe, and won him a niche in the House of Fame. What are the reasons for + this striking transformation of a man’s position—a transformation + which, as M. Scherer says, will rank among the curiosities of literary + history? In other words, what has given the “Journal Intime” its sudden + and unexpected success? + </p> + <p> + In the first place, no doubt, its poetical quality, its beauty of manner—that + fine literary expression in which Amiel has been able to clothe the + subtler processes of thought, no less than the secrets of religious + feeling, or the aspects of natural scenery. Style is what gives value and + currency to thought, and Amiel, in spite of all his Germanisms, has style + of the best kind. He possesses in prose that indispensable magic which he + lacks in poetry. + </p> + <p> + His style, indeed, is by no means always in harmony with the central + French tradition. Probably a Frenchman will be inclined to apply + Sainte-Beuve’s remarks on Amiel’s elder countryman, Rodolphe Töpffer, to + Amiel himself: “<i>C’est ainsi qu’on écrit dans les littératures qui n’ont + point de capitale, de quartier général classique, ou d’Académie; c’est + ainsi qu’un Allemand, qu’un Américain, ou même un Anglais, use à son gré + de sa langue. En France au contraire, où il y a une Académie Française ... + on doit trouver qu’un tel style est une très-grande nouveauté et le succés + qu’il a obtenu un evènement: il a fallu bien des circonstances pour y + préparer</i>.” No doubt the preparatory circumstance in Amiel’s case has + been just that Germanization of the French mind on which M. Taine and M. + Bourget dwell with so much emphasis. But, be this as it may, there is no + mistaking the enthusiasm with which some of the best living writers of + French have hailed these pages—instinct, as one declares, “with a + strange and marvelous poetry;” full of phrases “<i>d’une intense + suggestion de beauté</i>;” according to another. Not that the whole of the + Journal flows with the same ease, the same felicity. There are a certain + number of passages where Amiel ceases to be the writer, and becomes the + technical philosopher; there are others, though not many, into which a + certain German heaviness and diffuseness has crept, dulling the edge of + the sentences, and retarding the development of the thought. When all + deductions have been made, however, Amiel’s claim is still first and + foremost, the claim of the poet and the artist; of the man whose thought + uses at will the harmonies and resources of speech, and who has attained, + in words of his own, “to the full and masterly expression of himself.” + </p> + <p> + Then to the poetical beauty of manner which first helped the book to + penetrate, <i>faire sa trouée</i>, as the French say, we must add its + extraordinary psychological interest. Both as poet and as psychologist, + Amiel makes another link in a special tradition; he adds another name to + the list of those who have won a hearing from their fellows as + interpreters of the inner life, as the revealers of man to himself. He is + the successor of St. Augustine and Dante; he is the brother of Obermann + and Maurice de Guérin. What others have done for the spiritual life of + other generations he has done for the spiritual life of this, and the + wealth of poetical, scientific, and psychological faculty which he has + brought to the analysis of human feeling and human perceptions places him—so + far as the present century is concerned—at the head of the small and + delicately-gifted class to which he belongs. For beside his spiritual + experience Obermann’s is superficial, and Maurice de Guérin’s a passing + trouble, a mere quick outburst of passionate feeling. Amiel indeed has + neither the continuous romantic beauty nor the rich descriptive wealth of + Senancour. The Dent du Midi, with its untrodden solitude, its primeval + silences and its hovering eagles, the Swiss landscape described in the + “Fragment on the Ranz des Vaches,” the summer moonlight on the Lake of + Neufchâtel—these various pictures are the work of one of the most + finished artists in words that literature has produced. But how true + George Sand’s criticism is! “<i>Chez Obermann la sensibilité est active, + l’intelligence est paresseuse ou insuffisante.</i>” He has a certain + antique power of making the truisms of life splendid and impressive. No + one can write more poetical exercises than he on the old text of <i>pulvis + et umbra sumus</i>, but beyond this his philosophical power fails him. As + soon as he leaves the region of romantic description how wearisome the + pages are apt to grow! Instead of a poet, “<i>un ergoteur Voltairien</i>;” + instead of the explorer of fresh secrets of the heart, a Parisian talking + a cheap cynicism! Intellectually, the ground gives way; there is no + solidity of knowledge, no range of thought. Above all, the scientific idea + in our sense is almost absent; so that while Amiel represents the modern + mind at its keenest and best, dealing at will with the vast additions to + knowledge which the last fifty years have brought forth, Senancour is + still in the eighteenth-century stage, talking like Rousseau of a return + to primitive manners, and discussing Christianity in the tone of the + “Encyclopédie.” + </p> + <p> + Maurice de Guérin, again, is the inventor of new terms in the language of + feeling, a poet as Amiel and Senancour are. His love of nature, the + earth-passion which breathes in his letters and journal, has a strange + savor, a force and flame which is all his own. Beside his actual sense of + community with the visible world, Amiel’s love of landscape has a tame, + didactic air. The Swiss thinker is too ready to make nature a mere vehicle + of moral or philosophical thought; Maurice de Guérin loves her for herself + alone, and has found words to describe her influence over him of + extraordinary individuality and power. But for the rest the story of his + inner life has but small value in the history of thought. His difficulties + do not go deep enough; his struggle is intellectually not serious enough—we + see in it only a common incident of modern experience poetically told; it + throws no light on the genesis and progress of the great forces which are + molding and renovating the thought of the present—it tells us + nothing for the future. + </p> + <p> + No—there is much more in the “Journal Intime” than the imagination + or the poetical glow which Amiel shares with his immediate predecessors in + the art of confession-writing. His book is representative of human + experience in its more intimate and personal forms to an extent hardly + equaled since Rousseau. For his study of himself is only a means to an + end. “What interests me in myself,” he declares, “is that I find in my own + case a genuine example of human nature, and therefore a specimen of + general value.” It is the human consciousness of to-day, of the modern + world, in its two-fold relation—its relation toward the infinite and + the unknowable, and its relation toward the visible universe which + conditions it—which is the real subject of the “Journal Intime.” + There are few elements of our present life which, in a greater or less + degree, are not made vocal in these pages. Amiel’s intellectual interest + is untiring. Philosophy, science, letters, art—he has penetrated the + spirit of them all; there is nothing, or almost nothing, within the wide + range of modern activities which he has not at one time or other felt the + attraction of, and learned in some sense to understand. “Amiel,” says M. + Renan, “has his defects, but he was certainly one of the strongest + speculative heads who, during the period from 1845 to 1880, have reflected + on the nature of things.” And, although a certain fatal spiritual weakness + debarred him to a great extent from the world of practical life, his + sympathy with action, whether it was the action of the politician or the + social reformer, or merely that steady half-conscious performance of its + daily duty which keeps humanity sweet and living, was unfailing. His + horizon was not bounded by his own “prison-cell,” or by that dream-world + which he has described with so much subtle beauty; rather the energies + which should have found their natural expression in literary or family + life, pent up within the mind itself, excited in it a perpetual eagerness + for intellectual discovery, and new powers of sympathy with whatever + crossed its field of vision. + </p> + <p> + So that the thinker, the historian, the critic, will find himself at home + with Amiel. The power of organizing his thought, the art of writing a + book, <i>monumentum aere perennius</i>, was indeed denied him—he + laments it bitterly; but, on the other hand, he is receptivity itself, + responsive to all the great forces which move the time, catching and + reflecting on the mobile mirror of his mind whatever winds are blowing + from the hills of thought. + </p> + <p> + And if the thinker is at home with him, so too are the religious minds, + the natures for whom God and duty are the foundation of existence. Here, + indeed, we come to the innermost secret of Amiel’s charm, the fact which + probably goes farther than any other to explain his fascination for a + large and growing class of readers. For, while he represents all the + intellectual complexities of a time bewildered by the range and number of + its own acquisitions, the religious instinct in him is as strong and + tenacious as in any of the representative exponents of the life of faith. + The intellect is clear and unwavering; but the heart clings to old + traditions, and steadies itself on the rock of duty. His Calvinistic + training lingers long in him; and what detaches him from the Hegelian + school, with which he has much in common, is his own stronger sense of + personal need, his preoccupation with the idea of “sin.” “He speaks,” says + M. Renan contemptuously, “of sin, of salvation, of redemption, and + conversion, as if these things were realities. He asks me ‘What does M. + Renan make of sin?’ <i>Eh bien, je crois que je le supprime</i>.” But it + is just because Amiel is profoundly sensitive to the problems of evil and + responsibility, and M. Renan dismisses them with this half-tolerant, + half-skeptical smile, that M. Renan’s “Souvenirs” inform and entertain us, + while the “Journal Intime” makes a deep impression on that moral sense + which is at the root of individual and national life. + </p> + <p> + The Journal is full, indeed, of this note of personal religion. Religion, + Amiel declares again and again, cannot be replaced by philosophy. The + redemption of the intelligence is not the redemption of the heart. The + philosopher and critic may succeed in demonstrating that the various + definite forms into which the religious thought of man has thrown itself + throughout history are not absolute truth, but only the temporary + creations of a need which gradually and surely outgrows them all. “The + Trinity, the life to come, paradise and hell, may cease to be dogmas and + spiritual realities, the form and the letter may vanish away—the + question of humanity remains: What is it which saves?” Amiel’s answer to + the question will recall to a wide English circle the method and spirit of + an English teacher, whose dear memory lives to-day in many a heart, and is + guiding many an effort in the cause of good—the method and spirit of + the late Professor Green of Balliol. In many respects there was a gulf of + difference between the two men. The one had all the will and force of + personality which the other lacked. But the ultimate creed of both, the + way in which both interpret the facts of nature and consciousness, is + practically the same. In Amiel’s case, we have to gather it through all + the variations and inevitable contradictions of a Journal which is the + reflection of a life, not the systematic expression of a series of ideas, + but the main results are clear enough. Man is saved by love and duty, and + by the hope which springs from duty, or rather from the moral facts of + consciousness, as a flower springs from the soil. Conscience and the moral + progress of the race—these are his points of departure. Faith in the + reality of the moral law is what he clings to when his inherited creed has + yielded to the pressure of the intellect, and after all the storms of + pessimism and necessitarianism have passed over him. The reconciliation of + the two certitudes, the two methods, the scientific and the religious, “is + to be sought for in that moral law which is also a fact, and every step of + which requires for its explanation another cosmos than the cosmos of + necessity.” “Nature is the virtuality of mind, the soul the fruit of life, + and liberty the flower of necessity.” Consciousness is the one fixed point + in this boundless and bottomless gulf of things, and the soul’s inward + law, as it has been painfully elaborated by human history, the only + revelation of God. + </p> + <p> + The only but the sufficient revelation! For this first article of a + reasonable creed is the key to all else—the clue which leads the + mind safely through the labyrinth of doubt into the presence of the + Eternal. Without attempting to define the indefinable, the soul rises from + the belief in the reality of love and duty to the belief in “a holy will + at the root of nature and destiny”—for “if man is capable of + conceiving goodness, the general principle of things, which cannot be + inferior to man, must be good.” And then the religious consciousness + seizes on this intellectual deduction, and clothes it in language of the + heart, in the tender and beautiful language of faith. “There is but one + thing needful—to possess God. All our senses, all our powers of mind + and soul, are so many ways of approaching the Divine, so many modes of + tasting and adoring God. Religion is not a method; it is a life—a + higher and supernatural life, mystical in its root and practical in its + fruits; a communion with God, a calm and deep enthusiasm, a love which + radiates, a force which acts, a happiness which overflows.” And the faith + of his youth and his maturity bears the shock of suffering, and supports + him through his last hours. He writes a few months before the end: “The + animal expires; man surrenders his soul to the author of the soul.” ... + “We dream alone, we suffer alone, we die alone, we inhabit the last + resting-place alone. But there is nothing to prevent us from opening our + solitude to God. And so what was an austere monologue becomes dialogue, + reluctance becomes docility, renunciation passes into peace, and the sense + of painful defeat is lost in the sense of recovered liberty”—<i>“Tout + est bien, mon Dieu m’enveloppe.”</i> + </p> + <p> + Nor is this all. It is not only that Amiel’s inmost thought and affections + are stayed on this conception of “a holy will at the root of nature and + destiny”—in a certain very real sense he is a Christian. No one is + more sensitive than he to the contribution which Christianity has made to + the religious wealth of mankind; no one more penetrated than he with the + truth of its essential doctrine “death unto sin and a new birth unto + righteousness.” “The religion of sin, of repentance and reconciliation,” + he cries, “the religion of the new birth and of eternal life, is not a + religion to be ashamed of.” The world has found inspiration and guidance + for eighteen centuries in the religious consciousness of Jesus. “The + gospel has modified the world and consoled mankind,” and so “we may hold + aloof from the churches and yet bow ourselves before Jesus. We may be + suspicious of the clergy and refuse to have anything to do with + catechisms, and yet love the Holy and the Just who came to save and not to + curse.” And in fact Amiel’s whole life and thought are steeped in + Christianity. He is the spiritual descendant of one of the intensest and + most individual forms of Christian belief, and traces of his religious + ancestry are visible in him at every step. Protestantism of the sincerer + and nobler kind leaves an indelible impression on the nature which has + once surrounded itself to the austere and penetrating influences flowing + from the religion of sin and grace; and so far as feeling and temperament + are concerned, Amiel retained throughout his life the marks of Calvinism + and Geneva. + </p> + <p> + And yet how clear the intellect remains, through all the anxieties of + thought, and in the face of the soul’s dearest memories and most + passionate needs! Amiel, as soon as his reasoning faculty has once reached + its maturity, never deceives himself as to the special claims of the + religion which by instinct and inheritance he loves; he makes no + compromise with dogma or with miracle. Beyond the religions of the present + he sees always the essential religion which lasts when all local forms and + marvels have passed away; and as years go on, with more and more clearness + of conviction, he learns to regard all special beliefs and systems as + “prejudices, useful in practice, but still narrownesses of the mind;” + misgrowths of thought, necessary in their time and place, but still of no + absolute value, and having no final claim on the thought of man. + </p> + <p> + And it is just here—in this mixture of the faith which clings and + aspires, with the intellectual pliancy which allows the mind to sway + freely under the pressure of life and experience, and the deep respect for + truth, which will allow nothing to interfere between thought and its + appointed tasks—that Amiel’s special claim upon us lies. It is this + balance of forces in him which makes him so widely representative of the + modern mind—of its doubts, its convictions, its hopes. He speaks for + the life of to-day as no other single voice has yet spoken for it; in his + contradictions, his fears, his despairs, and yet in the constant straining + toward the unseen and the ideal which gives a fundamental unity to his + inner life, he is the type of a generation universally touched with doubt, + and yet as sensitive to the need of faith as any that have gone before it; + more widely conscious than its predecessors of the limitations of the + human mind, and of the iron pressure of man’s physical environment; but at + the same time—paradox as it may seem—more conscious of man’s + greatness, more deeply thrilled by the spectacle of the nobility and + beauty interwoven with the universe. + </p> + <p> + And he plays this part of his so modestly, with so much hesitation, so + much doubt of his thought and of himself! He is no preacher, like Emerson + and Carlyle, with whom, as poet and idealist, he has so much in common; + there is little resemblance between him and the men who speak, as it were, + from a height to the crowd beneath, sure always of themselves and what + they have to say. And here again he represents the present and foreshadows + the future. For the age of the preachers is passing those who speak with + authority on the riddles of life and nature as the priests of this or that + all-explaining dogma, are becoming less important as knowledge spreads, + and the complexity of experience is made evident to a wider range of + minds. The force of things is against <i>the certain people</i>. Again and + again truth escapes from the prisons made for her by mortal hands, and as + humanity carries on the endless pursuit she will pay more and more + respectful heed to voices like this voice of the lonely Genevese thinker—with + its pathetic alterations of hope and fear, and the moral steadfastness + which is the inmost note of it—to these meditative lives, which, + through all the ebb and flow of thought, and in the dim ways of doubt and + suffering, rich in knowledge, and yet rich in faith, grasp in new forms, + and proclaim to us in new words, + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “The mighty hopes which make us men.” + </pre> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + AMIEL’S JOURNAL. + </h2> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + [Where no other name is mentioned, Geneva is to be understood as the + author’s place of residence.] + </p> + <p> + BERLIN, July 16. 1848.—There is but one thing needful—to + possess God. All our senses, all our powers of mind and soul, all our + external resources, are so many ways of approaching the divinity, so many + modes of tasting and of adoring God. We must learn to detach ourselves + from all that is capable of being lost, to bind ourselves absolutely only + to what is absolute and eternal, and to enjoy the rest as a loan, a + usufruct.... To adore, to understand, to receive, to feel, to give, to + act: there is my law my duty, my happiness, my heaven. Let come what come + will—even death. Only be at peace with self, live in the presence of + God, in communion with Him, and leave the guidance of existence to those + universal powers against whom thou canst do nothing! If death gives me + time, so much the better. If its summons is near, so much the better + still; if a half-death overtake me, still so much the better, for so the + path of success is closed to me only that I may find opening before me the + path of heroism, of moral greatness and resignation. Every life has its + potentiality of greatness, and as it is impossible to be outside God, the + best is consciously to dwell in Him. + </p> + <p> + BERLIN, July 20, 1848.—It gives liberty and breadth to thought, to + learn to judge our own epoch from the point of view of universal history, + history from the point of view of geological periods, geology from the + point of view of astronomy. When the duration of a man’s life or of a + people’s life appears to us as microscopic as that of a fly and inversely, + the life of a gnat as infinite as that of a celestial body, with all its + dust of nations, we feel ourselves at once very small and very great, and + we are able, as it were, to survey from the height of the spheres our own + existence, and the little whirlwinds which agitate our little Europe. + </p> + <p> + At bottom there is but one subject of study: the forms and metamorphoses + of mind. All other subjects may be reduced to that; all other studies + bring us back to this study. + </p> + <p> + GENEVA, April 20, 1849.—It is six years [Footnote: Amiel left Geneva + for Paris and Berlin in April, 1848, the preceding year, 1841-42, having + been spent in Italy and Sicily.] to-day since I last left Geneva. How many + journeys, how many impressions, observations, thoughts, how many forms of + men and things have since then passed before me and in me! The last seven + years have been the most important of my life: they have been the + novitiate of my intelligence, the initiation of my being into being. + </p> + <p> + Three snowstorms this afternoon. Poor blossoming plum-trees and peach + trees! What a difference from six years ago, when the cherry-trees, + adorned in their green spring dress and laden with their bridal flowers, + smiled at my departure along the Vaudois fields, and the lilacs of + Burgundy threw great gusts of perfume into my face!... + </p> + <p> + May 3, 1849.—I have never felt any inward assurance of genius, or + any presentiment of glory or of happiness. I have never seen myself in + imagination great or famous, or even a husband, a father, an influential + citizen. This indifference to the future, this absolute self-distrust, + are, no doubt, to be taken as signs. What dreams I have are all vague and + indefinite; I ought not to live, for I am now scarcely capable of living. + Recognize your place; let the living live; and you, gather together your + thoughts, leave behind you a legacy of feeling and ideas; you will be most + useful so. Renounce yourself, accept the cup given you, with its honey and + its gall, as it comes. Bring God down into your heart. Embalm your soul in + Him now, make within you a temple for the Holy Spirit, be diligent in good + works, make others happier and better. + </p> + <p> + Put personal ambition away from you, and then you will find consolation in + living or in dying, whatever may happen to you. + </p> + <p> + May 27, 1849.—To be misunderstood even by those whom one loves is + the cross and bitterness of life. It is the secret of that sad and + melancholy smile on the lips of great men which so few understand; it is + the cruelest trial reserved for self-devotion; it is what must have + oftenest wrung the heart of the Son of man; and if God could suffer, it + would be the wound we should be forever inflicting upon Him. He also—He + above all—is the great misunderstood, the least comprehended. Alas! + alas! never to tire, never to grow cold; to be patient, sympathetic, + tender; to look for the budding flower and the opening heart; to hope + always, like God; to love always—this is duty. + </p> + <p> + June 3, 1849.—Fresh and delicious weather. A long morning walk. + Surprised the hawthorn and wild rose-trees in flower. From the fields + vague and health-giving scents. The Voirons fringed with dazzling mists, + and tints of exquisite softness over the Salève. Work in the fields, two + delightful donkeys, one pulling greedily at a hedge of barberry. Then + three little children. I felt a boundless desire to caress and play with + them. To be able to enjoy such leisure, these peaceful fields, fine + weather, contentment; to have my two sisters with me; to rest my eyes on + balmy meadows and blossoming orchards; to listen to the life singing in + the grass and on the trees; to be so calmly happy—is it not too + much? is it deserved? O let me enjoy it with gratitude. The days of + trouble come soon enough and are many enough. I have no presentiment of + happiness. All the more let me profit by the present. Come, kind nature, + smile and enchant me! Veil from me awhile my own griefs and those of + others; let me see only the folds of thy queenly mantle, and hide all + miserable and ignoble things from me under thy bounties and splendors! + </p> + <p> + October 1, 1849.—Yesterday, Sunday, I read through and made extracts + from the gospel of St. John. It confirmed me in my belief that about Jesus + we must believe no one but Himself, and that what we have to do is to + discover the true image of the founder behind all the prismatic reactions + through which it comes to us, and which alter it more or less. A ray of + heavenly light traversing human life, the message of Christ has been + broken into a thousand rainbow colors and carried in a thousand + directions. It is the historical task of Christianity to assume with every + succeeding age a fresh metamorphosis, and to be forever spiritualizing + more and more her understanding of the Christ and of salvation. + </p> + <p> + I am astounded at the incredible amount of Judaism and formalism which + still exists nineteen centuries after the Redeemer’s proclamation, “it is + the letter which killeth”—after his protest against a dead + symbolism. The new religion is so profound that it is not understood even + now, and would seem a blasphemy to the greater number of Christians. The + person of Christ is the center of it. Redemption, eternal life, divinity, + humanity, propitiation, incarnation, judgment, Satan, heaven and hell—all + these beliefs have been so materialized and coarsened, that with a strange + irony they present to us the spectacle of things having a profound meaning + and yet carnally interpreted. Christian boldness and Christian liberty + must be reconquered; it is the church which is heretical, the church whose + sight is troubled and her heart timid. Whether we will or no, there is an + esoteric doctrine, there is a relative revelation; each man enters into + God so much as God enters into him, or as Angelus, [Footnote: Angelus + Silesius, otherwise Johannes Soheffler, the German seventeenth century + hymn-writer, whose tender and mystical verses have been popularized in + England by Miss Winkworth’s translations in the <i>Lyra Germanica</i>.] I + think, said, “the eye by which I see God is the same eye by which He sees + me.” + </p> + <p> + Christianity, if it is to triumph over pantheism, must absorb it. To our + pusillanimous eyes Jesus would have borne the marks of a hateful + pantheism, for he confirmed the Biblical phrase “ye are gods,” and so + would St. Paul, who tells us that we are of “the race of God.” Our century + wants a new theology—that is to say, a more profound explanation of + the nature of Christ and of the light which it flashes upon heaven and + upon humanity. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Heroism is the brilliant triumph of the soul over the flesh—that is + to say, over fear: fear of poverty, of suffering, of calumny, of sickness, + of isolation, and of death. There is no serious piety without heroism. + Heroism is the dazzling and glorious concentration of courage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Duty has the virtue of making us feel the reality of a positive world + while at the same time detaching us from it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + December 30, 1850.—The relation of thought to action filled my mind + on waking, and I found myself carried toward a bizarre formula, which + seems to have something of the night still clinging about it: <i>Action is + but coarsened thought</i>; thought become concrete, obscure, and + unconscious. It seemed to me that our most trifling actions, of eating, + walking, and sleeping, were the condensation of a multitude of truths and + thoughts, and that the wealth of ideas involved was in direct proportion + to the commonness of the action (as our dreams are the more active, the + deeper our sleep). We are hemmed round with mystery, and the greatest + mysteries are contained in what we see and do every day. In all + spontaneity the work of creation is reproduced in analogy. When the + spontaneity is unconscious, you have simple action; when it is conscious, + intelligent and moral action. At bottom this is nothing more than the + proposition of Hegel: [“What is rational is real; and what is real is + rational;”] but it had never seemed to me more evident, more palpable. + Everything which is, is thought, but not conscious and individual thought. + The human intelligence is but the consciousness of being. It is what I + have formulated before: Everything is a symbol of a symbol, and a symbol + of what? of mind. + </p> + <p> + ... I have just been looking through the complete works of Montesquieu, + and cannot yet make plain to myself the impression left on me by this + singular style, with its mixture of gravity and affectation, of + carelessness and precision, of strength and delicacy; so full of sly + intention for all its coldness, expressing at once inquisitiveness and + indifference, abrupt, piecemeal, like notes thrown together haphazard, and + yet deliberate. I seem to see an intelligence naturally grave and austere + donning a dress of wit for convention’s sake. The author desires to + entertain as much as to teach, the thinker is also a <i>bel-esprit</i>, + the jurisconsult has a touch of the coxcomb, and a perfumed breath from + the temple of Venus has penetrated the tribunal of Minos. Here we have + austerity, as the century understood it, in philosophy or religion. In + Montesquieu, the art, if there is any, lies not in the words but in the + matter. The words run freely and lightly, but the thought is + self-conscious. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Each bud flowers but once and each flower has but its minute of perfect + beauty; so, in the garden of the soul each feeling has, as it were, its + flowering instant, its one and only moment of expansive grace and radiant + kingship. Each star passes but once in the night through the meridian over + our heads and shines there but an instant; so, in the heaven of the mind + each thought touches its zenith but once, and in that moment all its + brilliancy and all its greatness culminate. Artist, poet, or thinker, if + you want to fix and immortalize your ideas or your feelings, seize them at + this precise and fleeting moment, for it is their highest point. Before + it, you have but vague outlines or dim presentiments of them. After it you + will have only weakened reminiscence or powerless regret; that moment is + the moment of your ideal. + </p> + <p> + Spite is anger which is afraid to show itself, it is an impotent fury + conscious of its impotence. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Nothing resembles pride so much as discouragement. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To repel one’s cross is to make it heavier. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + In the conduct of life, habits count for more than maxims, because habit + is a living maxim, becomes flesh and instinct. To reform one’s maxims is + nothing: it is but to change the title of the book. To learn new habits is + everything, for it is to reach the substance of life. Life is but a tissue + of habits. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 17, 1851.—I have been reading, for six or seven hours + without stopping the <i>Pensées</i> of Joubert. I felt at first a very + strong attraction toward the book, and a deep interest in it, but I have + already a good deal cooled down. These scattered and fragmentary thoughts, + falling upon one without a pause, like drops of light, tire, not my head, + but reasoning power. The merits of Joubert consist in the grace of the + style, the vivacity or <i>finesse</i> of the criticisms, the charm of the + metaphors; but he starts many more problems than he solves, he notices and + records more than he explains. His philosophy is merely literary and + popular; his originality is only in detail and in execution. Altogether, + he is a writer of reflections rather than a philosopher, a critic of + remarkable gifts, endowed with exquisite sensibility, but, as an + intelligence, destitute of the capacity for co-ordination. He wants + concentration and continuity. It is not that he has no claims to be + considered a philosopher or an artist, but rather that he is both + imperfectly, for he thinks and writes marvelously, <i>on a small scale</i>. + He is an entomologist, a lapidary, a jeweler, a coiner of sentences, of + adages, of criticisms, of aphorisms, counsels, problems; and his book, + extracted from the accumulations of his journal during fifty years of his + life, is a collection of precious stones, of butterflies, coins and + engraved gems. The whole, however, is more subtle than strong, more + poetical than profound, and leaves upon the reader rather the impression + of a great wealth of small curiosities of value, than of a great + intellectual existence and a new point of view. The place of Joubert seems + to me then, below and very far from the philosophers and the true poets, + but honorable among the moralists and the critics. He is one of those men + who are superior to their works, and who have themselves the unity which + these lack. This first judgment is, besides, indiscriminate and severe. I + shall have to modify it later. + </p> + <p> + February 20th.—I have almost finished these two volumes of <i>Pensées</i> + and the greater part of the <i>Correspondance</i>. This last has + especially charmed me; it is remarkable for grace, delicacy, atticism, and + precision. The chapters on metaphysics and philosophy are the most + insignificant. All that has to do with large views with the whole of + things, is very little at Joubert’s command; he has no philosophy of + history, no speculative intuition. He is the thinker of detail, and his + proper field is psychology and matters of taste. In this sphere of the + subtleties and delicacies of imagination and feeling, within the circle of + personal affectation and preoccupations, of social and educational + interests, he abounds in ingenuity and sagacity, in fine criticisms, in + exquisite touches. It is like a bee going from flower to flower, a + teasing, plundering, wayward zephyr, an Aeolian harp, a ray of furtive + light stealing through the leaves. Taken as a whole, there is something + impalpable and immaterial about him, which I will not venture to call + effeminate, but which is scarcely manly. He wants bone and body: timid, + dreamy, and <i>clairvoyant</i>, he hovers far above reality. He is rather + a soul, a breath, than a man. It is the mind of a woman in the character + of a child, so that we feel for him less admiration than tenderness and + gratitude. + </p> + <p> + February 27, 1851.—Read over the first book of <i>Emile</i>. I was + revolted, contrary to all expectation, for I opened the book with a sort + of hunger for style and beauty. I was conscious instead of an impression + of heaviness and harshness, of labored, <i>hammering</i> emphasis, of + something violent, passionate, and obstinate, without serenity, greatness, + nobility. Both the qualities and the defects of the book produced in me a + sense of lack of good manners, a blaze of talent, but no grace, no + distinction, the accent of good company wanting. I understood how it is + that Rousseau rouses a particular kind of repugnance, the repugnance of + good taste, and I felt the danger to style involved in such a model as + well as the danger to thought arising from a truth so alloyed and + sophisticated. What there is of true and strong in Rousseau did not escape + me, and I still admired him, but his bad sides appeared to me with a + clearness relatively new. + </p> + <p> + (<i>Same day.</i>)—The <i>pensée</i>-writer is to the philosopher + what the <i>dilettante</i> is to the artist. He plays with thought, and + makes it produce a crowd of pretty things in detail, but he is more + anxious about truths than truth, and what is essential in thought, its + sequence, its unity, escapes him. He handles his instrument agreeably, but + he does not possess it, still less does he create it. He is a gardener and + not a geologist; he cultivates the earth only so much as is necessary to + make it produce for him flowers and fruits; he does not dig deep enough + into it to understand it. In a word, the <i>pensée</i>-writer deals with + what is superficial and fragmentary. He is the literary, the oratorical, + the talking or writing philosopher; whereas the philosopher is the + scientific <i>pensée</i>-writer. The <i>pensée</i>-writers serve to + stimulate or to popularize the philosophers. They have thus a double use, + besides their charm. They are the pioneers of the army of readers, the + doctors of the crowd, the money-changers of thought, which they convert + into current coin. The writer of <i>pensée</i> is a man of letters, though + of a serious type, and therefore he is popular. The philosopher is a + specialist, as far as the form of his science goes, though not in + substance, and therefore he can never become popular. In France, for one + philosopher (Descartes) there have been thirty writers of <i>pensées</i>; + in Germany, for ten such writers there have been twenty philosophers. + </p> + <p> + March 25, 1851.—How many illustrious men whom I have known have been + already reaped by death, Steffens, Marheineke, Neander, Mendelssohn, + Thorwaldsen, Oelenschläger, Geijer, Tegner, Oersted, Stuhr, Lachmann; and + with us, Sismondi, Töpffer, de Candolle, savants, artists, poets, + musicians, historians. [Footnote: Of these Marheineke, Neander, and + Lachmann had been lecturing at Berlin during Amiel’s residence there. The + Danish dramatic poet Oelenschläger and the Swedish writer Tegner were + among the Scandinavian men of letters with whom he made acquaintance + during his tour of Sweden and Denmark in 1845. He probably came across the + Swedish historian Geijer on the same occasion. Schelling and Alexander von + Humboldt, mentioned a little lower down, were also still holding sway at + Berlin when he was a student. There is an interesting description in one + of his articles on Berlin, published in the <i>Bibliothèque Universelle de + Genève</i>, of a university ceremonial there in or about 1847, and of the + effect produced on the student’s young imagination by the sight of half + the leaders of European research gathered into a single room. He saw + Schlosser, the veteran historian, at Heidelberg at the end of 1843.] The + old generation is going. What will the new bring us? What shall we + ourselves contribute? A few great old men—Schelling, Alexander von + Humboldt, Schlosser—still link us with the glorious past. Who is + preparing to bear the weight of the future? A shiver seizes us when the + ranks grow thin around us, when age is stealing upon us, when we approach + the zenith, and when destiny says to us: “Show what is in thee! Now is the + moment, now is the hour, else fall back into nothingness! It is thy turn! + Give the world thy measure, say thy word, reveal thy nullity or thy + capacity. Come forth from the shade! It is no longer a question of + promising, thou must perform. The time of apprenticeship is over. Servant, + show us what thou hast done with thy talent. Speak now, or be silent + forever.” This appeal of the conscience is a solemn summons in the life of + every man, solemn and awful as the trumpet of the last judgment. It cries, + “Art thou ready? Give an account. Give an account of thy years, thy + leisure, thy strength, thy studies, thy talent, and thy works. Now and + here is the hour of great hearts, the hour of heroism and of genius.” + </p> + <p> + April 6, 1851.—Was there ever any one so vulnerable as I? If I were + a father how many griefs and vexations, a child might cause me. As a + husband I should have a thousand ways of suffering because my happiness + demands a thousand conditions I have a heart too easily reached, a too + restless imagination; despair is easy to me, and every sensation + reverberates again and again within me. What might be, spoils for me what + is. What ought to be consumes me with sadness. So the reality, the + present, the irreparable, the necessary, repel and even terrify me. I have + too much imagination, conscience and penetration, and not enough + character. The life of thought alone seems to me to have enough elasticity + and immensity, to be free enough from the irreparable; practical life + makes me afraid. + </p> + <p> + And yet, at the same time it attracts me; I have need of it. Family life, + especially, in all its delightfulness, in all its moral depth, appeals to + me almost like a duty. Sometimes I cannot escape from the ideal of it. A + companion of my life, of my work, of my thoughts, of my hopes; within, a + common worship, toward the world outside, kindness and beneficence; + educations to undertake, the thousand and one moral relations which + develop round the first, all these ideas intoxicate me sometimes. But I + put them aside because every hope is, as it were, an egg whence a serpent + may issue instead of a dove, because every joy missed is a stab; because + every seed confided to destiny contains an ear of grief which the future + may develop. + </p> + <p> + I am distrustful of myself and of happiness because I know myself. The + ideal poisons for me all imperfect possession. Everything which + compromises the future or destroys my inner liberty, which enslaves me to + things or obliges me to be other than I could and ought to be, all which + injures my idea of the perfect man, hurts me mortally, degrades and wounds + me in mind, even beforehand. I abhor useless regrets and repentances. The + fatality of the consequences which follow upon every human act, the + leading idea of dramatic art and the most tragic element of life, arrests + me more certainly than the arm of the <i>Commandeur</i>. I only act with + regret, and almost by force. + </p> + <p> + To be dependent is to me terrible; but to depend upon what is irreparable, + arbitrary and unforeseen, and above all to be so dependent by my fault and + through my own error, to give up liberty and hope, to slay sleep and + happiness, this would be hell! + </p> + <p> + All that is necessary, providential, in short, <i>unimputable</i>, I could + bear, I think, with some strength of mind. But responsibility mortally + envenoms grief; and as an act is essentially voluntary, therefore I act as + little as possible. + </p> + <p> + Last outbreak of a rebellious and deceitful self-will, craving for repose + for satisfaction, for independence! is there not some relic of selfishness + in such a disinterestedness, such a fear, such idle susceptibility. + </p> + <p> + I wish to fulfill my duty, but where is it, what is it? Here inclination + comes in again and interprets the oracle. And the ultimate question is + this: Does duty consist in obeying one’s nature, even the best and most + spiritual? or in conquering it? + </p> + <p> + Life, is it essentially the education of the mind and intelligence, or + that of the will? And does will show itself in strength or in resignation? + If the aim of life is to teach us renunciation, then welcome sickness, + hindrances, sufferings of every kind! But if its aim is to produce the + perfect man, then one must watch over one’s integrity of mind and body. To + court trial is to tempt God. At bottom, the God of justice veils from me + the God of love. I tremble instead of trusting. + </p> + <p> + Whenever conscience speaks with a divided, uncertain, and disputed voice, + it is not yet the voice of God. Descend still deeper into yourself, until + you hear nothing but a clear and undivided voice, a voice which does away + with doubt and brings with it persuasion, light and serenity. Happy, says + the apostle, are they who are at peace with themselves, and whose heart + condemneth them not in the part they take. This inner identity, this unity + of conviction, is all the more difficult the more the mind analyzes, + discriminates, and foresees. It is difficult, indeed, for liberty to + return to the frank unity of instinct. + </p> + <p> + Alas! we must then re-climb a thousand times the peaks already scaled, and + reconquer the points of view already won, we must <i>fight the fight</i>! + The human heart, like kings, signs mere truces under a pretence of + perpetual peace. The eternal life is eternally to be re-won. Alas, yes! + peace itself is a struggle, or rather it is struggle and activity which + are the law. We only find rest in effort, as the flame only finds + existence in combustion. O Heraclitus! the symbol of happiness is after + all the same as that of grief; anxiety and hope, hell and heaven, are + equally restless. The altar of Vesta and the sacrifice of Beelzebub burn + with the same fire. Ah, yes, there you have life—life double-faced + and double-edged. The fire which enlightens is also the fire which + consumes; the element of the gods may become that of the accursed. + </p> + <p> + April 7, 1851.—Read a part of Ruge’s [Footnote: Arnold Ruge, born in + 1803, died at Brighton in 1880, principal editor of the <i>Hallische</i>, + afterward the <i>Deutsche Jahrbücher</i> (1838-43), in which Strauss, + Bruno Bauer, and Louis Feuerbach wrote. He was a member of the parliament + of Frankfort.] volume “<i>Die Academie</i>” (1848) where the humanism of + the neo-Hegelians in politics, religion, and literature is represented by + correspondents or articles (Kuno Fischer, Kollach, etc). They recall the + <i>philosophist</i> party of the last century, able to dissolve anything + by reason and reasoning, but unable to construct anything; for + construction rests upon feeling, instinct, and will. One finds them + mistaking philosophic consciousness for realizing power, the redemption of + the intelligence for the redemption of the heart, that is to say, the part + for the whole. These papers make me understand the radical difference + between morals and intellectualism. The writers of them wish to supplant + religion by philosophy. Man is the principle of their religion, and + intellect is the climax of man. Their religion, then, is the religion of + intellect. There you have the two worlds: Christianity brings and preaches + salvation by the conversion of the will, humanism by the emancipation of + the mind. One attacks the heart, the other the brain. Both wish to enable + man to reach his ideal. But the ideal differs, if not by its content, at + least by the disposition of its content, by the predominance and + sovereignty given to this for that inner power. For one, the mind is the + organ of the soul; for the other, the soul is an inferior state of the + mind; the one wishes to enlighten by making better, the other to make + better by enlightening. It is the difference between Socrates and Jesus. + </p> + <p> + <i>The cardinal question is that of sin.</i> The question of immanence or + of dualism is secondary. The trinity, the life to come, paradise and hell, + may cease to be dogmas, and spiritual realities, the form and the letter + may vanish away, the question of humanity remains: What is it which saves? + How can man be led to be truly man? Is the ultimate root of his being + responsibility, yes or no? And is doing or knowing the right, acting or + thinking, his ultimate end? If science does not produce love it is + insufficient. Now all that science gives is the <i>amor intellectualis</i> + of Spinoza, light without warmth, a resignation which is contemplative and + grandiose, but inhuman, because it is scarcely transmissible and remains a + privilege, one of the rarest of all. Moral love places the center of the + individual in the center of being. It has at least salvation in principle, + the germ of eternal life. <i>To love is virtually to know; to know is not + virtually to love</i>; there you have the relation of these two modes of + man. The redemption wrought by science or by intellectual love is then + inferior to the redemption wrought by will or by moral love. The first may + free a man from himself, it may enfranchise him from egotism. The second + drives the <i>ego</i> out of itself, makes it active and fruitful. The one + is critical, purifying, negative; the other is vivifying, fertilizing, + positive. Science, however spiritual and substantial it may be in itself, + is still formal relatively to love. Moral force is then the vital point. + And this force is only produced by moral force. Like alone acts upon like. + Therefore do not amend by reasoning, but by example; approach feeling by + feeling; do not hope to excite love except by love. Be what you wish + others to become. Let yourself and not your words preach for you. + </p> + <p> + Philosophy, then, to return to the subject, can never replace religion; + revolutionaries are not apostles, although the apostles may have been + revolutionaries. To save from the outside to the inside—and by the + outside I understand also the intelligence relatively to the will—is + an error and danger. The negative part of the humanist’s work is good; it + will strip Christianity of an outer shell, which has become superfluous; + but Ruge and Feuerbach cannot save humanity. She must have her saints and + her heroes to complete the work of her philosophers. Science is the power + of man, and love his strength; man <i>becomes</i> man only by the + intelligence, but he <i>is</i> man only by the heart. Knowledge, love, + power—there is the complete life. + </p> + <p> + June 16, 1851.—This evening I walked up and down on the Pont des + Bergues, under a clear, moonless heaven delighting in the freshness of the + water, streaked with light from the two quays, and glimmering under the + twinkling stars. Meeting all these different groups of young people, + families, couples and children, who were returning to their homes, to + their garrets or their drawing-rooms, singing or talking as they went, I + felt a movement of sympathy for all these passers-by; my eyes and ears + became those of a poet or a painter; while even one’s mere kindly + curiosity seems to bring with it a joy in living and in seeing others + live. + </p> + <p> + August 15, 1851.—To know how to be ready, a great thing, a precious + gift, and one that implies calculation, grasp and decision. To be always + ready a man must be able to cut a knot, for everything cannot be untied; + he must know how to disengage what is essential from the detail in which + it is enwrapped, for everything cannot be equally considered; in a word, + he must be able to simplify his duties, his business, and his life. To + know how to be ready, is to know how to start. + </p> + <p> + It is astonishing how all of us are generally cumbered up with the + thousand and one hindrances and duties which are not such, but which + nevertheless wind us about with their spider threads and fetter the + movement of our wings. It is the lack of order which makes us slaves; the + confusion of to-day discounts the freedom of to-morrow. + </p> + <p> + Confusion is the enemy of all comfort, and confusion is born of + procrastination. To know how to be ready we must be able to finish. + Nothing is done but what is finished. The things which we leave dragging + behind us will start up again later on before us and harass our path. Let + each day take thought for what concerns it, liquidate its own affairs and + respect the day which is to follow, and then we shall be always ready. To + know how to be ready is at bottom to know how to die. + </p> + <p> + September 2, 1851.—Read the work of Tocqueville (“<i>De la + Democratie en Amérique</i>.”) My impression is as yet a mixed one. A fine + book, but I feel in it a little too much imitation of Montesquieu. This + abstract, piquant, sententious style, too, is a little dry, over-refined + and monotonous. It has too much cleverness and not enough imagination. It + makes one think, more than it charms, and though really serious, it seems + flippant. His method of splitting up a thought, of illuminating a subject + by successive facets, has serious inconveniences. We see the details too + clearly, to the detriment of the whole. A multitude of sparks gives but a + poor light. Nevertheless, the author is evidently a ripe and penetrating + intelligence, who takes a comprehensive view of his subject, while at the + same time possessing a power of acute and exhaustive analysis. + </p> + <p> + September 6th.—Tocqueville’s book has on the whole a calming effect + upon the mind, but it leaves a certain sense of disgust behind. It makes + one realize the necessity of what is happening around us and the + inevitableness of the goal prepared for us; but it also makes it plain + that the era of <i>mediocrity</i> in everything is beginning, and + mediocrity freezes all desire. Equality engenders uniformity, and it is by + sacrificing what is excellent, remarkable, and extraordinary that we get + rid of what is bad. The whole becomes less barbarous, and at the same time + more vulgar. + </p> + <p> + The age of great men is going; the epoch of the ant-hill, of life in + multiplicity, is beginning. The century of individualism, if abstract + equality triumphs, runs a great risk of seeing no more true individuals. + By continual leveling and division of labor, society will become + everything and man nothing. + </p> + <p> + As the floor of valleys is raised by the denudation and washing down of + the mountains, what is average will rise at the expense of what is great. + The exceptional will disappear. A plateau with fewer and fewer + undulations, without contrasts and without oppositions, such will be the + aspect of human society. The statistician will register a growing + progress, and the moralist a gradual decline: on the one hand, a progress + of things; on the other, a decline of souls. The useful will take the + place of the beautiful, industry of art, political economy of religion, + and arithmetic of poetry. The spleen will become the malady of a leveling + age. + </p> + <p> + Is this indeed the fate reserved for the democratic era? May not the + general well-being be purchased too dearly at such a price? The creative + force which in the beginning we see forever tending to produce and + multiply differences, will it afterward retrace its steps and obliterate + them one by one? And equality, which in the dawn of existence is mere + inertia, torpor, and death, is it to become at last the natural form of + life? Or rather, above the economic and political equality to which the + socialist and non-socialist democracy aspires, taking it too often for the + term of its efforts, will there not arise a new kingdom of mind, a church + of refuge, a republic of souls, in which, far beyond the region of mere + right and sordid utility, beauty, devotion, holiness, heroism, enthusiasm, + the extraordinary, the infinite, shall have a worship and an abiding city? + Utilitarian materialism, barren well-being, the idolatry of the flesh and + of the “I,” of the temporal and of mammon, are they to be the goal if our + efforts, the final recompense promised to the labors of our race? I do not + believe it. The ideal of humanity is something different and higher. + </p> + <p> + But the animal in us must be satisfied first, and we must first banish + from among us all suffering which is superfluous and has its origin in + social arrangements, before we can return to spiritual goods. + </p> + <p> + September 7, 1851. (<i>Aix</i>).—It is ten o’clock at night. A + strange and mystic moonlight, with a fresh breeze and a sky crossed by a + few wandering clouds, makes our terrace delightful. These pale and gentle + rays shed from the zenith a subdued and penetrating peace; it is like the + calm joy or the pensive smile of experience, combined with a certain stoic + strength. The stars shine, the leaves tremble in the silver light. Not a + sound in all the landscape; great gulfs of shadow under the green alleys + and at the corners of the steps. Everything is secret, solemn, mysterious. + </p> + <p> + O night hours, hours of silence and solitude! with you are grace and + melancholy; you sadden and you console. You speak to us of all that has + passed away, and of all that must still die, but you say to us, “courage!” + and you promise us rest. + </p> + <p> + November 9, 1851. (Sunday).—At the church of St. Gervais, a second + sermon from Adolphe Monod, less grandiose perhaps but almost more + original, and to me more edifying than that of last Sunday. The subject + was St. Paul or the active life, his former one having been St. John or + the inner life, of the Christian. I felt the golden spell of eloquence: I + found myself hanging on the lips of the orator, fascinated by his + boldness, his grace, his energy, and his art, his sincerity, and his + talent; and it was borne in upon me that for some men difficulties are a + source of inspiration, so that what would make others stumble is for them + the occasion of their highest triumphs. He made St. Paul <i>cry</i> during + an hour and a half; he made an old nurse of him, he hunted up his old + cloak, his prescriptions of water and wine to Timothy, the canvas that he + mended, his friend Tychicus, in short, all that could raise a smile; and + from it he drew the most unfailing pathos, the most austere and + penetrating lessons. He made the whole St. Paul, martyr, apostle and man, + his grief, his charities, his tenderness, live again before us, and this + with a grandeur, an unction, a warmth of reality, such as I had never seen + equaled. + </p> + <p> + How stirring is such an apotheosis of pain in our century of comfort, when + shepherds and sheep alike sink benumbed in Capuan languors, such an + apotheosis of ardent charity in a time of coldness and indifference toward + souls, such an apotheosis of a <i>human</i>, natural, inbred Christianity, + in an age, when some put it, so to speak, above man, and others below man! + Finally, as a peroration, he dwelt upon the necessity for a new people, + for a stronger generation, if the world is to be saved from the tempests + which threaten it. “People of God, awake! Sow in tears, that ye may reap + in triumph!” What a study is such a sermon! I felt all the extraordinary + literary skill of it, while my eyes were still dim with tears. Diction, + composition, similes, all is instructive and precious to remember. I was + astonished, shaken, taken hold of. + </p> + <p> + November 18, 1851.—The energetic subjectivity, which has faith in + itself, which does not fear to be something particular and definite + without any consciousness or shame of its subjective illusion, is unknown + to me. I am, so far as the intellectual order is concerned, essentially + objective, and my distinctive speciality, is to be able to place myself in + all points of view, to see through all eyes, to emancipate myself, that is + to say, from the individual prison. Hence aptitude for theory and + irresolution in practice; hence critical talent and difficulty in + spontaneous production. Hence, also, a continuous uncertainty of + conviction and opinion, so long as my aptitude remained mere instinct; but + now that it is conscious and possesses itself, it is able to conclude and + affirm in its turn, so that, after having brought disquiet, it now brings + peace. It says: “There is no repose for the mind except in the absolute; + for feeling, except in the infinite; for the soul, except in the divine.” + Nothing finite is true, is interesting, or worthy to fix my attention. All + that is particular is exclusive, and all that is exclusive, repels me. + There is nothing non-exclusive but the All; my end is communion with Being + through the whole of Being. Then, in the light of the absolute, every idea + becomes worth studying; in that of the infinite, every existence worth + respecting; in that of the divine, every creature worth loving. + </p> + <p> + December 2, 1851.—Let mystery have its place in you; do not be + always turning up your whole soil with the plowshare of self-examination, + but leave a little fallow corner in your heart ready for any seed the + winds may bring, and reserve a nook of shadow for the passing bird; keep a + place in your heart for the unexpected guests, an altar for the unknown + God. Then if a bird sing among your branches, do not be too eager to tame + it. If you are conscious of something new—thought or feeling, + wakening in the depths of your being—do not be in a hurry to let in + light upon it, to look at it; let the springing germ have the protection + of being forgotten, hedge it round with quiet, and do not break in upon + its darkness; let it take shape and grow, and not a word of your happiness + to any one! Sacred work of nature as it is, all conception should be + enwrapped by the triple veil of modesty, silence and night. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Kindness is the principle of tact, and respect for others the first + condition of <i>savoir-vivre</i>. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + He who is silent is forgotten; he who abstains is taken at his word; he + who does not advance, falls back; he who stops is overwhelmed, distanced, + crushed; he who ceases to grow greater becomes smaller; he who leaves off, + gives up; the stationary condition is the beginning of the end—it is + the terrible symptom which precedes death. To live, is to achieve a + perpetual triumph; it is to assert one’s self against destruction, against + sickness, against the annulling and dispersion of one’s physical and moral + being. It is to will without ceasing, or rather to refresh one’s will day + by day. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is not history which teaches conscience to be honest; it is the + conscience which educates history. Fact is corrupting, it is we who + correct it by the persistence of our ideal. The soul moralizes the past in + order not to be demoralized by it. Like the alchemists of the middle ages, + she finds in the crucible of experience only the gold that she herself has + poured into it. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 1, 1852. (Sunday).—Passed the afternoon in reading the <i>Monologues</i> + of Schleiermacher. This little book made an impression on me almost as + deep as it did twelve years ago, when I read it for the first time. It + replunged me into the inner world, to which I return with joy whenever I + may have forsaken it. I was able besides, to measure my progress since + then by the transparency of all the thoughts to me, and by the freedom + with which I entered into and judged the point of view. + </p> + <p> + It is great, powerful, profound, but there is still pride in it, and even + selfishness. For the center of the universe is still the self, the great + <i>Ich</i> of Fichte. The tameless liberty, the divine dignity of the + individual spirit, expanding till it admits neither any limit nor anything + foreign to itself, and conscious of a strength instinct with creative + force, such is the point of view of the <i>Monologues</i>. + </p> + <p> + The inner life in its enfranchisement from time, in its double end, the + realization of the species and of the individuality, in its proud dominion + over all hostile circumstances, in its prophetic certainty of the future, + in its immortal youth, such is their theme. Through them we are enabled to + enter into a life of monumental interest, wholly original and beyond the + influence of anything exterior, an astonishing example of the autonomy of + the <i>ego</i>, an imposing type of character, Zeno and Fichte in one. But + still the motive power of this life is not religious; it is rather moral + and philosophic. I see in it not so much a magnificent model to imitate as + a precious subject of study. This ideal of a liberty, absolute, + indefeasible, inviolable, respecting itself above all, disdaining the + visible and the universe, and developing itself after its own laws alone, + is also the ideal of Emerson, the stoic of a young America. According to + it, man finds his joy in himself, and, safe in the inaccessible sanctuary, + of his personal consciousness, becomes almost a god. [Footnote: Compare + Clough’s lines: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Where are the great, whom thou would’st wish to praise thee? + Where are the pure, whom thou would’st choose to love thee? + Where are the brave, to stand supreme above thee? + Whose high commands would cheer, whose chidings raise thee? + Seek, seeker, in thyself; submit to find + In the stones, bread, and life in the blank mind.”] +</pre> + <p> + He is himself principle, motive, and end of his own destiny; he is + himself, and that is enough for him. This superb triumph of life is not + far from being a sort of impiety, or at least a displacement of adoration. + By the mere fact that it does away with humility, such a superhuman point + of view becomes dangerous; it is the very temptation to which the first + man succumbed, that of becoming his own master by becoming like unto the + Elohim. Here then the heroism of the philosopher approaches temerity, and + the <i>Monologues</i> are therefore open to three reproaches: + Ontologically, the position of man in the spiritual universe is wrongly + indicated; the individual soul, not being unique and not springing from + itself, can it be conceived without God? Psychologically, the force of + spontaneity in the <i>ego</i> is allowed a dominion too exclusive of any + other. As a fact, it is not everything in man. Morally, evil is scarcely + named, and conflict, the condition of true peace, is left out of count. So + that the peace described in the <i>Monologues</i> is neither a conquest by + man nor a grace from heaven; it is rather a stroke of good fortune. + </p> + <p> + February 2d.—Still the <i>Monologues</i>. Critically I defended + myself enough against them yesterday; I may abandon myself now, without + scruple and without danger, to the admiration and the sympathy with which + they inspire me. This life so proudly independent, this sovereign + conception of human dignity, this actual possession of the universe and + the infinite, this perfect emancipation from all which passes, this calm + sense of strength and superiority, this invincible energy of will, this + infallible clearness of self-vision, this autocracy of the consciousness + which is its own master, all these decisive marks of a royal personality + of a nature Olympian, profound, complete, harmonious, penetrate the mind + with joy and heart with gratitude. What a life! what a man! These glimpses + into the inner regions of a great soul do one good. Contact of this kind + strengthens, restores, refreshes. Courage returns as we gaze; when we see + what has been, we doubt no more that it can be again. At the sight of a <i>man</i> + we too say to ourselves, let us also be men. + </p> + <p> + March 3, 1852.—Opinion has its value and even its power: to have it + against us is painful when we are among friends, and harmful in the case + of the outer world. We should neither flatter opinion nor court it; but it + is better, if we can help it, not to throw it on to a false scent. The + first error is a meanness; the second an imprudence. We should be ashamed + of the one; we may regret the other. Look to yourself; you are much given + to this last fault, and it has already done you great harm. Be ready to + bend your pride; abase yourself even so far as to show yourself ready and + clever like others. This world of skillful egotisms and active ambitions, + this world of men, in which one must deceive by smiles, conduct, and + silence as much as by actual words, a world revolting to the proud and + upright soul, it is our business to learn to live in it! Success is + required in it: succeed. Only force is recognized there: be strong. + Opinion seeks to impose her law upon all, instead of setting her at + defiance, it would be better to struggle with her and conquer.... I + understand the indignation of contempt, and the wish to crush, roused + irresistibly by all that creeps, all that is tortuous, oblique, + ignoble.... But I cannot maintain such a mood, which is a mood of + vengeance, for long. This world is a world of men, and these men are our + brothers. We must not banish from us the divine breath, we must love. Evil + must be conquered by good; and before all things one must keep a pure + conscience. Prudence may be preached from this point of view too. “Be ye + simple as the dove and prudent as the serpent,” are the words of Jesus. Be + careful of your reputation, not through vanity, but that you may not harm + your life’s work, and out of love for truth. There is still something of + self-seeking in the refined disinterestedness which will not justify + itself, that it may feel itself superior to opinion. It requires ability, + to make what we seem agree with what we are, and humility, to feel that we + are no great things. + </p> + <p> + There, thanks to this journal, my excitement has passed away. I have just + read the last book of it through again, and the morning has passed by. On + the way I have been conscious of a certain amount of monotony. It does not + signify! These pages are not written to be read; they are written for my + own consolation and warning. They are landmarks in my past; and some of + the landmarks are funeral crosses, stone pyramids, withered stalks grown + green again, white pebbles, coins—all of them helpful toward finding + one’s way again through the Elysian fields of the soul. The pilgrim has + marked his stages in it; he is able to trace by it his thoughts, his + tears, his joys. This is my traveling diary: if some passages from it may + be useful to others, and if sometimes even I have communicated such + passages to the public, these thousand pages as a whole are only of value + to me and to those who, after me, may take some interest in the itinerary + of an obscurely conditioned soul, far from the world’s noise and fame. + These sheets will be monotonous when my life is so; they will repeat + themselves when feelings repeat themselves; truth at any rate will be + always there, and truth is their only muse, their only pretext, their only + duty. + </p> + <p> + April 2, 1852.—What a lovely walk! Sky clear, sun rising, all the + tints bright, all the outlines sharp, save for the soft and misty infinite + of the lake. A pinch of white frost, powdered the fields, lending a + metallic relief to the hedges of green box, and to the whole landscape, + still without leaves, an air of health and vigor, of youth and freshness. + “Bathe, O disciple, thy thirsty soul in the dew of the dawn!” says Faust, + to us, and he is right. The morning air breathes a new and laughing energy + into veins and marrow. If every day is a repetition of life, every dawn + gives signs as it were a new contract with existence. At dawn everything + is fresh, light, simple, as it is for children. At dawn spiritual truth, + like the atmosphere, is more transparent, and our organs, like the young + leaves, drink in the light more eagerly, breathe in more ether, and less + of things earthly. If night and the starry sky speak to the meditative + soul of God, of eternity and the infinite, the dawn is the time for + projects, for resolutions, for the birth of action. While the silence and + the “sad serenity of the azure vault,” incline the soul to + self-recollection, the vigor and gayety of nature spread into the heart + and make it eager for life and living. Spring is upon us. Primroses and + violets have already hailed her coming. Rash blooms are showing on the + peach trees; the swollen buds of the pear trees and the lilacs point to + the blossoming that is to be; the honeysuckles are already green. + </p> + <p> + April 26, 1852.—This evening a feeling of emptiness took possession + of me; and the solemn ideas of duty, the future, solitude, pressed + themselves upon me. I gave myself to meditation, a very necessary defense + against the dispersion and distraction brought about by the day’s work and + its detail. Read a part of Krause’s book “<i>Urbild der Menschheit</i>” + [Footnote: Christian Frederick Krause, died 1832, Hegel’s younger + contemporary, and the author of a system which he called <i>panentheism</i>—Amiel + alludes to it later on.] which answered marvelously to my thought and my + need. This philosopher has always a beneficent effect upon me; his sweet + religious serenity gains upon me and invades me. He inspires me with a + sense of peace and infinity. + </p> + <p> + Still I miss something, common worship, a positive religion, shared with + other people. Ah! when will the church to which I belong in heart rise + into being? I cannot like Scherer, content myself with being in the right + all alone. I must have a less solitary Christianity. My religious needs + are not satisfied any more than my social needs, or my needs of affection. + Generally I am able to forget them and lull them to sleep. But at times + they wake up with a sort of painful bitterness ... I waver between languor + and <i>ennui</i>, between frittering myself away on the infinitely little, + and longing after what is unknown and distant. It is like the situation + which French novelists are so fond of, the story of a <i>vie de province</i>; + only the province is all that is not the country of the soul, every place + where the heart feels itself strange, dissatisfied, restless and thirsty. + Alas! well understood, this place is the earth, this country of one’s + dreams is heaven, and this suffering is the eternal homesickness, the + thirst for happiness. + </p> + <p> + “<i>In der Beschränkung zeigt sich erst der Meister</i>,” says Goethe. <i>Mâle + résignation</i>, this also is the motto of those who are masters of the + art of life; “manly,” that is to say, courageous, active, resolute, + persevering, “resignation,” that is to say, self-sacrifice, renunciation, + limitation. Energy in resignation, there lies the wisdom of the sons of + earth, the only serenity possible in this life of struggle and of combat. + In it is the peace of martyrdom, in it too the promise of triumph. + </p> + <p> + April 28, 1852. (Lancy.) [Footnote: A village near Geneva.]—Once + more I feel the spring languor creeping over me, the spring air about me. + This morning the poetry of the scene, the song of the birds, the tranquil + sunlight, the breeze blowing over the fresh green fields, all rose into + and filled my heart. Now all is silent. O silence, thou art terrible! + terrible as that calm of the ocean which lets the eye penetrate the + fathomless abysses below. Thou showest us in ourselves depths which make + us giddy, inextinguishable needs, treasures of suffering. Welcome + tempests! at least they blur and trouble the surface of these waters with + their terrible secrets. Welcome the passion blasts which stir the wares of + the soul, and so veil from us its bottomless gulfs! In all of us, children + of dust, sons of time, eternity inspires an involuntary anguish, and the + infinite, a mysterious terror. We seem to be entering a kingdom of the + dead. Poor heart, thy craving is for life, for love, for illusions! And + thou art right after all, for life is sacred. + </p> + <p> + In these moments of <i>tête-à-tête</i> with the infinite, how different + life looks! How all that usually occupies and excites us becomes suddenly + puerile, frivolous and vain. We seem to ourselves mere puppets, + marionettes, strutting seriously through a fantastic show, and mistaking + gewgaws for things of great price. At such moments, how everything becomes + transformed, how everything changes! Berkeley and Fichte seem right, + Emerson too; the world is but an allegory; the idea is more real than the + fact; fairy tales, legends, are as true as natural history, and even more + true, for they are emblems of greater transparency. The only substance + properly so called is the soul. What is all the rest? Mere shadow, + pretext, figure, symbol, or dream. Consciousness alone is immortal, + positive, perfectly real. The world is but a firework, a sublime + phantasmagoria, destined to cheer and form the soul. Consciousness is a + universe, and its sun is love.... + </p> + <p> + Already I am falling back into the objective life of thought. It delivers + me from—shall I say? no, it deprives me of the intimate life of + feeling. Reflection solves reverie and burns her delicate wings. This is + why science does not make men, but merely entities and abstractions. Ah, + let us feel and live and beware of too much analysis! Let us put + spontaneity, <i>naïveté</i>, before reflection, experience before study; + let us make life itself our study. Shall I then never have the heart of a + woman to rest upon? a son in whom to live again, a little world where I + may see flowering and blooming all that is stifled in me? I shrink and + draw back, for fear of breaking my dream. I have staked so much on this + card that I dare not play it. Let me dream again.... + </p> + <p> + Do no violence to yourself, respect in yourself the oscillations of + feeling. They are your life and your nature; One wiser than you ordained + them. Do not abandon yourself altogether either to instinct or to will. + Instinct is a siren, will a despot. Be neither the slave of your impulses + and sensations of the moment, nor of an abstract and general plan; be open + to what life brings from within and without, and welcome the unforeseen; + but give to your life unity, and bring the unforeseen within the lines of + your plan. Let what is natural in you raise itself to the level of the + spiritual, and let the spiritual become once more natural. Thus will your + development be harmonious, and the peace of heaven will shine upon your + brow; always on condition that your peace is made, and that you have + climbed your Calvary. + </p> + <p> + <i>Afternoon</i>—Shall I ever enjoy again those marvelous reveries + of past days, as, for instance, once, when I was still quite a youth, in + the early dawn, sitting among the ruins of the castle of Faucigny; another + time in the mountains above Lavey, under the midday sun, lying under a + tree and visited by three butterflies; and again another night on the + sandy shore of the North Sea, stretched full length upon the beach, my + eyes wandering over the Milky Way? Will they ever return to me, those + grandiose, immortal, cosmogonic dreams, in which one seems to carry the + world in one’s breast, to touch the stars, to possess the infinite? Divine + moments, hours of ecstasy, when thought flies from world to world, + penetrates the great enigma, breathes with a respiration large, tranquil, + and profound, like that of the ocean, and hovers serene and boundless like + the blue heaven! Visits from the muse, Urania, who traces around the + foreheads of those she loves the phosphorescent nimbus of contemplative + power, and who pours into their hearts the tranquil intoxication, if not + the authority of genius, moments of irresistible intuition in which a man + feels himself great like the universe and calm like a god! From the + celestial spheres down to the shell or the moss, the whole of creation is + then submitted to our gaze, lives in our breast, and accomplishes in us + its eternal work with the regularity of destiny and the passionate ardor + of love. What hours, what memories! The traces which remain to us of them + are enough to fill us with respect and enthusiasm, as though they had been + visits of the Holy Spirit. And then, to fall back again from these heights + with their boundless horizons into the muddy ruts of triviality! what a + fall! Poor Moses! Thou too sawest undulating in the distance the ravishing + hills of the promised land, and it was thy fate nevertheless to lay thy + weary bones in a grave dug in the desert! Which of us has not his promised + land, his day of ecstasy and his death in exile? What a pale counterfeit + is real life of the life we see in glimpses, and how these flaming + lightnings of our prophetic youth make the twilight of our dull monotonous + manhood more dark and dreary! + </p> + <p> + April 29 (Lancy).—This morning the air was calm, the sky slightly + veiled. I went out into the garden to see what progress the spring was + making. I strolled from the irises to the lilacs, round the flower-beds, + and in the shrubberies. Delightful surprise! at the corner of the walk, + half hidden under a thick clump of shrubs, a small leaved <i>chorchorus</i> + had flowered during the night. Gay and fresh as a bunch of bridal flowers, + the little shrub glittered before me in all the attraction of its opening + beauty. What springlike innocence, what soft and modest loveliness, there + was in these white corollas, opening gently to the sun, like thoughts + which smile upon us at waking, and perched upon their young leaves of + virginal green like bees upon the wing! Mother of marvels, mysterious and + tender nature, why do we not live more in thee? The poetical <i>flâneurs</i> + of Töpffer, his Charles and Jules, the friends and passionate lovers of + thy secret graces, the dazzled and ravished beholders of thy beauties, + rose up in my memory, at once a reproach and a lesson. A modest garden and + a country rectory, the narrow horizon of a garret, contain for those who + know how to look and to wait more instruction than a library, even than + that of <i>Mon oncle</i>. [Footnote: The allusions in this passage are to + Töpffer’s best known books—“La Presbytère” and “La Bibliothèque de + mon Oncle,” that airy chronicle of a hundred romantic or vivacious + nothings which has the young student Jules for its center.] Yes, we are + too busy, too encumbered, too much occupied, too active! We read too much! + The one thing needful is to throw off all one’s load of cares, of + preoccupations, of pedantry, and to become again young, simple, + child-like, living happily and gratefully in the present hour. We must + know how to put occupation aside, which does not mean that we must be + idle. In an inaction which is meditative and attentive the wrinkles of the + soul are smoothed away, and the soul itself spreads, unfolds, and springs + afresh, and, like the trodden grass of the roadside or the bruised leaf of + a plant, repairs its injuries, becomes new, spontaneous, true, and + original. Reverie, like the rain of night, restores color and force to + thoughts which have been blanched and wearied by the heat of the day. With + gentle fertilizing power it awakens within us a thousand sleeping germs, + and as though in play, gathers round us materials for the future, and + images for the use of talent. <i>Reverie is the Sunday of thought</i>; and + who knows which is the more important and fruitful for man, the laborious + tension of the week, or the life-giving repose of the Sabbath? The <i>flânerie</i> + so exquisitely glorified and sung by Töpffer is not only delicious, but + useful. It is like a bath which gives vigor and suppleness to the whole + being, to the mind as to the body; it is the sign and festival of liberty, + a joyous and wholesome banquet, the banquet of the butterfly wandering + from flower to flower over the hills and in the fields. And remember, the + soul too is a butterfly. + </p> + <p> + May 2, 1852. (Sunday) Lancy.—This morning read the epistle of St. + James, the exegetical volume of Cellérier [Footnote: Jacob-Élysée + Cellérier, professor of theology at the Academy of Geneva, and son of the + pastor of Satigny mentioned in Madame de Staël’s “L’Allemagne.”] on this + epistle, and a great deal of Pascal, after having first of all passed more + than an hour in the garden with the children. I made them closely examine + the flowers, the shrubs, the grasshoppers, the snails, in order to + practice them in observation, in wonder, in kindness. + </p> + <p> + How enormously important are these first conversations of childhood! I + felt it this morning with a sort of religious terror. Innocence and + childhood are sacred. The sower who casts in the seed, the father or + mother casting in the fruitful word are accomplishing a pontifical act and + ought to perform it with religious awe, with prayer and gravity, for they + are laboring at the kingdom of God. All seed-sowing is a mysterious thing, + whether the seed fall into the earth or into souls. Man is a husbandman; + his whole work rightly understood is to develop life, to sow it + everywhere. Such is the mission of humanity, and of this divine mission + the great instrument is speech. We forget too often that language is both + a seed-sowing and a revelation. The influence of a word in season, is it + not incalculable? What a mystery is speech! But we are blind to it, + because we are carnal and earthy. We see the stones and the trees by the + road, the furniture of our houses, all that is palpable and material. We + have no eyes for the invisible phalanxes of ideas which people the air and + hover incessantly around each one of us. + </p> + <p> + Every life is a profession of faith, and exercises an inevitable and + silent propaganda. As far as lies in its power, it tends to transform the + universe and humanity into its own image. Thus we have all a cure of + souls. Every man is the center of perpetual radiation like a luminous + body; he is, as it were, a beacon which entices a ship upon the rocks if + it does not guide it into port. Every man is a priest, even involuntarily; + his conduct is an unspoken sermon, which is forever preaching to others; + but there are priests of Baal, of Moloch, and of all the false gods. Such + is the high importance of example. Thence comes the terrible + responsibility which weighs upon us all. An evil example is a spiritual + poison: it is the proclamation of a sacrilegious faith, of an impure God. + Sin would be only an evil for him who commits it, were it not a crime + toward the weak brethren, whom it corrupts. Therefore, it has been said: + “It were better for a man not to have been born than to offend one of + these little ones.” + </p> + <p> + May 6, 1852.—It is women who, like mountain flowers, mark with most + characteristic precision the gradation of social zones. The hierarchy of + classes is plainly visible among them; it is blurred in the other sex. + With women this hierarchy has the average regularity of nature; among men + we see it broken by the incalculable varieties of human freedom. The + reason is that the man on the whole, makes himself by his own activity, + and that the woman, is, on the whole, made by her situation; that the one + modifies and shapes circumstance by his own energy, while the gentleness + of the other is dominated by and reflects circumstance; so that woman, so + to speak, inclines to be species, and man to be individual. + </p> + <p> + Thus, which is curious, women are at once the sex which is most constant + and most variable. Most constant from the moral point of view, most + variable from the social. A confraternity in the first case, a hierarchy + in the second. All degrees of culture and all conditions of society are + clearly marked in their outward appearance, their manners and their + tastes; but the inward fraternity is traceable in their feelings, their + instincts, and their desires. The feminine sex represents at the same time + natural and historical inequality; it maintains the unity of the species + and marks off the categories of society, it brings together and divides, + it gathers and separates, it makes castes and breaks through them, + according as it interprets its twofold <i>rôle</i> in the one sense or the + other. At bottom, woman’s mission is essentially conservative, but she is + a conservative without discrimination. On the one side, she maintains + God’s work in man, all that is lasting, noble, and truly human, in the + race, poetry, religion, virtue, tenderness. On the other, she maintains + the results of circumstance, all that is passing, local, and artificial in + society; that is to say, customs, absurdities, prejudices, littlenesses. + She surrounds with the same respectful and tenacious faith the serious and + the frivolous, the good and the bad. Well, what then? Isolate if you can, + the fire from its smoke. It is a divine law that you are tracing, and + therefore good. The woman preserves; she is tradition as the man is + progress. And if there is no family and no humanity without the two sexes, + without these two forces there is no history. + </p> + <p> + May 14, 1852. (Lancy.)—Yesterday I was full of the philosophy of + joy, of youth, of the spring, which smiles and the roses which intoxicate; + I preached the doctrine of strength, and I forgot that, tried and + afflicted like the two friends with whom I was walking, I should probably + have reasoned and felt as they did. + </p> + <p> + Our systems, it has been said, are the expression of our character, or the + theory of our situation, that is to say, we like to think of what has been + given as having been acquired, we take our nature for our own work, and + our lot in life for our own conquest, an illusion born of vanity and also + of the craving for liberty. We are unwilling to be the product of + circumstances, or the mere expansion of an inner germ. And yet we have + received everything, and the part which is really ours, is small indeed, + for it is mostly made up of negation, resistance, faults. We receive + everything, both life and happiness; but the <i>manner</i> in which we + receive, this is what is still ours. Let us then, receive trustfully + without shame or anxiety. Let us humbly accept from God even our own + nature, and treat it charitably, firmly, intelligently. Not that we are + called upon to accept the evil and the disease in us, but let us accept <i>ourselves</i> + in spite of the evil and the disease. And let us never be afraid of + innocent joy; God is good, and what He does is well done; resign yourself + to everything, even to happiness; ask for the spirit of sacrifice, of + detachment, of renunciation, and above all, for the spirit of joy and + gratitude, that genuine and religious optimism which sees in God a father, + and asks no pardon for His benefits. We must dare to be happy, and dare to + confess it, regarding ourselves always as the depositaries, not as the + authors of our own joy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + ... This evening I saw the first glow-worm of the season in the turf + beside the little winding road which descends from Lancy toward the town. + It was crawling furtively under the grass, like a timid thought or a + dawning talent. + </p> + <p> + June 17, 1852.—Every despotism has a specially keen and hostile + instinct for whatever keeps up human dignity, and independence. And it is + curious to see scientific and realist teaching used everywhere as a means + of stifling all freedom of investigation as addressed to moral questions + under a dead weight of facts. Materialism is the auxiliary doctrine of + every tyranny, whether of the one or of the masses. To crush what is + spiritual, moral, human so to speak, in man, by specializing him; to form + mere wheels of the great social machine, instead of perfect individuals; + to make society and not conscience the center of life, to enslave the soul + to things, to de-personalize man, this is the dominant drift of our epoch. + Everywhere you may see a tendency to substitute the laws of dead matter + (number, mass) for the laws of the moral nature (persuasion, adhesion, + faith) equality, the principle of mediocrity, becoming a dogma; unity + aimed at through uniformity; numbers doing duty for argument; negative + liberty, which has no law <i>in itself</i>, and recognizes no limit except + in force, everywhere taking the place of positive liberty, which means + action guided by an inner law and curbed by a moral authority. Socialism + <i>versus</i> individualism: this is how Vinet put the dilemma. I should + say rather that it is only the eternal antagonism between letter and + spirit, between form and matter, between the outward and the inward, + appearance and reality, which is always present in every conception and in + all ideas. + </p> + <p> + Materialism coarsens and petrifies everything; makes everything vulgar and + every truth false. And there is a religious and political materialism + which spoils all that it touches, liberty, equality, individuality. So + that there are two ways of understanding democracy.... + </p> + <p> + What is threatened to-day is moral liberty, conscience, respect for the + soul, the very nobility of man. To defend the soul, its interests, its + rights, its dignity, is the most pressing duty for whoever sees the + danger. What the writer, the teacher, the pastor, the philosopher, has to + do, is to defend humanity in man. Man! the true man, the ideal man! Such + should be their motto, their rallying cry. War to all that debases, + diminishes, hinders, and degrades him; protection for all that fortifies, + ennobles, and raises him. The test of every religious, political, or + educational system, is the man which it forms. If a system injures the + intelligence it is bad. If it injures the character it is vicious. If it + injures the conscience it is criminal. + </p> + <p> + August 12, 1852. (Lancy.)—Each sphere of being tends toward a higher + sphere, and has already revelations and presentiments of it. The ideal + under all its forms is the anticipation and the prophetic vision of that + existence, higher than his own, toward which every being perpetually + aspires. And this higher and more dignified existence is more inward in + character, that is to say, more spiritual. Just as volcanoes reveal to us + the secrets of the interior of the globe, so enthusiasm and ecstasy are + the passing explosions of this inner world of the soul; and human life is + but the preparation and the means of approach to this spiritual life. The + degrees of initiation are innumerable. Watch, then, disciple of life, + watch and labor toward the development of the angel within thee! For the + divine Odyssey is but a series of more and more ethereal metamorphoses, in + which each form, the result of what goes before, is the condition of those + which follow. The divine life is a series of successive deaths, in which + the mind throws off its imperfections and its symbols, and yields to the + growing attraction of the ineffable center of gravitation, the sun of + intelligence and love. Created spirits in the accomplishment of their + destinies tend, so to speak, to form constellations and milky ways within + the empyrean of the divinity; in becoming gods, they surround the throne + of the sovereign with a sparkling court. In their greatness lies their + homage. The divinity with which they are invested is the noblest glory of + God. God is the father of spirits, and the constitution of the eternal + kingdom rests on the vassalship of love. + </p> + <p> + September 27, 1852. (Lancy.)—To-day I complete my thirty-first + year.... + </p> + <p> + The most beautiful poem there is, is life—life which discerns its + own story in the making, in which inspiration and self-consciousness go + together and help each other, life which knows itself to be the world in + little, a repetition in miniature of the divine universal poem. Yes, be + man; that is to say, be nature, be spirit, be the image of God, be what is + greatest, most beautiful, most lofty in all the spheres of being, be + infinite will and idea, a reproduction of the great whole. And be + everything while being nothing, effacing thyself, letting God enter into + thee as the air enters an empty space, reducing the <i>ego</i> to the mere + vessel which contains the divine essence. Be humble, devout, silent, that + so thou mayest hear within the depths of thyself the subtle and profound + voice; be spiritual and pure, that so thou mayest have communion with the + pure spirit. Withdraw thyself often into the sanctuary of thy inmost + consciousness; become once more point and atom, that so thou mayest free + thyself from space, time, matter, temptation, dispersion, that thou mayest + escape thy very organs themselves and thine own life. That is to say, die + often, and examine thyself in the presence of this death, as a preparation + for the last death. He who can without shuddering confront blindness, + deafness, paralysis, disease, betrayal, poverty; he who can without terror + appear before the sovereign justice, he alone can call himself prepared + for partial or total death. How far am I from anything of the sort, how + far is my heart from any such stoicism! But at least we can try to detach + ourselves from all that can be taken away from us, to accept everything as + a loan and a gift, and to cling only to the imperishable—this at any + rate we can attempt. To believe in a good and fatherly God, who educates + us, who tempers the wind to the shorn lamb, who punishes only when he + must, and takes away only with regret; this thought, or rather this + conviction, gives courage and security. Oh, what need we have of love, of + tenderness, of affection, of kindness, and how vulnerable we are, we the + sons of God, we, immortal and sovereign beings! Strong as the universe or + feeble as the worm, according as we represent God or only ourselves, as we + lean upon infinite being, or as we stand alone. + </p> + <p> + The point of view of religion, of a religion at once active and moral, + spiritual and profound, alone gives to life all the dignity and all the + energy of which it is capable. Religion makes invulnerable and invincible. + Earth can only be conquered in the name of heaven. All good things are + given over and above to him who desires but righteousness. To be + disinterested is to be strong, and the world is at the feet of him whom it + cannot tempt. Why? Because spirit is lord of matter, and the world belongs + to God. “Be of good cheer,” saith a heavenly voice, “I have overcome the + world.” + </p> + <p> + Lord, lend thy strength to those who are weak in the flesh, but willing in + the spirit! + </p> + <p> + October 31, 1852. (Lancy.)—Walked for half an hour in the garden. A + fine rain was falling, and the landscape was that of autumn. The sky was + hung with various shades of gray, and mists hovered about the distant + mountains, a melancholy nature. The leaves were falling on all sides like + the last illusions of youth under the tears of irremediable grief. A brood + of chattering birds were chasing each other through the Shrubberies, and + playing games among the branches, like a knot of hiding schoolboys. The + ground strewn with leaves, brown, yellow, and reddish; the trees + half-stripped, some more, some less, and decked in ragged splendors of + dark-red, scarlet, and yellow; the reddening shrubs and plantations; a few + flowers still lingering behind, roses, nasturtiums, dahlias, shedding + their petals round them; the bare fields, the thinned hedges; and the fir, + the only green thing left, vigorous and stoical, like eternal youth + braving decay; all these innumerable and marvelous symbols which forms + colors, plants, and living beings, the earth and the sky, yield at all + times to the eye which has learned to look for them, charmed and + enthralled me. I wielded a poetic wand, and had but to touch a phenomenon + to make it render up to me its moral significance. Every landscape is, as + it were, a state of the soul, and whoever penetrates into both is + astonished to find how much likeness there is in each detail. True poetry + is truer than science, because it is synthetic, and seizes at once what + the combination of all the sciences is able at most to attain as a final + result. The soul of nature is divined by the poet; the man of science, + only serves to accumulate materials for its demonstration. + </p> + <p> + November 6, 1852.—I am capable of all the passions, for I bear them + all within me. Like a tamer of wild beasts, I keep them caged and lassoed, + but I sometimes hear them growling. I have stifled more than one nascent + love. Why? Because with that prophetic certainty which belongs to moral + intuition, I felt it lacking in true life, and less durable than myself. I + choked it down in the name of the supreme affection to come. The loves of + sense, of imagination, of sentiment, I have seen through and rejected them + all; I sought the love which springs from the central profundities of + being. And I still believe in it. I will have none of those passions of + straw which dazzle, burn up, and wither; I invoke, I await, and I hope for + the love which is great, pure and earnest, which lives and works in all + the fibres and through all the powers of the soul. And even if I go lonely + to the end, I would rather my hope and my dream died with me, than that my + soul should content itself with any meaner union. + </p> + <p> + November 8, 1852.—Responsibility is my invisible nightmare. To + suffer through one’s own fault is a torment worthy of the lost, for so + grief is envenomed by ridicule, and the worst ridicule of all, that which + springs from shame of one’s self. I have only force and energy wherewith + to meet evils coming from outside; but an irreparable evil brought about + by myself, a renunciation for life of my liberty, my peace of mind, the + very thought of it is maddening—I expiate my privilege indeed. My + privilege is to be spectator of my life drama, to be fully conscious of + the tragi-comedy of my own destiny, and, more than that, to be in the + secret of the tragi-comic itself, that is to say, to be unable to take my + illusions seriously, to see myself, so to speak, from the theater on the + stage, or to be like a man looking from beyond the tomb into existence. I + feel myself forced to feign a particular interest in my individual part, + while all the time I am living in the confidence of the poet who is + playing with all these agents which seem so important, and knows all that + they are ignorant of. It is a strange position, and one which becomes + painful as soon as grief obliges me to betake myself once more to my own + little <i>rôle</i>, binding me closely to it, and warning me that I am + going too far in imagining myself, because of my conversations with the + poet, dispensed from taking up again my modest part of valet in the piece. + Shakespeare must have experienced this feeling often, and Hamlet, I think, + must express it somewhere. It is a <i>Doppelgängerei</i>, quite German in + character, and which explains the disgust with reality and the repugnance + to public life, so common among the thinkers of Germany. There is, as it + were, a degradation a gnostic fall, in thus folding one’s wings and going + back again into the vulgar shell of one’s own individuality. Without + grief, which is the string of this venturesome kite, man would soar too + quickly and too high, and the chosen souls would be lost for the race, + like balloons which, save for gravitation, would never return from the + empyrean. + </p> + <p> + How, then, is one to recover courage enough for action? By striving to + restore in one’s self something of that unconsciousness, spontaneity, + instinct, which reconciles us to earth and makes man useful and relatively + happy. + </p> + <p> + By believing more practically in the providence which pardons and allows + of reparation. + </p> + <p> + By accepting our human condition in a more simple and childlike spirit, + fearing trouble less, calculating less, hoping more. For we decrease our + responsibility, if we decrease our clearness of vision, and fear lessens + with the lessening of responsibility. + </p> + <p> + By extracting a richer experience out of our losses and lessons. + </p> + <p> + November 9, 1852.