Intellectual Origins of the French Enlightenment 9781400873012

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THE I N T E L L E C T U A L ORIGINS OF T H E

French Enlightenment

THE INTELLECTUAL ORIGINS

of the French Enlightenment

Ira O. Wade P R I N C E T O N , NEW JERSEY PRINCETON

UNIVERSITY

I97I

PRESS

Copyright © 1971 by Princeton University Press ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

L.C. Card: 70-132244 ISBN: 0-691-06052-5

This book has been composed in Linotype Granjon

Printed in the United States of America by Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey

To UiC. H. "Dimmi pur, prego, s'tu se' morta ο vival" "Viva son io, e tu se' morto ancora',' Diss' ella "e sarai sempre, in fin che giunga per levarti di terra I'ultima ora. Ma Ί tempo e breve e nostra voglia e lunga."

CONTENTS Introduction

ix

Part I. Enlightenments We Have Known i. The Changing Picture of the Enlightenment 2. Some Attempts at Definition 3. Theories on the Origins of the Enlightenment

3 15 28

Part II. The Renaissance Enlightenment 4. The Challenge of the Renaissance 5. The Response of Renaissance Man Castiglione and the Reconstruction of Social Man Rabelais's Reconstruction of Vitalism Montaigne's Intellectual Reconstruction of the Ego Bodin's Reconstruction of the State Bacon's Reconstruction of Learning

61 77 78 79 84 107 118

Part III. Enlightenment and Baroque „ 6. The Conditions of Baroque Thought Religion Religion and Skepticism Religion and Humanism Religion and the Free-Thinkers Religion and Science (1543-1633) The Organization of Knowledge 7. The Intellectual Response of Baroque Man Five French Free-Thinkers The Role of the Philosophers in the Baroque Gassendi's Matter Descartes's Spirit Hobbes' State Pascal's Jansenism Spinoza and the Ethical Problem of Deus sive Natura

131 133 137 146 152 155 162 169 173 206 206 230 267 283 322

Part IV. Enlightenment and Classicism 8. The Conditions of French Classicism • VIl ·

349

CONTENTS

9. Travel Fiction and the Drive for Continuity 10. Two Classical Free-Thinkers Moliere La Fontaine 11. The Structuring of Enlightenment Attitudes The Role of the Philosophers Malebranche and Tout en Dieu Leibniz and Universal Harmony Loc\e and the Power of Ideas Newton and Nature's Laws Pierre Bayle and the History of Ideas The Quarrel of the Ancients and the Moderns The Beginning of Reform

361 392 392 404 418 418 418 436 483 532 542 624 631

Conclusion: The Maying of a Spirit

644

Bibliography

661

Index

669

• viii ·

INTRODUCTION HAVE wished to assemble in some coherent way the events, chiefly of an intellectual order, which led from 1348, the year of the great plague in Florence and the beginning of modern times, to the Enlightenment. I have found, though, that it is not easy to isolate those events which are intellectual from those others which are, so to speak, not subject to rational control. What is more, intellectual events are never separated from people thinking, doing, being, becoming. To understand the quality of the event, it has been necessary for me to become acquainted with some of these people. Nor has that been an easy matter because in addition to the unavoidable tendency of human beings to inconsistencies, contradictions, and incoherences they are now, having entered history, presented by biographers who differ widely in the interpretation of each as a consistent, coherent, well-organized human being. Being a fervid reader of Montaigne, I should have been prepared for this eventuality, of course. My most serious difficulty has come from an attempt to put together the events, the people, and the ideas, and to follow their movements as they developed from the two or three previous centuries to the beginning of the Enlightenment. Naturally, I wished to give them a consistency, a coherence, and an organization which would explain the formation of the Enlightenment. Ideas have as much variability and contradiction in their make-up as people, however, and probably for the simple reason that they are closely affiliated with people. The result of my experience with my subject has been so trying that I have wondered on several occasions whether I have one. I hasten to add that were I to accept that verdict, I would be forced to dispose quietly of my manuscript. That would, perhaps, have been a wise move, and I do not doubt that some of my critics will lament that I did not do so. I expect this kind of ungenerous remark particularly from those who, because they have been far too sensible to undertake an enterprise of this sort, have never fallen into these questionings and consequently will have some trouble in comprehending that they are difficulties. Indeed, when I was still feverishly gathering my material, a group of my close friends, after listening to my expressed intentions to undertake this burden and the frustra-