—A few pages of the <i>Chrestomathie Française</i> + and Vinet’s remarkable letter at the head of the volume, have given me one + or two delightful hours. As a thinker, as a Christian, and as a man, Vinet + occupies a typical place. His philosophy, his theology, his esthetics, in + short, his work, will be, or has been already surpassed at all points. His + was a great soul and a fine talent. But neither were well enough served by + circumstances. We see in him a personality worthy of all veneration, a man + of singular goodness and a writer of distinction, but not quite a great + man, nor yet a great writer. Profundity and purity, these are what he + possesses in a high degree, but not greatness, properly speaking. For + that, he is a little too subtle and analytical, too ingenious and + fine-spun; his thought is overladen with detail, and has not enough flow, + eloquence, imagination, warmth, and largeness. Essentially and constantly + meditative, he has not strength enough left to deal with what is outside + him. The casuistries of conscience and of language, eternal + self-suspicion, and self-examination, his talent lies in these things, and + is limited by them. Vinet wants passion, abundance, <i>entraînement</i>, + and therefore popularity. The individualism which is his title to glory is + also the cause of his weakness. + </p> + <p> + We find in him always the solitary and the ascetic. His thought is, as it + were, perpetually at church; it is perpetually devising trials and + penances for itself. Hence the air of scruple and anxiety which + characterizes it even in its bolder flights. Moral energy, balanced by a + disquieting delicacy of fibre; a fine organization marred, so to speak, by + low health, such is the impression it makes upon us. Is it reproach or + praise to say of Vinet’s mind that it seems to one a force perpetually + reacting upon itself? A warmer and more self-forgetful manner; more + muscles, as it were, around the nerves, more circles of intellectual and + historical life around the individual circle, these are what Vinet, of all + writers perhaps the one who makes us <i>think</i> most, is still lacking + in. Less <i>reflexivity</i> and more plasticity, the eye more on the + object, would raise the style of Vinet, so rich in substance, so nervous, + so full of ideas, and variety, into a grand style. Vinet, to sum up, is + conscience personified, as man and as writer. Happy the literature and the + society which is able to count at one time two or three like him, if not + equal to him! + </p> + <p> + November 10, 1852.—How much have we not to learn from the Greeks, + those immortal ancestors of ours! And how much better they solved their + problem than we have solved ours. Their ideal man is not ours, but they + understood infinitely better than we how to reverence, cultivate and + ennoble the man whom they knew. In a thousand respects we are still + barbarians beside them, as Béranger said to me with a sigh in 1843: + barbarians in education, in eloquence, in public life, in poetry, in + matters of art, etc. We must have millions of men in order to produce a + few elect spirits: a thousand was enough in Greece. If the measure of a + civilization is to be the number of perfected men that it produces, we are + still far from this model people. The slaves are no longer below us, but + they are among us. Barbarism is no longer at our frontiers; it lives side + by side with us. We carry within us much greater things than they, but we + ourselves are smaller. It is a strange result. Objective civilization + produced great men while making no conscious effort toward such a result; + subjective civilization produces a miserable and imperfect race, contrary + to its mission and its earnest desire. The world grows more majestic but + man diminishes. Why is this? + </p> + <p> + We have too much barbarian blood in our veins, and we lack measure, + harmony and grace. Christianity, in breaking man up into outer and inner, + the world into earth and heaven, hell and paradise, has decomposed the + human unity, in order, it is true, to reconstruct it more profoundly and + more truly. But Christianity has not yet digested this powerful leaven. + She has not yet conquered the true humanity; she is still living under the + antimony of sin and grace, of here below and there above. She has not + penetrated into the whole heart of Jesus. She is still in the <i>narthex</i> + of penitence; she is not reconciled, and even the churches still wear the + livery of service, and have none of the joy of the daughters of God, + baptized of the Holy Spirit. + </p> + <p> + Then, again, there is our excessive division of labor; our bad and foolish + education which does not develop the whole man; and the problem of + poverty. We have abolished slavery, but without having solved the question + of labor. In law there are no more slaves, in fact, there are many. And + while the majority of men are not free, the free man, in the true sense of + the term can neither be conceived nor realized. Here are enough causes for + our inferiority. + </p> + <p> + November 12, 1852.—St. Martin’s summer is still lingering, and the + days all begin in mist. I ran for a quarter of an hour round the garden to + get some warmth and suppleness. Nothing could be lovelier than the last + rosebuds, or than the delicate gaufred edges of the strawberry leaves + embroidered with hoar-frost, while above them Arachne’s delicate webs hung + swaying in the green branches of the pines, little ball-rooms for the + fairies carpeted with powdered pearls and kept in place by a thousand dewy + strands hanging from above like the chains of a lamp and supporting them + from below like the anchors of a vessel. These little airy edifices had + all the fantastic lightness of the elf-world and all the vaporous + freshness of dawn. They recalled to me the poetry of the north, wafting to + me a breath from Caledonia or Iceland or Sweden, Frithiof and the Edda, + Ossian and the Hebrides. All that world of cold and mist, of genius and of + reverie, where warmth comes not from the sun but from the heart where man + is more noticeable than nature—that chaste and vigorous world in + which will plays a greater part than sensation and thought has more power + than instinct—in short the whole romantic cycle of German and + northern poetry, awoke little by little in my memory and laid claim upon + my sympathy. It is a poetry of bracing quality, and acts upon one like a + moral tonic. Strange charm of imagination! A twig of pine wood and a few + spider-webs are enough to make countries, epochs, and nations live again + before her. + </p> + <p> + December 26, 1852. (Sunday.)—If I reject many portions of our + theology and of our church system, it is that I may the better reach the + Christ himself. My philosophy allows me this. It does not state the + dilemma as one of religion or philosophy, but as one of religion accepted + or experienced, understood or not understood. For me philosophy is a + manner of apprehending things, a mode of perception of reality. It does + not create nature, man or God, but it finds them and seeks to understand + them. Philosophy is consciousness taking account of itself with all that + it contains. Now consciousness may contain a new life—the facts of + regeneration and of salvation, that is to say, Christian experience. The + understanding of the Christian consciousness is an integral part of + philosophy, as the Christian consciousness is a leading form of religious + consciousness, and religious consciousness an essential form of + consciousness. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + An error is the more dangerous in proportion to the degree of truth which + it contains. + </p> + <p> + Look twice, if what you want is a just conception; look once, if what you + want is a sense of beauty. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A man only understands what is akin to something already existing in + himself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Common sense is the measure of the possible; it is composed of experience + and prevision; it is calculation applied to life. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The wealth of each mind is proportioned to the number and to the precision + of its categories and its points of view. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To feel himself freer than his neighbor is the reward of the critic. + </p> + <p> + Modesty (<i>pudeur</i>) is always the sign and safeguard of a mystery. It + is explained by its contrary—profanation. Shyness or modesty is, in + truth, the half-conscious sense of a secret of nature or of the soul too + intimately individual to be given or surrendered. It is <i>exchanged</i>. + To surrender what is most profound and mysterious in one’s being and + personality at any price less than that of absolute reciprocity is + profanation. + </p> + <p> + January 6, 1853.—Self-government with tenderness—here you have + the condition of all authority over children. The child must discover in + us no passion, no weakness of which he can make use; he must feel himself + powerless to deceive or to trouble us; then he will recognize in us his + natural superiors, and he will attach a special value to our kindness, + because he will respect it. The child who can rouse in us anger, or + impatience, or excitement, feels himself stronger than we, and a child + only respects strength. The mother should consider herself as her child’s + sun, a changeless and ever radiant world, whither the small restless + creature, quick at tears and laughter, light, fickle, passionate, full of + storms, may come for fresh stores of light, warmth, and electricity, of + calm and of courage. The mother represents goodness, providence, law; that + is to say, the divinity, under that form of it which is accessible to + childhood. If she is herself passionate, she will inculcate on her child a + capricious and despotic God, or even several discordant gods. The religion + of a child depends on what its mother and its father are, and not on what + they say. The inner and unconscious ideal which guides their life is + precisely what touches the child; their words, their remonstrances, their + punishments, their bursts of feeling even, are for him merely thunder and + comedy; what they worship, this it is which his instinct divines and + reflects. + </p> + <p> + The child sees what we are, behind what we wish to be. Hence his + reputation as a physiognomist. He extends his power as far as he can with + each of us; he is the most subtle of diplomatists. Unconsciously he passes + under the influence of each person about him, and reflects it while + transforming it after his own nature. He is a magnifying mirror. This is + why the first principle of education is: train yourself; and the first + rule to follow if you wish to possess yourself of a child’s will is: + master your own. + </p> + <p> + February 5, 1853 (seven o’clock in the morning).—I am always + astonished at the difference between one’s inward mood of the evening and + that of the morning. The passions which are dominant in the evening, in + the morning leave the field free for the contemplative part of the soul. + Our whole being, irritated and overstrung by the nervous excitement of the + day, arrives in the evening at the culminating point of its human + vitality; the same being, tranquilized by the calm of sleep, is in the + morning nearer heaven. We should weigh a resolution in the two balances, + and examine an idea under the two lights, if we wish to minimize the + chances of error by taking the average of our daily oscillations. Our + inner life describes regular curves, barometical curves, as it were, + independent of the accidental disturbances which the storms of sentiment + and passion may raise in us. Every soul has its climate, or rather, is a + climate; it has, so to speak, its own meteorology in the general + meteorology of the soul. Psychology, therefore, cannot be complete so long + as the physiology of our planet is itself incomplete—that science to + which we give nowadays the insufficient name of physics of the globe. + </p> + <p> + I became conscious this morning that what appears to us impossible is + often an impossibility altogether subjective. Our mind, under the action + of the passions, produces by a strange mirage gigantic obstacles, + mountains or abysses, which stop us short. Breathe upon the passion and + the phantasmagoria will vanish. This power of mirage, by which we are able + to delude and fascinate ourselves, is a moral phenomenon worthy of + attentive study. We make for ourselves, in truth, our own spiritual world + monsters, chimeras, angels, we make objective what ferments in us. All is + marvelous for the poet; all is divine for the saint; all is great for the + hero; all is wretched, miserable, ugly, and bad for the base and sordid + soul. The bad man creates around him a pandemonium, the artist, an + Olympus, the elect soul, a paradise, which each of them sees for himself + alone. We are all visionaries, and what we see is our soul in things. We + reward ourselves and punish ourselves without knowing it, so that all + appears to change when we change. + </p> + <p> + The soul is essentially active, and the activity of which we are conscious + is but a part of our activity, and voluntary activity is but a part of our + conscious activity. Here we have the basis of a whole psychology and + system of morals. Man reproducing the world, surrounding himself with a + nature which is the objective rendering of his spiritual nature, rewarding + and punishing himself; the universe identical with the divine nature, and + the nature of the perfect spirit only becoming understood according to the + measure of our perfection; intuition the recompense of inward purity; + science as the result of goodness; in short, a new phenomenology more + complete and more moral, in which the total soul of things becomes spirit. + This shall perhaps be my subject for my summer lectures. How much is + contained in it! the whole domain of inner education, all that is + mysterious in our life, the relation of nature to spirit, of God and all + other beings to man, the repetition in miniature of the cosmogony, + mythology, theology, and history of the universe, the evolution of mind, + in a word the problem of problems into which I have often plunged but from + which finite things, details, minutiae, have turned me back a thousand + times. I return to the brink of the great abyss with the clear perception + that here lies the problem of science, that to sound it is a duty, that + God hides Himself only in light and love, that He calls upon us to become + spirits, to possess ourselves and to possess Him in the measure of our + strength and that it is our incredulity, our spiritual cowardice, which is + our infirmity and weakness. + </p> + <p> + Dante, gazing into the three worlds with their divers heavens, saw under + the form of an image what I would fain seize under a purer form. But he + was a poet, and I shall only be a philosopher. The poet makes himself + understood by human generations and by the crowd; the philosopher + addresses himself only to a few rare minds. The day has broken. It brings + with it dispersion of thought in action. I feel myself de-magnetized, pure + clairvoyance gives place to study, and the ethereal depth of the heaven of + contemplation vanishes before the glitter of finite things. Is it to be + regretted? No. But it proves that the hours most apt for philosophical + thought are those which precede the dawn. + </p> + <p> + February 10, 1853.—This afternoon I made an excursion to the Salève + with my particular friends, Charles Heim, Edmond Scherer, Élie Lecoultre, + and Ernest Naville. The conversation was of the most interesting kind, and + prevented us from noticing the deep mud which hindered our walking. It was + especially Scherer, Naville, and I who kept it alive. Liberty in God, the + essence of Christianity, new publications in philosophy, these were our + three subjects of conversation. The principle result for me was an + excellent exercise in dialectic and in argumentation with solid champions. + If I learned nothing, many of my ideas gained new confirmation, and I was + able to penetrate more deeply into the minds of my friends. I am much + nearer to Scherer than to Naville, but from him also I am in some degree + separated. + </p> + <p> + It is a striking fact, not unlike the changing of swords in “Hamlet,” that + the abstract minds, those which move from ideas to facts, are always + fighting on behalf of concrete reality; while the concrete minds, which + move from facts to ideas, are generally the champions of abstract notions. + Each pretends to that over which he has least power; each aims + instinctively at what he himself lacks. It is an unconscious protest + against the incompleteness of each separate nature. We all tend toward + that which we possess least of, and our point of arrival is essentially + different from our point of departure. The promised land is the land where + one is not. The most intellectual of natures adopts an ethical theory of + mind; the most moral of natures has an intellectual theory of morals. This + reflection was brought home to me in the course of our three or four + hours’ discussion. Nothing is more hidden from us than the illusion which + lives with us day by day, and our greatest illusion is to believe that we + are what we think ourselves to be. + </p> + <p> + The mathematical intelligence and the historical intelligence (the two + classes of intelligences) can never understand each other. When they + succeed in doing so as to words, they differ as to the things which the + words mean. At the bottom of every discussion of detail between them + reappears the problem of the origin of ideas. If the problem is not + present to them, there is confusion; if it is present to them, there is + separation. They only agree as to the goal—truth; but never as to + the road, the method, and the criterion. + </p> + <p> + Heim represented the impartiality of consciousness, Naville the morality + of consciousness, Lecoultre the religion of consciousness, Scherer the + intelligence of consciousness, and I the consciousness of consciousness. A + common ground, but differing individualities. <i>Discrimen ingeniorum</i>. + </p> + <p> + What charmed me most in this long discussion was the sense of mental + freedom which it awakened in me. To be able to set in motion the greatest + subjects of thought without any sense of fatigue, to be greater than the + world, to play with one’s strength, this is what makes the well-being of + intelligence, the Olympic festival of thought. <i>Habere, non haberi</i>. + There is an equal happiness in the sense of reciprocal confidence, of + friendship, and esteem in the midst of conflict; like athletes, we embrace + each other before and after the combat, and the combat is but a deploying + of the forces of free and equal men. + </p> + <p> + March 20, 1853.—I sat up alone; two or three times I paid a visit to + the children’s room. It seemed to me, young mothers, that I understood + you! sleep is the mystery of life; there is a profound charm in this + darkness broken by the tranquil light of the night-lamp, and in this + silence measured by the rhythmic breathings of two young sleeping + creatures. It was brought home to me that I was looking on at a marvelous + operation of nature, and I watched it in no profane spirit. I sat silently + listening, a moved and hushed spectator of this poetry of the cradle, this + ancient and ever new benediction of the family, this symbol of creation, + sleeping under the wing of God, of our consciousness withdrawing into the + shade that it may rest from the burden of thought, and of the tomb, that + divine bed, where the soul in its turn rests from life. To sleep is to + strain and purify our emotions, to deposit the mud of life, to calm the + fever of the soul, to return into the bosom of maternal nature, thence to + re-issue, healed and strong. Sleep is a sort of innocence and + purification. Blessed be He who gave it to the poor sons of men as the + sure and faithful companion of life, our daily healer and consoler. + </p> + <p> + April 27, 1853.—This evening I read the treatise by Nicole so much + admired by Mme. de Sévigné: “<i>Des moyens de conserver la paix avec les + hommes.</i>” Wisdom so gentle and so insinuating, so shrewd, piercing, and + yet humble, which divines so well the hidden thoughts and secrets of the + heart, and brings them all into the sacred bondage of love to God and man, + how good and delightful a thing it is! Everything in it is smooth, even + well put together, well thought out, but no display, no tinsel, no worldly + ornaments of style. The moralist forgets himself and in us appeals only to + the conscience. He becomes a confessor, a friend, a counsellor. + </p> + <p> + May 11, 1853.—Psychology, poetry, philosophy, history, and science, + I have swept rapidly to-day on the wings of the invisible hippogriff + through all these spheres of thought. But the general impression has been + one of tumult and anguish, temptation and disquiet. + </p> + <p> + I love to plunge deep into the ocean of life; but it is not without losing + sometimes all sense of the axis and the pole, without losing myself and + feeling the consciousness of my own nature and vocation growing faint and + wavering. The whirlwind of the wandering Jew carries me away, tears me + from my little familiar enclosure, and makes me behold all the empires of + men. In my voluntary abandonment to the generality, the universal, the + infinite, my particular <i>ego</i> evaporates like a drop of water in a + furnace; it only condenses itself anew at the return of cold, after + enthusiasm has died out and the sense of reality has returned. Alternate + expansion and condensation, abandonment and recovery of self, the conquest + of the world to be pursued on the one side, the deepening of consciousness + on the other—such is the play of the inner life, the march of the + microcosmic mind, the marriage of the individual soul with the universal + soul, the finite with the infinite, whence springs the intellectual + progress of man. Other betrothals unite the soul to God, the religious + consciousness with the divine; these belong to the history of the will. + And what precedes will is feeling, preceded itself by instinct. Man is + only what he becomes—profound truth; but he becomes only what he is, + truth still more profound. What am I? Terrible question! Problem of + predestination, of birth, of liberty, there lies the abyss. And yet one + must plunge into it, and I have done so. The prelude of Bach I heard this + evening predisposed me to it; it paints the soul tormented and appealing + and finally seizing upon God, and possessing itself of peace and the + infinite with an all-prevailing fervor and passion. + </p> + <p> + May 14, 1853.—Third quartet concert. It was short. Variations for + piano and violin by Beethoven, and two quartets, not more. The quartets + were perfectly clear and easy to understand. One was by Mozart and the + other by Beethoven, so that I could compare the two masters. Their + individuality seemed to become plain to me: Mozart—grace, liberty, + certainty, freedom, and precision of style, and exquisite and aristocratic + beauty, serenity of soul, the health and talent of the master, both on a + level with his genius; Beethoven—more pathetic, more passionate, + more torn with feeling, more intricate, more profound, less perfect, more + the slave of his genius, more carried away by his fancy or his passion, + more moving, and more sublime than Mozart. Mozart refreshes you, like the + “Dialogues” of Plato; he respects you, reveals to you your strength, gives + you freedom and balance. Beethoven seizes upon you; he is more tragic and + oratorical, while Mozart is more disinterested and poetical. Mozart is + more Greek, and Beethoven more Christian. One is serene, the other + serious. The first is stronger than destiny, because he takes life less + profoundly; the second is less strong, because he has dared to measure + himself against deeper sorrows. His talent is not always equal to his + genius, and pathos is his dominant feature, as perfection is that of + Mozart. In Mozart the balance of the whole is perfect, and art triumphs; + in Beethoven feeling governs everything and emotion troubles his art in + proportion as it deepens it. + </p> + <p> + July 26, 1853.—Why do I find it easier and more satisfactory, as a + writer of verse, to compose in the short metres than in the long and + serious ones? Why, in general, am I better fitted for what is difficult + than for what is easy? Always for the same reason. I cannot bring myself + to move freely, to show myself without a veil, to act on my own account + and act seriously, to believe in and assert myself, whereas a piece of + badinage which diverts attention from myself to the thing in hand, from + the feeling to the skill of the writer, puts me at my ease. It is timidity + which is at the bottom of it. There is another reason, too—I am + afraid of greatness, I am not afraid of ingenuity, and distrustful as I am + both of my gift and my instrument, I like to reassure myself by an + elaborate practice of execution. All my published literary essays, + therefore, are little else than studies, games, exercises for the purpose + of testing myself. I play scales, as it were; I run up and down my + instrument, I train my hand and make sure of its capacity and skill. But + the work itself remains unachieved. My effort expires, and satisfied with + the <i>power</i> to act I never arrive at the will to act. I am always + preparing and never accomplishing, and my energy is swallowed up in a kind + of barren curiosity. Timidity, then, and curiosity—these are the two + obstacles which bar against me a literary career. Nor must procrastination + be forgotten. I am always reserving for the future what is great, serious, + and important, and meanwhile, I am eager to exhaust what is pretty and + trifling. Sure of my devotion to things that are vast and profound, I am + always lingering in their contraries lest I should neglect them. Serious + at bottom, I am frivolous in appearance. A lover of thought, I seem to + care above all, for expression; I keep the substance for myself, and + reserve the form for others. So that the net result of my timidity is that + I never treat the public seriously, and that I only show myself to it in + what is amusing, enigmatical, or capricious; the result of my curiosity is + that everything tempts me, the shell as well as the mountain, and that I + lose myself in endless research; while the habit of procrastination keeps + me forever at preliminaries and antecedents, and production itself is + never even begun. + </p> + <p> + But if that is the fact, the fact might be different. I understand myself, + but I do not approve myself. + </p> + <p> + August 1, 1853.—I have just finished Pelletan’s book, “Profession de + foi du dix-neuvième Siècle.” It is a fine book Only one thing is wanting + to it—the idea of evil. It is a kind of supplement to the theory of + Condorcet—indefinite perfectibility, man essentially good, <i>life</i>, + which is a physiological notion, dominating virtue, duty, and holiness, in + short, a non-ethical conception of history, liberty identified with + nature, the natural man taken for the whole man. The aspirations which + such a book represents are generous and poetical, but in the first place + dangerous, since they lead to an absolute confidence in instinct; and in + the second, credulous and unpractical, for they set before us a mere dream + man, and throw a veil over both present and past reality. The book is at + once the plea justificatory of progress, conceived as fatal and + irresistible, and an enthusiastic hymn to the triumph of humanity. It is + earnest, but morally superficial; poetical, but fanciful and untrue. It + confounds the progress of the race with the progress of the individual, + the progress of civilization with the advance of the inner life. Why? + Because its criterion is quantitative, that is to say, purely exterior + (having regard to the wealth of life), and not qualitative (the goodness + of life). Always the same tendency to take the appearance for the thing, + the form for the substance, the law for the essence, always the same + absence of moral personality, the same obtuseness of conscience, which has + never recognized sin present in the will, which places evil outside of + man, moralizes from outside, and transforms to its own liking the whole + lesson of history! What is at fault is the philosophic superficiality of + France, which she owes to her fatal notion of religion, itself due to a + life fashioned by Catholicism and by absolute monarchy. + </p> + <p> + Catholic thought cannot conceive of personality as supreme and conscious + of itself. Its boldness and its weakness come from one and the same cause—from + an absence of the sense of responsibility, from that vassal state of + conscience which knows only slavery or anarchy, which proclaims but does + not obey the law, because the law is outside it, not within it. Another + illusion is that of Quinet and Michelet, who imagine it possible to come + out of Catholicism without entering into any other positive form of + religion, and whose idea is to fight Catholicism by philosophy, a + philosophy which is, after all, Catholic at bottom, since it springs from + anti-Catholic reaction. The mind and the conscience, which have been + formed by Catholicism, are powerless to rise to any other form of + religion. From Catholicism, as from Epicureanism there is no return. + </p> + <p> + October 11, 1853.—My third day at Turin, is now over. I have been + able to penetrate farther than ever before into the special genius of this + town and people. I have felt it live, have realized it little by little, + as my intuition became more distinct. That is what I care for most: to + seize the soul of things, the soul of a nation; to live the objective + life, the life outside self; to find my way into a new moral country. I + long to assume the citizenship of this unknown world, to enrich myself + with this fresh form of existence, to feel it from within, to link myself + to it, and to reproduce it sympathetically; this is the end and the reward + of my efforts. To-day the problem grew clear to me as I stood on the + terrace of the military hospital, in full view of the Alps, the weather + fresh and clear in spite of a stormy sky. Such an intuition after all is + nothing out a synthesis wrought by instinct, a synthesis to which + everything—streets, houses, landscape, accent, dialect, + physiognomies, history, and habits contribute their share. I might call it + the ideal integration of a people or its reduction to the generating + point, or an entering into its consciousness. This generating point + explains everything else, art, religion, history, politics, manners; and + without it nothing can be explained. The ancients realized their + consciousness in the national God. Modern nationalities, more complicated + and less artistic, are more difficult to decipher. What one seeks for in + them is the daemon, the fatum, the inner genius, the mission, the + primitive disposition, both what there is desire for and what there is + power for, the force in them and its limitations. + </p> + <p> + A pure and life-giving freshness of thought and of the spiritual life + seemed to play about me, borne on the breeze descending from the Alps. I + breathed an atmosphere of spiritual freedom, and I hailed with emotion and + rapture the mountains whence was wafted to me this feeling of strength and + purity. A thousand sensations, thoughts, and analogies crowded upon me. + History, too, the history of the sub-Alpine countries, from the Ligurians + to Hannibal, from Hannibal to Charlemagne, from Charlemagne to Napoleon, + passed through my mind. All the possible points of view, were, so to + speak, piled upon each other, and one caught glimpses of some + eccentrically across others. I was enjoying and I was learning. Sight + passed into vision without a trace of hallucination, and the landscape was + my guide, my Virgil. + </p> + <p> + All this made me very sensible of the difference between me and the + majority of travelers, all of whom have a special object, and content + themselves with one thing or with several, while I desire all or nothing, + and am forever straining toward the total, whether of all possible + objects, or of all the elements present in the reality. In other words, + what I desire is the sum of all desires, and what I seek to know is the + sum of all different kinds of knowledge. Always the complete, the + absolute; the <i>teres atque rotundum</i>, sphericity, non-resignation. + </p> + <p> + October 27, 1853.—I thank Thee, my God, for the hour that I have + just passed in Thy presence. Thy will was clear to me; I measured my + faults, counted my griefs, and felt Thy goodness toward me. I realized my + own nothingness, Thou gavest me Thy peace. In bitterness there is + sweetness; in affliction, joy; in submission, strength; in the God who + punishes, the God who loves. To lose one’s life that one may gain it, to + offer it that one may receive it, to possess nothing that one may conquer + all, to renounce self that God may give Himself to us, how impossible a + problem, and how sublime a reality! No one truly knows happiness who has + not suffered, and the redeemed are happier than the elect. + </p> + <p> + (Same day.)—The divine miracle <i>par excellence</i> consists surely + in the apotheosis of grief, the transfiguration of evil by good. The work + of creation finds its consummation, and the eternal will of the infinite + mercy finds its fulfillment only in the restoration of the free creature + to God and of an evil world to goodness, through love. Every soul in which + conversion has taken place is a symbol of the history of the world. To be + happy, to possess eternal life, to be in God, to be saved, all these are + the same. All alike mean the solution of the problem, the aim of + existence. And happiness is cumulative, as misery may be. An eternal + growth is an unchangeable peace, an ever profounder depth of apprehension, + a possession constantly more intense and more spiritual of the joy of + heaven—this is happiness. Happiness has no limits, because God has + neither bottom nor bounds, and because happiness is nothing but the + conquest of God through love. + </p> + <p> + The center of life is neither in thought nor in feeling, nor in will, nor + even in consciousness, so far as it thinks, feels, or wishes. For moral + truth may have been penetrated and possessed in all these ways, and escape + us still. Deeper even than consciousness there is our being itself, our + very substance, our nature. Only those truths which have entered into this + last region, which have become ourselves, become spontaneous and + involuntary, instinctive and unconscious, are really our life—that + is to say something more than our property. So long as we are able to + distinguish any space whatever between the truth and us we remain outside + it. The thought, the feeling, the desire, the consciousness of life, are + not yet quite life. But peace and repose can nowhere be found except in + life, and in eternal life and the eternal life is the divine life, is God. + To become divine is then the aim of life: then only can truth be said to + be ours beyond the possibility of loss, because it is no longer outside + us, nor even in us, but we are it, and it is we; we ourselves are a truth, + a will, a work of God. Liberty has become nature; the creature is one with + its creator—one through love. It is what it ought to be; its + education is finished, and its final happiness begins. The sun of time + declines and the light of eternal blessedness arises. + </p> + <p> + Our fleshly hearts may call this mysticism. It is the mysticism of Jesus: + “I am one with my Father; ye shall be one with me. We will be one with + you.” + </p> + <p> + Do not despise your situation; in it you must act, suffer, and conquer. + From every point on earth we are equally near to heaven and to the + infinite. + </p> + <p> + There are two states or conditions of pride. The first is one of + self-approval, the second one of self-contempt. Pride is seen probably at + its purest in the last. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is by teaching that we teach ourselves, by relating that we observe, by + affirming that we examine, by showing that we look, by writing that we + think, by pumping that we draw water into the well. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 1, 1854.—A walk. The atmosphere incredibly pure, a warm + caressing gentleness in the sunshine—joy in one’s whole being. + Seated motionless upon a bench on the Tranchées, beside the slopes clothed + with moss and tapestried with green, I passed some intense delicious + moments, allowing great elastic waves of music, wafted to me from a + military band on the terrace of St. Antoine, to surge and bound through + me. Every way I was happy, as idler, as painter, as poet. Forgotten + impressions of childhood and youth came back to me—all those + indescribable effects wrought by color, shadow, sunlight, green hedges, + and songs of birds, upon the soul just opening to poetry. I became again + young, wondering, and simple, as candor and ignorance are simple. I + abandoned myself to life and to nature, and they cradled me with an + infinite gentleness. To open one’s heart in purity to this ever pure + nature, to allow this immortal life of things to penetrate into one’s + soul, is at the same time to listen to the voice of God. Sensation may be + a prayer, and self-abandonment an act of devotion. + </p> + <p> + February 18, 1854.—Everything tends to become fixed, solidified, and + crystallized in this French tongue of ours, which seeks form and not + substance, the result and not its formation, what is seen rather than what + is thought, the outside rather than the inside. + </p> + <p> + We like the accomplished end and not the pursuit of the end, the goal and + not the road, in short, ideas ready-made and bread ready-baked, the + reverse of Lessing’s principle. What we look for above all are + conclusions. This clearness of the “ready-made” is a superficial clearness—physical, + outward, solar clearness, so to speak, but in the absence of a sense for + origin and genesis it is the clearness of the incomprehensible, the + clearness of opacity, the clearness of the obscure. We are always trifling + on the surface. Our temper is formal—that is to say, frivolous and + material, or rather artistic and not philosophical. For what it seeks is + the figure, the fashion and manner of things, not their deepest life, + their soul, their secret. + </p> + <p> + March 16, 1854. (From Veevay to Geneva.)—What message had this lake + for me, with its sad serenity, its soft and even tranquility, in which was + mirrored the cold monotonous pallor of mountains and clouds? That + disenchanted disillusioned life may still be traversed by duty, lit by a + memory of heaven. I was visited by a clear and profound intuition of the + flight of things, of the fatality of all life, of the melancholy which is + below the surface of all existence, but also of that deepest depth which + subsists forever beneath the fleeting wave. + </p> + <p> + December 17, 1854.—When we are doing nothing in particular, it is + then that we are living through all our being; and when we cease to add to + our growth it is only that we may ripen and possess ourselves. Will is + suspended, but nature and time are always active and if our life is no + longer our work, the work goes on none the less. With us, without us, or + in spite of us, our existence travels through its appointed phases, our + invisible Psyche weaves the silk of its chrysalis, our destiny fulfills + itself, and all the hours of life work together toward that flowering time + which we call death. This activity, then, is inevitable and fatal; sleep + and idleness do not interrupt it, but it may become free and moral, a joy + instead of a terror. + </p> + <p> + Nothing is more characteristic of a man than the manner in which he + behaves toward fools. + </p> + <p> + It costs us a great deal of trouble not to be of the same opinion as our + self-love, and not to be ready to believe in the good taste of those who + believe in our merits. + </p> + <p> + Does not true humility consist in accepting one’s infirmity as a trial, + and one’s evil disposition as a cross, in sacrificing all one’s + pretensions and ambitions, even those of conscience? True humility is + contentment. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A man only understands that of which he has already the beginnings in + himself. + </p> + <p> + Let us be true: this is the highest maxim of art and of life, the secret + of eloquence and of virtue, and of all moral authority. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + March 28, 1855.—Not a blade of grass but has a story to tell, not a + heart but has its romance, not a life which does not hide a secret which + is either its thorn or its spur. Everywhere grief, hope, comedy, tragedy; + even under the petrifaction of old age, as in the twisted forms of + fossils, we may discover the agitations and tortures of youth. This + thought is the magic wand of poets and of preachers: it strips the scales + from our fleshly eyes, and gives us a clear view into human life; it opens + to the ear a world of unknown melodies, and makes us understand the + thousand languages of nature. Thwarted love makes a man a polyglot, and + grief transforms him into a diviner and a sorcerer. + </p> + <p> + April 16, 1855.—I realized this morning the prodigious effect of + climate on one’s state of mind. I was Italian or Spanish. In this blue and + limpid air, and under this southern sun, the very walls smile at you. All + the chestnut trees were en fete; with their glistening buds shining like + little flames at the curved ends of the branches, they were the candelabra + of the spring decking the festival of eternal nature. How young everything + was, how kindly, how gracious! the moist freshness of the grass, the + transparent shadows in the courtyards, the strength of the old cathedral + towers, the white edges of the roads. I felt myself a child; the sap of + life mounted again into my veins as it does in plants. How sweet a thing + is a little simple enjoyment! And now, a brass band which has stopped in + the street makes my heart leap as it did at eighteen. Thanks be to God; + there have been so many weeks and months when I thought myself an old man. + Come poetry, nature, youth, and love, knead my life again with your fairy + hands; weave round me once more your immortal spells; sing your siren + melodies, make me drink of the cup of immortality, lead me back to the + Olympus of the soul. Or rather, no paganism! God of joy and of grief, do + with me what Thou wilt; grief is good, and joy is good also. Thou art + leading me now through joy. I take it from Thy hands, and I give Thee + thanks for it. + </p> + <p> + April 17, 1855.—The weather is still incredibly brilliant, warm, and + clear. The day is full of the singing of birds, the night is full of + stars, nature has become all kindness, and it is a kindness clothed upon + with splendor. + </p> + <p> + For nearly two hours have I been lost in the contemplation of this + magnificent spectacle. I felt myself in the temple of the infinite, in the + presence of the worlds, God’s guest in this vast nature. The stars + wandering in the pale ether drew me far away from earth. What peace beyond + the power of words, what dews of life eternal, they shed on the adoring + soul! I felt the earth floating like a boat in this blue ocean. Such deep + and tranquil delight nourishes the whole man, it purifies and ennobles. I + surrendered myself, I was all gratitude and docility. + </p> + <p> + April 21, 1855.—I have been reading a great deal: ethnography, + comparative anatomy, cosmical systems. I have traversed the universe from + the deepest depths of the empyrean to the peristaltic movements of the + atoms in the elementary cell. I have felt myself expanding in the + infinite, and enfranchised in spirit from the bounds of time and space, + able to trace back the whole boundless creation to a point without + dimensions, and seeing the vast multitude of suns, of milky ways, of + stars, and nebulae, all existent in the point. + </p> + <p> + And on all sides stretched mysteries, marvels and prodigies, without + limit, without number, and without end. I felt the unfathomable thought of + which the universe is the symbol live and burn within me; I touched, + proved, tasted, embraced my nothingness and my immensity; I kissed the hem + of the garments of God, and gave Him thanks for being Spirit and for being + life. Such moments are glimpses of the divine. They make one conscious of + one’s immortality; they bring home to one that an eternity is not too much + for the study of the thoughts and works of the eternal; they awaken in us + an adoring ecstasy and the ardent humility of love. + </p> + <p> + May 23, 1855.—Every hurtful passion draws us to it, as an abyss + does, by a kind of vertigo. Feebleness of will brings about weakness of + head, and the abyss in spite of its horror, comes to fascinate us, as + though it were a place of refuge. Terrible danger! For this abyss is + within us; this gulf, open like the vast jaws of an infernal serpent bent + on devouring us, is in the depth of our own being, and our liberty floats + over this void, which is always seeking to swallow it up. Our only + talisman lies in that concentration of moral force which we call + conscience, that small inextinguishable flame of which the light is duty + and the warmth love. This little flame should be the star of our life; it + alone can guide our trembling ark across the tumult of the great waters; + it alone can enable us to escape the temptations of the sea, the storms + and the monsters which are the offspring of night and the deluge. Faith in + God, in a holy, merciful, fatherly God, is the divine ray which kindles + this flame. + </p> + <p> + How deeply I feel the profound and terrible poetry of all these primitive + terrors from which have issued the various theogonies of the world, and + how it all grows clear to me, and becomes a symbol of the one great + unchanging thought, the thought of God about the universe! How present and + sensible to my inner sense is the unity of everything! It seems to me that + I am able to pierce to the sublime motive which, in all the infinite + spheres of existence, and through all the modes of space and time, every + created form reproduces and sings within the bond of an eternal harmony. + From the infernal shades I feel myself mounting toward the regions of + light; my flight across chaos finds its rest in paradise. Heaven, hell, + the world, are within us. Man is the great abyss. + </p> + <p> + July 27, 1855.—So life passes away, tossed like a boat by the waves + up and down, hither and thither, drenched by the spray, stained by the + foam, now thrown upon the bank, now drawn back again according to the + endless caprice of the water. Such, at least, is the life of the heart and + the passions, the life which Spinoza and the stoics reprove, and which is + the exact opposite of that serene and contemplative life, always equable + like the starlight, in which man lives at peace, and sees everything + tinder its eternal aspect; the opposite also of the life of conscience, in + which God alone speaks, and all self-will surrenders itself to His will + made manifest. + </p> + <p> + I pass from one to another of these three existences, which are equally + known to me; but this very mobility deprives me of the advantages of each. + For my heart is worn with scruples, the soul in me cannot crush the needs + of the heart, and the conscience is troubled and no longer knows how to + distinguish, in the chaos of contradictory inclinations, the voice of duty + or the will of God. The want of simple faith, the indecision which springs + from distrust of self, tend to make all my personal life a matter of doubt + and uncertainty. I am afraid of the subjective life, and recoil from every + enterprise, demand, or promise which may oblige me to realize myself; I + feel a terror of action, and am only at ease in the impersonal, + disinterested, and objective life of thought. The reason seems to be + timidity, and the timidity springs from the excessive development of the + reflective power which has almost destroyed in me all spontaneity, + impulse, and instinct, and therefore all boldness and confidence. Whenever + I am forced to act, I see cause for error and repentance everywhere, + everywhere hidden threats and masked vexations. From a child I have been + liable to the disease of irony, and that it may not be altogether crushed + by destiny, my nature seems to have armed itself with a caution strong + enough to prevail against any of life’s blandishments. It is just this + strength which is my weakness. I have a horror of being duped, above all, + duped by myself, and I would rather cut myself off from all life’s joys + than deceive or be deceived. Humiliation, then, is the sorrow which I fear + the most, and therefore it would seem as if pride were the deepest rooted + of my faults. + </p> + <p> + This may be logical, but it is not the truth: it seems to me that it is + really distrust, incurable doubt of the future, a sense of the justice but + not of the goodness of God—in short, unbelief, which is my + misfortune and my sin. Every act is a hostage delivered over to avenging + destiny—there is the instinctive belief which chills and freezes; + every act is a pledge confided to a fatherly providence, there is the + belief which calms. + </p> + <p> + Pain seems to me a punishment and not a mercy: this is why I have a secret + horror of it. And as I feel myself vulnerable at all points, and + everywhere accessible to pain, I prefer to remain motionless, like a timid + child, who, left alone in his father’s laboratory, dares not touch + anything for fear of springs; explosions, and catastrophes, which may + burst from every corner at the least movement of his inexperienced hands. + I have trust in God directly and as revealed in nature, but I have a deep + distrust of all free and evil agents. I feel or foresee evil, moral and + physical, as the consequence of every error, fault, or sin, and I am + ashamed of pain. + </p> + <p> + At bottom, is it not a mere boundless self-love, the purism of perfection, + an incapacity to accept our human condition, a tacit protest against the + order of the world, which lies at the root of my inertia? It means <i>all + or nothing</i>, a vast ambition made inactive by disgust, a yearning that + cannot be uttered for the ideal, joined with an offended dignity and a + wounded pride which will have nothing to say to what they consider beneath + them. It springs from the ironical temper which refuses to take either + self or reality seriously, because it is forever comparing both with the + dimly-seen infinite of its dreams. It is a state of mental reservation in + which one lends one’s self to circumstances for form’s sake, but refuses + to recognize them in one’s heart because one cannot see the necessity or + the divine order in them. I am disinterested because I am indifferent; I + have nothing to say against what is, and yet I am never satisfied. I am + too weak to conquer, and yet I will not be Conquered—it is the + isolation of the disenchanted soul, which has put even hope away from it. + </p> + <p> + But even this is a trial laid upon one. Its providential purpose is no + doubt to lead one to that true renunciation of which charity is the sign + and symbol. It is when one expects nothing more for one’s self that one is + able to love. To do good to men because we love them, to use every talent + we have so as to please the Father from whom we hold it for His service, + there is no other way of reaching and curing this deep discontent with + life which hides itself under an appearance of indifference. + </p> + <p> + September 4, 1855.—In the government of the soul the parliamentary + form succeeds the monarchical. Good sense, conscience, desire, reason, the + present and the past, the old man and the new, prudence and generosity, + take up their parable in turn; the reign of argument begins; chaos + replaces order, and darkness light. Simple will represents the autocratic + <i>régime</i>, interminable discussion the deliberate regime of the soul. + The one is preferable from the theoretical point of view, the other from + the practical. Knowledge and action are their two respective advantages. + </p> + <p> + But the best of all would be to be able to realize three powers in the + soul. Besides the man of counsel we want the man of action and the man of + judgment. In me, reflection comes to no useful end, because it is forever + returning upon itself, disputing and debating. I am wanting in both the + general who commands and the judge who decides. + </p> + <p> + Analysis is dangerous if it overrules the synthetic faculty; reflection is + to be feared if it destroys our power of intuition, and inquiry is fatal + if it supplants faith. Decomposition becomes deadly when it surpasses in + strength the combining and constructive energies of life, and the <i>separate</i> + action of the powers of the soul tends to mere disintegration and + destruction as soon as it becomes impossible to bring them to bear as <i>one</i> + undivided force. When the sovereign abdicates anarchy begins. + </p> + <p> + It is just here that my danger lies. Unity of life, of force, of action, + of expression, is becoming impossible to me; I am legion, division, + analysis, and reflection; the passion for dialectic, for fine + distinctions, absorbs and weakens me. The point which I have reached seems + to be explained by a too restless search for perfection, by the abuse of + the critical faculty, and by an unreasonable distrust of first impulses, + first thoughts, first words. Unity and simplicity of being, confidence, + and spontaneity of life, are drifting out of my reach, and this is why I + can no longer act. + </p> + <p> + Give up, then, this trying to know all, to embrace all. Learn to limit + yourself, to content yourself with some definite thing, and some definite + work; dare to be what you are, and learn to resign with a good grace all + that you are not, and to believe in your own individuality. Self-distrust + is destroying you; trust, surrender, abandon yourself; “believe and thou + shalt be healed.” Unbelief is death, and depression and self-satire are + alike unbelief. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + From the point of view of happiness, the problem of life is insoluble, for + it is our highest aspirations which prevent us from being happy. From the + point of view of duty, there is the same difficulty, for the fulfillment + of duty brings peace, not happiness. It is divine love, the love of the + holiest, the possession of God by faith, which solves the difficulty; for + if sacrifice has itself become a joy, a lasting, growing and imperishable + joy—the soul is then secure of an all-sufficient and unfailing + nourishment. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 21, 1856.—Yesterday seems to me as far off as though it were + last year. My memory holds nothing more of the past than its general plan, + just as my eye perceives nothing more in the starry heaven. It is no more + possible for me to recover one of my days from the depths of memory than + if it were a glass of water poured into a lake; it is not so much a lost + thing as a thing melted and fused; the individual has returned into the + whole. The divisions of time are categories which have no power to mold my + life, and leave no more lasting impression than lines traced by a stick in + water. My life, my individuality, are fluid, there is nothing for it but + to resign one’s self. + </p> + <p> + April 9, 1856.—How true it is that our destinies are decided by + nothings and that a small imprudence helped by some insignificant + accident, as an acorn is fertilized by a drop of rain, may raise the trees + on which perhaps we and others shall be crucified. What happens is quite + different from that we planned; we planned a blessing and there springs + from it a curse. How many times the serpent of fatality, or rather the law + of life, the force of things, intertwining itself with some very simple + facts, cannot be cut away by any effort, and the logic of situations and + characters leads inevitably to a dreaded <i>dénouement</i>. It is the + fatal spell of destiny, which obliges us to feed our grief from our own + hand, to prolong the existence of our vulture, to throw into the furnace + of our punishment and expiation, our powers, our qualities, our very + virtues, one by one, and so forces us to recognize our nothingness, our + dependence and the implacable majesty of law. Faith in a providence + softens punishment but does not do away with it. The wheels of the divine + chariot crush us first of all that justice may be satisfied and an example + given to men, and then a hand is stretched out to us to raise us up, or at + least to reconcile us with the love hidden under the justice. Pardon + cannot precede repentance and repentance only begins with humility. And so + long as any fault whatever appears trifling to us, so long as we see, not + so much the culpability of as the excuses for imprudence or negligence, so + long, in short, as Job murmurs and as providence is thought to be too + severe, so long as there is any inner protestation against fate, or doubt + as to the perfect justice of God, there is not yet entire humility or true + repentance. It is when we accept the expiation that it can be spared us; + it is when we submit sincerely that grace can be granted to us. Only when + grief finds its work done can God dispense us from it. Trial then only + stops when it is useless: that is why it scarcely ever stops. Faith in the + justice and love of the Father is the best and indeed the only support + under the sufferings of this life. The foundation of all of our pains is + unbelief; we doubt whether what happens to us ought to happen to us; we + think ourselves wiser than providence, because to avoid fatalism we + believe in accident. Liberty in submission—what a problem! And yet + that is what we must always come back to. + </p> + <p> + May 7, 1856.—I have been reading Rosenkrantz’s “History of Poetry” + [Footnote: “Geschichte der Poesie,” by Rosenkrantz, the pupil and + biographer of Hegel] all day: it touches upon all the great names of + Spain, Portugal, and France, as far as Louis XV. It is a good thing to + take these rapid surveys; the shifting point of view gives a perpetual + freshness to the subject and to the ideas presented, a literary experience + which is always pleasant and bracing. For one of my temperament, this + philosophic and morphological mode of embracing and expounding literary + history has a strong attraction. But it is the antipodes of the French + method of proceeding, which takes, as it were, only the peaks of the + subject, links them together by theoretical figures and triangulations, + and then assumes these lines to represent the genuine face of the country. + The real process of formation of a general opinion, of a public taste, of + an established <i>genre</i>, cannot be laid bare by an abstract method, + which suppresses the period of growth in favor of the final fruit, which + prefers clearness of outline to fullness of statement, and sacrifices the + preparation to the result, the multitude to the chosen type. This French + method, however, is eminently characteristic, and it is linked by + invisible ties to their respect for custom and fashion, to the Catholic + and dualist instinct which admits two truths, two contradictory worlds, + and accepts quite naturally what is magical, incomprehensible, and + arbitrary in God, the king, or language. It is the philosophy of accident + become habit, instinct, nature and belief, it is the religion of caprice. + </p> + <p> + By one of those eternal contrasts which redress the balance of things, the + romance peoples, who excel in the practical matters of life, care nothing + for the philosophy of it; while the Germans, who know very little about + the practice of life, are masters of its theory. Every living being seeks + instinctively to complete itself; this is the secret law according to + which that nation whose sense of life is fullest and keenest, drifts most + readily toward a mathematical rigidity of theory. Matter and form are the + eternal oppositions, and the mathematical intellects are often attracted + by the facts of life, just as the sensuous minds are often drawn toward + the study of abstract law. Thus strangely enough, what we think we are is + just what we are not: what we desire to be is what suits us least; our + theories condemn us, and our practice gives the lie to our theories. And + the contradiction is an advantage, for it is the source of conflict, of + movement, and therefore a condition of progress. Every life is an inward + struggle, every struggle supposes two contrary forces; nothing real is + simple, and whatever thinks itself simple is in reality the farthest from + simplicity. Therefore it would seem that every state is a moment in a + series; every being a compromise between contraries. In concrete dialectic + we have the key which opens to us the understanding of beings in the + series of beings, of states in the series of moments; and it is in + dynamics that we have the explanation of equilibrium. Every situation is + an <i>equilibrium</i> of forces; every life is a <i>struggle</i> between + opposing forces working within the limits of a certain equilibrium. + </p> + <p> + These two principles have been often clear to me, but I have never applied + them widely or rigorously enough. + </p> + <p> + July 1, 1856.—A man and still more a woman, always betrays something + of his or her nationality. The women of Russia, for instance, like the + lakes and rivers of their native country, seem to be subject to sudden and + prolonged fits of torpor. In their movement, undulating and caressing like + that of water, there is always a threat of unforeseen frost. The high + latitude, the difficulty of life, the inflexibility of their autocratic <i>régime</i>, + the heavy and mournful sky, the inexorable climate, all these harsh + fatalities have left their mark upon the Muscovite race. A certain somber + obstinacy, a kind of primitive ferocity, a foundation of savage harshness + which, under the influence of circumstances, might become implacable and + pitiless; a cold strength, an indomitable power of resolution which would + rather wreck the whole world than yield, the indestructible instinct of + the barbarian tribe, perceptible in the half-civilized nation, all these + traits are visible to an attentive eye, even in the harmless extravagances + and caprices of a young woman of this powerful race. Even in their <i>badinage</i> + they betray something of that fierce and rigid nationality which burns its + own towns and [as Napoleon said] keeps battalions of dead soldiers on + their feet. + </p> + <p> + What terrible rulers the Russians would be if ever they should spread the + night of their rule over the countries of the south! They would bring us a + polar despotism, tyranny such as the world has never known, silent as + darkness, rigid as ice, insensible as bronze, decked with an outer + amiability and glittering with the cold brilliancy of snow, a slavery + without compensation or relief. Probably, however, they will gradually + lose both the virtues and the defects of their semi-barbarism. The + centuries as they pass will ripen these sons of the north, and they will + enter into the concert of peoples in some other capacity than as a menace + or a dissonance. They have only to transform their hardiness into + strength, their cunning into grace, their Muscovitism into humanity, to + win love instead of inspiring aversion or fear. + </p> + <p> + July 3, 1856.—The German admires form, but he has no genius for it. + He is the opposite of the Greek; he has critical instinct, aspiration, and + desire, but no serene command of beauty. The south, more artistic, more + self-satisfied, more capable of execution, rests idly in the sense of its + own power to achieve. On one side you have ideas, on the other side, + talent. The realm of Germany is beyond the clouds; that of the southern + peoples is on this earth. The Germanic race thinks and feels; the + southerners feel and express; the Anglo-Saxons will and do. To know, to + feel, to act, there you have the trio of Germany, Italy, England. France + formulates, speaks, decides, and laughs. Thought, talent, will, speech; + or, in other words science, art, action, proselytism. So the parts of the + quartet are assigned. + </p> + <p> + July 21, 1856.—<i>Mit sack und pack</i> here I am back again in my + town rooms. I have said good-bye to my friends and my country joys, to + verdure, flowers, and happiness. Why did I leave them after all? The + reason I gave myself was that I was anxious about my poor uncle, who is + ill. But at bottom are there not other reasons? Yes, several. There is the + fear of making myself a burden upon the two or three families of friends + who show me incessant kindness, for which I can make no return. There are + my books, which call me back. There is the wish to keep faith with myself. + But all that would be nothing, I think, without another instinct, the + instinct of the wandering Jew, which snatches from me the cup I have but + just raised to my lips, which forbids me any prolonged enjoyment, and + cries “go forward! Let there be no falling asleep, no stopping, no + attaching yourself to this or that!” This restless feeling is not the need + of change. It is rather the fear of what I love, the mistrust of what + charms me, the unrest of happiness. What a <i>bizarre</i> tendency, and + what a strange nature! not to be able to enjoy anything simply, naïvely, + without scruple, to feel a force upon one impelling one to leave the + table, for fear the meal should come to an end. Contradiction and mystery! + not to use, for fear of abusing; to think one’s self obliged to go, not + because one has had enough, but because one has stayed awhile. I am indeed + always the same; the being who wanders when he need not, the voluntary + exile, the eternal traveler, the man incapable of repose, who, driven on + by an inward voice, builds nowhere, buys and labors nowhere, but passes, + looks, camps, and goes. And is there not another reason for all this + restlessness, in a certain sense of void? of incessant pursuit of + something wanting? of longing for a truer peace and a more entire + satisfaction? Neighbors, friends, relations, I love them all; and so long + as these affections are active, they leave in me no room for a sense of + want. But yet they do not <i>fill</i> my heart; and that is why they have + no power to fix it. I am always waiting for the woman and the work which + shall be capable of taking entire possession of my soul, and of becoming + my end and aim. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Promenant par tout séjour + Le deuil que tu cèles, + Psyché-papillon, un jour + Puisses-tu trouver l’amour + Et perdre tes ailes!” + </pre> + <p> + I have not given away my heart: hence this restlessness of spirit. I will + not let it be taken captive by that which cannot fill and satisfy it; + hence this instinct of pitiless detachment from all that charms me without + permanently binding me; so that it seems as if my love of movement, which + looks so like inconstancy, was at bottom only a perpetual search, a hope, + a desire, and a care, the malady of the ideal. + </p> + <p> + ... Life indeed must always be a compromise between common sense and the + ideal, the one abating nothing of its demands, the other accommodating + itself to what is practicable and real. But marriage by common sense! + arrived at by a bargain! Can it be anything but a profanation? On the + other, hand, is that not a vicious ideal which hinders life from + completing itself, and destroys the family in germ? Is there not too much + of pride in my ideal, pride which will not accept the common destiny?... + </p> + <p> + Noon.—I have been dreaming—my head in my hand. About what? + About happiness. I have as it were, been asleep on the fatherly breast of + God. His will be done! + </p> + <p> + August 3, 1856.—A delightful Sunday afternoon at Pressy. Returned + late, under a great sky magnificently starred, with summer lightning + playing from a point behind the Jura. Drunk with poetry, and overwhelmed + by sensation after sensation, I came back slowly, blessing the God of + life, and plunged in the joy of the infinite. One thing only I lacked, a + soul with whom to share it all—for emotion and enthusiasm overflowed + like water from a full cup. The Milky Way, the great black poplars, the + ripple of the waves, the shooting stars, distant songs, the lamp-lit town, + all spoke to me in the language of poetry. I felt myself almost a poet. + The wrinkles of science disappeared under the magic breath of admiration; + the old elasticity of soul, trustful, free, and living was mine once more. + I was once more young, capable of self-abandonment and of love. All my + barrenness had disappeared; the heavenly dew had fertilized the dead and + gnarled stick; it began to be green and flower again. My God, how wretched + should we be without beauty! But with it, everything is born afresh in us; + the senses, the heart, imagination, reason, will, come together like the + dead bones of the prophet, and become one single and self-same energy. + What is happiness if it is not this plentitude of existence, this close + union with the universal and divine life? I have been happy a whole half + day, and I have been brooding over my joy, steeping myself in it to the + very depths of consciousness. + </p> + <p> + October 22, 1856.—We must learn to look upon life as an + apprenticeship to a progressive renunciation, a perpetual diminution in + our pretensions, our hopes, our powers, and our liberty. The circle grows + narrower and narrower; we began with being eager to learn everything, to + see everything, to tame and conquer everything, and in all directions we + reach our limit—<i>non plus ultra</i>. Fortune, glory, love, power, + health, happiness, long life, all these blessings which have been + possessed by other men seem at first promised and accessible to us, and + then we have to put the dream away from us, to withdraw one personal claim + after another to make ourselves small and humble, to submit to feel + ourselves limited, feeble, dependent, ignorant and poor, and to throw + ourselves upon God for all, recognizing our own worthlessness, and that we + have no right to anything. It is in this nothingness that we recover + something of life—the divine spark is there at the bottom of it. + Resignation comes to us, and, in believing love, we reconquer the true + greatness. + </p> + <p> + October 27, 1856.—In all the chief matters of life we are alone, and + our true history is scarcely ever deciphered by others. The chief part of + the drama is a monologue, rather an intimate debate between God, our + conscience, and ourselves. Tears, griefs, depressions, disappointments, + irritations, good and evil thoughts, decisions, uncertainties, + deliberations, all these belong to our secret, and are almost all + incommunicable and intransmissible, even when we try to speak of them, and + even when we write them down. What is most precious in us never shows + itself, never finds an issue even in the closest intimacy. Only a part of + it reaches our consciousness, it scarcely enters into action except in + prayer, and is perhaps only perceived by God, for our past rapidly becomes + strange to us. Our monad may be influenced by other monads, but none the + less does it remain impenetrable to them in its essence; and we ourselves, + when all is said, remain outside our own mystery. The center of our + consciousness is unconscious, as the kernel of the sun is dark. All that + we are, desire, do, and know, is more or less superficial, and below the + rays and lightnings of our periphery there remains the darkness of + unfathomable substance. + </p> + <p> + I was then well-advised when, in my theory of the inner man, I placed at + the foundation of the self, after the seven spheres which the self + contains had been successively disengaged, a lowest depth of darkness, the + abyss of the un-revealed, the virtual pledge of an infinite future, the + obscure self, the pure subjectivity which is incapable of realizing itself + in mind, conscience, or reason, in the soul, the heart, the imagination, + or the life of the senses, and which makes for itself attributes and + conditions out of all these forms of its own life. + </p> + <p> + But the obscure only exists that it may cease to exist. In it lies the + opportunity of all victory and all progress. Whether it call itself + fatality, death, night, or matter, it is the pedestal of life, of light, + of liberty, and the spirit. For it represents <i>resistance</i>—that + is to say, the fulcrum of all activity, the occasion for its development + and its triumph. + </p> + <p> + December 17, 1856.—This evening was the second quartet concert. It + stirred me much more than the first; the music chosen was loftier and + stronger. It was the quartet in D minor of Mozart, and the quartet in C + major of Beethoven, separated by a Spohr concerto. This last, vivid, and + brilliant as a whole, has fire in the allegro, feeling in the adagio, and + elegance in the <i>finale</i>, but it is the product of one fine gift in a + mediocre personality. With the two others you are at once in contact with + genius; you are admitted to the secrets of two great souls. Mozart stands + for inward liberty, Beethoven for the power of enthusiasm. The one sets us + free, the other ravishes us out of ourselves. I do not think I ever felt + more distinctly than to-day, or with more intensity, the difference + between these two masters. Their two personalities became transparent to + me, and I seemed to read them to their depths. + </p> + <p> + The work of Mozart, penetrated as it is with mind and thought, represents + a solved problem, a balance struck between aspiration and executive + capacity, the sovereignty of a grace which is always mistress of itself, + marvelous harmony and perfect unity. His quartet describes a day in one of + those Attic souls who pre-figure on earth the serenity of Elysium. The + first scene is a pleasant conversation, like that of Socrates on the banks + of the Ilissus; its chief mark is an exquisite urbanity. The second scene + is deeply pathetic. A cloud has risen in the blue of this Greek heaven. A + storm, such as life inevitably brings with it, even in the case of great + souls who love and esteem each other, has come to trouble the original + harmony. What is the cause of it—a misunderstanding, apiece of + neglect? Impossible to say, but it breaks out notwithstanding. The andante + is a scene of reproach and complaint, but as between immortals. What + loftiness in complaint, what dignity, what feeling, what noble sweetness + in reproach! The voice trembles and grows graver, but remains affectionate + and dignified. Then, the storm has passed, the sun has come back, the + explanation has taken place, peace is re-established. The third scene + paints the brightness of reconciliation. Love, in its restored confidence, + and as though in sly self-testing, permits itself even gentle mocking and + friendly <i>badinage</i>. And the <i>finale</i> brings us back to that + tempered gaiety and happy serenity, that supreme freedom, flower of the + inner life, which is the leading motive of the whole composition. + </p> + <p> + In Beethoven’s on the other hand, a spirit of tragic irony paints for you + the mad tumult of existence as it dances forever above the threatening + abyss of the infinite. No more unity, no more satisfaction, no more + serenity! We are spectators of the eternal duel between the great forces, + that of the abyss which absorbs all finite things, and that of life which + defends and asserts itself, expands, and enjoys. The first bars break the + seals and open the caverns of the great deep. The struggle begins. It is + long. Life is born, and disports itself gay and careless as the butterfly + which flutters above a precipice. Then it expands the realm of its + conquests, and chants its successes. It founds a kingdom, it constructs a + system of nature. But the typhon rises from the yawning gulf, and the + Titans beat upon the gates of the new empire. A battle of giants begins. + You hear the tumultuous efforts of the powers of chaos. Life triumphs at + last, but the victory is not final, and through all the intoxication of it + there is a certain note of terror and bewilderment. The soul of Beethoven + was a tormented soul. The passion and the awe of the infinite seemed to + toss it to and fro from heaven to hell, Hence its vastness. Which is the + greater, Mozart or Beethoven? Idle question! The one is more perfect, the + other more colossal. The first gives you the peace of perfect art, beauty, + at first sight. The second gives you sublimity, terror, pity, a beauty of + second impression. The one gives that for which the other rouses a desire. + Mozart has the classic purity of light and the blue ocean; Beethoven the + romantic grandeur which belongs to the storms of air and sea, and while + the soul of Mozart seems to dwell on the ethereal peaks of Olympus, that + of Beethoven climbs shuddering the storm-beaten sides of a Sinai. Blessed + be they both! Each represents a moment of the ideal life, each does us + good. Our love is due to both. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To judge is to see clearly, to care for what is just and therefore to be + impartial, more exactly, to be disinterested, more exactly still, to be + impersonal. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To do easily what is difficult for others is the mark of talent. To do + what is impossible for talent is the mark of genius. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Our duty is to be useful, not according to our desires but according to + our powers. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If nationality is consent, the state is compulsion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Self-interest is but the survival of the animal in us. Humanity only + begins for man with self-surrender. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The man who insists upon seeing with perfect clearness before he decides, + never decides. Accept life, and you must accept regret. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Without passion man is a mere latent force and possibility, like the flint + which awaits the shock of the iron before it can give forth its spark. + </p> + <p> + February 3, 1857.—The phantasmagoria of the soul cradles and soothes + me as though I were an Indian yoghi, and everything, even my own life, + becomes to me smoke, shadow, vapor, and illusion. I hold so lightly to all + phenomena that they end by passing over me like gleams over a landscape, + and are gone without leaving any impression. Thought is a kind of opium; + it can intoxicate us, while still broad awake; it can make transparent the + mountains and everything that exists. It is by love only that one keeps + hold upon reality, that one recovers one’s proper self, that one becomes + again will, force, and individuality. Love could do everything with me; by + myself and for myself I prefer to be nothing.... + </p> + <p> + I have the imagination of regret and not that of hope. My + clear-sightedness is retrospective, and the result with me of + disinterestedness and prudence is that I attach myself to what I have no + chance of obtaining.... + </p> + <p> + May 27, 1857. (Vandoeuvres. [Footnote: Also a village in the neighborhood + of Geneva.])—We are going down to Geneva to hear the “Tannhäuser” of + Richard Wagner performed at the theater by the German troup now passing + through. Wagner’s is a powerful mind endowed with strong poetical + sensitiveness. His work is even more poetical than musical. The + suppression of the lyrical element, and therefore of melody, is with him a + systematic <i>parti pris</i>. No more duos or trios; monologue and the <i>aria</i> + are alike done away with. There remains only declamation, the recitative, + and the choruses. In order to avoid the conventional in singing, Wagner + falls into another convention—that of not singing at all. He + subordinates the voice to articulate speech, and for fear lest the muse + should take flight he clips her wings. So that his works are rather + symphonic dramas than operas. The voice is brought down to the rank of an + instrument, put on a level with the violins, the hautboys, and the drums, + and treated instrumentally. Man is deposed from his superior position, and + the center of gravity of the work passes into the baton of the conductor. + It is music depersonalized, neo-Hegelian music—music multiple + instead of individual. If this is so, it is indeed the music of the + future, the music of the socialist democracy replacing the art which is + aristocratic, heroic, or subjective. + </p> + <p> + The overture pleased me even less than at the first hearing: it is like + nature before man appeared. Everything in it is enormous, savage, + elementary, like the murmur of forests and the roar of animals. It is + forbidding and obscure, because man, that is to say, mind, the key of the + enigma, personality, the spectator, is wanting to it. + </p> + <p> + The idea of the piece is grand. It is nothing less than the struggle of + passion and pure love, of flesh and spirit, of the animal and the angel in + man. The music is always expressive, the choruses very beautiful, the + orchestration skillful, but the whole is fatiguing and excessive, too + full, too laborious. When all is said, it lacks gayety, ease, naturalness + and vivacity—it has no smile, no wings. Poetically one is + fascinated, but one’s musical enjoyment is hesitating, often doubtful, and + one recalls nothing but the general impression—Wagner’s music + represents the abdication of the self, and the emancipation of all the + forces once under its rule. It is a falling back into Spinozism—the + triumph of fatality. This music has its root and its fulcrum in two + tendencies of the epoch, materialism and socialism—each of them + ignoring the true value of the human personality, and drowning it in the + totality of nature or of society. + </p> + <p> + June 17, 1857. (Vandoeuvres).—I have just followed Maine de Biran + from his twenty-eighth to his forty-eighth year by means of his journal, + and a crowd of thoughts have besieged me. Let me disengage those which + concern myself. In this eternal self-chronicler and observer I seem to see + myself reflected with all my faults, indecision, discouragement, + over-dependence on sympathy, difficulty of finishing, with my habit of + watching myself feel and live, with my growing incapacity for practical + action, with my aptitude for psychological study. But I have also + discovered some differences which cheer and console me. This nature is, as + it were, only one of the men which exist in me. It is one of my + departments. It is not the whole of my territory, the whole of my inner + kingdom. Intellectually, I am more objective and more constructive; my + horizon is vaster; I have seen much more of men, things, countries, + peoples and books; I have a greater mass of experiences—in a word, I + feel that I have more culture, greater wealth, range, and freedom of mind, + in spite of my wants, my limits, and my weaknesses. Why does Maine de + Biran make <i>will</i> the whole of man? Perhaps because he had too little + will. A man esteems most highly what he himself lacks, and exaggerates + what he longs to possess. Another incapable of thought, and meditation, + would have made self-consciousness the supreme thing. Only the totality of + things has an objective value. As soon as one isolates a part from the + whole, as soon as one chooses, the choice is involuntarily and + instinctively dictated by subjective inclinations which obey one or other + of the two opposing laws, the attraction of similars or the affinity of + contraries. + </p> + <p> + Five o’clock.—The morning has passed like a dream. I went on with + the journal of Maine de Biran down to the end of 1817. After dinner I + passed my time with the birds in the open air, wandering in the shady + walks which wind along under Pressy. The sun was brilliant and the air + clear. The midday orchestra of nature was at its best. Against the humming + background made by a thousand invisible insects there rose the delicate + caprices and improvisations of the nightingale singing from the ash-trees, + or of the hedge-sparrows and the chaffinches in their nests. The hedges + are hung with wild roses, the scent of the acacia still perfumes the + paths; the light down of the poplar seeds floated in the air like a kind + of warm, fair-weather snow. I felt myself as gay as a butterfly. On coming + in I read the three first books of that poem “Corinne,” which I have not + seen since I was a youth. Now as I read it again, I look at it across + interposing memories; the romantic interest of it seems to me to have + vanished, but not the poetical, pathetic, or moral interest. + </p> + <p> + June 18th.—I have just been spending three hours in the orchard + under the shade of the hedge, combining the spectacle of a beautiful + morning with reading and taking a turn between each chapter. Now the sky + is again covered with its white veil of cloud, and I have come up with + Biran, whose “Pensée” I have just finished, and Corinne, whom I have + followed with Oswald in their excursions among the monuments of the + eternal city. Nothing is so melancholy and wearisome as this journal of + Maine de Biran. This unchanging monotony of perpetual reflection has an + enervating and depressing effect upon one. Here, then, is the life of a + distinguished man seen in its most intimate aspects! It is one long + repetition, in which the only change is an almost imperceptible + displacement of center in the writer’s manner of viewing himself. This + thinker takes thirty years to move from the Epicurean quietude to the + quietism of Fénélon, and this only speculatively, for his practical life + remains the same, and all his anthropological discovery consists in + returning to the theory of the three lives, lower, human, and higher, + which is in Pascal and in Aristotle. And this is what they call a + philosopher in France! Beside the great philosophers, how poor and narrow + seems such an intellectual life! It is the journey of an ant, bounded by + the limits of a field; of a mole, who spends his days in the construction + of a mole-hill. How narrow and stifling the swallow who flies across the + whole Old World, and whose sphere of life embraces Africa and Europe, + would find the circle with which the mole and the ant are content! This + volume of Biran produces in me a sort of asphyxia; as I assimilate it, it + seems to paralyze me; I am chained to it by some spell of secret sympathy. + I pity, and I am afraid of my pity, for I feel how near I am to the same + evils and the same faults.... + </p> + <p> + Ernest Naville’s introductory essay is full of interest, written in a + serious and noble style; but it is almost as sad as it is ripe and mature. + What displeases me in it a little is its exaggeration of the merits of + Biran. For the rest, the small critical impatience which the volume has + stirred in me will be gone by to-morrow. Maine de Biran is an important + link in the French literary tradition. It is from him that our Swiss + critics descend, Naville father and son, Secrétan. He is the source of our + best contemporary psychology, for Stapfer, Royer-Collard, and Cousin + called him their master, and Ampère, his junior by nine years, was his + friend. + </p> + <p> + July 25, 1857. (Vandoeuvres).—At ten o’clock this evening, under a + starlit sky, a group of rustics under the windows of the salon employed + themselves in shouting disagreeable songs. Why is it that this tuneless + shrieking of false notes and scoffing words delights these people? Why is + it that this ostentatious parade of ugliness, this jarring vulgarity and + grimacing is their way of finding expression and expansion in the great + solitary and tranquil night? + </p> + <p> + Why? Because of a sad and secret instinct. Because of the need they have + of realizing themselves as individuals, of asserting themselves + exclusively, egotistically, idolatrously—opposing the self in them + to everything else, placing it in harsh contrast with the nature which + enwraps us, with the poetry which raises us above ourselves, with the + harmony which binds us to others, with the adoration which carries us + toward God. No, no, no! Myself only, and that is enough! Myself by + negation, by ugliness, by grimace and irony! Myself, in my caprice, in my + independence, in my irresponsible sovereignty; myself, set free by + laughter, free as the demons are, and exulting in my freedom; I, master of + myself, invincible and self-sufficient, living for this one time yet by + and for myself! This is what seems to me at the bottom of this + merry-making. One hears in it an echo of Satan, the temptation to make + self the center of all things, to be like an Elohim, the worst and last + revolt of man. It means also, perhaps, some rapid perception of what is + absolute in personality, some rough exaltation of the subject, the + individual, who thus claims, by abasing them, the rights of subjective + existence. If so, it is the caricature of our most precious privilege, the + parody of our apotheosis, a vulgarizing of our highest greatness. Shout + away, then, drunkards! Your ignoble concert, with all its repulsive + vulgarity, still reveals to us, without knowing it, something of the + majesty of life and the sovereign power of the soul. + </p> + <p> + September 15, 1857.—I have just finished Sismondi’s journal and + correspondence. Sismondi is essentially the honest man, conscientious, + upright, respectable, the friend of the public good and the devoted + upholder of a great cause, the amelioration of the common lot of men. + Character and heart are the dominant elements in his individuality, and + cordiality is the salient feature of his nature. Sismondi’s is a most + encouraging example. With average faculties, very little imagination, not + much taste, not much talent, without subtlety of feeling, without great + elevation or width or profundity of mind, he yet succeeded in achieving a + career which was almost illustrious, and he has left behind him some sixty + volumes, well-known and well spoken of. How was this? His love for men on + the one side, and his passion for work on the other, are the two factors + in his fame. In political economy, in literary or political history, in + personal action, Sismondi showed no genius—scarcely talent; but in + all he did there was solidity, loyalty, good sense and integrity. The + poetical, artistic and philosophic sense is deficient in him, but he + attracts and interests us by his moral sense. We see in him the sincere + writer, a man of excellent heart, a good citizen and warm friend, worthy + and honest in the widest sense of terms, not brilliant, but inspiring + trust and confidence by his character, his principles and his virtues. + More than this, he is the best type of good Genevese liberalism, + republican but not democratic, Protestant but not Calvinist, human but not + socialist, progressive but without any sympathy with violence. He was a + conservative without either egotism or hypocrisy, a patriot without + narrowness. In his theories he was governed by experience and observation, + and in his practice by general ideas. A laborious philanthropist, the past + and the present were to him but fields of study, from which useful lessons + might be gleaned. Positive and reasonable in temper, his mind was set upon + a high average well-being for human society, and his efforts were directed + toward founding such a social science as might most readily promote it. + </p> + <p> + September 24, 1857.—In the course of much thought yesterday about + “Atala” and “René,” Châteaubriand became clear to me. I saw in him a great + artist but not a great man, immense talent but a still vaster pride—a + nature at once devoured with ambition and unable to find anything to love + or admire in the world except itself—indefatigable in labor and + capable of everything except of true devotion, self-sacrifice and faith. + Jealous of all success, he was always on the opposition side, that he + might be the better able to disavow all services received, and to hold + aloof from any other glory but his own. Legitimist under the empire, a + parliamentarian tinder the legitimist <i>régime</i>, republican under the + constitutional monarchy, defending Christianity when France was + philosophical, and taking a distaste for religion as soon as it became + once more a serious power, the secret of these endless contradictions in + him was simply the desire to reign alone like the sun—a devouring + thirst for applause, an incurable and insatiable vanity, which, with the + true, fierce instinct of tyranny, would endure no brother near the throne. + A man of magnificent imagination but of poor character, of indisputable + power, but cursed with a cold egotism and an incurable barrenness of + feeling, which made it impossible for him to tolerate about him anybody + but slaves or adorers. A tormented soul and miserable life, when all is + said, under its aureole of glory and its crown of laurels! + </p> + <p> + Essentially jealous and choleric, Châteaubriand from the beginning was + inspired by mistrust, by the passion for contradicting, for crushing and + conquering. This motive may always be traced in him. Rousseau seems to me + his point of departure, the man who suggested to him by contrast and + opposition all his replies and attacks, Rousseau is revolutionary: + Châteaubriand therefore writes his “Essay on Revolutions.” Rousseau is + republican and Protestant; Châteaubriand will be royalist and Catholic. + Rousseau is <i>bourgeois</i>; Chateaubriand will glorify nothing but noble + birth, honor, chivalry and deeds of arms. Rousseau conquered nature for + French letters, above all the nature of the mountains and of the Swiss and + Savoy, and lakes. He pleaded for her against civilization. Châteaubriand + will take possession of a new and colossal nature, of the ocean, of + America; but he will make his savages speak the language of Louis XIV., he + will bow Atala before a Catholic missionary, and sanctify passions born on + the banks of the Mississippi by the solemnities of Catholic ceremonial. + Rousseau was the apologist of reverie; Châteaubriand will build the + monument of it in order to break it in René. Rousseau preaches Deism with + all his eloquence in the “Vicaire Savoyard;” Châteaubriand surrounds the + Roman creed with all the garlands of his poetry in the “Génie du + Christianisme.” Rousseau appeals to natural law and pleads for the future + of nations; Châteaubriand will only sing the glories of the past, the + ashes of history and the noble ruins of empires. Always a rôle to be + filled, cleverness to be displayed, a <i>parti-pris</i> to be upheld and + fame to be won—his theme, one of imagination, his faith one to + order, but sincerity, loyalty, candor, seldom or never! Always a real + indifference simulating a passion for truth; always an imperious thirst + for glory instead of devotion to the good; always the ambitious artist, + never the citizen, the believer, the man. Châteaubriand posed all his life + as the wearied Colossus, smiling pitifully upon a pygmy world, and + contemptuously affecting to desire nothing from it, though at the same + time wishing it to be believed that he could if he pleased possess himself + of everything by mere force of genius. He is the type of an untoward race, + and the father of a disagreeable lineage. + </p> + <p> + But to return to the two episodes. “René” seems to me very superior to + “Atala.’” Both the stories show a talent of the first rank, but of the two + the beauty of “Atala” is of the more transitory kind. The attempt to + render in the style of Versailles the loves of a Natchez and a Seminole, + and to describe the manners of the adorers of the Manitous in the tone of + Catholic sentiment, was an attempt too violent to succeed. But the work is + a <i>tour de force</i> of style, and it was only by the polished + classicism of the form, that the romantic matter of the sentiments and the + descriptions could have been imported into the colorless literature of the + empire. “Atala” is already old-fashioned and theatrical in all the parts + which are not descriptive or European—that is to say, throughout all + the sentimental savagery. + </p> + <p> + “René” is infinitely more durable. Its theme, which is the malady of a + whole generation—distaste for life brought about by idle reverie and + the ravages of a vague and unmeasured ambition—is true to reality. + Without knowing or wishing it, Châteaubriand has been sincere, for René is + himself. This little sketch is in every respect a masterpiece. It is not, + like “Atala,” spoilt artistically by intentions alien to the subject, by + being made the means of expression of a particular tendency. Instead of + taking a passion for René, indeed, future generations will scorn and + wonder at him; instead of a hero they will see in him a pathological case; + but the work itself, like the Sphinx, will endure. A work of art will bear + all kinds of interpretations; each in turn finds a basis in it, while the + work itself, because it represents an idea, and therefore partakes of the + richness and complexity which belong to ideas, suffices for all and + survives all. A portrait proves whatever one asks of it. Even in its forms + of style, in the disdainful generality of the terms in which the story is + told, in the terseness of the sentences, in the sequence of the images and + of the pictures, traced with classic purity and marvelous vigor, “René” + maintains its monumental character. Carved, as it were, in material of the + present century, with the tools of classical art, “René” is the immortal + cameo of Châteaubriand. + </p> + <p> + We are never more discontented with others than when we are discontented + with ourselves. The consciousness of wrong-doing makes us irritable, and + our heart in its cunning quarrels with what is outside it, in order that + it may deafen the clamor within. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The faculty of intellectual metamorphosis is the first and indispensable + faculty of the critic; without it he is not apt at understanding other + minds, and ought, therefore, if he love truth, to hold his peace. The + conscientious critic must first criticise himself; what we do not + understand we have not the right to judge. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 14, 1858.—Sadness and anxiety seem to be increasing upon me. + Like cattle in a burning stable, I cling to what consumes me, to the + solitary life which does me so much harm. I let myself be devoured by + inward suffering.... + </p> + <p> + Yesterday, however, I struggled against this fatal tendency. I went out + into the country, and the children’s caresses restored to me something of + serenity and calm. After we had dined out of doors all three sang some + songs and school hymns, which were delightful to listen to. The spring + fairy had been scattering flowers over the fields with lavish hands; it + was a little glimpse of paradise. It is true, indeed, that the serpent too + was not far off. Yesterday there was a robbery close by the house, and + death had visited another neighbor. Sin and death lurk around every Eden, + and sometimes within it. Hence the tragic beauty, the melancholy poetry of + human destiny. Flowers, shade, a fine view, a sunset sky, joy, grace, + feeling, abundance and serenity, tenderness and song—here you have + the element of beauty: the dangers of the present and the treacheries of + the future, here is the element of pathos. The fashion of this world + passeth away. Unless we have laid hold upon eternity, unless we take the + religious view of life, these bright, fleeting days can only be a subject + for terror. Happiness should be a prayer—and grief also. Faith in + the moral order, in the protecting fatherhood of God, appeared to me in + all its serious sweetness. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pense, aime, agis et souffre en Dieu + C’est la grande science.” + </pre> + <p> + July 18, 1858.—To-day I have been deeply moved by the <i>nostalgia</i> + of happiness and by the appeals of memory. My old self, the dreams which + used to haunt me in Germany, passionate impulses, high aspirations, all + revived in me at once with unexpected force. The dread lest I should have + missed my destiny and stifled my true nature, lest I should have buried + myself alive, passed through me like a shudder. Thirst for the unknown, + passionate love of life, the yearning for the blue vaults of the infinite + and the strange worlds of the ineffable, and that sad ecstasy which the + ideal wakens in its beholders—all these carried me away in a + whirlwind of feeling that I cannot describe. Was it a warning, a + punishment, a temptation? Was it a secret protest, or a violent act of + rebellion on the part of a nature which is unsatisfied?—the last + agony of happiness and of a hope that will not die? + </p> + <p> + What raised all this storm? Nothing but a book—the first number of + the “<i>Revue Germanique</i>.” The articles of Dollfus, Renan, Littré, + Montégut, Taillandier, by recalling to me some old and favorite subjects, + made me forget ten wasted years, and carried me back to my university + life. I was tempted to throw off my Genevese garb and to set off, stick in + hand, for any country that might offer—stripped and poor, but still + young, enthusiastic, and alive, full of ardor and of faith. + </p> + <p> + ... I have been dreaming alone since ten o’clock at the window, while the + stars twinkled among the clouds, and the lights of the neighbors + disappeared one by one in the houses round. Dreaming of what? Of the + meaning of this tragic comedy which we call life. Alas! alas! I was as + melancholy as the preacher. A hundred years seemed to me a dream, life a + breath, and everything a nothing. What tortures of mind and soul, and all + that we may die in a few minutes! What should interest us, and why? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Le temps n’est rien pour l’âme, enfant, ta vie est pleine, + Et ce jour vaut cent ans, s’il te fait trouver Dieu.” + </pre> + <p> + To make an object for myself, to hope, to struggle, seems to me more and + more impossible and amazing. At twenty I was the embodiment of curiosity, + elasticity and spiritual ubiquity; at thirty-seven I have not a will, a + desire, or a talent left; the fireworks of my youth have left nothing but + a handful of ashes behind them. + </p> + <p> + December 13, 1858.—Consider yourself a refractory pupil for whom you + are responsible as mentor and tutor. To sanctify sinful nature, by + bringing it gradually under the control of the angel within us, by the + help of a holy God, is really the whole of Christian pedagogy and of + religious morals. Our work—my work—consists in taming, + subduing, evangelizing and <i>angelizing</i> the evil self; and in + restoring harmony with the good self. Salvation lies in abandoning the + evil self in principle and in taking refuge with the other, the divine + self, in accepting with courage and prayer the task of living with one’s + own demon, and making it into a less and less rebellious instrument of + good. The Abel in us must labor for the salvation of the Cain. To + undertake it is to be converted, and this conversion must be repeated day + by day. Abel only redeems and touches Cain by exercising him constantly in + good works. To do right is in one sense an act of violence; it is + suffering, expiation, a cross, for it means the conquest and enslavement + of self. In another sense it is the apprenticeship to heavenly things, + sweet and secret joy, contentment and peace. Sanctification implies + perpetual martyrdom, but it is a martyrdom which glorifies. A crown of + thorns is the sad eternal symbol of the life of the saints. The best + measure of the profundity of any religious doctrine is given by its + conception of sin and the cure of sin. + </p> + <p> + A duty is no sooner divined than from that very moment it becomes binding + upon us. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Latent genius is but a presumption. Everything that can be, is bound to + come into being, and what never comes into being is nothing. + </p> + <p> + July 14, 1859.—I have just read “Faust” again. Alas, every year I am + fascinated afresh by this somber figure, this restless life. It is the + type of suffering toward which I myself gravitate, and I am always finding + in the poem words which strike straight to my heart. Immortal, malign, + accursed type! Specter of my own conscience, ghost of my own torment, + image of the ceaseless struggle of the soul which has not yet found its + true aliment, its peace, its faith—art thou not the typical example + of a life which feeds upon itself, because it has not found its God, and + which, in its wandering flight across the worlds, carries within it, like + a comet, an inextinguishable flame of desire, and an agony of incurable + disillusion? I also am reduced to nothingness, and I shiver on the brink + of the great empty abysses of my inner being, stifled by longing for the + unknown, consumed with the thirst for the infinite, prostrate before the + ineffable. I also am torn sometimes by this blind passion for life, these + desperate struggles for happiness, though more often I am a prey to + complete exhaustion and taciturn despair. What is the reason of it all? + Doubt—doubt of one’s self, of thought, of men, and of life—doubt + which enervates the will and weakens all our powers, which makes us forget + God and neglect prayer and duty—that restless and corrosive doubt + which makes existence impossible and meets all hope with satire. + </p> + <p> + July 17, 1859.—Always and everywhere salvation is torture, + deliverance means death, and peace lies in sacrifice. If we would win our + pardon, we must kiss the fiery crucifix. Life is a series of agonies, a + Calvary, which we can only climb on bruised and aching knees. We seek + distractions; we wander away; we deafen and stupefy ourselves that we may + escape the test; we turn away oar eyes from the <i>via dolorosa</i>; and + yet there is no help for it—we must come back to it in the end. What + we have to recognize is that each of us carries within himself his own + executioner—his demon, his hell, in his sin; that his sin is his + idol, and that this idol, which seduces the desire of his heart, is his + curse. + </p> + <p> + <i>Die unto sin!</i> This great saying of Christianity remains still the + highest theoretical solution of the inner life. Only in it is there any + peace of conscience; and without this peace there is no peace.... + </p> + <p> + I have just read seven chapters of the gospel. Nothing calms me so much. + To do one’s duty in love and obedience, to do what is right—these + are the ideas which remain with one. To live in God and to do his work—this + is religion, salvation, life eternal; this is both the effect and the sign + of love and of the Holy Spirit; this is the new man announced by Jesus, + and the new life into which we enter by the second birth. To be born again + is to renounce the old life, sin, and the natural man, and to take to + one’s self another principle of life. It is to exist for God with another + self, another will, another love. + </p> + <p> + August 9, 1859.—Nature is forgetful: the world is almost more so. + However little the individual may lend himself to it, oblivion soon covers + him like a shroud. This rapid and inexorable expansion of the universal + life, which covers, overflows, and swallows up all individual being, which + effaces our existence and annuls all memory of us, fills me with + unbearable melancholy. To be born, to struggle, to disappear—there + is the whole ephemeral drama of human life. Except in a few hearts, and + not even always in one, our memory passes like a ripple on the water, or a + breeze in the air. If nothing in us is immortal, what a small thing is + life. Like a dream which trembles and dies at the first glimmer of dawn, + all my past, all my present, dissolve in me, and fall away from my + consciousness at the moment when it returns upon itself. I feel myself + then stripped and empty, like a convalescent who remembers nothing. My + travels, my reading, my studies, my projects, my hopes, have faded from my + mind. It is a singular state. All my faculties drop away from me like a + cloak that one takes off, like the chrysalis case of a larva. I feel + myself returning into a more elementary form. I behold my own unclothing; + I forget, still more than I am forgotten; I pass gently into the grave + while still living, and I feel, as it were, the indescribable peace of + annihilation, and the dim quiet of the Nirvana. I am conscious of the + river of time passing before and in me, of the impalpable shadows of life + gliding past me, but nothing breaks the cateleptic tranquillity which + enwraps me. + </p> + <p> + I come to understand the Buddhist trance of the Soufis, the kief of the + Turk, the “ecstasy” of the orientals, and yet I am conscious all the time + that the pleasure of it is deadly, that, like the use of opium or of + hasheesh, it is a kind of slow suicide, inferior in all respects to the + joys of action, to the sweetness of love, to the beauty of enthusiasm, to + the sacred savor of accomplished duty. November 28, 1859.—This + evening I heard the first lecture of Ernest Naville [Footnote: The + well-known Genevese preacher and writer, Ernest Naville, the son of a + Genevese pastor, was born in 1816, became professor at the Academy of + Geneva in 1844, lost his post after the revolution of 1846, and, except + for a short interval in 1860, has since then held no official position. + His courses of theological lectures, delivered at intervals from 1859 + onward, were an extraordinary success. They were at first confined to men + only, and an audience of two thousand persons sometimes assembled to hear + them. To literature he is mainly known as the editor of Maine de Biran’s + Journal.] on “The Eternal Life.” It was admirably sure in touch, true, + clear, and noble throughout. He proved that, whether we would or no, we + were bound to face the question of another life. Beauty of character, + force of expression, depth of thought, were all equally visible in this + extemporized address, which was as closely reasoned as a book, and can + scarcely be disentangled from the quotations of which it was full. The + great room of the Casino was full to the doors, and one saw a fairly large + number of white heads. + </p> + <p> + December 13, 1859.—Fifth lecture on “The Eternal Life” (“The Proof + of the Gospel by the Supernatural.”) The same talent and great eloquence; + but the orator does not understand that the supernatural must either be + historically proved, or, supposing it cannot be proved, that it must + renounce all pretensions to overstep the domain of faith and to encroach + upon that of history and science. He quotes Strauss, Renan, Scherer, but + he touches only the letter of them, not the spirit. Everywhere one sees + the Cartesian dualism and a striking want of the genetic, historical, and + critical sense. The idea of a living evolution has not penetrated into the + consciousness of the orator. With every intention of dealing with things + as they are, he remains, in spite of himself, subjective and oratorical. + There is the inconvenience of handling a matter polemically instead of in + the spirit of the student. Naville’s moral sense is too strong for his + discernment and prevents him from seeing what he does not wish to see. In + his metaphysic, will is placed above intelligence, and in his personality + the character is superior to the understanding, as one might logically + expect. And the consequence is, that he may prop up what is tottering, but + he makes no conquests; he may help to preserve existing truths and + beliefs, but he is destitute of initiative or vivifying power. He is a + moralizing but not a suggestive or stimulating influence. A popularizer, + apologist and orator of the greatest merit, he is a schoolman at bottom; + his arguments are of the same type as those of the twelfth century, and he + defends Protestantism in the same way in which Catholicism has been + commonly defended. The best way of demonstrating the insufficiency of this + point of view is to show by history how incompletely it has been + superseded. The chimera of a simple and absolute truth is wholly Catholic + and anti-historic. The mind of Naville is mathematical and his objects + moral. His strength lies in <i>mathematicizing</i> morals. As soon as it + becomes a question of development, metamorphosis, organization—as + soon as he is brought into contact with the mobile world of actual life, + especially of the spiritual life, he has no longer anything serviceable to + say. Language is for him a system of fixed signs; a man, a people, a book, + are so many geometrical figures of which we have only to discover the + properties. + </p> + <p> + December 15th.—Naville’s sixth lecture, an admirable one, because it + did nothing more than expound the Christian doctrine of eternal life. As + an extempore performance—marvelously exact, finished, clear and + noble, marked by a strong and disciplined eloquence. There was not a + single reservation to make in the name of criticism, history or + philosophy. It was all beautiful, noble, true and pure. It seems to me + that Naville has improved in the art of speech during these latter years. + He has always had a kind of dignified and didactic beauty, but he has now + added to it the contagious cordiality and warmth of feeling which complete + the orator; he moves the whole man, beginning with the intellect but + finishing with the heart. He is now very near to the true virile + eloquence, and possesses one species of it indeed very nearly in + perfection. He has arrived at the complete command of the resources of his + own nature, at an adequate and masterly expression of himself. Such + expression is the joy and glory of the oratorical artist as of every + other. Naville is rapidly becoming a model in the art of premeditated and + self-controlled eloquence. + </p> + <p> + There is another kind of eloquence—that which seems inspired, which + finds, discovers, and illuminates by bounds and flashes, which is born in + the sight of the audience and transports it. Such is not Naville’s kind. + Is it better worth having? I do not know. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Every real need is stilled, and every vice is stimulated by satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Obstinacy is will asserting itself without being able to justify itself. + It is persistence without a plausible motive. It is the tenacity of + self-love substituted for the tenacity of reason or conscience. + </p> + <p> + It is not what he has, nor even what he does, which directly expresses the + worth of a man, but what he is. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What comfort, what strength, what economy there is in <i>order</i>—material + order, intellectual order, moral order. To know where one is going and + what one wishes—this is order; to keep one’s word and one’s + engagements—again order; to have everything ready under one’s hand, + to be able to dispose of all one’s forces, and to have all one’s means of + whatever kind under command—still order; to discipline one’s habits, + one’s effort, one’s wishes; to organize one’s life, to distribute one’s + time, to take the measure of one’s duties and make one’s rights respected; + to employ one’s capital and resources, one’s talent and one’s chances + profitably—all this belongs to and is included in the word <i>order</i>. + Order means light and peace, inward liberty and free command over one’s + self; order is power. Aesthetic and moral beauty consist, the first in a + true perception of order, and the second in submission to it, and in the + realization of it, by, in, and around one’s self. Order is man’s greatest + need and his true well-being. + </p> + <p> + April 17, 1860.—The cloud has lifted; I am better. I have been able + to take my usual walk on the Treille; all the buds were opening and the + young shoots were green on all the branches. The rippling of clear water, + the merriment of birds, the young freshness of plants, and the noisy play + of children, produce a strange effect upon an invalid. Or rather it was + strange to me to be looking at such things with the eyes of a sick and + dying man; it was my first introduction to a new phase of experience. + There is a deep sadness in it. One feels one’s self cut off from nature—outside + her communion as it were. She is strength and joy and eternal health. + “Room for the living,” she cries to us; “do not come to darken my blue sky + with your miseries; each has his turn: begone!” But to strengthen our own + courage, we must say to ourselves, No; it is good for the world to see + suffering and weakness; the sight adds zest to the joy of the happy and + the careless, and is rich in warning for all who think. Life has been lent + to us, and we owe it to our traveling companions to let them see what use + we make of it to the end. We must show our brethren both how to live and + how to die. These first summonses of illness have besides a divine value; + they give us glimpses behind the scenes of life; they teach us something + of its awful reality and its inevitable end. They teach us sympathy. They + warn us to redeem the time while it is yet day. They awaken in us + gratitude for the blessings which are still ours, and humility for the + gifts which are in us. So that, evils though they seem, they are really an + appeal to us from on high, a touch of God’s fatherly scourge. + </p> + <p> + How frail a thing is health, and what a thin envelope protects our life + against being swallowed up from without, or disorganized from within! A + breath, and the boat springs a leak or founders; a nothing, and all is + endangered; a passing cloud, and all is darkness! Life is indeed a flower + which a morning withers and the beat of a passing wing breaks down; it is + the widow’s lamp, which the slightest blast of air extinguishes. In order + to realize the poetry which clings to morning roses, one needs to have + just escaped from the claws of that vulture which we call illness. The + foundation and the heightening of all things is the graveyard. The only + certainty in this world of vain agitations and endless anxieties, is the + certainty of death, and that which is the foretaste and small change of + death—pain. + </p> + <p> + As long as we turn our eyes away from this implacable reality, the tragedy + of life remains hidden from us. As soon as we look at it face to face, the + true proportions of everything reappear, and existence becomes solemn + again. It is made clear to us that we have been frivolous and petulant, + intractable and forgetful, and that we have been wrong. + </p> + <p> + We must die and give an account of our life: here in all its simplicity is + the teaching of sickness! “Do with all diligence what you have to do; + reconcile yourself with the law of the universe; think of your duty; + prepare yourself for departure:” such is the cry of conscience and of + reason. + </p> + <p> + May 3, 1860.—Edgar Quinet has attempted everything: he has aimed at + nothing but the greatest things; he is rich in ideas, a master of splendid + imagery, serious, enthusiastic, courageous, a noble writer. How is it, + then, that he has not more reputation? Because he is too pure; because he + is too uniformly ecstatic, fantastic, inspired—a mood which soon + palls on Frenchmen. Because he is too single-minded, candid, theoretical, + and speculative, too ready to believe in the power of words and of ideas, + too expansive and confiding; while at the same time he is lacking in the + qualities which amuse clever people—in sarcasm, irony, cunning and + <i>finesse</i>. He is an idealist reveling in color: a Platonist + brandishing the <i>thyrsus</i> of the Menads. At bottom his is a mind of + no particular country. It is in vain that he satirizes Germany and abuses + England; he does not make himself any more of a Frenchman by doing so. It + is a northern intellect wedded to a southern imagination, but the marriage + has not been a happy one. He has the disease of chronic magniloquence, of + inveterate sublimity; abstractions for him become personified and colossal + beings, which act or speak in colossal fashion; he is intoxicated with the + infinite. But one feels all the time that his creations are only + individual monologues; he cannot escape from the bounds of a subjective + lyrism. Ideas, passions, anger, hopes, complaints—he himself is + present in them all. We never have the delight of escaping from his magic + circle, of seeing truth as it is, of entering into relation with the + phenomena and the beings of whom he speaks, with the reality of things. + This imprisonment of the author within his personality looks like conceit. + But on the contrary, it is because the heart is generous that the mind is + egotistical. It is because Quinet thinks himself so much of a Frenchman + that he is it so little. These ironical compensations of destiny are very + familiar to me: I have often observed them. Man is nothing but + contradiction: the less he knows it the more dupe he is. In consequence of + his small capacity for seeing things as they are, Quinet has neither much + accuracy nor much balance of mind. He recalls Victor Hugo, with much less + artistic power but more historical sense. His principal gift is a great + command of imagery and symbolism. He seems to me a Görres [Footnote: + Joseph Goerres, a German mystic and disciple of Schelling. He published, + among other works, “Mythengeschichte der Asiatischen Welt,” and + “Christliche Mystik.”] transplanted to Franche Comté, a sort of + supernumerary prophet, with whom his nation hardly knows what to do, + seeing that she loves neither enigmas nor ecstasy nor inflation of + language, and that the intoxication of the tripod bores her. + </p> + <p> + The real excellence of Quinet seems to me to lie in his historical works + (“Marnix,” “L’Italie,” “Les Roumains”), and especially in his studies of + nationalities. He was born, to understand these souls, at once more vast + and more sublime than individual souls. + </p> + <p> + (<i>Later</i>).—I have been translating into verse that page of + Goethe’s “Faust” in which is contained his pantheistic confession of + faith. The translation is not bad, I think. But what a difference between + the two languages in the matter of precision! It is like the difference + between stump and graving-tool—the one showing the effort, the other + noting the result of the act; the one making you feel all that is merely + dreamed or vague, formless or vacant, the other determining, fixing, + giving shape even to the indefinite; the one representing the cause, the + force, the limbo whence things issue, the other the things themselves. + German has the obscure depth of the infinite, French the clear brightness + of the finite. + </p> + <p> + May 5, 1860.—To grow old is more difficult than to die, because to + renounce a good once and for all, costs less than to renew the sacrifice + day by day and in detail. To bear with one’s own decay, to accept one’s + own lessening capacity, is a harder and rarer virtue than to face death. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is a halo round tragic and premature death; there is but a long + sadness in declining strength. But look closer: so studied, a resigned and + religious old age will often move us more than the heroic ardor of young + years. The maturity of the soul is worth more than the first brilliance of + its faculties, or the plentitude of its strength, and the eternal in us + can but profit from all the ravages made by time. There is comfort in this + thought. + </p> + <p> + May 22, 1860.—There is in me a secret incapacity for expressing my + true feeling, for saying what pleases others, for bearing witness to the + present—a reserve which I have often noticed in myself with + vexation. My heart never dares to speak seriously, either because it is + ashamed of being thought to flatter, or afraid lest it should not find + exactly the right expression. I am always trifling with the present + moment. Feeling in me is retrospective. My refractory nature is slow to + recognize the solemnity of the hour in which I actually stand. An ironical + instinct, born of timidity, makes me pass lightly over what I have on + pretence of waiting for some other thing at some other time. Fear of being + carried away, and distrust of myself pursue me even in moments of emotion; + by a sort of invincible pride, I can never persuade myself to say to any + particular instant: “Stay! decide for me; be a supreme moment! stand out + from the monotonous depths of eternity and mark a unique experience in my + life!” I trifle, even with happiness, out of distrust of the future. + </p> + <p> + May 27, 1860. (Sunday).—I heard this morning a sermon on the Holy + Spirit—good but insufficient. Why was I not edified? Because there + was no unction. Why was there no unction? Because Christianity from this + rationalistic point of view is a Christianity of <i>dignity</i>, not of + humility. Penitence, the struggles of weakness, austerity, find no place + in it. The law is effaced, holiness and mysticism evaporate; the + specifically Christian accent is wanting. My impression is always the same—faith + is made a dull poor thing by these attempts to reduce it to simple moral + psychology. I am oppressed by a feeling of inappropriateness and <i>malaise</i> + at the sight of philosophy in the pulpit. “They have taken away my + Saviour, and I know not where they have laid him;” so the simple folk have + a right to say, and I repeat it with them. Thus, while some shock me by + their sacerdotal dogmatism, others repel me by their rationalizing + laicism. It seems to me that good preaching ought to combine, as + Schleiermacher did, perfect moral humility with energetic independence of + thought, a profound sense of sin with respect for criticism and a passion + for truth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The free being who abandons the conduct of himself, yields himself to + Satan; in the moral world there is no ground without a master, and the + waste lands belong to the Evil One. + </p> + <p> + The poetry of childhood consists in simulating and forestalling the + future, just as the poetry of mature life consists often in going backward + to some golden age. Poetry is always in the distance. The whole art of + moral government lies in gaining a directing and shaping hold over the + poetical ideals of an age. + </p> + <p> + January 9, 1861.—I have just come from the inaugural lecture of + Victor Cherbuliez in a state of bewildered admiration. As a lecture it was + exquisite: if it was a recitation of prepared matter, it was admirable; if + an extempore performance, it was amazing. In the face of superiority and + perfection, says Schiller, we have but one resource—to love them, + which is what I have done. I had the pleasure, mingled with a little + surprise, of feeling in myself no sort of jealousy toward this young + conqueror. + </p> + <p> + March 15th.—This last lecture in Victor Cherbuliez’s course on + “Chivalry,” which is just over, showed the same magical power over his + subject as that with which he began the series two months ago. It was a + triumph and a harvest of laurels. Cervantes, Ignatius Loyola, and the + heritage of chivalry—that is to say, individualism, honor, the + poetry of the present and the poetry of contrasts, modern liberty and + progress—have been the subjects of this lecture. + </p> + <p> + The general impression left upon me all along has been one of admiration + for the union in him of extraordinary skill in execution with admirable + cultivation of mind. With what freedom of spirit he uses and wields his + vast erudition, and what capacity for close attention he must have to be + able to carry the weight of a whole improvised speech with the same ease + as though it were a single sentence! I do not know if I am partial, but I + find no occasion for anything but praise in this young wizard and his + lectures. The fact is, that in my opinion we have now one more first rate + mind, one more master of language among us. This course, with the + “Causeries Athéniennes,” seems to me to establish Victor Cherbuliez’s + position at Geneva. + </p> + <p> + March 17, 1861.—This afternoon a homicidal languor seized hold upon + me—disgust, weariness of life, mortal sadness. I wandered out into + the churchyard, hoping to find quiet and peace there, and so to reconcile + myself with duty. Vain dream! The place of rest itself had become + inhospitable. Workmen were stripping and carrying away the turf, the trees + were dry, the wind cold, the sky gray—something arid, irreverent, + and prosaic dishonored the resting-place of the dead. I was struck with + something wanting in our national feeling—respect for the dead, the + poetry of the tomb, the piety of memory. Our churches are too little open; + our churchyards too much. The result in both cases is the same. The + tortured and trembling heart which seeks, outside the scene of its daily + miseries, to find some place where it may pray in peace, or pour out its + grief before God, or meditate in the presence of eternal things, with us + has nowhere to go. Our church ignores these wants of the soul instead of + divining and meeting them. She shows very little compassionate care for + her children, very little wise consideration for the more delicate griefs, + and no intuition of the deeper mysteries of tenderness, no religious + suavity. Under a pretext of spirituality we are always checking legitimate + aspirations. We have lost the mystical sense; and what is religion without + mysticism? A rose without perfume. + </p> + <p> + The words <i>repentance</i> and <i>sanctification</i> are always on our + lips. But <i>adoration</i> and <i>consolation</i> are also two essential + elements in religion, and we ought perhaps to make more room for them than + we do. + </p> + <p> + April 28, 1861.—In the same way as a dream transforms according to + its nature, the incidents of sleep, so the soul converts into psychical + phenomena the ill-defined impressions of the organism. An uncomfortable + attitude becomes nightmare; an atmosphere charged with storm becomes moral + torment. Not mechanically and by direct causality; but imagination and + conscience engender, according to their own nature, analogous effects; + they translate into their own language, and cast into their own mold, + whatever reaches them from outside. Thus dreams may be helpful to medicine + and to divination, and states of weather may stir up and set free within + the soul vague and hidden evils. The suggestions and solicitations which + act upon life come from outside, but life produces nothing but itself + after all. Originality consists in rapid and clear reaction against these + outside influences, in giving to them our individual stamp. To think is to + withdraw, as it were, into one’s impression—to make it clear to + one’s self, and then to put it forth in the shape of a personal judgment. + In this also consists self-deliverance, self-enfranchisement, + self-conquest. All that comes from outside is a question to which we owe + an answer—a pressure to be met by counter-pressure, if we are to + remain free and living agents. The development of our unconscious nature + follows the astronomical laws of Ptolemy; everything in it is change—cycle, + epi-cycle, and metamorphosis. + </p> + <p> + Every man then possesses in himself the analogies and rudiments of all + things, of all beings, and of all forms of life. He who knows how to + divine the small beginnings, the germs and symptoms of things, can retrace + in himself the universal mechanism, and divine by intuition the series + which he himself will not finish, such as vegetable and animal existences, + human passions and crises, the diseases of the soul and those of the body. + The mind which is subtle and powerful may penetrate all these + potentialities, and make every point flash out the world which it + contains. This is to be conscious of and to possess the general life, this + is to enter into the divine sanctuary of contemplation. + </p> + <p> + September 12, 1861.—In me an intellect which would fain forget + itself in things, is contradicted by a heart which yearns to live in human + beings. The uniting link of the two contradictions is the tendency toward + self-abandonment, toward ceasing to will and exist for one’s self, toward + laying down one’s own personality, and losing—dissolving—one’s + self in love and contemplation. What I lack above all things is character, + will, individuality. But, as always happens, the appearance is exactly the + contrary of the reality, and my outward life the reverse of my true and + deepest aspiration. I whose whole being—heart and intellect—thirsts + to absorb itself in reality, in its neighbor man, in nature and in God, I, + whom solitude devours and destroys, I shut myself up in solitude and seem + to delight only in myself and to be sufficient for myself. Pride and + delicacy of soul, timidity of heart, have made me thus do violence to all + my instincts and invert the natural order of my life. It is not + astonishing that I should be unintelligible to others. In fact I have + always avoided what attracted me, and turned my back upon the point where + secretly I desired to be. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Deux instincts sont en moi: vertige et déraison; + J’ai l’effroi du bonheur et la soif du poison.” + </pre> + <p> + It is the Nemesis which dogs the steps of life, the secret instinct and + power of death in us, which labors continually for the destruction of all + that seeks to be, to take form, to exist; it is the passion for + destruction, the tendency toward suicide, identifying itself with the + instinct of self-preservation. This antipathy toward all that does one + good, all that nourishes and heals, is it not a mere variation of the + antipathy to moral light and regenerative truth? Does not sin also create + a thirst for death, a growing passion for what does harm? Discouragement + has been my sin. Discouragement is an act of unbelief. Growing weakness + has been the consequence of it; the principle of death in me and the + influence of the Prince of Darkness have waxed stronger together. My will + in abdicating has yielded up the scepter to instinct; and as the + corruption of the best results in what is worst, love of the ideal, + tenderness, unworldliness, have led me to a state in which I shrink from + hope and crave for annihilation. Action is my cross. + </p> + <p> + October 11, 1861. (<i>Heidelberg</i>).—After eleven days journey, + here I am under the roof of my friends, in their hospitable house on the + banks of the Neckar, with its garden climbing up the side of the + Heiligenberg.... Blazing sun; my room is flooded with light and warmth. + Sitting opposite the Geisberg, I write to the murmur of the Neckar, which + rolls its green waves, flecked with silver, exactly beneath the balcony on + which my room opens. A great barge coming from Heilbron passes silently + under my eyes, while the wheels of a cart which I cannot see are dimly + heard on the road which skirts the river. Distant voices of children, of + cocks, of chirping sparrows, the clock of the Church of the Holy Spirit, + which chimes the hour, serve to gauge, without troubling, the general + tranquility of the scene. One feels the hours gently slipping by, and + time, instead of flying, seems to hover. A peace beyond words steals into + my heart, an impression of morning grace, of fresh country poetry which + brings back the sense of youth, and has the true German savor.... Two + decked barges carrying red flags, each with a train of flat boats filled + with coal, are going up the river and making their way under the arch of + the great stone bridge. I stand at the window and see a whole perspective + of boats sailing in both directions; the Neckar is as animated as the + street of some great capital; and already on the slope of the wooded + mountain, streaked by the smoke-wreaths of the town, the castle throws its + shadow like a vast drapery, and traces the outlines of its battlements and + turrets. Higher up, in front of me, rises the dark profile of the + Molkenkur; higher still, in relief against the dazzling east, I can + distinguish the misty forms of the two towers of the Kaiserstuhl and the + Trutzheinrich. + </p> + <p> + But enough of landscape. My host, Dr. George Weber, tells me that his + manual of history is translated into Polish, Dutch, Spanish, Italian, and + French, and that of his great “Universal History”—three volumes are + already published. What astonishing power of work, what prodigious + tenacity, what solidity! <i>O deutscher Fleiss</i>! + </p> + <p> + November 25, 1861.—To understand a drama requires the same mental + operation as to understand an existence, a biography, a man. It is a + putting back of the bird into the egg, of the plant into its seed, a + reconstitution of the whole genesis of the being in question. Art is + simply the bringing into relief of the obscure thought of nature; a + simplification of the lines, a falling into place of groups otherwise + invisible. The fire of inspiration brings out, as it were, designs traced + beforehand in sympathetic ink. The mysterious grows clear, the confused + plain; what is complicated becomes simple—what is accidental, + necessary. + </p> + <p> + In short, art reveals nature by interpreting its intentions and + formulating its desires. Every ideal is the key of a long enigma. The + great artist is the simplifier. + </p> + <p> + Every man is a tamer of wild beasts, and these wild beasts are his + passions. To draw their teeth and claws, to muzzle and tame them, to turn + them into servants and domestic animals, fuming, perhaps, but submissive—in + this consists personal education. + </p> + <p> + February 3, 1862.—Self-criticism is the corrosive of all oratorical + or literary spontaneity. The thirst to know turned upon the self is + punished, like the curiosity of Psyche, by the flight of the thing + desired. Force should remain a mystery to itself; as soon as it tries to + penetrate its own secret it vanishes away. The hen with the golden eggs + becomes unfruitful as soon as she tries to find out why her eggs are + golden. The consciousness of consciousness is the term and end of + analysis. True, but analysis pushed to extremity devours itself, like the + Egyptian serpent. We must give it some external matter to crush and + dissolve if we wish to prevent its destruction by its action upon itself. + “We are, and ought to be, obscure to ourselves,” said Goethe, “turned + outward, and working upon the world which surrounds us.” Outward radiation + constitutes health; a too continuous concentration upon what is within + brings us back to vacuity and blank. It is better that life should dilate + and extend itself in ever-widening circles, than that it should be + perpetually diminished and compressed by solitary contraction. Warmth + tends to make a globe out of an atom; cold, to reduce a globe to the + dimensions of an atom. Analysis has been to me self-annulling, + self-destroying. + </p> + <p> + April 23, 1862. (<i>Mornex sur Salève</i>).—I was awakened by the + twittering of the birds at a quarter to five, and saw, as I threw open my + windows, the yellowing crescent of the moon looking in upon me, while the + east was just faintly whitening. An hour later it was delicious out of + doors. The anemones were still closed, the apple-trees in full flower: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ces beaux pommiers, coverts de leurs fleurs étoiléens, + Neige odorante du printemps.” + </pre> + <p> + The view was exquisite, and nature, in full festival, spread freshness and + joy around her. I breakfasted, read the paper, and here I am. The ladies + of the <i>pension</i> are still under the horizon. I pity them for the + loss of two or three delightful hours. + </p> + <p> + Eleven o’clock.—Preludes, scales, piano-exercises going on under my + feet. In the garden children’s voices. I have just finished Rosenkrantz on + “Hegel’s Logic,” and have run through a few articles in the Reviews.... + The limitation of the French mind consists in the insufficiency of its + spiritual alphabet, which does not allow it to translate the Greek, + German, or Spanish mind without changing the accent. The hospitality of + French manners is not completed by a real hospitality of thought.... My + nature is just the opposite. I am individual in the presence of men, + objective in the presence of things. I attach myself to the object, and + absorb myself in it; I detach myself from subjects [<i>i.e.</i>. persons], + and hold myself on my guard against them. I feel myself different from the + mass of men, and akin to the great whole of nature. My way of asserting + myself is in cherishing this sense of sympathetic unity with life, which I + yearn to understand, and in repudiating the tyranny of commonplace. All + that is imitative and artificial inspires me with a secret repulsion, + while the smallest true and spontaneous existence (plant, animal, child) + draws and attracts me. I feel myself in community of spirit with the + Goethes, the Hegels, the Schleiermachers, the Leibnitzes, opposed as they + are among themselves; while the French mathematicians, philosophers, or + rhetoricians, in spite of their high qualities, leave me cold, because + there is in them no sense of the whole, the sum of things [Footnote: The + following passage from Sainte-Beuve may be taken as a kind of answer by + anticipation to this accusation, which Amiel brings more than once in the + course of the Journal: + </p> + <p> + “Toute nation livrée à elle-même et à son propre génie se fait une + critique littéraire qui y est conforme. La France en son beau temps a eu + la sienne, qui ne ressemble ni à celle de l’Allemagne ni à celle de ses + autres voisins—un peu plus superficielle, dira-t-on—je ne le + crois pas: mais plus vive, moins chargée d’erudition, moins théorique et + systématique, plus confiante au sentiment immédiat du goût. <i>Un peu de + chaque chose et rien de l’ensemble, à la Française</i>: telle était la + devise de Montaigne et telle est aussi la devise de la critique française. + Nous ne sommes pas <i>synthétiques</i>, comme diraient les Allemands; le + mot même n’est pas française. L’imagination de détail nous suffit. + Montaigne, La Fontaine Madame de Sévigné, sont volontiers nos livres de + chevet.” + </p> + <p> + The French critic then goes on to give a rapid sketch of the authors and + the books, “qui ont peu a peu formé comme notre rhétorique.” French + criticism of the old characteristic kind rests ultimately upon the minute + and delicate knowledge of a few Greek and Latin classics. Arnauld, + Boileau, Fénélon, Rollin, Racine <i>fils</i>, Voltaire, La Harpe, + Marmontel, Delille, Fontanes, and Châteaubriand in one aspect, are the + typical names of this tradition, the creators and maintainers of this + common literary <i>fonds</i>, this “sorte de circulation courante à + l’usage des gens instruits. J’avoue ma faiblesse: nous sommes devenus bien + plus forts dans la dissertation érudite, mais j’aurais un éternel regret + pour cette moyenne et plus libre habitude littéraire qui laissait à + l’imagination tout son espace et à l’esprit tout son jeu; qui formait une + atmosphère saine et facile où le talent respirait et se mouvait à son gré: + cette atmosphère-là, je ne la trouve plus, et je la regrette.”—(<i>Châteaubriand + et son Groupe Littéraire</i>, vol. i. p. 311.) + </p> + <p> + The following <i>pensée</i> of La Bruyère applies to the second half of + Amiel’s criticism of the French mind: “If you wish to travel in the + Inferno or the Paradiso you must take other guides,” etc. + </p> + <p> + “Un homme né Chrétien et François se trouve contraint dans la satyre; les + grands sujets lui sont défendus, il les entame quelquefois, et se détourne + ensuite sur de petites choses qu’il relève par la beauté de son génie et + de son style.”—<i>Les Caractères</i>, etc., “<i>Des Ouvrages + del’Esprit</i>.”]—because they have no <i>grasp</i> of reality in + its fullness, and therefore either cramp and limit me or awaken my + distrust. The French lack that intuitive faculty to which the living unity + of things is revealed, they have very little sense of what is sacred, very + little penetration into the mysteries of being. What they excel in is the + construction of special sciences; the art of writing a book, style, + courtesy, grace, literary models, perfection and urbanity; the spirit of + order, the art of teaching, discipline, elegance, truth of detail, power + of arrangement; the desire and the gift for proselytism, the vigor + necessary for practical conclusions. But if you wish to travel in the + “Inferno” or the “Paradiso” you must take other guides. Their home is on + the earth, in the region of the finite, the changing, the historical, and + the diverse. Their logic never goes beyond the category of mechanism nor + their metaphysic beyond dualism. When they undertake anything else they + are doing violence to themselves. + </p> + <p> + April 24th. (<i>Noon</i>).—All around me profound peace, the silence + of the mountains in spite of a full house and a neighboring village. No + sound is to be heard but the murmur of the flies. There is something very + striking in this calm. The middle of the day is like the middle of the + night. Life seems suspended just when it is most intense. These are the + moments in which one hears the infinite and perceives the ineffable. + Victor Hugo, in his “Contemplations,” has been carrying me from world to + world, and since then his contradictions have reminded me of the convinced + Christian with whom I was talking yesterday in a house near by.... The + same sunlight floods both the book and nature, the doubting poet and the + believing preacher, as well as the mobile dreamer, who, in the midst of + all these various existences, allows himself to be swayed by every passing + breath, and delights, stretched along the car of his balloon, in floating + aimlessly through all the sounds and shallows of the ether, and in + realizing within himself all the harmonies and dissonances of the soul, of + feeling, and of thought. Idleness and contemplation! Slumber of the will, + lapses of the vital force, indolence of the whole being—how well I + know you! To love, to dream, to feel, to learn, to understand—all + these are possible to me if only I may be relieved from willing. It is my + tendency, my instinct, my fault, my sin. I have a sort of primitive horror + of ambition, of struggle, of hatred, of all which dissipates the soul and + makes it dependent upon external things and aims. The joy of becoming once + more conscious of myself, of listening to the passage of time and the flow + of the universal life, is sometimes enough to make me forget every desire, + and to quench in me both the wish to produce and the power to execute. + Intellectual Epicureanism is always threatening to overpower me. I can + only combat it by the idea of duty; it is as the poet has said: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ceux qui vivent, ce sont ceux qui luttent; ce sont + Ceux dont un dessein ferme emplit l’âme et le front, + Ceux qui d’un haut destin gravissent l’âpre cime, + Ceux qui marchent pensifs, épris d’un but sublime, + Ayant devant les yeux sans cesse, nuit et jour, + Ou quelque saint labeur ou quelque grand amour!” + </pre> + <p> + [Footnote: Victor Hugo, “Les Chatiments.”] + </p> + <p> + <i>Five o’clock.</i>—In the afternoon our little society met in + general talk upon the terrace. Some amount of familiarity and friendliness + begins to show itself in our relations to each other. I read over again + with emotion some passages of “Jocelyn.” How admirable it is! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Il se fit de sa vie une plus mâle idée: + Sa douleur d’un seul trait ne l’avait pas vidée; + Mais, adorant de Dieu le sévère dessein, + Il sut la porter pleine et pure dans son sein, + Et ne se hâtant pas de la répandre toute, + Sa résignation l’épancha goutte à goutte, + Selon la circonstance et le besoin d’autrui, + Pour tout vivifier sur terre autour de lui.” + </pre> + <p> + [Footnote: Epilogue of “Jocelyn.”] + </p> + <p> + The true poetry is that which raises you, as this does, toward heaven, and + fills you with divine emotion; which sings of love and death, of hope and + sacrifice, and awakens the sense of the infinite. “Jocelyn” always stirs + in me impulses of tenderness which it would be hateful to me to see + profaned by satire. As a tragedy of feeling, it has no parallel in French, + for purity, except “Paul et Virginie,” and I think that I prefer + “Jocelyn.” To be just, one ought to read them side by side. + </p> + <p> + <i>Six o’clock.</i>—One more day is drawing to its close. With the + exception of Mont Blanc, all the mountains have already lost their color. + The evening chill succeeds the heat of the afternoon. The sense of the + implacable flight of things, of the resistless passage of the hours, + seizes upon me afresh and oppresses me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nature au front serein, comme vous oubliez!” + </pre> + <p> + In vain we cry with the poet, “O time, suspend thy flight!”... And what + days, after all, would we keep and hold? Not only the happy days, but the + lost days! The first have left at least a memory behind them, the others + nothing but a regret which is almost a remorse.... + </p> + <p> + <i>Eleven o’clock.</i>—A gust of wind. A few clouds in the sky. The + nightingale is silent. On the other hand, the cricket and the river are + still singing. + </p> + <p> + August 9, 1862.—Life, which seeks its own continuance, tends to + repair itself without our help. It mends its spider’s webs when they have + been torn; it re-establishes in us the conditions of health, and itself + heals the injuries inflicted upon it; it binds the bandage again upon our + eyes, brings back hope into our hearts, breathes health once more into our + organs, and regilds the dream of our imagination. But for this, experience + would have hopelessly withered and faded us long before the time, and the + youth would be older than the centenarian. The wise part of us, then, is + that which is unconscious of itself; and what is most reasonable in man + are those elements in him which do not reason. Instinct, nature, a divine, + an impersonal activity, heal in us the wounds made by our own follies; the + invisible <i>genius</i> of our life is never tired of providing material + for the prodigalities of the self. The essential, maternal basis of our + conscious life, is therefore that unconscious life which we perceive no + more than the outer hemisphere of the moon perceives the earth, while all + the time indissolubly and eternally bound to it. It is our [Greek: + antichoon], to speak with Pythagoras. + </p> + <p> + November 7, 1862.—How malign, infectious, and unwholesome is the + eternal smile of that indifferent criticism, that attitude of ironical + contemplation, which corrodes and demolishes everything, that mocking + pitiless temper, which holds itself aloof from every personal duty and + every vulnerable affection, and cares only to understand without + committing itself to action! Criticism become a habit, a fashion, and a + system, means the destruction of moral energy, of faith, and of all + spiritual force. One of my tendencies leads me in this direction, but I + recoil before its results when I come across more emphatic types of it + than myself. And at least I cannot reproach myself with having ever + attempted to destroy the moral force of others; my reverence for life + forbade it, and my self-distrust has taken from me even the temptation to + it. + </p> + <p> + This kind of temper is very dangerous among us, for it flatters all the + worst instincts of men—indiscipline, irreverence, selfish + individualism—and it ends in social atomism. Minds inclined to mere + negation are only harmless in great political organisms, which go without + them and in spite of them. The multiplication of them among ourselves will + bring about the ruin of our little countries, for small states only live + by faith and will. Woe to the society where negation rules, for life is an + affirmation; and a society, a country, a nation, is a living whole capable + of death. No nationality is possible without prejudices, for public spirit + and national tradition are but webs woven out of innumerable beliefs which + have been acquired, admitted, and continued without formal proof and + without discussion. To act, we must believe; to believe, we must make up + our minds, affirm, decide, and in reality prejudge the question. He who + will only act upon a full scientific certitude is unfit for practical + life. But we are made for action, and we cannot escape from duty. Let us + not, then, condemn prejudice so long as we have nothing but doubt to put + in its place, or laugh at those whom we should be incapable of consoling! + This, at least, is my point of view. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Beyond the element which is common to all men there is an element which + separates them. This element may be religion, country, language, + education. But all these being supposed common, there still remains + something which serves as a line of demarcation—namely, the ideal. + To have an ideal or to have none, to have this ideal or that—this is + what digs gulfs between men, even between those who live in the same + family circle, under the same roof or in the same room. You must love with + the same love, think with the same thought as some one else, if you are to + escape solitude. + </p> + <p> + Mutual respect implies discretion and reserve even in love itself; it + means preserving as much liberty as possible to those whose life we share. + We must distrust our instinct of intervention, for the desire to make + one’s own will prevail is often disguised under the mask of solicitude. + </p> + <p> + How many times we become hypocrites simply by remaining the same outwardly + and toward others, when we know that inwardly and to ourselves we are + different. It is not hypocrisy in the strict sense, for we borrow no other + personality than our own; still, it is a kind of deception. The deception + humiliates us, and the humiliation is a chastisement which the mask + inflicts upon the face, which our past inflicts upon our present. Such + humiliation is good for us; for it produces shame, and shame gives birth + to repentance. Thus in an upright soul good springs out of evil, and it + falls only to rise again. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 8, 1863.—This evening I read through the “Cid” and + “Rodogune.” My impression is still a mixed and confused one. There is much + disenchantment in my admiration, and a good deal of reserve in my + enthusiasm. What displeases me in this dramatic art, is the mechanical + abstraction of the characters, and the scolding, shrewish tone of the + interlocutors. I had a vague impression of listening to gigantic + marionettes, perorating through a trumpet, with the emphasis of Spaniards. + There is power in it, but we have before us heroic idols rather than human + beings. The element of artificiality, of strained pomposity and + affectation, which is the plague of classical tragedy, is everywhere + apparent, and one hears, as it were, the cords and pulleys of these + majestic <i>colossi</i> creaking and groaning. I much prefer Racine and + Shakespeare; the one from the point of view of aesthetic sensation, the + other from that of psychological sensation. The southern theater can never + free itself from masks. Comic masks are bearable, but in the case of + tragic heroes, the abstract type, the mask, make one impatient. I can + laugh with personages of tin and pasteboard: I can only weep with the + living, or what resembles them. Abstraction turns easily to caricature; it + is apt to engender mere shadows on the wall, mere ghosts and puppets. It + is psychology of the first degree—elementary psychology—just + as the colored pictures of Germany are elementary painting. And yet with + all this, you have a double-distilled and often sophistical refinement: + just as savages are by no means simple. The fine side of it all is the + manly vigor, the bold frankness of ideas, words, and sentiments. Why is it + that we find so large an element of factitious grandeur, mingled with true + grandeur, in this drama of 1640, from which the whole dramatic development + of monarchical France was to spring? Genius is there, but it is hemmed + round by a conventional civilization, and, strive as he may, no man wears + a wig with impunity. + </p> + <p> + January 13, 1863.—To-day it has been the turn of “Polyeucte” and “La + Morte de Pompée.” Whatever one’s objections may be, there is something + grandiose in the style of Corneille which reconciles you at last even to + his stiff, emphatic manner, and his over-ingenious rhetoric. But it is the + dramatic <i>genre</i> which is false. His heroes are rôles rather than + men. They pose as magnanimity, virtue, glory, instead of realizing them + before us. They are always <i>en scène</i>, studied by others, or by + themselves. With them glory—that is to say, the life of ceremony and + of affairs, and the opinion of the public—replaces nature—becomes + nature. They never speak except <i>ore rotundo</i>, in <i>cothurnus</i>, + or sometimes on stilts. And what consummate advocates they all are! The + French drama is an oratorical tournament, a long suit between opposing + parties, on a day which is to end with the death of somebody, and where + all the personages represented are in haste to speak before the hour of + silence strikes. Elsewhere, speech serves to make action intelligible; in + French tragedy action is but a decent motive for speech. It is the + procedure calculated to extract the finest possible speeches from the + persons who are engaged in the action, and who represent different + perceptions of it at different moments and from different points of view. + Love and nature, duty and desire, and a dozen other moral antitheses, are + the limbs moved by the wire of the dramatist, who makes them fall into all + the tragic attitudes. What is really curious and amusing is that the + people of all others the most vivacious, gay, and intelligent, should have + always understood the grand style in this pompous, pedantic fashion. But + it was inevitable. + </p> + <p> + April 8, 1863.—I have been turning over the 3,500 pages of “Les + Misérables,” trying to understand the guiding idea of this vast + composition. The fundamental idea of “Les Misérables” seems to be this. + Society engenders certain frightful evils—prostitution, vagabondage, + rogues, thieves, convicts, war, revolutionary clubs and barricades. She + ought to impress this fact on her mind, and not treat all those who come + in contact with her law as mere monsters. The task before us is to + humanize law and opinion, to raise the fallen as well as the vanquished, + to create a social redemption. How is this to be done? By enlightening + vice and lawlessness, and so diminishing the sum of them, and by bringing + to bear upon the guilty the healing influence of pardon. At bottom is it + not a Christianization of society, this extension of charity from the + sinner to the condemned criminal, this application to our present life of + what the church applies more readily to the other? Struggle to restore a + human soul to order and to righteousness by patience and by love, instead + of crushing it by your inflexible vindictiveness, your savage justice! + Such is the cry of the book. It is great and noble, but it is a little + optimistic and Rousseau-like. According to it the individual is always + innocent and society always responsible, and the ideal before us for the + twentieth century is a sort of democratic age of gold, a universal + republic from which war, capital punishment, and pauperism will have + disappeared. It is the religion and the city of progress; in a word, the + Utopia of the eighteenth century revived on a great scale. There is a + great deal of generosity in it, mixed with not a little fanciful + extravagance. The fancifulness consists chiefly in a superficial notion of + evil. The author ignores or pretends to forget the instinct of perversity, + the love of evil for evil’s sake, which is contained in the human heart. + </p> + <p> + The great and salutary idea of the book, is that honesty before the law is + a cruel hypocrisy, in so far as it arrogates to itself the right of + dividing society according to its own standard into elect and reprobates, + and thus confounds the relative with the absolute. The leading passage is + that in which Javert, thrown off the rails, upsets the whole moral system + of the strict Javert, half spy, half priest—of the irreproachable + police-officer. In this chapter the writer shows us social charity + illuminating and transforming a harsh and unrighteous justice. Suppression + of the social hell, that is to say, of all irreparable stains, of all + social outlawries for which there is neither end nor hope—it is an + essentially religious idea. + </p> + <p> + The erudition, the talent, the brilliancy of execution, shown in the book + are astonishing, bewildering almost. Its faults are to be found in the + enormous length allowed to digressions and episodical dissertations, in + the exaggeration of all the combinations and all the theses, and, finally, + in something strained, spasmodic, and violent in the style, which is very + different from the style of natural eloquence or of essential truth. + Effect is the misfortune of Victor Hugo, because he makes it the center of + his aesthetic system; and hence exaggeration, monotony of emphasis, + theatricality of manner, a tendency to force and over-drive. A powerful + artist, but one with whom you never forget the artist; and a dangerous + model, for the master himself is already grazing the rock of burlesque, + and passes from the sublime to the repulsive, from lack of power to + produce one harmonious impression of beauty. It is natural enough that he + should detest Racine. + </p> + <p> + But what astonishing philological and literary power has Victor Hugo! He + is master of all the dialects contained in our language, dialects of the + courts of law, of the stock-exchange, of war, and of the sea, of + philosophy and the convict-gang, the dialects of trade and of archaeology, + of the antiquarian and the scavenger. All the bric-à-brac of history and + of manners, so to speak, all the curiosities of soil, and subsoil, are + known and familiar to him. He seems to have turned his Paris over and + over, and to know it body and soul as one knows the contents of one’s + pocket. What a prodigious memory and what a lurid imagination! He is at + once a visionary and yet master of his dreams; he summons up and handles + at will the hallucinations of opium or of hasheesh, without ever becoming + their dupe; he makes of madness one of his tame animals, and bestrides, + with equal coolness, Pegasus or Nightmare, the Hippogriff or the Chimera. + As a psychological phenomenon he is of the deepest interest. Victor Hugo + draws in sulphuric acid, he lights his pictures with electric light. He + deafens, blinds, and bewilders his reader rather than he charms or + persuades him. Strength carried to such a point as this is a fascination; + without seeming to take you captive, it makes you its prisoner; it does + not enchant you, but it holds you spellbound. His ideal is the + extraordinary, the gigantic, the overwhelming, the incommensurable. His + most characteristic words are <i>immense, colossal, enormous, huge, + monstrous</i>. He finds a way of making even child-nature extravagant and + bizarre. The only thing which seems impossible to him is to be natural. In + short, his passion is grandeur, his fault is excess; his distinguishing + mark is a kind of Titanic power with strange dissonances of puerility in + its magnificence. Where he is weakest is, in measure, taste, and sense of + humor: he fails in <i>esprit</i>, in the subtlest sense of the word. + Victor Hugo is a gallicized Spaniard, or rather he unites all the extremes + of south and north, the Scandinavian and the African. Gaul has less part + in him than any other country. And yet, by a caprice of destiny, he is one + of the literary geniuses of France in the nineteenth century! His + resources are inexhaustible, and age seems to have no power over him. What + an infinite store of words, forms, and ideas he carries about with him, + and what a pile of works he has left behind him to mark his passage! His + eruptions are like those of a volcano; and, fabulous workman that he is, + he goes on forever raising, destroying, crushing, and rebuilding a world + of his own creation, and a world rather Hindoo than Hellenic. + </p> + <p> + He amazes me: and yet I prefer those men of genius who awaken in me the + sense of truth, and who increase the sum of one’s inner liberty. In Hugo + one feels the effort of the laboring Cyclops; give me rather the sonorous + bow of Apollo, and the tranquil brow of the Olympian Jove. His type is + that of the Satyr in the “Légende des Siècles,” who crushes Olympus, a + type midway between the ugliness of the faun and the overpowering + sublimity of the great Pan. + </p> + <p> + May 23, 1863.—Dull, cloudy, misty weather; it rained in the night + and yet the air is heavy. This somber reverie of earth and sky has a + sacredness of its own, but it fills the spectator with a vague and + stupefying <i>ennui</i>. Light brings life: darkness may bring thought, + but a dull daylight, the uncertain glimmer of a leaden sky, merely make + one restless and weary. These indecisive and chaotic states of nature are + ugly, like all amorphous things, like smeared colors, or bats, or the + viscous polyps of the sea. The source of all attractiveness is to be found + in character, in sharpness of outline, in individualization. All that is + confused and indistinct, without form, or sex, or accent, is antagonistic + to beauty; for the mind’s first need is light; light means order, and + order means, in the first place, the distinction of the parts, in the + second, their regular action. Beauty is based on reason. + </p> + <p> + August 7, 1863.—A walk after supper, a sky sparkling with stars, the + Milky Way magnificent. Alas! all the same my heart is heavy. At bottom I + am always brought up against an incurable distrust of myself and of life, + which toward my neighbor has become indulgence, but for myself has led to + a <i>régime</i> of absolute abstention. All or nothing! This is my inborn + disposition, my primitive stuff, my “old man.” And yet if some one will + but give me a little love, will but penetrate a little into my inner + feeling, I am happy and ask for scarcely anything else. A child’s + caresses, a friend’s talk, are enough to make me gay and expansive. So + then I aspire to the infinite, and yet a very little contents me; + everything disturbs me and the least thing calms me. I have often + surprised in my self the wish for death, and yet my ambitions for + happiness scarcely go beyond those of the bird: wings! sun! a nest! I + persist in solitude because of a taste for it, so people think. No, it is + from distaste, disgust, from shame at my own need of others, shame at + confessing it, a fear of passing into bondage if I do confess it. + </p> + <p> + September 2, 1863.—How shall I find a name for that subtle feeling + which seized hold upon me this morning in the twilight of waking? It was a + reminiscence, charming indeed, but nameless, vague, and featureless, like + the figure of a woman seen for an instant by a sick man in the uncertainty + of delirium, and across the shadows of his darkened room. I had a distinct + sense of a form which I had seen somewhere, and which had moved and + charmed me once, and then had fallen back with time into the catacombs of + oblivion. But all the rest was confused: place, occasion, and the figure + itself, for I saw neither the face nor its expression. The whole was like + a fluttering veil under which the enigma—the secret of happiness—might + have been hidden. And I was awake enough to be sure that it was not a + dream. + </p> + <p> + In impressions like these we recognize the last trace of things which are + sinking out of sight and call within us, of memories which are perishing. + It is like a shimmering marsh-light falling upon some vague outline of + which one scarcely knows whether it represents a pain or a pleasure—a + gleam upon a grave. How strange! One might almost call such things the + ghosts of the soul, reflections of past happiness, the <i>manes</i> of our + dead emotions. If, as the Talmud, I think, says, every feeling of love + gives birth involuntarily to an invisible genius or spirit which yearns to + complete its existence, and these glimmering phantoms, which have never + taken to themselves form and reality, are still wandering in the limbo of + the soul, what is there to astonish us in the strange apparitions which + sometimes come to visit our pillow? At any rate, the fact remains that I + was not able to force the phantom to tell me its name, nor to give any + shape or distinctness to my reminiscence. + </p> + <p> + What a melancholy aspect life may wear to us when we are floating down the + current of such dreamy thoughts as these! It seems like some vast + nocturnal shipwreck in which a hundred loving voices are clamoring for + help, while the pitiless mounting wave is silencing all the cries one by + one, before we have been able, in this darkness of death, to press a hand + or give the farewell kiss. Prom such a point of view destiny looks harsh, + savage, and cruel, and the tragedy of life rises like a rock in the midst + of the dull waters of daily triviality. It is impossible not to be serious + under the weight of indefinable anxiety produced in us by such a + spectacle. The surface of things may be smiling or commonplace, but the + depths below are austere and terrible. As soon as we touch upon eternal + things, upon the destiny of the soul, upon truth or duty, upon the secrets + of life and death, we become grave whether we will or no. + </p> + <p> + Love at its highest point—love sublime, unique, invincible—leads + us straight to the brink of the great abyss, for it speaks to us directly + of the infinite and of eternity. It is eminently religious; it may even + become religion. When all around a man is wavering and changing, when + everything is growing dark and featureless to him in the far distance of + an unknown future, when the world seems but a fiction or a fairy tale, and + the universe a chimera, when the whole edifice of ideas vanishes in smoke, + and all realities are penetrated with doubt, what is the fixed point which + may still be his? The faithful heart of a woman! There he may rest his + head; there he will find strength to live, strength to believe, and, if + need be, strength to die in peace with a benediction on his lips. Who + knows if love and its beatitude, clear manifestation as it is of the + universal harmony of things, is not the best demonstration of a fatherly + and understanding God, just as it is the shortest road by which to reach + him? Love is a faith, and one faith leads to another. And this faith is + happiness, light and force. Only by it does a man enter into the series of + the living, the awakened, the happy, the redeemed—of those true men + who know the value of existence and who labor for the glory of God and of + the truth. Till then we are but babblers and chatterers, spendthrifts of + our time, our faculties and our gifts, without aim, without real joy—weak, + infirm, and useless beings, of no account in the scheme of things. Perhaps + it is through love that I shall find my way back to faith, to religion, to + energy, to concentration. It seems to me, at least, that if I could but + find my work-fellow and my destined companion, all the rest would be added + unto me, as though to confound my unbelief and make me blush for my + despair. Believe, then, in a fatherly Providence, and dare to love! + </p> + <p> + November 25, 1863.—Prayer is the essential weapon of all religions. + He who can no longer pray because he doubts whether there is a being to + whom prayer ascends and from whom blessing descends, he indeed is cruelly + solitary and prodigiously impoverished. And you, what do you believe about + it? At this moment I should find it very difficult to say. All my positive + beliefs are in the crucible ready for any kind of metamorphosis. Truth + above all, even when it upsets and overwhelms us! But what I believe is + that the highest idea we can conceive of the principle of things will be + the truest, and that the truest truth is that which makes man the most + wholly good, wisest, greatest, and happiest. + </p> + <p> + My creed is in transition. Yet I still believe in God, and the immortality + of the soul. I believe in holiness, truth, beauty; I believe in the + redemption of the soul by faith in forgiveness. I believe in love, + devotion, honor. I believe in duty and the moral conscience. I believe + even in prayer. I believe in the fundamental intuitions of the human race, + and in the great affirmations of the inspired of all ages. I believe that + our higher nature is our truer nature. + </p> + <p> + Can one get a theology and a theodicy out of this? Probably, but just now + I do not see it distinctly. It is so long since I have ceased to think + about my own metaphysic, and since I have lived in the thoughts of others, + that I am ready even to ask myself whether the crystallization of my + beliefs is necessary. Yes, for preaching and acting; less for studying, + contemplating and learning. + </p> + <p> + December 4, 1863.—The whole secret of remaining young in spite of + years, and even of gray hairs, is to cherish enthusiasm in one’s self by + poetry, by contemplation, by charity—that is, in fewer words, by the + maintenance of harmony in the soul. When everything is in its right place + within us, we ourselves are in equilibrium with the whole work of God. + Deep and grave enthusiasm for the eternal beauty and the eternal order, + reason touched with emotion and a serene tenderness of heart—these + surely are the foundations of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + Wisdom! how inexhaustible a theme! A sort of peaceful aureole surrounds + and illumines this thought, in which are summed up all the treasures of + moral experience, and which is the ripest fruit of a well-spent life. + Wisdom never grows old, for she is the expression of order itself—that + is, of the Eternal. Only the wise man draws from life, and from every + stage of it, its true savor, because only he feels the beauty, the + dignity, and the value of life. The flowers of youth may fade, but the + summer, the autumn, and even the winter of human existence, have their + majestic grandeur, which the wise man recognizes and glorifies. To see all + things in God; to make of one’s own life a journey toward the ideal; to + live with gratitude, with devoutness, with gentleness and courage; this + was the splendid aim of Marcus Aurelius. And if you add to it the humility + which kneels, and the charity which gives, you have the whole wisdom of + the children of God, the immortal joy which is the heritage of the true + Christian. But what a false Christianity is that which slanders wisdom and + seeks to do without it! In such a case I am on the side of wisdom, which + is, as it were, justice done to God, even in this life. The relegation of + life to some distant future, and the separation of the holy man from the + virtuous man, are the signs of a false religious conception. This error + is, in some degree, that of the whole Middle Age, and belongs, perhaps, to + the essence of Catholicism. But the true Christianity must purge itself + from so disastrous a mistake. The eternal life is not the future life; it + is life in harmony with the true order of things—life in God. We + must learn to look upon time as a movement of eternity, as an undulation + in the ocean of being. To live, so as to keep this consciousness of ours + in perpetual relation with the eternal, is to be wise; to live, so as to + personify and embody the eternal, is to be religious. + </p> + <p> + The modern leveler, after having done away with conventional inequalities, + with arbitrary privilege and historical injustice, goes still farther, and + rebels against the inequalities of merit, capacity, and virtue. Beginning + with a just principle, he develops it into an unjust one. Inequality may + be as true and as just as equality: it depends upon what you mean by it. + But this is precisely what nobody cares to find out. All passions dread + the light, and the modern zeal for equality is a disguised hatred which + tries to pass itself off as love. + </p> + <p> + Liberty, equality—bad principles! The only true principle for + humanity is justice, and justice toward the feeble becomes necessarily + protection or kindness. + </p> + <p> + April 2, 1864.—To-day April has been displaying her showery + caprices. We have had floods of sunshine followed by deluges of rain, + alternate tears and smiles from the petulant sky, gusts of wind and + storms. The weather is like a spoiled child whose wishes and expression + change twenty times in an hour. It is a blessing for the plants, and means + an influx of life through all the veins of the spring. The circle of + mountains which bounds the valley is covered with white from top to toe, + but two hours of sunshine would melt the snow away. The snow itself is but + a new caprice, a simple stage decoration ready to disappear at the signal + of the scene-shifter. + </p> + <p> + How sensible I am to the restless change which rules the world. To appear, + and to vanish—there is the biography of all individuals, whatever + may be the length of the cycle of existence which they describe, and the + drama of the universe is nothing more. All life is the shadow of a + smoke-wreath, a gesture in the empty air, a hieroglyph traced for an + instant in the sand, and effaced a moment afterward by a breath of wind, + an air-bubble expanding and vanishing on the surface of the great river of + being—an appearance, a vanity, a nothing. But this nothing is, + however, the symbol of the universal being, and this passing bubble is the + epitome of the history of the world. + </p> + <p> + The man who has, however imperceptibly, helped in the work of the + universe, has lived; the man who has been conscious, in however small a + degree, of the cosmical movement, has lived also. The plain man serves the + world by his action and as a wheel in the machine; the thinker serves it + by his intellect, and as a light upon its path. The man of meditative + soul, who raises and comforts and sustains his traveling companions, + mortal and fugitive like himself, plays a nobler part still, for he unites + the other two utilities. Action, thought, speech, are the three modes of + human life. The artisan, the savant, and the orator, are all three God’s + workmen. To do, to discover, to teach—these three things are all + labor, all good, all necessary. Will-o’-the-wisps that we are, we may yet + leave a trace behind us; meteors that we are, we may yet prolong our + perishable being in the memory of men, or at least in the contexture of + after events. Everything disappears, but nothing is lost, and the + civilization or city of man is but an immense spiritual pyramid, built up + out of the work of all that has ever lived under the forms of moral being, + just as our calcareous mountains are made of the debris of myriads of + nameless creatures who have lived under the forms of microscopic animal + life. + </p> + <p> + April 5, 1864.—I have been reading “Prince Vitale” for the second + time, and have been lost in admiration of it. What wealth of color, facts, + ideas—what learning, what fine-edged satire, what <i>esprit</i>, + science, and talent, and what an irreproachable finish of style—so + limpid, and yet so profound! It is not heartfelt and it is not + spontaneous, but all other kinds of merit, culture, and cleverness the + author possesses. It would be impossible to be more penetrating, more + subtle, and less fettered in mind, than this wizard of language, with his + irony and his chameleon-like variety. Victor Cherbuliez, like the sphinx, + is able to play all lyres, and takes his profit from them all, with a + Goethe-like serenity. It seems as if passion, grief, and error had no hold + on this impassive soul. The key of his thought is to be looked for in + Hegel’s “Phenomenology of Mind,” remolded by Greek and French influences. + </p> + <p> + His faith, if he has one, is that of Strauss-Humanism. But he is perfectly + master of himself and of his utterances, and will take good care never to + preach anything prematurely. + </p> + <p> + What is there quite at the bottom of this deep spring? + </p> + <p> + In any case a mind as free as any can possibly be from stupidity and + prejudice. One might almost say that Cherbuliez knows all that he wishes + to know, without the trouble of learning it. He is a calm Mephistopheles, + with perfect manners, grace, variety, and an exquisite urbanity; and + Mephisto is a clever jeweler; and this jeweler is a subtle musician; and + this fine singer and storyteller, with his amber-like delicacy and + brilliancy, is making mock of us all the while. He takes a malicious + pleasure in withdrawing his own personality from scrutiny and divination, + while he himself divines everything, and he likes to make us feel that + although he holds in his hand the secret of the universe, he will only + unfold his prize at his own time, and if it pleases him. Victor Cherbuliez + is a little like Proudhon and plays with paradoxes, to shock the <i>bourgeois</i>. + Thus he amuses himself with running down Luther and the Reformation in + favor of the Renaissance. Of the troubles of conscience he seems to know + nothing. His supreme tribunal is reason. At bottom he is Hegelian and + intellectualist. But it is a splendid organization. Only sometimes he must + be antipathetic to those men of duty who make renunciation, sacrifice, and + humility the measure of individual worth. + </p> + <p> + July, 1864.—Among the Alps I become a child again, with all the + follies and <i>naïveté</i> of childhood. Shaking off the weight of years, + the trappings of office, and all the tiresome and ridiculous caution with + which one lives, I plunge into the full tide of pleasure, and amuse myself + sans façon, as it comes. In this careless light-hearted mood, my ordinary + formulas and habits fall away from me so completely that I feel myself no + longer either townsman, or professor, or savant, or bachelor, and I + remember no more of my past than if it were a dream. It is like a bath in + Lethe. + </p> + <p> + It makes me really believe that the smallest illness would destroy my + memory, and wipe out all my previous existence, when I see with what ease + I become a stranger to myself, and fall back once more into the condition + of a blank sheet, a <i>tabula rasa</i>. Life wears such a dream-aspect to + me that I can throw myself without any difficulty into the situation of + the dying, before whose eyes all this tumult of images and forms fades + into nothingness. I have the inconsistency of a fluid, a vapor, a cloud, + and all is easily unmade or transformed in me; everything passes and is + effaced like the waves which follow each other on the sea. When I say all, + I mean all that is arbitrary, indifferent, partial, or intellectual in the + combinations of one’s life. For I feel that the things of the soul, our + immortal aspirations, our deepest affections, are not drawn into this + chaotic whirlwind of impressions. It is the finite things which are mortal + and fugitive. Every man feels it OH his deathbed. I feel it during the + whole of life; that is the only difference between me and others. + Excepting only love, thought, and liberty, almost everything is now a + matter of indifference to me, and those objects which excite the desires + of most men, rouse in me little more than curiosity. What does it mean—detachment + of soul, disinterestedness, weakness, or wisdom? + </p> + <p> + September 19, 1864.—I have been living for two hours with a noble + soul—with Eugénie de Guérin, the pious heroine of fraternal love. + How many thoughts, feelings, griefs, in this journal of six years! How it + makes one dream, think and live! It produces a certain homesick impression + on me, a little like that of certain forgotten melodies whereof the accent + touches the heart, one knows not why. It is as though far-off paths came + back to me, glimpses of youth, a confused murmur of voices, echoes from my + past. Purity, melancholy, piety, a thousand memories of a past existence, + forms fantastic and intangible, like the fleeting shadows of a dream at + waking, began to circle round the astonished reader. + </p> + <p> + September 20, 1864.—Read Eugénie de Guérin’s volume again right and + left with a growing sense of attraction. Everything is heart, force, + impulse, in these pages which have the power of sincerity and a brilliance + of suffused poetry. A great and strong soul, a clear mind, distinction, + elevation, the freedom of unconscious talent, reserve and depth—nothing + is wanting for this Sévigné of the fields, who has to hold herself in with + both hands lest she should write verse, so strong in her is the artistic + impulse. + </p> + <p> + October 16, 1864.—I have just read a part of Eugénie de Guérin’s + journal over again. It charmed me a little less than the first time. The + nature seemed to me as beautiful, but the life of Eugénie was too empty, + and the circle of ideas which occupied her, too narrow. + </p> + <p> + It is touching and wonderful to see how little space is enough for thought + to spread its wings in, but this perpetual motion within the four walls of + a cell ends none the less by becoming wearisome to minds which are + accustomed to embrace more objects in their field of vision. Instead of a + garden, the world; instead of a library, the whole of literature; instead + of three or four faces, a whole people and all history—this is what + the virile, the philosophic temper demands. Men must have more air, more + room, mere horizon, more positive knowledge, and they end by suffocating + in this little cage where Eugenie lives and moves, though the breath of + heaven blows into it and the radiance of the stars shines down upon it. + </p> + <p> + October 27, 1864. (<i>Promenade de la Treille</i>).—The air this + morning was so perfectly clear and lucid that one might have distinguished + a figure on the Vouache. [Footnote: The Vouache is the hill which bounds + the horizon of Geneva to the south-west.] This level and brilliant sun had + set fire to the whole range of autumn colors; amber, saffron, gold, + sulphur, yellow ochre, orange, red, copper-color, aquamarine, amaranth, + shone resplendent on the leaves which were still hanging from the boughs + or had already fallen beneath the trees. It was delicious. The martial + step of our two battalions going out to their drilling-ground, the sparkle + of the guns, the song of the bugles, the sharp distinctness of the house + outlines, still moist with the morning dew, the transparent coolness of + all the shadows—every detail in the scene was instinct with a keen + and wholesome gayety. + </p> + <p> + There are two forms of autumn: there is the misty and dreamy autumn, there + is the vivid and brilliant autumn: almost the difference between the two + sexes. The very word autumn is both masculine and feminine. Has not every + season, in some fashion, its two sexes? Has it not its minor and its major + key, its two sides of light and shadow, gentleness and force? Perhaps. All + that is perfect is double; each face has two profiles, each coin two + sides. The scarlet autumn stands for vigorous activity: the gray autumn + for meditative feeling. The one is expansive and overflowing; the other + still and withdrawn. Yesterday our thoughts were with the dead. To-day we + are celebrating the vintage. + </p> + <p> + November 16, 1864.—Heard of the death of—. Will and + intelligence lasted till there was an effusion on the brain which stopped + everything. + </p> + <p> + A bubble of air in the blood, a drop of water in the brain, and a man is + out of gear, his machine falls to pieces, his thought vanishes, the world + disappears from him like a dream at morning. On what a spider thread is + hung our individual existence! Fragility, appearance, nothingness. If it + were for our powers of self-detraction and forgetfulness, all the fairy + world which surrounds and draws us would seem to us but a broken spectre + in the darkness, an empty appearance, a fleeting hallucination. Appeared—disappeared—there + is the whole history of a man, or of a world, or of an infusoria. + </p> + <p> + Time is the supreme illusion. It is but the inner prism by which we + decompose being and life, the mode under which we perceive successively + what is simultaneous in idea. The eye does not see a sphere all at once + although the sphere exists all at once. Either the sphere must turn before + the eye which is looking at it, or the eye must go round the sphere. In + the first case it is the world which unrolls, or seems to unroll in time; + in the second case it is our thought which successively analyzes and + recomposes. For the supreme intelligence there is no time; what will be, + is. Time and space are fragments of the infinite for the use of finite + creatures. God permits them, that he may not be alone. They are the mode + under which creatures are possible and conceivable. Let us add that they + are also the Jacob’s ladder of innumerable steps by which the creation + reascends to its Creator, participates in being, tastes of life, perceives + the absolute, and can adore the fathomless mystery of the infinite + divinity. That is the other side of the question. Our life is nothing, it + is true, but our life is divine. A breath of nature annihilates us, but we + surpass nature in penetrating far beyond her vast phantasmagoria to the + changeless and the eternal. To escape by the ecstasy of inward vision from + the whirlwind of time, to see one’s self <i>sub specie eterni</i> is the + word of command of all the great religions of the higher races; and this + psychological possibility is the foundation of all great hopes. The soul + may be immortal because she is fitted to rise toward that which is neither + born nor dies, toward that which exists substantially, necessarily, + invariably, that is to say toward God. + </p> + <p> + To know how to suggest is the great art of teaching. To attain it we must + be able to guess what will interest; we must learn to read the childish + soul as we might a piece of music. Then, by simply changing the key, we + keep up the attraction and vary the song. + </p> + <p> + The germs of all things are in every heart, and the greatest criminals as + well as the greatest heroes are but different modes of ourselves. Only + evil grows of itself, while for goodness we want effort and courage. + </p> + <p> + Melancholy is at the bottom of everything, just as at the end of all + rivers is the sea. Can it be otherwise in a world where nothing lasts, + where all that we have loved or shall love must die? Is death, then, the + secret of life? The gloom of an eternal mourning enwraps, more or less + closely, every serious and thoughtful soul, as night enwraps the universe. + </p> + <p> + A man takes to “piety” from a thousand different reasons—from + imitation or from eccentricity, from bravado or from reverence, from shame + of the past or from terror of the future, from weakness and from pride, + for pleasure’s sake or for punishment’s sake, in order to be able to + judge, or in order to escape being judged, and for a thousand other + reasons; but he only becomes truly religious for religion’s sake. + </p> + <p> + January 11, 1865.—It is pleasant to feel nobly—that is to say, + to live above the lowlands of vulgarity. Manufacturing Americanism and + Caesarian democracy tend equally to the multiplying of crowds, governed by + appetite, applauding charlatanism, vowed to the worship of mammon and of + pleasure, and adoring no other God than force. What poor samples of + mankind they are who make up this growing majority! Oh, let us remain + faithful to the altars of the ideal! It is possible that the spiritualists + may become the stoics of a new epoch of Caesarian rule. Materialistic + naturalism has the wind in its sails, and a general moral deterioration is + preparing. NO matter, so long as the salt does not lose its savor, and so + long as the friends of the higher life maintain the fire of Vesta. The + wood itself may choke the flame, but if the flame persists, the fire will + only be the more splendid in the end. The great democratic deluge will not + after all be able to effect what the invasion of the barbarians was + powerless to bring about; it will not drown altogether the results of the + higher culture; but we must resign ourselves to the fact that it tends in + the beginning to deform and vulgarize everything. It is clear that + aesthetic delicacy, elegance, distinction, and nobleness—that + atticism, urbanity, whatever is suave and exquisite, fine and subtle—all + that makes the charm of the higher kinds of literature and of aristocratic + cultivation—vanishes simultaneously with the society which + corresponds to it. If, as Pascal, [Footnote: The saying of Pascal’s + alluded to is in the <i>Pensées</i>, Art. xi. No. 10: “A mesure qu’on a + plus d’esprit on trouve qu’il y a plus d’hommes originaux. Les gens du + commun ne trouvent pas de différence entre les hommes.”] I think, says, + the more one develops, the more difference one observes between man and + man, then we cannot say that the democratic instinct tends to mental + development, since it tends to make a man believe that the pretensions + have only to be the same to make the merits equal also. + </p> + <p> + March 20, 1865.—I have just heard of fresh cases of insubordination + among the students. Our youth become less and less docile, and seem to + take for their motto, “Our master is our enemy.” The boy insists upon + having the privileges of the young man, and the young man tries to keep + those of the <i>gamin</i>. At bottom all this is the natural consequence + of our system of leveling democracy. As soon as difference of quality is, + in politics, officially equal to zero, the authority of age, of knowledge, + and of function disappears. + </p> + <p> + The only counterpoise of pure equality is military discipline. In military + uniform, in the police court, in prison, or on the execution ground, there + is no reply possible. But is it not curious that the <i>régime</i> of + individual right should lead to nothing but respect for brute strength? + Jacobinism brings with it Caesarism; the rule of the tongue leads to the + rule of the sword. Democracy and liberty are not one but two. A republic + supposes a high state of morals, but no such state of morals is possible + without the habit of respect; and there is no respect without humility. + Now the pretension that every man has the necessary qualities of a + citizen, simply because he was born twenty-one years ago, is as much as to + say that labor, merit, virtue, character, and experience are to count for + nothing; and we destroy humility when we proclaim that a man becomes the + equal of all other men, by the mere mechanical and vegetative process of + natural growth. Such a claim annihilates even the respect for age; for as + the elector of twenty-one is worth as much as the elector of fifty, the + boy of nineteen has no serious reason to believe himself in any way the + inferior of his elder by one or two years. Thus the fiction on which the + political order of democracy is based ends in something altogether opposed + to that which democracy desires: its aim was to increase the whole sum of + liberty; but the result is to diminish it for all. + </p> + <p> + The modern state is founded on the philosophy of atomism. Nationality, + public spirit, tradition, national manners, disappear like so many hollow + and worn-out entities; nothing remains to create movement but the action + of molecular force and of dead weight. In such a theory liberty is + identified with caprice, and the collective reason and age-long tradition + of an old society are nothing more than soap-bubbles which the smallest + urchin may shiver with a snap of the fingers. + </p> + <p> + Does this mean that I am an opponent of democracy? Not at all. Fiction for + fiction, it is the least harmful. But it is well not to confound its + promises with realities. The fiction consists in the postulate of all + democratic government, that the great majority of the electors in a state + are enlightened, free, honest, and patriotic—whereas such a + postulate is a mere chimera. The majority in any state is necessarily + composed of the most ignorant, the poorest, and the least capable; the + state is therefore at the mercy of accident and passion, and it always + ends by succumbing at one time or another to the rash conditions which + have been made for its existence. A man who condemns himself to live upon + the tight-rope must inevitably fall; one has no need to be a prophet to + foresee such a result. + </p> + <p> + “[Greek: Aridton men udor],” said Pindar; the best thing in the world is + wisdom, and, in default of wisdom, science. States, churches, society + itself, may fall to pieces; science alone has nothing to fear—until + at least society once more falls a prey to barbarism. Unfortunately this + triumph of barbarism is not impossible. The victory of the socialist + Utopia, or the horrors of a religious war, reserve for us perhaps even + this lamentable experience. + </p> + <p> + April 3, 1865.—What doctor possesses such curative resources as + those latent in a spark of happiness or a single ray of hope? The + mainspring of life is in the heart. Joy is the vital air of the soul, and + grief is a kind of asthma complicated by atony. Our dependence upon + surrounding circumstances increases with our own physical weakness, and on + the other hand, in health there is liberty. Health is the first of all + liberties, and happiness gives us the energy which is the basis of health. + To make any one happy, then, is strictly to augment his store of being, to + double the intensity of his life, to reveal him to himself, to ennoble him + and transfigure him. Happiness does away with ugliness, and even makes the + beauty of beauty. The man who doubts it, can never have watched the first + gleams of tenderness dawning in the clear eyes of one who loves; sunrise + itself is a lesser marvel. In paradise, then, everybody will be beautiful. + For, as the righteous soul is naturally beautiful, as the spiritual body + is but the <i>visibility</i> of the soul, its impalpable and angelic form, + and as happiness beautifies all that it penetrates or even touches, + ugliness will have no more place in the universe, and will disappear with + grief, sin, and death. + </p> + <p> + To the materialist philosopher the beautiful is a mere accident, and + therefore rare. To the spiritualist philosopher the beautiful is the rule, + the law, the universal foundation of things, to which every form returns + as soon as the force of accident is withdrawn. Why are we ugly? Because we + are not in the angelic state, because we are evil, morose, and unhappy. + </p> + <p> + Heroism, ecstasy, prayer, love, enthusiasm, weave a halo round the brow, + for they are a setting free of the soul, which through them gains force to + make its envelope transparent and shine through upon all around it. Beauty + is, then, a phenomenon belonging to the spiritualization of matter. It is + a momentary transfiguration of the privileged object or being—a + token fallen from heaven to earth in order to remind us of the ideal + world. To study it, is to Platonize almost inevitably. As a powerful + electric current can render metals luminous, and reveal their essence by + the color of their flame, so intense life and supreme joy can make the + most simple mortal dazzlingly beautiful. Man, therefore, is never more + truly man than in these divine states. + </p> + <p> + The ideal, after all, is truer than the real: for the ideal is the eternal + element in perishable things: it is their type, their sum, their <i>raison + d’être</i>, their formula in the book of the Creator, and therefore at + once the most exact and the most condensed expression of them. + </p> + <p> + April 11, 1865.—I have been measuring and making a trial of the new + gray plaid which is to take the place of my old mountain shawl. The old + servant which has been my companion for ten years, and which recalls to me + so many poetical and delightful memories, pleases me better than its + brilliant successor, even though this last has been a present from a + friendly hand. But can anything take the place of the past, and have not + even the inanimate witnesses of our life voice and language for us? Glion, + Villars, Albisbrunnen, the Righi, the Chamossaire, and a hundred other + places, have left something of themselves behind them in the meshes of + this woolen stuff which makes a part of my most intimate history. The + shawl, besides, is the only <i>chivalrous</i> article of dress which is + still left to the modern traveler, the only thing about him which may be + useful to others than himself, and by means of which he may still do his + <i>devoir</i> to fair women! How many times mine has served them for a + cushion, a cloak, a shelter, on the damp grass of the Alps, on seats of + hard rock, or in the sudden cool of the pinewood, during the walks, the + rests, the readings, and the chats of mountain life! How many kindly + smiles it has won for me! Even its blemishes are dear to me, for each darn + and tear has its story, each scar is an armorial bearing. This tear was + made by a hazel tree under Jaman—that by the buckle of a strap on + the Frohnalp—that, again, by a bramble at Charnex; and each time + fairy needles have repaired the injury. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mon vieux manteau, que je vous remercie + Car c’est à vous que je dois ces plaisirs!” + </pre> + <p> + And has it not been to me a friend in suffering, a companion in good and + evil fortune? It reminds me of that centaur’s tunic which could not be + torn off without carrying away the flesh and blood of its wearer. I am + unwilling to give it up; whatever gratitude for the past, and whatever + piety toward my vanished youth is in me, seem to forbid it. The warp of + this rag is woven out of Alpine joys, and its woof out of human + affections. It also says to me in its own way: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Pauvre bouquet, fleurs aujourd’hui fanées!” + </pre> + <p> + And the appeal is one of those which move the heart, although profane ears + neither hear it nor understand it. + </p> + <p> + What a stab there is in those words, <i>thou hast been</i>! when the sense + of them becomes absolutely clear to us. One feels one’s self sinking + gradually into one’s grave, and the past tense sounds the knell of our + illusions as to ourselves. What is past is past: gray hairs will never + become black curls again; the forces, the gifts, the attractions of youth, + have vanished with our young days. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Plus d’amour; partant plus de joie.” + </pre> + <p> + How hard it is to grow old, when we have missed our life, when we have + neither the crown of completed manhood nor of fatherhood! How sad it is to + feel the mind declining before it has done its work, and the body growing + weaker before it has seen itself renewed in those who might close our eyes + and honor our name! The tragic solemnity of existence strikes us with + terrible force, on that morning when we wake to find the mournful word <i>too + late</i> ringing in our ears! “Too late, the sand is turned, the hour is + past! Thy harvest is unreaped—too late! Thou hast been dreaming, + forgetting, sleeping—so much the worse! Every man rewards or + punishes himself. To whom or of whom wouldst thou complain?”—Alas! + </p> + <p> + April 21, 1865. (<i>Mornex</i>).—A morning of intoxicating beauty, + fresh as the feelings of sixteen, and crowned with flowers like a bride. + The poetry of youth, of innocence, and of love, overflowed my soul. Even + to the light mist hovering over the bosom of the plain—image of that + tender modesty which veils the features and shrouds in mystery the inmost + thoughts of the maiden—everything that I saw delighted my eyes and + spoke to my imagination. It was a sacred, a nuptial day! and the matin + bells ringing in some distant village harmonized marvelously with the hymn + of nature. “Pray,” they said, “and love! Adore a fatherly and beneficent + God.” They recalled to me the accent of Haydn; there was in them and in + the landscape a childlike joyousness, a naïve gratitude, a radiant + heavenly joy innocent of pain and sin, like the sacred, simple-hearted + ravishment of Eve on the first day of her awakening in the new world. How + good a thing is feeling, admiration! It is the bread of angels, the + eternal food of cherubim and seraphim. + </p> + <p> + I have not yet felt the air so pure, so life-giving, so ethereal, during + the five days that I have been here. To breathe is a beatitude. One + understands the delights of a bird’s existence—that emancipation + from all encumbering weight—that luminous and empyrean life, + floating in blue space, and passing from one horizon to another with a + stroke of the wing. One must have a great deal of air below one before one + can be conscious of such inner freedom as this, such lightness of the + whole being. Every element has its poetry, but the poetry of air is + liberty. Enough; to your work, dreamer! + </p> + <p> + May 30, 1865.