I

• ix ·

INTRODUCTION

tions which even then I was encountering, strongly urged, in the name of friendship not wholly divorced from malice, that I desist from this nonsense and look for something more simple. It appears to me that the premisses under which I have been toiling are simple enough. It is very possible that history is a lie in the sense that it never relates the whole truth, or that it never adequately relates one truth to another. It nonetheless has always tried to group its phenomena in coherent and consistent ways. Moreover, it wants to have an inner reality and a personality of its own; it does endeavor to develop a certain vivacity which it identifies as its spirit. Granted that there is a thing, movement, or period called the Enlightenment, it would seem perfecdy legitimate to inquire into its reality, to ex­ amine its personality, and to seek its spirit. This has, indeed, been attempted any number of times, by historians much wiser and cer­ tainly more competent than I am. I shall endeavor to summarize their presentations in a chapter of this work, where I shall dem­ onstrate that there is very little agreement among them as to what happened, or when, and less still as to how it occurred, and practi­ cally none at all as to what was its total effect. It has struck me as curious that each critic presents unabashedly his Enlightenment in the name of objective science, and while I would be the last person on earth to deplore these personal creations, I cannot help wondering if it is altogether cricket to create a historical period outside of that period's reality and foist it upon the public as authentic. My first task has been to assemble these private Enlightenments to see if I can work out some agreements among them. This En­ lightenment by common consent has been placed alongside the En­ lightenment which actually happened in an effort to establish a broader agreement between the two. The ultimate goal, however, is the reality of the Enlightenment: its origins, its development into an organic something, its consequences. In this volume I confine myself to the origins, and, if all goes well, I hope to devote a sub­ sequent volume to the Enlightenment proper, and a final one to the consequences in our present day of the whole movement. Need­ less to say, I have made every effort to assemble, coordinate, and, in a few cases, supplement the remarkable contributions of my prede­ cessors. In arranging my presentation in this tripartite way, I am merely following the general tendencies of eighteenth-century scholarship ' χ ·

INTRODUCTION

during the past sixty years, in which we have had many excellent studies upon aspects of the whole movement. One has only to mention Hazard's excellent Crise de la conscience europoenne, i68o-iyi$ or his De Montesquieu a Lessing, Lanson's Origines et premieres manifestations de I'esprit philosophique en France, K. Martin's French Liberal Thought in the Eighteenth Century, Mornet's Origines intellectuelles de la revolution frangaise, Busson's De Charron a Pascal, and his La Religion des classiques, Pintard's Le Libertinage erudit, and above all Cassirer's The Philosophy of the Enlightenment to cite only a few outstanding works dealing with this subject.1 In all this material, a decided effort can be noted to pass from a study of the Enlightenment's origins to its inner content and thence to its consequences. At first glance, most of the intellectual energy seems to have been expended upon the origins. Ever since the Lanson articles mentioned above there has been a number of very fine works— especially those of Hazard—dealing with the sources of eighteenthcentury thought. One of the things to note in these works is the steady effort to push the beginnings of this thought back into the seventeenth century (Busson and Pintard), and then into the sixteenth (Busson and L. Febvre). It should also be remarked that there is an obvious trend to identify the history of eighteenth-century ideas with the history of rationalism, with the movement of Christian apologetics, or with the subsequent Revolution. While Lanson, Hazard, and Busson delved into the problem of origins, others became preoccupied with the Enlightenment's content. Cassirer's Philosophy of the Enlightenment, Mornet's Origines intellectuelles de la revolution frangaise, and Martin's French Liberal Thought are excellent examples of this preoccupation. The general tendency of this group is to reduce the content of eighteenth-century thought to some schematized pattern: Mornet and Belin to intellectual history, Martin to a particular political doctrine, Cassirer to a history of philosophy. Mornet, however, achieved a further development. Beginning as a historian of ideas at the positivistic level (perhaps of all of Lanson's students he was the one who best understood the possibilities and limitations of the method), he early acquired an interest which pointed away from origins to a consideration of consequences. More and more he turned from rationalism to romanticism and to the 1