—All snakes fascinate their prey, and pure wickedness + seems to inherit the power of fascination granted to the serpent. It + stupefies and bewilders the simple heart, which sees it without + understanding it, which touches it without being able to believe in it, + and which sinks engulfed in the problem of it, like Empedocles in Etna. <i>Non + possum capere te, cape me</i>, says the Aristotelian motto. Every + diminutive of Beelzebub is an abyss, each demoniacal act is a gulf of + darkness. Natural cruelty, inborn perfidy and falseness, even in animals, + cast lurid gleams, as it were, into that fathomless pit of Satanic + perversity which is a moral reality. + </p> + <p> + Nevertheless behind this thought there rises another which tells me that + sophistry is at the bottom of human wickedness, that the majority of + monsters like to justify themselves in their own eyes, and that the first + attribute of the Evil One is to be the father of lies. Before crime is + committed conscience must be corrupted, and every bad man who succeeds in + reaching a high point of wickedness begins with this. It is all very well + to say that hatred is murder; the man who hates is determined to see + nothing in it but an act of moral hygiene. It is to do himself good that + he does evil, just as a mad dog bites to get rid of his thirst. + </p> + <p> + To injure others while at the same time knowingly injuring one’s self is a + step farther; evil then becomes a frenzy, which, in its turn, sharpens + into a cold ferocity. + </p> + <p> + Whenever a man, under the influence of such a diabolical passion, + surrenders himself to these instincts of the wild or venomous beast he + must seem to the angels a madman—a lunatic, who kindles his own + Gehenna that he may consume the world in it, or as much of it as his + devilish desires can lay hold upon. Wickedness is forever beginning a new + spiral which penetrates deeper still into the abysses of abomination, for + the circles of hell have this property—that they have no end. It + seems as though divine perfection were an infinite of the first degree, + but as though diabolical perfection were an infinite of unknown power. But + no; for if so, evil would be the true God, and hell would swallow up + creation. According to the Persian and the Christian faiths, good is to + conquer evil, and perhaps even Satan himself will be restored to grace—which + is as much as to say that the divine order will be everywhere + re-established. Love will be more potent than hatred; God will save his + glory, and his glory is in his goodness. But it is very true that all + gratuitous wickedness troubles the soul, because it seems to make the + great lines of the moral order tremble within us by the sudden withdrawal + of the curtain which hides from us the action of those dark corrosive + forces which have ranged themselves in battle against the divine plan. + </p> + <p> + June 26, 1865.—One may guess the why and wherefore of a tear and yet + find it too subtle to give any account of. A tear may be the poetical <i>resumé</i> + of so many simultaneous impressions, the quintessence of so many opposing + thoughts! It is like a drop of one of those precious elixirs of the East + which contain the life of twenty plants fused into a single aroma. + Sometimes it is the mere overflow of the soul, the running over of the cup + of reverie. All that one cannot or will not say, all that one refuses to + confess even to one’s self—confused desires, secret trouble, + suppressed grief, smothered conflict, voiceless regret, the emotions we + have struggled against, the pain we have sought to hide, our superstitious + fears, our vague sufferings, our restless presentiments, our unrealized + dreams, the wounds inflicted upon our ideal, the dissatisfied languor, the + vain hopes, the multitude of small indiscernible ills which accumulate + slowly in a corner of the heart like water dropping noiselessly from the + roof of a cavern—all these mysterious movements of the inner life + end in an instant of emotion, and the emotion concentrates itself in a + tear just visible on the edge of the eyelid. + </p> + <p> + For the rest, tears express joy as well as sadness. They are the symbol of + the powerlessness of the soul to restrain its emotion and to remain + mistress of itself. Speech implies analysis; when we are overcome by + sensation or by feeling analysis ceases, and with it speech and liberty. + Our only resource, after silence and stupor, is the language of action—pantomime. + Any oppressive weight of thought carries us back to a stage anterior to + humanity, to a gesture, a cry, a sob, and at last to swooning and + collapse; that is to say, incapable of bearing the excessive strain of + sensation as men, we fall back successively to the stage of mere animate + being, and then to that of the vegetable. Dante swoons at every turn in + his journey through hell, and nothing paints better the violence of his + emotions and the ardor of his piety. + </p> + <p> + ... And intense joy? It also withdraws into itself and is silent. To speak + is to disperse and scatter. Words isolate and localize life in a single + point; they touch only the circumference of being; they analyze, they + treat one thing at a time. Thus they decentralize emotion, and chill it in + doing so. The heart would fain brood over its feeling, cherishing and + protecting it. Its happiness is silent and meditative; it listens to its + own beating and feeds religiously upon itself. + </p> + <p> + August 8, 1865. (<i>Gryon sur Bex</i>).—Splendid moonlight without a + cloud. The night is solemn and majestic. The regiment of giants sleeps + while the stars keep sentinel. In the vast shadow of the valley glimmer a + few scattered roofs, while the torrent, organ-like, swells its eternal + note in the depths of this mountain cathedral which has the heavens for + roof. + </p> + <p> + A last look at this blue night and boundless landscape. Jupiter is just + setting on the counterscarp of the Dent du Midi. Prom the starry vault + descends an invisible snow-shower of dreams, calling us to a pure sleep. + Nothing of voluptuous or enervating in this nature. All is strong, austere + and pure. Good night to all the world!—to the unfortunate and to the + happy. Rest and refreshment, renewal and hope; a day is dead—<i>vive + le lendemain!</i> Midnight is striking. Another step made toward the tomb. + </p> + <p> + August 13, 1865.—I have just read through again the letter of J. J. + Rousseau to Archbishop Beaumont with a little less admiration than I felt + for it—was it ten or twelve years ago? This emphasis, this + precision, which never tires of itself, tires the reader in the long run. + The intensity of the style produces on one the impression of a treatise on + mathematics. One feels the need of relaxation after it in something easy, + natural, and gay. The language of Rousseau demands an amount of labor + which makes one long for recreation and relief. + </p> + <p> + But how many writers and how many books descend from our Rousseau! On my + way I noticed the points of departure of Châteaubriand, Lamennais, + Proudhon. Proudhon, for instance, modeled the plan of his great work, “De + la Justice dang l’Eglise et dans la Révolution,” upon the letter of + Rousseau to Beaumont; his three volumes are a string of letters to an + archbishop; eloquence, daring, and elocution are all fused in a kind of <i>persiflage</i>, + which is the foundation of the whole. + </p> + <p> + How many men we may find in one man, how many styles in a great writer! + Rousseau, for instance, has created a number of different <i>genres</i>. + Imagination transforms him, and he is able to play the most varied parts + with credit, among them even that of the pure logician. But as the + imagination is his intellectual axis—his master faculty—he is, + as it were, in all his works only half sincere, only half in earnest. We + feel that his talent has laid him the wager of Carneades; it will lose no + cause, however bad, as soon as the point of honor Is engaged. It is indeed + the temptation of all talent to subordinate things to itself and not + itself to things; to conquer for the sake of conquest, and to put + self-love in the place of conscience. Talent is glad enough, no doubt, to + triumph in a good cause; but it easily becomes a free lance, content, + whatever the cause, so long as victory follows its banner. I do not know + even whether success in a weak and bad cause is not the most flattering + for talent, which then divides the honors of its triumph with nothing and + no one. + </p> + <p> + Paradox is the delight of clever people and the joy of talent. It is so + pleasant to pit one’s self against the world, and to overbear mere + commonplace good sense and vulgar platitudes! Talent and love of truth are + then not identical; their tendencies and their paths are different. In + order to make talent obey when its instinct is rather to command, a + vigilant moral sense and great energy of character are needed. The Greeks—those + artists of the spoken or written word—were artificial by the time of + Ulysses, sophists by the time of Pericles, cunning, rhetorical, and versed + in all the arts of the courtier down to the end of the lower empire. From + the talent of the nation sprang its vices. + </p> + <p> + For a man to make his mark, like Rousseau by polemics, is to condemn + himself to perpetual exaggeration and conflict. Such a man expiates his + celebrity by a double bitterness; he is never altogether true, and he is + never able to recover the free disposal of himself. To pick a quarrel with + the world is attractive, but dangerous. + </p> + <p> + J. J. Rousseau is an ancestor in all things. It was he who founded + traveling on foot before Töpffer, reverie before “René,” literary botany + before George Sand, the worship of nature before Bernardin de S. Pierre, + the democratic theory before the Revolution of 1789, political discussion + and theological discussion before Mirabeau and Renan, the science of + teaching before Pestalozzi, and Alpine description before De Saussure. He + made music the fashion, and created the taste for confessions to the + public. He formed a new French style—the close, chastened, + passionate, interwoven style we know so well. Nothing indeed of Rousseau + has been lost, and nobody has had more influence than he upon the French + Revolution, for he was the demigod of it, and stands between Neckar and + Napoleon. Nobody, again, has had more than he upon the nineteenth century, + for Byron, Châteaubriand, Madame de Staël, and George Sand all descend + from him. + </p> + <p> + And yet, with these extraordinary talents, he was an extremely unhappy man—why? + Because he always allowed himself to be mastered by his imagination and + his sensations; because he had no judgment in deciding, no self-control in + acting. Regret indeed on this score would be hardly reasonable, for a + calm, judicious, orderly Rousseau would never have made so great an + impression. He came into collision with his time: hence his eloquence and + his misfortunes. His naïve confidence in life and himself ended in jealous + misanthropy and hypochondria. + </p> + <p> + What a contrast to Goethe or Voltaire, and how differently they understood + the practical wisdom of life and the management of literary gifts! They + were the able men—Rousseau is a visionary. They knew mankind as it + is—he always represented it to himself either whiter or blacker than + it is; and having begun by taking life the wrong way, he ended in madness. + In the talent of Rousseau there is always something unwholesome, + uncertain, stormy, and sophistical, which destroys the confidence of the + reader; and the reason is no doubt that we feel passion to have been the + governing force in him as a writer: passion stirred his imagination, and + ruled supreme over his reason. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Our systems, perhaps, are nothing more than an unconscious apology for our + faults—a gigantic scaffolding whose object is to hide from us our + favorite sin. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The unfinished is nothing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Great men are the true men, the men in whom nature has succeeded. They are + not extraordinary—they are in the true order. It is the other + species of men who are not what they ought to be. + </p> + <p> + January 7, 1866.—Our life is but a soap-bubble hanging from a reed; + it is formed, expands to its full size, clothes itself with the loveliest + colors of the prism, and even escapes at moments from the law of + gravitation; but soon the black speck appears in it, and the globe of + emerald and gold vanishes into space, leaving behind it nothing but a + simple drop of turbid water. All the poets have made this comparison, it + is so striking and so true. To appear, to shine, to disappear; to be born, + to suffer, and to die; is it not the whole sum of life, for a butterfly, + for a nation, for a star? + </p> + <p> + Time is but the measure of the difficulty of a conception. Pure thought + has scarcely any need of time, since it perceives the two ends of an idea + almost at the same moment. The thought of a planet can only be worked out + by nature with labor and effort, but supreme intelligence sums up the + whole in an instant. Time is then the successive dispersion of being, just + as speech is the successive analysis of an intuition or of an act of will. + In itself it is relative and negative, and disappears within the absolute + being. God is outside time because he thinks all thought at once; Nature + is within time, because she is only speech—the discursive unfolding + of each thought contained within the infinite thought. But nature exhausts + herself in this impossible task, for the analysis of the infinite is a + contradiction. With limitless duration, boundless space, and number + without end, Nature does at least what she can to translate into visible + form the wealth of the creative formula. By the vastness of the abysses + into which she penetrates, in the effort—the unsuccessful effort—to + house and contain the eternal thought, we may measure the greatness of the + divine mind. For as soon as this mind goes out of itself and seeks to + explain itself, the effort at utterance heaps universe upon universe, + during myriads of centuries, and still it is not expressed, and the great + harangue must go on for ever and ever. + </p> + <p> + The East prefers immobility as the form of the Infinite: the West, + movement. It is because the West is infected by the passion for details, + and sets proud store by individual worth. Like a child upon whom a hundred + thousand francs have been bestowed, he thinks she is multiplying her + fortune by counting it out in pieces of twenty sous, or five centimes. Her + passion for progress is in great part the product of an infatuation, which + consists in forgetting the goal to be aimed at, and absorbing herself in + the pride and delight of each tiny step, one after the other. Child that + she is, she is even capable of confounding change with improvement—beginning + over again, with growth in perfectness. + </p> + <p> + At the bottom of the modern man there is always a great thirst for + self-forgetfulness, self-distraction; he has a secret horror of all which + makes him feel his own littleness; the eternal, the infinite, perfection, + therefore scare and terrify him. He wishes to approve himself, to admire + and congratulate himself; and therefore he turns away from all those + problems and abysses which might recall to him his own nothingness. This + is what makes the real pettiness of so many of our great minds, and + accounts for the lack of personal dignity among us—civilized parrots + that we are—as compared with the Arab of the desert; or explains the + growing frivolity of our masses, more and more educated, no doubt, but + also more and more superficial in all their conceptions of happiness. + </p> + <p> + Here, then, is the service which Christianity—the oriental element + in our culture—renders to us Westerns. It checks and counterbalances + our natural tendency toward the passing, the finite, and the changeable, + by fixing the mind upon the contemplation of eternal things, and by + Platonizing our affections, which otherwise would have too little outlook + upon the ideal world. Christianity leads us back from dispersion to + concentration, from worldliness to self-recollection. It restores to our + souls, fevered with a thousand sordid desires, nobleness, gravity, and + calm. Just as sleep is a bath of refreshing for our actual life, so + religion is a bath of refreshing for our immortal being. What is sacred + has a purifying virtue; religious emotion crowns the brow with an aureole, + and thrills the heart with an ineffable joy. + </p> + <p> + I think that the adversaries of religion as such deceive themselves as to + the needs of the western man, and that the modern world will lose its + balance as soon as it has passed over altogether to the crude doctrine of + progress. We have always need of the infinite, the eternal, the absolute; + and since science contents itself with what is relative, it necessarily + leaves a void, which it is good for man to fill with contemplation, + worship, and adoration. “Religion,” said Bacon, “is the spice which is + meant to keep life from corruption,” and this is especially true to-day of + religion taken in the Platonist and oriental sense. A capacity for + self-recollection—for withdrawal from the outward to the inward—is + in fact the condition of all noble and useful activity. + </p> + <p> + This return, indeed, to what is serious, divine, and sacred, is becoming + more and more difficult, because of the growth of critical anxiety within + the church itself, the increasing worldliness of religious preaching, and + the universal agitation and disquiet of society. But such a return is more + and more necessary. Without it there is no inner life, and the inner life + is the only means whereby we may oppose a profitable resistance to + circumstance. If the sailor did not carry with him his own temperature he + could not go from the pole to the equator, and remain himself in spite of + all. The man who has no refuge in himself, who lives, so to speak, in his + front rooms, in the outer whirlwind of things and opinions, is not + properly a personality at all; he is not distinct, free, original, a cause—in + a word, <i>some one</i>. He is one of a crowd, a taxpayer, an elector, an + anonymity, but not a man. He helps to make up the mass—to fill up + the number of human consumers or producers; but he interests nobody but + the economist and the statistician, who take the heap of sand as a whole + into consideration, without troubling themselves about the uninteresting + uniformity of the individual grains. The crowd counts only as a massive + elementary force—why? because its constituent parts are individually + insignificant: they are all like each other, and we add them up like the + molecules of water in a river, gauging them by the fathom instead of + appreciating them as individuals. Such men are reckoned and weighed merely + as so many bodies: they have never been individualized by conscience, + after the manner of souls. + </p> + <p> + He who floats with the current, who does not guide himself according to + higher principles, who has no ideal, no convictions—such a man is a + mere article of the world’s furniture—a thing moved, instead of a + living and moving being—an echo, not a voice. The man who has no + inner life is the slave of his surroundings, as the barometer is the + obedient servant of the air at rest, and the weathercock the humble + servant of the air in motion. + </p> + <p> + January 21, 1866.—This evening after supper I did not know whither + to betake my solitary self. I was hungry for conversation, society, + exchange of ideas. It occurred to me to go and see our friends, the——s; + they were at supper. Afterward we went into the <i>salon</i>: mother and + daughter sat down to the piano and sang a duet by Boïeldieu. The ivory + keys of the old grand piano, which the mother had played on before her + marriage, and which has followed and translated into music the varying + fortunes of the family, were a little loose and jingling; but the poetry + of the past sang in this faithful old servant, which had been a friend in + trouble, a companion in vigils, and the echo of a lifetime of duty, + affection, piety and virtue. I was more moved than I can say. It was like + a scene of Dickens, and I felt a rush of sympathy, untouched either by + egotism or by melancholy. + </p> + <p> + Twenty-five years! It seems to me a dream as far as I am concerned, and I + can scarcely believe my eyes, or this inanimate witness to so many lustres + passed away. How strange a thing <i>to have lived</i>, and to feel myself + so far from a past which yet is so present to me! One does not know + whether one is sleeping or waking. Time is but the space between our + memories; as soon as we cease to perceive this space, time has + disappeared. The whole life of an old man may appear to him no longer than + an hour, or less still; and as soon as time is but a moment to us, we have + entered upon eternity. Life is but the dream of a shadow; I felt it anew + this evening with strange intensity. + </p> + <p> + January 29, 1866. (<i>Nine o’clock in the morning</i>).—The gray + curtain of mist has spread itself again over the town; everything is dark + and dull. The bells are ringing in the distance for some festival; with + this exception everything is calm and silent. Except for the crackling of + the fire, no noise disturbs my solitude in this modest home, the shelter + of my thoughts and of my work, where the man of middle age carries on the + life of his student-youth without the zest of youth, and the sedentary + professor repeats day by day the habits which he formed as a traveler. + </p> + <p> + What is it which makes the charm of this existence outwardly so barren and + empty? Liberty! What does the absence of comfort and of all else that is + wanting to these rooms matter to me? These things are indifferent to me. I + find under this roof light, quiet, shelter. I am near to a sister and her + children, whom I love; my material life is assured—that ought to be + enough for a bachelor.... Am I not, besides, a creature of habit? more + attached to the <i>ennuis</i> I know, than in love with pleasures unknown + to me. I am, then, free and not unhappy. Then I am well off here, and I + should be ungrateful to complain. Nor do I. It is only the heart which + sighs and seeks for something more and better. The heart is an insatiable + glutton, as we all know—and for the rest, who is without yearnings? + It is our destiny here below. Only some go through torments and troubles + in order to satisfy themselves, and all without success; others foresee + the inevitable result, and by a timely resignation save themselves a + barren and fruitless effort. Since we cannot be happy, why give ourselves + so much trouble? It is best to limit one’s self to what is strictly + necessary, to live austerely and by rule, to content one’s self with a + little, and to attach no value to anything but peace of conscience and a + sense of duty done. + </p> + <p> + It is true that this itself is no small ambition, and that it only lands + us in another impossibility. No—the simplest course is to submit + one’s self wholly and altogether to God. Everything else, as saith the + preacher, is but vanity and vexation of spirit. + </p> + <p> + It is a long while now since this has been plain to me, and since this + religious renunciation has been sweet and familiar to me. It is the + outward distractions of life, the examples of the world, and the + irresistible influence exerted upon us by the current of things which make + us forget the wisdom we have acquired and the principles we have adopted. + That is why life is such weariness! This eternal beginning over again is + tedious, even to repulsion. It would be so good to go to sleep when we + have gathered the fruit of experience, when we are no longer in opposition + to the supreme will, when we have broken loose from self, when we are at + peace with all men. Instead of this, the old round of temptations, + disputes, <i>ennuis</i>, and forgettings, has to be faced again and again, + and we fall back into prose, into commonness, into vulgarity. How + melancholy, how humiliating! The poets are wise in withdrawing their + heroes more quickly from the strife, and in not dragging them after + victory along the common rut of barren days. “Whom the gods love die + young,” said the proverb of antiquity. + </p> + <p> + Yes, but it is our secret self-love which is set upon this favor from on + high; such may be our desire, but such is not the will of God. We are to + be exercised, humbled, tried, and tormented to the end. It is our patience + which is the touchstone of our virtue. To bear with life even when + illusion and hope are gone; to accept this position of perpetual war, + while at the same time loving only peace; to stay patiently in the world, + even when it repels us as a place of low company, and seems to us a mere + arena of bad passions; to remain faithful to one’s own faith without + breaking with the followers of the false gods; to make no attempt to + escape from the human hospital, long-suffering and patient as Job upon his + dung hill—this is duty. When life ceases to be a promise it does not + cease to be a task; its true name even is trial. + </p> + <p> + April 2, 1866. (<i>Mornex</i>).—The snow is melting and a damp fog + is spread over everything. The asphalt gallery which runs along the <i>salon</i> + is a sheet of quivering water starred incessantly by the hurrying drops + falling from the sky. It seems as if one could touch the horizon with + one’s hand, and the miles of country which were yesterday visible are all + hidden under a thick gray curtain. + </p> + <p> + This imprisonment transports me to Shetland, to Spitzbergen, to Norway, to + the Ossianic countries of mist, where man, thrown back upon himself, feels + his heart beat more quickly and his thought expand more freely—so + long, at least, as he is not frozen and congealed by cold. Fog has + certainly a poetry of its own—a grace, a dreamy charm. It does for + the daylight what a lamp does for us at night; it turns the mind toward + meditation; it throws the soul back on itself. The sun, as it were, sheds + us abroad in nature, scatters and disperses us; mist draws us together and + concentrates us—it is cordial, homely, charged with feeling. The + poetry of the sun has something of the epic in it; that of fog and mist is + elegaic and religious. Pantheism is the child of light; mist engenders + faith in near protectors. When the great world is shut off from us, the + house becomes itself a small universe. Shrouded in perpetual mist, men + love each other better; for the only reality then is the family, and, + within the family, the heart; and the greatest thoughts come from the + heart—so says the moralist. + </p> + <p> + April 6, 1866.—The novel by Miss Mulock, “John Halifax, Gentleman,” + is a bolder book than it seems, for it attacks in the English way the + social problem of equality. And the solution reached is that every one may + become a gentleman, even though he may be born in the gutter. In its way + the story protests against conventional superiorities, and shows that true + nobility consists in character, in personal merit, in moral distinction, + in elevation of feeling and of language, in dignity of life, and in + self-respect. This is better than Jacobinism, and the opposite of the mere + brutal passion for equality. Instead of dragging everybody down, the + author simply proclaims the right of every one to rise. A man may be born + rich and noble—he is not born a gentleman. This word is the + Shibboleth of England; it divides her into two halves, and civilized + society into two castes. Among gentlemen—courtesy, equality, and + politeness; toward those below—contempt, disdain, coldness and + indifference. It is the old separation between the <i>ingenui</i> and all + others; between the [Greek: eleutheroi] and the [Greek: banauphoi], the + continuation of the feudal division between the gentry and the <i>roturiers</i>. + </p> + <p> + What, then, is a gentleman? Apparently he is the free man, the man who is + stronger than things, and believes in personality as superior to all the + accessory attributes of fortune, such as rank and power, and as + constituting what is essential, real, and intrinsically valuable in the + individual. Tell me what you are, and I will tell you what you are worth. + “God and my Right;” there is the only motto he believes in. Such an ideal + is happily opposed to that vulgar ideal which is equally English, the + ideal of wealth, with its formula, “<i>How much</i> is he worth?” In a + country where poverty is a crime, it is good to be able to say that a + nabob need not as such be a gentleman. The mercantile ideal and the + chivalrous ideal counterbalance each other; and if the one produces the + ugliness of English society and its brutal side, the other serves as a + compensation. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman, then, is the man who is master of himself, who respects + himself, and makes others respect him. The essence of gentlemanliness is + self-rule, the sovereignty of the soul. It means a character which + possesses itself, a force which governs itself, a liberty which affirms + and regulates itself, according to the type of true dignity. Such an ideal + is closely akin to the Roman type of <i>dignitas cum auctoritate</i>. It + is more moral than intellectual, and is particularly suited to England, + which is pre-eminently the country of will. But from self-respect a + thousand other things are derived—such as the care of a man’s + person, of his language, of his manners; watchfulness over his body and + over his soul; dominion over his instincts and his passions; the effort to + be self-sufficient; the pride which will accept no favor; carefulness not + to expose himself to any humiliation or mortification, and to maintain + himself independent of any human caprice; the constant protection of his + honor and of his self-respect. Such a condition of sovereignty, insomuch + as it is only easy to the man who is well-born, well-bred, and rich, was + naturally long identified with birth, rank, and above all with property. + The idea “gentleman” is, then, derived from feudality; it is, as it were, + a milder version of the seigneur. + </p> + <p> + In order to lay himself open to no reproach, a gentleman will keep himself + irreproachable; in order to be treated with consideration, he will always + be careful himself to observe distances, to apportion respect, and to + observe all the gradations of conventional politeness, according to rank, + age, and situation. Hence it follows that he will be imperturbably + cautious in the presence of a stranger, whose name and worth are unknown + to him, and to whom he might perhaps show too much or too little courtesy. + He ignores and avoids him; if he is approached, he turns away, if he is + addressed, he answers shortly and with <i>hauteur</i>. His politeness is + not human and general, but individual and relative to persons. This is why + every Englishman contains two different men—one turned toward the + world, and another. The first, the outer man, is a citadel, a cold and + angular wall; the other, the inner man, is a sensible, affectionate, + cordial, and loving creature. Such a type is only formed in a moral + climate full of icicles, where, in the face of an indifferent world, the + hearth alone is hospitable. + </p> + <p> + So that an analysis of the national type of gentlemen reveals to us the + nature and the history of the nation, as the fruit reveals the tree. + </p> + <p> + April 7, 1866.—If philosophy is the art of understanding, it is + evident that it must begin by saturating itself with facts and realities, + and that premature abstraction kills it, just as the abuse of fasting + destroys the body at the age of growth. Besides, we only understand that + which is already within us. To understand is to possess the thing + understood, first by sympathy and then by intelligence. Instead, then, of + first dismembering and dissecting the object to be conceived, we should + begin by laying hold of it in its <i>ensemble</i>, then in its formation, + last of all in its parts. The procedure is the same, whether we study a + watch or a plant, a work of art or a character. We must study, respect, + and question what we want to know, instead of massacring it. We must + assimilate ourselves to things and surrender ourselves to them; we must + open our minds with docility to their influence, and steep ourselves in + their spirit and their distinctive form, before we offer violence to them + by dissecting them. + </p> + <p> + April 14, 1866.—Panic, confusion, <i>sauve qui peut</i> on the + Bourse at Paris. In our epoch of individualism, and of “each man for + himself and God for all,” the movements of the public funds are all that + now represent to us the beat of the common heart. The solidarity of + interests which they imply counterbalances the separateness of modern + affections, and the obligatory sympathy they impose upon us recalls to one + a little the patriotism which bore the forced taxes of old days. We feel + ourselves bound up with and compromised in all the world’s affairs, and we + must interest ourselves whether we will or no in the terrible machine + whose wheels may crush us at any moment. Credit produces a restless + society, trembling perpetually for the security of its artificial basis. + Sometimes society may forget for awhile that it is dancing upon a volcano, + but the least rumor of war recalls the fact to it inexorably. Card-houses + are easily ruined. + </p> + <p> + All this anxiety is intolerable to those humble little investors who, + having no wish to be rich, ask only to be able to go about their work in + peace. But no; tyrant that it is, the world cries to us, “Peace, peace—there + is no peace: whether you will or no you shall suffer and tremble with me!” + To accept humanity, as one does nature, and to resign one’s self to the + will of an individual, as one does to destiny, is not easy. We bow to the + government of God, but we turn against the despot. No man likes to share + in the shipwreck of a vessel in which he has been embarked by violence, + and which has been steered contrary to his wish and his opinion. And yet + such is perpetually the case in life. We all of us pay for the faults of + the few. + </p> + <p> + Human solidarity is a fact more evident and more certain than personal + responsibility, and even than individual liberty. Our dependence has it + over our independence; for we are only independent in will and desire, + while we are dependent upon our health, upon nature and society; in short, + upon everything in us and without us. Our liberty is confined to one + single point. We may protest against all these oppressive and fatal + powers; we may say, Crush me—you will never win my consent! We may, + by an exercise of will, throw ourselves into opposition to necessity, and + refuse it homage and obedience. In that consists our moral liberty. But + except for that, we belong, body and goods, to the world. We are its + playthings, as the dust is the plaything of the wind, or the dead leaf of + the floods. God at least respects our dignity, but the world rolls us + contemptuously along in its merciless waves, in order to make it plain + that we are its thing and its chattel. + </p> + <p> + All theories of the nullity of the individual, all pantheistic and + materialist conceptions, are now but so much forcing of an open door, so + much slaying of the slain. As soon as we cease to glorify this + imperceptible point of conscience, and to uphold the value of it, the + individual becomes naturally a mere atom in the human mass, which is but + an atom in the planetary mass, which is a mere nothing in the universe. + The individual is then but a nothing of the third power, with a capacity + for measuring its nothingness! Thought leads to resignation. Self-doubt + leads to passivity, and passivity to servitude. From this a voluntary + submission is the only escape, that is to say, a state of dependence + religiously accepted, a vindication of ourselves as free beings, bowed + before duty only. Duty thus becomes our principle of action, our source of + energy, the guarantee of our partial independence of the world, the + condition of our dignity, the sign of our nobility. The world can neither + make me will nor make me will my duty; here I am my own and only master, + and treat with it as sovereign with sovereign. It holds my body in its + clutches; but my soul escapes and braves it. My thought and my love, my + faith and my hope, are beyond its reach. My true being, the essence of my + nature, myself, remain inviolate and inaccessible to the world’s attacks. + In this respect we are greater than the universe, which has mass and not + will; we become once more independent even in relation to the human mass, + which also can destroy nothing more than our happiness, just as the mass + of the universe can destroy nothing more than our body. Submission, then, + is not defeat; on the contrary, it is strength. + </p> + <p> + April 28, 1866.—I have just read the <i>procès-verbal</i> of the + Conference of Pastors held on the 15th and 16th of April at Paris. The + question of the supernatural has split the church of France in two. The + liberals insist upon individual right; the orthodox upon the notion of a + church. And it is true indeed that a church is an affirmation, that it + subsists by the positive element in it, by definite belief; the pure + critical element dissolves it. Protestantism is a combination of two + factors—the authority of the Scriptures and free inquiry; as soon as + one of these factors is threatened or disappears, Protestantism + disappears; a new form of Christianity succeeds it, as, for example, the + church of the Brothers of the Holy Ghost, or that of Christian Theism. As + far as I am concerned, I see nothing objectionable in such a result, but I + think the friends of the Protestant church are logical in their refusal to + abandon the apostle’s creed, and the individualists are illogical in + imagining that they can keep Protestantism and do away with authority. + </p> + <p> + It is a question of method which separates the two camps. I am + fundamentally separated from both. As I understand it, Christianity is + above all religions, and religion is not a method, it is a life, a higher + and supernatural life, mystical in its root and practical in its fruits, a + communion with God, a calm and deep enthusiasm, a love which radiates, a + force which acts, a happiness which overflows. Religion, in short, is a + state of the soul. These quarrels as to method have their value, but it is + a secondary value; they will never console a heart or edify a conscience. + This is why I feel so little interest in these ecclesiastical struggles. + Whether the one party or the other gain the majority and the victory, what + is essential is in no way profited, for dogma, criticism, the church, are + not religion; and it is religion, the sense of a divine life, which + matters. “Seek ye first the kingdom of God and his righteousness, and all + these things shall be added unto you.” The most holy is the most + Christian; this will always be the criterion which is least deceptive. “By + this ye shall know my disciples, if they have love one to another.” + </p> + <p> + As is the worth of the individual, so is the worth of his religion. + Popular instinct and philosophic reason are at one on this point. Be good + and pious, patient and heroic, faithful and devoted, humble and + charitable; the catechism which has taught you these things is beyond the + reach of blame. By religion we live in God; but all these quarrels lead to + nothing but life with men or with cassocks. There is therefore no + equivalence between the two points of view. + </p> + <p> + Perfection as an end—a noble example for sustenance on the way—the + divine proved by its own excellence, is not this the whole of + Christianity? God manifest in all men, is not this its true goal and + consummation? + </p> + <p> + September 20, 1866.—My old friends are, I am afraid, disappointed in + me; they think that I do nothing, that I have deceived their expectations + and their hopes. I, too, am disappointed. All that would restore my + self-respect and give me a right to be proud of myself, seems to me + unattainable and impossible, and I fall back upon trivialities, gay talk, + distractions. I am always equally lacking in hope, in faith, in + resolution. The only difference is that my weakness takes sometimes the + form of despairing melancholy and sometimes that of a cheerful quietism. + And yet I read, I talk, I teach, I write, but to no effect; it is as + though I were walking in my sleep. The Buddhist tendency in me blunts the + faculty of free self-government and weakens the power of action; + self-distrust kills all desire, and reduces me again and again to a + fundamental skepticism. I care for nothing but the serious and the real, + and I can take neither myself nor my circumstances seriously. I hold my + own personality, my own aptitudes, my own aspirations, too cheap. I am + forever making light of myself in the name of all that is beautiful and + admirable. In a word, I bear within me a perpetual self-detractor, and + this is what takes all spring out of my life. I have been passing the + evening with Charles Heim, who, in his sincerity, has never paid me any + literary compliment. As I love and respect him, he is forgiven. Self-love + has nothing to do with it—and yet it would be sweet to be praised by + so upright a friend! It is depressing to feel one’s self silently + disapproved of; I will try to satisfy him, and to think of a book which + may please both him and Scherer. + </p> + <p> + October 6, 1866.—I have just picked up on the stairs a little + yellowish cat, ugly and pitiable. Now, curled up in a chair at my side, he + seems perfectly happy, and as if he wanted nothing more. Far from being + wild, nothing will induce him to leave me, and he has followed me from + room to room all day. I have nothing at all that is eatable in the house, + but what I have I give him—that is to say, a look and a caress—and + that seems to be enough for him, at least for the moment. Small animals, + small children, young lives—they are all the same as far as the need + of protection and of gentleness is concerned.... People have sometimes + said to me that weak and feeble creatures are happy with me. Perhaps such + a fact has to do with some special gift or beneficent force which flows + from one when one is in the sympathetic state. I have often a direct + perception of such a force; but I am no ways proud of it, nor do I look + upon it as anything belonging to me, but simply as a natural gift. It + seems to me sometimes as though I could woo the birds to build in my beard + as they do in the headgear of some cathedral saint! After all, this is the + natural state and the true relation of man toward all inferior creatures. + If man was what he ought to be he would be adored by the animals, of whom + he is too often the capricious and sanguinary tyrant. The legend of Saint + Francis of Assisi is not so legendary as we think; and it is not so + certain that it was the wild beasts who attacked man first.... But to + exaggerate nothing, let us leave on one side the beasts of prey, the + carnivora, and those that live by rapine and slaughter. How many other + species are there, by thousands and tens of thousands, who ask peace from + us and with whom we persist in waging a brutal war? Our race is by far the + most destructive, the most hurtful, and the most formidable, of all the + species of the planet. It has even invented for its own use the right of + the strongest—a divine right which quiets its conscience in the face + of the conquered and the oppressed; we have outlawed all that lives except + ourselves. Revolting and manifest abuse; notorious and contemptible breach + of the law of justice! The bad faith and hypocrisy of it are renewed on a + small scale by all successful usurpers. We are always making God our + accomplice, that so we may legalize our own iniquities. Every successful + massacre is consecrated by a Te Deum, and the clergy have never been + wanting in benedictions for any victorious enormity. So that what, in the + beginning, was the relation of man to the animal becomes that of people to + people and man to man. + </p> + <p> + If so, we have before us an expiation too seldom noticed but altogether + just. All crime must be expiated, and slavery is the repetition among men + of the sufferings brutally imposed by man upon other living beings; it is + the theory bearing its fruits. The right of man over the animal seems to + me to cease with the need of defense and of subsistence. So that all + unnecessary murder and torture are cowardice and even crime. The animal + renders a service of utility; man in return owes it a need of protection + and of kindness. In a word, the animal has claims on man, and the man has + duties to the animal. Buddhism, no doubt, exaggerates this truth, but the + Westerns leave it out of count altogether. A day will come, however, when + our standard will be higher, our humanity more exacting, than it is + to-day. <i>Homo homini lupus</i>, said Hobbes: the time will come when man + will be humane even for the wolf—<i>homo lupo homo</i>. + </p> + <p> + December 30, 1866.—Skepticism pure and simple as the only safeguard + of intellectual independence—such is the point of view of almost all + our young men of talent. Absolute freedom from credulity seems to them the + glory of man. My impression has always been that this excessive detachment + of the individual from all received prejudices and opinions in reality + does the work of tyranny. This evening, in listening to the conversation + of some of our most cultivated men, I thought of the Renaissance, of the + Ptolemies, of the reign of Louis XV., of all those times in which the + exultant anarchy of the intellect has had despotic government for its + correlative, and, on the other hand, of England, of Holland, of the United + States, countries in which political liberty is bought at the price of + necessary prejudices and <i>à priori</i> opinions. + </p> + <p> + That society may hold together at all, we must have a principle of + cohesion—that is to say, a common belief, principles recognized and + undisputed, a series of practical axioms and institutions which are not at + the mercy of every caprice of public opinion. By treating everything as if + it were an open question, we endanger everything. + </p> + <p> + Doubt is the accomplice of tyranny. “If a people will not believe it must + obey,” said Tocqueville. All liberty implies dependence, and has its + conditions; this is what negative and quarrelsome minds are apt to forget. + They think they can do away with religion; they do not know that religion + is indestructible, and that the question is simply, Which will you have? + Voltaire plays the game of Loyola, and <i>vice versâ</i>. Between these + two there is no peace, nor can there be any for the society which has once + thrown itself into the dilemma. The only solution lies in a free religion, + a religion of free choice and free adhesion. + </p> + <p> + December 23, 1866.—It is raining over the whole sky—as far at + least as I can see from my high point of observation. All is gray from the + Salève to the Jura, and from the pavement to the clouds; everything that + one sees or touches is gray; color, life, and gayety are dead—each + living thing seems to lie hidden in its own particular shell. What are the + birds doing in such weather as this? We who have food and shelter, fire on + the hearth, books around us, portfolios of engravings close at hand, a + nestful of dreams in the heart, and a whirlwind of thoughts ready to rise + from the ink-bottle—we find nature ugly and <i>triste</i>, and turn + away our eyes from it; but you, poor sparrows, what can you be doing? + Bearing and hoping and waiting? After all, is not this the task of each + one of us? + </p> + <p> + I have just been reading over a volume of this Journal, and feel a little + ashamed of the languid complaining tone of so much of it. These pages + reproduce me very imperfectly, and there are many things in me of which I + find no trace in them. I suppose it is because, in the first place, + sadness takes up the pen more readily than joy; and in the next, because I + depend so much upon surrounding circumstances. When there is no call upon + me, and nothing to put me to the test, I fall back into melancholy; and so + the practical man, the cheerful man, the literary man, does not appear in + these pages. The portrait is lacking in proportion and breadth; it is + one-sided, and wants a center; it has, as it were, been painted from too + near. + </p> + <p> + The true reason why we know ourselves so little lies in the difficulty we + find in standing at a proper distance from ourselves, in taking up the + right point of view, so that the details may help rather than hide the + general effect. We must learn to look at ourselves socially and + historically if we wish to have an exact idea of our relative worth, and + to look at our life as a whole, or at least as one complete period of + life, if we wish to know what we are and what we are not. The ant which + crawls to and fro over a face, the fly perched upon the forehead of a + maiden, touch them indeed, but do not see them, for they never embrace the + whole at a glance. + </p> + <p> + Is it wonderful that misunderstandings should play so great a part in the + world, when one sees how difficult it is to produce a faithful portrait of + a person whom one has been studying for more than twenty years? Still, the + effort has not been altogether lost; its reward has been the sharpening of + one’s perceptions of the outer world. If I have any special power of + appreciating different shades of mind, I owe it no doubt to the analysis I + have so perpetually and unsuccessfully practiced on myself. In fact, I + have always regarded myself as matter for study, and what has interested + me most in myself has been the pleasure of having under my hand a man, a + person, in whom, as an authentic specimen of human nature, I could follow, + without importunity or indiscretion, all the metamorphoses, the secret + thoughts, the heart-beats, and the temptations of humanity. My attention + has been drawn to myself impersonally and philosophically. One uses what + one has, and one must shape one’s arrow out of one’s own wood. + </p> + <p> + To arrive at a faithful portrait, succession must be converted into + simultaneousness, plurality into unity, and all the changing phenomena + must be traced back to their essence. There are ten men in me, according + to time, place, surrounding, and occasion; and in their restless diversity + I am forever escaping myself. Therefore, whatever I may reveal of my past, + of my Journal, or of myself, is of no use to him who is without the poetic + intuition, and cannot recompose me as a whole, with or in spite of the + elements which I confide to him. + </p> + <p> + I feel myself a chameleon, a kaleidoscope, a Proteus; changeable in every + way, open to every kind of polarization; fluid, virtual, and therefore + latent—latent even in manifestation, and absent even in + presentation. I am a spectator, so to speak, of the molecular whirlwind + which men call individual life; I am conscious of an incessant + metamorphosis, an irresistible movement of existence, which is going on + within me. I am sensible of the flight, the revival, the modification, of + all the atoms of my being, all the particles of my river, all the + radiations of my special force. + </p> + <p> + This phenomenology of myself serves both as the magic lantern of my own + destiny, and as a window opened upon the mystery of the world. I am, or + rather, my sensible consciousness is concentrated upon this ideal + standing-point, this invisible threshold, as it were, whence one hears the + impetuous passage of time, rushing and foaming as it flows out into the + changeless ocean of eternity. After all the bewildering distractions of + life, after having drowned myself in a multiplicity of trifles and in the + caprices of this fugitive existence, yet without ever attaining to + self-intoxication or self-delusion, I come again upon the fathomless + abyss, the silent and melancholy cavern where dwell “<i>Die Mütter</i>,” + [Footnote: “<i>Die Mütter</i>”—an allusion to a strange and + enigmatical, but very effective conception in “Faust” (Part II. Act I. + Scene v.) <i>Die Mütter</i> are the prototypes, the abstract forms, the + generative ideas, of things. “Sie sehn dich nicht, denn Schemen sehn sie + nur.” Goethe borrowed the term from a passage of Plutarch’s, but he has + made the idea half Platonic, half legendary. Amiel, however, seems rather + to have in his mind Faust’s speech in Scene vii. than the speech of + Mephistopheles in Scene v: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In eurem Namen, Mütter, die ihr thront + Im Gränzenlosen, ewig einsam wohnt, + Und doch gesellig! Euer haupt umschweben + Des Lebens Bilder, regsam, ohne Leben.”] +</pre> + <p> + where sleeps that which neither lives nor dies, that which has neither + movement, nor change, nor extension, nor form, and which lasts when all + else passes away. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Dans l’éternel azur de l’insondable espace + S’enveloppe de paix notre globe agitée: + Homme, enveloppe ainsi tes jours, rêve qui passe, + Du calme firmament de ton éternité.” + </pre> + <p> + (H. P. AMIEL, <i>Penseroso</i>.) + </p> + <p> + Geneva, January 11, 1867. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Eheu fugaces, Postume, Postume, Labuntar anni....” + </pre> + <p> + I hear the drops of my life falling distinctly one by one into the + devouring abyss of eternity. I feel my days flying before the pursuit of + death. All that remains to me of weeks, or months, or years, in which I + may drink in the light of the sun, seems to me no more than a single + night, a summer night, which scarcely counts, because it will so soon be + at an end. + </p> + <p> + Death! Silence! Eternity! What mysteries, what names of terror to the + being who longs for happiness, immortality, perfection! Where shall I be + to-morrow—in a little while—when the breath of life has + forsaken me? Where will those be whom I love? Whither are we all going? + The eternal problems rise before us in their implacable solemnity. Mystery + on all sides! And faith the only star in this darkness and uncertainty! + </p> + <p> + No matter!—so long as the world is the work of eternal goodness, and + so long as conscience has not deceived us. To give happiness and to do + good, there is our only law, our anchor of salvation, our beacon light, + our reason for existing. All religions may crumble away; so long as this + survives we have still an ideal, and life is worth living. + </p> + <p> + Nothing can lessen the dignity and value of humanity + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + Was einmal war, in allem Glanz und Schein, + Es regt sich dort; denn es will ewig sein. + Und ihr vertheilt es, allgewaltige Mächte, + Zum Zelt des Tages, zum Gewölb’ der Nächte. +</pre> + <p> + so long as the religion of love, of unselfishness and devotion endures; + and none can destroy the altars of this faith for us so long as we feel + ourselves still capable of love. + </p> + <p> + April 15,1867—(<i>Seven</i> A. M.).—Rain storms in the night—the + weather is showing its April caprice. From the window one sees a gray and + melancholy sky, and roofs glistering with rain. The spring is at its work. + Yes, and the implacable flight of time is driving us toward the grave. + Well—each has his turn! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Allez, allez, ô jeunes filles, + Cueillir des bleuets dans les blés!” + </pre> + <p> + I am overpowered with melancholy, languor, lassitude. A longing for the + last great sleep has taken possession of me, combated, however, by a + thirst for sacrifice—sacrifice heroic and long-sustained. Are not + both simply ways of escape from one’s self? “Sleep, or self-surrender, + that I may die to self!”—such is the cry of the heart. Poor heart! + </p> + <p> + April 17, 1867.—Awake, thou that sleepest, and rise from the dead. + </p> + <p> + What needs perpetually refreshing and renewing in me is my store of + courage. By nature I am so easily disgusted with life, I fall a prey so + readily to despair and pessimism. + </p> + <p> + “The happy man, as this century is able to produce him,” according to + Madame ——, is a <i>Weltmüde</i>, one who keeps a brave face + before the world, and distracts himself as best he can from dwelling upon + the thought which is hidden at his heart—a thought which has in it + the sadness of death—the thought of the irreparable. The outward + peace of such a man is but despair well masked; his gayety is the + carelessness of a heart which has lost all its illusions, and has learned + to acquiesce in an indefinite putting off of happiness. His wisdom is + really acclimatization to sacrifice, his gentleness should be taken to + mean privation patiently borne rather than resignation. In a word, he + submits to an existence in which he feels no joy, and he cannot hide from + himself that all the alleviations with which it is strewn cannot satisfy + the soul. The thirst for the infinite is never appeased. God is wanting. + </p> + <p> + To win true peace, a man needs to feel himself directed, pardoned, and + sustained by a supreme power, to feel himself in the right road, at the + point where God would have him be—in order with God and the + universe. This faith gives strength and calm. I have not got it. All that + is, seems to me arbitrary and fortuitous. It may as well not be, as be. + Nothing in my own circumstances seems to me providential. All appears to + me left to my own responsibility, and it is this thought which disgusts me + with the government of my own life. I longed to give myself up wholly to + some great love, some noble end; I would willingly have lived and died for + the ideal—that is to say, for a holy cause. But once the + impossibility of this made clear to me, I have never since taken a serious + interest in anything, and have, as it were, but amused myself with a + destiny of which I was no longer the dupe. + </p> + <p> + Sybarite and dreamer, will you go on like this to the end—forever + tossed backward and forward between duty and happiness, incapable of + choice, of action? Is not life the test of our moral force, and all these + inward waverings, are they not temptations of the soul? + </p> + <p> + September 6, 1867, <i>Weissenstein</i>. [Footnote: Weissenstein is a high + point in the Jura, above Soleure.] (<i>Ten o’clock in the morning</i>).—A + marvelous view of blinding and bewildering beauty. Above a milky sea of + cloud, flooded with morning light, the rolling waves of which are beating + up against the base of the wooded steeps of the Weissenstein, the vast + circle of the Alps soars to a sublime height. The eastern side of the + horizon is drowned in the splendors of the rising mists; but from the Tödi + westward, the whole chain floats pure and clear between the milky plain + and the pale blue sky. The giant assembly is sitting in council above the + valleys and the lakes still submerged in vapor. The Clariden, the + Spannörter, the Titlis, then the Bernese <i>colossi</i> from the + Wetterhorn to the Diablerets, then the peaks of Vaud, Valais, and + Fribourg, and beyond these high chains the two kings of the Alps, Mont + Blanc, of a pale pink, and the bluish point of Monte Rosa, peering out + through a cleft in the Doldenhorn—such is the composition of the + great snowy amphitheatre. The outline of the horizon takes all possible + forms: needles, ridges, battlements, pyramids, obelisks, teeth, fangs, + pincers, horns, cupolas; the mountain profile sinks, rises again, twists + and sharpens itself in a thousand ways, but always so as to maintain an + angular and serrated line. Only the inferior and secondary groups of + mountains show any large curves or sweeping undulations of form. The Alps + are more than an upheaval; they are a tearing and gashing of the earth’s + surface. Their granite peaks bite into the sky instead of caressing it. + The Jura, on the contrary, spreads its broad back complacently under the + blue dome of air. + </p> + <p> + <i>Eleven o’clock</i>.—The sea of vapor has risen and attacked the + mountains, which for a long time overlooked it like so many huge reefs. + For awhile it surged in vain over the lower slopes of the Alps. Then + rolling back upon itself, it made a more successful onslaught upon the + Jura, and now we are enveloped in its moving waves. The milky sea has + become one vast cloud, which has swallowed up the plain and the mountains, + observatory and observer. Within this cloud one may hear the sheep-bells + ringing, and see the sunlight darting hither and thither. Strange and + fanciful sight! + </p> + <p> + The Hanoverian pianist has gone; the family from Colmar has gone; a young + girl and her brother have arrived. The girl is very pretty, and + particularly dainty and elegant in all her ways; she seems to touch things + only with the tips of her fingers; one compares her to an ermine, a + gazelle. But at the same time she has no interests, does not know how to + admire, and thinks of herself more than of anything else. This perhaps is + a drawback inseparable from a beauty and a figure which attract all eyes. + She is, besides, a townswoman to the core, and feels herself out of place + in this great nature, which probably seems to her barbarous and ill-bred. + At any rate she does not let it interfere with her in any way, and parades + herself on the mountains with her little bonnet and her scarcely + perceptible sunshade, as though she were on the boulevard. She belongs to + that class of tourists so amusingly drawn by Töpffer. Character: <i>naïve</i> + conceit. Country: France. Standard of life: fashion. Some cleverness but + no sense of reality, no understanding of nature, no consciousness of the + manifold diversities of the world and of the right of life to be what it + is, and to follow its own way and not ours. + </p> + <p> + This ridiculous element in her is connected with the same national + prejudice which holds France to be the center point of the world, and + leads Frenchmen to neglect geography and languages. The ordinary French + townsman is really deliciously stupid in spite of all his natural + cleverness, for he understands nothing but himself. His pole, his axis, + his center, his all is Paris—or even less—Parisian manners, + the taste of the day, fashion. Thanks to this organized fetishism, we have + millions of copies of one single original pattern; a whole people moving + together like bobbins in the same machine, or the legs of a single <i>corps + d’armée</i>. The result is wonderful but wearisome; wonderful in point of + material strength, wearisome psychologically. A hundred thousand sheep are + not more instructive than one sheep, but they furnish a hundred thousand + times more wool, meat, and manure. This is all, you may say, that the + shepherd—that is, the master—requires. Very well, but one can + only maintain breeding-farms or monarchies on these principles. For a + republic you must have men: it cannot get on without individualities. + </p> + <p> + <i>Noon</i>.—An exquisite effect. A great herd of cattle are running + across the meadows under my window, which is just illuminated by a furtive + ray of sunshine. The picture has a ghostly suddenness and brilliancy; it + pierces the mists which close upon it, like the slide of a magic lantern. + </p> + <p> + What a pity I must leave this place now that everything is so bright! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The calm sea says more to the thoughtful soul than the same sea in storm + and tumult. But we need the understanding of eternal things and the + sentiment of the infinite to be able to feel this. The divine state <i>par + excellence</i> is that of silence and repose, because all speech and all + action are in themselves limited and fugitive. Napoleon with his arms + crossed over his breast is more expressive than the furious Hercules + beating the air with his athlete’s fists. People of passionate temperament + never understand this. They are only sensitive to the energy of + succession; they know nothing of the energy of condensation. They can only + be impressed by acts and effects, by noise and effort. They have no + instinct of contemplation, no sense of the pure cause, the fixed source of + all movement, the principle of all effects, the center of all light, which + does not need to spend itself in order to be sure of its own wealth, nor + to throw itself into violent motion to be certain of its own power. The + art of passion is sure to please, but it is not the highest art; it is + true, indeed, that under the rule of democracy, the serener and calmer + forms of art become more and more difficult; the turbulent herd no longer + knows the gods. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Minds accustomed to analysis never allow objections more than a + half-value, because they appreciate the variable and relative elements + which enter in. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A well-governed mind learns in time to find pleasure in nothing but the + true and the just. + </p> + <p> + January 10, 1868. (<i>Eleven</i> P. M.).—We have had a philosophical + meeting at the house of Edouard Claparède. [Footnote: Edouard Claparède, a + Genevese naturalist, born 1832, died 1871.] The question on the order of + the day was the nature of sensation. Claparède pronounced for the absolute + subjectivity of all experience—in other words, for pure idealism—which + is amusing, from a naturalist. According to him the <i>ego</i> alone + exists, and the universe is but a projection of the <i>ego</i>, a + phantasmagoria which we ourselves create without suspecting it, believing + all the time that we are lookers-on. It is our noümenon which objectifies + itself as phenomenon. The <i>ego</i>, according to him, is a radiating + force which, modified without knowing what it is that modifies it, + imagines it, by virtue of the principle of causality—that is to say, + produces the great illusion of the objective world in order so to explain + itself. Our waking life, therefore, is but a more connected dream. The + self is an unknown which gives birth to an infinite number of unknowns, by + a fatality of its nature. Science is summed up in the consciousness that + nothing exists but consciousness. In other words, the intelligent issues + from the unintelligible in order to return to it, or rather the ego + explains itself by the hypothesis of the <i>non-ego</i>, while in reality + it is but a dream, dreaming itself. We might say with Scarron: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Et je vis l’ombre d’un esprit + Qui traçait l’ombre d’um système + Avec l’ombre de l’ombre même.” + </pre> + <p> + This abolition of nature by natural science is logical, and it was, in + fact, Schelling’s starting-point. From the standpoint of physiology, + nature is but a necessary illusion, a constitutional hallucination. We + only escape from this bewitchment by the moral activity of the <i>ego</i>, + which feels itself a cause and a free cause, and which by its + responsibility breaks the spell and issues from the enchanted circle of + Maïa. + </p> + <p> + Maïa! Is she indeed the true goddess? Hindoo wisdom long ago regarded the + world as the dream of Brahma. Must we hold with Fichte that it is the + individual dream of each individual <i>ego</i>? Every fool would then be a + cosmogonic poet producing the firework of the universe under the dome of + the infinite. But why then give ourselves such gratuitous trouble to + learn? In our dreams, at least, nightmare excepted, we endow ourselves + with complete ubiquity, liberty and omniscience. Are we then less + ingenious and inventive awake than asleep? + </p> + <p> + January 25, 1868.—It is when the outer man begins to decay that it + becomes vitally important to us to believe in immortality, and to feel + with the apostle that the inner man is renewed from day to day. But for + those who doubt it and have no hope of it? For them the remainder of life + can only be the compulsory dismemberment of their small empire, the + gradual dismantling of their being by inexorable destiny. How hard it is + to bear—this long-drawn death, of which the stages are melancholy + and the end inevitable! It is easy to see why it was that stoicism + maintained the right of suicide. What is my real faith? Has the universal, + or at any rate the very general and common doubt of science, invaded me in + my turn? I have defended the cause of the immortality of the soul against + those who questioned it, and yet when I have reduced them to silence, I + have scarcely known whether at bottom I was not after all on their side. I + try to do without hope; but it is possible that I have no longer the + strength for it, and that, like other men, I must be sustained and + consoled by a belief, by the belief in pardon and immortality—that + is to say, by religious belief of the Christian type. Reason and thought + grow tired, like muscles and nerves. They must have their sleep, and this + sleep is the relapse into the tradition of childhood, into the common + hope. It takes so much effort to maintain one’s self in an exceptional + point of view, that one falls back into prejudice by pure exhaustion, just + as the man who stands indefinitely always ends by sinking to the ground + and reassuming the horizontal position. + </p> + <p> + What is to become of us when everything leaves us—health, joy, + affections, the freshness of sensation, memory, capacity for work—when + the sun seems to us to have lost its warmth, and life is stripped of all + its charm? What is to become of us without hope? Must we either harden or + forget? There is but one answer—keep close to duty. Never mind the + future, if only you have peace of conscience, if you feel yourself + reconciled, and in harmony with the order of things. Be what you ought to + be; the rest is God’s affair. It is for him to know what is best, to take + care of his own glory, to ensure the happiness of what depends on him, + whether by another life or by annihilation. And supposing that there were + no good and holy God, nothing but universal being, the law of the all, an + ideal without hypostasis or reality, duty would still be the key of the + enigma, the pole-star of a wandering humanity. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra.” + </pre> + <p> + January 26, 1868.—Blessed be childhood, which brings down something + of heaven into the midst of our rough earthliness. These eighty thousand + daily births, of which statistics tell us, represent as it were an + effusion of innocence and freshness, struggling not only against the death + of the race, but against human corruption, and the universal gangrene of + sin. All the good and wholesome feeling which is intertwined with + childhood and the cradle is one of the secrets of the providential + government of the world. Suppress this life-giving dew, and human society + would be scorched and devastated by selfish passion. Supposing that + humanity had been composed of a thousand millions of immortal beings, + whose number could neither increase nor diminish, where should we be, and + what should we be! A thousand times more learned, no doubt, but a thousand + times more evil. There would have been a vast accumulation of science, but + all the virtues engendered by suffering and devotion—that is to say, + by the family and society—would have no existence. And for this + there would be no compensation. + </p> + <p> + Blessed be childhood for the good that it does, and for the good which it + brings about carelessly and unconsciously by simply making us love it and + letting itself be loved. What little of paradise we see still on earth is + due to its presence among us. Without fatherhood, without motherhood, I + think that love itself would not be enough to prevent men from devouring + each other—men, that is to say, such as human passions have made + them. The angels have no need of birth and death as foundations for their + life, because their life is heavenly. + </p> + <p> + February 16, 1868.—I have been finishing About’s “Mainfroy (Les + Mariages de Province).” What subtlety, what cleverness, what <i>verve</i>, + what <i>aplomb</i>! About is a master of epithet, of quick, light-winged + satire. For all his cavalier freedom of manner, his work is conceived at + bottom in a spirit of the subtlest irony, and his detachment of mind is so + great that he is able to make sport of everything, to mock at others and + himself, while all the time amusing himself extremely with his own ideas + and inventions. This is indeed the characteristic mark, the common + signature, so to speak, of <i>esprit</i> like his. + </p> + <p> + Irrepressible mischief, indefatigable elasticity, a power of luminous + mockery, delight in the perpetual discharge of innumerable arrows from an + inexhaustible quiver, the unquenchable laughter of some little earth-born + demon, perpetual gayety, and a radiant force of epigram—there are + all these in the true humorist. <i>Stulti sunt innumerabiles</i>, said + Erasmus, the patron of all these dainty mockers. Folly, conceit, foppery, + silliness, affectation, hypocrisy, attitudinizing and pedantry of all + shades, and in all forms, everything that poses, prances, bridles, struts, + bedizens, and plumes itself, everything that takes itself seriously and + tries to impose itself on mankind—all this is the natural prey of + the satirist, so many targets ready for his arrows, so many victims + offered to his attack. And we all know how rich the world is in prey of + this kind! An alderman’s feast of folly is served up to him in perpetuity; + the spectacle of society offers him an endless <i>noce de Gamache</i>. + [Footnote: <i>Noce de Gamache</i>—“repas très somptueux.”—Littré. + The allusion, of course, is to Don Quixote, Part II. chap. xx.—“Donde + se cuentan las bodas de Bamacho el rico, con el suceso de Basilio el + pobre.”] With what glee he raids through his domains, and what signs of + destruction and massacre mark the path of the sportsman! His hand is + infallible like his glance. The spirit of sarcasm lives and thrives in the + midst of universal wreck; its balls are enchanted and itself invulnerable, + and it braves retaliations and reprisals because itself is a mere flash, a + bodiless and magical nothing. + </p> + <p> + Clever men will recognize and tolerate nothing but cleverness; every + authority rouses their ridicule, every superstition amuses them, every + convention moves them to contradiction. Only force finds favor in their + eyes, and they have no toleration for anything that is not purely natural + and spontaneous. And yet ten clever men are not worth one man of talent, + nor ten men of talent worth one man of genius. And in the individual, + feeling is more than cleverness, reason is worth as much as feeling, and + conscience has it over reason. If, then, the clever man is not <i>mockable</i>, + he may at least be neither loved, nor considered, nor esteemed. He may + make himself feared, it is true, and force others to respect his + independence; but this negative advantage, which is the result of a + negative superiority, brings no happiness with it. Cleverness is + serviceable for everything, sufficient for nothing. + </p> + <p> + March 8, 1868.—Madame——kept me to have tea with three + young friends of hers—three sisters, I think. The two youngest are + extremely pretty, the dark one as pretty as the blonde. Their fresh faces, + radiant with the bloom of youth, were a perpetual delight to the eye. This + electric force of beauty has a beneficent effect upon the man of letters; + it acts as a real restorative. Sensitive, impressionable, absorbent as I + am, the neighborhood of health, of beauty, of intelligence and of + goodness, exercises a powerful influence upon my whole being; and in the + same way I am troubled and affected just as easily by the presence near me + of troubled lives or diseased souls. Madame —— said of me that + I must be “superlatively feminine” in all my perceptions. This ready + sympathy and sensitiveness is the reason of it. If I had but desired it + ever so little, I should have had the magical clairvoyance of the + somnambulist, and could have reproduced in myself a number of strange + phenomena. I know it, but I have always been on my guard against it, + whether from indifference or from prudence. When I think of the intuitions + of every kind which have come to me since my youth, it seems to me that I + have lived a multitude of lives. Every characteristic individuality shapes + itself ideally in me, or rather molds me for the moment into its own + image; and I have only to turn my attention upon myself at such a time to + be able to understand a new mode of being, a new phase of human nature. In + this way I have been, turn by turn, mathematician, musician, <i>savant</i>, + monk, child, or mother. In these states of universal sympathy I have even + seemed to myself sometimes to enter into the condition of the animal or + the plant, and even of an individual animal, of a given plant. This + faculty of ascending and descending metamorphosis, this power of + simplifying or of adding to one’s individuality, has sometimes astounded + my friends, even the most subtle of them. It has to do no doubt with the + extreme facility which I have for impersonal and objective thought, and + this again accounts for the difficulty which I feel in realizing my own + individuality, in being simply one man having his proper number and + ticket. To withdraw within my own individual limits has always seemed to + me a strange, arbitrary, and conventional process. I seem to myself to be + a mere conjuror’s apparatus, an instrument of vision and perception, a + person without personality, a subject without any determined individuality—an + instance, to speak technically, of pure “determinability” and + “formability,” and therefore I can only resign myself with difficulty to + play the purely arbitrary part of a private citizen, inscribed upon the + roll of a particular town or a particular country. In action I feel myself + out of place; my true <i>milieu</i> is contemplation. Pure virtuality and + perfect equilibrium—in these I am most at home. There I feel myself + free, disinterested, and sovereign. Is it a call or a temptation? + </p> + <p> + It represents perhaps the oscillation between the two geniuses, the Greek + and the Roman, the eastern and the western, the ancient and the Christian, + or the struggle between the two ideals, that of liberty and that of + holiness. Liberty raises us to the gods; holiness prostrates us on the + ground. Action limits us; whereas in the state of contemplation we are + endlessly expansive. Will localizes us; thought universalizes us. My soul + wavers between half a dozen antagonistic general conceptions, because it + is responsive to all the great instincts of human nature, and its + aspiration is to the absolute, which is only to be reached through a + succession of contraries. It has taken me a great deal of time to + understand myself, and I frequently find myself beginning over again the + study of the oft-solved problem, so difficult is it for us to maintain any + fixed point within us. I love everything, and detest one thing only—the + hopeless imprisonment of my being within a single arbitrary form, even + were it chosen by myself. Liberty for the inner man is then the strongest + of my passions—perhaps my only passion. Is such a passion lawful? It + has been my habit to think so, but intermittently, by fits and starts. I + am not perfectly sure of it. + </p> + <p> + March 17, 1868.—Women wish to be loved without a why or a wherefore; + not because they are pretty, or good, or well bred, or graceful, or + intelligent, but because they are themselves. All analysis seems to them + to imply a loss of consideration, a subordination of their personality to + something which dominates and measures it. They will have none of it; and + their instinct is just. As soon as we can give a reason for a feeling we + are no longer under the spell of it; we appreciate, we weigh, we are free, + at least in principle. Love must always remain a fascination, a witchery, + if the empire of woman is to endure. Once the mystery gone, the power goes + with it. Love must always seem to us indivisible, insoluble, superior to + all analysis, if it is to preserve that appearance of infinity, of + something supernatural and miraculous, which makes its chief beauty. The + majority of beings despise what they understand, and bow only before the + inexplicable. The feminine triumph <i>par excellence</i> is to convict of + obscurity that virile intelligence which makes so much pretense to + enlightenment. And when a woman inspires love, it is then especially that + she enjoys this proud triumph. I admit that her exultation has its + grounds. Still, it seems to me that love—true and profound love—should + be a source of light and calm, a religion and a revelation, in which there + is no place left for the lower victories of vanity. Great souls care only + for what is great, and to the spirit which hovers in the sight of the + Infinite, any sort of artifice seems a disgraceful puerility. + </p> + <p> + March 19, 1868.—What we call little things are merely the causes of + great things; they are the beginning, the embryo, and it is the point of + departure which, generally speaking, decides the whole future of an + existence. One single black speck may be the beginning of a gangrene, of a + storm, of a revolution. From one insignificant misunderstanding hatred and + separation may finally issue. An enormous avalanche begins by the + displacement of one atom, and the conflagration of a town by the fall of a + match. Almost everything comes from almost nothing, one might think. It is + only the first crystallization which is the affair of mind; the ultimate + aggregation is the affair of mass, of attraction, of acquired momentum, of + mechanical acceleration. History, like nature, illustrates for us the + application of the law of inertia and agglomeration which is put lightly + in the proverb, “Nothing succeeds like success.” Find the right point at + starting; strike straight, begin well; everything depends on it. Or more + simply still, provide yourself with good luck—for accident plays a + vast part in human affairs. Those who have succeeded most in this world + (Napoleon or Bismarck) confess it; calculation is not without its uses, + but chance makes mock of calculation, and the result of a planned + combination is in no wise proportional to its merit. From the supernatural + point of view people say: “This chance, as you call it, is, in reality, + the action of providence. Man may give himself what trouble he will—God + leads him all the same.” Only, unfortunately, this supposed intervention + as often as not ends in the defeat of zeal, virtue, and devotion, and the + success of crime, stupidity, and selfishness. Poor, sorely-tried Faith! + She has but one way out of the difficulty—the word Mystery! It is in + the origins of things that the great secret of destiny lies hidden, + although the breathless sequence of after events has often many surprises + for us too. So that at first sight history seems to us accident and + confusion; looked at for the second time, it seems to us logical and + necessary; looked at for the third time, it appears to us a mixture of + necessity and liberty; on the fourth examination we scarcely know what to + think of it, for if force is the source of right, and chance the origin of + force, we come back to our first explanation, only with a heavier heart + than when we began. + </p> + <p> + Is Democritus right after all? Is chance the foundation of everything, all + laws being but the imaginations of our reason, which, itself born of + accident, has a certain power of self-deception and of inventing laws + which it believes to be real and objective, just as a man who dreams of a + meal thinks that he is eating, while in reality there is neither table, + nor food, nor guest nor nourishment? Everything goes on as if there were + order and reason and logic in the world, while in reality everything is + fortuitous, accidental, and apparent. The universe is but the kaleidoscope + which turns within the mind of the so-called thinking being, who is + himself a curiosity without a cause, an accident conscious of the great + accident around him, and who amuses himself with it so long as the + phenomenon of his vision lasts. Science is a lucid madness occupied in + tabulating its own necessary hallucinations. The philosopher laughs, for + he alone escapes being duped, while he sees other men the victims of + persistent illusion. He is like some mischievous spectator of a ball who + has cleverly taken all the strings from the violins, and yet sees + musicians and dancers moving and pirouetting before him as though the + music were still going on. Such an experience would delight him as proving + that the universal St. Vitus’ dance is also nothing but an aberration of + the inner consciousness, and that the philosopher is in the right of it as + against the general credulity. Is it not even enough simply to shut one’s + ears in a ballroom, to believe one’s self in a madhouse? + </p> + <p> + The multitude of religions on the earth must have very much the same + effect upon the man who has killed the religious idea in himself. But it + is a dangerous attempt, this repudiation of the common law of the race—this + claim to be in the right, as against all the world. + </p> + <p> + It is not often that the philosophic scoffers forget themselves for + others. Why should they? Self-devotion is a serious thing, and seriousness + would be inconsistent with their rôle of mockery. To be unselfish we must + love; to love we must believe in the reality of what we love; we must know + how to suffer, how to forget ourselves, how to yield ourselves up—in + a word, how to be serious. A spirit of incessant mockery means absolute + isolation; it is the sign of a thoroughgoing egotism. If we wish to do + good to men we must pity and not despise them. We must learn to say of + them, not “What fools!” but “What unfortunates!” The pessimist or the + nihilist seems to me less cold and icy than the mocking atheist. He + reminds me of the somber words of “Ahasvérus:” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Vous qui manquez de charité, + Tremblez à mon supplice étrange: + Ce n’est point sa divinité, + C’est l’humanité que Dieu venge!” + </pre> + <p> + [Footnote: The quotation is from Quinet’s “Ahasvérus” (first published + 1833), that strange <i>Welt-gedicht</i>, which the author himself + described as “l’histoire du monde, de Dieu dans le monde, et enfin du + doute dans le monde,” and which, with Faust, probably suggested the + unfinished but in many ways brilliant performance of the young Spaniard, + Espronceda—<i>El Diablo Mundo</i>.] + </p> + <p> + It is better to be lost than to be saved all alone; and it is a wrong to + one’s kind to wish to be wise without making others share our wisdom. It + is, besides, an illusion to suppose that such a privilege is possible, + when everything proves the solidarity of individuals, and when no one can + think at all except by means of the general store of thought, accumulated + and refined by centuries of cultivation and experience. Absolute + individualism is an absurdity. A man may be isolated in his own particular + and temporary <i>milieu</i>, but every one of our thoughts or feelings + finds, has found, and will find, its echo in humanity. Such an echo is + immense and far-resounding in the case of those representative men who + have been adopted by great fractions of humanity as guides, revealers, and + reformers; but it exists for everybody. Every sincere utterance of the + soul, every testimony faithfully borne to a personal conviction, is of use + to some one and some thing, even when you know it not, and when your mouth + is stopped by violence, or the noose tightens round your neck. A word + spoken to some one preserves an indestructible influence, just as any + movement whatever may be metamorphosed, but not undone. Here, then, is a + reason for not mocking, for not being silent, for affirming, for acting. + We must have faith in truth; we must seek the true and spread it abroad; + we must love men and serve them. + </p> + <p> + April 9, 1868.—I have been spending three hours over Lotze’s big + volume (“Geschichte der Aesthetikin Deutschland”). It begins attractively, + but the attraction wanes, and by the end I was very tired of it. Why? + Because the noise of a mill-wheel sends one to sleep, and these pages + without paragraphs, these interminable chapters, and this incessant, + dialectical clatter, affect me as though I were listening to a word-mill. + I end by yawning like any simple non-philosophical mortal in the face of + all this heaviness and pedantry. Erudition, and even thought, are not + everything. An occasional touch of esprit, a little sharpness of phrase, a + little vivacity, imagination, and grace, would spoil neither. Do these + pedantic books leave a single image or formula, a single new or striking + fact behind them in the memory, when one puts them down? No; nothing but + confusion and fatigue. Oh for clearness, terseness, brevity! Diderot, + Voltaire, and even Galiani! + </p> + <p> + A short article by Sainte-Beuve, Scherer, Renan, Victor Cherbuliez, gives + one more pleasure, and makes one think and reflect more, than a thousand + of these heavy German pages, stuffed to the brim, and showing rather the + work itself than its results. The Germans gather fuel for the pile: it is + the French who kindle it. For heaven’s sake, spare me your lucubrations; + give me facts or ideas. Keep your vats, your must, your dregs, in the + background. What I ask is wine—wine which will sparkle in the glass, + and stimulate intelligence instead of weighing it down. + </p> + <p> + April 11, 1868. (<i>Mornex sur Salève</i>).—I left town in a great + storm of wind, which was raising clouds of dust along the suburban roads, + and two hours later I found myself safely installed among the mountains, + just like last year. I think of staying a week here.... The sounds of the + village are wafted to my open window, barkings of distant dogs, voices of + women at the fountain, the songs of birds in the lower orchards. The green + carpet of the plain is dappled by passing shadows thrown upon it by the + clouds; the landscape has the charm of delicate tint and a sort of languid + grace. Already I am full of a sense of well-being, I am tasting the joys + of that contemplative state in which the soul, issuing from itself, + becomes as it were the soul of a country or a landscape, and feels living + within it a multitude of lives. Here is no more resistance, negation, + blame; everything is affirmative; I feel myself in harmony with nature and + with surroundings, of which I seem to myself the expression. The heart + opens to the immensity of things. This is what I love! <i>Nam mihires, non + me rebus submittere conor</i>. April 12, 1868. (<i>Easter Day</i>), <i>Mornex + Eight</i> A. M.—The day has opened solemnly and religiously. There + is a tinkling of bells from the valley: even the fields seem to be + breathing forth a canticle of praise. Humanity must have a worship, and, + all things considered, is not the Christian worship the best among those + which have existed on a large scale? The religion of sin, of repentance, + and reconciliation—the religion of the new birth and of eternal life—is + not a religion to be ashamed of. In spite of all the aberrations of + fanaticism, all the superstitions of formalism, all the ugly + superstructures of hypocrisy, all the fantastic puerilities of theology, + the gospel has modified the world and consoled mankind. Christian humanity + is not much better than pagan humanity, but it would be much worse without + a religion, and without this religion. Every religion proposes an ideal + and a model; the Christian ideal is sublime, and its model of a divine + beauty. We may hold aloof from the churches, and yet bow ourselves before + Jesus. We may be suspicious of the clergy, and refuse to have anything to + do with catechisms, and yet love the Holy and the Just, who came to save + and not to curse. Jesus will always supply us with the best criticism of + Christianity, and when Christianity has passed away the religion of Jesus + will in all probability survive. After Jesus as God we shall come back to + faith in the God of Jesus. + </p> + <p> + <i>Five o’clock</i> P. M.—I have been for a long walk through + Cézargues, Eseri, and the Yves woods, returning by the Pont du Loup. The + weather was cold and gray. A great popular merrymaking of some sort, with + its multitude of blouses, and its drums and fifes, has been going on + riotously for an hour under my window. The crowd has sung a number of + songs, drinking songs, ballads, romances, but all more or less heavy and + ugly. The muse has never touched our country people, and the Swiss race is + not graceful even in its gayety. A bear in high spirits—this is what + one thinks of. The poetry it produces, too, is desperately vulgar and + commonplace. Why? In the first place, because, in spite of the pretenses + of our democratic philosophies, the classes whose backs are bent with + manual labor are aesthetically inferior to the others. In the next place, + because our old rustic peasant poetry is dead, and the peasant, when he + tries to share the music or the poetry of the cultivated classes, only + succeeds in caricaturing it, and not in copying it. Democracy, by laying + it down that there is but one class for all men, has in fact done a wrong + to everything that is not first-rate. As we can no longer without offense + judge men according to a certain recognized order, we can only compare + them to the best that exists, and then they naturally seem to us more + mediocre, more ugly, more deformed than before. If the passion for + equality potentially raises the average, it <i>really</i> degrades + nineteen-twentieths of individuals below their former place. There is a + progress in the domain of law and a falling back in the domain of art. And + meanwhile the artists see multiplying before them their <i>bête-noire</i>, + the <i>bourgeois</i>, the Philistine, the presumptuous ignoramus, the + quack who plays at science, and the feather-brain who thinks himself the + equal of the intelligent. + </p> + <p> + “Commonness will prevail,” as De Candolle said in speaking of the + graminaceous plants. The era of equality means the triumph of mediocrity. + It is disappointing, but inevitable; for it is one of time’s revenges. + Humanity, after having organized itself on the basis of the dissimilarity + of individuals, is now organizing itself on the basis of their similarity, + and the one exclusive principle is about as true as the other. Art no + doubt will lose, but justice will gain. Is not universal leveling-down the + law of nature, and when all has been leveled will not all have been + destroyed? So that the world is striving with all its force for the + destruction of what it has itself brought forth. Life is the blind pursuit + of its own negation; as has been said of the wicked, nature also works for + her own disappointment, she labors at what she hates, she weaves her own + shroud, and piles up the stones of her own tomb. God may well forgive us, + for “we know not what to do.” + </p> + <p> + Just as the sum of force is always identical in the material universe, and + presents a spectacle not of diminution nor of augmentation but simply of + constant metamorphosis, so it is not impossible that the sum of good is in + reality always the same, and that therefore all progress on one side is + compensated inversely on another side. If this were so we ought never to + say that period or a people is absolutely and as a whole superior to + another time or another people, but only that there is superiority in + certain points. The great difference between man and man would, on these + principles, consist in the art of transforming vitality into spirituality, + and latent power into useful energy. The same difference would hold good + between nation and nation, so that the object of the simultaneous or + successive competition of mankind in history would be the extraction of + the maximum of humanity from a given amount of animality. Education, + morals, and politics would be only variations of the same art, the art of + living—that is to say, of disengaging the pure form and subtlest + essence of our individual being. + </p> + <p> + April 26, 1868. (<i>Sunday, Mid-day</i>).—A gloomy morning. On all + sides a depressing outlook, and within, disgust with self. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ten</i> P.M.—Visits and a walk. I have spent the evening alone. + Many things to-day have taught me lessons of wisdom. I have seen the + hawthorns covering themselves with blossom, and the whole valley springing + up afresh under the breath of the spring. I have been the spectator of + faults of conduct on the part of old men who will not grow old, and whose + heart is in rebellion against the natural law. I have watched the working + of marriage in its frivolous and commonplace forms, and listened to + trivial preaching. I have been a witness of griefs without hope, of + loneliness that claimed one’s pity. I have listened to pleasantries on the + subject of madness, and to the merry songs of the birds. And everything + has had the same message for me: “Place yourself once more in harmony with + the universal law; accept the will of God; make a religious use of life; + work while it is yet day; be at once serious and cheerful; know how to + repeat with the apostle, ‘I have learned in whatsoever state I am + therewith to be content.’” + </p> + <p> + August 26, 1868.—After all the storms of feeling within and the + organic disturbances without, which during these latter months have pinned + me so closely to my own individual existence, shall I ever be able to + reascend into the region of pure intelligence, to enter again upon the + disinterested and impersonal life, to recover my old indifference toward + subjective miseries, and regain a purely scientific and contemplative + state of mind? Shall I ever succeed in forgetting all the needs which bind + me to earth and to humanity? Shall I ever become pure spirit? Alas! I + cannot persuade myself to believe it possible for an instant. I see + infirmity and weakness close upon me, I feel I cannot do without + affection, and I know that I have no ambition, and that my faculties are + declining. I remember that I am forty-seven years old, and that all my + brood of youthful hopes has flown away. So that there is no deceiving + myself as to the fate which awaits me: increasing loneliness, + mortification of spirit, long-continued regret, melancholy neither to be + consoled nor confessed, a mournful old age, a slow decay, a death in the + desert! + </p> + <p> + Terrible dilemma! Whatever is still possible to me has lost its savor, + while all that I could still desire escapes me, and will always escape me. + Every impulse ends in weariness and disappointment. Discouragement, + depression, weakness, apathy; there is the dismal series which must be + forever begun and re-begun, while we are still rolling up the Sisyphean + rock of life. Is it not simpler and shorter to plunge head-foremost into + the gulf? + </p> + <p> + No, rebel as we may, there is but one solution—to submit to the + general order, to accept, to resign ourselves, and to do still what we + can. It is our self-will, our aspirations, our dreams, that must be + sacrificed. We must give up the hope of happiness once for all! Immolation + of the self—death to self—this is the only suicide which is + either useful or permitted. In my present mood of indifference and + disinterestedness, there is some secret ill-humor, some wounded pride, a + little rancor; there is selfishness in short, since a premature claim for + rest is implied in it. Absolute disinterestedness is only reached in that + perfect humility which tramples the self under foot for the glory of God. + </p> + <p> + I have no more strength left, I wish for nothing; but that is not what is + wanted. I must wish what God wishes; I must pass from indifference to + sacrifice, and from sacrifice to self-devotion. The cup which I would fain + put away from me is the misery of living, the shame of existing and + suffering as a common creature who has missed his vocation; it is the + bitter and increasing humiliation of declining power, of growing old under + the weight of one’s own disapproval, and the disappointment of one’s + friends! “Wilt thou be healed?” was the text of last Sunday’s sermon. + “Come to me, all ye who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you + rest.” “And if our heart condemn us, God is greater than our heart.” + </p> + <p> + August 27, 1868.—To-day I took up the “Penseroso” [Footnote: “II + Penseroso,” poésies-maximes par H. F. Amiel: Genève, 1858. This little + book, which contains one hundred and thirty-three maxims, several of which + are quoted in the <i>Journal Intime</i>, is prefaced by a motto translated + from Shelley—“Ce n’est pas la science qui nous manque, à nous + modernes; nous l’avons surabondamment.... Mais ce que nous avons absorbé + nous absorbe.... Ce qui nous manque c’est la poésie de la vie.”] again. I + have often violated its maxims and forgotten its lessons. Still, this + volume is a true son of my soul, and breathes the true spirit of the inner + life. Whenever I wish to revive my consciousness of my own tradition, it + is pleasant to me to read over this little gnomic collection which has had + such scant justice done to it, and which, were it another’s, I should + often quote. I like to feel that in it I have attained to that relative + truth which may be defined as consistency with self, the harmony of + appearance with reality, of thought with expression—in other words, + sincerity, ingenuousness, inwardness. It is personal experience in the + strictest sense of the word. + </p> + <p> + September 21, 1868. (<i>Villars</i>).—A lovely autumn effect. + Everything was veiled in gloom this morning, and a gray mist of rain + floated between us and the whole circle of mountains. Now the strip of + blue sky which made its appearance at first behind the distant peaks has + grown larger, has mounted to the zenith, and the dome of heaven, swept + almost clear of cloud, sends streaming down upon us the pale rays of a + convalescent sun. The day now promises kindly, and all is well that ends + well. + </p> + <p> + Thus after a season of tears a sober and softened joy may return to us. + Say to yourself that you are entering upon the autumn of your life; that + the graces of spring and the splendors of summer are irrevocably gone, but + that autumn too has its beauties. The autumn weather is often darkened by + rain, cloud, and mist, but the air is still soft, and the sun still + delights the eyes, and touches the yellowing leaves caressingly; it is the + time for fruit, for harvest, for the vintage, the moment for making + provision for the winter. Here the herds of milch-cows have already come + down to the level of the <i>châlet</i>, and next week they will be lower + than we are. This living barometer is a warning to us that the time has + come to say farewell to the mountains. There is nothing to gain, and + everything to lose, by despising the example of nature, and making + arbitrary rules of life for one’s self. Our liberty, wisely understood, is + but a voluntary obedience to the universal laws of life. My life has + reached its month of September. May I recognize it in time, and suit + thought and action to the fact! + </p> + <p> + November 13, 1868.—I am reading part of two books by Charles + Secrétan [Footnote: Charles Secrétan, a Lausanne professor, the friend of + Vinet, born 1819. He published “Leçons sur la Philosophie de Leibnitz,” + “Philosophie de la Liberté,” “La Raison et le Christianisme,” etc.] + “Recherches sur la Méthode,” 1857; “Précis élémentaire de Philosophie,” + 1868. The philosophy of Secrétan is the philosophy of Christianity, + considered as the one true religion. Subordination of nature to + intelligence, of intelligence to will, and of will to dogmatic faith—such + is its general framework. Unfortunately there are no signs of critical, or + comparative, or historical study in it, and as an apologetic—in + which satire is curiously mingled with glorification of the religion of + love—it leaves upon one an impression of <i>parti pris</i>. A + philosophy of religion, apart from the comparative science of religions, + and apart also from a disinterested and general philosophy of history, + must always be more or less arbitrary and factitious. It is only + pseudo-scientific, this reduction of human life to three spheres—industry, + law, and religion. The author seems to me to possess a vigorous and + profound mind, rather than a free mind. Not only is he dogmatic, but he + dogmatizes in favor of a given religion, to which his whole allegiance is + pledged. Besides, Christianity being an X which each church defines in its + own way, the author takes the same liberty, and defines the X in his way; + so that he is at once too free and not free enough; too free in respect to + historical Christianity, not free enough in respect to Christianity as a + particular church. He does not satisfy the believing Anglican, Lutheran, + Reformed Churchman, or Catholic; and he does not satisfy the freethinker. + This Schellingian type of speculation, which consists in logically + deducing a particular religion—that is to say, in making philosophy + the servant of Christian theology—is a legacy from the Middle Ages. + </p> + <p> + After belief comes judgment; but a believer is not a judge. A fish lives + in the ocean, but it cannot see all around it; it cannot take a view of + the whole; therefore it cannot judge what the ocean is. In order to + understand Christianity we must put it in its historical place, in its + proper framework; we must regard it as a part of the religious development + of humanity, and so judge it, not from a Christian point of view, but from + a human point of view, <i>sine ira nec studio</i>. + </p> + <p> + December 16, 1868.—I am in the most painful state of anxiety as to + my poor kind friend, Charles Heim.... Since the 30th of November I have + had no letter from the dear invalid, who then said his last farewell to + me. How long these two weeks have seemed to me—and how keenly I have + realized that strong craving which many feel for the last words, the last + looks, of those they love! Such words and looks are a kind of testament. + They have a solemn and sacred character which is not merely an effect of + our imagination. For that which is on the brink of death already + participates to some extent in eternity. A dying man seems to speak to us + from beyond the tomb; what he says has the effect upon us of a sentence, + an oracle, an injunction; we look upon him as one endowed with second + sight. Serious and solemn words come naturally to the man who feels life + escaping him, and the grave opening before him. The depths of his nature + are then revealed; the divine within him need no longer hide itself. Oh, + do not let us wait to be just or pitiful or demonstrative toward those we + love until they or we are struck down by illness or threatened with death! + Life is short and we have never too much time for gladdening the hearts of + those who are traveling the dark journey with us. Oh, be swift to love, + make haste to be kind! + </p> + <p> + December 26, 1868.—My dear friend died this morning at Hyères. A + beautiful soul has returned to heaven. So he has ceased to suffer! Is he + happy now? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If men are always more or less deceived on the subject of women, it is + because they forget that they and women do not speak altogether the same + language, and that words have not the same weight or the same meaning for + them, especially in questions of feeling. Whether from shyness or + precaution or artifice, a woman never speaks out her whole thought, and + moreover what she herself knows of it is but a part of what it really is. + Complete frankness seems to be impossible to her, and complete + self-knowledge seems to be forbidden her. If she is a sphinx to us, it is + because she is a riddle of doubtful meaning even to herself. She has no + need of perfidy, for she is mystery itself. A woman is something fugitive, + irrational, indeterminable, illogical, and contradictory. A great deal of + forbearance ought to be shown her, and a good deal of prudence exercised + with regard to her, for she may bring about innumerable evils without + knowing It. Capable of all kinds of devotion, and of all kinds of treason, + “<i>monstre incompréhensible</i>,” raised to the second power, she is at + once the delight and the terror of man. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The more a man loves, the more he suffers. The sum of possible grief for + each soul is in proportion to its degree of perfection. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + He who is too much afraid of being duped has lost the power of being + magnanimous. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Doubt of the reality of love ends by making us doubt everything. The final + result of all deceptions and disappointments is atheism, which may not + always yield up its name and secret, but which lurks, a masked specter, + within the depths of thought, as the last supreme explainer. “Man is what + his love is,” and follows the fortunes of his love. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The beautiful souls of the world have an art of saintly alchemy, by which + bitterness is converted into kindness, the gall of human experience into + gentleness, ingratitude into benefits, insults into pardon. And the + transformation ought to become so easy and habitual that the lookers-on + may think it spontaneous, and nobody give us credit for it. + </p> + <p> + January 27, 1869.—What, then, is the service rendered to the world + by Christianity? The proclamation of “good news.” And what is this “good + news?” The pardon of sin. The God of holiness loving the world and + reconciling it to himself by Jesus, in order to establish the kingdom of + God, the city of souls, the life of heaven upon earth—here you have + the whole of it; but in this is a revolution. “Love ye one another, as I + have loved you;” “Be ye one with me, as I am one with the Father:” for + this is life eternal, here is perfection, salvation, joy. Faith in the + fatherly love of God, who punishes and pardons for our good, and who + desires not the death of the sinner, but his conversion and his life—here + is the motive power of the redeemed. + </p> + <p> + What we call Christianity is a vast ocean, into which flow a number of + spiritual currents of distant and various origin; certain religions, that + is to say, of Asia and of Europe, the great ideas of Greek wisdom, and + especially those of Platonism. Neither its doctrine nor its morality, as + they have been historically developed, are new or spontaneous. What is + essential and original in it is the practical demonstration that the human + and the divine nature may co-exist, may become fused into one sublime + flame; that holiness and pity, justice and mercy, may meet together and + become one, in man and in God. What is specific in Christianity is Jesus—the + religious consciousness of Jesus. The sacred sense of his absolute union + with God through perfect love and self-surrender, this profound, + invincible, and tranquil faith of his, has become a religion; the faith of + Jesus has become the faith of millions and millions of men. From this + torch has sprung a vast conflagration. And such has been the brilliancy + and the radiance both of revealer and revelation, that the astonished + world has forgotten its justice in its admiration, and has referred to one + single benefactor the whole of those benefits which are its heritage from + the past. + </p> + <p> + The conversion of ecclesiastical and confessional Christianity into + historical Christianity is the work of biblical science. The conversion of + historical Christianity into philosophical Christianity is an attempt + which is to some extent an illusion, since faith cannot be entirely + resolved into science. The transference, however, of Christianity from the + region of history to the region of psychology is the great craving of our + time. What we are trying to arrive at is the <i>eternal</i> gospel. But + before we can reach it, the comparative history and philosophy of + religions must assign to Christianity its true place, and must judge it. + The religion, too, which Jesus professed must be disentangled from the + religion which has taken Jesus for its object. And when at last we are + able to point out the state of consciousness which is the primitive cell, + the principle of the eternal gospel, we shall have reached our goal, for + in it is the <i>punctum saliens</i> of pure religion. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the extraordinary will take the place of the supernatural, and the + great geniuses of the world will come to be regarded as the messengers of + God in history, as the providential revealers through whom the spirit of + God works upon the human mass. What is perishing is not the admirable and + the adorable; it is simply the arbitrary, the accidental, the miraculous. + Just as the poor illuminations of a village <i>fête</i>, or the tapers of + a procession, are put out by the great marvel of the sun, so the small + local miracles, with their meanness and doubtfulness, will sink into + insignificance beside the law of the world of spirits, the incomparable + spectacle of human history, led by that all-powerful Dramaturgus whom we + call God. <i>Utinam!</i> + </p> + <p> + March 1, 1869.—Impartiality and objectivity are as rare as justice, + of which they are but two special forms. Self-interest is an inexhaustible + source of convenient illusions. The number of beings who wish to see truly + is extraordinarily small. What governs men is the fear of truth, unless + truth is useful to them, which is as much as to say that self-interest is + the principle of the common philosophy or that truth is made for us but + not we for truth. As this fact is humiliating, the majority of people will + neither recognize nor admit it. And thus a prejudice of self-love protects + all the prejudices of the understanding, which are themselves the result + of a stratagem of the <i>ego</i>. Humanity has always slain or persecuted + those who have disturbed this selfish repose of hers. She only improves in + spite of herself. The only progress which she desires is an increase of + enjoyments. All advances in justice, in morality, in holiness, have been + imposed upon or forced from her by some noble violence. Sacrifice, which + is the passion of great souls, has never been the law of societies. It is + too often by employing one vice against another—for example, vanity + against cupidity, greed against idleness—that the great agitators + have broken through routine. In a word, the human world is almost entirely + directed by the law of nature, and the law of the spirit, which is the + leaven of its coarse paste, has but rarely succeeded in raising it into + generous expansion. + </p> + <p> + From the point of view of the ideal, humanity is <i>triste</i> and ugly. + But if we compare it with its probable origins, we see that the human race + has not altogether wasted its time. Hence there are three possible views + of history: the view of the pessimist, who starts from the ideal; the view + of the optimist, who compares the past with the present; and the view of + the hero-worshiper, who sees that all progress whatever has cost oceans of + blood and tears. + </p> + <p> + European hypocrisy veils its face before the voluntary suicide of those + Indian fanatics who throw themselves under the wheels of their goddess’ + triumphal car. And yet these sacrifices are but the symbol of what goes on + in Europe as elsewhere, of that offering of their life which is made by + the martyrs of all great causes. We may even say that the fierce and + sanguinary goddess is humanity itself, which is only spurred to progress + by remorse, and repents only when the measure of its crimes runs over. The + fanatics who sacrifice themselves are an eternal protest against the + universal selfishness. We have only overthrown those idols which are + tangible and visible, but perpetual sacrifice still exists everywhere, and + everywhere the <i>élite</i> of each generation suffers for the salvation + of the multitude. It is the austere, bitter, and mysterious law of + solidarity. Perdition and redemption in and through each other is the + destiny of men. + </p> + <p> + March 18, 1869 (<i>Thursday</i>).—Whenever I come back from a walk + outside the town I am disgusted and repelled by this cell of mine. Out of + doors, sunshine, birds, spring, beauty, and life; in here, ugliness, piles + of paper, melancholy, and death. And yet my walk was one of the saddest + possible. I wandered along the Rhone and the Arve, and all the memories of + the past, all the disappointments of the present and all the anxieties of + the future laid siege to my heart like a whirlwind of phantoms. I took + account of my faults, and they ranged themselves in battle against me. The + vulture of regret gnawed at my heart, and the sense of the irreparable + choked me like the iron collar of the pillory. It seemed to me that I had + failed in the task of life, and that now life was failing me. Ah! how + terrible spring is to the lonely! All the needs which had been lulled to + sleep start into life again, all the sorrows which had disappeared are + reborn, and the old man which had been gagged and conquered rises once + more and makes his groans heard. It is as though all the old wounds opened + and bewailed themselves afresh. Just when one had ceased to think, when + one had succeeded in deadening feeling by work or by amusement, all of a + sudden the heart, solitary captive that it is, sends a cry from its prison + depths, a cry which shakes to its foundations the whole surrounding + edifice. + </p> + <p> + Even supposing that one had freed one’s self from all other fatalities, + there is still one yoke left from which it is impossible to escape—that + of Time. I have succeeded in avoiding all other servitudes, but I had + reckoned without the last—the servitude of age. Age comes, and its + weight is equal to that of all other oppressions taken together. Man, + under his mortal aspect, is but a species of ephemera. + </p> + <p> + As I looked at the banks of the Rhone, which have seen the river flowing + past them some ten or twenty thousand years, or at the trees forming the + avenue of the cemetery, which, for two centuries, have been the witnesses + of so many funeral processions; as I recognized the walls, the dykes, the + paths, which saw me playing as a child, and watched other children running + over that grassy plain of Plain Palais which bore my own childish steps—I + had the sharpest sense of the emptiness of life and the flight of things. + I felt the shadow of the upas tree darkening over me. I gazed into the + great implacable abyss in which are swallowed up all those phantoms which + call themselves living beings. I saw that the living are but apparitions + hovering for a moment over the earth, made out of the ashes of the dead, + and swiftly re-absorbed by eternal night, as the will-o’-the-wisp sinks + into the marsh. The nothingness of our joys, the emptiness of our + existence, and the futility of our ambitions, filled me with a quiet + disgust. From regret to disenchantment I floated on to Buddhism, to + universal weariness. Ah, the hope of a blessed immortality would be better + worth having! + </p> + <p> + With what different eyes one looks at life at ten, at twenty, at thirty, + at sixty! Those who live alone are specially conscious of this + psychological metamorphosis. Another thing, too, astonishes them; it is + the universal conspiracy which exists for hiding the sadness of the world, + for making men forget suffering, sickness, and death, for smothering the + wails and sobs which issue from every house, for painting and beautifying + the hideous face of reality. Is it out of tenderness for childhood and + youth, or is it simply from fear, that we are thus careful to veil the + sinister truth? Or is it from a sense of equity? and does life contain as + much good as evil—perhaps more? However it may be, men feed + themselves rather upon illusion than upon truth. Each one unwinds his own + special reel of hope, and as soon as he has come to the end of it he sits + him down to die, and lets his sons and his grandsons begin the same + experience over again. We all pursue happiness, and happiness escapes the + pursuit of all. + </p> + <p> + The only <i>viaticum</i> which can help us in the journey of life is that + furnished by a great duty and some serious affections. And even affections + die, or at least their objects are mortal; a friend, a wife, a child, a + country, a church, may precede us in the tomb; duty alone lasts as long as + we. + </p> + <p> + This maxim exorcises the spirits of revolt, of anger, discouragement, + vengeance, indignation, and ambition, which rise one after another to + tempt and trouble the heart, swelling with the sap of the spring. O all ye + saints of the East, of antiquity, of Christianity, phalanx of heroes! Ye + too drank deep of weariness and agony of soul, but ye triumphed over both. + Ye who have come forth victors from the strife, shelter us under your + palms, fortify us by your example! + </p> + <p> + April 6, 1869.—Magnificent weather. The Alps are dazzling under + their silver haze. Sensations of all kinds have been crowding upon me; the + delights of a walk under the rising sun, the charms of a wonderful view, + longing for travel, and thirst for joy, hunger for work, for emotion, for + life, dreams of happiness and of love. A passionate wish to live, to feel, + to express, stirred the depths of my heart. It was a sudden re-awakening + of youth, a flash of poetry, a renewing of the soul, a fresh growth of the + wings of desire—I was overpowered by a host of conquering, vagabond, + adventurous aspirations. I forgot my age, my obligations, my duties, my + vexations, and youth leaped within me as though life were beginning again. + It was as though something explosive had caught fire, and one’s soul were + scattered to the four winds; in such a mood one would fain devour the + whole world, experience everything, see everything. Faust’s ambition + enters into one, universal desire—a horror of one’s own prison cell. + One throws off one’s hair shirt, and one would fain gather the whole of + nature into one’s arms and heart. O ye passions, a ray of sunshine is + enough to rekindle you all! The cold black mountain is a volcano once + more, and melts its snowy crown with one single gust of flaming breath. It + is the spring which brings about these sudden and improbable + resurrections, the spring which, sending a thrill and tumult of life + through all that lives, is the parent of impetuous desires, of + overpowering inclinations, of unforeseen and inextinguishable outbursts of + passion. It breaks through the rigid bark of the trees, and rends the mask + on the face of asceticism; it makes the monk tremble in the shadow of his + convent, the maiden behind the curtains of her room, the child sitting on + his school bench, the old man bowed under his rheumatism. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O Hymen, Hymenae!” + </pre> + <p> + April 24, 1869.—Is Nemesis indeed more real than Providence, the + jealous God more true than the good God? grief more certain than joy? + darkness more secure of victory than light? Is it pessimism or optimism + which is nearest the truth, and which—Leibnitz or Schopenhauer—has + best understood the universe? Is it the healthy man or the sick man who + sees best to the bottom of things? which is in the right? + </p> + <p> + Ah! the problem of grief and evil is and will be always the greatest + enigma of being, only second to the existence of being itself. The common + faith of humanity has assumed the victory of good over evil. But if good + consists not in the result of victory, but in victory itself, then good + implies an incessant and infinite contest, interminable struggle, and a + success forever threatened. And if this is life, is not Buddha right in + regarding life as synonymous with evil since it means perpetual + restlessness and endless war? Repose according to the Buddhist is only to + be found in annihilation. The art of self-annihilation, of escaping the + world’s vast machinery of suffering, and the misery of renewed existence—the + art of reaching Nirvâna, is to him the supreme art, the only means of + deliverance. The Christian says to God: Deliver us from evil. The Buddhist + adds: And to that end deliver us from finite existence, give us back to + nothingness! The first believes that when he is enfranchised from the body + he will enter upon eternal happiness; the second believes that + individuality is the obstacle to all repose, and he longs for the + dissolution of the soul itself. The dread of the first is the paradise of + the second. + </p> + <p> + One thing only is necessary—the committal of the soul to God. Look + that thou thyself art in order, and leave to God the task of unraveling + the skein of the world and of destiny. What do annihilation or immortality + matter? What is to be, will be. And what will be, will be for the best. + Faith in good—perhaps the individual wants nothing more for his + passage through life. Only he must have taken sides with Socrates, Plato, + Aristotle, and Zeno, against materialism, against the religion of accident + and pessimism. Perhaps also he must make up his mind against the Buddhist + nihilism, because a man’s system of conduct is diametrically opposite + according as he labors to increase his life or to lessen it, according as + he aims at cultivating his faculties or at systematically deadening them. + </p> + <p> + To employ one’s individual efforts for the increase of good in the world—this + modest ideal is enough for us. To help forward the victory of good has + been the common aim of saints and sages. <i>Socii Dei sumus</i> was the + word of Seneca, who had it from Cleanthus. + </p> + <p> + April 30, 1869.—I have just finished Vacherot’s [Footnote: Etienne + Vacherot, a French philosophical writer, who owed his first successes in + life to the friendship of Cousin, and was later brought very much into + notice by his controversy with the Abbé Gratry, by the prosecution brought + against him in consequence of his book, “La Démocratie” (1859), and by his + rejection at the hands of the Academy of Moral and Political Sciences in + 1865, for the same kind of reasons which had brought about the exclusion + of Littré in the preceding year. In 1868, however, he became a member of + the Institute in succession to Cousin. A Liberal of the old school, he has + separated himself from the republicans since the war, and has made himself + felt as a severe critic of republican blunders in the <i>Revue des deux + Mondes</i>. <i>La Religion</i>, which discusses the psychological origins + of the religious sense, was published in 1868.] book “La Religion,” 1869, + and it has set me thinking. I have a feeling that his notion of religion + is not rigorous and exact, and that therefore his logic is subject to + correction. If religion is a psychological stage, anterior to that of + reason, it is clear that it will disappear in man, but if, on the + contrary, it is a mode of the inner life, it may and must last, as long as + the need of feeling, and alongside the need of thinking. The question is + between theism and non-theism. If God is only the category of the ideal, + religion will vanish, of course, like the illusions of youth. But if + Universal Being can be felt and loved at the same time as conceived, the + philosopher may be a religious man just as he may be an artist, an orator, + or a citizen. He may attach himself to a worship or ritual without + derogation. I myself incline to this solution. To me religion is life + before God and in God. + </p> + <p> + And even if God were defined as the universal life, so long as this life + is positive and not negative, the soul penetrated with the sense of the + infinite is in the religious state. Religion differs from philosophy as + the simple and spontaneous self differs from the reflecting self, as + synthetic intuition differs from intellectual analysis. We are initiated + into the religious state by a sense of voluntary dependence on, and joyful + submission to the principle of order and of goodness. Religious emotion + makes man conscious of himself; he finds his own place within the infinite + unity, and it is this perception which is sacred. + </p> + <p> + But in spite of these reservations I am much impressed by the book, which + is a fine piece of work, ripe and serious in all respects. + </p> + <p> + May 13, 1869.—A break in the clouds, and through the blue + interstices a bright sun throws flickering and uncertain rays. Storms, + smiles, whims, anger, tears—it is May, and nature is in its feminine + phase! She pleases our fancy, stirs our heart, and wears out our reason by + the endless succession of her caprices and the unexpected violence of her + whims. + </p> + <p> + This recalls to me the 213th verse of the second book of the Laws of + Manou. “It is in the nature of the feminine sex to seek here below to + corrupt men, and therefore wise men never abandon themselves to the + seductions of women.” The same code, however, says: “Wherever women are + honored the gods are satisfied.” And again: “In every family where the + husband takes pleasure in his wife, and the wife in her husband, happiness + is ensured.” And again: “One mother is more venerable than a thousand + fathers.” But knowing what stormy and irrational elements there are in + this fragile and delightful creature, Manou concludes: “At no age ought a + woman to be allowed to govern herself as she pleases.” + </p> + <p> + Up to the present day, in several contemporary and neighboring codes, a + woman is a minor all her life. Why? Because of her dependence upon nature, + and of her subjection to passions which are the diminutives of madness; in + other words, because the soul of a woman has something obscure and + mysterious in it, which lends itself to all superstitions and weakens the + energies of man. To man belong law, justice, science, and philosophy, all + that is disinterested, universal, and rational. Women, on the contrary, + introduce into everything favor, exception, and personal prejudice. As + soon as a man, a people, a literature, an epoch, become feminine in type, + they sink in the scale of things. As soon as a woman quits the state of + subordination in which her merits have free play, we see a rapid increase + in her natural defects. Complete equality with man makes her quarrelsome; + a position of supremacy makes her tyrannical. To honor her and to govern + her will be for a long time yet the best solution. When education has + formed strong, noble, and serious women in whom conscience and reason hold + sway over the effervescence of fancy and sentimentality, then we shall be + able not only to honor woman, but to make a serious end of gaining her + consent and adhesion. Then she will be truly an equal, a work-fellow, a + companion. At present she is so only in theory. The moderns are at work + upon the problem, and have not solved it yet. + </p> + <p> + June 15, 1869.—The great defect of liberal Christianity [Footnote: + At this period the controversy between the orthodox party and “Liberal + Christianity” was at its height, both in Geneva and throughout + Switzerland.] is that its conception of holiness is a frivolous one, or, + what comes to the same thing, its conception of sin is a superficial one. + The defects of the baser sort of political liberalism recur in liberal + Christianity; it is only half serious, and its theology is too much mixed + with worldliness. The sincerely pious folk look upon the liberals as + persons whose talk is rather profane, and who offend religious feelings by + making sacred subjects a theme for rhetorical display. They shock the <i>convenances</i> + of sentiment, and affront the delicacy of conscience by the indiscreet + familiarities they take with the great mysteries of the inner life. They + seem to be mere clever special pleaders, religious rhetoricians like the + Greek sophists, rather than guides in the narrow road which leads to + salvation. + </p> + <p> + It is not to the clever folk, nor even to the scientific folk, that the + empire over souls belongs, but to those who impress us as having conquered + nature by grace, passed through the burning bush, and as speaking, not the + language of human wisdom, but that of the divine will. In religious + matters it is holiness which gives authority; it is love, or the power of + devotion and sacrifice, which goes to the heart, which moves and + persuades. + </p> + <p> + What all religious, poetical, pure, and tender souls are least able to + pardon is the diminution or degradation of their ideal. We must never + rouse an ideal against us; our business is to point men to another ideal, + purer, higher, more spiritual than the old, and so to raise behind a lofty + summit one more lofty still. In this way no one is despoiled; we gain + men’s confidence, while at the same time forcing them to think, and + enabling those minds which are already tending toward change to perceive + new objects and goals for thought. Only that which is replaced is + destroyed, and an ideal is only replaced by satisfying the conditions of + the old with some advantages over. + </p> + <p> + Let the liberal Protestants offer us a spectacle of Christian virtue of a + holier, intenser, and more intimate kind than before; let us see it active + in their persons and in their influence, and they will have furnished the + proof demanded by the Master; the tree will be judged by its fruits. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + June 22, 1869 (<i>Nine</i> A. M).—Gray and lowering weather. A fly + lies dead of cold on the page of my book, in full summer! What is life? I + said to myself, as I looked at the tiny dead creature. It is a loan, as + movement is. The universal life is a sum total, of which the units are + visible here, there, and everywhere, just as an electric wheel throws off + sparks along its whole surface. Life passes through us; we do not possess + it. Hirn admits three ultimate principles: [Footnote: Gustave-Adolphe + Hirn, a French physicist, born near Colmar, 1815, became a corresponding + member of the Academy of Sciences in 1867. The book of his to which Amiel + refers is no doubt <i>Conséquences philosophiques at métaphysiques de la + thermodynamique, Analyse élémentaire de l’univers</i> (1869).] the atom, + the force, the soul; the force which acts upon atoms, the soul which acts + upon force. Probably he distinguishes between anonymous souls and personal + souls. Then my fly would be an anonymous soul. + </p> + <p> + (<i>Same day</i>).—The national churches are all up in arms against + so-called Liberal Christianity; Basle and Zurich began the fight, and now + Geneva has entered the lists too. Gradually it is becoming plain that + historical Protestantism has no longer a <i>raison d’être</i> between pure + liberty and pure authority. It is, in fact, a provisional stage, founded + on the worship of the Bible—that is to say, on the idea of a written + revelation, and of a book divinely inspired, and therefore authoritative. + When once this thesis has been relegated to the rank of a fiction + Protestantism crumbles away. There is nothing for it but to retire up on + natural religion, or the religion of the moral consciousness. M.M. + Réville, Conquerel, Fontanes, Buisson, [Footnote: The name of M. Albert + Réville, the French Protestant theologian, is more or less familiar in + England, especially since his delivery of the Hibbert lectures in 1884. + Athanase Coquerel, born 1820, died 1876, the well-known champion of + liberal ideas in the French Protestant Church, was suspended from his + pastoral functions by the Consistory of Paris, on account of his review of + M. Renan’s “Vie de Jésus” in 1864. Ferdinand-Edouard Buisson, a liberal + Protestant, originally a professor at Lausanne, was raised to the + important function of Director of Primary Instruction by M. Ferry in 1879. + He was denounced by Bishop Dupanloup, in the National Assembly of 1871, as + the author of certain liberal pamphlets on the dangers connected with + Scripture-teaching in schools, and, for the time, lost his employment + under the Ministry of Education.] accept this logical outcome. They are + the advance-guard of Protestantism and the laggards of free thought. + </p> + <p> + Their mistake is not seeing that all institutions rest upon a legal + fiction, and that every living thing involves a logical absurdity. It may + be logical to demand a church based on free examination and absolute + sincerity; but to realize it is a different matter. A church lives by what + is positive, and this positive element necessarily limits investigation. + People confound the right of the individual, which is to be free, with the + duty of the institution, which is to be something. They take the principle + of science to be the same as the principle of the church, which is a + mistake. They will not see that religion is different from philosophy, and + that the one seeks union by faith, while the other upholds the solitary + independence of thought. That the bread should be good it must have + leaven; but the leaven is not the bread. Liberty is the means whereby we + arrive at an enlightened faith—granted; but an assembly of people + agreeing only upon this criterion and this method could not possibly found + a church, for they might differ completely as to the results of the + method. Suppose a newspaper the writers of which were of all possible + parties—it would no doubt be a curiosity in journalism, but it would + have no opinions, no faith, no creed. A drawing-room filled with refined + people, carrying on polite discussion, is not a church, and a dispute, + however courteous, is not worship. It is a mere confusion of kinds. + </p> + <p> + July 13, 1869.—Lamennais, Heine—the one the victim of a + mistaken vocation, the other of a tormenting craving to astonish and + mystify his kind. The first was wanting in common sense; the second was + wanting in seriousness. The Frenchman was violent, arbitrary, domineering; + the German was a jesting Mephistopheles, with a horror of Philistinism. + The Breton was all passion and melancholy; the Hamburger all fancy and + satire. Neither developed freely nor normally. Both of them, because of an + initial mistake, threw themselves into an endless quarrel with the world. + Both were revolutionists. They were not fighting for the good cause, for + impersonal truth; both were rather the champions of their own pride. Both + suffered greatly, and died isolated, repudiated, and reviled. Men of + magnificent talents, both of them, but men of small wisdom, who did more + harm than good to themselves and to others! It is a lamentable existence + which wears itself out in maintaining a first antagonism, or a first + blunder. The greater a man’s intellectual power, the more dangerous is it + for him to make a false start and to begin life badly. + </p> + <p> + July 20, 1869.—I have been reading over again five or six chapters, + here and there, of Renan’s “St. Paul.” Analyzed to the bottom, the writer + is a freethinker, but a free thinker whose flexible imagination still + allows him the delicate epicurism of religious emotion. In his eyes the + man who will not lend himself to these graceful fancies is vulgar, and the + man who takes them seriously is prejudiced. He is entertained by the + variations of conscience, but he is too clever to laugh at them. The true + critic neither concludes nor excludes; his pleasure is to understand + without believing, and to profit by the results of enthusiasm, while still + maintaining a free mind, unembarrassed by illusion. Such a mode of + proceeding has a look of dishonesty; it is nothing, however, but the + good-tempered irony of a highly-cultivated mind, which will neither be + ignorant of anything nor duped by anything. It is the dilettantism of the + Renaissance in its perfection. At the same time what innumerable proofs of + insight and of exultant scientific power! + </p> + <p> + August 14, 1869.—In the name of heaven, who art thou? what wilt thou—wavering + inconstant creature? What future lies before thee? What duty or what hope + appeals to thee? + </p> + <p> + My longing, my search is for love, for peace, for something to fill my + heart; an idea to defend; a work to which I might devote the rest of my + strength; an affection which might quench this inner thirst; a cause for + which I might die with joy. But shall I ever find them? I long for all + that is impossible and inaccessible: for true religion, serious sympathy, + the ideal life; for paradise, immortality, holiness, faith, inspiration, + and I know not what besides! What I really want is to die and to be born + again, transformed myself, and in a different world. And I can neither + stifle these aspirations nor deceive myself as to the possibility of + satisfying them. I seem condemned to roll forever the rock of Sisyphus, + and to feel that slow wearing away of the mind which befalls the man whose + vocation and destiny are in perpetual conflict. “A Christian heart and a + pagan head,” like Jacobi; tenderness and pride; width of mind and + feebleness of will; the two men of St. Paul; a seething chaos of + contrasts, antinomies, and contradictions; humility and pride; childish + simplicity and boundless mistrust; analysis and intuition; patience and + irritability; kindness and dryness of heart; carelessness and anxiety; + enthusiasm and languor; indifference and passion; altogether a being + incomprehensible and intolerable to myself and to others! + </p> + <p> + Then from a state of conflict I fall back into the fluid, vague, + indeterminate state, which feels all form to be a mere violence and + disfigurement. All ideas, principles, acquirements, and habits are effaced + in me like the ripples on a wave, like the convolutions of a cloud. My + personality has the least possible admixture of individuality. I am to the + great majority of men what the circle is to rectilinear figures; I am + everywhere at home, because I have no particular and nominative self. + Perhaps, on the whole, this defect has good in it. Though I am less of <i>a</i> + man, I am perhaps nearer to <i>the</i> man; perhaps rather more <i>man</i>. + There is less of the individual, but more of the species, in me. My + nature, which is absolutely unsuited for practical life, shows great + aptitude for psychological study. It prevents me from taking sides, but it + allows me to understand all sides. It is not only indolence which prevents + me from drawing conclusions; it is a sort of a secret aversion to all <i>intellectual + proscription</i>. I have a feeling that something of everything is wanted + to make a world, that all citizens have a right in the state, and that if + every opinion is equally insignificant in itself, all opinions have some + hold upon truth. To live and let live, think and let think, are maxims + which are equally dear to me. My tendency is always to the whole, to the + totality, to the general balance of things. What is difficult to me is to + exclude, to condemn, to say no; except, indeed, in the presence of the + exclusive. I am always fighting for the absent, for the defeated cause, + for that portion of truth which seems to me neglected; my aim is to + complete every thesis, to see round every problem, to study a thing from + all its possible sides. Is this skepticism? Yes, in its result, but not in + its purpose. It is rather the sense of the absolute and the infinite + reducing to their proper value and relegating to their proper place the + finite and the relative. But here, in the same way, my ambition is greater + than my power; my philosophical perception is superior to my speculative + gift. I have not the energy of my opinions; I have far greater width than + inventiveness of thought, and, from timidity, I have allowed the critical + intelligence in me to swallow up the creative genius. Is it indeed from + timidity? + </p> + <p> + Alas! with a little more ambition, or a little more good luck, a different + man might have been made out of me, and such as my youth gave promise of. + </p> + <p> + August 16, 1869.—I have been thinking over Schopenhauer. It has + struck me and almost terrified me to see how well I represent + Schopenhauer’s typical man, for whom “happiness is a chimera and suffering + a reality,” for whom “the negation of will and of desire is the only road + to deliverance,” and “the individual life is a misfortune from which + impersonal contemplation is the only enfranchisement,” etc. But the + principle that life is an evil and annihilation a good lies at the root of + the system, and this axiom I have never dared to enunciate in any general + way, although I have admitted it here and there in individual cases. What + I still like in the misanthrope of Frankfort, is his antipathy to current + prejudice, to European hobbies, to western hypocrisies, to the successes + of the day. Schopenhauer is a man of powerful mind, who has put away from + him all illusions, who professes Buddhism in the full flow of modern + Germany, and absolute detachment of mind In the very midst of the + nineteenth-century orgie. His great defects are barrenness of soul, a + proud and perfect selfishness, an adoration of genius which is combined + with complete indifference to the rest of the world, in spite of all his + teaching of resignation and sacrifice. He has no sympathy, no humanity, no + love. And here I recognize the unlikeness between us. Pure intelligence + and solitary labor might easily lead me to his point of view; but once + appeal to the heart, and I feel the contemplative attitude untenable. + Pity, goodness, charity, and devotion reclaim their rights, and insist + even upon the first place. + </p> + <p> + August 29, 1869.—Schopenhauer preaches impersonality, objectivity, + pure contemplation, the negation of will, calmness, and disinterestedness, + an aesthetic study of the world, detachment from life, the renunciation of + all desire, solitary meditation, disdain of the crowd, and indifference to + all that the vulgar covet. He approves all my defects, my childishness, my + aversion to practical life, my antipathy to the utilitarians, my distrust + of all desire. In a word, he flatters all my instincts; he caresses and + justifies them. + </p> + <p> + This pre-established harmony between the theory of Schopenhauer and my own + natural man causes me pleasure mingled with terror. I might indulge myself + in the pleasure, but that I fear to delude and stifle conscience. Besides, + I feel that goodness has no tolerance for this contemplative indifference, + and that virtue consists in self-conquest. + </p> + <p> + August 30, 1869.—Still some chapters of Schopenhauer. Schopenhauer + believes in the unchangeableness of innate tendencies in the individual, + and in the invariability of the primitive disposition. He refuses to + believe in the new man, in any real progress toward perfection, or in any + positive improvement in a human being. Only the appearances are refined; + there is no change below the surface. Perhaps he confuses temperament, + character, and individuality? I incline to think that individuality is + fatal and primitive, that temperament reaches far back, but is alternable, + and that character is more recent and susceptible of voluntary or + involuntary modifications. Individuality is a matter of psychology, + temperament, a matter of sensation or aesthetics; character alone is a + matter of morals. Liberty and the use of it count for nothing in the first + two elements of our being; character is a historical fruit, and the result + of a man’s biography. For Schopenhauer, character is identified with + temperament just as will with passion. In short, he simplifies too much, + and looks at man from that more elementary point of view which is only + sufficient in the case of the animal. That spontaneity which is vital or + merely chemical he already calls will. Analogy is not equation; a + comparison is not reason; similes and parables are not exact language. + Many of Schopenhauer’s originalities evaporate when we come to translate + them into a more close and precise terminology. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—One has merely to turn over the “Lichtstrahlem” of + Herder to feel the difference between him and Schopenhauer. The latter is + full of marked features and of observations which stand out from the page + and leave a clear and vivid impression. Herder is much less of a writer; + his ideas are entangled in his style, and he has no brilliant + condensations, no jewels, no crystals. While he proceeds by streams and + sheets of thought which have no definite or individual outline, + Schopenhauer breaks the current of his speculation with islands, striking, + original, and picturesque, which engrave themselves in the memory. It is + the same difference as there is between Nicole and Pascal, between Bayle + and Satin-Simon. + </p> + <p> + What is the faculty which gives relief, brilliancy, and incisiveness to + thought? Imagination. Under its influence expression becomes concentrated, + colored, and strengthened, and by the power it has of individualizing all + it touches, it gives life and permanence to the material on which it + works. A writer of genius changes sand into glass and glass into crystal, + ore into iron and iron into steel; he marks with his own stamp every idea + he gets hold of. He borrows much from the common stock, and gives back + nothing; but even his robberies are willingly reckoned to him as private + property. He has, as it were, <i>carte blanche</i>, and public opinion + allows him to take what he will. + </p> + <p> + August 31, 1869.—I have finished Schopenhauer. My mind has been a + tumult of opposing systems—Stoicism, Quietism, Buddhism, + Christianity. Shall I never be at peace with myself? If impersonality is a + good, why am I not consistent in the pursuit of it? and if it is a + temptation, why return to it, after having judged and conquered it? + </p> + <p> + Is happiness anything more than a conventional fiction? The deepest reason + for my state of doubt is that the supreme end and aim of life seems to me + a mere lure and deception. The individual is an eternal dupe, who never + obtains what he seeks, and who is forever deceived by hope. My instinct is + in harmony with the pessimism of Buddha and of Schopenhauer. It is a doubt + which never leaves me even in my moments of religious fervor. Nature is + indeed for me a Maïa; and I look at her, as it were, with the eyes of an + artist. My intelligence remains skeptical. What, then, do I believe in? I + do not know. And what is it I hope for? It would be difficult to say. + Folly! I believe in goodness, and I hope that good will prevail. Deep + within this ironical and disappointed being of mine there is a child + hidden—a frank, sad, simple creature, who believes in the ideal, in + love, in holiness, and all heavenly superstitions. A whole millennium of + idylls sleeps in my heart; I am a pseudo-skeptic, a pseudo-scoffer. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Borné dans sa nature, infini dans ses voeux, + L’homme est un dieu tombé qui se souvient des cieux.” + </pre> + <p> + October 14, 1869.—Yesterday, Wednesday, death of Sainte-Beuve. What + a loss! + </p> + <p> + October 16, 1869.—<i>Laboremus</i> seems to have been the motto of + Sainte-Beuve, as it was that of Septimius Severus. He died in harness, and + up to the evening before his last day he still wrote, overcoming the + sufferings of the body by the energy of the mind. To-day, at this very + moment, they are laying him in the bosom of mother earth. He refused the + sacraments of the church; he never belonged to any confession; he was one + of the “great diocese”—that of the independent seekers of truth, and + he allowed himself no final moment of hypocrisy. He would have nothing to + do with any one except God only—or rather the mysterious Isis beyond + the veil. Being unmarried, he died in the arms of his secretary. He was + sixty-five years old. His power of work and of memory was immense and + intact. What is Scherer thinking about this life and this death? + </p> + <p> + October 19, 1869.—An admirable article by Edmond Scherer on + Sainte-Beuve in the <i>Temps</i>. He makes him the prince of French + critics and the last representative of the epoch of literary taste, the + future belonging to the bookmakers and the chatterers, to mediocrity and + to violence. The article breathes a certain manly melancholy, befitting a + funeral oration over one who was a master in the things of the mind. The + fact is, that Sainte-Beuve leaves a greater void behind him than either + Béranger or Lamartine; their greatness was already distant, historical; he + was still helping us to think. The true critic acts as a fulcrum for all + the world. He represents the public judgment, that is to say the public + reason, the touchstone, the scales, the refining rod, which tests the + value of every one and the merit of every work. Infallibility of judgment + is perhaps rarer than anything else, so fine a balance of qualities does + it demand—qualities both natural and acquired, qualities of mind and + heart. What years of labor, what study and comparison, are needed to bring + the critical judgment to maturity! Like Plato’s sage, it is only at fifty + that the critic rises to the true height of his literary priesthood, or, + to put it less pompously, of his social function. By then only can he hope + for insight into all the modes of being, and for mastery of all possible + shades of appreciation. And Sainte-Beuve joined to this infinitely refined + culture a prodigious memory, and an incredible multitude of facts and + anecdotes stored up for the service of his thought. + </p> + <p> + December 8, 1869.—Everything has chilled me this morning; the cold + of the season, the physical immobility around me, but, above all, + Hartman’s “Philosophy of the Unconscious.” This book lays down the + terrible thesis that creation is a mistake; being, such as it is, is not + as good as non-being, and death is better than life. + </p> + <p> + I felt the same mournful impression that Obermann left upon me in my + youth. The black melancholy of Buddhism encompassed and overshadowed me. + If, in fact, it is only illusion which hides from us the horror of + existence and makes life tolerable to us, then existence is a snare and + life an evil. Like the Greek Annikeris, we ought to counsel suicide, or + rather with Buddha and Schopenhauer we ought to labor for the radical + extirpation of hope and desire—the causes of life and resurrection. + <i>Not</i> to rise again; there is the point, and there is the difficulty. + Death is simply a beginning again, whereas it is annihilation that we have + to aim at. Personal consciousness being the root of all our troubles, we + ought to avoid the temptation to it and the possibility of it as + diabolical and abominable. What blasphemy! And yet it is all logical; it + is the philosophy of happiness carried to its farthest point. Epicurism + must end in despair. The philosophy of duty is less depressing. But + salvation lies in the conciliation of duty and happiness, in the union of + the individual will with the divine will, and in the faith that this + supreme will is directed by love. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is as true that real happiness is good, as that the good become better + under the purification of trial. Those who have not suffered are still + wanting in depth; but a man who has not got happiness cannot impart it. We + can only give what we have. Happiness, grief, gayety, sadness, are by + nature contagious. Bring your health and your strength to the weak and + sickly, and so you will be of use to them. Give them, not your weakness, + but your energy, so you will revive and lift them up. Life alone can + rekindle life. What others claim from us is not our thirst and our hunger, + but our bread and our gourd. + </p> + <p> + The benefactors of humanity are those who have thought great thoughts + about her; but her masters and her idols are those who have flattered and + despised her, those who have muzzled and massacred her, inflamed her with + fanaticism or used her for selfish purposes. Her benefactors are the + poets, the artists, the inventors, the apostles and all pure hearts. Her + masters are the Caesars, the Constantines, the Gregory VII.‘s, the + Innocent III.‘s, the Borgias, the Napoleons. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Every civilization is, as it were, a dream of a thousand years, in which + heaven and earth, nature and history, appear to men illumined by fantastic + light and representing a drama which is nothing but a projection of the + soul itself, influenced by some intoxication—I was going to say + hallucination—or other. Those who are widest awake still see the + real world across the dominant illusion of their race or time. And the + reason is that the deceiving light starts from our own mind: the light is + our religion. Everything changes with it. It is religion which gives to + our kaleidoscope, if not the material of the figures, at least their + color, their light and shade, and general aspect. Every religion makes men + see the world and humanity under a special light; it is a mode of + apperception, which can only be scientifically handled when we have cast + it aside, and can only be judged when we have replaced it by a better. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 23, 1870.—There is in man an instinct of revolt, an enemy + of all law, a rebel which will stoop to no yoke, not even that of reason, + duty, and wisdom. This element in us is the root of all sin—<i>das + radicale Böse</i> of Kant. The independence which is the condition of + individuality is at the same time the eternal temptation of the + individual. That which makes us beings makes us also sinners. + </p> + <p> + Sin is, then, in our very marrow. It circulates in us like the blood in + our veins, it is mingled with all our substance, [Footnote: This is one of + the passages which rouses M. Renan’s wonder: “Voila la grande difference,” + he writes, “entre l’éducation catholique et l’éducation protestante. Ceux + qui comme moi ont reçu une éducation catholique en ont gardé de profonds + vestiges. Mais ces vestiges ne sont pas des dogmes, ce sont des rêves. Une + fois ce grand rideau de drap d’or, bariolé de soie, d’indienne et de + calicot, par lequel le catholicisme nous masque la vue du monde, une fois, + dis-je ce rideau déchiré, on voit l’univers en sa splendeur infinie, la + nature en sa haute et pleine majesté. Le protestant le plus libre garde + souvent quelque chose de triste, un fond d’austérité intellectuelle + analogue au pessimisme slave.”—(<i>Journal des Débats</i>, September + 30, 1884). + </p> + <p> + One is reminded of Mr. Morley’s criticism of Emerson. Emerson, he points + out, has almost nothing to say of death, and “little to say of that horrid + burden and impediment on the soul which the churches call sin, and which, + by whatever name we call it, is a very real catastrophe in the moral + nature of man—the courses of nature, and the prodigious injustices + of mail in society affect him with neither horror nor awe. He will see no + monster if he can help it.” + </p> + <p> + Here, then, we have the eternal difference between the two orders of + temperament—the men whose overflowing energy forbids them to realize + the ever-recurring defeat of the human spirit at the hands of + circumstance, like Renan and Emerson, and the men for whom “horror and + awe” are interwoven with experience, like Amiel.] Or rather I am wrong: + temptation is our natural state, but sin is not necessary. Sin consists in + the voluntary confusion of the independence which is good with the + independence which is bad; it is caused by the half-indulgence granted to + a first sophism. We shut our eyes to the beginnings of evil because they + are small, and in this weakness is contained the germ of our defeat. <i>Principiis + obsta</i>—this maxim dutifully followed would preserve us from + almost all our catastrophes. + </p> + <p> + We will have no other master but our caprice—that is to say, our + evil self will have no God, and the foundation of our nature is seditious, + impious, insolent, refractory, opposed to, and contemptuous of all that + tries to rule it, and therefore contrary to order, ungovernable and + negative. It is this foundation which Christianity calls the natural man. + But the savage which is within us, and constitutes the primitive stuff of + us, must be disciplined and civilized in order to produce a man. And the + man must be patiently cultivated to produce a wise man, and the wise man + must be tested and tried if he is to become righteous. And the righteous + man must have substituted the will of God for his individual will, if he + is to become a saint. And this new man, this regenerate being, is the + spiritual man, the heavenly man, of which the Vedas speak as well as the + gospel, and the Magi as well as the Neo-Platonists. + </p> + <p> + March 17, 1870.—This morning the music of a brass band which had + stopped under my windows moved me almost to tears. It exercised an + indefinable, nostalgic power over me; it set me dreaming of another world, + of infinite passion and supreme happiness. Such impressions are the echoes + of paradise in the soul; memories of ideal spheres, whose sad sweetness + ravishes and intoxicates the heart. O Plato! O Pythagoras! ages ago you + heard these harmonies—surprised these moments of inward ecstacy—knew + these divine transports! If music thus carries us to heaven, it is because + music is harmony, harmony is perfection, perfection is our dream, and our + dream is heaven. This world of quarrels and bitterness, of selfishness, + ugliness, and misery, makes us long involuntarily for the eternal peace, + for the adoration which has no limits, and the love which has no end. It + is not so much the infinite as the beautiful that we yearn for. It is not + being, or the limits of being, which weigh upon us; it is evil, in us and + without us. It is not all necessary to be great, so long as we are in + harmony with the order of the universe. Moral ambition has no pride; it + only desires to fill its place, and make its note duly heard in the + universal concert of the God of love. + </p> + <p> + March 30, 1870.—Certainly, nature is unjust and shameless, without + probity, and without faith. Her only alternatives are gratuitous favor or + mad aversion, and her only way of redressing an injustice is to commit + another. The happiness of the few is expiated by the misery of the greater + number. It is useless to accuse a blind force. + </p> + <p> + The human conscience, however, revolts against this law of nature, and to + satisfy its own instinct of justice it has imagined two hypotheses, out of + which it has made for itself a religion—the idea of an individual + providence, and the hypothesis of another life. + </p> + <p> + In these we have a protest against nature, which is thus declared immoral + and scandalous to the moral sense. Man believes in good, and that he may + ground himself on justice he maintains that the injustice all around him + is but an appearance, a mystery, a cheat, and that justice <i>will</i> be + done. <i>Fiat justitia, pereal mundus!</i> + </p> + <p> + It is a great act of faith. And since humanity has not made itself, this + protest has some chance of expressing a truth. If there is conflict + between the natural world and the moral world, between reality and + conscience, conscience must be right. + </p> + <p> + It is by no means necessary that the universe should exist, but it is + necessary that justice should be done, and atheism is bound to explain the + fixed obstinacy of conscience on this point. Nature is not just; we are + the products of nature: why are we always claiming and prophesying + justice? why does the effect rise up against its cause? It is a singular + phenomenon. Does the protest come from any puerile blindness of human + vanity? No, it is the deepest cry of our being, and it is for the honor of + God that the cry is uttered. Heaven and earth may pass away, but good <i>ought</i> + to be, and injustice ought <i>not</i> to be. Such is the creed of the + human race. Nature will be conquered by spirit; the eternal will triumph + over time. + </p> + <p> + April 1, 1870.—I am inclined to believe that for a woman love is the + supreme authority—that which judges the rest and decides what is + good or evil. For a man, love is subordinate to right. It is a great + passion, but it is not the source of order, the synonym of reason, the + criterion of excellence. It would seem, then, that a woman places her + ideal in the perfection of love, and a man in the perfection of justice. + It was in this sense that St. Paul was able to say, “The woman is the + glory of the man, and the man is the glory of God.” Thus the woman who + absorbs herself in the object of her love is, so to speak, in the line of + nature; she is truly woman, she realizes her fundamental type. On the + contrary, the man who should make life consist in conjugal adoration, and + who should imagine that he has lived sufficiently when he has made himself + the priest of a beloved woman, such a one is but half a man; he is + despised by the world, and perhaps secretly disdained by women themselves. + The woman who loves truly seeks to merge her own individuality in that of + the man she loves. She desires that her love should make him greater, + stronger, more masculine, and more active. Thus each sex plays its + appointed part: the woman is first destined for man, and man is destined + for society. Woman owes herself to one, man owes himself to all; and each + obtains peace and happiness only when he or she has recognized this law + and accepted this balance of things. The same thing may be a good in the + woman and an evil in the man, may be strength in her, weakness in him. + </p> + <p> + There is then a feminine and a masculine morality—preparatory + chapters, as it were, to a general human morality. Below the virtue which + is evangelical and sexless, there is a virtue of sex. And this virtue of + sex is the occasion of mutual teaching, for each of the two incarnations + of virtue makes it its business to convert the other, the first preaching + love in the ears of justice, the second justice in the ears of love. And + so there is produced an oscillation and an average which represent a + social state, an epoch, sometimes a whole civilization. + </p> + <p> + Such at least is our European idea of the harmony of the sexes in a + graduated order of functions. America is on the road to revolutionize this + ideal by the introduction of the democratic principle of the equality of + individuals in a general equality of functions. Only, when there is + nothing left but a multitude of equal individualities, neither young nor + old, neither men nor women, neither benefited nor benefactors—all + social difference will turn upon money. The whole hierarchy will rest upon + the dollar, and the most brutal, the most hideous, the most inhuman of + inequalities will be the fruit of the passion for equality. What a result! + Plutolatry—the worship of wealth, the madness of gold—to it + will be confided the task of chastising a false principle and its + followers. And plutocracy will be in its turn executed by equality. It + would be a strange end for it, if Anglo-Saxon individualism were + ultimately swallowed up in Latin socialism. + </p> + <p> + It is my prayer that the discovery of an equilibrium between the two + principles may be made in time, before the social war, with all its terror + and ruin, overtakes us. But it is scarcely likely. The masses are always + ignorant and limited, and only advance by a succession of contrary errors. + They reach good only by the exhaustion of evil. They discover the way out, + only after having run their heads against all other possible issues. + </p> + <p> + April 15, 1870.—<i>Crucifixion!</i> That is the word we have to + meditate to-day. Is it not Good Friday? + </p> + <p> + To curse grief is easier than to bless it, but to do so is to fall back + into the point of view of the earthly, the carnal, the natural man. By + what has Christianity subdued the world if not by the apotheosis of grief, + by its marvelous transmutation of suffering into triumph, of the crown of + thorns into the crown of glory, and of a gibbet into a symbol of + salvation? What does the apotheosis of the Cross mean, if not the death of + death, the defeat of sin, the beatification of martyrdom, the raising to + the skies of voluntary sacrifice, the defiance of pain? “O Death, where is + thy sting? O Grave, where is thy victory?” By long brooding over this + theme—the agony of the just, peace in the midst of agony, and the + heavenly beauty of such peace—humanity came to understand that a new + religion was born—a new mode, that is to say, of explaining life and + of understanding suffering. + </p> + <p> + Suffering was a curse from which man fled; now it becomes a purification + of the soul, a sacred trial sent by eternal love, a divine dispensation + meant to sanctify and ennoble us, an acceptable aid to faith, a strange + initiation into happiness. O power of belief! All remains the same, and + yet all is changed. A new certitude arises to deny the apparent and the + tangible; it pierces through the mystery of things, it places an invisible + Father behind visible nature, it shows us joy shining through tears, and + makes of pain the beginning of joy. + </p> + <p> + And so, for those who have believed, the tomb becomes heaven, and on the + funeral pyre of life they sing the hosanna of immortality; a sacred + madness has renewed the face of the world for them, and when they wish to + explain what they feel, their ecstasy makes them incomprehensible; they + speak with tongues. A wild intoxication of self-sacrifice, contempt for + death, the thirst for eternity, the delirium of love—these are what + the unalterable gentleness of the Crucified has had power to bring forth. + By his pardon of his executioners, and by that unconquerable sense in him + of an indissoluble union with God, Jesus, on his cross, kindled an + inextinguishable fire and revolutionized the world. He proclaimed and + realized salvation by faith in the infinite mercy, and in the pardon + granted to simple repentance. By his saying, “There is more joy in heaven + over one sinner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just persons who + need no repentance,” he made humility the gate of entrance into paradise. + </p> + <p> + Crucify the rebellious self, mortify yourself wholly, give up all to God, + and the peace which is not of this world will descend upon you. For + eighteen centuries no grander word has been spoken; and although humanity + is forever seeking after a more exact and complete application of justice, + yet her secret faith is not in justice but in pardon, for pardon alone + conciliates the spotless purity of perfection with the infinite pity due + to weakness—that is to say, it alone preserves and defends the Idea + of holiness, while it allows full scope to that of love. The gospel + proclaims the ineffable consolation, the good news, which disarms all + earthly griefs, and robs even death of its terrors—the news of + irrevocable pardon, that is to say, of eternal life. The Cross is the + guarantee of the gospel. + </p> + <p> + Therefore it has been its standard. + </p> + <p> + May 7, 1870.—The faith which clings to its idols and resists all + innovation is a retarding and conservative force; but it is the property + of all religion to serve as a curb to our lawless passion for freedom, and + to steady and quiet our restlessness of temper. Curiosity is the expansive + force, which, if it were allowed an unchecked action upon us, would + disperse and volatilize us; belief represents the force of gravitation and + cohesion which makes separate bodies and individuals of us. Society lives + by faith, develops by science. Its basis then is the mysterious, the + unknown, the intangible—religion—while the fermenting + principle in it is the desire of knowledge. Its permanent substance is the + uncomprehended or the divine; its changing form is the result of its + intellectual labor. The unconscious adhesions, the confused intuitions, + the obscure presentiments, which decide the first faith of a people, are + then of capital importance in its history. All history moves between the + religion which is the genial instinctive and fundamental philosophy of a + race, and the philosophy which is the ultimate religion—the clear + perception, that is to say, of those principles which have engendered the + whole spiritual development of humanity. + </p> + <p> + It is always the same thing which is, which was, and which will be; but + this thing—the absolute—betrays with more or less transparency + and profundity the law of its life and of its metamorphoses. In its fixed + aspect it is called God; in its mobile aspect the world or nature. God is + present in nature, but nature is not God; there is a nature in God, but it + is not God himself. I am neither for immanence nor for transcendence taken + alone. + </p> + <p> + May 9, 1870.—Disraeli, in his new novel, “Lothair,” shows that the + two great forces of the present are Revolution and Catholicism, and that + the free nations are lost if either of these two forces triumphs. It is + exactly my own idea. Only, while in France, in Belgium, in Italy, and in + all Catholic societies, it is only by checking one of these forces by the + other that the state and civilization can be maintained, the Protestant + countries are better off; in them there is a third force, a middle faith + between the two other idolatries, which enables them to regard liberty not + as a neutralization of two contraries, but as a moral reality, + self-subsistent, and possessing its own center of gravity and motive + force. In the Catholic world religion and liberty exclude each other. In + the Protestant world they accept each other, so that in the second case + there is a smaller waste of force. + </p> + <p> + Liberty is the lay, the philosophical principle. It expresses the + juridical and social aspiration of the race. But as there is no society + possible without regulation, without control, without limitations on + individual liberty, above all without moral limitations, the peoples which + are legally the freest do well to take their religious consciousness for + check and ballast. In mixed states, Catholic or free-thinking, the limit + of action, being a merely penal one, invites incessant contravention. + </p> + <p> + The puerility of the freethinkers consists in believing that a free + society can maintain itself and keep itself together without a common + faith, without a religious prejudice of some kind. Where lies the will of + God? Is it the common reason which expresses it, or rather, are a clergy + or a church the depositories of it? So long as the response is ambiguous + and equivocal in the eyes of half or the majority of consciences—and + this is the case in all Catholic states—public peace is impossible, + and public law is insecure. If there is a God, we must have him on our + side, and if there is not a God, it would be necessary first of all to + convert everybody to the same idea of the lawful and the useful, to + reconstitute, that is to say, a lay religion, before anything politically + solid could be built. + </p> + <p> + Liberalism is merely feeding upon abstractions, when it persuades itself + that liberty is possible without free individuals, and when it will not + recognize that liberty in the individual is the fruit of a foregoing + education, a moral education, which presupposes a liberating religion. To + preach liberalism to a population jesuitized by education, is to press the + pleasures of dancing upon a man who has lost a leg. How is it possible for + a child who has never been out of swaddling clothes to walk? How can the + abdication of individual conscience lead to the government of individual + conscience? To be free, is to guide one’s self, to have attained one’s + majority, to be emancipated, master of one’s actions, and judge of good + and evil; but ultramontane Catholicism never emancipates its disciples, + who are bound to admit, to believe, and to obey, as they are told, because + they are minors in perpetuity, and the clergy alone possess the law of + right, the secret of justice, and the measure of truth. This is what men + are landed in by the idea of an exterior revelation, cleverly made use of + by a patient priesthood. + </p> + <p> + But what astonishes me is the short-sight of the statesmen of the south, + who do not see that the question of questions is the religious question, + and even now do not recognize that a liberal state is wholly incompatible + with an anti-liberal religion, and almost equally incompatible with the + absence of religion. They confound accidental conquests and precarious + progress with lasting results. + </p> + <p> + There is some probability that all this noise which is made nowadays about + liberty may end in the suppression of liberty; it is plain that the + internationals, the irreconcilables, and the ultramontanes, are, all three + of them, aiming at absolutism, at dictatorial omnipotence. Happily they + are not one but many, and it will not be difficult to turn them against + each other. + </p> + <p> + If liberty is to be saved, it will not be by the doubters, the men of + science, or the materialists; it will be by religious conviction, by the + faith of individuals who believe that God wills man to be free but also + pure; it will be by the seekers after holiness, by those old-fashioned + pious persons who speak of immortality and eternal life, and prefer the + soul to the whole world; it will be by the enfranchised children of the + ancient faith of the human race. + </p> + <p> + June 5, 1870.—The efficacy of religion lies precisely in that which + is not rational, philosophic, nor external; its efficacy lies in the + unforeseen, the miraculous, the extraordinary. Thus religion attracts more + devotion in proportion as it demands more faith—that is to say, as + it becomes more incredible to the profane mind. The philosopher aspires to + explain away all mysteries, to dissolve them into light. It is mystery, on + the other hand, which the religious instinct demands and pursues; it is + mystery which constitutes the essence of worship, the power of + proselytism. When the cross became the “foolishness” of the cross, it took + possession of the masses. And in our own day, those who wish to get rid of + the supernatural, to enlighten religion, to economize faith, find + themselves deserted, like poets who should declaim against poetry, or + women who should decry love. Faith consists in the acceptance of the + incomprehensible, and even in the pursuit of the impossible, and is + self-intoxicated with its own sacrifices, its own repeated extravagances. + </p> + <p> + It is the forgetfulness of this psychological law which stultifies the + so-called liberal Christianity. It is the realization of it which + constitutes the strength of Catholicism. + </p> + <p> + Apparently no positive religion can survive the supernatural element which + is the reason for its existence. Natural religion seems to be the tomb of + all historic cults. All concrete religions die eventually in the pure air + of philosophy. So long then as the life of nations is in need of religion + as a motive and sanction of morality, as food for faith, hope, and + charity, so long will the masses turn away from pure reason and naked + truth, so long will they adore mystery, so long—and rightly so—will + they rest in faith, the only region where the ideal presents itself to + them in an attractive form. + </p> + <p> + June 9, 1870.—At bottom, everything depends upon the presence or + absence of one single element in the soul—hope. All the activity of + man, all his efforts and all his enterprises, presuppose a hope in him of + attaining an end. Once kill this hope and his movements become senseless, + spasmodic, and convulsive, like those of some one falling from a height. + To struggle with the inevitable has something childish in it. To implore + the law of gravitation to suspend its action would no doubt be a grotesque + prayer. Very well! but when a man loses faith in the efficacy of his + efforts, when he says to himself, “You are incapable of realizing your + ideal; happiness is a chimera, progress is an illusion, the passion for + perfection is a snare; and supposing all your ambitions were gratified, + everything would still be vanity,” then he comes to see that a little + blindness is necessary if life is to be carried on, and that illusion is + the universal spring of movement. Complete disillusion would mean absolute + immobility. He who has deciphered the secret and read the riddle of finite + life escapes from the great wheel of existence; he has left the world of + the living—he is already dead. Is this the meaning of the old belief + that to raise the veil of Isis or to behold God face to face brought + destruction upon the rash mortal who attempted it? Egypt and Judea had + recorded the fact, Buddha gave the key to it; the individual life is a + nothing ignorant of itself, and as soon as this nothing knows itself, + individual life is abolished in principle. For as soon as the illusion + vanishes, Nothingness resumes its eternal sway, the suffering of life is + over, error has disappeared, time and form have ceased to be for this + enfranchised individuality; the colored air-bubble has burst in the + infinite space, and the misery of thought has sunk to rest in the + changeless repose of all-embracing Nothing. The absolute, if it were + spirit, would still be activity, and it is activity, the daughter of + desire, which is incompatible with the absolute. The absolute, then, must + be the zero of all determination, and the only manner of being suited to + it is Non-being. + </p> + <p> + July 2, 1870.—One of the vices of France is the frivolity which + substitutes public conventions for truth, and absolutely ignores personal + dignity and the majesty of conscience. The French are ignorant of the A B + C of individual liberty, and still show an essentially catholic + intolerance toward the ideas which have not attained universality or the + adhesion of the majority. The nation is an army which can bring to bear + mass, number, and force, but not an assembly of free men in which each + individual depends for his value on himself. The eminent Frenchman depends + upon others for his value; if he possess stripe, cross, scarf, sword, or + robe—in a word, function and decoration—then he is held to be + something, and he feels himself somebody. It is the symbol which + establishes his merit, it is the public which raises him from nothing, as + the sultan creates his viziers. These highly-trained and social races have + an antipathy for individual independence; everything with them must be + founded upon authority military, civil, or religious, and God himself is + non-existent until he has been established by decree. Their fundamental + dogma is that social omnipotence which treats the pretension of truth to + be true without any official stamp, as a mere usurpation and sacrilege, + and scouts the claim of the individual to possess either a separate + conviction or a personal value. + </p> + <p> + July 20, 1870 (<i>Bellalpe</i>).—A marvelous day. The panorama + before me is of a grandiose splendor; it is a symphony of mountains, a + cantata of sunny Alps. + </p> + <p> + I am dazzled and oppressed by it. The feeling uppermost is one of delight + in being able to admire, of joy, that is to say, in a recovered power of + contemplation which is the result of physical relief, in being able at + last to forget myself and surrender myself to things, as befits a man in + my state of health. Gratitude is mingled with enthusiasm. I have just + spent two hours of continuous delight at the foot of the Sparrenhorn, the + peak behind us. A flood of sensations overpowered me. I could only look, + feel, dream, and think. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—Ascent of the Sparrenhorn. The peak of it is not very + easy to climb, because of the masses of loose stones and the steepness of + the path, which runs between two abysses. But how great is one’s reward! + </p> + <p> + The view embraces the whole series of the Valais Alps from the Furka to + the Combin; and even beyond the Furka one sees a few peaks of the Ticino + and the Rhaetian Alps; while if you turn you see behind you a whole polar + world of snowfields and glaciers forming the southern side of the enormous + Bernese group of the Finsteraarahorn, the Mönch, and the Jungfrau. The + near representative of the group is the Aletschhorn, whence diverge like + so many ribbons the different Aletsch glaciers which wind about the peak + from which I saw them. I could study the different zones, one above + another—fields, woods, grassy Alps, bare rock and snow, and the + principle types of mountain; the pagoda-shaped Mischabel, with its four <i>arêtes</i> + as flying buttresses and its staff of nine clustered peaks; the cupola of + the Fletchhorn, the dome of Monte Rosa, the pyramid of the Weisshorn, the + obelisk of the Cervin. + </p> + <p> + Bound me fluttered a multitude of butterflies and brilliant green-backed + flies; but nothing grew except a few lichens. The deadness and emptiness + of the upper Aletsch glacier, like some vast white street, called up the + image of an icy Pompeii. All around boundless silence. On my way back I + noticed some effects of sunshine—the close elastic mountain grass, + starred with gentian, forget-me-not, and anemones, the mountain cattle + standing out against the sky, the rocks just piercing the soil, various + circular dips in the mountain side, stone waves petrified thousands of + thousands of years ago, the undulating ground, the tender quiet of the + evening; and I invoked the soul of the mountains and the spirit of the + heights! + </p> + <p> + July 22, 1870 (<i>Bellalpe</i>).—The sky, which was misty and + overcast this morning, has become perfectly blue again, and the giants of + the Valais are bathed in tranquil light. + </p> + <p> + Whence this solemn melancholy which oppresses and pursues me? I have just + read a series of scientific books (Bronn on the “Laws of Palaeontology,” + Karl Ritter on the “Law of Geographical Forms”). Are they the cause of + this depression? or is it the majesty of this immense landscape, the + splendor of this setting sun, which brings the tears to my eyes? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Créature d’un jour qui t’agites une heure,” + </pre> + <p> + what weighs upon thee—I know it well—is the sense of thine + utter nothingness!... The names of great men hover before my eyes like a + secret reproach, and this grand impassive nature tells me that to-morrow I + shall have disappeared, butterfly that I am, without having lived. Or + perhaps it is the breath of eternal things which stirs in me the shudder + of Job. What is man—this weed which a sunbeam withers? What is our + life in the infinite abyss? I feel a sort of sacred terror, not only for + myself, but for my race, for all that is mortal. Like Buddha, I feel the + great wheel turning—the wheel of universal illusion—and the + dumb stupor which enwraps me is full of anguish. Isis lilts the corner of + her veil, and he who perceives the great mystery beneath is struck with + giddiness. I can scarcely breathe. It seems to me that I am hanging by a + thread above the fathomless abyss of destiny. Is this the Infinite face to + face, an intuition of the last great death? + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Créature d’un jour qui t’agites une heure, + Ton âme est immortelle et tes pleurs vont finir.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Finir?</i> When depths of ineffable desire are opening in the heart, as + vast, as yawning as the immensity which surrounds us? Genius, + self-devotion, love—all these cravings quicken into life and torture + me at once. Like the shipwrecked sailor about to sink under the waves, I + am conscious of a mad clinging to life, and at the same time of a rush of + despair and repentance, which forces from me a cry for pardon. And then + all this hidden agony dissolves in wearied submission. “Resign yourself to + the inevitable! Shroud away out of sight the flattering delusions of + youth! Live and die in the shade! Like the insects humming in the + darkness, offer up your evening prayer. Be content to fade out of life + without a murmur whenever the Master of life shall breathe upon your tiny + flame! It is out of myriads of unknown lives that every clod of earth is + built up. The infusoria do not count until they are millions upon + millions. Accept your nothingness.” Amen! + </p> + <p> + But there is no peace except in order, in law. Am I in order? Alas, no! My + changeable and restless nature will torment me to the end. I shall never + see plainly what I ought to do. The love of the better will have stood + between me and the good. Yearning for the ideal will have lost me reality. + Vague aspiration and undefined desire will have been enough to make my + talents useless, and to neutralize my powers. Unproductive nature that I + am, tortured by the belief that production was required of me, may not my + very remorse be a mistake and a superfluity? + </p> + <p> + Scherer’s phrase comes back to me, “We must accept ourselves as we are.” + </p> + <p> + September 8, 1870 (<i>Zurich</i>).—All the exiles are returning to + Paris—Edgar Quinet, Louis Blanc, Victor Hugo. By the help of their + united experience will they succeed in maintaining the republic? It is to + be hoped so. But the past makes it lawful to doubt. While the republic is + in reality a fruit, the French look upon it as a seed-sowing. Elsewhere + such a form of government presupposes free men; in France it is and must + be an instrument of instruction and protection. France has once more + placed sovereignty in the hands of universal suffrage, as though the + multitude were already enlightened, judicious, and reasonable, and now her + task is to train and discipline the force which, by a fiction, is master. + </p> + <p> + The ambition of France is set upon self-government, but her capacity for + it has still to be proved. For eighty years she has confounded revolution + with liberty; will she now give proof of amendment and of wisdom? Such a + change is not impossible. Let us wait for it with sympathy, but also with + caution. + </p> + <p> + September 12, 1870 (<i>Basle</i>).—The old Rhine is murmuring under + my window. The wide gray stream rolls its great waves along and breaks + against the arches of the bridge, just as it did ten years or twenty years + ago; the red cathedral shoots its arrow-like spires toward heaven; the ivy + on the terraces which fringe the left bank of the Rhine hangs over the + walls like a green mantle; the indefatigable ferry-boat goes and comes as + it did of yore; in a word, things seem to be eternal, while man’s hair + turns gray and his heart grows old. I came here first as a student, then + as a professor. Now I return to it at the downward turn of middle age, and + nothing in the landscape has changed except myself. + </p> + <p> + The melancholy of memory may be commonplace and puerile—all the same + it is true, it is inexhaustible, and the poets of all times have been open + to its attacks. + </p> + <p> + At bottom, what is individual life? A variation of an eternal theme—to + be born, to live, to feel, to hope, to love, to suffer, to weep, to die. + Some would add to these, to grow rich, to think, to conquer; but in fact, + whatever frantic efforts one may make, however one may strain and excite + one’s self, one can but cause a greater or slighter undulation in the line + of one’s destiny. Supposing a man renders the series of fundamental + phenomena a little more evident to others or a little more distinct to + himself, what does it matter? The whole is still nothing but a fluttering + of the infinitely little, the insignificant repetition of an invariable + theme. In truth, whether the individual exists or no, the difference is so + absolutely imperceptible in the whole of things that every complaint and + every desire is ridiculous. Humanity in its entirety is but a flash in the + duration of the planet, and the planet may return to the gaseous state + without the sun’s feeling it even for a second. The individual is the + infinitesimal of nothing. + </p> + <p> + What, then, is nature? Nature is Maïa—that is to say, an incessant, + fugitive, indifferent series of phenomena, the manifestation of all + possibilities, the inexhaustible play of all combinations. + </p> + <p> + And is Maïa all the while performing for the amusement of somebody, of + some spectator—Brahma? Or is Brahma working out some serious and + unselfish end? From the theistic point of view, is it the purpose of God + to make souls, to augment the sum of good and wisdom by the multiplication + of himself in free beings—facets which may flash back to him his own + holiness and beauty? This conception is far more attractive to the heart. + But is it more true? The moral consciousness affirms it. If man is capable + of conceiving goodness, the general principle of things, which cannot be + inferior to man, must be good. The philosophy of labor, of duty, of + effort, is surely superior to that of phenomena, chance, and universal + indifference. If so, the whimsical Maïa would be subordinate to Brahma, + the eternal thought, and Brahma would be in his turn subordinate to a holy + God. + </p> + <p> + October 25, 1870 (<i>Geneva</i>).—“Each function to the most + worthy:” this maxim governs all constitutions, and serves to test them. + Democracy is not forbidden to apply it, but democracy rarely does apply + it, because she holds, for example, that the most worthy man is the man + who pleases her, whereas he who pleases her is not always the most worthy, + and because she supposes that reason guides the masses, whereas in reality + they are most commonly led by passion. And in the end every falsehood has + to be expiated, for truth always takes its revenge. + </p> + <p> + Alas, whatever one may say or do, wisdom, justice, reason, and goodness + will never be anything more than special cases and the heritage of a few + elect souls. Moral and intellectual harmony, excellence in all its forms, + will always be a rarity of great price, an isolated <i>chef d’oeuvre</i>. + All that can be expected from the most perfect institutions is that they + should make it possible for individual excellence to develop itself, not + that they should produce the excellent individual. Virtue and genius, + grace and beauty, will always constitute a <i>noblesse</i> such as no form + of government can manufacture. It is of no use, therefore, to excite one’s + self for or against revolutions which have only an importance of the + second order—an importance which I do not wish either to diminish or + to ignore, but an importance which, after all, is mostly negative. The + political life is but the means of the true life. + </p> + <p> + October 26, 1870.—Sirocco. A bluish sky. The leafy crowns of the + trees have dropped at their feet; the finger of winter has touched them. + The errand-woman has just brought me my letters. Poor little woman, what a + life! She spends her nights in going backward and forward from her invalid + husband to her sister, who is scarcely less helpless, and her days are + passed in labor. Resigned and indefatigable, she goes on without + complaining, till she drops. + </p> + <p> + Lives such as hers prove something: that the true ignorance is moral + ignorance, that labor and suffering are the lot of all men, and that + classification according to a greater or less degree of folly is inferior + to that which proceeds according to a greater or less degree of virtue. + The kingdom of God belongs not to the most enlightened but to the best; + and the best man is the most unselfish man. Humble, constant, voluntary + self-sacrifice—this is what constitutes the true dignity of man. And + therefore is it written, “The last shall be first.” Society rests upon + conscience and not upon science. Civilization is first and foremost a + moral thing. Without honesty, without respect for law, without the worship + of duty, without the love of one’s neighbor—in a word, without + virtue—the whole is menaced and falls into decay, and neither + letters nor art, neither luxury nor industry, nor rhetoric, nor the + policeman, nor the custom-house officer, can maintain erect and whole an + edifice of which the foundations are unsound. + </p> + <p> + A state founded upon interest alone and cemented by fear is an ignoble and + unsafe construction. The ultimate ground upon which every civilization + rests is the average morality of the masses, and a sufficient amount of + practical righteousness. Duty is what upholds all. So that those who + humbly and unobtrusively fulfill it, and set a good example thereby, are + the salvation and the sustenance of this brilliant world, which knows + nothing about them. Ten righteous men would have saved Sodom, but + thousands and thousands of good homely folk are needed to preserve a + people from corruption and decay. + </p> + <p> + If ignorance and passion are the foes of popular morality, it must be + confessed that moral indifference is the malady of the cultivated classes. + The modern separation of enlightenment and virtue, of thought and + conscience, of the intellectual aristocracy from the honest and vulgar + crowd, is the greatest danger that can threaten liberty. When any society + produces an increasing number of literary exquisites, of satirists, + skeptics, and <i>beaux esprits</i>, some chemical disorganization of + fabric may be inferred. Take, for example, the century of Augustus, and + that of Louis XV. Our cynics and railers are mere egotists, who stand + aloof from the common duty, and in their indolent remoteness are of no + service to society against any ill which may attack it. Their cultivation + consists in having got rid of feeling. And thus they fall farther and + farther away from true humanity, and approach nearer to the demoniacal + nature. What was it that Mephistopheles lacked? Not intelligence + certainly, but goodness. + </p> + <p> + October 28, 1870.—It is strange to see how completely justice is + forgotten in the presence of great international struggles. Even the great + majority of the spectators are no longer capable of judging except as + their own personal tastes, dislikes, fears, desires, interests, or + passions may dictate—that is to say, their judgment is not a + judgment at all. How many people are capable of delivering a fair verdict + on the struggle now going on? Very few! This horror of equity, this + antipathy to justice, this rage against a merciful neutrality, represents + a kind of eruption of animal passion in man, a blind fierce passion, which + is absurd enough to call itself a reason, whereas it is nothing but a + force. + </p> + <p> + November 16, 1870.—We are struck by something bewildering and + ineffable when we look down into the depths of an abyss; and every soul is + an abyss, a mystery of love and piety. A sort of sacred emotion descends + upon me whenever I penetrate the recesses of this sanctuary of man, and + hear the gentle murmur of the prayers, hymns, and supplications which rise + from the hidden depths of the heart. These involuntary confidences fill me + with a tender piety and a religious awe and shyness. The whole experience + seems to me as wonderful as poetry, and divine with the divineness of + birth and dawn. Speech fails me, I bow myself and adore. And, whenever I + am able, I strive also to console and fortify. + </p> + <p> + December 6, 1870.—“Dauer im Wechsel”—“Persistence in change.” + This title of a poem by Goethe is the summing up of nature. Everything + changes, but with such unequal rapidity that one existence appears eternal + to another. A geological age, for instance, compared to the duration of + any living being, the duration of a planet compared to a geological age, + appear eternities—our life, too, compared to the thousand + impressions which pass across us in an hour. Wherever one looks, one feels + one’s self overwhelmed by the infinity of infinites. The universe, + seriously studied, rouses one’s terror. Everything seems so relative that + it is scarcely possible to distinguish whether anything has a real value. + </p> + <p> + Where is the fixed point in this boundless and bottomless gulf? Must it + not be that which perceives the relations of things—in other words, + thought, infinite thought? The perception of ourselves within the infinite + thought, the realization of ourselves in God, self-acceptance in him, the + harmony of our will with his—in a word, religion—here alone is + firm ground. Whether this thought be free or necessary, happiness lies in + identifying one’s self with it. Both the stoic and the Christian surrender + themselves to the Being of beings, which the one calls sovereign wisdom + and the other sovereign goodness. St. John says, “God is Light,” “God is + Love.” The Brahmin says, “God is the inexhaustible fount of poetry.” Let + us say, “God is perfection.” And man? Man, for all his inexpressible + insignificance and frailty, may still apprehend the idea of perfection, + may help forward the supreme will, and die with Hosanna on his lips! + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + All teaching depends upon a certain presentiment and preparation in the + taught; we can only teach others profitably what they already virtually + know; we can only give them what they had already. This principle of + education is also a law of history. Nations can only be developed on the + lines of their tendencies and aptitudes. Try them on any other and they + are rebellious and incapable of improvement. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + By despising himself too much a man comes to be worthy of his own + contempt. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Its way of suffering is the witness which a soul bears to itself. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The beautiful is superior to the sublime because it lasts and does not + satiate, while the sublime is relative, temporary and violent. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + February 4, 1871.—Perpetual effort is the characteristic of modern + morality. A painful process has taken the place of the old harmony, the + old equilibrium, the old joy and fullness of being. We are all so many + fauns, satyrs, or Silenuses, aspiring to become angels; so many + deformities laboring for our own embellishment; so many clumsy chrysalises + each working painfully toward the development of the butterfly within him. + Our ideal is no longer a serene beauty of soul; it is the agony of Laocoon + struggling with the hydra of evil. The lot is cast irrevocably. There are + no more happy whole-natured men among us, nothing but so many candidates + for heaven, galley-slaves on earth. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Nous ramons notre vie en attendant le port.” + </pre> + <p> + Molière said that reasoning banished reason. It is possible also that the + progress toward perfection we are so proud of is only a pretentious + imperfection. Duty seems now to be more negative than positive; it means + lessening evil rather than actual good; it is a generous discontent, but + not happiness; it is an incessant pursuit of an unattainable goal, a noble + madness, but not reason; it is homesickness for the impossible—pathetic + and pitiful, but still not wisdom. + </p> + <p> + The being which has attained harmony, and every being may attain it, has + found its place in the order of the universe, and represents the divine + thought at least as clearly as a flower or a solar system. Harmony seeks + nothing outside itself. It is what it ought to be; it is the expression of + right, order, law, and truth; it is greater than time, and represents + eternity. + </p> + <p> + February 6,1871.—I am reading Juste Olivier’s “Chansons du Soir” + over again, and all the melancholy of the poet seems to pass into my + veins. It is the revelation of a complete existence, and of a whole world + of melancholy reverie. + </p> + <p> + How much character there is in “Musette,” the “Chanson de l’Alouette,” the + “Chant du Retour,” and the “Gaîté,” and how much freshness in “Lina,” and + “A ma fille!” But the best pieces of all are “Au delà,” “Homunculus,” “La + Trompeuse,” and especially “Frère Jacques,” its author’s masterpiece. To + these may be added the “Marionettes” and the national song, “Helvétie.” + Serious purpose and intention disguised in gentle gayety and childlike <i>badinage</i>, + feeling hiding itself under a smile of satire, a resigned and pensive + wisdom expressing itself in rustic round or ballad, the power of + suggesting everything in a nothing—these are the points in which the + Vaudois poet triumphs. On the reader’s side there is emotion and surprise, + and on the author’s a sort of pleasant slyness which seems to delight in + playing tricks upon you, only tricks of the most dainty and brilliant + kind. Juste Olivier has the passion we might imagine a fairy to have for + delicate mystification. He hides his gifts. He promises nothing and gives + a great deal. His generosity, which is prodigal, has a surly air; his + simplicity is really subtlety; his malice pure tenderness; and his whole + talent is, as it were, the fine flower of the Vaudois mind in its sweetest + and dreamiest form. + </p> + <p> + February 10, 1871.—My reading for this morning has been some + vigorous chapters of Taine’s “History of English Literature.” Taine is a + writer whose work always produces a disagreeable impression upon me, as + though of a creaking of pulleys and a clicking of machinery; there is a + smell of the laboratory about it. His style is the style of chemistry and + technology. The science of it is inexorable; it is dry and forcible, + penetrating and hard, strong and harsh, but altogether lacking in charm, + humanity, nobility, and grace. The disagreeable effect which it makes on + one’s taste, ear, and heart, depends probably upon two things: upon the + moral philosophy of the author and upon his literary principles. The + profound contempt for humanity which characterizes the physiological + school, and the intrusion of technology into literature inaugurated by + Balzac and Stendhal, explain the underlying aridity of which one is + sensible in these pages, and which seems to choke one like the gases from + a manufactory of mineral products. The book is instructive in the highest + degree, but instead of animating and stirring, it parches, corrodes, and + saddens its reader. It excites no feeling whatever; it is simply a means + of information. I imagine this kind of thing will be the literature of the + future—a literature <i>à l’Américaine</i>, as different as possible + from Greek art, giving us algebra instead of life, the formula instead of + the image, the exhalations of the crucible instead of the divine madness + of Apollo. Cold vision will replace the joys of thought, and we shall see + the death of poetry, flayed and dissected by science. + </p> + <p> + February 15, 1871.