A full bibliography is given in Cabeen's Bibliography. • Xl ·

INTRODUCTION

Rousseau influence. His works—Le Sentiment de la nature de JeanJacques Rousseau a Bernardin de St.-Pierre (1907), Les Sciences de la nature en France au XVIIF Steele (1911), and Le Romantisme en Trance au XVIIV Steele (1912)—attest a decided effort to find in the foundations of eighteenth-century ideas those romantic elements which had been thought characteristic of the nineteenth century. Indeed, Mornet's works have done as much to pull the nineteenth century into the eighteenth as Hazard's did to push the eighteenth into the seventeenth and Busson's to move the seventeenth into the sixteenth. Moreover, Mornet has been followed by a group of schol­ ars who extended this tendency: Monglond's Histoire intirieure du ρτέ-romantisme frangais (Grenoble, 1929), Trahard's Les Maitres de la sensibilite jrangaise, iji^-ij8g (1931-33), and Folkierski's Entre Ie classicisme et Ie romantisme (1925) trace the general trend of eighteenth-century ideas away from rationalism toward romanticism. In the meantime, Hazard, along with Professors Baldensperger and Ascoli, fostered the studies in comparative literature so needed for a comprehension of the inner vitality of the eighteenth century and so essential to give breadth and scope to the Enlightenment. One of the noteworthy characteristics of all this criticism is its very solid French nature. We have only to read the titles to become aware how amazingly French it is. But the Enlightenment is certainly a phenomenon of Western civilization. With the organization of the comparative literature group, a wider spread became possible. Ha­ zard's interest represented the Latin heritage as seen in FrancoItalian relations; Ascoli devoted himself primarily to the English influence upon France; Baldensperger was deeply interested in the German influence. These three with their personal studies, their review, La Revue de litterature compare, and their impressive set of monographs in comparative literature (Audra's Pope en France, Goulding's Swift en France, etc.) are all noteworthy contributions to this aspect of the origins and development of eighteenth-century thought. But the masterworks in this area concerning the eighteenth century are Ascoli's La Grande Bretagne devant I'opinion jrangaise au XVIY siecle and Bonno's La Culture et la civilisation britannique devant I'opinion jrangaise de 1713 a 1734. These two works inaugu­ rated a whole series of studies concerned with the relations between England and France during the Enlightenment. Since France and England undoubtedly had a preponderant role in the organization • xii ·

INTRODUCTION

of the movement's thought, one can understand how indispensable these studies are. Thus we can summarize the four directions in which eighteenthcentury scholarship has been developing during the first half of the twentieth century: the origins of the Enlightenment; the basic rational content of eighteenth-century ideas; their romantic tendencies; the foreign influences, particularly England, upon them, and their influence in Europe as a whole. The drive to expand those ideas in time and place, and to make of the period from 1715 to 1789 the core of a situation which extended from humanism through classicism through neo-classicism to romanticism, is a phenomenon constantly present. Further, the desire to pass from the factual, positivistic level to a higher synthesis, in short, from the analytic to the organic, is everywhere visible. Finally, the wish to give to the movement a European, even a "Western Civilization," scope, rather than a French perspective, is also noteworthy. If the organic is what we are seeking, though, it must be admitted that we are far from achieving our ends. It seems to me that all this effort, excellent though it is, has not attained this desirable goal. It could be, of course, that with increased knowledge we have rendered impossibly difficult such a result. While we know infinitely more about the eighteenth century than we did in 1910, there is a possibility that we know much less about its inner nature, its personality, its inherent reality. To the very simple question: What is the eighteenth century? or better still, What is the Enlightenment? we can give partial answers but certainly no organic one. While developing the study of trends we have distorted the century's inner unity and even its vitality. And although such has not been our intention, we have done much to destroy the organic unity, the total effect, which that era certainly, in common with all eras, possessed. This disturbing notion can best be grasped if we place in strict order the outstanding definitions and descriptions of the eighteenth century which studies of the last fifty years have suggested. It is distinguished by the continuous development of Cartesian rationalism which is diametrically opposed to classical aesthetics (Lanson). It is that movement which unites the moral south—mediterraneanism—with the scientific north—septentrionalism—(Ranke and Meinecke). It is characterized by a process rather than by any organicity. It is in development rather than in situ (Mornet). It is an • xiii ·