—Without intending it, nations educate each other, + while having apparently nothing in view but their own selfish interests. + It was France who made the Germany of the present, by attempting its + destruction during ten generations; it is Germany who will regenerate + contemporary France, by the effort to crush her. Revolutionary France will + teach equality to the Germans, who are by nature hierarchical. Germany + will teach the French that rhetoric is not science, and that appearance is + not as valuable as reality. The worship of prestige—that is to say, + of falsehood; the passion for vainglory—that is to say, for smoke + and noise; these are what must die in the interests of the world. It is a + false religion which is being destroyed. I hope sincerely that this war + will issue in a new balance of things better than any which has gone + before—a new Europe, in which the government of the individual by + himself will be the cardinal principle of society, in opposition to the + Latin principle, which regards the individual as a thing, a means to an + end, an instrument of the church or of the state. + </p> + <p> + In the order and harmony which would result from free adhesion and + voluntary submission to a common ideal, we should see the rise of a new + moral world. It would be an equivalent, expressed in lay terms, to the + idea of a universal priesthood. The model state ought to resemble a great + musical society in which every one submits to be organized, subordinated, + and disciplined for the sake of art, and for the sake of producing a + masterpiece. Nobody is coerced, nobody is made use of for selfish + purposes, nobody plays a hypocritical or selfish part. All bring their + talent to the common stock, and contribute knowingly and gladly to the + common wealth. Even self-love itself is obliged to help on the general + action, under pain of rebuff should it make itself apparent. + </p> + <p> + February 18, 1871.—It is in the novel that the average vulgarity of + German society, and its inferiority to the societies of France and + England, are most clearly visible. The notion of “bad taste” seems to have + no place in German aesthetics. Their elegance has no grace in it; and they + cannot understand the enormous difference there is between distinction + (what is <i>gentlemanly</i>, <i>ladylike</i>), and their stiff <i>vornehmlichkeit</i>. + Their imagination lacks style, training, education, and knowledge of the + world; it has an ill-bred air even in its Sunday dress. The race is + poetical and intelligent, but common and ill-mannered. Pliancy and + gentleness, manners, wit, vivacity, taste, dignity, and charm, are + qualities which belong to others. + </p> + <p> + Will that inner freedom of soul, that profound harmony of all the + faculties which I have so often observed among the best Germans, ever come + to the surface? Will the conquerors of to-day ever learn to civilize and + soften their forms of life? It is by their future novels that we shall be + able to judge. As soon as they are capable of the novel of “good society” + they will have excelled all rivals. Till then, finish, polish, the + maturity of social culture, are beyond them; they may have humanity of + feeling, but the delicacies, the little perfections of life, are unknown + to them. They may be honest and well-meaning, but they are utterly without + <i>savoir vivre</i>. + </p> + <p> + February 22, 1871.—<i>Soirée</i> at the M—. About thirty + people representing our best society were there, a happy mixture of sexes + and ages. There were gray heads, young girls, bright faces—the whole + framed in some Aubusson tapestries which made a charming background, and + gave a soft air of distance to the brilliantly-dressed groups. + </p> + <p> + In society people are expected to behave as if they lived on ambrosia and + concerned themselves with nothing but the loftiest interests. Anxiety, + need, passion, have no existence. All realism is suppressed as brutal. In + a word, what we call “society” proceeds for the moment on the flattering + illusory assumption that it is moving in an ethereal atmosphere and + breathing the air of the gods. All vehemence, all natural expression, all + real suffering, all careless familiarity, or any frank sign of passion, + are startling and distasteful in this delicate <i>milieu</i>; they at once + destroy the common work, the cloud palace, the magical architectural + whole, which has been raised by the general consent and effort. It is like + the sharp cock-crow which breaks the spell of all enchantments, and puts + the fairies to flight. These select gatherings produce, without knowing + it, a sort of concert for eyes and ears, an improvised work of art. By the + instinctive collaboration of everybody concerned, intellect and taste hold + festival, and the associations of reality are exchanged for the + associations of imagination. So understood, society is a form of poetry; + the cultivated classes deliberately recompose the idyll of the past and + the buried world of Astrea. Paradox or no, I believe that these fugitive + attempts to reconstruct a dream whose only end is beauty represent + confused reminiscences of an age of gold haunting the human heart, or + rather aspirations toward a harmony of things which every day reality + denies to us, and of which art alone gives us a glimpse. + </p> + <p> + April 28, 1871.—For a psychologist it is extremely interesting to be + readily and directly conscious of the complications of one’s own organism + and the play of its several parts. It seems to me that the sutures of my + being are becoming just loose enough to allow me at once a clear + perception of myself as a whole and a distinct sense of my own + brittleness. A feeling like this makes personal existence a perpetual + astonishment and curiosity. Instead of only seeing the world which + surrounds me, I analyze myself. Instead of being single, all of a piece, I + become legion, multitude, a whirlwind—a very cosmos. Instead of + living on the surface, I take possession of my inmost self, I apprehend + myself, if not in my cells and atoms, at least so far as my groups of + organs, almost my tissues, are concerned. In other words, the central + monad isolates itself from all the subordinate monads, that it may + consider them, and finds its harmony again in itself. + </p> + <p> + Health is the perfect balance between our organism, with all its component + parts, and the outer world; it serves us especially for acquiring a + knowledge of that world. Organic disturbance obliges us to set up a fresh + and more spiritual equilibrium, to withdraw within the soul. Thereupon our + bodily constitution itself becomes the object of thought. It is no longer + we, although it may belong to us; it is nothing more than the vessel in + which we make the passage of life, a vessel of which we study the weak + points and the structure without identifying it with our own + individuality. + </p> + <p> + Where is the ultimate residence of the self? In thought, or rather in + consciousness. But below consciousness there is its germ, the <i>punctum + saliens</i> of spontaneity; for consciousness is not primitive, it <i>becomes</i>. + The question is, can the thinking monad return into its envelope, that is + to say, into pure spontaneity, or even into the dark abyss of virtuality? + I hope not. The kingdom passes; the king remains; or rather is it the + royalty alone which subsists—that is to say, the idea—the + personality begin in its turn merely the passing vesture of the permanent + idea? Is Leibnitz or Hegel right? Is the individual immortal under the + form of the spiritual body? Is he eternal under the form of the individual + idea? Who saw most clearly, St. Paul or Plato? The theory of Leibnitz + attracts me most because it opens to us an infinite of duration, of + multitude, and evolution. For a monad, which is the virtual universe, a + whole infinite of time is not too much to develop the infinite within it. + Only one must admit exterior actions and influences which affect the + evolution of the monad. Its independence must be a mobile and increasing + quantity between zero and the infinite, without ever reaching either + completeness or nullity, for the monad can be neither absolutely passive + nor entirely free. + </p> + <p> + June 21, 1871.—The international socialism of the <i>ouvriers</i>, + ineffectually put down in Paris, is beginning to celebrate its approaching + victory. For it there is neither country, nor memories, nor property, nor + religion. There is nothing and nobody but itself. Its dogma is equality, + its prophet is Mably, and Baboeuf is its god. + </p> + <p> + [Footnote: Mably, the Abbé Mably, 1709-85, one of the precursors of the + revolution, the professor of a cultivated and classical communism based on + a study of antiquity, which Babeuf and others like him, in the following + generation, translated into practical experiment. “Caius Gracchus” Babeuf, + born 1764, and guillotined in 1797 for a conspiracy against the Directory, + is sometimes called the first French socialist. Perhaps socialist + doctrines, properly so called, may be said to make their first entry into + the region of popular debate and practical agitation with his “Manifeste + des Égaux,” issued April 1796.] + </p> + <p> + How is the conflict to be solved, since there is no longer one single + common principle between the partisans and the enemies of the existing + form of society, between liberalism and the worship of equality? Their + respective notions of man, duty, happiness—that is to say, of life + and its end—differ radically. I suspect that the communism of the <i>Internationale</i> + is merely the pioneer of Russian nihilism, which will be the common grave + of the old races and the servile races, the Latins and the Slavs. If so, + the salvation of humanity will depend upon individualism of the brutal + American sort. I believe that the nations of the present are rather + tempting chastisement than learning wisdom. Wisdom, which means balance + and harmony, is only met within individuals. Democracy, which means the + rule of the masses, gives preponderance to instinct, to nature, to the + passions—that is to say, to blind impulse, to elemental gravitation, + to generic fatality. Perpetual vacillation between contraries becomes its + only mode of progress, because it represents that childish form of + prejudice which falls in love and cools, adores, and curses, with the same + haste and unreason. A succession of opposing follies gives an impression + of change which the people readily identify with improvement, as though + Enceladus was more at ease on his left side than on his right, the weight + of the volcano remaining the same. The stupidity of Demos is only equaled + by its presumption. It is like a youth with all his animal and none of his + reasoning powers developed. + </p> + <p> + Luther’s comparison of humanity to a drunken peasant, always ready to fall + from his horse on one side or the other, has always struck me as a + particularly happy one. It is not that I deny the right of the democracy, + but I have no sort of illusion as to the use it will make of its right, so + long, at any rate, as wisdom is the exception and conceit the rule. + Numbers make law, but goodness has nothing to do with figures. Every + fiction is self-expiating, and democracy rests upon this legal fiction, + that the majority has not only force but reason on its side—that it + possesses not only the right to act but the wisdom necessary for action. + The fiction is dangerous because of its flattery; the demagogues have + always flattered the private feelings of the masses. The masses will + always be below the average. Besides, the age of majority will be lowered, + the barriers of sex will be swept away, and democracy will finally make + itself absurd by handing over the decision of all that is greatest to all + that is most incapable. Such an end will be the punishment of its abstract + principle of equality, which dispenses the ignorant man from the necessity + of self-training, the foolish man from that of self-judgment, and tells + the child that there is no need for him to become a man, and the + good-for-nothing that self-improvement is of no account. Public law, + founded upon virtual equality, will destroy itself by its consequences. It + will not recognize the inequalities of worth, of merit, and of experience; + in a word, it ignores individual labor, and it will end in the triumph of + platitude and the residuum. The <i>régime</i> of the Parisian Commune has + shown us what kind of material comes to the top in these days of frantic + vanity and universal suspicion. + </p> + <p> + Still, humanity is tough, and survives all catastrophes. Only it makes one + impatient to see the race always taking the longest road to an end, and + exhausting all possible faults before it is able to accomplish one + definite step toward improvement. These innumerable follies, that are to + be and must be, have an irritating effect upon me. The more majestic is + the history of science, the more intolerable is the history of politics + and religion. The mode of progress in the moral world seems an abuse of + the patience of God. + </p> + <p> + Enough! There is no help in misanthropy and pessimism. If our race vexes + us, let us keep a decent silence on the matter. We are imprisoned on the + same ship, and we shall sink with it. Pay your own debt, and leave the + rest to God. Sharer, as you inevitably are, in the sufferings of your + kind, set a good example; that is all which is asked of you. Do all the + good you can, and say all the truth you know or believe; and for the rest + be patient, resigned, submissive. God does his business, do yours. + </p> + <p> + July 29, 1871.—So long as a man is capable of self-renewal he is a + living being. Goethe, Schleiermacher and Humboldt, were masters of the + art. If we are to remain among the living there must be a perpetual + revival of youth within us, brought about by inward change and by love of + the Platonic sort. The soul must be forever recreating itself, trying all + its various modes, vibrating in all its fibres, raising up new interests + for itself.... + </p> + <p> + The “Epistles” and the “Epigrams” of Goethe which I have been reading + to-day do not make one love him. Why? Because he has so little soul. His + way of understanding love, religion, duty, and patriotism has something + mean and repulsive in it. There is no ardor, no generosity in him. A + secret barrenness, an ill-concealed egotism, makes itself felt through all + the wealth and flexibility of his talent. It is true that the egotism of + Goethe has at least this much that is excellent in it, that it respects + the liberty of the individual, and is favorable to all originality. But it + will go out of its way to help nobody; it will give itself no trouble for + anybody; it will lighten nobody else’s burden; in a word, it does away + with charity, the great Christian virtue. Perfection for Goethe consists + in personal nobility, not in love; his standard is aesthetic, not moral. + He ignores holiness, and has never allowed himself to reflect on the dark + problem of evil. A Spinozist to the core, he believes in individual luck, + not in liberty, nor in responsibility. He is a Greek of the great time, to + whom the inward crises of the religious consciousness are unknown. He + represents, then, a state of soul earlier than or subsequent to + Christianity, what the prudent critics of our time call the “modern + spirit;” and only one tendency of the modern spirit—the worship of + nature. For Goethe stands outside all the social and political aspirations + of the generality of mankind; he takes no more interest than Nature + herself in the disinherited, the feeble, and the oppressed.... + </p> + <p> + The restlessness of our time does not exist for Goethe and his school. It + is explicable enough. The deaf have no sense of dissonance. The man who + knows nothing of the voice of conscience, the voice of regret or remorse, + cannot even guess at the troubles of those who live under two masters and + two laws, and belong to two worlds—that of nature and that of + liberty. For himself, his choice is made. But humanity cannot choose and + exclude. All needs are vocal at once in the cry of her suffering. She + hears the men of science, but she listens to those who talk to her of + religion; pleasure attracts her, but sacrifice moves her; and she hardly + knows whether she hates or whether she adores the crucifix. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—Still re-reading the sonnets and the miscellaneous + poems of Goethe. The impression left by this part of the “Gedichte” is + much more favorable than that made upon me by the “Elegies” and the + “Epigrams.” The “Water Spirits” and “The Divine” are especially noble in + feeling. One must never be too hasty in judging these complex natures. + Completely lacking as he is in the sense of obligation and of sin, Goethe + nevertheless finds his way to seriousness through dignity. Greek sculpture + has been his school of virtue. + </p> + <p> + August 15, 1871.—Re-read, for the second time, Renan’s “Vie de + Jesus,” in the sixteenth popular edition. The most characteristic feature + of this analysis of Christianity is that sin plays no part at all in it. + Now, if anything explains the success of the gospel among men, it is that + it brought them deliverance from sin—in a word, salvation. A man, + however, is bound to explain a religion seriously, and not to shirk the + very center of his subject. This white-marble Christ is not the Christ who + inspired the martyrs and has dried so many tears. The author lacks moral + seriousness, and confounds nobility of character with holiness. He speaks + as an artist conscious of a pathetic subject, but his moral sense is not + interested in the question. It is not possible to mistake the epicureanism + of the imagination, delighting itself in an aesthetic spectacle, for the + struggles of a soul passionately in search of truth. In Renan there are + still some remains of priestly <i>ruse</i>; he strangles with sacred + cords. His tone of contemptuous indulgence toward a more or less captious + clergy might be tolerated, but he should have shown a more respectful + sincerity in dealing with the sincere and the spiritual. Laugh at + Pharisaism as you will, but speak simply and plainly to honest folk. + [Footnote: “‘Persifflez les pharisaïsmes, mais parlez droit aux honnêtes + gens’ me dit Amiel, avec une certaine aigreur. Mon Dieu, que les honnêtes + gens sont souvent exposés à être des pharisiens sans le savoir!”—(M. + Renan’s article, already quoted).] + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—To understand is to be conscious of the fundamental + unity of the thing to be explained—that is to say, to conceive it in + its entirety both of life and development, to be able to remake it by a + mental process without making a mistake, without adding or omitting + anything. It means, first, complete identification of the object, and then + the power of making it clear to others by a full and just interpretation. + To understand is more difficult than to judge, for understanding is the + transference of the mind into the conditions of the object, whereas + judgment is simply the enunciation of the individual opinion. + </p> + <p> + August 25, 1871. (<i>Charnex-sur-Montreux</i>).—Magnificent weather. + The morning seems bathed in happy peace, and a heavenly fragrance rises + from mountain and shore; it is as though a benediction were laid upon us. + No vulgar intrusive noise disturbs the religious quiet of the scene. One + might believe one’s self in a church—a vast temple in which every + being and every natural beauty has its place. I dare not breathe for fear + of putting the dream to flight—a dream traversed by angels. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Comme autrefois j’entends dans l’éther infini + La musique du temps et l’hosanna des mondes.” + </pre> + <p> + In these heavenly moments the cry of Pauline rises to one’s lips. + [Footnote: “Polyeuete,” Act. V. Scene v. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mon époux en mourant m’a laissé ses lumiéres; + Son sang dont tes bourreaux viennent de me couvrir + M’a dessillé les yeux et me les vient d’ouvrir. + Je vois, je sais, je crois——“] +</pre> + <p> + “I feel! I believe! I see!” All the miseries, the cares, the vexations of + life, are forgotten; the universal joy absorbs us; we enter into the + divine order, and into the blessedness of the Lord. Labor and tears, sin, + pain, and death have passed away. To exist is to bless; life is happiness. + In this sublime pause of things all dissonances have disappeared. It is as + though creation were but one vast symphony, glorifying the God of goodness + with an inexhaustible wealth of praise and harmony. We question no longer + whether it is so or not. We have ourselves become notes in the great + concert; and the soul breaks the silence of ecstasy only to vibrate in + unison with the eternal joy. + </p> + <p> + September 22, 1871. (<i>Charnex</i>).—Gray sky—a melancholy + day. A friend has left me, the sun is unkind and capricious. Everything + passes away, everything forsakes us. And in place of all we have lost, age + and gray hairs! ... After dinner I walked to Chailly between two showers. + A rainy landscape has a great charm for me; the dark tints become more + velvety, the softer tones more ethereal. The country in rain is like a + face with traces of tears upon it—less beautiful no doubt, but more + expressive. + </p> + <p> + Behind the beauty which is superficial, gladsome, radiant, and palpable, + the aesthetic sense discovers another order of beauty altogether, hidden, + veiled, secret and mysterious, akin to moral beauty. This sort of beauty + only reveals itself to the initiated, and is all the more exquisite for + that. It is a little like the refined joy of sacrifice, like the madness + of faith, like the luxury of grief; it is not within the reach of all the + world. Its attraction is peculiar, and affects one like some strange + perfume, or bizarre melody. When once the taste for it is set up the mind + takes a special and keen delight in it, for one finds in it + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Son bien premièrement, puis le dédain d’autrui,” + </pre> + <p> + and it is pleasant to one’s vanity not to be of the same opinion as the + common herd. This, however, is not possible with things which are evident, + and beauty which is incontestable. Charm, perhaps, is a better name for + the esoteric and paradoxical beauty, which escapes the vulgar, and appeals + to our dreamy, meditative side. Classical beauty belongs, so to speak, to + all eyes; it has ceased to belong to itself. Esoteric beauty is shy and + retiring. It only unveils itself to unsealed eyes, and bestows its favors + only upon love. + </p> + <p> + This is why my friend ——, who places herself immediately in + relation with the souls of those she meets, does not see the ugliness of + people when once she is interested in them. She likes and dislikes, and + those she likes are beautiful, those she dislikes are ugly. There is + nothing more complicated in it than that. For her, aesthetic + considerations are lost in moral sympathy; she looks with her heart only; + she passes by the chapter of the beautiful, and goes on to the chapter of + charm. I can do the same; only it is by reflection and on second thoughts; + my friend does it involuntarily and at once; she has not the artistic + fiber. The craving for a perfect correspondence between the inside and the + outside of things—between matter and form—is not in her + nature. She does not suffer from ugliness, she scarcely perceives it. As + for me, I can only forget what shocks me, I cannot help being shocked. All + corporal defects irritate me, and the want of beauty in women, being + something which ought not to exist, shocks me like a tear, a solecism, a + dissonance, a spot of ink—in a word, like something out of order. On + the other hand, beauty restores and fortifies me like some miraculous + food, like Olympian ambrosia. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Que le bon soit toujours camarade du beau + Dès demain je chercherai femme. + Mais comme le divorce entre eux n’est pas nouveau, + Et que peu de beaux corps, hôtes d’une belle âme, + Assemblent l’un et l’autre point——” + </pre> + <p> + I will not finish, for after all one must resign one’s self, A beautiful + soul in a healthy body is already a rare and blessed thing; and if one + finds heart, common sense, intellect, and courage into the bargain, one + may well do without that ravishing dainty which we call beauty, and almost + without that delicious seasoning which we call grace. We do without—with + a sigh, as one does without a luxury. Happy we, to possess what is + necessary. + </p> + <p> + December 29, 1871.—I have been reading Bahnsen (“Critique de + l’évolutionisme de Hegel-Hartmann, au nom des principes de Schopenhauer”). + What a writer! Like a cuttle-fish in water, every movement produces a + cloud of ink which shrouds his thought in darkness. And what a doctrine! A + thoroughgoing pessimism, which regards the world as absurd, “absolutely + idiotic,” and reproaches Hartmann for having allowed the evolution of the + universe some little remains of logic, while, on the contrary, this + evolution is eminently contradictory, and there is no reason anywhere + except in the poor brain of the reasoner. Of all possible worlds that + which exists is the worst. Its only excuse is that it tends of itself to + destruction. The hope of the philosopher is that reasonable beings will + shorten their agony and hasten the return of everything to nothing. It is + the philosophy of a desperate Satanism, which has not even the resigned + perspectives of Buddhism to offer to the disappointed and disillusioned + soul. The individual can but protest and curse. This frantic Sivaism is + developed from the conception which makes the world the product of blind + will, the principle of everything. + </p> + <p> + The acrid blasphemy of the doctrine naturally leads the writer to + indulgence in epithets of bad taste which prevent our regarding his work + as the mere challenge of a paradoxical theorist. We have really to do with + a theophobist, whom faith in goodness rouses to a fury of contempt. In + order to hasten the deliverance of the world, he kills all consolation, + all hope, and all illusion in the germ, and substitutes for the love of + humanity which inspired Çakyamouni, that Mephistophelian gall which + defiles, withers, and corrodes everything it touches. + </p> + <p> + Evolutionism, fatalism, pessimism, nihilism—how strange it is to see + this desolate and terrible doctrine growing and expanding at the very + moment when the German nation is celebrating its greatness and its + triumphs! The contrast is so startling that it sets one thinking. + </p> + <p> + This orgie of philosophic thought, identifying error with existence + itself, and developing the axiom of Proudhon—“Evil is God,” will + bring back the mass of mankind to the Christian theodicy, which is neither + optimist nor pessimist, but simply declares that the felicity which + Christianity calls eternal life is accessible to man. + </p> + <p> + Self-mockery, starting from a horror of stupidity and hypocrisy, and + standing in the way of all wholeness of mind and all true seriousness—this + is the goal to which intellect brings us at last, unless conscience cries + out. + </p> + <p> + The mind must have for ballast the clear conception of duty, if it is not + to fluctuate between levity and despair. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Before giving advice we must have secured its acceptance, or rather, have + made it desired. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + If we begin by overrating the being we love, we shall end by treating it + with wholesale injustice. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + It is dangerous to abandon one’s self to the luxury of grief; it deprives + one of courage, and even of the wish for recovery. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + We learn to recognize a mere blunting of the conscience in that incapacity + for indignation which is not to be confounded with the gentleness of + charity, or the reserve of humility. + </p> + <p> + February 7, 1872.—Without faith a man can do nothing. + </p> + <p> + But faith can stifle all science. + </p> + <p> + What, then, is this Proteus, and whence? + </p> + <p> + Faith is a certitude without proofs. Being a certitude, it is an energetic + principle of action. Being without proof, it is the contrary of science. + Hence its two aspects and its two effects. Is its point of departure + intelligence? No. Thought may shake or strengthen faith; it cannot produce + it. Is its origin in the will? No; good will may favor it, ill-will may + hinder it, but no one believes by will, and faith is not a duty. Faith is + a sentiment, for it is a hope; it is an instinct, for it precedes all + outward instruction. Faith is the heritage of the individual at birth; it + is that which binds him to the whole of being. The individual only + detaches himself with difficulty from the maternal breast; he only + isolates himself by an effort from the nature around him, from the love + which enwraps him, the ideas in which he floats, the cradle in which he + lies. He is born in union with humanity, with the world, and with God. The + trace of this original union is faith. Faith is the reminiscence of that + vague Eden whence our individuality issued, but which it inhabited in the + somnambulist state anterior to the personal life. + </p> + <p> + Our individual life consists in separating ourselves from our <i>milieu</i>; + in so reacting upon it that we apprehend it consciously, and make + ourselves spiritual personalities—that is to say, intelligent and + free. Our primitive faith is nothing more than the neutral matter which + our experience of life and things works up a fresh, and which may be so + affected by our studies of every kind as to perish completely in its + original form. We ourselves may die before we have been able to recover + the harmony of a personal faith which may satisfy our mind and conscience + as well as our hearts. But the need of faith never leaves us. It is the + postulate of a higher truth which is to bring all things into harmony. It + is the stimulus of research; it holds out to us the reward, it points us + to the goal. Such at least is the true, the excellent faith. That which is + a mere prejudice of childhood, which has never known doubt, which ignores + science, which cannot respect or understand or tolerate different + convictions—such a faith is a stupidity and a hatred, the mother of + all fanaticisms. We may then repeat of faith what Aesop said of the tongue— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quid medius linguâ, linguâ quid pejus eadem?” + </pre> + <p> + To draw the poison-fangs of faith in ourselves, we must subordinate it to + the love of truth. The supreme worship of the true is the only means of + purification for all religions all confessions, all sects. Faith should + only be allowed the second place, for faith has a judge—in truth. + When she exalts herself to the position of supreme judge the world is + enslaved: Christianity, from the fourth to the seventeenth century, is the + proof of it... Will the enlightened faith ever conquer the vulgar faith? + We must look forward in trust to a better future. + </p> + <p> + The difficulty, however, is this. A narrow faith has much more energy than + an enlightened faith; the world belongs to will much more than to wisdom. + It is not then certain that liberty will triumph over fanaticism; and + besides, independent thought will never have the force of prejudice. The + solution is to be found in a division of labor. After those whose business + it will have been to hold up to the world the ideal of a pure and free + faith, will come the men of violence, who will bring the new creed within + the circle of recognized interests, prejudices, and institutions. Is not + this just what happened to Christianity? After the gentle Master, the + impetuous Paul and the bitter Councils. It is true that this is what + corrupted the gospel. But still Christianity has done more good than harm + to humanity, and so the world advances, by the successive decay of + gradually improved ideals. + </p> + <p> + June 19, 1872.—The wrangle in the Paris Synod still goes on. + [Footnote: A synod of the Reformed churches of France was then occupied in + determining the constituent conditions of Protestant belief.] The + supernatural is the stone of stumbling. + </p> + <p> + It might be possible to agree on the idea of the divine; but no, that is + not the question—the chaff must be separated from the good grain. + The supernatural is miracle, and miracle is an objective phenomenon + independent of all preceding casuality. Now, miracle thus understood + cannot be proved experimentally; and besides, the subjective phenomena, + far more important than all the rest, are left out of account in the + definition. Men will not see that miracle is a perception of the soul; a + vision of the divine behind nature; a psychical crisis, analogous to that + of Aeneas on the last day of Troy, which reveals to us the heavenly powers + prompting and directing human action. For the indifferent there are no + miracles. It is only the religious souls who are capable of recognizing + the finger of God in certain given facts. + </p> + <p> + The minds which have reached the doctrine of immanence are + incomprehensible to the fanatics of transcendence. They will never + understand—these last—that the <i>panentheism</i> of Krause is + ten times more religious than their dogmatic supernaturalism. Their + passion for the facts which are objective, isolated, and past, prevents + them from seeing the facts which are eternal and spiritual. They can only + adore what comes to them from without. As soon as their dramaturgy is + interpreted symbolically all seems to them lost. They must have their + local prodigies—their vanished unverifiable miracles, because for + them the divine is there and only there. + </p> + <p> + This faith can hardly fail to conquer among the races pledged to the + Cartesian dualism, who call the incomprehensible clear, and abhor what is + profound. Women also will always find local miracle more easy to + understand than universal miracle, and the visible objective intervention + of God more probable than his psychological and inward action. The Latin + world by its mental form is doomed to petrify its abstractions, and to + remain forever outside the inmost sanctuary of life, that central hearth + where ideas are still undivided, without shape or determination. The Latin + mind makes everything objective, because it remains outside things, and + outside itself. It is like the eye which only perceives what is exterior + to it, and which cannot see itself except artificially, and from a + distance, by means of the reflecting surface of a mirror. + </p> + <p> + August 30, 1872.—<i>A priori</i> speculations weary me now as much + as anybody. All the different scholasticisms make me doubtful of what they + profess to demonstrate, because, instead of examining, they affirm from + the beginning. Their object is to throw up entrenchments around a + prejudice, and not to discover the truth. They accumulate that which + darkens rather than that which enlightens. They are descended, all of + them, from the Catholic procedure, which excludes comparison, information, + and previous examination. Their object is to trick men into assent, to + furnish faith with arguments, and to suppress free inquiry. But to + persuade me, a man must have no <i>parti pris</i>, and must begin with + showing a temper of critical sincerity; he must explain to me how the + matter lies, point out to me the questions involved in it, their origin, + their difficulties, the different solutions attempted, and their degree of + probability. He must respect my reason, my conscience, and my liberty. All + scholasticism is an attempt to take by storm; the authority pretends to + explain itself, but only pretends, and its deference is merely illusory. + The dice are loaded and the premises are pre-judged. The unknown is taken + as known, and all the rest is deduced from it. + </p> + <p> + Philosophy means the complete liberty of the mind, and therefore + independence of all social, political, or religious prejudice. It is to + begin with neither Christian nor pagan, neither monarchical nor + democratic, neither socialist nor individualist; it is critical and + impartial; it loves one thing only—truth. If it disturbs the + ready-made opinions of the church or the state—of the historical + medium—in which the philosopher happens to have been born, so much + the worse, but there is no help for it. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Est ut est aut non est,” + </pre> + <p> + Philosophy means, first, doubt; and afterward the consciousness of what + knowledge means, the consciousness of uncertainty and of ignorance, the + consciousness of limit, shade, degree, possibility. The ordinary man + doubts nothing and suspects nothing. The philosopher is more cautious, but + he is thereby unfitted for action, because, although he sees the goal less + dimly than others, he sees his own weakness too clearly, and has no + illusions as to his chances of reaching it. + </p> + <p> + The philosopher is like a man fasting in the midst of universal + intoxication. He alone perceives the illusion of which all creatures are + the willing playthings; he is less duped than his neighbor by his own + nature. He judges more sanely, he sees things as they are. It is in this + that his liberty consists—in the ability to see clearly and soberly, + in the power of mental record. Philosophy has for its foundation critical + lucidity. The end and climax of it would be the intuition of the universal + law, of the first principle and the final aim of the universe. Not to be + deceived is its first desire; to understand, its second. Emancipation from + error is the condition of real knowledge. The philosopher is a skeptic + seeking a plausible hypothesis, which may explain to him the whole of his + experiences. When he imagines that he has found such a key to life he + offers it to, but does not force it on his fellow men. + </p> + <p> + October 9, 1872.—I have been taking tea at the M’s. These English + homes are very attractive. They are the recompense and the result of a + long-lived civilization, and of an ideal untiringly pursued. What ideal? + That of a moral order, founded on respect for self and for others, and on + reverence for duty—in a word, upon personal worth and dignity. The + master shows consideration to his guests, the children are deferential to + their parents, and every one and everything has its place. They understand + both how to command and how to obey. The little world is well governed, + and seems to go of itself; duty is the <i>genius loci</i>—but duty + tinged with a reserve and self-control which is the English + characteristic. The children are the great test of this domestic system; + they are happy, smiling, trustful, and yet no trouble. One feels that they + know themselves to be loved, but that they know also that they must obey. + <i>Our</i> children behave like masters of the house, and when any + definite order comes to limit their encroachments they see in it an abuse + of power, an arbitrary act. Why? Because it is their principle to believe + that everything turns round them. Our children may be gentle and + affectionate, but they are not grateful, and they know nothing of + self-control. + </p> + <p> + How do English mothers attain this result? By a rule which is impersonal, + invariable, and firm; in other words, by law, which forms man for liberty, + while arbitrary decree only leads to rebellion and attempts at + emancipation. This method has the immense advantage of forming characters + which are restive under arbitrary authority, and yet amenable to justice, + conscious of what is due to them and what they owe to others, watchful + over conscience, and practiced in self-government. In every English child + one feels something of the national motto—“God and my right,” and in + every English household one has a sense that the home is a citadel, or + better still, a ship in which every one has his place. Naturally in such a + world the value set on family life corresponds with the cost of producing + it; it is sweet to those whose efforts maintain it. + </p> + <p> + October 14, 1872.—The man who gives himself to contemplation looks + on at, rather than directs his life, is rather a spectator than an actor, + seeks rather to understand than to achieve. Is this mode of existence + illegitimate, immoral? Is one bound to act? Is such detachment an + idiosyncrasy to be respected or a sin to be fought against? I have always + hesitated on this point, and I have wasted years in futile self-reproach + and useless fits of activity. My western conscience, penetrated as it is + with Christian morality, has always persecuted my oriental quietism and + Buddhist tendencies. I have not dared to approve myself, I have not known + how to correct myself. In this, as in all else, I have remained divided, + and perplexed, wavering between two extremes. So equilibrium is somehow + preserved, but the crystallization of action or thought becomes + impossible. + </p> + <p> + Having early a glimpse of the absolute, I have never had the indiscreet + effrontery of individualism. What right have I to make a merit of a + defect? I have never been able to see any necessity for imposing myself + upon others, nor for succeeding. I have seen nothing clearly except my own + deficiencies and the superiority of others. That is not the way to make a + career. With varied aptitudes and a fair intelligence, I had no dominant + tendency, no imperious faculty, so that while by virtue of capacity I felt + myself free, yet when free I could not discover what was best. Equilibrium + produced indecision, and indecision has rendered all my faculties barren. + </p> + <p> + November 8, 1872. (<i>Friday</i>).—I have been turning over the + “Stoics” again. Poor Louisa Siefert! [Footnote: Louise Siefert, a modern + French poetess, died 1879. In addition to “Les Stoïques,” she published + “L’Année Républicaine,” Paris 1869, and other works.] Ah! we play the + stoic, and all the while the poisoned arrow in the side pierces and + wounds, <i>lethalis arundo</i>. What is it that, like all passionate + souls, she really craves for? Two things which are contradictory—glory + and happiness. She adores two incompatibles—the Reformation and the + Revolution, France and the contrary of France; her talent itself is a + combination of two opposing qualities, inwardness and brilliancy, noisy + display and lyrical charm. She dislocates the rhythm of her verse, while + at the same time she has a sensitive ear for rhyme. She is always wavering + between Valmore and Baudelaire, between Leconte de Lisle and Sainte-Beuve—that + is to say, her taste is a bringing together of extremes. She herself has + described it: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Toujours extrême en mes désirs, + Jadis, enfant joyeuse et folle, + Souvent une seule parole + Bouleversait tous mes plaisirs.” + </pre> + <p> + But what a fine instrument she possesses! what strength of soul! what + wealth of imagination! + </p> + <p> + December 3, 1872.—What a strange dream! I was under an illusion and + yet not under it; I was playing a comedy to myself, deceiving my + imagination without being able to deceive my consciousness. This power + which dreams have of fusing incompatibles together, of uniting what is + exclusive, of identifying yes and no, is what is most wonderful and most + symbolical in them. In a dream our individuality is not shut up within + itself; it envelops, so to speak, its surroundings; it is the landscape, + and all that it contains, ourselves included. But if our imagination is + not our own, if it is impersonal, then personality is but a special and + limited case of its general functions. <i>A fortiori</i> it would be the + same for thought. And if so, thought might exist without possessing itself + individually, without embodying itself in an <i>ego</i>. In other words, + dreams lead us to the idea of an imagination enfranchised from the limits + of personality, and even of a thought which should be no longer conscious. + The individual who dreams is on the way to become dissolved in the + universal phantasmagoria of Maïa. Dreams are excursions into the limbo of + things, a semi-deliverance from the human prison. The man who dreams is + but the <i>locale</i> of various phenomena of which he is the spectator in + spite of himself; he is passive and impersonal; he is the plaything of + unknown vibrations and invisible sprites. + </p> + <p> + The man who should never issue from the state of dream would have never + attained humanity, properly so called, but the man who had never dreamed + would only know the mind in its completed or manufactured state, and would + not be able to understand the genesis of personality; he would be like a + crystal, incapable of guessing what crystallization means. So that the + waking life issues from the dream life, as dreams are an emanation from + the nervous life, and this again is the fine flower of organic life. + Thought is the highest point of a series of ascending metamorphoses, which + is called nature. Personality by means of thought, recovers in inward + profundity what it has lost in extension, and makes up for the rich + accumulations of receptive passivity by the enormous privilege of that + empire over self which is called liberty. Dreams, by confusing and + suppressing all limits, make us feel, indeed, the severity of the + conditions attached to the higher existence; but conscious and voluntary + thought alone brings knowledge and allows us to act—that is to say, + is alone capable of science and of perfection. Let us then take pleasure + in dreaming for reasons of psychological curiosity and mental recreation; + but let us never speak ill of thought, which is our strength and our + dignity. Let us begin as Orientals, and end as Westerns, for these are the + two halves of wisdom. + </p> + <p> + December 11, 1872.—A deep and dreamless sleep and now I wake up to + the gray, lowering, rainy sky, which has kept us company for so long. The + air is mild, the general outlook depressing. I think that it is partly the + fault of my windows, which are not very clean, and contribute by their + dimness to this gloomy aspect of the outer world. Rain and smoke have + besmeared them. + </p> + <p> + Between us and things how many screens there are! Mood, health, the + tissues of the eye, the window-panes of our cell, mist, smoke, rain, dust, + and light itself—and all infinitely variable! Heraclitus said: “No + man bathes twice in the same river.” I feel inclined to say; No one sees + the same landscape twice over, for a window is one kaleidoscope, and the + spectator another. + </p> + <p> + What is madness? Illusion, raised to the second power. A sound mind + establishes regular relations, a <i>modus vivendi</i>, between things, + men, and itself, and it is under the delusion that it has got hold of + stable truth and eternal fact. Madness does not even see what sanity sees, + deceiving itself all the while by the belief that it sees better than + sanity. The sane mind or common sense confounds the fact of experience + with necessary fact, and assumes in good faith that what is, is the + measure of what may be; while madness cannot perceive any difference + between what is and what it imagines—it confounds its dreams with + reality. + </p> + <p> + Wisdom consists in rising superior both to madness and to common sense, + and in lending one’s self to the universal illusion without becoming its + dupe. It is best, on the whole, for a man of taste who knows how to be gay + with the gay, and serious with the serious, to enter into the game of + Maïa, and to play his part with a good grace in the fantastic tragi-comedy + which is called the Universe. It seems to me that here intellectualism + reaches its limit. [Footnote: “We all believe in duty,” says M. Renan, + “and in the triumph of righteousness;” but it is possible notwithstanding, + “que tout le contraire soit vrai—et que le monde ne soit qu’une + amusante féerie dont aucun dieu ne se soucie. Il faut donc nous arranger + de maniere à ceque, dans le cas où le seconde hypothèse serait la vraie, + nous n’ayons pas été trop dupés.” + </p> + <p> + This strain of remark, which is developed at considerable length, is meant + as a criticism of Amiel’s want of sensitiveness to the irony of things. + But in reality, as the passage in the text shows, M. Renan is only + expressing a feeling with which Amiel was just as familiar as his critic. + Only he is delivered from this last doubt of all by his habitual + seriousness; by that sense of “horror and awe” which M. Renan puts away + from him. Conscience saves him “from the sorceries of Maïa.”] The mind, in + its intellectual capacity, arrives at the intuition that all reality is + but the dream of a dream. What delivers us from the palace of dreams is + pain, personal pain; it is also the sense of obligation, or that which + combines the two, the pain of sin; and again it is love; in short, the + moral order. What saves us from the sorceries of Maïa is conscience; + conscience dissipates the narcotic vapors, the opium-like hallucinations, + the placid stupor of contemplative indifference. It drives us into contact + with the terrible wheels within wheels of human suffering and human + responsibility; it is the bugle-call, the cockcrow, which puts the + phantoms to flight; it is the armed archangel who chases man from an + artificial paradise. Intellectualism may be described as an intoxication + conscious of itself; the moral energy which replaces it, on the other + hand, represents a state of fast, a famine and a sleepless thirst. Alas! + Alas! + </p> + <p> + Those who have the most frivolous idea of sin are just those who suppose + that there is a fixed gulf between good people and others. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The ideal which the wife and mother makes for herself, the manner in which + she understands duty and life, contain the fate of the community. Her + faith becomes the star of the conjugal ship, and her love the animating + principle that fashions the future of all belonging to her. Woman is the + salvation or destruction of the family. She carries its destinies in the + folds of her mantle. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Perhaps it is not desirable that a woman should be free in mind; she would + immediately abuse her freedom. She cannot become philosophical without + losing her special gift, which is the worship of all that is individual, + the defense of usage, manners, beliefs, traditions. Her rôle is to slacken + the combustion of thought. It is analogous to that of azote in vital air. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + In every loving woman there is a priestess of the past—a pious + guardian of some affection, of which the object has disappeared. + </p> + <p> + January 6, 1873.—I have been reading the seven tragedies of + Aeschylus, in the translation of Leconte de Lisle. The “Prometheus” and + the “Eumenides” are greatest where all is great; they have the sublimity + of the old prophets. Both depict a religious revolution—a profound + crisis in the life of humanity. In “Prometheus” it is civilization + wrenched from the jealous hands of the gods; in the “Eumenides” it is the + transformation of the idea of justice, and the substitution of atonement + and pardon for the law of implacable revenge. “Prometheus” shows us the + martyrdom which waits for all the saviors of men; the “Eumenides” is the + glorification of Athens and the Areopagus—that is to say, of a truly + human civilization. How magnificent it is as poetry, and how small the + adventures of individual passion seem beside this colossal type of + tragedy, of which the theme is the destinies of nations! + </p> + <p> + March 31, 1873. (4 P. M.)— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En quel songe + Se plonge + Mon coeur, et que veut-il?” + </pre> + <p> + For an hour past I have been the prey of a vague anxiety; I recognize my + old enemy.... It is a sense of void and anguish; a sense of something + lacking: what? Love, peace—God perhaps. The feeling is one of pure + want unmixed with hope, and there is anguish in it because I can clearly + distinguish neither the evil nor its remedy. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “O printemps sans pitié, dans l’âme endolorie, + Avec tes chants d’oiseaux, tes brises, ton azur, + Tu creuses sourdement, conspirateur obscur, + Le gouffre des langueurs et de la rêverie.” + </pre> + <p> + Of all the hours of the day, in fine weather, the afternoon, about 3 + o’clock, is the time which to me is most difficult to bear. I never feel + more strongly than I do then, “<i>le vide effrayant de la vie</i>,” the + stress of mental anxiety, or the painful thirst for happiness. This + torture born of the sunlight is a strange phenomenon. Is it that the sun, + just as it brings out the stain upon a garment, the wrinkles in a face, or + the discoloration of the hair, so also it illumines with inexorable + distinctness the scars and rents of the heart? Does it rouse in us a sort + of shame of existence? In any case the bright hours of the day are capable + of flooding the whole soul with melancholy, of kindling in us the passion + for death, or suicide, or annihilation, or of driving us to that which is + next akin to death, the deadening of the senses by the pursuit of + pleasure. They rouse in the lonely man a horror of himself; they make him + long to escape from his own misery and solitude— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Le coeur trempé sept fois dans le néant divin.” + </pre> + <p> + People talk of the temptations to crime connected with darkness, but the + dumb sense of desolation which is often the product of the most brilliant + moment of daylight must not be forgotten either. From the one, as from the + other, God is absent; but in the first case a man follows his senses and + the cry of his passion; in the second, he feels himself lost and + bewildered, a creature forsaken by all the world. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “En nous sont deux instincts qui bravent la raison, + C’est l’effroi du bonheur et la soif du poison. + Coeur solitaire, à toi prends garde!” + </pre> + <p> + April 3, 1873.—I have been to see my friends ——. Their + niece has just arrived with two of her children, and the conversation + turned on Father Hyacinthe’s lecture. + </p> + <p> + Women of an enthusiastic temperament have a curious way of speaking of + extempore preachers and orators. They imagine that inspiration radiates + from a crowd as such, and that inspiration is all that is wanted. Could + there be a more <i>naïf</i> and childish explanation of what is really a + lecture in which nothing has been left to accident, neither the plan, nor + the metaphors, nor even the length of the whole, and where everything has + been prepared with the greatest care! But women, in their love of what is + marvelous and miraculous, prefer to ignore all this. The meditation, the + labor, the calculation of effects, the art, in a word, which have gone to + the making of it, diminishes for them the value of the thing, and they + prefer to believe it fallen from heaven, or sent down from on high. They + ask for bread, but cannot bear the idea of a baker. The sex is + superstitious, and hates to understand what it wishes to admire. It would + vex it to be forced to give the smaller share to feeling, and the larger + share to thought. It wishes to believe that imagination can do the work of + reason, and feeling the work of science, and it never asks itself how it + is that women, so rich in heart and imagination, have never distinguished + themselves as orators—that is to say, have never known how to + combine a multitude of facts, ideas, and impulses, into one complex unity. + Enthusiastic women never even suspect the difference that there is between + the excitement of a popular harangue, which is nothing but a mere + passionate outburst, and the unfolding of a didactic process, the aim of + which is to prove something and to convince its hearers. Therefore, for + them, study, reflection, technique, count as nothing; the improvisatore + mounts upon the tripod, Pallas all armed issues from his lips, and + conquers the applause of the dazzled assembly. + </p> + <p> + Evidently women divide orators into two groups; the artisans of speech, + who manufacture their laborious discourses by the aid of the midnight + lamp, and the inspired souls, who simply give themselves the trouble to be + born. They will never understand the saying of Quintilian, “<i>Fit orator, + nascitur poeta.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The enthusiasm which acts is perhaps an enlightening force, but the + enthusiasm which accepts is very like blindness. For this latter + enthusiasm confuses the value of things, ignores their shades of + difference, and is an obstacle to all sensible criticism and all calm + judgment. The “Ewig-Weibliche” favors exaggeration, mysticism, + sentimentalism—all that excites and startles. It is the enemy of + clearness, of a calm and rational view of things, the antipodes of + criticism and of science. I have had only too much sympathy and weakness + for the feminine nature. The very excess of my former indulgence toward it + makes me now more conscious of its infirmity. Justice and science, law and + reason, are virile things, and they come before imagination, feeling, + reverie, and fancy. When one reflects that Catholic superstition is + maintained by women, one feels how needful it is not to hand over the + reins to the “Eternal Womanly.” + </p> + <p> + May 23, 1873.—The fundamental error of France lies in her + psychology. France has always believed that to say a thing is the same as + to do it, as though speech were action, as though rhetoric were capable of + modifying the tendencies, habits, and character of real beings, and as + though verbiage were an efficient substitute for will, conscience, and + education. + </p> + <p> + France proceeds by bursts of eloquence, of cannonading, or of law-making; + she thinks that so she can change the nature of things; and she produces + only phrases and ruins. She has never understood the first line of + Montesquieu: “Laws are necessary relations, derived from the nature of + things.” She will not see that her incapacity to organize liberty comes + from her own nature; from the notions which she has of the individual, of + society, of religion, of law, of duty—from the manner in which she + brings up children. Her way is to plant trees downward, and then she is + astonished at the result! Universal suffrage, with a bad religion and a + bad popular education, means perpetual wavering between anarchy and + dictatorship, between the red and the black, between Danton and Loyola. + </p> + <p> + How many scapegoats will Prance sacrifice before it occurs to her to beat + her own breast in penitence? + </p> + <p> + August 18, 1873. (<i>Scheveningen</i>).—Yesterday, Sunday, the + landscape was clear and distinct, the air bracing, the sea bright and + gleaming, and of an ashy-blue color. There were beautiful effects of + beach, sea, and distance; and dazzling tracks of gold upon the waves, + after the sun had sunk below the bands of vapor drawn across the middle + sky, and before it had disappeared in the mists of the sea horizon. The + place was very full. All Scheveningen and the Hague, the village and the + capital, had streamed out on to the terrace, amusing themselves at + innumerable tables, and swamping the strangers and the bathers. The + orchestra played some Wagner, some Auber, and some waltzes. What was all + the world doing? Simply enjoying life. + </p> + <p> + A thousand thoughts wandered through my brain. I thought how much history + it had taken to make what I saw possible; Judaea, Egypt, Greece, Germany, + Gaul; all the centuries from Moses to Napoleon, and all the zones from + Batavia to Guiana, had united in the formation of this gathering. The + industry, the science, the art, the geography, the commerce, the religion + of the whole human race, are repeated in every human combination; and what + we see before our own eyes at any given moment is inexplicable without + reference to all that has ever been. This interlacing of the ten thousand + threads which necessity weaves into the production of one single + phenomenon is a stupefying thought. One feels one’s self in the presence + of law itself—allowed a glimpse of the mysterious workshop of + nature. The ephemeral perceives the eternal. + </p> + <p> + What matters the brevity of the individual span, seeing that the + generations, the centuries, and the worlds themselves are but occupied + forever with the ceaseless reproduction of the hymn of life, in all the + hundred thousand modes and variations which make up the universal + symphony? The motive is always the same; the monad has but one law: all + truths are but the variation of one single truth. The universe represents + the infinite wealth of the Spirit seeking in vain to exhaust all + possibilities, and the goodness of the Creator, who would fain share with + the created all that sleeps within the limbo of Omnipotence. + </p> + <p> + To contemplate and adore, to receive and give back, to have uttered one’s + note and moved one’s grain of sand, is all which is expected from such + insects as we are; it is enough to give motive and meaning to our fugitive + apparition in existence.... + </p> + <p> + After the concert was over the paved esplanade behind the hotels and the + two roads leading to the Hague were alive with people. One might have + fancied one’s self upon one of the great Parisian boulevards just when the + theaters are emptying themselves—there were so many carriages, + omnibuses, and cabs. Then, when the human tumult had disappeared, the + peace of the starry heaven shone out resplendent, and the dreamy glimmer + of the Milky Way was only answered by the distant murmur of the ocean. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—What is it which has always come between real life and + me? What glass screen has, as it were, interposed itself between me and + the enjoyment, the possession, the contact of things, leaving me only the + role of the looker-on? + </p> + <p> + False shame, no doubt. I have been ashamed to desire. Fatal result of + timidity, aggravated by intellectual delusion! This renunciation + beforehand of all natural ambitions, this systematic putting aside of all + longings and all desires, has perhaps been false in idea; it has been too + like a foolish, self-inflicted mutilation. Fear, too, has had a large + share in it— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “La peur de ce que j’aime est ma fatalité.” + </pre> + <p> + I very soon discovered that it was simpler for me to give up a wish than + to satisfy it. Not being able to obtain all that my nature longed for, I + renounced the whole <i>en bloc</i>, without even taking the trouble to + determine in detail what might have attracted me; for what was the good of + stirring up trouble in one’s self and evoking images of inaccessible + treasure? + </p> + <p> + Thus I anticipated in spirit all possible disillusions, in the true + stoical fashion. Only, with singular lack of logic, I have sometimes + allowed regret to overtake me, and I have looked at conduct founded upon + exceptional principles with the eyes of the ordinary man. I should have + been ascetic to the end; contemplation ought to have been enough for me, + especially now, when the hair begins to whiten. But, after all, I am a + man, and not a theorem. A system cannot suffer, but I suffer. Logic makes + only one demand—that of consequence; but life makes a thousand; the + body wants health, the imagination cries out for beauty, and the heart for + love; pride asks for consideration, the soul yearns for peace, the + conscience for holiness; our whole being is athirst for happiness and for + perfection; and we, tottering, mutilated, and incomplete, cannot always + feign philosophic insensibility; we stretch out our arms toward life, and + we say to it under our breath, “Why—why—hast thou deceived + me?” + </p> + <p> + August 19,1873. (<i>Scheveningen</i>).—I have had a morning walk. It + has been raining in the night. There are large clouds all round; the sea, + veined with green and drab, has put on the serious air of labor. She is + about her business, in no threatening but at the same time in no lingering + mood. She is making her clouds, heaping up her sands, visiting her shores + and bathing them with foam, gathering up her floods for the tide, carrying + the ships to their destinations, and feeding the universal life. I found + in a hidden nook a sheet of fine sand which the water had furrowed and + folded like the pink palate of a kitten’s mouth, or like a dappled sky. + Everything repeats itself by analogy, and each little fraction of the + earth reproduces in a smaller and individual form all the phenomena of the + planet. Farther on I came across a bank of crumbling shells, and it was + borne in upon me that the sea-sand itself might well be only the detritus + of the organic life of preceding eras, a vast monument or pyramid of + immemorial age, built up by countless generations of molluscs who have + labored at the architecture of the shores like good workmen of God. If the + dunes and the mountains are the dust of living creatures who have preceded + us, how can we doubt but that our death will be as serviceable as our + life, and that nothing which has been lent is lost? Mutual borrowing and + temporary service seem to be the law of existence. Only, the strong prey + upon and devour the weak, and the concrete inequality of lots within the + abstract equality of destinies wounds and disquiets the sense of justice. + </p> + <p> + <i>Same day</i>.—A new spirit governs and inspires the generation + which will succeed me. It is a singular sensation to feel the grass + growing under one’s feet, to see one’s self intellectually uprooted. One + must address one’s contemporaries. Younger men will not listen to you. + Thought, like love, will not tolerate a gray hair. Knowledge herself loves + the young, as Fortune used to do in olden days. Contemporary civilization + does not know what to do with old age; in proportion as it defies physical + experiment, it despises moral experience. One sees therein the triumph of + Darwinism; it is a state of war, and war must have young soldiers; it can + only put up with age in its leaders when they have the strength and the + mettle of veterans. + </p> + <p> + In point of fact, one must either be strong or disappear, either + constantly rejuvenate one’s self or perish. It is as though the humanity + of our day had, like the migratory birds, an immense voyage to make across + space; she can no longer support the weak or help on the laggards. The + great assault upon the future makes her hard and pitiless to all who fall + by the way. Her motto is, “The devil take the hindmost.” + </p> + <p> + The worship of strength has never lacked altars, but it looks as though + the more we talk of justice and humanity, the more that other god sees his + kingdom widen. + </p> + <p> + August 20, 1873. (<i>Scheveningen</i>).—I have now watched the sea + which beats upon this shore under many different aspects. On the whole, I + should class it with the Baltic. As far as color, effect, and landscape + go, it is widely different from the Breton or Basque ocean, and, above + all, from the Mediterranean. It never attains to the blue-green of the + Atlantic, nor the indigo of the Ionian Sea. Its scale of color runs from + flint to emerald, and when it turns to blue, the blue is a turquoise shade + splashed with gray. The sea here is not amusing itself; it has a busy and + serious air, like an Englishman or a Dutchman. Neither polyps nor + jelly-fish, neither sea-weed nor crabs enliven the sands at low water; the + sea life is poor and meagre. What is wonderful is the struggle of man + against a miserly and formidable power. Nature has done little for him, + but she allows herself to be managed. Stepmother though she be, she is + accommodating, subject to the occasional destruction of a hundred thousand + lives in a single inundation. + </p> + <p> + The air inside the dune is altogether different from that outside it. The + air of the sea is life-giving, bracing, oxydized; the air inland is soft, + relaxing, and warm. In the same way there are two Hollands in every + Dutchman: there is the man of the <i>polder</i>, heavy, pale, phlegmatic, + slow, patient himself, and trying to the patience of others, and there is + the man of the <i>dune</i>, of the harbor, the shore, the sea, who is + tenacious, seasoned, persevering, sunburned, daring. Where the two agree + is in calculating prudence, and in methodical persistency of effort. + </p> + <p> + August 22, 1873. (<i>Scheveningen</i>).—The weather is rainy, the + whole atmosphere gray; it is a time favorable to thought and meditation. I + have a liking for such days as these; they revive one’s converse with + one’s self and make it possible to live the inner life; they are quiet and + peaceful, like a song in a minor key. We are nothing but thought, but we + feel our life to its very center. Our very sensations turn to reverie. It + is a strange state of mind; it is like those silences in worship which are + not the empty moments of devotion, but the full moments, and which are so + because at such times the soul, instead of being polarized, dispersed, + localized, in a single impression or thought, feels her own totality and + is conscious of herself. She tastes her own substance. She is no longer + played upon, colored, set in motion, affected, from without; she is in + equilibrium and at rest. Openness and self-surrender become possible to + her; she contemplates and she adores. She sees the changeless and the + eternal enwrapping all the phenomena of time. She is in the religious + state, in harmony with the general order, or at least in intellectual + harmony. For <i>holiness</i>, indeed, more is wanted—a harmony of + will, a perfect self-devotion, death to self and absolute submission. + </p> + <p> + Psychological peace—that harmony which is perfect but virtual—is + but the zero, the potentiality of all numbers; it is not that moral peace + which is victorious over all ills, which is real, positive, tried by + experience, and able to face whatever fresh storms may assail it. + </p> + <p> + The peace of fact is not the peace of principle. There are indeed two + happinesses, that of nature and that of conquest—two equilibria, + that of Greece and that of Nazareth—two kingdoms, that of the + natural man and that of the regenerate man. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>. (<i>Scheveningen</i>).—Why do doctors so often make + mistakes? Because they are not sufficiently individual in their diagnoses + or their treatment. They class a sick man under some given department of + their nosology, whereas every invalid is really a special case, a unique + example. How is it possible that so coarse a method of sifting should + produce judicious therapeutics? Every illness is a factor simple or + complex, which is multiplied by a second factor, invariably complex—the + individual, that is to say, who is suffering from it, so that the result + is a special problem, demanding a special solution, the more so the + greater the remoteness of the patient from childhood or from country life. + </p> + <p> + The principal grievance which I have against the doctors is that they + neglect the real problem, which is to seize the unity of the individual + who claims their care. Their methods of investigation are far too + elementary; a doctor who does not read you to the bottom is ignorant of + essentials. To me the ideal doctor would be a man endowed with profound + knowledge of life and of the soul, intuitively divining any suffering or + disorder of whatever kind, and restoring peace by his mere presence. Such + a doctor is possible, but the greater number of them lack the higher and + inner life, they know nothing of the transcendent laboratories of nature; + they seem to me superficial, profane, strangers to divine things, + destitute of intuition and sympathy. The model doctor should be at once a + genius, a saint, a man of God. + </p> + <p> + September 11, 1873. (<i>Amsterdam</i>).—The doctor has just gone. He + says I have fever about me, and does not think that I can start for + another three days without imprudence. I dare not write to my Genevese + friends and tell them that I am coming back from the sea in a radically + worse state of strength and throat than when I went there, and that I have + only wasted my time, my trouble, my money, and my hopes.... + </p> + <p> + This contradictory double fact—on the one side an eager hopefulness + springing up afresh after all disappointments, and on the other an + experience almost invariably unfavorable—can be explained like all + illusions by the whim of nature, which either wills us to be deceived or + wills us to act as if we were so. + </p> + <p> + Skepticism is the wiser course, but in delivering us from error it tends + to paralyze life. Maturity of mind consists in taking part in the + prescribed game as seriously as though one believed in it. Good-humored + compliance, tempered by a smile, is, on the whole, the best line to take; + one lends one’s self to an optical illusion, and the voluntary concession + has an air of liberty. Once imprisoned in existence, we must submit to its + laws with a good grace; to rebel against it only ends in impotent rage, + when once we have denied ourselves the solution of suicide. + </p> + <p> + Humility and submission, or the religious point of view; clear-eyed + indulgence with a touch of irony, or the point of view of worldly wisdom—these + two attitudes are possible. The second is sufficient for the minor ills of + life, the other is perhaps necessary in the greater ones. The pessimism of + Schopenhauer supposes at least health and intellect as means of enduring + the rest of life. But optimism either of the stoical or the Christian sort + is needed to make it possible for us to bear the worst sufferings of + flesh, heart and soul. If we are to escape the grip of despair, we must + believe either that the whole of things at least is good, or that grief is + a fatherly grace, a purifying trial. + </p> + <p> + There can be no doubt that the idea of a happy immortality, serving as a + harbor of refuge from the tempests of this mortal existence, and rewarding + the fidelity, the patience, the submission, and the courage of the + travelers on life’s sea—there can be no doubt that this idea, the + strength of so many generations, and the faith of the church, carries with + it inexpressible consolation to those who are wearied, burdened, and + tormented by pain and suffering. To feel one’s self individually cared for + and protected by God gives a special dignity and beauty to life. + Monotheism lightens the struggle for existence. But does the study of + nature allow of the maintenance of those local revelations which are + called Mosaism, Christianity, Islamism? These religions founded upon an + infantine cosmogony, and upon a chimerical history of humanity, can they + bear confronting with modern astronomy and geology? The present mode of + escape, which consists in trying to satisfy the claims of both science and + faith—of the science which contradicts all the ancient beliefs, and + the faith which, in the case of things that are beyond nature and + incapable of verification, affirms them on her own responsibility only—this + mode of escape cannot last forever. Every fresh cosmical conception + demands a religion which corresponds to it. Our age of transition stands + bewildered between the two incompatible methods, the scientific method and + the religious method, and between the two certitudes, which contradict + each other. + </p> + <p> + Surely the reconciliation of the two must be sought for in the moral law, + which is also a fact, and every step of which requires for its explanation + another cosmos than the cosmos of necessity. Who knows if necessity is not + a particular case of liberty, and its condition? Who knows if nature is + not a laboratory for the fabrication of thinking beings who are ultimately + to become free creatures? Biology protests, and indeed the supposed + existence of souls, independently of time, space, and matter, is a fiction + of faith, less logical than the Platonic dogma. But the question remains + open. We may eliminate the idea of purpose from nature, yet, as the + guiding conception of the highest being of our planet, it is a fact, and a + fact which postulates a meaning in the history of the universe. + </p> + <p> + My thought is straying in vague paths: why? because I have no creed. All + my studies end in notes of interrogation, and that I may not draw + premature or arbitrary conclusions I draw none. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later on</i>.—My creed has melted away, but I believe in good, in + the moral order, and in salvation; religion for me is to live and die in + God, in complete abandonment to the holy will which is at the root of + nature and destiny. I believe even in the gospel, the good news—that + is to say, in the reconciliation of the sinner with God, by faith in the + love of a pardoning Father. + </p> + <p> + October 4, 1873. (<i>Geneva</i>).—I have been dreaming a long while + in the moonlight, which floods my room with a radiance, full of vague + mystery. The state of mind induced in us by this fantastic light is itself + so dim and ghost-like that analysis loses its way in it, and arrives at + nothing articulate. It is something indefinite and intangible, like the + noise of waves which is made up of a thousand fused and mingled sounds. It + is the reverberation of all the unsatisfied desires of the soul, of all + the stifled sorrows of the heart, mingling in a vague sonorous whole, and + dying away in cloudy murmurs. All those imperceptible regrets, which never + individually reach the consciousness, accumulate at last into a definite + result; they become the voice of a feeling of emptiness and aspiration; + their tone is melancholy itself. In youth the tone of these Aeolian + vibrations of the heart is all hope—a proof that these thousands of + indistinguishable accents make up indeed the fundamental note of our + being, and reveal the tone of our whole situation. Tell me what you feel + in your solitary room when the full moon is shining in upon you and your + lamp is dying out, and I will tell you how old you are, and I shall know + if you are happy. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The best path through life is the high road, which initiates us at the + right moment into all experience. Exceptional itineraries are suspicious, + and matter for anxiety. What is normal is at once most convenient, most + honest, and most wholesome. Cross roads may tempt us for one reason or + another, but it is very seldom that we do not come to regret having taken + them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Each man begins the world afresh, and not one fault of the first man has + been avoided by his remotest descendant. The collective experience of the + race accumulates, but individual experience dies with the individual, and + the result is that institutions become wiser and knowledge as such + increases; but the young man, although more cultivated, is just as + presumptuous, and not less fallible to-day than he ever was. So that + absolutely there is progress, and relatively there is none. Circumstances + improve, but merit remains the same. The whole is better, perhaps, but man + is not positively better—he is only different. His defects and his + virtues change their form, but the total balance does not show him to be + the richer. A thousand things advance, nine hundred and ninety-eight fall + back, this is progress. There is nothing in it to be proud of, but + something, after all, to console one. + </p> + <p> + February 4, 1874.—I am still reading the “Origines du Christianisme” + by Ernest Havet. [Footnote: Ernest Havet, born 1813, a distinguished + French scholar and professor. He became professor of Latin oratory at the + Collège de France in 1855, and a member of the Institute in January, 1880. + His admirable edition of the “Pensées de Pascal” is well-known. “Le + Christianisme et ses Origines,” an important book, in four volumes, was + developed from a series of articles in the <i>Revue des deux Mondes</i>, + and the <i>Revue Contemporaine</i>.] I like the book and I dislike it. I + like it for its independence and courage; I dislike it for the + insufficiency of its fundamental ideas, and the imperfection of its + categories. + </p> + <p> + The author, for instance, has no clear idea of religion; and his + philosophy of history is superficial. He is a Jacobin. “The Republic and + Free Thought”—he cannot get beyond that. This curt and narrow school + of opinion is the refuge of men of independent mind, who have been + scandalized by the colossal fraud of ultramontanism; but it leads rather + to cursing history than to understanding it. It is the criticism of the + eighteenth century, of which the general result is purely negative. But + Voltairianism is only the half of the philosophic mind. Hegel frees + thought in a very different way. + </p> + <p> + Havet, too, makes another mistake. He regards Christianity as synonymous + with Roman Catholicism and with the church. I know very well that the + Roman Church does the same, and that with her the assimilation is a matter + of sound tactics; but scientifically it is inexact. We ought not even to + identify Christianity with the gospel, nor the gospel with religion in + general. It is the business of critical precision to clear away these + perpetual confusions in which Christian practice and Christian preaching + abound. To disentangle ideas, to distinguish and limit them, to fit them + into their true place and order, is the first duty of science whenever it + lays hands upon such chaotic and complex things as manners, idioms, or + beliefs. Entanglement is the condition of life; order and clearness are + the signs of serious and successful thought. + </p> + <p> + Formerly it was the ideas of nature which were a tissue of errors and + incoherent fancies; now it is the turn of moral and psychological ideas. + The best issue from the present Babel would be the formation or the + sketching out of a truly scientific science of man. + </p> + <p> + February 16, 1874.—The multitude, who already possess force, and + even, according to the Republican view, right, have always been persuaded + by the Cleons of the day that enlightenment, wisdom, thought, and reason, + are also theirs. The game of these conjurors and quacks of universal + suffrage has always been to flatter the crowd in order to make an + instrument of it. They pretend to adore the puppet of which they pull the + threads. + </p> + <p> + The theory of radicalism is a piece of juggling, for it supposes premises + of which it knows the falsity; it manufactures the oracle whose + revelations it pretends to adore; it proclaims that the multitude creates + a brain for itself, while all the time it is the clever man who is the + brain of the multitude, and suggests to it what it is supposed to invent. + To reign by flattery has been the common practice of the courtiers of all + despotisms, the favorites of all tyrants; it is an old and trite method, + but none the less odious for that. + </p> + <p> + The honest politician should worship nothing but reason and justice, and + it is his business to preach them to the masses, who represent, on an + average, the age of childhood and not that of maturity. We corrupt + childhood if we tell it that it cannot be mistaken, and that it knows more + than its elders. We corrupt the masses when we tell them that they are + wise and far-seeing and possess the gift of infallibility. + </p> + <p> + It is one of Montesquieu’s subtle remarks, that the more wise men you heap + together the less wisdom you will obtain. Radicalism pretends that the + greater number of illiterate, passionate, thoughtless—above all, + young people, you heap together, the greater will be the enlightenment + resulting. The second thesis is no doubt the repartee to the first, but + the joke is a bad one. All that can be got from a crowd is instinct or + passion; the instinct may be good, but the passion may be bad, and neither + is the instinct capable of producing a clear idea, nor the passion of + leading to a just resolution. + </p> + <p> + A crowd is a material force, and the support of numbers gives a + proposition the force of law; but that wise and ripened temper of mind + which takes everything into account, and therefore tends to truth, is + never engendered by the impetuosity of the masses. The masses are the + material of democracy, but its form—that is to say, the laws which + express the general reason, justice, and utility—can only be rightly + shaped by wisdom, which is by no means a universal property. The + fundamental error of the radical theory is to confound the right to do + good with good itself, and universal suffrage with universal wisdom. It + rests upon a legal fiction, which assumes a real equality of enlightenment + and merit among those whom it declares electors. It is quite possible, + however, that these electors may not desire the public good, and that even + if they do, they may be deceived as to the manner of realizing it. + Universal suffrage is not a dogma—it is an instrument; and according + to the population in whose hands it is placed, the instrument is + serviceable or deadly to the proprietor. + </p> + <p> + February 27, 1874.—Among the peoples, in whom the social gifts are + the strongest, the individual fears ridicule above all things, and + ridicule is the certain result of originality. No one, therefore, wishes + to make a party of his own; every one wishes to be on the side of all the + world. “All the world” is the greatest of powers; it is sovereign, and + calls itself <i>we</i>. <i>We</i> dress, <i>we</i> dine, <i>we</i> walk, + <i>we</i> go out, <i>we</i> come in, like this, and not like that. This <i>we</i> + is always right, whatever it does. The subjects of <i>We</i> are more + prostrate than the slaves of the East before the Padishah. The good + pleasure of the sovereign decides every appeal; his caprice is law. What + <i>we</i> does or says is called custom, what it thinks is called opinion, + what it believes to be beautiful or good is called fashion. Among such + nations as these <i>we</i> is the brain, the conscience, the reason, the + taste, and the judgment of all. The individual finds everything decided + for him without his troubling about it. He is dispensed from the task of + finding out anything whatever. Provided that he imitates, copies, and + repeats the models furnished by <i>we</i>, he has nothing more to fear. He + knows all that he need know, and has entered into salvation. + </p> + <p> + April 29, 1874.—Strange reminiscence! At the end of the terrace of + La Treille, on the eastern side, as I looked down the slope, it seemed to + me that I saw once more in imagination a little path which existed there + when I was a child, and ran through the bushy underwood, which was thicker + then than it is now. It is at least forty years since this impression + disappeared from my mind. The revival of an image so dead and so forgotten + set me thinking. Consciousness seems to be like a book, in which the + leaves turned by life successively cover and hide each other in spite of + their semi-transparency; but although the book may be open at the page of + the present, the wind, for a few seconds, may blow back the first pages + into view. + </p> + <p> + And at death will these leaves cease to hide each other, and shall we see + all our past at once? Is death the passage from the successive to the + simultaneous—that is to say, from time to eternity? Shall we then + understand, in its unity, the poem or mysterious episode of our existence, + which till then we have spelled out phrase by phrase? And is this the + secret of that glory which so often enwraps the brow and countenance of + those who are newly dead? If so, death would be like the arrival of a + traveler at the top of a great mountain, whence he sees spread out before + him the whole configuration of the country, of which till then he had had + but passing glimpses. To be able to overlook one’s own history, to divine + its meaning in the general concert and in the divine plan, would be the + beginning of eternal felicity. Till then we had sacrificed ourselves to + the universal order, but then we should understand and appreciate the + beauty of that order. We had toiled and labored under the conductor of the + orchestra; and we should find ourselves become surprised and delighted + hearers. We had seen nothing but our own little path in the mist; and + suddenly a marvelous panorama and boundless distances would open before + our dazzled eyes. Why not? + </p> + <p> + May 31, 1874.—I have been reading the philosophical poems of Madame + Ackermann. She has rendered in fine verse that sense of desolation which + has been so often stirred in me by the philosophy of Schopenhauer, of + Hartmann, Comte, and Darwin. What tragic force and power! What thought and + passion! She has courage for everything, and attacks the most tremendous + subjects. + </p> + <p> + Science is implacable; will it suppress all religions? All those which + start from a false conception of nature, certainly. But if the scientific + conception of nature proves incapable of bringing harmony and peace to + man, what will happen? Despair is not a durable situation. We shall have + to build a moral city without God, without an immortality of the soul, + without hope. Buddhism and stoicism present themselves as possible + alternatives. + </p> + <p> + But even if we suppose that there is no finality in the cosmos, it is + certain that man has ends at which he aims, and if so the notion of end or + purpose is a real phenomenon, although a limited one. Physical science may + very well be limited by moral science, and <i>vice versâ</i>. But if these + two conceptions of the world are in opposition, which must give way? + </p> + <p> + I still incline to believe that nature is the virtuality of mind—that + the soul is the fruit of life, and liberty the flower of necessity—that + all is bound together, and that nothing can be done without. Our modern + philosophy has returned to the point of view of the Ionians, the [Greek: + <i>physikoi</i>], or naturalist thinkers. But it will have to pass once + more through Plato and through Aristotle, through the philosophy of + “goodness” and “purpose,” through the science of mind. + </p> + <p> + July 3, 1874.—Rebellion against common sense is a piece of + childishness of which I am quite capable. But it does not last long. I am + soon brought back to the advantages and obligations of my situation; I + return to a calmer self-consciousness. It is disagreeable to me, no doubt, + to realize all that is hopelessly lost to me, all that is now and will be + forever denied to me; but I reckon up my privileges as well as my losses—I + lay stress on what I have, and not only on what I want. And so I escape + from that terrible dilemma of “all or nothing,” which for me always ends + in the adoption of the second alternative. It seems to me at such times + that a man may without shame content himself with being <i>some</i> thing + and <i>some</i> one— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ni si haut, ni si bas....” + </pre> + <p> + These brusque lapses into the formless, indeterminate state, are the price + of my critical faculty. All my former habits become suddenly fluid; it + seems to me that I am beginning life over again, and that all my acquired + capital has disappeared at a stroke. I am forever new-born; I am a mind + which has never taken to itself a body, a country, an avocation, a sex, a + species. Am I even quite sure of being a man, a European, an inhabitant of + this earth? It seems to me so easy to be something else, that to be what I + am appears to me a mere piece of arbitrary choice. I cannot possibly take + an accidental structure of which the value is purely relative, seriously. + When once a man has touched the absolute, all that might be other than + what it is seems to him indifferent. All these ants pursuing their private + ends excite his mirth. He looks down from the moon upon his hovel; he + beholds the earth from the heights of the sun; he considers his life from + the point of view of the Hindoo pondering the days of Brahma; he sees the + finite from the distance of the infinite, and thenceforward the + insignificance of all those things which men hold to be important makes + effort ridiculous, passion burlesque, and prejudice absurd. + </p> + <p> + August 7, 1874. (<i>Clarens</i>).—A day perfectly beautiful, + luminous, limpid, brilliant. + </p> + <p> + I passed the morning in the churchyard; the “Oasis” was delightful. + Innumerable sensations, sweet and serious, peaceful and solemn, passed + over me.... Around me Russians, English, Swedes, Germans, were sleeping + their last sleep under the shadow of the Cubly. The landscape was one vast + splendor; the woods were deep and mysterious, the roses full blown; all + around me were butterflies—a noise of wings—the murmur of + birds. I caught glimpses through the trees of distant mists, of soaring + mountains, of the tender blue of the lake.... A little conjunction of + things struck me. Two ladies were tending and watering a grave; two nurses + were suckling their children. This double protest against death had + something touching and poetical in it. “Sleep, you who are dead; we, the + living, are thinking of you, or at least carrying on the pilgrimage of the + race!” such seemed to me the words in my ear. It was clear to me that the + Oasis of Clarens is the spot in which I should like to rest. Here I am + surrounded with memories; here death is like a sleep—a sleep + instinct with hope. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Hope is not forbidden us, but peace and submission are the essentials. + </p> + <p> + September 1, 1874. (<i>Clarens</i>).—On waking it seemed to me that + I was staring into the future with wide startled eyes. Is it indeed to <i>me</i> + that these things apply. [Footnote: Amiel had just received at the hands + of his doctor the medical verdict, which was his <i>arrêt de mort</i>.] + Incessant and growing humiliation, my slavery becoming heavier, my circle + of action steadily narrower!... What is hateful in my situation is that + deliverance can never be hoped for, and that one misery will succeed + another in such a way as to leave me no breathing space, not even in the + future, not even in hope. All possibilities are closed to me, one by one. + It is difficult for the natural man to escape from a dumb rage against + inevitable agony. + </p> + <p> + <i>Noon</i>.—An indifferent nature? A Satanic principle of things? A + good and just God? Three points of view. The second is improbable and + horrible. The first appeals to our stoicism. My organic combination has + never been anything but mediocre; it has lasted as long as it could. Every + man has his turn, and all must submit. To die quickly is a privilege; I + shall die by inches. Well, submit. Rebellion would be useless and + senseless. After all, I belong to the better-endowed half of human-kind, + and my lot is superior to the average. + </p> + <p> + But the third point of view alone can give joy. Only is it tenable? Is + there a particular Providence directing all the circumstances of our life, + and therefore imposing all our trials upon us for educational ends? Is + this heroic faith compatible with our actual knowledge of the laws of + nature? Scarcely; But what this faith makes objective we may hold as + subjective truth. The moral being may moralize his sufferings by using + natural facts for his own inner education. What he cannot change he calls + the will of God, and to will what God wills brings him peace. + </p> + <p> + To nature both our continued existence and our morality are equally + indifferent. But God, on the other hand, if God is, desires our + sanctification; and if suffering purifies us, then we may console + ourselves or suffering. This is what makes the great advantage of the + Christian faith; it is the triumph over pain, the victory over death. + There is but one thing necessary—death unto sin, the immolation of + our selfish will, the filial sacrifice of our desires. Evil consists in + living for <i>self</i>—that is to say, for one’s own vanity, pride, + sensuality, or even health. Righteousness consists in willingly accepting + one’s lot, in submitting to, and espousing the destiny assigned us, in + willing what God commands, in renouncing what he forbids us, in consenting + to what he takes from us or refuses us. + </p> + <p> + In my own particular case, what has been taken from me is health—that + is to say, the surest basis of all independence; but friendship and + material comfort are still left to me; I am neither called upon to bear + the slavery of poverty nor the hell of absolute isolation. + </p> + <p> + Health cut off, means marriage, travel, study, and work forbidden or + endangered. It means life reduced in attractiveness and utility by + five-sixths. + </p> + <p> + Thy will be done! + </p> + <p> + September 14, 1874. (<i>Charnex</i>).—A long walk and conversation + with——. We followed a high mountain path. Seated on the turf, + and talking with open heart, our eyes wandered over the blue immensity + below us, and the smiling outlines of the shore. All was friendly, + azure-tinted, caressing, to the sight. The soul I was reading was profound + and pure. Such an experience is like a flight into paradise. A few light + clouds climbed the broad spaces of the sky, steamers made long tracks upon + the water at our feet, white sails were dotted over the vast distance of + the lake, and sea-gulls like gigantic butterflies quivered above its + rippling surface. + </p> + <p> + September 21, 1874. (<i>Charnex</i>).—A wonderful day! Never has the + lake been bluer, or the landscape softer. It was enchanting. But tragedy + is hidden under the eclogue; the serpent crawls under the flowers. All the + future is dark. The phantoms which for three or four weeks I have been + able to keep at bay, wait for me behind the door, as the Eumenides waited + for Orestes. Hemmed in on all sides! + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “On ne croit plus à son étoile, + On sent que derrière la toile + Sont le deuil, les maux et la mort.” + </pre> + <p> + For a fortnight I have been happy, and now this happiness is going. + </p> + <p> + There are no more birds, but a few white or blue butterflies are still + left. Flowers are becoming rare—a few daisies in the fields, some + blue or yellow chicories and colchicums, some wild geraniums growing among + fragments of old walls, and the brown berries of the privet—this is + all we were able to find. In the fields they are digging potatoes, beating + down the nuts, and beginning the apple harvest. The leaves are thinning + and changing color; I watch them turning red on the pear-trees, gray on + the plums, yellow on the walnut-trees, and tinging the thickly-strewn turf + with shades of reddish-brown. We are nearing the end of the fine weather; + the coloring is the coloring of late autumn; there is no need now to keep + out of the sun. Everything is soberer, more measured, more fugitive, less + emphatic. Energy is gone, youth is past, prodigality at an end, the summer + over. The year is on the wane and tends toward winter; it is once more in + harmony with my own age and position, and next Sunday it will keep my + birthday. All these different consonances form a melancholy harmony. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The distinguishing mark of religion is not so much liberty as obedience, + and its value is measured by the sacrifices which it can extract from the + individual. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A young girl’s love is a kind of piety. We must approach it with adoration + if we are not to profane it, and with poetry if we are to understand it. + If there is anything in the world which gives us a sweet, ineffable + impression, of the ideal, it is this trembling modest love. To deceive it + would be a crime. Merely to watch its unfolding life is bliss to the + beholder; he sees in it the birth of a divine marvel. When the garland of + youth fades on our brow, let us try at least to have the virtues of + maturity; may we grow better, gentler, graver, like the fruit of the vine, + while its leaf withers and falls. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To know how to grow old is the master work of wisdom, and one of the most + difficult chapters in the great art of living. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + He who asks of life nothing but the improvement of his own nature, and a + continuous moral progress toward inward contentment and religious + submission, is less liable than any one else to miss and waste life. + </p> + <p> + January 2, 1875. (<i>Hyères</i>.)—In spite of my sleeping draught I + have had a bad night. Once it seemed as if I must choke, for I could + breathe neither way. + </p> + <p> + Could I be more fragile, more sensitive, more vulnerable! People talk to + me as if there were still a career before me, while all the time I know + that the ground is slipping from under me, and that the defense of my + health is already a hopeless task. At bottom, I am only living on out of + complaisance and without a shadow of self-delusion. I know that not one of + my desires will be realized, and for a long time I have had no desires at + all. I simply accept what comes to me as though it were a bird perching on + my window. I smile at it, but I know very well that my visitor has wings + and will not stay long. The resignation which comes from despair has a + kind of melancholy sweetness. It looks at life as a man sees it from his + death-bed, and judges it without bitterness and without vain regrets. + </p> + <p> + I no longer hope to get well, or to be useful, or to be happy. I hope that + those who have loved me will love me to the end; I should wish to have + done them some good, and to leave them a tender memory of myself. I wish + to die without rebellion and without weakness; that is about all. Is this + relic of hope and of desire still too much? Let all be as God will. I + resign myself into his hands. + </p> + <p> + January 22, 1875. (<i>Hyères</i>).—The French mind, according to + Gioberti, apprehends only the outward form of truth, and exaggerates it by + isolating it, so that it acts as a solvent upon the realities with which + it works. It takes the shadow for the substance, the word for the thing, + appearance for reality, and abstract formula for truth. It lives in a + world of intellectual <i>assignats</i>. If you talk to a Frenchman of art, + of language, of religion, of the state, of duty, of the family, you feel + in his way of speaking that his thought remains outside the subject, that + he never penetrates into its substance, its inmost core. He is not + striving to understand it in its essence, but only to say something + plausible about it. On his lips the noblest words become thin and empty; + for example—mind, idea, religion. The French mind is superficial and + yet not comprehensive; it has an extraordinarily fine edge, and yet no + penetrating power. Its desire is to enjoy its own resources by the help of + things, but it has none of the respect, the disinterestedness, the + patience, and the self-forgetfulness, which, are indispensable if we wish + to see things as they are. Far from being the philosophic mind, it is a + mere counterfeit of it, for it does not enable a man to solve any problem + whatever, and remains incapable of understanding all that is living, + complex, and concrete. Abstraction is its original sin, presumption its + incurable defect, and plausibility its fatal limit. + </p> + <p> + The French language has no power of expressing truths of birth and + germination; it paints effects, results, the <i>caput mortuum</i>, but not + the cause, the motive power, the native force the development of any + phenomenon whatever. It is analytic and descriptive, but it explains + nothing, for it avoids all beginnings and processes of formation. With it + crystallization is not the mysterious act itself by which a substance + passes from the fluid state to the solid state. It is the product of that + act. + </p> + <p> + The thirst for truth is not a French passion. In everything appearance is + preferred to reality, the outside to the inside, the fashion to the + material, that which shines to that which profits, opinion to conscience. + That is to say, the Frenchman’s center of gravity is always outside him—he + is always thinking of others, playing to the gallery. To him individuals + are so many zeros; the unit which turns them into a number must be added + from outside; it may be royalty, the writer of the day, the favorite + newspaper, or any other temporary master of fashion. All this is probably + the result of an exaggerated sociability, which weakens the soul’s forces + of resistance, destroys its capacity for investigation and personal + conviction, and kills in it the worship of the ideal. + </p> + <p> + January 27, 1875. (<i>Hyères</i>).—The whole atmosphere has a + luminous serenity, a limpid clearness. The islands are like swans swimming + in a golden stream. Peace, splendor, boundless space!... And I meanwhile + look quietly on while the soft hours glide away. I long to catch the wild + bird, happiness, and tame it. Above all, I long to share it with others. + These delicious mornings impress me indescribably. They intoxicate me, + they carry me away. I feel beguiled out of myself, dissolved in sunbeams, + breezes, perfumes, and sudden impulses of joy. And yet all the time I pine + for I know not what intangible Eden. + </p> + <p> + Lamartine in the “Préludes” has admirably described this oppressive effect + of happiness on fragile human nature. I suspect that the reason for it is + that the finite creature feels itself invaded by the infinite, and the + invasion produces dizziness, a kind of vertigo, a longing to fling one’s + self into the great gulf of being. To feel life too intensely is to yearn + for death; and for man, to die means to become like unto the gods—to + be initiated into the great mystery. Pathetic and beautiful illusion. + </p> + <p> + <i>Ten o’clock in the evening</i>.—From one end to the other the day + has been perfect, and my walk this afternoon to Beau Vallon was one long + delight. It was like an expedition into Arcadia. Here was a wild and + woodland corner, which would have made a fit setting for a dance of + nymphs, and there an ilex overshadowing a rock, which reminded me of an + ode of Horace or a drawing of Tibur. I felt a kind of certainty that the + landscape had much that was Greek in it. And what made the sense of + resemblance the more striking was the sea, which one feels to be always + near, though one may not see it, and which any turn of the valley may + bring into view. We found out a little tower with an overgrown garden, of + which the owner might have been taken for a husbandman of the Odyssey. He + could scarcely speak any French, but was not without a certain grave + dignity. I translated to him the inscription on his sun-dial, “<i>Hora est + benefaciendi</i>,” which is beautiful, and pleased him greatly. It would + be an inspiring place to write a novel in. Only I do not know whether the + little den would have a decent room, and one would certainly have to live + upon eggs, milk, and figs, like Philemon. February 15, 1875. (<i>Hyères</i>).—I + have just been reading the two last “Discours” at the French Academy, + lingering over every word and weighing every idea. This kind of writing is + a sort of intellectual dainty, for it is the art “of expressing truth with + all the courtesy and finesse possible;” the art of appearing perfectly at + ease without the smallest loss of manners; of being gracefully sincere, + and of making criticism itself a pleasure to the person criticized. Legacy + as it is from the monarchical tradition, this particular kind of eloquence + is the distinguishing mark of those men of the world who are also men of + breeding, and those men of letters who are also gentlemen. Democracy could + never have invented it, and in this delicate <i>genre</i> of literature + France may give points to all rival peoples, for it is the fruit of that + refined and yet vigorous social sense which is produced by court and + drawing-room life, by literature and good company, by means of a mutual + education continued for centuries. This complicated product is as original + in its way as Athenian eloquence, but it is less healthy and less durable. + If ever France becomes Americanized this <i>genre</i> at least will + perish, without hope of revival. + </p> + <p> + April 16, 1875. (<i>Hyères</i>).—I have already gone through the + various emotions of leave-taking. I have been wandering slowly through the + streets and up the castle hill, gathering a harvest of images and + recollections. Already I am full of regret that I have not made a better + study of the country, in which I have now spent four months and more. It + is like what happens when a friend dies; we accuse ourselves of having + loved him too little, or loved him ill; or it is like our own death, when + we look back upon life and feel that it has been misspent. + </p> + <p> + August 16,1875.—Life is but a daily oscillation between revolt and + submission, between the instinct of the <i>ego</i>, which is to expand, to + take delight in its own tranquil sense of inviolability, if not to triumph + in its own sovereignty, and the instinct of the soul, which is to obey the + universal order, to accept the will of God. + </p> + <p> + The cold renunciation of disillusioned reason brings no real peace. Peace + is only to be found in reconciliation with destiny, when destiny seems, in + the religious sense of the word, <i>good</i>; that is to say, when man + feels himself directly in the presence of God. Then, and then only, does + the will acquiesce. Nay more, it only completely acquiesces when it + adores. The soul only submits to the hardness of fate by virtue of its + discovery of a sublime compensation—the loving kindness of the + Almighty. That is to say, it cannot resign itself to lack or famine, it + shrinks from the void around it, and the happiness either of hope or faith + is essential to it. It may very well vary its objects, but some object it + must have. It may renounce its former idols, but it will demand another + cult. The soul hungers and thirsts after happiness, and it is in vain that + everything deserts it—it will never submit to its abandonment. + </p> + <p> + August 28, 1875. (<i>Geneva</i>).—A word used by Sainte-Beuve à + propos of Benjamin Constant has struck me: it is the word <i>consideration</i>. + To possess or not to possess <i>consideration</i> was to Madame de Staël a + matter of supreme importance—the loss of it an irreparable evil, the + acquirement of it a pressing necessity. What, then, is this good thing? + The esteem of the public. And how is it gained? By honorable character and + life, combined with a certain aggregate of services rendered and of + successes obtained. It is not exactly a good conscience, but it is + something like it, for it is the witness from without, if not the witness + from within. <i>Consideration</i> is not reputation, still less celebrity, + fame, or glory; it has nothing to do with <i>savoir faire</i>, and is not + always the attendant of talent or genius. It is the reward given to + constancy in duty, to probity of conduct. It is the homage rendered to a + life held to be irreproachable. It is a little more than esteem, and a + little less than admiration. To enjoy public consideration is at once a + happiness and a power. The loss of it is a misfortune and a source of + daily suffering. Here am I, at the age of fifty-three, without ever having + given this idea the smallest place in my life. It is curious, but the + desire for consideration has been to me so little of a motive that I have + not even been conscious of such an idea at all. The fact shows, I suppose, + that for me the audience, the gallery, the public, has never had more than + a negative importance. I have neither asked nor expected anything from it, + not even justice; and to be a dependent upon it, to solicit its suffrages + and its good graces, has always seemed to me an act of homage and + flunkeyism against which my pride has instinctively rebelled. I have never + even tried to gain the good will of a <i>côterìe</i> or a newspaper, nor + so much as the vote of an elector. And yet it would have been a joy to me + to be smiled upon, loved, encouraged, welcomed, and to obtain what I was + so ready to give, kindness and good will. But to hunt down consideration + and reputation—to force the esteem of others—seemed to me an + effort unworthy of myself, almost a degradation. I have never even thought + of it. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps I have lost consideration by my indifference to it. Probably I + have disappointed public expectation by thus allowing an over-sensitive + and irritable consciousness to lead me into isolation and retreat. I know + that the world, which is only eager to silence you when you do speak, is + angry with your silence as soon as its own action has killed in you the + wish to speak. No doubt, to be silent with a perfectly clear conscience a + man must not hold a public office. I now indeed say to myself that a + professor is morally bound to justify his position by publication; that + students, authorities, and public are placed thereby in a healthier + relation toward him; that it is necessary for his good repute in the + world, and for the proper maintenance of his position. But this point of + view has not been a familiar one to me. I have endeavored to give + conscientious lectures, and I have discharged all the subsidiary duties of + my post to the best of my ability; but I have never been able to bend + myself to a struggle with hostile opinion, for all the while my heart has + been full of sadness and disappointment, and I have known and felt that I + have been systematically and deliberately isolated. Premature despair and + the deepest discouragement have been my constant portion. Incapable of + taking any interest in my talents for my own sake, I let everything slip + as soon as the hope of being loved for them and by them had forsaken me. A + hermit against my will, I have not even found peace in solitude, because + my inmost conscience has not been any better satisfied than my heart. + </p> + <p> + Does not all this make up a melancholy lot, a barren failure of a life? + What use have I made of my gifts, of my special circumstances, of my + half-century of existence? What have I paid back to my country? Are all + the documents I have produced, taken together, my correspondence, these + thousands of journal pages, my lectures, my articles, my poems, my notes + of different kinds, anything better than withered leaves? To whom and to + what have I been useful? Will my name survive me a single day, and will it + ever mean anything to anybody? A life of no account! A great many comings + and goings, a great many scrawls—for nothing. When all is added up—nothing! + And worst of all, it has not been a life used up in the service of some + adored object, or sacrificed to any future hope. Its sufferings will have + been vain, its renunciations useless, its sacrifices gratuitous, its + dreariness without reward.... No, I am wrong; it will have had its secret + treasure, its sweetness, its reward. It will have inspired a few + affections of great price; it will have given joy to a few souls; its + hidden existence will have had some value. Besides, if in itself it has + been nothing, it has understood much. If it has not been in harmony with + the great order, still it has loved it. If it has missed happiness and + duty, it has at least felt its own nothingness, and implored its pardon. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later on.</i>—There is a great affinity in me with the Hindoo + genius—that mind, vast, imaginative, loving, dreamy, and + speculative, but destitute of ambition, personality, and will. Pantheistic + disinterestedness, the effacement of the self in the great whole, womanish + gentleness, a horror of slaughter, antipathy to action—these are all + present in my nature, in the nature at least which has been developed by + years and circumstances. Still the West has also had its part in me. What + I have found difficult is to keep up a prejudice in favor of any form, + nationality, or individuality whatever. Hence my indifference to my own + person, my own usefulness, interest, or opinions of the moment. What does + it all matter? <i>Omnis determinatio est negatio</i>. Grief localizes us, + love particularizes us, but thought delivers us from personality.... To be + a man is a poor thing, to be a man is well; to be <i>the</i> man—man + in essence and in principle—that alone is to be desired. + </p> + <p> + Yes, but in these Brahmanic aspirations what becomes of the subordination + of the individual to duty? Pleasure may lie in ceasing to be individual, + but duty lies in performing the microscopic task allotted to us. The + problem set before us is to bring our daily task into the temple of + contemplation and ply it there, to act as in the presence of God, to + interfuse one’s little part with religion. So only can we inform the + detail of life, all that is passing, temporary, and insignificant, with + beauty and nobility. So may we dignify and consecrate the meanest of + occupations. So may we feel that we are paying our tribute to the + universal work and the eternal will. So are we reconciled with life and + delivered from the fear of death. So are we in order and at peace. + </p> + <p> + September 1, 1875.—I have been working for some hours at my article + on Mme. de Staël, but with what labor, what painful effort! When I write + for publication every word is misery, and my pen stumbles at every line, + so anxious am I to find the ideally best expression, and so great is the + number of possibilities which open before me at every step. + </p> + <p> + Composition demands a concentration, decision, and pliancy which I no + longer possess. I cannot fuse together materials and ideas. If we are to + give anything a form, we must, so to speak, be the tyrants of it. + [Footnote: Compare this paragraph from the “Pensées of a new writer, M. + Joseph Roux, a country curé, living in a remote part of the <i>Bas + Limousin</i>, whose thoughts have been edited and published this year by + M. Paul Mariéton (Paris: Alphonse Lemerre): + </p> + <p> + “Le verbe ne souffre et ne connait que la volonté qui le dompte, et + n’emporte loin sans péril que l’intelligence qui lui ménage avec empire + l’éperon et le frein.”] + </p> + <p> + We must treat our subject brutally, and not be always trembling lest we + are doing it a wrong. We must be able to transmute and absorb it into our + own substance. This sort of confident effrontery is beyond me: my whole + nature tends to that impersonality which respects and subordinates itself + to the object; it is love of truth which holds me back from concluding and + deciding. And then I am always retracing my steps: instead of going + forward I work in a circle: I am afraid of having forgotten a point, of + having exaggerated an expression, of having used a word out of place, + while all the time I ought to have been thinking of essentials and aiming + at breadth of treatment. I do not know how to sacrifice anything, how to + give up anything whatever. Hurtful timidity, unprofitable + conscientiousness, fatal slavery to detail! + </p> + <p> + In reality I have never given much thought to the art of writing, to the + best way of making an article, an essay, a book, nor have I ever + methodically undergone the writer’s apprenticeship; it would have been + useful to me, and I was always ashamed of what was useful. I have felt, as + it were, a scruple against trying to surprise the secret of the masters of + literature, against picking <i>chef-d’oeuvres</i> to pieces. When I think + that I have always postponed the serious study of the art of writing, from + a sort of awe of it, and a secret love of its beauty, I am furious with my + own stupidity, and with my own respect. Practice and routine would have + given me that ease, lightness, and assurance, without which the natural + gift and impulse dies away. But on the contrary, I have developed two + opposed habits of mind, the habit of scientific analysis which exhausts + the material offered to it, and the habit of immediate notation of passing + impressions. The art of composition lies between the two; you want for it + both the living unity of the thing and the sustained operation of thought. + </p> + <p> + October 25, 1875.—I have been listening to M. Taine’s first lecture + (on the “Ancien Régime”) delivered in the university hall. It was an + extremely substantial piece of work—clear, instructive, compact, and + full of matter. As a writer he shows great skill in the French method of + simplifying his subject by massing it in large striking divisions; his + great defect is a constant straining after points; his principal merit is + the sense he has of historical reality, his desire to see things as they + are. For the rest, he has extreme openness of mind, freedom of thought, + and precision of language. The hall was crowded. + </p> + <p> + October 26, 1875.—All origins are secret; the principle of every + individual or collective life is a mystery—that is to say, something + irrational, inexplicable, not to be defined. We may even go farther and + say, Every individuality is an insoluble enigma, and no beginning explains + it. In fact, all that has <i>become</i> may be explained retrospectively, + but the beginning of anything whatever did not <i>become</i>. It + represents always the “<i>fiat lux</i>,” the initial miracle, the act of + creation; for it is the consequence of nothing else, it simply appears + among anterior things which make a <i>milieu</i>, an occasion, a + surrounding for it, but which are witnesses of its appearance without + understanding whence it comes. + </p> + <p> + Perhaps also there are no true individuals, and, if so, no beginning but + one only, the primordial impulse, the first movement. All men on this + hypothesis would be but <i>man</i> in two sexes; man again might be + reduced to the animal, the animal to the plant, and the only individuality + left would be a living nature, reduced to a living matter, to the + hylozoism of Thales. However, even upon this hypothesis, if there were but + one absolute beginning, relative beginnings would still remain to us as + multiple symbols of the absolute. Every life, called individual for + convenience sake and by analogy, would represent in miniature the history + of the world, and would be to the eye of the philosopher a microscopic + compendium of it. + </p> + <p> + The history of the formation of ideas is what, frees the mind. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + A philosophic truth does not become popular until some eloquent soul has + humanized it or some gifted personality has translated and embodied it. + Pure truth cannot be assimilated by the crowd; it must be communicated by + contagion. + </p> + <p> + January 30, 1876.—After dinner I went two steps off, to Marc + Monnier’s, to hear the “Luthier de Crémone,” a one-act comedy in verse, + read by the author, François Coppée. + </p> + <p> + It was a feast of fine sensations, of literary dainties. For the little + piece is a pearl. It is steeped in poetry, and every line is a fresh + pleasure to one’s taste. + </p> + <p> + This young <i>maestro</i> is like the violin he writes about, vibrating + and passionate; he has, besides delicacy, point, grace, all that a writer + wants to make what is simple, naïve, heartfelt, and out of the beaten + track, acceptable to a cultivated society. + </p> + <p> + How to return to nature through art: there is the problem of all highly + composite literatures like our own. Rousseau himself attacked letters with + all the resources of the art of writing, and boasted the delights of + savage life with a skill and adroitness developed only by the most + advanced civilization. And it is indeed this marriage of contraries which + charms us; this spiced gentleness, this learned innocence, this calculated + simplicity, this yes and no, this foolish wisdom. It is the supreme irony + of such combinations which tickles the taste of advanced and artificial + epochs, epochs when men ask for two sensations at once, like the contrary + meanings fused by the smile of La Gioconda. And our satisfaction, too, in + work of this kind is best expressed by that ambiguous curve of the lip + which says: I feel your charm, but I am not your dupe; I see the illusion + both from within and from without; I yield to you, but I understand you; I + am complaisant, but I am proud; I am open to sensations, yet not the slave + of any; you have talent, I have subtlety of perception; we are quits, and + we understand each other. + </p> + <p> + February 1, 1876.—This evening we talked of the infinitely great and + the infinitely small. The great things of the universe are for——so + much easier to understand than the small, because all greatness is a + multiple of herself, whereas she is incapable of analyzing what requires a + different sort of measurement. + </p> + <p> + It is possible for the thinking being to place himself in all points of + view, and to teach his soul to live under the most different modes of + being. But it must be confessed that very few profit by the possibility. + Men are in general imprisoned, held in a vice by their circumstances + almost as the animals are, but they have very little suspicion of it + because they have so little faculty of self-judgment. It is only the + critic and the philosopher who can penetrate into all states of being, and + realize their life from within. + </p> + <p> + When the imagination shrinks in fear from the phantoms which it creates, + it may be excused because it is imagination. But when the intellect allows + itself to be tyrannized over or terrified by the categories to which + itself gives birth, it is in the wrong, for it is not allowed to intellect—the + critical power of man—to be the dupe of anything. + </p> + <p> + Now, in the superstition of size the mind is merely the dupe of itself, + for it creates the notion of space. The created is not more than the + creator, the son not more than the father. The point of view wants + rectifying. The mind has to free itself from space, which gives it a false + notion of itself, but it can only attain this freedom by reversing things + and by learning to see space in the mind instead of the mind in space. How + can it do this? Simply by reducing space to its virtuality. Space is + dispersion; mind is concentration. + </p> + <p> + And that is why God is present everywhere, without taking up a thousand + millions of cube leagues, nor a hundred times more nor a hundred times + less. + </p> + <p> + In the state of thought the universe occupies but a single point; but in + the state of dispersion and analysis this thought requires the heaven of + heavens for its expansion. + </p> + <p> + In the same way, time and number are contained in the mind. Man, as mind, + is not their inferior, but their superior. + </p> + <p> + It is true that before he can reach this state of freedom his own body + must appear to him at will either speck or world—that is to say, he + must be independent of it. So long as the self still feels itself spatial, + dispersed, corporeal, it is but a soul, it is not a mind; it is conscious + of itself only as the animal is, the impressionable, affectionate, active + and restless animal. + </p> + <p> + The mind being the subject of phenomena cannot be itself phenomenal; the + mirror of an image, if it was an image, could not be a mirror. There can + be no echo without a noise. Consciousness means some one who experiences + something. And all the somethings together cannot take the place of the + some one. The phenomenon exists only for a point which is not itself, and + for which it is an object. The perceptible supposes the perceiver. + </p> + <p> + May 15, 1876.—This morning I corrected the proofs of the + “Etrangères.” [Footnote: <i>Les Etrangères: Poésies traduites de diverses + littératures</i>, par H. F. Amiel, 1876.] Here at least is one thing off + my hands. The piece of prose theorizing which ends the volume pleased and + satisfied me a good deal more than my new meters. The book, as a whole, + may be regarded as an attempt to solve the problem of French + verse-translation considered as a special art. It is science applied to + poetry. It ought not, I think, to do any discredit to a philosopher, for, + after all, it is nothing but applied psychology. + </p> + <p> + Do I feel any relief, any joy, pride, hope? Hardly. It seems to me that I + feel nothing at all, or at least my feeling is so vague and doubtful that + I cannot analyze it. On the whole, I am rather tempted to say to myself, + how much labor for how small a result—<i>Much ado about nothing!</i> + And yet the work in itself is good, is successful. But what does + verse-translation matter? Already my interest in it is fading; my mind and + my energies clamor for something else. + </p> + <p> + What will Edmond Scherer say to the volume? + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To the inmost self of me this literary attempt is quite indifferent—a + Lilliputian affair. In comparing my work with other work of the same kind, + I find a sort of relative satisfaction; but I see the intrinsic futility + of it, and the insignificance of its success or failure. I do not believe + in the public; I do not believe in my own work; I have no ambition, + properly speaking, and I blow soap-bubbles for want of something to do. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Car le néant peut seul bien cacher l’infini.” + </pre> + <p> + Self-satire, disillusion, absence of prejudice, may be freedom, but they + are not strength. + </p> + <p> + July 12, 1876.—Trouble on trouble. My cough has been worse than + ever. I cannot see that the fine weather or the holidays have made any + change for the better in my state of health. On the contrary, the process + of demolition seems more rapid. It is a painful experience, this premature + decay!... “<i>Après tant de malheurs, que vous reste-t-il? Moi.</i>” This + <i>“moi”</i> is the central consciousness, the trunk of all the branches + which have been cut away, that which bears every successive mutilation. + Soon I shall have nothing else left than bare intellect. Death reduces us + to the mathematical “point;” the destruction which precedes it forces us + back, as it were, by a series of ever-narrowing concentric circles to this + last inaccessible refuge. Already I have a foretaste of that zero in which + all forms and all modes are extinguished. I see how we return into the + night, and inversely I understand how we issue from it. Life is but a + meteor, of which the whole brief course is before me. Birth, life, death + assume a fresh meaning to us at each phase of our existence. To see one’s + self as a firework in the darkness—to become a witness of one’s own + fugitive phenomenon—this is practical psychology. I prefer indeed + the spectacle of the world, which is a vaster and more splendid firework; + but when illness narrows my horizon and makes me dwell perforce upon my + own miseries, these miseries are still capable of supplying food for my + psychological curiosity. What interests me in myself, in spite of my + repulsions is, that I find in my own case a genuine example of human + nature, and therefore a specimen of general value. The sample enables me + to understand a multitude of similar situations, and numbers of my + fellow-men. + </p> + <p> + To enter consciously into all possible modes of being would be sufficient + occupation for hundreds of centuries—at least for our finite + intelligences, which are conditioned by time. The progressive happiness of + the process, indeed may be easily poisoned and embittered by the ambition + which asks for everything at once, and clamors to reach the absolute at a + bound. But it may be answered that aspirations are necessarily prophetic, + for they could only have come into being under the action of the same + cause which will enable them to reach their goal. The soul can only + imagine the absolute because the absolute exists; our consciousness of a + possible perfection is the guarantee that perfection will be realized. + </p> + <p> + Thought itself is eternal. It is the consciousness of thought which is + gradually achieved through the long succession of ages, races, and + humanities. Such is the doctrine of Hegel. The history of the mind is, + according to him one of approximation to the absolute, and the absolute + differs at the two ends of the story. It <i>was</i> at the beginning; it + <i>knows itself</i> at the end. Or rather it advances in the possession of + itself with the gradual unfolding of creation. Such also was the + conception of Aristotle. + </p> + <p> + If the history of the mind and of consciousness is the very marrow and + essence of being, then to be driven back on psychology, even personal + psychology, is to be still occupied with the main question of things, to + keep to the subject, to feel one’s self in the center of the universal + drama. There is comfort in the idea. Everything else may be taken away + from us, but if thought remains we are still connected by a magic thread + with the axis of the world. But we may lose thought and speech. Then + nothing remains but simple feeling, the sense of the presence of God and + of death in God—the last relic of the human privilege, which is to + participate in the whole, to commune with the absolute. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Ta vie est un éclair qui meurt dans son nuage, + Mais l’éclair t’a sauvé s’il t’a fait voir le ciel.” + </pre> + <p> + July 26, 1876.—A private journal is a friend to idleness. It frees + us from the necessity of looking all round a subject, it puts up with + every kind of repetition, it accompanies all the caprices and meanderings + of the inner life, and proposes to itself no definite end. This journal of + mine represents the material of a good many volumes: what prodigious waste + of time, of thought, of strength! It will be useful to nobody, and even + for myself—it has rather helped me to shirk life than to practice + it. A journal takes the place of a confidant, that is, of friend or wife; + it becomes a substitute for production, a substitute for country and + public. It is a grief-cheating device, a mode of escape and withdrawal; + but, factotum as it is, though it takes the place of everything, properly + speaking it represents nothing at all.... + </p> + <p> + What is it which makes the history of a soul? It is the stratification of + its different stages of progress, the story of its acquisitions and of the + general course of its destiny. Before my history can teach anybody + anything, or even interest myself, it must be disentangled from its + materials, distilled and simplified. These thousands of pages are but the + pile of leaves and bark from which the essence has still to be extracted. + A whole forest of cinchonas are worth but one cask of quinine. A whole + Smyrna rose-garden goes to produce one vial of perfume. + </p> + <p> + This mass of written talk, the work of twenty-nine years, may in the end + be worth nothing at all; for each is only interested in his own romance, + his own individual life. Even I perhaps shall never have time to read them + over myself. So—so what? I shall have lived my life, and life + consists in repeating the human type, and the burden of the human song, as + myriads of my kindred have done, are doing, and will do, century after + century. To rise to consciousness of this burden and this type is + something, and we can scarcely achieve anything further. The realization + of the type is more complete, and the burden a more joyous one, if + circumstances are kind and propitious, but whether the puppets have done + this or that— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Trois p’tits tours et puis s’en vont!” + </pre> + <p> + everything falls into the same gulf at last, and comes to very much the + same thing. + </p> + <p> + To rebel against fate—to try to escape the inevitable issue—is + almost puerile. When the duration of a centenarian and that of an insect + are quantities sensibly equivalent—and geology and astronomy enable + us to regard such durations from this point of view—what is the + meaning of all our tiny efforts and cries, the value of our anger, our + ambition, our hope? For the dream of a dream it is absurd to raise these + make-believe tempests. The forty millions of infusoria which make up a + cube-inch of chalk—do they matter much to us? and do the forty + millions of men who make up France matter any more to an inhabitant of the + moon or Jupiter? + </p> + <p> + To be a conscious monad—a nothing which knows itself to be the + microscopic phantom of the universe: this is all we can ever attain to. + </p> + <p> + September 12, 1876.—What is your own particular absurdity? Why, + simply that you exhaust yourself in trying to understand wisdom without + practicing it, that you are always making preparations for nothing, that + you live without living. Contemplation which has not the courage to be + purely contemplative, renunciation which does not renounce completely, + chronic contradiction—there is your case. Inconsistent skepticism, + irresolution, not convinced but incorrigible, weakness which will not + accept itself and cannot transform itself into strength—there is + your misery. + </p> + <p> + The comic side of it lies in capacity to direct others, becoming + incapacity to direct one’s self, in the dream of the infinitely great + stopped short by the infinitely little, in what seems to be the utter + uselessness of talent. To arrive at immobility by excess of motion, at + zero from abundance of numbers, is a strange farce, a sad comedy; the + poorest gossip can laugh at its absurdity. + </p> + <p> + September 19, 1876.—My reading to-day has been Doudan’s “Lettres et + Mélanges.” [Footnote: Ximénès Doudan, born in 1800, died 1872, the + brilliant friend and tutor of the De Broglie family, whose conversation + was so much sought after in life, and whose letters have been so eagerly + read in France since his death. Compare M. Scherer’s two articles on + Doudan’s “Lettres” and “Pensées” in his last published volume of essays.] + A fascinating book! Wit, grace, subtlety, imagination, thought—these + letters possess them all. How much I regret that I never knew the man + himself. He was a Frenchman of the best type, <i>un délicat né sublime</i>, + to quote Sainte-Beuve’s expression. Fastidiousness of temper, and a too + keen love of perfection, led him to withhold his talent from the public, + but while still living, and within his own circle, he was the recognized + equal of the best. He scarcely lacked anything except that fraction of + ambition, of brutality and material force which are necessary to success + in this world; but he was appreciated by the best society of Paris, and he + cared for nothing else. He reminds me of Joubert. + </p> + <p> + September 20th.—To be witty is to satisfy another’s wits by the + bestowal on him of two pleasures, that of understanding one thing and that + of guessing another, and so achieving a double stroke. + </p> + <p> + Thus Doudan scarcely ever speaks out his thought directly; he disguises + and suggests it by imagery, allusion, hyperbole; he overlays it with light + irony and feigned anger, with gentle mischief and assumed humility. The + more the thing to be guessed differs from the thing said, the more + pleasant surprise there is for the interlocutor or the correspondent + concerned. These charming and delicate ways of expression allow a man to + teach what he will without pedantry, and to venture what he will without + offense. There is something Attic and aerial in them; they mingle grave + and gay, fiction and truth, with a light grace of touch such as neither La + Fontaine nor Alcibiades would have been ashamed of. Socratic <i>badinage</i> + like this presupposes a free and equal mind, victorious over physical ill + and inward discontents. Such delicate playfulness is the exclusive + heritage of those rare natures in whom subtlety is the disguise of + superiority, and taste its revelation. “What balance of faculties and + cultivation it requires! What personal distinction it shows! Perhaps only + a valetudinarian would have been capable of this <i>morbidezza</i> of + touch, this marriage of virile thought and feminine caprice. If there is + excess anywhere, it lies perhaps in a certain effeminacy of sentiment. + Doudan can put up with nothing but what is perfect—nothing but what + is absolutely harmonious; all that is rough, harsh, powerful, brutal, and + unexpected, throws him into convulsions. Audacity—boldness of all + kinds—repels him. This Athenian of the Roman time is a true disciple + of Epicurus in all matters of sight, hearing, and intelligence—a + crumpled rose-leaf disturbs him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Une ombre, un souffle, un rien, tout lui donnait la fièvre.” + </pre> + <p> + What all this softness wants is strength, creative and muscular force. His + range is not as wide as I thought it at first. The classical world and the + Renaissance—that is to say, the horizon of La Fontaine—is his + horizon. He is out of his element in the German or Slav literatures. He + knows nothing of Asia. Humanity for him is not much larger than France, + and he has never made a bible of Nature. In music and painting he is more + or less exclusive. In philosophy he stops at Kant. To sum up: he is a man + of exquisite and ingenious taste, but he is not a first-rate critic, still + less a poet, philosopher, or artist. He was an admirable talker, a + delightful letter writer, who might have become an author had he chosen to + concentrate himself. I must wait for the second volume in order to review + and correct this preliminary impression. + </p> + <p> + Midday.—I have now gone once more through the whole volume, + lingering over the Attic charm of it, and meditating on the originality + and distinction of the man’s organization. Doudan was a keen penetrating + psychologist, a diviner of aptitudes, a trainer of minds, a man of + infinite taste and talent, capable of every <i>nuance</i> and of every + delicacy; but his defect was a want of persevering energy of thought, a + lack of patience in execution. Timidity, unworldliness, indolence, + indifference, confined him to the role of the literary counsellor and made + him judge of the field in which he ought rather to have fought. But do I + mean to blame him?—no indeed! In the first place, it would be to + fire on my allies; in the second, very likely he chose the better part. + </p> + <p> + Was it not Goethe who remarked that in the neighborhood of all famous men + we find men who never achieve fame, and yet were esteemed by those who + did, as their equals or superiors? Descartes, I think, said the same + thing. Fame will not run after the men who are afraid of her. She makes + mock of those trembling and respectful lovers who deserve but cannot force + her favors. The public is won by the bold, imperious talents—by the + enterprising and the skillful. It does not believe in modesty, which it + regards as a device of impotence. The golden book contains but a section + of the true geniuses; it names those only who have taken glory by storm. + </p> + <p> + November 15, 1876.—I have been reading “L’Avenir Religieux des + Peuples Civilisés,” by Emile de Laveleye. The theory of this writer is + that the gospel, in its pure form, is capable of providing the religion of + the future, and that the abolition of all religious principle, which is + what the socialism of the present moment demands, is as much to be feared + as Catholic superstition. The Protestant method, according to him, is the + means of transition whereby sacerdotal Christianity passes into the pure + religion of the gospel. Laveleye does not think that civilization can last + without the belief in God and in another life. Perhaps he forgets that + Japan and China prove the contrary. But it is enough to determine him + against atheism if it can be shown that a general atheism would bring + about a lowering of the moral average. After all, however, this is nothing + but a religion of utilitarianism. A belief is not true because it is + useful. And it is truth alone—scientific, established, proved, and + rational truth—which is capable of satisfying nowadays the awakened + minds of all classes. We may still say perhaps, “faith governs the world”—but + the faith of the present is no longer in revelation or in the priest—it + is in reason and in science. Is there a science of goodness and happiness?—that + is the question. Do justice and goodness depend upon any particular + religion? How are men to be made free, honest, just, and good?—there + is the point. + </p> + <p> + On my way through the book I perceived many new applications of my law of + irony. Every epoch has two contradictory aspirations which are logically + antagonistic and practically associated. Thus the philosophic materialism + of the last century was the champion of liberty. And at the present moment + we find Darwinians in love with equality, while Darwinism itself is based + on the right of the stronger. Absurdity is interwoven with life: real + beings are animated contradictions, absurdities brought into action. + Harmony with self would mean peace, repose, and perhaps immobility By far + the greater number of human beings can only conceive action, or practice + it, under the form of war—a war of competition at home, a bloody war + of nations abroad, and finally war with self. So that life is a perpetual + combat; it wills that which it wills not, and wills not that it wills. + Hence what I call the law of irony—that is to say, the refutation of + the self by itself, the concrete realization of the absurd. + </p> + <p> + Is such a result inevitable? I think not. Struggle is the caricature of + harmony, and harmony, which is the association of contraries, is also a + principle of movement. War is a brutal and fierce means of pacification; + it means the suppression of resistance by the destruction or enslavement + of the conquered. Mutual respect would be a better way out of + difficulties. Conflict is the result of the selfishness which will + acknowledge no other limit than that of external force. The laws of + animality govern almost the whole of history. The history of man is + essentially zoological; it becomes human late in the day, and then only in + the beautiful souls, the souls alive to justice, goodness, enthusiasm, and + devotion. The angel shows itself rarely and with difficulty through the + highly-organized brute. The divine aureole plays only with a dim and + fugitive light around the brows of the world’s governing race. + </p> + <p> + The Christian nations offer many illustrations of the law of irony. They + profess the citizenship of heaven, the exclusive worship of eternal good; + and never has the hungry pursuit of perishable joys, the love of this + world, or the thirst for conquest, been stronger or more active than among + these nations. Their official motto is exactly the reverse of their real + aspiration. Under a false flag they play the smuggler with a droll ease of + conscience. Is the fraud a conscious one? No—it is but an + application of the law of irony. The deception is so common a one that the + delinquent becomes unconscious of it. Every nation gives itself the lie in + the course of its daily life, and not one feels the ridicule of its + position. A man must be a Japanese to perceive the burlesque + contradictions of the Christian civilization. He must be a native of the + moon to understand the stupidity of man and his state of constant + delusion. The philosopher himself falls under the law of irony, for after + having mentally stripped himself of all prejudice—having, that is to + say, wholly laid aside his own personality, he finds himself slipping back + perforce into the rags he had taken off, obliged to eat and drink, to be + hungry, cold, thirsty, and to behave like all other mortals, after having + for a moment behaved like no other. This is the point where the comic + poets are lying in wait for him; the animal needs revenge themselves for + his flight into the Empyrean, and mock him by their cry: <i>Thou art dust, + thou art nothing, than art man</i>! + </p> + <p> + November 26, 1876.—I have just finished a novel of Cherbuliez, “Le + fiancé de Mademoiselle de St. Maur.” It is a jeweled mosaic of precious + stones, sparkling with a thousand lights. But the heart gets little from + it. The Mephistophelian type of novel leaves one sad. This subtle, refined + world is strangely near to corruption; these artificial women have an air + of the Lower Empire. There is not a character who is not witty, and + neither is there one who has not bartered conscience for cleverness. The + elegance of the whole is but a mask of immorality. These stories of + feeling in which there is no feeling make a strange and painful impression + upon me. + </p> + <p> + December 4, 1876.—I have been thinking a great deal of Victor + Cherbuliez. Perhaps his novels make up the most disputable part of his + work—they are so much wanting in simplicity, feeling, reality. And + yet what knowledge, style, wit, and subtlety—how much thought + everywhere, and what mastery of language! He astonishes one; I cannot but + admire him. + </p> + <p> + Cherbuliez’s mind is of immense range, clear-sighted, keen, full of + resource; he is an Alexandrian exquisite, substituting for the feeling + which makes men earnest the irony which leaves them free. Pascal would say + of him—“He has never risen from the order of thought to the order of + charity.” But we must not be ungrateful. A Lucian is not worth an + Augustine, but still he is Lucian. Those who enfranchise the mind render + service to man as well as those who persuade the heart. After the leaders + come the liberators, and the negative and critical minds have their place + and function beside the men of affirmation, the convinced and inspired + souls. The positive element in Victor Cherbuliez’s work is beauty, not + goodness, not moral or religious life. Aesthetically he is serious; what + he respects is style. And therefore he has found his vocation; for he is + first and foremost a writer—a consummate, exquisite, and model + writer. He does not win our love, but he claims our homage. + </p> + <p> + In every union there is a mystery—a certain invisible bond which + must not be disturbed. This vital bond in the filial relation is respect; + in friendship, esteem; in marriage, confidence; in the collective life, + patriotism; in the religious life, faith. Such points are best left + untouched by speech, for to touch them is almost to profane them. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Men of genius supply the substance of history, while the mass of men are + but the critical filter, the limiting, slackening, passive force needed + for the modification of the ideas supplied by genius. Stupidity is + dynamically the necessary balance of intellect. To make an atmosphere + which human life can breathe, oxygen must be combined with a great deal—with + three-fourths—of azote. And so, to make history, there must be a + great deal of resistance to conquer and of weight to drag. + </p> + <p> + January 5, 1877.—This morning I am altogether miserable, + half-stifled by bronchitis—walking a difficulty—the brain weak—this + last the worst misery of all, for thought is my only weapon against my + other ills. Rapid deterioration of all the bodily powers, a dull + continuous waste of vital organs, brain decay: this is the trial laid upon + me, a trial that no one suspects! Men pity you for growing old outwardly; + but what does that matter?—nothing, so long as the faculties are + intact. This boon of mental soundness to the last has been granted to so + many students that I hoped for it a little. Alas, must I sacrifice that + too? Sacrifice is almost easy when we believe it laid upon us, asked of + us, rather, by a fatherly God and a watchful Providence; but I know + nothing of this religious joy. The mutilation of the self which is going + on in me lowers and lessens me without doing good to anybody. Supposing I + became blind, who would be the gainer? Only one motive remains to me—that + of manly resignation to the inevitable—the wish to set an example to + others—the stoic view of morals pure and simple. + </p> + <p> + This moral education of the individual soul—is it then wasted? When + our planet has accomplished the cycle of its destinies, of what use will + it have been to any one or anything in the universe? Well, it will have + sounded its note in the symphony of creation. And for us, individual + atoms, seeing monads, we appropriate a momentary consciousness of the + whole and the unchangeable, and then we disappear. Is not this enough? No, + it is not enough, for if there is not progress, increase, profit, there is + nothing but a mere chemical play and balance of combinations. Brahma, + after having created, draws his creation back into the gulf. If we are a + laboratory of the universal mind, may that mind at least profit and grow + by us! If we realize the supreme will, may God have the joy of it! If the + trustful humility of the soul rejoices him more than the greatness of + intellect, let us enter into his plan, his intention. This, in theological + language, is to live to the glory of God. Religion consists in the filial + acceptation of the divine will whatever it be, provided we see it + distinctly. Well, can we doubt that decay, sickness, death, are in the + programme of our existence? Is not destiny the inevitable? And is not + destiny the anonymous title of him or of that which the religions call + God? To descend without murmuring the stream of destiny, to pass without + revolt through loss after loss, and diminution after diminution, with no + other limit than zero before us—this is what is demanded of us. + Involution is as natural as evolution. We sink gradually back into the + darkness, just as we issued gradually from it. The play of faculties and + organs, the grandiose apparatus of life, is put back bit by bit into the + box. We begin by instinct; at the end comes a clearness of vision which we + must learn to bear with and to employ without murmuring upon our own + failure and decay. A musical theme once exhausted, finds its due refuge + and repose in silence. + </p> + <p> + February 6, 1877.—I spent the evening with the ——, and + we talked of the anarchy of ideas, of the general want of culture, of what + it is which keeps the world going, and of the assured march of science in + the midst of universal passion and superstition. + </p> + <p> + What is rarest in the world is fair-mindedness, method, the critical view, + the sense of proportion, the capacity for distinguishing. The common state + of human thought is one of confusion, incoherence, and presumption, and + the common state of human hearts is a state of passion, in which equity, + impartiality, and openness to impressions are unattainable. Men’s wills + are always in advance of their intelligence, their desires ahead of their + will, and accident the source of their desires; so that they express + merely fortuitous opinions which are not worth the trouble of taking + seriously, and which have no other account to give of themselves than this + childish one: I am, because I am. The art of finding truth is very little + practiced; it scarcely exists, because there is no personal humility, nor + even any love of truth among us. We are covetous enough of such knowledge + as may furnish weapons to our hand or tongue, as may serve our vanity or + gratify our craving for power; but self-knowledge, the criticism of our + own appetites and prejudices, is unwelcome and disagreeable to us. + </p> + <p> + Man is a willful and covetous animal, who makes use of his intellect to + satisfy his inclinations, but who cares nothing for truth, who rebels + against personal discipline, who hates disinterested thought and the idea + of self-education. Wisdom offends him, because it rouses in him + disturbance and confusion, and because he will not see himself as he is. + </p> + <p> + The great majority of men are but tangled skeins, imperfect keyboards, so + many specimens of restless or stagnant chaos—and what makes their + situation almost hopeless is the fact that they take pleasure in it. There + is no curing a sick man who believes himself in health. + </p> + <p> + April 5, 1877.—I have been thinking over the pleasant evening of + yesterday, an experience in which the sweets of friendship, the charm of + mutual understanding, aesthetic pleasure, and a general sense of comfort, + were happily combined and intermingled. There was not a crease in the + rose-leaf. Why? Because “all that is pure, all that is honest, all that is + excellent, all that is lovely and of good report,” was there gathered + together. “The incorruptibility of a gentle and quiet spirit,” innocent + mirth, faithfulness to duty, fine taste and sympathetic imagination, form + an attractive and wholesome <i>milieu</i> in which the soul may rest. + </p> + <p> + The party—which celebrated the last day of vacation—gave much + pleasure, and not to me only. Is not making others happy the best + happiness? To illuminate for an instant the depths of a deep soul, to + cheer those who bear by sympathy the burdens of so many sorrow-laden + hearts and suffering lives, is to me a blessing and a precious privilege. + There is a sort of religious joy in helping to renew the strength and + courage of noble minds. We are surprised to find ourselves the possessors + of a power of which we are not worthy, and we long to exercise it purely + and seriously. + </p> + <p> + I feel most strongly that man, in all that he does or can do which is + beautiful, great, or good is but the organ and the vehicle of something or + some one higher than himself. This feeling is religion. The religious man + takes part with a tremor of sacred joy in these phenomena of which he is + the intermediary but not the source, of which he is the scene, but not the + author, or rather, the poet. He lends them voice, and will, and help, but + he is respectfully careful to efface himself, that he may alter as little + as possible the higher work of the genius who is making a momentary use of + him. A pure emotion deprives him of personality and annihilates the self + in him. Self must perforce disappear when it is the Holy Spirit who + speaks, when it is God who acts. This is the mood in which the prophet + hears the call, the young mother feels the movement of the child within, + the preacher watches the tears of his audience. So long as we are + conscious of self we are limited, selfish, held in bondage; when we are in + harmony with the universal order, when we vibrate in unison with God, self + disappears. Thus, in a perfectly harmonious choir, the individual cannot + hear himself unless he makes a false note. The religious state is one of + deep enthusiasm, of moved contemplation, of tranquil ecstasy. But how rare + a state it is for us poor creatures harassed by duty, by necessity, by the + wicked world, by sin, by illness! It is the state which produces inward + happiness; but alas! the foundation of existence, the common texture of + our days, is made up of action, effort, struggle, and therefore + dissonance. Perpetual conflict, interrupted by short and threatened truces—there + is a true picture of our human condition. + </p> + <p> + Let us hail, then, as an echo from heaven, as the foretaste of a more + blessed economy, these brief moments of perfect harmony, these halts + between two storms. Peace is not in itself a dream, but we know it only as + the result of a momentary equilibrium—an accident. “Happy are the + peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God.” + </p> + <p> + April 26, 1877.—I have been turning over again the “Paris” of Victor + Hugo (1867). For ten years event after event has given the lie to the + prophet, but the confidence of the prophet in his own imaginings is not + therefore a whit diminished. Humility and common sense are only fit for + Lilliputians. Victor Hugo superbly ignores everything that he has not + foreseen. He does not see that pride is a limitation of the mind, and that + a pride without limitations is a littleness of soul. If he could but learn + to compare himself with other men, and France with other nations, he would + see things more truly, and would not fall into these mad exaggerations, + these extravagant judgments. But proportion and fairness will never be + among the strings at his command. He is vowed to the Titanic; his gold is + always mixed with lead, his insight with childishness, his reason with + madness. He cannot be simple; the only light he has to give blinds you + like that of a fire. He astonishes a reader and provokes him, he moves him + and annoys him. There is always some falsity of note in him, which + accounts for the <i>malaise</i> he so constantly excites in me. The great + poet in him cannot shake off the charlatan. + </p> + <p> + A few shafts of Voltairean irony would have shriveled the inflation of his + genius and made it stronger by making it saner. It is a public misfortune + that the most powerful poet of a nation should not have better understood + his role, and that, unlike those Hebrew prophets who scourged because they + loved, he should devote himself proudly and systematically to the flattery + of his countrymen. France is the world; Paris is France; Hugo is Paris; + peoples, bow down! + </p> + <p> + May 2, 1877.—Which nation is best worth belonging to? There is not + one in which the good is not counterbalanced by evil. Each is a caricature + of man, a proof that no one among them deserves to crush the others, and + that all have something to learn from all. I am alternately struck with + the qualities and with the defects of each, which is perhaps lucky for a + critic. I am conscious of no preference for the defects of north or south, + of west or east; and I should find a difficulty in stating my own + predilections. Indeed I myself am wholly indifferent in the matter, for to + me the question is not one of liking or of blaming, but of understanding. + My point of view is philosophical—that is to say, impartial and + impersonal. The only type which pleases me is perfection—<i>man</i>, + in short, the ideal man. As for the national man, I bear with and study + him, but I have no admiration for him. I can only admire the fine + specimens of the race, the great men, the geniuses, the lofty characters + and noble souls, and specimens of these are to be found in all the + ethnographical divisions. The “country of my choice” (to quote Madame de + Staël) is with the chosen souls. I feel no greater inclination toward the + French, the Germans, the Swiss, the English, the Poles, the Italians, than + toward the Brazilians or the Chinese. The illusions of patriotism, of + Chauvinist, family, or professional feeling, do not exist for me. My + tendency, on the contrary, is to feel with increased force the lacunas, + deformities, and imperfections of the group to which I belong. My + inclination is to see things as they are, abstracting my own + individuality, and suppressing all personal will and desire; so that I + feel antipathy, not toward this or that, but toward error, prejudice, + stupidity, exclusiveness, exaggeration. I love only justice and fairness. + Anger and annoyance are with me merely superficial; the fundamental + tendency is toward impartiality and detachment. Inward liberty and + aspiration toward the true—these are what I care for and take + pleasure in. + </p> + <p> + June 4, 1877.—I have just heard the “Romeo and Juliet” of Hector + Berlioz. The work is entitled “Dramatic symphony for orchestra, with + choruses.” The execution was extremely good. The work is interesting, + careful, curious, and suggestive, but it leaves one cold. When I come to + reason out my impression I explain it in this way. To subordinate man to + things—to annex the human voice, as a mere supplement, to the + orchestra—is false in idea. To make simple narrative out of dramatic + material, is a derogation, a piece of levity. A Romeo and Juliet in which + there is no Romeo and no Juliet is an absurdity. To substitute the + inferior, the obscure, the vague, for the higher and the clear, is a + challenge to common sense. It is a violation of that natural hierarchy of + things which is never violated with impunity. The musician has put + together a series of symphonic pictures, without any inner connection, a + string of riddles, to which a prose text alone supplies meaning and unity. + The only intelligible voice which is allowed to appear in the work is that + of Friar Laurence: his sermon could not be expressed in chords, and is + therefore plainly sung. But the moral of a play is not the play, and the + play itself has been elbowed out by recitative. + </p> + <p> + The musician of the present day, not being able to give us what is + beautiful, torments himself to give us what is new. False originality, + false grandeur, false genius! This labored art is wholly antipathetic to + me. Science simulating genius is but a form of quackery. + </p> + <p> + Berlioz as a critic is cleverness itself; as a musician he is learned, + inventive, and ingenious, but he is trying to achieve the greater when he + cannot compass the lesser. + </p> + <p> + Thirty years ago, at Berlin, the same impression was left upon me by his + “Infancy of Christ,” which I heard him conduct himself. His art seems to + me neither fruitful nor wholesome; there is no true and solid beauty in + it. + </p> + <p> + I ought to say, however, that the audience, which was a fairly full one, + seemed very well satisfied. + </p> + <p> + July 17, 1877.—Yesterday I went through my La Fontaine, and noticed + the omissions in him. He has neither butterfly nor rose. He utilizes + neither the crane, nor the quail, nor the dromedary, nor the lizard. There + is not a single echo of chivalry in him. For him, the history of France + dates from Louis XIV. His geography only ranges, in reality, over a few + square miles, and touches neither the Rhine nor the Loire, neither the + mountains nor the sea. He never invents his subjects, but indolently takes + them ready-made from elsewhere. But with all this what an adorable writer, + what a painter, what an observer, what a humorist, what a story-teller! I + am never tired of reading him, though I know half his fables by heart. In + the matter of vocabulary, turns, tones, phrases, idioms, his style is + perhaps the richest of the great period, for it combines, in the most + skillful way, archaism and classic finish, the Gallic and the French + elements. Variety, satire, <i>finesse</i>, feeling, movement, terseness, + suavity, grace, gayety, at times even nobleness, gravity, grandeur—everything—is + to be found in him. And then the happiness of the epithets, the piquancy + of the sayings, the felicity of his rapid sketches and unforeseen + audacities, and the unforgettable sharpness of phrase! His defects are + eclipsed by his immense variety of different aptitudes. + </p> + <p> + One has only to compare his “Woodcutter and Death” with that of Boileau in + order to estimate the enormous difference between the artist and the + critic who found fault with his work. La Fontaine gives you a picture of + the poor peasant under the monarchy; Boileau shows you nothing but a man + perspiring under a heavy load. The first is a historical witness, the + second a mere academic rhymer. From La Fontaine it is possible to + reconstruct the whole society of his epoch, and the old Champenois with + his beasts remains the only Homer France has ever possessed. He has as + many portraits of men and women as La Bruyère, and Molière is not more + humorous. + </p> + <p> + His weak side is his epicureanism, with its tinge of grossness. This, no + doubt, was what made Lamartine dislike him. The religious note is absent + from his lyre; there is nothing in him which shows any contact with + Christianity, any knowledge of the sublimer tragedies of the soul. Kind + nature is his goddess, Horace his prophet, and Montaigne his gospel. In + other words, his horizon is that of the Renaissance. This pagan island in + the full Catholic stream is very curious; the paganism of it is so + perfectly sincere and naïve. But indeed, Reblais, Molière, Saint Evremond, + are much more pagan than Voltaire. It is as though, for the genuine + Frenchman, Christianity was a mere pose or costume—something which + has nothing to do with the heart, with the real man, or his deeper nature. + This division of things is common in Italy too. It is the natural effect + of political religions: the priest becomes separated from the layman, the + believer from the man, worship from sincerity. + </p> + <p> + July 18, 1877.—I have just come across a character in a novel with a + passion for synonyms, and I said to myself: Take care—that is your + weakness too. In your search for close and delicate expression, you run + through the whole gamut of synonyms, and your pen works too often in + series of three. Beware! Avoid mannerisms and tricks; they are signs of + weakness. Subject and occasion only must govern the use of words. + Procedure by single epithet gives strength; the doubling of a word gives + clearness, because it supplies the two extremities of the series; the + trebling of it gives completeness by suggesting at once the beginning, + middle, and end of the idea; while a quadruple phrase may enrich by force + of enumeration. + </p> + <p> + Indecision being my principal defect, I am fond of a plurality of phrases + which are but so many successive approximations and corrections. I am + especially fond of them in this journal, where I write as it comes. In + serious composition <i>two</i> is, on the whole, my category. But it would + be well to practice one’s self in the use of the single word—of the + shaft delivered promptly and once for all. I should have indeed to cure + myself of hesitation first. I see too many ways of saying things; a more + decided mind hits on the right way at once. Singleness of phrase implies + courage, self-confidence, clear-sightedness. To attain it there must be no + doubting, and I am always doubting. And yet— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quiconque est loup agisse en loup; + C’est le plus certain de beaucoup.” + </pre> + <p> + I wonder whether I should gain anything by the attempt to assume a + character which is not mine. My wavering manner, born of doubt and + scruple, has at least the advantage of rendering all the different shades + of my thought, and of being sincere. If it were to become terse, + affirmative, resolute, would it not be a mere imitation? + </p> + <p> + A private journal, which is but a vehicle for meditation and reverie, + beats about the bush as it pleases without being hound to make for any + definite end. Conversation with self is a gradual process of + thought-clearing. Hence all these synonyms, these waverings, these + repetitions and returns upon one’s self. Affirmation maybe brief; inquiry + takes time; and the line which thought follows is necessarily an irregular + one. + </p> + <p> + I am conscious indeed that at bottom there is but one right expression; + [Footnote: Compare La Bruyère: + </p> + <p> + “Entre toutes les differentes expressions qui peuvent rendre une seule de + nos pensées il n’y en a qu’une qui soit la bonne; on ne la rencontre pas + toujours en parlant ou en écrivant: il est vray néanmoins qu’elle existe, + que tout ce qui ne l’est point est foible, et ne satisfait point un homme + d’esprit qui veut se faire entendre.”] but in order to find it I wish to + make my choice among all that are like it; and my mind instinctively goes + through a series of verbal modulations in search of that shade which may + most accurately render the idea. Or sometimes it is the idea itself which + has to be turned over and over, that I may know it and apprehend it + better. I think, pen in hand; it is like the disentanglement, the + winding-off of a skein. Evidently the corresponding form of style cannot + have the qualities which belong to thought which is already sure of + itself, and only seeks to communicate itself to others. The function of + the private journal is one of observation, experiment, analysis, + contemplation; that of the essay or article is to provoke reflection; that + of the book is to demonstrate. + </p> + <p> + July 21, 1877.—A superb night—a starry sky—Jupiter and + Phoebe holding converse before my windows. Grandiose effects of light and + shade over the courtyard. A sonata rose from the black gulf of shadow like + a repentant prayer wafted from purgatory. The picturesque was lost in + poetry, and admiration in feeling. + </p> + <p> + July 30, 1877.— ... makes a very true remark about Renan, <i>a + propos</i> of the volume of “Les Evangiles.” He brings out the + contradiction between the literary taste of the artist, which is delicate, + individual, and true, and the opinions of the critic, which are borrowed, + old-fashioned and wavering. This hesitancy of choice between the beautiful + and the true, between poetry and prose, between art and learning, is, in + fact, characteristic. Renan has a keen love for science, but he has a + still keener love for good writing, and, if necessary, he will sacrifice + the exact phrase to the beautiful phrase. Science is his material rather + than his object; his object is style. A fine passage is ten times more + precious in his eyes than the discovery of a fact or the rectification of + a date. And on this point I am very much with him, for a beautiful piece + of writing is beautiful by virtue of a kind of truth which is truer than + any mere record of authentic facts. Rousseau also thought the same. A + chronicler may be able to correct Tacitus, but Tacitus survives all the + chroniclers. I know well that the aesthetic temptation is the French + temptation; I have often bewailed it, and yet, if I desired anything, it + would be to be a writer, a great writer. Te leave a monument behind, <i>aere + perennius</i>, an imperishable work which might stir the thoughts, the + feelings, the dreams of men, generation after generation—this is the + only glory which I could wish for, if I were not weaned even from this + wish also. A book would be my ambition, if ambition were not vanity and + vanity of vanities. + </p> + <p> + August 11, 1877.—The growing triumph of Darwinism—that is to + say of materialism, or of force—threatens the conception of justice. + But justice will have its turn. The higher human law cannot be the + offspring of animality. Justice is the right to the maximum of individual + independence compatible with the same liberty for others; in other words, + it is respect for man, for the immature, the small, the feeble; it is the + guarantee of those human collectivities, associations, states, + nationalities—those voluntary or involuntary unions—the object + of which is to increase the sum of happiness, and to satisfy the + aspiration of the individual. That some should make use of others for + their own purposes is an injury to justice. The right of the stronger is + not a right, but a simple fact, which obtains only so long as there is + neither protest nor resistance. It is like cold, darkness, weight, which + tyrannize over man until he has invented artificial warmth, artificial + light, and machinery. Human industry is throughout an emancipation from + brute nature, and the advances made by justice are in the same way a + series of rebuffs inflicted upon the tyranny of the stronger. As the + medical art consists in the conquest of disease, so goodness consists in + the conquest of the blind ferocities and untamed appetites of the human + animal. I see the same law throughout—increasing emancipation of the + individual, a continuous ascent of being toward life, happiness, justice, + and wisdom. Greed and gluttony are the starting-point, intelligence and + generosity the goal. + </p> + <p> + August 21, 1877. (<i>Baths of Ems</i>).—In the <i>salon</i> there + has been a performance in chorus of “Lorelei” and other popular airs. What + in our country is only done for worship is done also in Germany for poetry + and music. Voices blend together; art shares the privilege of religion. It + is a trait which is neither French nor English, nor, I think, Italian. The + spirit of artistic devotion, of impersonal combination, of common, + harmonious, disinterested action, is specially German; it makes a welcome + balance to certain clumsy and prosaic elements in the race. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—Perhaps the craving for independence of thought—the + tendency to go back to first principles—is really proper to the + Germanic mind only. The Slavs and the Latins are governed rather by the + collective wisdom of the community, by tradition, usage, prejudice, + fashion; or, if they break through these, they are like slaves in revolt, + without any real living apprehension of the law inherent in things—the + true law, which is neither written, nor arbitrary, nor imposed. The German + wishes to get at nature; the Frenchman, the Spaniard, the Russian, stop at + conventions. The root of the problem is in the question of the relations + between God and the world. Immanence or transcendence—that, step by + step, decides the meaning of everything else. If the mind is radically + external to things, it is not called upon to conform to them. If the mind + is destitute of native truth, it must get its truth from outside, by + revelations. And so you get thought despising nature, and in bondage to + the church—so you have the Latin world! + </p> + <p> + November 6, 1877. (<i>Geneva</i>).—We talk of love many years before + we know anything about it, and we think we know it because we talk of it, + or because we repeat what other people say of it, or what books tell us + about it. So that there are ignorances of different degrees, and degrees + of knowledge which are quite deceptive. One of the worst plagues of + society is this thoughtless inexhaustible verbosity, this careless use of + words, this pretense of knowing a thing because we talk about it—these + counterfeits of belief, thought, love, or earnestness, which all the while + are mere babble. The worst of it is, that as self-love is behind the + babble, these ignorances of society are in general ferociously + affirmative; chatter mistakes itself for opinion, prejudice poses as + principle. Parrots behave as though they were thinking beings; imitations + give themselves out as originals; and politeness demands the acceptance of + the convention. It is very wearisome. + </p> + <p> + Language is the vehicle of this confusion, the instrument of this + unconscious fraud, and all evils of the kind are enormously increased by + universal education, by the periodical press, and by all the other + processes of vulgarization in use at the present time. Every one deals in + paper money; few have ever handled gold. We live on symbols, and even on + the symbols of symbols; we have never grasped or verified things for + ourselves; we judge everything, and we know nothing. + </p> + <p> + How seldom we meet with originality, individuality, sincerity, nowadays!—with + men who are worth the trouble of listening to! The true self in the + majority is lost in the borrowed self. How few are anything else than a + bundle of inclinations—anything more than animals—whose + language and whose gait alone recall to us the highest rank in nature! + </p> + <p> + The immense majority of our species are candidates for humanity, and + nothing more. Virtually we are men; we might be, we ought to be, men; but + practically we do not succeed in realizing the type of our race. + Semblances and counterfeits of men fill up the habitable earth, people the + islands and the continents, the country and the town. If we wish to + respect men we must forget what they are, and think of the ideal which + they carry hidden within them, of the just man and the noble, the man of + intelligence and goodness, inspiration and creative force, who is loyal + and true, faithful and trustworthy, of the higher man, in short, and that + divine thing we call a soul. The only men who deserve the name are the + heroes, the geniuses, the saints, the harmonious, puissant, and perfect + samples of the race. + </p> + <p> + Very few individuals deserve to be listened to, but all deserve that our + curiosity with regard to them should be a pitiful curiosity—that the + insight we bring to bear on them should be charged with humility. Are we + not all shipwrecked, diseased, condemned to death? Let each work out his + own salvation, and blame no one but himself; so the lot of all will be + bettered. Whatever impatience we may feel toward our neighbor, and + whatever indignation our race may rouse in us, we are chained one to + another, and, companions in labor and misfortune, have everything to lose + by mutual recrimination and reproach. Let us be silent as to each other’s + weakness, helpful, tolerant, nay, tender toward each other! Or, if we + cannot feel tenderness, may we at least feel pity! May we put away from us + the satire which scourges and the anger which brands; the oil and wine of + the good Samaritan are of more avail. We may make the ideal a reason for + contempt; but it is more beautiful to make it a reason for tenderness. + </p> + <p> + December 9, 1877.—The modern haunters of Parnassus [Footnote: + Amiel’s expression is <i>Les Parnassieus</i>, an old name revived, which + nowadays describes the younger school of French poetry represented by such + names as Théophile Gautier, Leconte de Lisle, Théodore de Bauville, and + Baudelaire. The modern use of the word dates from the publication of “La + Parnasse Contemporain” (Lemerre, 1866).] carve urns of agate and of onyx, + but inside the urns what is there?—ashes. Their work lacks feeling, + seriousness, sincerity, and pathos—in a word, soul and moral life. I + cannot bring myself to sympathize with such a way of understanding poetry. + The talent shown is astonishing, but stuff and matter are wanting. It is + an effort of the imagination to stand alone—a substitute for + everything else. We find metaphors, rhymes, music, color, but not man, not + humanity. Poetry of this factitious kind may beguile one at twenty, but + what can one make of it at fifty? It reminds me of Pergamos, of + Alexandria, of all the epochs of decadence when beauty of form hid poverty + of thought and exhaustion of feeling. I strongly share the repugnance + which this poetical school arouses in simple people. It is as though it + only cared to please the world-worn, the over-subtle, the corrupted, while + it ignores all normal healthy life, virtuous habits, pure affections, + steady labor, honesty, and duty. It is an affectation, and because it is + an affectation the school is struck with sterility. The reader desires in + the poet something better than a juggler in rhyme, or a conjurer in verse; + he looks to find in him a painter of life, a being who thinks, loves, and + has a conscience, who feels passion and repentance. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Composition is a process of combination, in which thought puts together + complementary truths, and talent fuses into harmony the most contrary + qualities of style. + </p> + <p> + So that there is no composition without effort, without pain even, as in + all bringing forth. The reward is the giving birth to something living—something, + that is to say, which, by a kind of magic, makes a living unity out of + such opposed attributes as orderliness and spontaneity, thought and + imagination, solidity and charm. + </p> + <p> + The true critic strives for a clear vision of things as they are—for + justice and fairness; his effort is to get free from himself, so that he + may in no way disfigure that which he wishes to understand or reproduce. + His superiority to the common herd lies in this effort, even when its + success is only partial. He distrusts his own senses, he sifts his own + impressions, by returning upon them from different sides and at different + times, by comparing, moderating, shading, distinguishing, and so + endeavoring to approach more and more nearly to the formula which + represents the maximum of truth. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Is it not the sad natures who are most tolerant of gayety? They know that + gayety means impulse and vigor, that generally speaking it is disguised + kindliness, and that if it were a mere affair of temperament and mood, + still it is a blessing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + The art which is grand and yet simple is that which presupposes the + greatest elevation both in artist and in public. + </p> + <p> + How much folly is compatible with ultimate wisdom and prudence? It is + difficult to say. The cleverest folk are those who discover soonest how to + utilize their neighbor’s experience, and so get rid in good time of their + natural presumption. + </p> + <p> + We must try to grasp the spirit of things, to see correctly, to speak to + the point, to give practicable advice, to act on the spot, to arrive at + the proper moment, to stop in time. Tact, measure, occasion—all + these deserve our cultivation and respect. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + April 22, 1878.—Letter from my cousin Julia. These kind old + relations find it very difficult to understand a man’s life, especially a + student’s life. The hermits of reverie are scared by the busy world, and + feel themselves out of place in action. But after all, we do not change at + seventy, and a good, pious old lady, half-blind and living in a village, + can no longer extend her point of view, nor form any idea of existences + which have no relation with her own. + </p> + <p> + What is the link by which these souls, shut in and encompassed as they are + by the details of daily life, lay hold on the ideal? The link of religious + aspiration. Faith is the plank which saves them. They know the meaning of + the higher life; their soul is athirst for heaven. Their opinions are + defective, but their moral experience is great; their intellect is full of + darkness but their souls is full of light. We scarcely know how to talk to + them about the things of earth, but they are ripe and mature in the things + of the heart. If they cannot understand us, it is for us to make advances + to them, to speak their language, to enter into their range of ideas, + their modes of feeling. We must approach them on their noble side, and, + that we may show them the more respect, induce them to open to us the + casket of their most treasured thoughts. There is always some grain of + gold at the bottom of every honorable old age. Let it be our business to + give it an opportunity of showing itself to affectionate eyes. + </p> + <p> + May 10, 1878.—I have just come back from a solitary walk. I heard + nightingales, saw white lilac and orchard trees in bloom. My heart is full + of impressions showered upon it by the chaffinches, the golden orioles, + the grasshoppers, the hawthorns, and the primroses. A dull, gray, fleecy + sky brooded with a certain melancholy over the nuptial splendors of + vegetation. Many painful memories stirred afresh in me; at Pré l’Evèque, + at Jargonnant, at Villereuse, a score of phantoms—phantoms of youth—rose + with sad eyes to greet me. The walls had changed, and roads which were + once shady and dreamy I found now waste and treeless. But at the first + trills of the nightingale a flood of tender feeling filled my heart. I + felt myself soothed, grateful, melted; a mood of serenity and + contemplation took possession of me. A certain little path, a very kingdom + of green, with fountain, thickets, gentle ups and downs, and an abundance + of singing-birds, delighted me, and did me inexpressible good. Its + peaceful remoteness brought back the bloom of feeling. I had need of it. + </p> + <p> + May 19, 1878.—Criticism is above all a gift, an intuition, a matter + of tact and <i>flair</i>; it cannot be taught or demonstrated—it is + an art. Critical genius means an aptitude for discerning truth under + appearances or in disguises which conceal it; for discovering it in spite + of the errors of testimony, the frauds of tradition, the dust of time, the + loss or alteration of texts. It is the sagacity of the hunter whom nothing + deceives for long, and whom no ruse can throw off the trail. It is the + talent of the <i>Juge d’Instruction</i>, who knows how to interrogate + circumstances, and to extract an unknown secret from a thousand + falsehoods. The true critic can understand everything, but he will be the + dupe of nothing, and to no convention will he sacrifice his duty, which is + to find out and proclaim truth. Competent learning, general cultivation, + absolute probity, accuracy of general view, human sympathy and technical + capacity—how many things are necessary to the critic, without + reckoning grace, delicacy, <i>savoir vivre</i>, and the gift of happy + phrase-making! + </p> + <p> + July 26, 1878.—Every morning I wake up with the same sense of vain + struggle against a mountain tide which is about to overwhelm me. I shall + die by suffocation, and the suffocation has begun; the progress it has + already made stimulates it to go on. + </p> + <p> + How can one make any plans when every day brings with it some fresh + misery? I cannot even decide on a line of action in a situation so full of + confusion and uncertainty in which I look forward to the worst, while yet + all is doubtful. Have I still a few years before me or only a few months? + Will death be slow or will it come upon me as a sudden catastrophe? How am + I to bear the days as they come? how am I to fill them? How am I to die + with calmness and dignity? I know not. Everything I do for the first time + I do badly; but here everything is new; there can be no help from + experience; the end must be a chance! How mortifying for one who has set + so great a price upon independence—to depend upon a thousand + unforeseen contingencies! He knows not how he will act or what he will + become; he would fain speak of these things with a friend of good sense + and good counsel—but who? He dares not alarm the affections which + are most his own, and he is almost sure that any others would try to + distract his attention, and would refuse to see the position as it is. + </p> + <p> + And while I wait (wait for what?—certainty?) the weeks flow by like + water, and strength wastes away like a smoking candle.... + </p> + <p> + Is one free to let one’s self drift into death without resistance? Is + self-preservation a duty? Do we owe it to those who love us to prolong + this desperate struggle to its utmost limit? I think so, but it is one + fetter the more. For we must then feign a hope which we do not feel, and + hide the absolute discouragement of which the heart is really full. Well, + why not? Those who succumb are bound in generosity not to cool the ardor + of those who are still battling, still enjoying. + </p> + <p> + Two parallel roads lead to the same result; meditation paralyzes me, + physiology condemns me. My soul is dying, my body is dying. In every + direction the end is closing upon me. My own melancholy anticipates and + endorses the medical judgment which says, “Your journey is done.” The two + verdicts point to the same result—that I have no longer a future. + And yet there is a side of me which says, “Absurd!” which is incredulous, + and inclined to regard it all as a bad dream. In vain the reason asserts + it; the mind’s inward assent is still refused. Another contradiction! + </p> + <p> + I have not the strength to hope, and I have not the strength to submit. I + believe no longer, and I believe still. I feel that I am dying, and yet I + cannot realize that I am dying. Is it madness already? No, it is human + nature taken in the act; it is life itself which is a contradiction, for + life means an incessant death and a daily resurrection; it affirms and it + denies, it destroys and constructs, it gathers and scatters, it humbles + and exalts at the same time. To live is to die partially—to feel + one’s self in the heart of a whirlwind of opposing forces—to be an + enigma. + </p> + <p> + If the invisible type molded by these two contradictory currents—if + this form which presides over all my changes of being—has itself + general and original value, what does it matter whether it carries on the + game a few months or years longer, or not? It has done what it had to do, + it has represented a certain unique combination, one particular expression + of the race. These types are shadows—<i>manes</i>. Century after + century employs itself in fashioning them. Glory—fame—is the + proof that one type has seemed to the other types newer, rarer, and more + beautiful than the rest. The common types are souls too, only they have no + interest except for the Creator, and for a small number of individuals. + </p> + <p> + To feel one’s own fragility is well, but to be indifferent to it is + better. To take the measure of one’s own misery is profitable, but to + understand its <i>raison d’être</i> is still more profitable. To mourn for + one’s self is a last sign of vanity; we ought only to regret that which + has real values, and to regret one’s self, is to furnish involuntary + evidence that one had attached importance to one’s self. At the same time + it is a proof of ignorance of our true worth and function. It is not + necessary to live, but it is necessary to preserve one’s type unharmed, to + remain faithful to one’s idea, to protect one’s monad against alteration + and degradation. + </p> + <p> + November 7, 1878.—To-day we have been talking of realism in + painting, and, in connection with it, of that poetical and artistic + illusion which does not aim at being confounded with reality itself. + Realism wishes to entrap sensation; the object of true art is only to + charm the imagination, not to deceive the eye. When we see a good portrait + we say, “It is alive!”—in other words, our imagination lends it + life. On the other hand, a wax figure produces a sort of terror in us; its + frozen life-likeness makes a deathlike impression on us, and we say, “It + is a ghost!” In the one case we see what is lacking, and demand it; in the + other we see what is given us, and we give on our side. Art, then, + addresses itself to the imagination; everything that appeals to sensation + only is below art, almost outside art. A work of art ought to set the + poetical faculty in us to work, it ought to stir us to imagine, to + complete our perception of a thing. And we can only do this when the + artist leads the way. Mere copyist’s painting, realistic reproduction, + pure imitation, leave us cold because their author is a machine, a mirror, + an iodized plate, and not a soul. + </p> + <p> + Art lives by appearances, but these appearances are spiritual visions, + fixed dreams. Poetry represents to us nature become con-substantial with + the soul, because in it nature is only a reminiscence touched with + emotion, an image vibrating with our own life, a form without weight—in + short, a mode of the soul. The poetry which is most real and objective is + the expression of a soul which throws itself into things, and forgets + itself in their presence more readily than others; but still, it is the + expression of the soul, and hence what we call style. Style may be only + collective, hieratic, national, so long as the artist is still the + interpreter of the community; it tends to become personal in proportion as + society makes room for individuality and favors its expansion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + There is a way of killing truth by truths. Under the pretense that we want + to study it more in detail we pulverize the statue—it is an + absurdity of which our pedantry is constantly guilty. Those who can only + see the fragments of a thing are to me <i>esprits faux</i>, just as much + as those who disfigure the fragments. The good critic ought to be master + of the three capacities, the three modes of seeing men and things—he + should be able simultaneously to see them as they are, as they might be, + and as they ought to be. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Modern culture is a delicate electuary made up of varied savors and subtle + colors, which can be more easily felt than measured or defined. Its very + superiority consists in the complexity, the association of contraries, the + skillful combination it implies. The man of to-day, fashioned by the + historical and geographical influences of twenty countries and of thirty + centuries, trained and modified by all the sciences and all the arts, the + supple recipient of all literatures, is an entirely new product. He finds + affinities, relationships, analogies everywhere, but at the same time he + condenses and sums up what is elsewhere scattered. He is like the smile of + La Gioconda, which seems to reveal a soul to the spectator only to leave + him the more certainly under a final impression of mystery, so many + different things are expressed in it at once. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To understand things we must have been once in them and then have come out + of them; so that first there must be captivity and then deliverance, + illusion followed by disillusion, enthusiasm by disappointment. He who is + still under the spell, and he who has never felt the spell, are equally + incompetent. We only know well what we have first believed, then judged. + To understand we must be free, yet not have been always free. The same + truth holds, whether it is a question of love, of art, of religion, or of + patriotism. Sympathy is a first condition of criticism; reason and justice + presuppose, at their origin, emotion. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + What is an intelligent man? A man who enters with ease and completeness + into the spirit of things and the intention of persons, and who arrives at + an end by the shortest route. Lucidity and suppleness of thought, critical + delicacy and inventive resource, these are his attributes. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Analysis kills spontaneity. The grain once ground into flour springs and + germinates no more. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + January 3, 1879.—Letter from——. This kind friend of mine + has no pity.... I have been trying to quiet his over-delicate + susceptibilities.... It is difficult to write perfectly easy letters when + one finds them studied with a magnifying glass, and treated like + monumental inscriptions, in which each character has been deliberately + engraved with a view to an eternity of life. Such disproportion between + the word and its commentary, between the playfulness of the writer and the + analytical temper of the reader, is not favorable to ease of style. One + dares not be one’s natural self with these serious folk who attach + importance to everything; it is difficult to write open-heartedly if one + must weigh every phrase and every word. + </p> + <p> + <i>Esprit</i> means taking things in the sense which they are meant to + have, entering into the tone of other people, being able to place one’s + self on the required level; <i>esprit</i> is that just and accurate sense + which divines, appreciates, and weighs quickly, lightly, and well. The + mind must have its play, the Muse is winged—the Greeks knew it, and + Socrates. + </p> + <p> + January 13, 1879.—It is impossible for me to remember what letters I + wrote yesterday. A single night digs a gulf between the self of yesterday + and the self of to-day. My life is without unity of action, because my + actions themselves are escaping from the control of memory. My mental + power, occupied in gaining possession of itself under the form of + consciousness, seems to be letting go its hold on all that generally + peoples the understanding, as the glacier throws off the stones and + fragments fallen into its crevasses, that it may remain pure crystal. The + philosophic mind is both to overweight itself with too many material facts + or trivial memories. Thought clings only to thought—that is to say, + to itself, to the psychological process. The mind’s only ambition is for + an enriched experience. It finds its pleasure in studying the play of its + own facilities, and the study passes easily into an aptitude and habit. + Reflection becomes nothing more than an apparatus for the registration of + the impressions, emotions, and ideas which pass across the mind. The whole + moulting process is carried on so energetically that the mind is not only + unclothed, but stripped of itself, and, so to speak, <i>de-substantiated</i>. + The wheel turns so quickly that it melts around the mathematical axis, + which alone remains cold because it is impalpable, and has no thickness. + All this is natural enough, but very dangerous. + </p> + <p> + So long as one is numbered among the living—so long, that is to say, + as one is still plunged in the world of men, a sharer of their interests, + conflicts, vanities, passions, and duties, one is bound to deny one’s self + this subtle state of consciousness; one must consent to be a separate + individual, having one’s special name, position, age, and sphere of + activity. In spite of all the temptations of impersonality, one must + resume the position of a being imprisoned within certain limits of time + and space, an individual with special surroundings, friends, enemies, + profession, country, bound to house and feed himself, to make up his + accounts and look after his affairs; in short, one must behave like all + the world. There are days when all these details seem to me a dream—when + I wonder at the desk under my hand, at my body itself—when I ask + myself if there is a street before my house, and if all this geographical + and topographical phantasmagoria is indeed real. Time and space become + then mere specks; I become a sharer in a purely spiritual existence; I see + myself <i>sub specie oeternitatis</i>. + </p> + <p> + Is not mind simply that which enables us to merge finite reality in the + infinite possibility around it? Or, to put it differently, is not mind the + universal virtuality, the universe latent? If so, its zero would be the + germ of the infinite, which is expressed mathematically by the double zero + (00). + </p> + <p> + Deduction: that the mind may experience the infinite in itself; that in + the human individual there arises sometimes the divine spark which reveals + to him the existence of the original, fundamental, principal Being, within + which all is contained like a series within its generating formula. The + universe is but a radiation of mind; and the radiations of the Divine mind + are for us more than appearances; they have a reality parallel to our own. + The radiations of our mind are imperfect reflections from the great show + of fireworks set in motion by Brahma, and great art is great only because + of its conformities with the Divine order—with that which is. + </p> + <p> + Ideal conceptions are the mind’s anticipation of such an order. The mind + is capable of them because it is mind, and, as such, perceives the + Eternal. The real, on the contrary, is fragmentary and passing. Law alone + is eternal. The ideal is then the imperishable hope of something better—the + mind’s involuntary protest against the present, the leaven of the future + working in it. It is the supernatural in us, or rather the super-animal, + and the ground of human progress. He who has no ideal contents himself + with what is; he has no quarrel with facts, which for him are identical + with the just, the good, and the beautiful. + </p> + <p> + But why is the divine radiation imperfect? Because it is still going on. + Our planet, for example, is in the mid-course of its experience. Its flora + and fauna are still changing. The evolution of humanity is nearer its + origin than its close. The complete spiritualization of the animal element + in nature seems to be singularly difficult, and it is the task of our + species. Its performance is hindered by error, evil, selfishness, and + death, without counting telluric catastrophes. The edifice of a common + happiness, a common science of morality and justice, is sketched, but only + sketched. A thousand retarding and perturbing causes hinder this giant’s + task, in which nations, races, and continents take part. At the present + moment humanity is not yet constituted as a physical unity, and its + general education is not yet begun. All our attempts at order as yet have + been local crystallizations. Now, indeed, the different possibilities are + beginning to combine (union of posts and telegraphs, universal + exhibitions, voyages round the globes, international congresses, etc.). + Science and common interest are binding together the great fractions of + humanity, which religion and language have kept apart. A year in which + there has been talk of a network of African railways, running from the + coast to the center and bringing the Atlantic, the Mediterranean, and the + Indian Ocean into communication with each other—such a year is + enough to mark a new epoch. The fantastic has become the conceivable, the + possible tends to become the real; the earth becomes the garden of man. + Man’s chief problem is how to make the cohabitation of the individuals of + his species possible; how, that is to say, to secure for each successive + epoch the law, the order, the equilibrium which befits it. Division of + labor allows him to explore in every direction at once; industry, science, + art, law, education, morals, religion, politics, and economical relations—all + are in process of birth. + </p> + <p> + Thus everything may be brought back to zero by the mind, but it is a + fruitful zero—a zero which contains the universe and, in particular, + humanity. The mind has no more difficulty in tracking the real within the + innumerable than in apprehending infinite possibility. 00 may issue from + 0, or may return to it. + </p> + <p> + January 19, 1879.—Charity—goodness—places a voluntary + curb on acuteness of perception; it screens and softens the rays of a too + vivid insight; it refuses to see too clearly the ugliness and misery of + the great intellectual hospital around it. True goodness is loth to + recognize any privilege in itself; it prefers to be humble and charitable; + it tries not to see what stares it in the face—that is to say, the + imperfections, infirmities, and errors of humankind; its pity puts on airs + of approval and encouragement. It triumphs over its own repulsions that it + may help and raise. + </p> + <p> + It has often been remarked that Vinet praised weak things. If so, it was + not from any failure in his own critical sense; it was from charity. + “Quench not the smoking flax,”—to which I add, “Never give + unnecessary pain.” The cricket is not the nightingale; why tell him so? + Throw yourself into the mind of the cricket—the process is newer and + more ingenious; and it is what charity commands. + </p> + <p> + Intellect is aristocratic, charity is democratic. In a democracy the + general equality of pretensions, combined with the inequality of merits, + creates considerable practical difficulty; some get out of it by making + their prudence a muzzle on their frankness; others, by using kindness as a + corrective of perspicacity. On the whole, kindness is safer than reserve; + it inflicts no wound, and kills nothing. + </p> + <p> + Charity is generous; it runs a risk willingly, and in spite of a hundred + successive experiences, it thinks no evil at the hundred-and-first. We + cannot be at the same time kind and wary, nor can we serve two masters—love + and selfishness. We must be knowingly rash, that we may not be like the + clever ones of the world, who never forget their own interests. We must be + able to submit to being deceived; it is the sacrifice which interest and + self-love owe to conscience. The claims of the soul must be satisfied + first if we are to be the children of God. + </p> + <p> + Was it not Bossuet who said, “It is only the great souls who know all the + grandeur there is in charity?” + </p> + <p> + January 21, 1879.