INTRODUCTION

age in which the content, the ideas, is superior to the form, art (Havens). It is an epoch suspended between classicism, which is an organic something, and romanticism, which also is an organic something (Folkierski). It is a time in which the intellectual dominates the actual (political, economic, social), in which the theoretical overshadows the practical, in which England surpasses France politically, and Germany philosophically (historians). It contains within itself a constant tension between the moral, the religious, the political, and the aesthetic. In this strife the religious is submerged, the aesthetic is sacrificed, the political and the social are at war with the moral (Martin). Its distinguishing feature is a tremendous expansion of knowledge. Its predominant quality is encyclopedic learning. The problem the century had to solve is the theory of knowledge (Cassirer). Now all of these definitions are certainly correct—but partial. There ought to be some way in which they can be seen working together in organic unity—that is, in their inner unity. Evidence of this inner unity, although I have studied them with care and admiration, I fail to see in these works. One is driven to the conclusion that neither the literary historians, nor the historians of ideas, nor the philosophers have grasped it. No one has even posed the problem of how to pass from the Enlightenment's structure to its form and meaning. Although no one of these works achieve this end, it is very likely that all of them put together would do so. Lured by this possibility, I have been tempted to see if this kind of synthesis can be executed intelligently. Certainly I cannot lay claim to any superior organizing power. But during the forty years in which I have been interested in the Enlightenment and what it means to a twentieth-century man, I have endeavored to keep abreast of what direction the scholarship was taking. It is just barely possible that there is some sort of coherence within it or within the movement its products have wanted to portray. At all events it is this inner meaning that we shall seek here. We shall make our effort with certain assumptions in mind which it is well to understand from the beginning. All humanistic criticism is one, and does not differ with differing humanistic subjects. The critic approaches the analysis of a philosophy, of a historical period, of a movement of ideas in the same way that he analyzes a work of art. Indeed, he lives his life in the same way, too. He analyzes the ele• xiv ·

INTRODUCTION

ments in order to deduce from them the qualities. In general the elements are the same in all these humanistic areas: they are those of a Sophoclean play—act, actor, action, scene and setting, motive, style. What happens in the play is that each element conforms to certain qualities and ideas which the play wishes to bring out, and this general conformity is so harmonized that what the actor is doing is analogous to what the style is saying, and vice versa for all the elements. If, for instance, the style is doing one thing and the actor is doing an entirely different thing, the play will never, as we say, materialize, but we mean it will never exist as an organic play. Applied to history, this means that all the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players, as Shakespeare said, but they are expected to play their roles together. In more ordinary, but more simple, language, history is people thinking, saying, doing, becoming—acting in, or enacting, the play. What one thinks is what one says and does, and what one says and does is what one is. Thus existence is but an expressive form of thought. Modern critics explain this in existential terms as existence preceding essence: thinking, saying, and doing precede what the self is; the personality, the sumtotal of the qualities derived from the elements, comes after harmonization of the elements. It is, if all goes well, organic. It is also constantly changing, that is, becoming another self. If it is not well harmonized, if it is not a coherent personality, we get a bad play which is, so to speak, no play at all. That does not ultimately matter, because the change will bring into being new conditions which will offer new possibilities for a new play, and the process continues; the elements will be rearranged, another accord will be prepared among them, a new attempt at structuring will occur, a new play will become organically possible. The conditions—data—offer an infinite number of possibilities. The maker first selects what possibilities he wishes to make realities, and decides how he will adjust them to the elements to "realize" them. There comes a point when responsibility for realizing them is taken away from the maker and given to the actors; the play passes from a structure to a form. It becomes something permanent, it has an organic content, and it is capable of living a life of its own. It is certain that the organic content has taken on a spiritual form; it is, we can say, a spirit. While this transformation from possibilities to reality, from content to form, from matter to spirit is not too difficult to understand • xv ·

INTRODUCTION

in literature and art, and, I think, in religion and certain types of idealistic philosophy, it assumes values which have been met with suspicion by historians, particularly Marxist historians, all kinds of political and economic theorists, and, in general, pragmatists, positivists, and determinists in philosophy. The present writer has respect for their point of view, which consists fundamentally in denying what one does not understand objectively and phenomenologically. This rejection is, however, a mere negative act. It consists in saying that the actor does not want to play. It is not the suspension of judgment which since the Renaissance has been considered more honest and respectable; it is rather the insistence that a negative judgment is right because it is negative. This could well be the case, but we never have any evidence that it is so. In the field of arts and letters, as well as in the areas of thought and action, this universe of ours generates a mass of material which produces an infinite number of conditions, offering to the individual an infinite number of possibilities for shaping them. If he accepts the challenge, he becomes simultaneously critic and artist: the critic is concerned with analyzing the conditions, with penetrating reality with consciousness, with selecting from among the given conditions the ones he thinks can be shaped into a permanent reality; the artist, for his part, is concerned with his power to shape the material, to rearrange the selected conditions, to bring out the possibilities, to express what the critic in him sees in all this. There emerges in the accord of the critic and the artist a tentative "idea" of what all these phenomena mean (this I think is furnished by the critic in the artist) and an "internal model" which is equally tentative (furnished by the artist in the critic). With the simultaneous discovery of "idea" and "internal model" the artist now begins to work up his structure, that is, he takes the normal elements and shapes them coherently, consistendy, into a pattern; he begins to work back and forth with what seems best to conform to his "idea" and his "internal model." It is very possible that at this point he may have to readjust, sometimes completely, either "idea," or "internal model," or his now advanced "structure." Somewhere during the time of structure, authority passes from the maker, the poet, the artist, the historian, to the work itself, and it becomes an autonomous thing. At this point, we say that it achieves a form; we mean that it now has a personality, an inner reality, of its own, that it is an organic something, characterized by its livingness, its meaning. Therefore, the • xvi ·

INTRODUCTION

movement of a work of art becoming itself is the structure becoming a form and the form becoming a meaning (which can thereafter vary in all sorts of ways according to its time, place, or attendant circumstances). The work is now subject to the scrutiny of the critic as a set of conditions, and he recreates it in his own artistic terms according to the way he sees the "idea," the "internal model," the "structure," the "form," the "inner reality," and the "meaning." The study which we are undertaking concerns not the work of art, however, but history. Consequently, we should remember that a historical period, like a life or a work of art, is composed of act, actors, action, scene and setting, and motive and style, although we rarely speak of it in these terms. In fact, we use a whole new set of expressions. The act we usually regard as a tradition modified in time, the actors are the outstanding figures, the action is usually the contribution made by the figures in modifying the tradition; we call action events or, perhaps inappropriately, phenomena. The scene and setting we regard as the dramatic way in which actors and action disintegrate or reorganize the tradition. When so disintegrated and reorganized it is no longer deemed tradition; it has become the spirit of the time. This spirit is now not only the aggregate of human spirits added to the continuum; it has a personality of its own, it has become vitalized, it is indeed a vital organism possessing organic unity, definite though complex intentions, and a personal style. Its style, as it develops within itself, becomes itself. We now give it a title: Classicism, Romanticism, Enlightenment, Existentialism. The task of the historian of ideas is to make some coherent sense of the activity of people thinking, saying, doing, becoming. This he thinks he can succeed in doing by knowing intimately people (or those who stand out), their activity, the directing thoughts, those who gave them direction as well as what grew out of them, and finally the causal relationships which occurred between thought and action. The historian searches the possibilities of history to understand its elements and its qualities, but his ultimate goal is the apprehension of its inner reality, what is often called the spirit of the age. One of his most difficult problems is to find ways of working out the right relationships between this spirit and the movement of ideas which produced it. In the concept of movement, an age is a development, an evolution of historical phenomena which actually "moves" from one situation to another on a cause-effect basis. The goal is to seize this movement in its becoming; to grasp the "passage" • xvii ·

INTRODUCTION

rather than the "etre," as Montaigne says. To do so effectively, the historian has adopted certain frames of reference which are to him technically very valuable: periods of history, concepts, categories of living, or styles of expression. He has given much elasticity, for instance, to a period which in his way of looking at things may extend from a generation to a century to several centuries. He has adopted many fixed concepts: freedom, democracy, equality, etc. His categories of living are especially useful. He insists, for instance, that every man lives a religious, a political, an economic, an aesthetic, a scientific, a social, and a moral life, and a life of the self. Every man has to make some sort of unity out of these various categories, and every age has the same problem. Moreover, when a weakness develops in one of the categories, it creates an imbalance which affects the others. Finally, the historian of ideas is always seeking a dominant idea. For instance, it is important in the case of the Enlightenment that the enlightened man of Europe in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries understood that the function of the human mind was to intuit reality through the workings of consciousness. Cassirer is very right in seeing in the development of rationalism a genuine preoccupation with the problem of awareness. The rationalist was interested in knowing how the intellect performed its task and the result of this activity. He wanted to be acquainted in a genuinely perceptive way with the processes of thought and their relationship with being, both internal and external, confident that this acquaintance, rightly acquired, could lead to intellectual conclusions upon which he could make decisions for action. All Western European philosophers from Montaigne to Bayle philosophized on the conviction that all human phenomena became philosophically valid only insofar as they entered human consciousness and action. This persuasion is what gives authenticity to Descartes's "cogito," which in one respect is the supreme philosophical truth dominating both the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. It was, indeed, this conviction which was at the source of the philosophy of wisdom, which Descartes defined as the awareness of the truth and faith in right action. According to this way of thinking, there is a perfect harmony, assured by the will, between knowing the true and following the good, but the spark which gives vitality to the process and which derives from the "semences de la verite" is really the idea. • XVlIl ·