—At first religion holds the place of science and + philosophy; afterward she has to learn to confine herself to her own + domain—which is in the inmost depths of conscience, in the secret + recesses of the soul, where life communes with the Divine will and the + universal order. Piety is the daily renewing of the ideal, the steadying + of our inner being, agitated, troubled, and embittered by the common + accidents of existence. Prayer is the spiritual balm, the precious cordial + which restores to us peace and courage. It reminds us of pardon and of + duty. It says to us, “Thou art loved—love; thou hast received—give; + thou must die—labor while thou canst; overcome anger by kindness; + overcome evil with good. What does the blindness of opinion matter, or + misunderstanding, or ingratitude? Thou art neither bound to follow the + common example nor to succeed. <i>Fais ce que dois, advienne que pourra</i>. + Thou hast a witness in thy conscience; and thy conscience is God speaking + to thee!” + </p> + <p> + March 3, 1879.—The sensible politician is governed by considerations + of social utility, the public good, the greatest attainable good; the + political windbag starts from the idea of the rights of the individual—abstract + rights, of which the extent is affirmed, not demonstrated, for the + political right of the individual is precisely what is in question. The + revolutionary school always forgets that right apart from duty is a + compass with one leg. The notion of right inflates the individual fills + him with thoughts of self and of what others owe him, while it ignores the + other side of the question, and extinguishes his capacity for devoting + himself to a common cause. The state becomes a shop with self-interest for + a principle—or rather an arena, in which every combatant fights for + his own hand only. In either case self is the motive power. + </p> + <p> + Church and state ought to provide two opposite careers for the individual; + in the state he should be called on to give proof of merit—that is + to say, he should earn his rights by services rendered; in the church his + task should be to do good while suppressing his own merits, by a voluntary + act of humility. + </p> + <p> + Extreme individualism dissipates the moral substance of the individual. It + leads him to subordinate everything to himself, and to think the world; + society, the state, made for him. I am chilled by its lack of gratitude, + of the spirit of deference, of the instinct of solidarity. It is an ideal + without beauty and without grandeur. + </p> + <p> + But, as a consolation, the modern zeal for equality makes a counterpoise + for Darwinism, just as one wolf holds another wolf in check. Neither, + indeed, acknowledges the claim of duty. The fanatic for equality affirms + his right not to be eaten by his neighbor; the Darwinian states the fact + that the big devour the little, and adds—so much the better. Neither + the one nor the other has a word to say of love, of eternity, of kindness, + of piety, of voluntary submission, of self-surrender. + </p> + <p> + All forces and all principles are brought into action at once in this + world. The result is, on the whole, good. But the struggle itself is + hateful because it dislocates truth and shows us nothing but error pitted + against error, party against party; that is to say, mere halves and + fragments of being—monsters against monsters. A nature in love with + beauty cannot reconcile itself to the sight; it longs for harmony, for + something else than perpetual dissonance. The common condition of human + society must indeed be accepted; tumult, hatred, fraud, crime, the + ferocity of self-interest, the tenacity of prejudice, are perennial; but + the philosopher sighs over it; his heart is not in it; his ambition is to + see human history from a height; his ear is set to catch the music of the + eternal spheres. + </p> + <p> + March 15, 1879.—I have been turning over “Les histories de mon + Parrain” by Stahl, and a few chapters of “Nos Fils et nos Filles” by + Legouvé. These writers press wit, grace, gayety, and charm into the + service of goodness; their desire is to show that virtue is not so dull + nor common sense so tiresome as people believe. They are persuasive + moralists, captivating story-tellers; they rouse the appetite for good. + This pretty manner of theirs, however, has its dangers. A moral wrapped up + in sugar goes down certainly, but it may be feared that it only goes down + because of its sugar. The Sybarites of to-day will tolerate a sermon which + is delicate enough to flatter their literary sensuality; but it is their + taste which is charmed, not their conscience which is awakened; their + principle of conduct escapes untouched. + </p> + <p> + Amusement, instruction, morals, are distinct <i>genres</i>. They may no + doubt be mingled and combined, but if we wish to obtain direct and simple + effects, we shall do best to keep them apart. The well-disposed child, + besides, does not like mixtures which have something of artifice and + deception in them. Duty claims obedience; study requires application; for + amusement, nothing is wanted but good temper. To convert obedience and + application into means of amusement is to weaken the will and the + intelligence. These efforts to make virtue the fashion are praiseworthy + enough, but if they do honor to the writers, on the other hand they prove + the moral anaemia of society. When the digestion is unspoiled, so much + persuading is not necessary to give it a taste for bread. + </p> + <p> + May 22,1879. (Ascension Day).—Wonderful and delicious weather. Soft, + caressing sunlight—the air a limpid blue—twitterings of birds; + even the distant voices of the city have something young and springlike in + them. It is indeed a new birth. The ascension of the Saviour of men is + symbolized by this expansion, this heavenward yearning of nature.... I + feel myself born again; all the windows of the soul are clear. Forms, + lines, tints, reflections, sounds, contrasts, and harmonies, the general + play and interchange of things—it is all enchanting! The atmosphere + is steeped in joy. May is in full beauty. + </p> + <p> + In my courtyard the ivy is green again, the chestnut tree is full of leaf, + the Persian lilac beside the little fountain is flushed with red, and just + about to flower; through the wide openings to the right and left of the + old College of Calvin I see the Salève above the trees of St. Antoine, the + Voiron above the hill of Cologny; while the three flights of steps which, + from landing to landing, lead between two high walls from the Rue Verdaine + to the terrace of the Tranchées, recall to one’s imagination some old city + of the south, a glimpse of Perugia or of Malaga. + </p> + <p> + All the bells are ringing. It is the hour of worship. A historical and + religious impression mingles with the picturesque, the musical, the + poetical impressions of the scene. All the peoples of Christendom—all + the churches scattered over the globe—are celebrating at this moment + the glory of the Crucified. + </p> + <p> + And what are those many nations doing who have other prophets, and honor + the Divinity in other ways?—the Jews, the Mussulmans, the Buddhists, + the Vishnuists, the Guebers? They have other sacred days, other rites, + other solemnities, other beliefs. But all have some religion, some ideal + end for life—all aim at raising man above the sorrows and + smallnesses of the present, and of the individual existence. All have + faith in something greater than themselves, all pray, all bow, all adore; + all see beyond nature, Spirit, and beyond evil, Good. All bear witness to + the Invisible. Here we have the link which binds all peoples together. All + men are equally creatures of sorrow and desire, of hope and fear. All long + to recover some lost harmony with the great order of things, and to feel + themselves approved and blessed by the Author of the universe. All know + what suffering is, and yearn for happiness. All know what sin is, and feel + the need of pardon. + </p> + <p> + Christianity reduced to its original simplicity is the reconciliation of + the sinner with God, by means of the certainty that God loves in spite of + everything, and that he chastises because he loves. Christianity furnished + a new motive and a new strength for the achievement of moral perfection. + It made holiness attractive by giving to it the air of filial gratitude. + </p> + <p> + June 28, 1879.—Last lecture of the term and of the academic year. I + finished the exposition of modern philosophy, and wound up my course with + the precision I wished. The circle has returned upon itself. In order to + do this I have divided my hour into minutes, calculated my material, and + counted every stitch and point. This, however, is but a very small part of + the professorial science, It is a more difficult matter to divide one’s + whole material into a given number of lectures, to determine the right + proportions of the different parts, and the normal speed of delivery to be + attained. The ordinary lecturer may achieve a series of complete <i>séances</i>—the + unity being the <i>séance</i>. But a scientific course ought to aim at + something more—at a general unity of subject and of exposition. + </p> + <p> + Has this concise, substantial, closely-reasoned kind of work been useful + to my class? I cannot tell. Have my students liked me this year? I am not + sure, but I hope so. It seems to me they have. Only, if I have pleased + them, it cannot have been in any case more than a <i>succès d’estime</i>; + I have never aimed at any oratorical success. My only object is to light + up for them a complicated and difficult subject. I respect myself too + much, and I respect my class too much, to attempt rhetoric. My rôle is to + help them to understand. Scientific lecturing ought to be, above all + things, clear, instructive, well put together, and convincing. A lecturer + has nothing to do with paying court to the scholars, or with showing off + the master; his business is one of serious study and impersonal + exposition. To yield anything on this point would seem to me a piece of + mean utilitarianism. I hate everything that savors of cajoling and + coaxing. All such ways are mere attempts to throw dust in men’s eyes, mere + forms of coquetry and stratagem. A professor is the priest of his subject; + he should do the honors of it gravely and with dignity. + </p> + <p> + September 9, 1879.—“Non-being is perfect. Being, imperfect:” this + horrible sophism becomes beautiful only in the Platonic system, because + there Non-being is replaced by the Idea, which is, and which is divine. + </p> + <p> + The ideal, the chimerical, the vacant, should not be allowed to claim so + great a superiority to the Real, which, on its side, has the incomparable + advantage of existing. The Ideal kills enjoyment and content by + disparaging the present and actual. It is the voice which says No, like + Mephistopheles. No, you have not succeeded; no, your work is not good; no, + you are not happy; no, you shall not find rest—all that you see and + all that you do is insufficient, insignificant, overdone, badly done, + imperfect. The thirst for the ideal is like the goad of Siva, which only + quickens life to hasten death. Incurable longing that it is, it lies at + the root both of individual suffering and of the progress of the race. It + destroys happiness in the name of dignity. + </p> + <p> + The only positive good is order, the return therefore to order and to a + state of equilibrium. Thought without action is an evil, and so is action + without thought. The ideal is a poison unless it be fused with the real, + and the real becomes corrupt without the perfume of the ideal. Nothing is + good singly without its complement and its contrary. Self-examination is + dangerous if it encroaches upon self-devotion; reverie is hurtful when it + stupefies the will; gentleness is an evil when it lessens strength; + contemplation is fatal when it destroys character. “Too much” and “too + little” sin equally against wisdom. Excess is one evil, apathy another. + Duty may be defined as energy tempered by moderation; happiness, as + inclination calmed and tempered by self-control. + </p> + <p> + Just as life is only lent us for a few years, but is not inherent in us, + so the good which is in us is not our own. It is not difficult to think of + one’s self in this detached spirit. It only needs a little self-knowledge, + a little intuitive preception of the ideal, a little religion. There is + even much sweetness in this conception that we are nothing of ourselves, + and that yet it is granted to us to summon each other to life, joy, poetry + and holiness. + </p> + <p> + Another application of the law of irony: Zeno, a fatalist by theory, makes + his disciples heroes; Epicurus, the upholder of liberty, makes his + disciples languid and effeminate. The ideal pursued is the decisive point; + the stoical ideal is duty, whereas the Epicureans make an ideal out of an + interest. Two tendencies, two systems of morals, two worlds. In the same + way the Jansenists, and before them the great reformers, are for + predestination, the Jesuits for free-will—and yet the first founded + liberty, the second slavery of conscience. What matters then is not the + theoretical principle; it is the secret tendency, the aspiration, the aim, + which is the essential thing. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + At every epoch there lies, beyond the domain of what man knows, the domain + of the unknown, in which faith has its dwelling. Faith has no proofs, but + only itself, to offer. It is born spontaneously in certain commanding + souls; it spreads its empire among the rest by imitation and contagion. A + great faith is but a great hope which becomes certitude as we move farther + and farther from the founder of it; time and distance strengthen it, until + at last the passion for knowledge seizes upon it, questions, and examines + it. Then all which had once made its strength becomes its weakness; the + impossibility of verification, exaltation of feeling, distance. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + At what age is our view clearest, our eye truest? Surely in old age, + before the infirmities come which weaken or embitter. The ancients were + right. The old man who is at once sympathetic and disinterested, + necessarily develops the spirit of contemplation, and it is given to the + spirit of contemplation to see things most truly, because it alone + perceives them in their relative and proportional value. + </p> + <p> + January 2, 1880.—A sense of rest, of deep quiet even. Silence within + and without. A quietly-burning fire. A sense of comfort. The portrait of + my mother seems to smile upon me. I am not dazed or stupid, but only happy + in this peaceful morning. Whatever may be the charm of emotion, I do not + know whether it equals the sweetness of those hours of silent meditation, + in which we have a glimpse and foretaste of the contemplative joys of + paradise. Desire and fear, sadness and care, are done away. Existence is + reduced to the simplest form, the most ethereal mode of being, that is, to + pure self-consciousness. It is a state of harmony, without tension and + without disturbance, the dominical state of the soul, perhaps the state + which awaits it beyond the grave. It is happiness as the orientals + understand it, the happiness of the anchorite, who neither struggles nor + wishes any more, but simply adores and enjoys. It is difficult to find + words in which to express this moral situation, for our languages can only + render the particular and localized vibrations of life; they are incapable + of expressing this motionless concentration, this divine quietude, this + state of the resting ocean, which reflects the sky, and is master of its + own profundities. Things are then re-absorbed into their principles; + memories are swallowed up in memory; the soul is only soul, and is no + longer conscious of itself in its individuality and separateness. It is + something which feels the universal life, a sensible atom of the Divine, + of God. It no longer appropriates anything to itself, it is conscious of + no void. Only the Yogis and Soufis perhaps have known in its profundity + this humble and yet voluptuous state, which combines the joys of being and + of non-being, which is neither reflection nor will, which is above both + the moral existence and the intellectual existence, which is the return to + unity, to the pleroma, the vision of Plotinus and of Proclus—Nirvana + in its most attractive form. + </p> + <p> + It is clear that the western nations in general, and especially the + Americans, know very little of this state of feeling. For them life is + devouring and incessant activity. They are eager for gold, for power, for + dominion; their aim is to crush men and to enslave nature. They show an + obstinate interest in means, and have not a thought for the end. They + confound being with individual being, and the expansion of the self with + happiness—that is to say, they do not live by the soul; they ignore + the unchangeable and the eternal; they live at the periphery of their + being, because they are unable to penetrate to its axis. They are excited, + ardent, positive, because they are superficial. Why so much effort, noise, + struggle, and greed?—it is all a mere stunning and deafening of the + self. When death comes they recognize that it is so—why not then + admit it sooner? Activity is only beautiful when it is holy—that is + to say, when it is spent in the service of that which passeth not away. + </p> + <p> + February 6, 1880.—A feeling article by Edmond Scherer on the death + of Bersot, the director of the “Ecole Normale,” a philosopher who bore + like a stoic a terrible disease, and who labored to the last without a + complaint.... I have just read the four orations delivered over his grave. + They have brought the tears to my eyes. In the last days of this brave man + everything was manly, noble, moral, and spiritual. Each of the speakers + paid homage to the character, the devotion, the constancy, and the + intellectual elevation of the dead. “Let us learn from him how to live and + how to die.” The whole funeral ceremony had an antique dignity. + </p> + <p> + February 7, 1880.—Hoar-frost and fog, but the general aspect is + bright and fairylike, and has nothing in common with the gloom in Paris + and London, of which the newspapers tell us. + </p> + <p> + This silvery landscape has a dreamy grace, a fanciful charm, which are + unknown both to the countries of the sun and to those of coal-smoke. The + trees seem to belong to another creation, in which white has taken the + place of green. As one gazes at these alleys, these clumps, these groves + and arcades, these lace-like garlands and festoons, one feels no wish for + anything else; their beauty is original and self-sufficing, all the more + because the ground powdered with snow, the sky dimmed with mist, and the + smooth soft distances, combine to form a general scale of color, and a + harmonious whole, which charms the eye. No harshness anywhere—all is + velvet. My enchantment beguiled me out both before and after dinner. The + impression is that of a <i>fête</i>, and the subdued tints are, or seem to + be, a mere coquetry of winter which has set itself to paint something + without sunshine, and yet to charm the spectator. + </p> + <p> + February 9, 1880,—Life rushes on—so much the worse for the + weak and the stragglers. As soon as a man’s <i>tendo Achillis</i> gives + way he finds himself trampled under foot by the young, the eager, the + voracious. “<i>Vae victis, vae debilibus!</i>” yells the crowd, which in + its turn is storming the goods of this world. Every man is always in some + other man’s way, since, however small he may make himself, he still + occupies some space, and however little he may envy or possess, he is + still sure to be envied and his goods coveted by some one else. Mean + world!—peopled by a mean race! To console ourselves we must think of + the exceptions—of the noble and generous souls. There are such. What + do the rest matter! The traveler crossing the desert feels himself + surrounded by creatures thirsting for his blood; by day vultures fly about + his head; by night scorpions creep into his tent, jackals prowl around his + camp-fire, mosquitoes prick and torture him with their greedy sting; + everywhere menace, enmity, ferocity. But far beyond the horizon, and the + barren sands peopled by these hostile hordes, the wayfarer pictures to + himself a few loved faces and kind looks, a few true hearts which follow + him in their dreams—and smiles. When all is said, indeed, we defend + ourselves a greater or lesser number of years, but we are always conquered + and devoured in the end; there is no escaping the grave and its worm. + Destruction is our destiny, and oblivion our portion.... + </p> + <p> + How near is the great gulf! My skiff is thin as a nutshell, or even more + fragile still. Let the leak but widen a little and all is over for the + navigator. A mere nothing separates me from idiocy, from madness, from + death. The slightest breach is enough to endanger all this frail, + ingenious edifice, which calls itself my being and my life. + </p> + <p> + Not even the dragonfly symbol is enough to express its frailty; the + soap-bubble is the best poetical translation of all this illusory + magnificence, this fugitive apparition of the tiny self, which is we, and + we it. + </p> + <p> + ... A miserable night enough. Awakened three or four times by my + bronchitis. Sadness—restlessness. One of these winter nights, + possibly, suffocation will come. I realize that it would be well to keep + myself ready, to put everything in order.... To begin with, let me wipe + out all personal grievances and bitternesses; forgive all, judge no one; + in enmity and ill-will, see only misunderstanding. “As much as lieth in + you, be at peace with all men.” On the bed of death the soul should have + no eyes but for eternal things. All the littlenesses of life disappear. + The fight is over. There should be nothing left now but remembrance of + past blessings—adoration of the ways of God. Our natural instinct + leads us back to Christian humility and pity. “Father, forgive us our + trespasses, as we forgive them who trespass against us.” + </p> + <p> + Prepare thyself as though the coming Easter were thy last, for thy days + henceforward shall be few and evil. + </p> + <p> + February 11, 1880.—Victor de Laprade [Footnote: Victor de Laprade, + born 1812, first a disciple and imitator of Edgar Quinet, then the friend + of Lamartine, Lamennais, George Sand, Victor Hugo; admitted to the Academy + in 1857 in succession to Alfred de Musset. He wrote “Parfums de + Madeleine,” 1839; “Odes et Poèmes,” 1843; “Poèmes Evangéliques,” 1852; + “Idylles Héroiques,” 1858, etc. etc.] has elevation, grandeur, nobility, + and harmony. What is it, then, that he lacks? Ease, and perhaps humor. + Hence the monotonous solemnity, the excess of emphasis, the + over-intensity, the inspired air, the statue-like gait, which annoy one in + him. His is a muse which never lays aside the <i>cothurnus</i>, and a + royalty which never puts off its crown, even in sleep. The total absence + in him of playfulness, simplicity, familiarity, is a great defect. De + Laprade is to the ancients as the French tragedy is to that of Euripides, + or as the wig of Louis XIV. to the locks of Apollo. His majestic airs are + wearisome and factitious. If there is not exactly affectation in them, + there is at least a kind of theatrical and sacerdotal posing, a sort of + professional attitudinizing. Truth is not as fine as this, but it is more + living, more pathetic, more varied. Marble images are cold. Was it not + Musset who said, “If De Laprade is a poet, then I am not one?” + </p> + <p> + February 27, 1880.—I have finished translating twelve or fourteen + little poems by Petöfi. They have a strange kind of savor. There is + something of the Steppe, of the East, of Mazeppa, of madness, in these + songs, which seem to go to the beat of a riding-whip. What force and + passion, what savage brilliancy, what wild and grandiose images, there are + in them! One feels that the Magyar is a kind of Centaur, and that he is + only Christian and European by accident. The Hun in him tends toward the + Arab. + </p> + <p> + March 20, 1880.—I have been reading “La Bannière Bleue”—a + history of the world at the time of Genghis Khan, under the form of + memoirs. It is a Turk, Ouïgour, who tells the story. He shows us + civilization from the wrong side, or the other side, and the Asiatic + nomads appear as the scavengers of its corruptions. + </p> + <p> + Genghis proclaimed himself the scourge of God, and he did in fact realize + the vastest empire known to history, stretching from the Blue Sea to the + Baltic, and from the vast plains of Siberia to the banks of the sacred + Ganges. The most solid empires of the ancient world were overthrown by the + tramp of his horsemen and the shafts of his archers. From the tumult into + which he threw the western continent there issued certain vast results: + the fall of the Byzantine empire, involving the Renaissance, the voyages + of discovery in Asia, undertaken from both sides of the globe—that + is to say, Gama and Columbus; the formation of the Turkish empire; and the + preparation of the Russian empire. This tremendous hurricane, starting + from the high Asiatic tablelands, felled the decaying oaks and worm-eaten + buildings of the whole ancient world. The descent of the yellow, + flat-nosed Mongols upon Europe is a historical cyclone which devastated + and purified our thirteenth century, and broke, at the two ends of the + known world, through two great Chinese walls—that which protected + the ancient empire of the Center, and that which made a barrier of + ignorance and superstition round the little world of Christendom. Attila, + Genghis, Tamerlane, ought to range in the memory of men with Caesar, + Charlemagne, and Napoleon. They roused whole peoples into action, and + stirred the depths of human life, they powerfully affected ethnography, + they let loose rivers of blood, and renewed the face of things. The + Quakers will not see that there is a law of tempests in history as in + nature. The revilers of war are like the revilers of thunder, storms, and + volcanoes; they know not what they do. Civilization tends to corrupt men, + as large towns tend to vitiate the air. + </p> + <p> + “Nos patimur longae pacis mala.” + </p> + <p> + Catastrophes bring about a violent restoration of equilibrium; they put + the world brutally to rights. Evil chastises itself, and the tendency to + ruin in human things supplies the place of the regulator who has not yet + been discovered. No civilization can bear more than a certain proportion + of abuses, injustice, corruption, shame, and crime. When this proportion + has been reached, the boiler bursts, the palace falls, the scaffolding + breaks down; institutions, cities, states, empires, sink into ruin. The + evil contained in an organism is a virus which preys upon it, and if it is + not eliminated ends by destroying it. And as nothing is perfect, nothing + can escape death. + </p> + <p> + May 19, 1880.—<i>Inadaptibility</i>, due either to mysticism or + stiffness, delicacy or disdain, is the misfortune or at all events the + characteristic of my life. I have not been able to fit myself to anything, + to content myself with anything. I have never had the quantum of illusion + necessary for risking the irreparable. I have made use of the ideal itself + to keep me from any kind of bondage. It was thus with marriage: only + perfection would have satisfied me; and, on the other hand, I was not + worthy of perfection.... So that, finding no satisfaction in things, I + tried to extirpate desire, by which things enslave us. Independence has + been my refuge; detachment my stronghold. I have lived the impersonal life—in + the world, yet not in it, thinking much, desiring nothing. It is a state + of mind which corresponds with what in women is called a broken heart; and + it is in fact like it, since the characteristic common to both is despair. + When one knows that one will never possess what one could have loved, and + that one can be content with nothing less, one has, so to speak, left the + world, one has cut the golden hair, parted with all that makes human life—that + is to say, illusion—the incessant effort toward an apparently + attainable end. May 31, 1880.—Let us not be over-ingenious. There is + no help to be got out of subtleties. Besides, one must live. It is best + and simplest not to quarrel with any illusion, and to accept the + inevitable good-temperedly. Plunged as we are in human existence, we must + take it as it comes, not too bitterly, nor too tragically, without horror + and without sarcasm, without misplaced petulance or a too exacting + expectation; cheerfulness, serenity, and patience, these are best—let + us aim at these. Our business is to treat life as the grandfather treats + his granddaughter, or the grandmother her grandson; to enter into the + pretenses of childhood and the fictions of youth, even when we ourselves + have long passed beyond them. It is probable that God himself looks kindly + upon the illusions of the human race, so long as they are innocent. There + is nothing evil but sin—that is, egotism and revolt. And as for + error, man changes his errors frequently, but error of some sort is always + with him. Travel as one may, one is always somewhere, and one’s mind rests + on some point of truth, as one’s feet rest upon some point of the globe. + </p> + <p> + Society alone represents a more or less complete unity. The individual + must content himself with being a stone in the building, a wheel in the + immense machine, a word in the poem. He is a part of the family, of the + state, of humanity, of all the special fragments formed by human + interests, beliefs, aspirations, and labors. The loftiest souls are those + who are conscious of the universal symphony, and who give their full and + willing collaboration to this vast and complicated concert which we call + civilization. + </p> + <p> + In principle the mind is capable of suppressing all the limits which it + discovers in itself, limits of language, nationality, religion, race, or + epoch. But it must be admitted that the more the mind spiritualizes and + generalizes itself, the less hold it has on other minds, which no longer + understand it or know what to do with it. Influence belongs to men of + action, and for purposes of action nothing is more useful than narrowness + of thought combined with energy of will. + </p> + <p> + The forms of dreamland are gigantic, those of action are small and + dwarfed. To the minds imprisoned in things, belong success, fame, profit; + a great deal no doubt; but they know nothing of the pleasures of liberty + or the joy of penetrating the infinite. However, I do not mean to put one + class before another; for every man is happy according to his nature. + History is made by combatants and specialists; only it is perhaps not a + bad thing that in the midst of the devouring activities of the western + world, there should be a few Brahmanizing souls. + </p> + <p> + ... This soliloquy means—what? That reverie turns upon itself as + dreams do; that impressions added together do not always produce a fair + judgment; that a private journal is like a good king, and permits + repetitions, outpourings, complaint.... These unseen effusions are the + conversation of thought with itself the arpeggios involuntary but not + unconscious, of that aeolian harp we bear within us. Its vibrations + compose no piece, exhaust no theme, achieve no melody, carry out no + programme, but they express the innermost life of man. + </p> + <p> + June 1, 1880.—Stendhal’s “La Chartreuse de Parme.” A remarkable + book. It is even typical, the first of a class. Stendhal opens the series + of naturalist novels, which suppress the intervention of the moral sense, + and scoff at the claim of free-will. Individuals are irresponsible; they + are governed by their passions, and the play of human passions is the + observer’s joy, the artist’s material. Stendhal is a novelist after + Taine’s heart, a faithful painter who is neither touched nor angry, and + whom everything amuses—the knave and the adventuress as well as + honest men and women, but who has neither faith, nor preference, nor + ideal. In him literature is subordinated to natural history, to science. + It no longer forms part of the humanities, it no longer gives man the + honor of a separate rank. It classes him with the ant, the beaver, and the + monkey. And this moral indifference to morality leads direct to + immorality. + </p> + <p> + The vice of the whole school is cynicism, contempt for man, whom they + degrade to the level of the brute; it is the worship of strength, + disregard of the soul, a want of generosity, of reverence, of nobility, + which shows itself in spite of all protestations to the contrary; in a + word, it is <i>inhumanity</i>. No man can be a naturalist with impunity: + he will be coarse even with the most refined culture. A free mind is a + great thing no doubt, but loftiness of heart, belief in goodness, capacity + for enthusiasm and devotion, the thirst after perfection and holiness, are + greater things still. + </p> + <p> + June 7, 1880.—I am reading Madame Necker de Saussure [Footnote: + Madame Necker de Saussure was the daughter of the famous geologist, De + Saussure; she married a nephew of Jacques Necker, and was therefore cousin + by marriage of Madame de Staël. She is often supposed to be the original + of Madame de Cerlebe in “Delphine,” and the <i>Notice sur le Caractère et + les Écrits de Mdme. de Staël</i>, prefixed to the authoritative edition of + Madame de Staël’s collected works, is by her. Philanthropy and education + were her two main interests, but she had also a very large amount of + general literary cultivation, as was proved by her translation of + Schlegel’s “Lectures on Dramatic Literature.”] again. “L’Education + progressive” is an admirable book. What moderation and fairness of view, + what reasonableness and dignity of manner! Everything in it is of high + quality—observation, thought, and style. The reconciliation of + science with the ideal, of philosophy with religion, of psychology with + morals, which the book attempts, is sound and beneficent. It is a fine + book—a classic—and Geneva may be proud of a piece of work + which shows such high cultivation and so much solid wisdom. Here we have + the true Genevese literature, the central tradition of the country. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—I have finished the third volume of Madame Necker. The + elevation and delicacy, the sense and seriousness, the beauty and + perfection of the whole are astonishing. A few harshnesses or inaccuracies + of language do not matter. I feel for the author a respect mingled with + emotion. How rare it is to find a book in which everything is sincere and + everything is true! + </p> + <p> + June 26, 1880.—Democracy exists; it is mere loss of time to dwell + upon its absurdities and defects. Every <i>régime</i> has its weaknesses, + and this <i>régime</i> is a lesser evil than others. On things its effect + is unfavorable, but on the other hand men profit by it, for it develops + the individual by obliging every one to take interest in a multitude of + questions. It makes bad work, but it produces citizens. This is its + excuse, and a more than tolerable one; in the eyes of the philanthropist, + indeed, it is a serious title to respect, for, after all, social + institutions are made for man, and not <i>vice versâ</i>. + </p> + <p> + June 27, 1880.—I paid a visit to my friends—, and we resumed + the conversation of yesterday. We talked of the ills which threaten + democracy and which are derived from the legal fiction at the root of it. + Surely the remedy consists in insisting everywhere upon the truth which + democracy systematically forgets, and which is its proper makeweight—on + the inequalities of talent, of virtue, and merit, and on the respect due + to age, to capacity, to services rendered. Juvenile arrogance and jealous + ingratitude must be resisted all the more strenuously because social forms + are in their favor; and when the institutions of a country lay stress only + on the rights of the individual, it is the business of the citizen to lay + all the more stress on duty. There must be a constant effort to correct + the prevailing tendency of things. All this, it is true, is nothing but + palliative, but in human society one cannot hope for more. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—Alfred de Vigny is a sympathetic writer, with a + meditative turn of thought, a strong and supple talent. He possesses + elevation, independence, seriousness, originality, boldness and grace; he + has something of everything. He paints, describes, and judges well; he + thinks, and has the courage of his opinions. His defect lies in an excess + of self-respect, in a British pride and reserve which give him a horror of + familiarity and a terror of letting himself go. This tendency has + naturally injured his popularity as a writer with a public whom he holds + at arm’s length as one might a troublesome crowd. The French race has + never cared much about the inviolability of personal conscience; it does + not like stoics shut up in their own dignity as in a tower, and + recognizing no master but God, duty or faith. Such strictness annoys and + irritates it; it is merely piqued and made impatient by anything solemn. + It repudiated Protestantism for this very reason, and in all crises it has + crushed those who have not yielded to the passionate current of opinion. + </p> + <p> + July 1, 1880. (<i>Three o’clock</i>).—The temperature is oppressive; + I ought to be looking over my notes, and thinking of to-morrow’s + examinations. Inward distaste—emptiness—discontent. Is it + trouble of conscience, or sorrow of heart? or the soul preying upon + itself? or merely a sense of strength decaying and time running to waste? + Is sadness—or regret—or fear—at the root of it? I do not + know; but this dull sense of misery has danger in it; it leads to rash + efforts and mad decisions. Oh, for escape from self, for something to + stifle the importunate voice of want and yearning! Discontent is the + father of temptation. How can we gorge the invisible serpent hidden at the + bottom of our well—gorge it so that it may sleep? + </p> + <p> + At the heart of all this rage and vain rebellion there lies—what? + Aspiration, yearning! We are athirst for the infinite—for love—for + I know not what. It is the instinct of happiness, which, like some wild + animal, is restless for its prey. It is God calling-God avenging himself. + </p> + <p> + July 4, 1880. (<i>Sunday, half-past eight in the morning</i>).—The + sun has come out after heavy rain. May one take it as an omen on this + solemn day? The great voice of Clémence has just been sounding in our + ears. The bell’s deep vibrations went to my heart. For a quarter of an + hour the pathetic appeal went on—“Geneva, Geneva, remember! I am + called <i>Clémence</i>—I am the voice of church and of country. + People of Geneva, serve God and be at peace together.” [Footnote: A law to + bring about separation between Church and State, adopted by the Great + Council, was on this day submitted to the vote of the Genevese people. It + was rejected by a large majority (9,306 against 4,044).—[S.]] + </p> + <p> + <i>Seven o’clock in the evening</i>.—<i>Clémence</i> has been + ringing again, during the last half-hour of the <i>scrutin</i>. Now that + she has stopped, the silence has a terrible seriousness, like that which + weighs upon a crowd when it is waiting for the return of the judge and the + delivery of the death sentence. The fate of the Genevese church and + country is now in the voting box. + </p> + <p> + <i>Eleven o’clock in the evening</i>.—Victory along the whole line. + The Ayes have carried little more than two-sevenths of the vote. At my + friend——‘s house I found them all full of excitement, + gratitude, and joy. + </p> + <p> + July 5, 1880.—There are some words which have still a magical virtue + with the mass of the people: those of State, Republic, Country, Nation, + Flag, and even, I think, Church. Our skeptical and mocking culture knows + nothing of the emotion, the exaltation, the delirium, which these words + awaken in simple people. The blasés of the world have no idea how the + popular mind vibrates to these appeals, by which they themselves are + untouched. It is their punishment; it is also their infirmity. Their + temper is satirical and separatist; they live in isolation and sterility. + </p> + <p> + I feel again what I felt at the time of the Rousseau centenary; my feeling + and imagination are chilled and repelled by those Pharisaical people who + think themselves too good to associate with the crowd. + </p> + <p> + At the same time, I suffer from an inward contradiction, from a two-fold, + instinctive repugnance—an aesthetic repugnance toward vulgarity of + every kind, a moral repugnance toward barrenness and coldness of heart. + </p> + <p> + So that personally I am only attracted by the individuals of cultivation + and eminence, while on the other hand nothing is sweeter to me than to + feel myself vibrating in sympathy with the national spirit, with the + feeling of the masses. I only care for the two extremes, and it is this + which separates me from each of them. + </p> + <p> + Our everyday life, split up as it is into clashing parties and opposed + opinions, and harassed by perpetual disorder and discussion, is painful + and almost hateful to me. A thousand things irritate and provoke me. But + perhaps it would be the same elsewhere. Very likely it is the inevitable + way of the world which displeases me—the sight of what succeeds, of + what men approve or blame, of what they excuse or accuse. I need to + admire, to feel myself in sympathy and in harmony with my neighbor, with + the march of things, and the tendencies of those around me, and almost + always I have had to give up the hope of it. I take refuge in retreat, to + avoid discord. But solitude is only a <i>pis-aller</i>. + </p> + <p> + July 6, 1880.—Magnificent weather. The college prize-day. [Footnote: + The prize-giving at the College of Geneva is made the occasion of a + national festival.] Toward evening I went with our three ladies to the + plain of Plainpalais. There was an immense crowd, and I was struck with + the bright look of the faces. The festival wound up with the traditional + fireworks, under a calm and starry sky. Here we have the republic indeed, + I thought as I came in. For a whole week this people has been + out-of-doors, camping, like the Athenians on the Agora. Since Wednesday + lectures and public meetings have followed one another without + intermission; at home there are pamphlets and the newspapers to be read; + while speech-making goes on at the clubs. On Sunday, <i>plebiscite</i>; + Monday, public procession, service at St. Pierre, speeches on the Molard, + festival for the adults. Tuesday, the college fête-day. Wednesday, the + fête-day of the primary schools. + </p> + <p> + Geneva is a caldron always at boiling-point, a furnace of which the fires + are never extinguished. Vulcan had more than one forge, and Geneva is + certainly one of those world-anvils on which the greatest number of + projects have been hammered out. When one thinks that the martyrs of all + causes have been at work here, the mystery is explained a little; but the + truest explanation is that Geneva—republican, protestant, + democratic, learned, and enterprising Geneva—has for centuries + depended on herself alone for the solution of her own difficulties. Since + the Reformation she has been always on the alert, marching with a lantern + in her left hand and a sword in her right. It pleases me to see that she + has not yet become a mere copy of anything, and that she is still capable + of deciding for herself. Those who say to her, “Do as they do at New York, + at Paris, at Rome, at Berlin,” are still in the minority. The <i>doctrinaires</i> + who would split her up and destroy her unity waste their breath upon her. + She divines the snare laid for her and turns away. I like this proof of + vitality. Only that which is original has a sufficient reason for + existence. A country in which the word of command comes from elsewhere is + nothing more than a province. This is what our Jacobins and our + Ultramontanes never will recognize. Neither of them understand the meaning + of self-government, and neither of them have any idea of the dignity of a + historical state and an independent people. + </p> + <p> + Our small nationalities are ruined by the hollow cosmopolitan formulae + which have an equally disastrous effect upon art and letters. The modern + <i>isms</i> are so many acids which dissolve everything living and + concrete. No one achieves a masterpiece, nor even a decent piece of work, + by the help of realism, liberalism, or romanticism. Separatism has even + less virtue than any of the other <i>isms</i>, for it is the abstraction + of a negation, the shadow of a shadow. The various <i>isms</i> of the + present are not fruitful principles: they are hardly even explanatory + formulae. They are rather names of disease, for they express some element + in excess, some dangerous and abusive exaggeration. Examples: empiricism, + idealism, radicalism. What is best among things and most perfect among + beings slips through these categories. The man who is perfectly well is + neither sanguineous—[to use the old medical term]—nor bilious + nor nervous. A normal republic contains opposing parties and points of + view, but it contains them, as it were, in a state of chemical + combination. All the colors are contained in a ray of light, while red + alone does not contain a sixth part of the perfect ray. + </p> + <p> + July 8, 1880.—It is thirty years since I read Waagen’s book on + “Museums,” which my friend —— is now reading. It was in 1842 + that I was wild for pictures; in 1845 that I was studying Krause’s + philosophy; in 1850 that I became professor of aesthetics. —— + may be the same age as I am; it is none the less true that when a + particular stage has become to me a matter of history, he is just arriving + at it. This impression of distance and remoteness is a strange one. I + begin to realize that my memory is a great catacomb, and that below my + actual standing-ground there is layer after layer of historical ashes. + </p> + <p> + Is the life of mind something like that of great trees of immemorial + growth? Is the living layer of consciousness super-imposed upon hundreds + of dead layers? <i>Dead?</i> No doubt this is too much to say, but still, + when memory is slack the past becomes almost as though it had never been. + To remember that we did know once is not a sign of possession but a sign + of loss; it is like the number of an engraving which is no longer on its + nail, the title of a volume no longer to be found on its shelf. My mind is + the empty frame of a thousand vanished images. Sharpened by incessant + training, it is all culture, but it has retained hardly anything in its + meshes. It is without matter, and is only form. It no longer has + knowledge; it has become method. It is etherealized, algebraicized. Life + has treated it as death treats other minds; it has already prepared it for + a further metamorphosis. Since the age of sixteen onward I have been able + to look at things with the eyes of a blind man recently operated upon—that + is to say, I have been able to suppress in myself the results of the long + education of sight, and to abolish distances; and now I find myself + regarding existence as though from beyond the tomb, from another world; + all is strange to me; I am, as it were, outside my own body and + individuality; I am <i>depersonalized</i>, detached, cut adrift. Is this + madness? No. Madness means the impossibility of recovering one’s normal + balance after the mind has thus played truant among alien forms of being, + and followed Dante to invisible worlds. Madness means incapacity for + self-judgment and self-control. Whereas it seems to me that my mental + transformations are but philosophical experiences. I am tied to none. I am + but making psychological investigations. At the same time I do not hide + from myself that such experiences weaken the hold of common sense, because + they act as solvents of all personal interests and prejudices. I can only + defend myself against them by returning to the common life of men, and by + bracing and fortifying the will. + </p> + <p> + July 14, 1880.—What is the book which, of all Genevese literature, I + would soonest have written? Perhaps that of Madame Necker de Saussure, or + Madame de Staël’s “L’Allemagne.” To a Genevese, moral philosophy is still + the most congenial and remunerative of studies. Intellectual seriousness + is what suits us least ill. History, politics, economical science, + education, practical philosophy—these are our subjects. We have + everything to lose in the attempt to make ourselves mere Frenchified + copies of the Parisians: by so doing we are merely carrying water to the + Seine. Independent criticism is perhaps easier at Geneva than at Paris, + and Geneva ought to remain faithful to her own special line, which, as + compared with that of France, is one of greater freedom from the tyranny + of taste and fashion on the one hand, and the tyranny of ruling opinion on + the other—of Catholicism or Jacobinism. Geneva should be to <i>La + Grande Nation</i> what Diogenes was to Alexander; her role is to represent + the independent thought and the free speech which is not dazzled by + prestige, and does not blink the truth. It is true that the rôle is an + ungrateful one, that it lends itself to sarcasm and misrepresentation—but + what matter? + </p> + <p> + July 28, 1880.—This afternoon I have had a walk in the sunshine, and + have just come back rejoicing in a renewed communion with nature. The + waters of the Rhone and the Arve, the murmur of the river, the austerity + of its banks, the brilliancy of the foliage, the play of the leaves, the + splendor of the July sunlight, the rich fertility of the fields, the + lucidity of the distant mountains, the whiteness of the glaciers under the + azure serenity of the sky, the sparkle and foam of the mingling rivers, + the leafy masses of the La Bâtie woods—all and everything delighted + me. It seemed to me as though the years of strength had come back to me. I + was overwhelmed with sensations. I was surprised and grateful. The + universal life carried me on its breast; the summer’s caress went to my + heart. Once more my eyes beheld the vast horizons, the soaring peaks, the + blue lakes, the winding valleys, and all the free outlets of old days. And + yet there was no painful sense of longing. The scene left upon me an + indefinable impression, which was neither hope, nor desire, nor regret, + but rather a sense of emotion, of passionate impulse, mingled with + admiration and anxiety. I am conscious at once of joy and of want; beyond + what I possess I see the impossible and the unattainable; I gauge my own + wealth and poverty; in a word, I am and I am not—my inner state is + one of contradiction, because it is one of transition. The ambiguity of it + is characteristic of human nature, which is ambiguous, because it is flesh + becoming spirit, space changing into thought, the Finite looking dimly out + upon the Infinite, intelligence working its way through love and pain. + </p> + <p> + Man is the <i>sensorium commune</i> of nature, the point at which all + values are interchanged. Mind is the plastic medium, the principle, and + the result of all; at once material and laboratory, product and formula, + sensation, expression, and law; that which is, that which does, that which + knows. All is not mind, but mind is in all, and contains all. It is the + consciousness of being—that is, Being raised to the second power. If + the universe subsists, it is because the Eternal mind loves to perceive + its own content, in all its wealth and expansion—especially in its + stages of preparation. Not that God is an egotist. He allows myriads upon + myriads of suns to disport themselves in his shadow; he grants life and + consciousness to innumerable multitudes of creatures who thus participate + in being and in nature; and all these animated monads multiply, so to + speak, his divinity. + </p> + <p> + August 4, 1880.—I have read a few numbers of the <i>Feuille Centrale + de Zofingen</i>. [Footnote: The journal of a students’ society, drawn from + the different cantons of Switzerland, which meets every year in the little + town of Zofingen] It is one of those perpetual new beginnings of youth + which thinks it is producing something fresh when it is only repeating the + old. + </p> + <p> + Nature is governed by continuity—the continuity of repetition; it is + like an oft-told tale, or the recurring burden of a song. The rose-trees + are never tired of rose-bearing, the birds of nest-building, young hearts + of loving, or young voices of singing the thoughts and feelings which have + served their predecessors a hundred thousand times before. Profound + monotony in universal movement—there is the simplest formula + furnished by the spectacle of the world. All circles are alike, and every + existence tends to trace its circle. + </p> + <p> + How, then, is <i>fastidium</i> to be avoided? By shutting our eyes to the + general uniformity, by laying stress upon the small differences which + exist, and then by learning to enjoy repetition. What to the intellect is + old and worn-out is perennially young and fresh to the heart; curiosity is + insatiable, but love is never tired. The natural preservative against + satiety, too, is work. What we do may weary others, but the personal + effort is at least useful to its author. Where every one works, the + general life is sure to possess charm and savor, even though it repeat + forever the same song, the same aspirations, the same prejudices, and the + same sighs. “To every man his turn,” is the motto of mortal beings. If + what they do is old, they themselves are new; when they imitate, they + think they are inventing. They have received, and they transmit. <i>E + sempre bene!</i> + </p> + <p> + August 24, 1880.—As years go on I love the beautiful more than the + sublime, the smooth more than the rough, the calm nobility of Plato more + than the fierce holiness of the world’s Jeremiahs. The vehement barbarian + is to me the inferior of the mild and playful Socrates. My taste is for + the well-balanced soul and the well-trained heart—for a liberty + which is not harsh and insolent, like that of the newly enfranchised + slave, but lovable. The temperament which charms me is that in which one + virtue leads naturally to another. All exclusive and sharply-marked + qualities are but so many signs of imperfection. + </p> + <p> + August 29, 1880.—To-day I am conscious of improvement. I am taking + advantage of it to go back to my neglected work and my interrupted habits; + but in a week I have grown several months older—that is easy to see. + The affection of those around me makes them pretend not to see it; but the + looking-glass tells the truth. The fact does not take away from the + pleasure of convalescence; but still one hears in it the shuttle of + destiny, and death seems to be nearing rapidly, in spite of the halts and + truces which are granted one. The most beautiful existence, it seems to + me, would be that of a river which should get through all its rapids and + waterfalls not far from its rising, and should then in its widening course + form a succession of rich valleys, and in each of them a lake equally but + diversely beautiful, to end, after the plains of age were past, in the + ocean where all that is weary and heavy-laden comes to seek for rest. How + few there are of these full, fruitful, gentle lives! What is the use of + wishing for or regretting them? It is Wiser and harder to see in one’s own + lot the best one could have had, and to say to one’s self that after all + the cleverest tailor cannot make us a coat to fit us more closely than our + skin. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Le vrai nom du bonheur est le contentement.” + </pre> + <p> + ... The essential thing, for every one is to accept his destiny. Fate has + deceived you; you have sometimes grumbled at your lot; well, no more + mutual reproaches; go to sleep in peace. + </p> + <p> + August 30, 1880. (<i>Two o’clock</i>).—Rumblings of a grave and + distant thunder. The sky is gray but rainless; the sharp little cries of + the birds show agitation and fear; one might imagine it the prelude to a + symphony or a catastrophe. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quel éclair te traverse, ô mon coeur soucieux?” + </pre> + <p> + Strange—all the business of the immediate neighborhood is going on; + there is even more movement than usual; and yet all these noises are, as + it were, held suspended in the silence—in a soft, positive silence, + which they cannot disguise—silence akin to that which, in every + town, on one day of the week, replaces the vague murmur of the laboring + hive. Such silence at such an hour is extraordinary. There is something + expectant, contemplative, almost anxious in it. Are there days on which + “the little breath” of Job produces more effect than tempest? on which a + dull rumbling on the distant horizon is enough to suspend the concert of + voices, like the roaring of a desert lion at the fall of night? + </p> + <p> + September 9, 1880.—It seems to me that with the decline of my active + force I am becoming more purely spirit; everything is growing transparent + to me. I see the types, the foundation of beings, the sense of things. + </p> + <p> + All personal events, all particular experiences, are to me texts for + meditation, facts to be generalized into laws, realities to be reduced to + ideas. Life is only a document to be interpreted, matter to be + spiritualized. Such is the life of the thinker. Every day he strips + himself more and more of personality. If he consents to act and to feel, + it is that he may the better understand; if he wills, it is that he may + know what will is. Although it is sweet to him to be loved, and he knows + nothing else so sweet, yet there also he seems to himself to be the + occasion of the phenomenon rather than its end. He contemplates the + spectacle of love, and love for him remains a spectacle. He does not even + believe his body his own; he feels the vital whirlwind passing through him—lent + to him, as it were, for a moment, in order that he may perceive the cosmic + vibrations. He is a mere thinking subject; he retains only the form of + things; he attributes to himself the material possession of nothing + whatsoever; he asks nothing from life but wisdom. This temper of mind + makes him incomprehensible to all that loves enjoyment, dominion, + possession. He is fluid as a phantom that we see but cannot grasp; he + resembles a man, as the <i>manes</i> of Achilles or the shade of Creusa + resembled the living. Without having died, I am a ghost. Other men are + dreams to me, and I am a dream to them. + </p> + <p> + <i>Later</i>—Consciousness in me takes no account of the category of + time, and therefore all the partitions which tend to make of life a palace + with a thousand rooms, do not exist in my case; I am still in the + primitive unicellular state. I possess myself only as Monad and as Ego, + and I feel my faculties themselves reabsorbed into the substance which + they have individualized. All the endowment of animality is, so to speak, + repudiated; all the produce of study and of cultivation is in the same way + annulled; the whole crystallization is redissolved into fluid; the whole + rainbow is withdrawn within the dewdrop; consequences return to the + principle, effects to the cause, the bird to the egg, the organism to its + germ. + </p> + <p> + This psychological reinvolution is an anticipation of death; it represents + the life beyond the grave, the return to school, the soul fading into the + world of ghosts, or descending into the region of <i>Die Mütter</i>; it + implies the simplification of the individual who, allowing all the + accidents of personality to evaporate, exists henceforward only in the + indivisible state, the state of point, of potentiality, of pregnant + nothingness. Is not this the true definition of mind? Is not mind, + dissociated from space and time, just this? Its development, past or + future, is contained in it just as a curve is contained in its algebraical + formula. This nothing is an all. This <i>punctum</i> without dimensions is + a <i>punctum saliens</i>. What is the acorn but the oak which has lost its + branches, its leaves, its trunk, and its roots—that is to say, all + its apparatus, its forms, its particularities—but which is still + present in concentration, in essence, in a force which contains the + possibility of complete revival? + </p> + <p> + This impoverishment, then, is only superficially a loss, a reduction. To + be reduced to those elements in one which are eternal, is indeed to die + but not to be annihilated: it is simply to become virtual again. + </p> + <p> + October 9, 1880. (<i>Clarens</i>).—A walk. Deep feeling and + admiration. Nature was so beautiful, so caressing, so poetical, so + maternal. The sunlight, the leaves, the sky, the bells, all said to me—“Be + of good strength and courage, poor bruised one. This is nature’s kindly + season; here is forgetfulness, calm, and rest. Faults and troubles, + anxieties and regrets, cares and wrongs, are but one and the same burden. + We make no distinctions; we comfort all sorrows, we bring peace, and with + us is consolation. Salvation to the weary, salvation to the afflicted, + salvation to the sick, to sinners, to all that suffer in heart, in + conscience, and in body. We are the fountain of blessing; drink and live! + God maketh his sun to rise upon the just and upon the unjust. There is + nothing grudging in his munificence; he does not weigh his gifts like a + moneychanger, or number them like a cashier. Come—there is enough + for all!” + </p> + <p> + October 29, 1880. (<i>Geneva</i>).—The ideal which a man professes + may itself be only a matter of appearance—a device for misleading + his neighbor, or deluding himself. The individual is always ready to claim + for himself the merits of the badge under which he fights; whereas, + generally speaking, it is the contrary which happens. The nobler the + badge, the less estimable is the wearer of it. Such at least is the + presumption. It is extremely dangerous to pride one’s self on any moral or + religious specialty whatever. Tell me what you pique yourself upon, and I + will tell you what you are not. + </p> + <p> + But how are we to know what an individual is? First of all by his acts; + but by something else too—something which is only perceived by + intuition. Soul judges soul by elective affinity, reaching through and + beyond both words and silence, looks and actions. + </p> + <p> + The criterion is subjective, I allow, and liable to error; but in the + first place there is no safer one, and in the next, the accuracy of the + judgment is in proportion to the moral culture of the judge. Courage is an + authority on courage, goodness on goodness, nobleness on nobleness, + loyalty on uprightness. We only truly know what we have, or what we have + lost and regret, as, for example, childish innocence, virginal purity, or + stainless honor. The truest and best judge, then, is Infinite Goodness, + and next to it, the regenerated sinner or the saint, the man tried by + experience or the sage. Naturally, the touchstone in us becomes finer and + truer the better we are. + </p> + <p> + November 3, 1880.—What impression has the story I have just read + made upon me? A mixed one. The imagination gets no pleasure out of it, + although the intellect is amused. Why? Because the author’s mood is one of + incessant irony and <i>persiflage</i>. The Voltairean tradition has been + his guide—a great deal of wit and satire, very little feeling, no + simplicity. It is a combination of qualities which serves eminently well + for satire, for journalism, and for paper warfare of all kinds, but which + is much less suitable to the novel or short story, for cleverness is not + poetry, and the novel is still within the domain of poetry, although on + the frontier. The vague discomfort aroused in one by these epigrammatic + productions is due probably to a confusion of kinds. Ambiguity of style + keeps one in a perpetual state of tension and self-defense; we ought not + to be left in doubt whether the speaker is jesting or serious, mocking or + tender. Moreover, banter is not humor, and never will be. I think, indeed, + that the professional wit finds a difficulty in being genuinely comic, for + want of depth and disinterested feeling. To laugh at things and people is + not really a joy; it is at best but a cold pleasure. Buffoonery is + wholesomer, because it is a little more kindly. The reason why continuous + sarcasm repels us is that it lacks two things—humanity and + seriousness. Sarcasm implies pride, since it means putting one’s self + above others—and levity, because conscience is allowed no voice in + controlling it. In short, we read satirical books, but we only love and + cling to the books in which there is <i>heart</i>. + </p> + <p> + November 22, 1880.—How is ill-nature to be met and overcome? First, + by humility: when a man knows his own weaknesses, why should he be angry + with others for pointing them out? No doubt it is not very amiable of them + to do so, but still, truth is on their side. Secondly, by reflection: + after all we are what we are, and if we have been thinking too much of + ourselves, it is only an opinion to be modified; the incivility of our + neighbor leaves us what we were before. Above all, by pardon: there is + only one way of not hating those who do us wrong, and that is by doing + them good; anger is best conquered by kindness. Such a victory over + feeling may not indeed affect those who have wronged us, but it is a + valuable piece of self-discipline. It is vulgar to be angry on one’s own + account; we ought only to be angry for great causes. Besides, the poisoned + dart can only be extracted from the wound by the balm of a silent and + thoughtful charity. Why do we let human malignity embitter us? why should + ingratitude, jealousy—perfidy even—enrage us? There is no end + to recriminations, complaints, or reprisals. The simplest plan is to blot + everything out. Anger, rancor, bitterness, trouble the soul. Every man is + a dispenser of justice; but there is one wrong that he is not bound to + punish—that of which he himself is the victim. Such a wrong is to be + healed, not avenged. Fire purifies all. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Mon âme est comme un feu qui dévore et parfume + Ce qu’on jette pour le ternir.” + </pre> + <p> + December 27, 1880—In an article I have just read, Biedermann + reproaches Strauss with being too negative, and with having broken with + Christianity. The object to be pursued, according to him, should be the + freeing of religion from the mythological element, and the substitution of + another point of view for the antiquated dualism of orthodoxy—this + other point of view to be the victory over the world, produced by the + sense of divine sonship. + </p> + <p> + It is true that another question arises: has not a religion which has + separated itself from special miracle, from local interventions of the + supernatural, and from mystery, lost its savor and its efficacy? For the + sake of satisfying a thinking and instructed public, is it wise to + sacrifice the influence of religion over the multitude? Answer. A pious + fiction is still a fiction. Truth has the highest claim. It is for the + world to accommodate itself to truth, and not <i>vice versâ</i>. + Copernicus upset the astronomy of the Middle Ages—so much the worse + for it! The Eternal Gospel revolutionizes modern churches—what + matter! When symbols become transparent, they have no further binding + force. We see in them a poem, an allegory, a metaphor; but we believe in + them no longer. Yes, but still a certain esotericism is inevitable, since + critical, scientific, and philosophical culture is only attainable by a + minority. The new faith must have its symbols too. At present the effect + it produces on pious souls is a more or less profane one; it has a + disrespectful, incredulous, frivolous look, and it seems to free a man + from traditional dogma at the cost of seriousness of conscience. How are + sensitiveness of feeling, the sense of sin, the desire for pardon, the + thirst for holiness, to be preserved among us, when the errors which have + served them so long for support and food have been eliminated? Is not + illusion indispensable? is it not the divine process of education? + </p> + <p> + Perhaps the best way is to draw a deep distinction between opinion and + belief, and between belief and science. The mind which discerns these + different degrees may allow itself imagination and faith, and still remain + within the lines of progress. + </p> + <p> + December 28, 1880.—There are two modes of classing the people we + know: the first is utilitarian—it starts from ourselves, divides our + friends from our enemies, and distinguishes those who are antipathetic to + us, those who are indifferent, those who can serve or harm us; the second + is disinterested—it classes men according to their intrinsic value, + their own qualities and defects, apart from the feelings which they have + for us, or we for them. + </p> + <p> + My tendency is to the second kind of classification. I appreciate men less + by the special affection which they show to me than by their personal + excellence, and I cannot confuse gratitude with esteem. It is a happy + thing for us when the two feelings can be combined; and nothing is more + painful than to owe gratitude where yet we can feel neither respect nor + confidence. + </p> + <p> + I am not very willing to believe in the permanence of accidental states. + The generosity of a miser, the good nature of an egotist, the gentleness + of a passionate temperament, the tenderness of a barren nature, the piety + of a dull heart, the humility of an excitable self-love, interest me as + phenomena—nay, even touch me if I am the object of them, but they + inspire me with very little confidence. I foresee the end of them too + clearly. Every exception tends to disappear and to return to the rule. All + privilege is temporary, and besides, I am less flattered than anxious when + I find myself the object of a privilege. + </p> + <p> + A man’s primitive character may be covered over by alluvial deposits of + culture and acquisition—none the less is it sure to come to the + surface when years have worn away all that is accessory and adventitious. + I admit indeed the possibility of great moral crises which sometimes + revolutionize the soul, but I dare not reckon on them. It is a possibility—not + a probability. In choosing one’s friends we must choose those whose + qualities are inborn, and their virtues virtues of temperament. To lay the + foundations of friendship on borrowed or added virtues is to build on an + artificial soil; we run too many risks by it. + </p> + <p> + Exceptions are snares, and we ought above all to distrust them when they + charm our vanity. To catch and fix a fickle heart is a task which tempts + all women; and a man finds something intoxicating in the tears of + tenderness and joy which he alone has had the power to draw from a proud + woman. But attractions of this kind are deceptive. Affinity of nature + founded on worship of the same ideal, and perfect in proportion to + perfectness of soul, is the only affinity which is worth anything. True + love is that which ennobles the personality, fortifies the heart, and + sanctifies the existence. And the being we love must not be mysterious and + sphinx-like, but clear and limpid as a diamond; so that admiration and + attachment may grow with knowledge. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Jealousy is a terrible thing. It resembles love, only it is precisely + love’s contrary. Instead of wishing for the welfare of the object loved, + it desires the dependence of that object upon itself, and its own triumph. + Love is the forgetfulness of self; jealousy is the most passionate form of + egotism, the glorification of a despotic, exacting, and vain <i>ego</i>, + which can neither forget nor subordinate itself. The contrast is perfect. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Austerity in women is sometimes the accompaniment of a rare power of + loving. And when it is so their attachment is strong as death; their + fidelity as resisting as the diamond; they are hungry for devotion and + athirst for sacrifice. Their love is a piety, their tenderness a religion, + and they triple the energy of love by giving to it the sanctity of duty. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To the spectator over fifty, the world certainly presents a good deal that + is new, but a great deal more which is only the old furbished up—mere + plagiarism and modification, rather than amelioration. Almost everything + is a copy of a copy, a reflection of a reflection, and the perfect being + is as rare now as he ever was. Let us not complain of it; it is the reason + why the world lasts. Humanity improves but slowly; that is why history + goes on. + </p> + <p> + Is not progress the goad of Siva? It excites the torch to burn itself + away; it hastens the approach of death. Societies which change rapidly + only reach their final catastrophe the sooner. Children who are too + precocious never reach maturity. Progress should be the aroma of life, not + its substance. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Man is a passion which brings a will into play, which works an + intelligence—and thus the organs which seem to be in the service of + intelligence, are in reality only the agents of passion. For all the + commoner sorts of being, determinism is true: inward liberty exists only + as an exception and as the result of self-conquest. And even he who has + tasted liberty is only free intermittently and by moments. True liberty, + then, is not a continuous state; it is not an indefeasible and invariable + quality. We are free only so far as we are not dupes of ourselves, our + pretexts, our instincts, our temperament. We are freed by energy and the + critical spirit—that is to say, by detachment of soul, by + self-government. So that we are enslaved, but susceptible of freedom; we + are bound, but capable of shaking off our bonds. The soul is caged, but it + has power to flutter within its cage. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Material results are but the tardy sign of invisible activities. The + bullet has started long before the noise of the report has reached us. The + decisive events of the world take place in the intellect. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Sorrow is the most tremendous of all realities in the sensible world, but + the transfiguration of sorrow after the manner of Christ is a more + beautiful solution of the problem than the extirpation of sorrow, after + the method of Çakyamouni. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Life should be a giving birth to the soul, the development of a higher + mode of reality. The animal must be humanized; flesh must be made spirit; + physiological activity must be transmuted into intellect and conscience, + into reason, justice, and generosity, as the torch is transmuted into life + and warmth. The blind, greedy, selfish nature of man must put on beauty + and nobleness. This heavenly alchemy is what justifies our presence on the + earth: it is our mission and our glory. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + To renounce happiness and think only of duty, to put conscience in the + place of feeling—this voluntary martyrdom has its nobility. The + natural man in us flinches, but the better self submits. To hope for + justice in the world is a sign of sickly sensibility; we must be able to + do without it. True manliness consists in such independence. Let the world + think what it will of us, it is its own affair. If it will not give us the + place which is lawfully ours until after our death, or perhaps not at all, + it is but acting within its right. It is our business to behave as though + our country were grateful, as though the world were equitable, as though + opinion were clear-sighted, as though life were just, as though men were + good. + </p> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /><br /> + </p> + <p> + Death itself may become matter of consent, and therefore a moral act. The + animal expires; man surrenders his soul to the author of the soul. + </p> + <p> + [With the year 1881, beginning with the month of January, we enter upon + the last period of Amiel’s illness. Although he continued to attend to his + professional duties, and never spoke of his forebodings, he felt himself + mortally ill, as we shall see by the following extracts from the Journal. + Amiel wrote up to the end, doing little else, however, toward the last + than record the progress of his disease, and the proofs of interest and + kindliness which he received. After weeks of suffering and pain a state of + extreme weakness gradually gained upon him. His last lines are dated the + 29th of April; it was on the 11th of May that he succumbed, without a + struggle, to the complicated disease from which he suffered.—S.] + </p> + <p> + January 5, 1881.—I think I fear shame more than death. Tacitus said: + <i>Omnia serviliter pro dominatione</i>. My tendency is just the contrary. + Even when it is voluntary, dependence is a burden to me. I should blush to + find myself determined by interest, submitting to constraint, or becoming + the slave of any will whatever. To me vanity is slavery, self-love + degrading, and utilitarianism meanness. I detest the ambition which makes + you the liege man of something or some-one—I desire to be simply my + own master. + </p> + <p> + If I had health I should be the freest man I know. Although perhaps a + little hardness of heart would be desirable to make me still more + independent. + </p> + <p> + Let me exaggerate nothing. My liberty is only negative. Nobody has any + hold over me, but many things have become impossible to me, and if I were + so foolish as to wish for them, the limits of my liberty would soon become + apparent. Therefore I take care not to wish for them, and not to let my + thoughts dwell on them. I only desire what I am able for, and in this way + I run my head against no wall, I cease even to be conscious of the + boundaries which enclose me. I take care to wish for rather less than is + in my power, that I may not even be reminded of the obstacles in my way. + Renunciation is the safeguard of dignity. Let us strip ourselves if we + would not be stripped. He who has freely given up his life may look death + in the face: what more can it take away from him? Do away with desire and + practice charity—there you have the whole method of Buddha, the + whole secret of the great Deliverance.... + </p> + <p> + It is snowing, and my chest is troublesome. So that I depend on nature and + on God. But I do not depend on human caprice; this is the point to be + insisted on. It is true that my chemist may make a blunder and poison me, + my banker may reduce me to pauperism, just as an earthquake may destroy my + house without hope of redress. Absolute independence, therefore, is a pure + chimera. But I do possess relative independence—that of the stoic + who withdraws into the fortress of his will, and shuts the gates behind + him. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Jurons, excepté Dieu, de n’avoir point de maître.” + </pre> + <p> + This oath of old Geneva remains my motto still. + </p> + <p> + January 10, 1881.—To let one’s self be troubled by the ill-will, the + ingratitude, the indifference, of others, is a weakness to which I am very + much inclined. It is painful to me to be misunderstood, ill-judged. I am + wanting in manly hardihood, and the heart in me is more vulnerable than it + ought to be. It seems to me, however, that I have grown tougher in this + respect than I used to be. The malignity of the world troubles me less + than it did. Is it the result of philosophy, or an effect of age, or + simply caused by the many proofs of respect and attachment that I have + received? These proofs were just what were wanting to inspire me with some + self-respect. Otherwise I should have so easily believed in my own nullity + and in the insignificance of all my efforts. Success is necessary for the + timid, praise is a moral stimulus, and admiration a strengthening elixir. + We think we know ourselves, but as long as we are ignorant of our + comparative value, our place in the social assessment, we do not know + ourselves well enough. If we are to act with effect, we must count for + something with our fellow-men; we must feel ourselves possessed of some + weight and credit with them, so that our effort may be rightly + proportioned to the resistance which has to be overcome. As long as we + despise opinion we are without a standard by which to measure ourselves; + we do not know our relative power. I have despised opinion too much, while + yet I have been too sensitive to injustice. These two faults have cost me + dear. I longed for kindness, sympathy, and equity, but my pride forbade me + to ask for them, or to employ any address or calculation to obtain + them.... I do not think I have been wrong altogether, for all through I + have been in harmony with my best self, but my want of adaptability has + worn me out, to no purpose. Now, indeed, I am at peace within, but my + career is over, my strength is running out, and my life is near its end. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Il n’est plus temps pour rien excepté pour mourir.” + </pre> + <p> + This is why I can look at it all historically. + </p> + <p> + January 23, 1881.—A tolerable night, but this morning the cough has + been frightful. Beautiful weather, the windows ablaze with sunshine. With + my feet on the fender I have just finished the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + At this moment I feel well, and it seems strange to me that my doom should + be so near. Life has no sense of kinship with death. This is why, no + doubt, a sort of mechanical instinctive hope is forever springing up + afresh in us, troubling our reason, and casting doubt on the verdict of + science. All life is tenacious and persistent. It is like the parrot in + the fable, who, at the very moment when its neck is being wrung, still + repeats with its last breath: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Cela, cela, ne sera rien.” + </pre> + <p> + The intellect puts the matter at its worst, but the animal protests. It + will not believe in the evil till it comes. Ought one to regret it? + Probably not. It is nature’s will that life should defend itself against + death; hope is only the love of life; it is an organic impulse which + religion has taken under its protection. Who knows? God may save us, may + work a miracle. Besides, are we ever sure that there is no remedy? + Uncertainty is the refuge of hope. We reckon the doubtful among the + chances in our favor. Mortal frailty clings to every support. How be angry + with it for so doing? Even with all possible aids it hardly ever escapes + desolation and distress. The supreme solution is, and always will be, to + see in necessity the fatherly will of God, and so to submit ourselves and + bear our cross bravely, as an offering to the Arbiter of human destiny. + The soldier does not dispute the order given him: he obeys and dies + without murmuring. If he waited to understand the use of his sacrifice, + where would his submission be? + </p> + <p> + It occurred to me this morning how little we know of each other’s physical + troubles; even those nearest and dearest to us know nothing of our + conversations with the King of Terrors. There are thoughts which brook no + confidant: there are griefs which cannot be shared. Consideration for + others even bids us conceal them. We dream alone, we suffer alone, we die + alone, we inhabit the last resting-place alone. But there is nothing to + prevent us from opening our solitude to God. And so what was an austere + monologue becomes dialogue, reluctance becomes docility, renunciation + passes into peace, and the sense of painful defeat is lost in the sense of + recovered liberty. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Vouloir ce que Dieu veut est la seule science + Qui nous met en repos.” + </pre> + <p> + None of us can escape the play of contrary impulse; but as soon as the + soul has once recognized the order of things and submitted itself thereto, + then all is well. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Comme un sage mourant puissions nous dire en paix: + J’ai trop longtemps erré, cherché; je me trompais: + Tout est bien, mon Dieu m’enveloppe.” + </pre> + <p> + January 28, 1881.—A terrible night. For three or four hours I + struggled against suffocation and looked death in the face.... It is clear + that what awaits me is suffocation—asphyxia. I shall die by choking. + </p> + <p> + I should not have chosen such a death; but when there is no option, one + must simply resign one’s self, and at once.... Spinoza expired in the + presence of the doctor whom he had sent for. I must familiarize myself + with the idea of dying unexpectedly, some fine night, strangled by + laryngitis. The last sigh of a patriarch surrounded by his kneeling family + is more beautiful: my fate indeed lacks beauty, grandeur, poetry; but + stoicism consists in renunciation. <i>Abstine et sustine</i>. + </p> + <p> + I must remember besides that I have faithful friends; it is better not to + torment them. The last journey is only made more painful by scenes and + lamentations: one word is worth all others—“Thy will, not mine, be + done!” Leibnitz was accompanied to the grave by his servant only. The + loneliness of the deathbed and the tomb is not an evil. The great mystery + cannot be shared. The dialogue between the soul and the King of Terrors + needs no witnesses. It is the living who cling to the thought of last + greetings. And, after all, no one knows exactly what is reserved for him. + What will be will be. We have but to say, “Amen.” + </p> + <p> + February 4, 1881.—It is a strange sensation that of laying one’s + self down to rest with the thought that perhaps one will never see the + morrow. Yesterday I felt it strongly, and yet here I am. Humility is made + easy by the sense of excessive frailty, but it cuts away all ambition. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Quittez le long espoir et les vastes pensées.” + </pre> + <p> + A long piece of work seems absurd—one lives but from day to day. + </p> + <p> + When a man can no longer look forward in imagination to five years, a + year, a month, of free activity—when he is reduced to counting the + hours, and to seeing in the coming night the threat of an unknown fate—it + is plain that he must give up art, science, and politics, and that he must + be content to hold converse with himself, the one possibility which is his + till the end. Inward soliloquy is the only resource of the condemned man + whose execution is delayed. He withdraws upon the fastnesses of + conscience. His spiritual force no longer radiates outwardly; it is + consumed in self-study. Action is cut off—only contemplation + remains. He still writes to those who have claims upon him, but he bids + farewell to the public, and retreats into himself. Like the hare, he comes + back to die in his form, and this form is his consciousness, his intellect—the + journal, too, which has been the companion of his inner life. As long as + he can hold a pen, as long as he has a moment of solitude, this echo of + himself still claims his meditation, still represents to him his converse + with his God. + </p> + <p> + In all this, however, there is nothing akin to self-examination: it is not + an act of contrition, or a cry for help. It is simply an Amen of + submission—“My child, give me thy heart!” + </p> + <p> + Renunciation and acquiescence are less difficult to me than to others, for + I desire nothing. I could only wish not to suffer, but Jesus on + Gethesemane allowed himself to make the same prayer; let us add to it the + words that he did: “Nevertheless, not my will, but thine, be done,”—and + wait. + </p> + <p> + ... For many years past the immanent God has been more real to me than the + transcendent God, and the religion of Jacob has been more alien to me than + that of Kant, or even Spinoza. The whole Semitic dramaturgy has come to + seem to me a work of the imagination. The apostolic documents have changed + in value and meaning to my eyes. Belief and truth have become distinct to + me with a growing distinctness. Religious psychology has become a simple + phenomenon, and has lost its fixed and absolute value. The apologetics of + Pascal, of Leibnitz, of Secrétan, are to me no more convincing than those + of the Middle Ages, for they presuppose what is really in question—a + revealed doctrine, a definite and unchangeable Christianity. It seems to + me that what remains to me from all my studies is a new phenomenology of + mind, an intuition of universal metamorphosis. All particular convictions, + all definite principles, all clear-cut formulas and fixed ideas, are but + prejudices, useful in practice, but still narrownesses of the mind. The + absolute in detail is absurd and contradictory. All political, religious, + aesthetic, or literary parties are protuberances, misgrowths of thought. + Every special belief represents a stiffening and thickening of thought; a + stiffening, however, which is necessary in its time and place. Our monad, + in its thinking capacity, overleaps the boundaries of time and space and + of its own historical surroundings; but in its individual capacity, and + for purposes of action, it adapts itself to current illusions, and puts + before itself a definite end. It is lawful to be <i>man</i>, but it is + needful also to be <i>a</i> man, to be an individual. Our rôle is thus a + double one. Only, the philosopher is specially authorized to develop the + first rôle, which the vast majority of humankind neglects. + </p> + <p> + February 7, 1881.—Beautiful sunshine to-day. But I have scarcely + spring enough left in me to notice it. Admiration, joy, presuppose a + little relief from pain. Whereas my neck is tired with the weight of my + head, and my heart is wearied with the weight of life; this is not the + aesthetic state. + </p> + <p> + I have been thinking over different things which I might have written. But + generally speaking we let what is most original and best in us be wasted. + We reserve ourselves for a future which never comes. <i>Omnis mortar</i>. + </p> + <p> + February 14, 1881.—Supposing that my weeks are numbered, what duties + still remain to me to fulfill, that I may leave all in order? I must give + every one his due; justice, prudence, kindness must be satisfied; the last + memories must be sweet ones. Try to forget nothing useful, nor anybody who + has a claim upon thee! February 15, 1881.—I have, very reluctantly, + given up my lecture at the university, and sent for my doctor. On my + chimney-piece are the flowers which —— has sent me. Letters + from London, Paris, Lausanne, Neuchatel ... They seem to me like wreaths + thrown into a grave. + </p> + <p> + Mentally I say farewell to all the distant friends whom I shall never see + again. + </p> + <p> + February 18, 1881.—Misty weather. A fairly good night. Still, the + emaciation goes on. That is to say, the vulture allows me some respite, + but he still hovers over his prey. The possibility of resuming my official + work seems like a dream to me. + </p> + <p> + Although just now the sense of ghostly remoteness from life which I so + often have is absent, I feel myself a prisoner for good, a hopeless + invalid. This vague intermediate state, which is neither death nor life, + has its sweetness, because if it implies renunciation, still it allows of + thought. It is a reverie without pain, peaceful and meditative. Surrounded + with affection and with books, I float down the stream of time, as once I + glided over the Dutch canals, smoothly and noiselessly. It is as though I + were once more on board the <i>Treckschute</i>. Scarcely can one hear even + the soft ripple of the water furrowed by the barge, or the hoof of the + towing horse trotting along the sandy path. A journey under these + conditions has something fantastic in it. One is not sure whether one + still exists, still belongs to earth. It is like the <i>manes</i>, the + shadows, flitting through the twilight of the <i>inania regna</i>. + Existence has become fluid. From the standpoint of complete personal + renunciation I watch the passage of my impressions, my dreams, thoughts, + and memories.... It is a mood of fixed contemplation akin to that which we + attribute to the seraphim. It takes no interest in the individual self, + but only in the specimen monad, the sample of the general history of mind. + Everything is in everything, and the consciousness examines what it has + before it. Nothing is either great or small. The mind adopts all modes, + and everything is acceptable to it. In this state its relations with the + body, with the outer world, and with other individuals, fade out of sight. + <i>Selbst-bewusstsein</i> becomes once more impersonal <i>Bewusstsein</i>, + and before personality can be reacquired, pain, duty, and will must be + brought into action. + </p> + <p> + Are these oscillations between the personal and the impersonal, between + pantheism and theism, between Spinoza and Leibnitz, to be regretted? No, + for it is the one state which makes us conscious of the other. And as man + is capable of ranging the two domains, why should he mutilate himself? + </p> + <p> + February 22, 1881.—The march of mind finds its typical expression in + astronomy—no pause, but no hurry; orbits, cycles, energy, but at the + same time harmony; movement and yet order; everything has its own weight + and its relative weight, receives and gives forth light. Cannot this + cosmic and divine become oars? Is the war of all against all, the preying + of man upon man, a higher type of balanced action? I shrink form believing + it. Some theorists imagine that the phase of selfish brutality is the last + phase of all. They must be wrong. Justice will prevail, and justice is not + selfishness. Independence of intellect, combined with goodness of heart, + will be the agents of a result, which will be the compromise required. + </p> + <p> + March 1, 1881.—I have just been glancing over the affairs of the + world in the newspaper. What a Babel it is! But it is very pleasant to be + able to make the tour of the planet and review the human race in an hour. + It gives one a sense of ubiquity. A newspaper in the twentieth century + will be composed of eight or ten daily bulletins—political, + religious, scientific, literary, artistic, commercial, meteorological, + military, economical, social, legal, and financial; and will be divided + into two parts only—<i>Urbs</i> and <i>Orbis</i>. The need of + totalizing, of simplifying, will bring about the general use of such + graphic methods as permit of series and comparisons. We shall end by + feeling the pulse of the race and the globe as easily as that of a sick + man, and we shall count the palpitations of the universal life, just as we + shall hear the grass growing, or the sunspots clashing, and catch the + first stirrings of volcanic disturbances. Activity will become + consciousness; the earth will see herself. Then will be the time for her + to blush for her disorders, her hideousness, her misery, her crime and to + throw herself at last with energy and perseverance into the pursuit of + justice. When humanity has cut its wisdom-teeth, then perhaps it will have + the grace to reform itself, and the will to attempt a systematic reduction + of the share of the evil in the world. The <i>Weltgeist</i> will pass from + the state of instinct to the moral state. War, hatred, selfishness, fraud, + the right of the stronger, will be held to be old-world barbarisms, mere + diseases of growth. The pretenses of modern civilization will be replaced + by real virtues. Men will be brothers, peoples will be friends, races will + sympathize one with another, and mankind will draw from love a principle + of emulation, of invention, and of zeal, as powerful as any furnished by + the vulgar stimulant of interest. This millennium—will it ever be? + It is at least an act of piety to believe in it. + </p> + <p> + March 14, 1881.—I have finished Mérimée’s letters to Panizzi. + Mérimée died of the disease which torments me—“<i>Je tousse, et + j’étouffe</i>.” Bronchitis and asthma, whence defective assimilation, and + finally exhaustion. He, too, tried arsenic, wintering at Cannes, + compressed air. All was useless. Suffocation and inanition carried off the + author of “Colomba.” <i>Hic tua res agitur</i>. The gray, heavy sky is of + the same color as my thoughts. And yet the irrevocable has its own + sweetness and serenity. The fluctuations of illusion, the uncertainties of + desire, the leaps and bounds of hope, give place to tranquil resignation. + One feels as though one were already beyond the grave. It is this very + week, too, I remember, that my corner of ground in the Oasis is to be + bought. Everything draws toward the end. <i>Festinat ad eventum</i>. + </p> + <p> + March 15, 1881.—The “Journal” is full of details of the horrible + affair at Petersburg. How clear it is that such catastrophes as this, in + which the innocent suffer, are the product of a long accumulation of + iniquities. Historical justice is, generally speaking, tardy—so + tardy that it becomes unjust. The Providential theory is really based on + human solidarity. Louis XVI. pays for Louis XV., Alexander II. for + Nicholas. We expiate the sins of our fathers, and our grandchildren will + be punished for ours. A double injustice! cries the individual. And he is + right if the individualist principle is true. But is it true? That is the + point. It seems as though the individual part of each man’s destiny were + but one section of that destiny. Morally we are responsible for what we + ourselves have willed, but socially, our happiness and unhappiness depend + on causes outside our will. Religion answers—“Mystery, obscurity, + submission, faith. Do your duty; leave the rest to God.” + </p> + <p> + March 16, 1881.—A wretched night. A melancholy morning.... The two + stand-bys of the doctor, digitalis and bromide, seem to have lost their + power over me. Wearily and painfully I watch the tedious progress of my + own decay. What efforts to keep one’s self from dying! I am worn out with + the struggle. + </p> + <p> + Useless and incessant struggle is a humiliation to one’s manhood. The lion + finds the gnat the most intolerable of his foes. The natural man feels the + same. But the spiritual man must learn the lesson of gentleness and + long-suffering. The inevitable is the will of God. We might have preferred + something else, but it is our business to accept the lot assigned us.... + One thing only is necessary— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Garde en mon coeur la foi dans ta volonté sainte, + Et de moi fais, ô Dieu, tout ce que tu voudras.” + </pre> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—One of my students has just brought me a sympathetic + message from my class. My sister sends me a pot of azaleas, rich in + flowers and buds;——sends roses and violets: every one spoils + me, which proves that I am ill. + </p> + <p> + March 19, 1881.—Distaste—discouragement. My heart is growing + cold. And yet what affectionate care, what tenderness, surrounds me!... + But without health, what can one do with all the rest? What is the good of + it all to me? What was the good of Job’s trials? They ripened his + patience; they exercised his submission. + </p> + <p> + Come, let me forget myself, let me shake off this melancholy, this + weariness. Let me think, not of all that is lost, but of all that I might + still lose. I will reckon up my privileges; I will try to be worthy of my + blessings. + </p> + <p> + March 21, 1881.—This invalid life is too Epicurean. For five or six + weeks now I have done nothing else but wait, nurse myself, and amuse + myself, and how weary one gets of it! What I want is work. It is work + which gives flavor to life. Mere existence without object and without + effort is a poor thing. Idleness leads to languor, and languor to disgust. + Besides, here is the spring again, the season of vague desires, of dull + discomforts, of dim aspirations, of sighs without a cause. We dream + wide-awake. We search darkly for we know not what; invoking the while + something which has no name, unless it be happiness or death. + </p> + <p> + March 28, 1881.—I cannot work; I find it difficult to exist. One may + be glad to let one’s friends spoil one for a few months; it is an + experience which is good for us all; but afterward? How much better to + make room for the living, the active, the productive. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Tircis, voici le temps de prendre sa retraite.” + </pre> + <p> + Is it that I care so much to go on living? I think not. It is health that + I long for—freedom from suffering. + </p> + <p> + And this desire being vain, I can find no savor in anything else. Satiety. + Lassitude. Renunciation. Abdication. “In your patience possess ye your + souls.” + </p> + <p> + April 10, 1881. (<i>Sunday</i>).—Visit to ——. She read + over to me letters of 1844 to 1845—letters of mine. So much promise + to end in so meager a result! What creatures we are! I shall end like the + Rhine, lost among the sands, and the hour is close by when my thread of + water will have disappeared. + </p> + <p> + Afterward I had a little walk in the sunset. There was an effect of + scattered rays and stormy clouds; a green haze envelops all the trees— + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Et tout renaît, et déjà l’aubépine + A vu l’abeille accourir à ses fleurs,” + —but to me it all seems strange already. +</pre> + <p> + <i>Later</i>.—What dupes we are of our own desires!... Destiny has + two ways of crushing us—by refusing our wishes and by fulfilling + them. But he who only wills what God wills escapes both catastrophes. “All + things work together for his good.” + </p> + <p> + April 14, 1881.—Frightful night; the fourteenth running, in which I + have been consumed by sleeplessness.... + </p> + <p> + April 15, 1881.—To-morrow is Good Friday, the festival of pain. I + know what it is to spend days of anguish and nights of agony. Let me bear + my cross humbly.... I have no more future. My duty is to satisfy the + claims of the present, and to leave everything in order. Let me try to end + well, seeing that to undertake and even to continue, are closed to me. + </p> + <p> + April 19, 1881.—A terrible sense of oppression. My flesh and my + heart fail me. + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Que vivre est difficile, ô mon coeur fatigué!” + </pre> + <div style="height: 6em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Amiel’s Journal, by Henri-Frédéric Amiel + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK AMIEL’S JOURNAL *** + +***** This file should be named 8545-h.htm or 8545-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/8/5/4/8545/ + + +Text file produced by Charles Aldarondo, Tiffany Vergon, Tonya Allen, +Charles Franks and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +HTML file produced by David Widger + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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