INTRODUCTION

Historians of ideas, particularly those concerned with the Enlightenment, often take for granted that ideas create historical events. As Paul Hazard expressed this conviction: "Intellectual and moral, not material, forces direct the course of life." The thinkers of the eighteenth century were committed to the notion that reason was the guide of man's activities, that thought led to action, and that action thereby became the directing force in the unrolling of history. Reason was the instrument, thought was the response, action was the result, the event or events were the means of attaining the goals which moral man set before himself. They were, therefore, preoccupied with finding out everything they could about the nature of reason, its right relationship with action, the goals to which it led, and finally the relationship between action and these goals. This "enlightened" way of looking at history contrasted with the mediaeval explanation. Previously, direct responsibility for the events in this universe rested with a superior power—providence—and things unrolled according to a divine plan. All one had to do (but it was not easy; indeed, it was more difficult than one could know) was to put himself in the right relationship with that plan. Bossuet's Histoire universelle was the best, and last, expression of that view: On a beau compasser dans son esprit tous ses discours et tous ses desseins. L'occasion apporte toujours je ne sais quoi d'imprevu, en sorte qu'on dit et qu'on fait toujours plus ou moins qu'on ne pensait. Et cet endroit inconnu a l'homme dans ses propres actions et dans ses propres demarches, c'est l'endroit secret par ou Dieu agit, et Ie ressort qu'il remue. Neither Bossuet's notion of the interference of providence in the affairs of man nor the Enlightenment position that man can, through reason, conduct his own affairs, appears to have any great currency at the present moment. While there is still some belief that man has to think through his problems, it is doubtful that we would be willing to subscribe to the statement that intellectual and moral forces direct the course of life. There is, now, some feeling that man should know his goal and plan to attain it, but there is also a strong belief that material forces have much to do with the execution of the plan. Indeed, so strong is that conviction that any country in the world would consider itself dreadfully negligent if its leaders were not continually planning how it can create an infrastructure to guarantee a limitless prosperity for every one of its citizens. I suspect, though, • xix ·

INTRODUCTION

that this type of planning how to utilize best the resources of a country goes back much further than we think. Indeed, we shall show that this myth stems from the roots of Enlightenment thought. The fact that there is not the smallest thread of evidence that it can ever be done successfully does not discourage the attempt. We now have three ways of regarding the flow of history: the Divine plan; the plan of reason, or what in some unaccountable way became known as the "laissez-aller" plan; and the plan of economic and political development. In the very recent past, a fourth way has been proposed by Jaspers, Toynbee, and others as "penetrating reality with consciousness." According to this view, which still holds along with all the other views except the providential, that man makes his history, one has to be aware of the conditions of reality before deciding upon the right course of action. The analysis of the conditions should evoke the correct response and the subsequent action. To be perfectly honest, we would have to confess that if man has up to the present been led by his ideas, he has not achieved much to satisfy his ambitions or his pride. It would not take a particularly erudite historian to show that wilful planning has not produced any great difference in present-day history from what was produced in the age of "laisser-aller," or in the age of providence. Economic control and social guidance have undoubtedly been more effective, but this advantage has been purchased at the expense of individual initiative. A fairly good case could be made for an increase in standard of living, particularly in the countries of Western Europe and North America, but though no one objects to a higher standard of living, no one seems to have profited from it to the point of transforming his economic and social satisfactions into aesthetic and moral or spiritual advantage. Indeed, if, in the age of providence, our economic and social satisfactions were submerged by our spiritual advantages, at the present moment just the reverse situation appears to threaten us. It would be interesting to know how to produce a moment in which all our desires, spiritual as well as material, could reasonably be achieved. So far as history goes, however, this has never been done. One always wonders whether it can be done. History, when it draws its conclusions, discloses that something is lacking: either our ideas are deficient, or they are inconsistent, or they lack coherence, or they have not the necessary continuity. Worst of all, they • xx ·

INTRODUCTION

are completely routed by events. Because, although ideas do lead to action and action to events, there are certainly events which do not bear any known relationship to the ideas whence they are supposed to take their origin. We cannot at all say that all events rise from ideas; events seem sometimes to happen, fortuitously divorced from all regular ways of thinking, and they undoubtedly change those regular ways of thinking. The "imprevu," which Bossuet mentioned and which intrigued Stendhal just as much over a century later, is not any less forceful now than in Bossuet's or Stendhal's time. Still, in all consideration of intellectual history, we are probably forced to the position of Paul Hazard: "Intellectual and moral, not material, forces direct the course of life." Not entirely though: material forces have their importance, too, and chance, or what Voltaire came to call "Sa Sacree Majeste, Ie Hasard," and, beyond a doubt, a combination of forces which operate in some orderly fashion beyond our control and even our comprehension. In the face of these forces of chance and those which are beyond our understanding we can do nothing but submit. Indeed, even if we understood how they operated, we would have to submit anyway, as Voltaire quickly learned in Candide. However that may be, we can do something about intellectual, moral, and material forces, at least in a limited way. We can, still in a limited way, give them a more orderly, coherent, and continuous role in shaping the course of life. Here our difficulty arises not so much from our inability to cope with these forces as from our ignorance. We do not know sufficiently well how they direct the course of life, and many times we attribute to them elements of chance, ambiguity, incoherence, and contradiction, when the real difficulty lies in our incomprehension or false understanding. History, though, ought to possess some sort of lucidity: we ought to be able to trace the relationship between thought and action given an expanse of time, a movement of ideas, a group of contributors to the movement, a body of ideas, a series of events, and a set of results. It is surely not unreasonable to expect some reality in the Enlightenment, or in any other historical period which we constantly treat as if it contains an inner vitality of its own. In short, it ought to be possible to trace the origins of the Enlightenment, to see them organize themselves into a body of thought and action, and to follow the consequences. • xxi ·

PART I ENLIGHTENMENTS WE HAVE KNOWN

1. T H E C H A N G I N G P I C T U R E O F THE ENLIGHTENMENT Α τ THE outset, let us formulate a preliminary opinion concern/ \ ing the conditions in France during the Enlightenment. In X J L many respects the views now held have completely changed since the beginning of the twentieth century. The one essential fact which all students of the Enlightenment have had to face was that it ended in France in a Revolution. Con­ sequently we have always thought that explanation had to be found in the century itself which would justify the explosion at the end. The two nineteenth-century historians who were most responsible for stressing this fact were de Tocqueville and Taine. They were, however, only summarizing the opinion of a long line of nineteenthcentury historians that the upheaval which occurred at the end of the Enlightenment must have been conditioned by particularly criti­ cal circumstances in the eighteenth century. De Tocqueville, for instance, once he had decided to center his attention not upon the "ancien regime" but upon the French Revolu­ tion, was literally harassed by two questions: Why did this Revolu­ tion, everywhere prepared and everywhere threatening to burst, nonetheless take place in France? Why, once having exploded, did it assume certain characteristics which have never appeared elsewhere in the same way? These two questions, so common to that French way of thinking which consists in always assuming that whatever is European is first of all French and what is French is fundamentally European, drove de Tocqueville to study France's institutions, her methods, habits, and spirit. His research was thus directed to ascer­ taining the conditions of society at the time and the public's state of mind. Ignoring the primary importance of literature and memoirs in an investigation of this sort, his inquiry was pursued in the more plebeian writings of the time where he thought a wider public opin­ ion could be discerned. De Tocqueville gave a very neat explanation of his method (L'Ancien Regime et la Revolution): Comme mon objet est bien plus de peindre Ie mouvement des sentiments et des idees qui ont successivement produit les evenements de la Revolu­ tion que de raconter ces evenements eux-memes, c'est bien moins de docu­ ments historiques que j'ai besoin, que des ecrits dans lesquels l'esprit public • 3·

E N L I G H T E N M E N T S WE HAVE K N O W N

se manifeste a chaque periode, journaux, brochures, lettres particulieres, correspondances administratives. Taine, likewise, set out to depict the movement of thought and feeling which produced the Revolution. Instead of basing his study upon the sources of public opinion, however, he centered it around the important writers of the age and the writers of memoirs. In the former he sought the spirit of the time; in the latter, evidence of the conditions which prevailed. Taine, as well as de Tocqueville, saw in the movement aspects which, though ill-directed, held for him a certain fascination. While criticizing bitterly the shortcomings of the epoch, he could not avoid a feeling of admiration at the Utopian illusions which all those shortcomings prepared. Fundamentally what he criticized in his ancestors was a lack of a sense of reality. One of his very fine passages will give the tone which pervades the whole of the Ancien Regime: Au fond, quand on voulait se representer la fondation d'une societe humaine, on imaginait vaguement une scene demi-bucolique, demitheatrale, a peu pres semblable a celle qu'on voyait sur la frontispice des livres illustres de morale et de politique. Des hommes demi-nus ou vetus de peaux de betes sont assembles sous un grand chene; au milieu d'eux, un vieillard venerable se leve, et leur parle "Ie langage de la nature et de la raison:" il leur propose de s'unir et leur explique a quoi ils s'obligent par cet engagement mutuel; il leur montre l'accord de I'interet public et de I'interet prive et finit en leur faisant sentir les beautes de la vertu. Tous aussitot poussent des cris d'allegresse, s'embrassent, s'empressent autour de lui et Ie choisissent pour magistrat; de toutes parts on danse sous les ormeaux, et la felicite desormais est etablie sur la terre. Nonetheless, despite these pastoral scenes, Taine felt that the misery of the peasant, the exasperation of the bourgeois, the cynicism of the nobleman, in short, the wretchedness of a regime in the final stages of decay, could not be concealed. Hence, all during the first part of the twentieth century, those interested in the subject understood that in the Enlightenment times were hard, misery was widespread, the country was bankrupt, trade was at a standstill, the country was becoming depopulated, and there was a bitter class conflict. Only the Court and a small elite, mostly nobles of great wealth, escaped this common misery. In general, this historical view of the state of society in the Enlightenment was confirmed to a large extent by Young's Travels, written shortly before • 4 ·

THE CHANGING

PICTURE

the outbreak of the Revolution. To be sure, Talleyrand's well-known remark about the "douceur de vivre," in referring to the period, in a way contradicted Young, but it was assumed that the wily diplomat was talking only of the elite. It had to be this way, for the disaster of Law's financial schemes in the Regency was known to have depleted the fiscal state of France to such a degree that the Ancien Regime could never recover from it, and the Cahiers de doleances bear eloquent testimony at the end of the century that conditions were very bad. It would have taken, fifty years ago, a bold historian to dare paint a picture of prosperity for the Enlightenment. This was all the more hazardous since there had been, at the beginning of the twentieth century, a set of studies upon poverty in the Enlightenment. L. Lallemand, La Revolution et les pauvres (1898), especially Chapter I: "Quinze ans de reformes hospitalieres"; C. Paultre, De la ropression de la mendiciti . . . sous Vancien regime (1906); and C. Bloch, L'Assistance et I'litat en France a la veille de la Revolution (1908). These works gave such a startling picture of the government grappling with the problem of poverty that it was difficult to avoid the impression that it had become the one overpowering preoccupation of the time. Since these studies were packed with edicts, royal instructions, and the reports of commissions spread throughout the century, it was easy to see in this situation the problem of the century, all the more so since it was known that, in 1789, the peasantry took a leading role in La Grande Peur. To be sure, this instability is not what the demonstrations of Bloch and Paultre indicated. They brought out that all these investigations, edicts, instructions, showed an increasing interest which the government took in poverty and the way in which it more and more assumed responsibility for the welfare of its citizens. They depict the movement as growing not out of the prosperity of the time but out of an ideological humanitarianism. The notion that times were prosperous nowhere occurs in these works, though, in the early years of the twentieth century, two historians, Mathiez and J. Jaures, questioned Taine's presentation. It is, however, only in recent decades that this notion of prosperity has been put forward with some force after some quiet development during the past twenty-five years or so. If one reads the eighteenthcentury section of the excellent little Histoire de la civilisation jran•5·

E N L I G H T E N M E N T S WE HAVE K N O W N

faise (1958) of G. Duby and R. Mandrou, he will obtain a view of the situation which is anything but pessimistic. Basing his treatment upon the analyses of C. E. Labrousse in Esquisse du tnouvement des prix et des revenus en France au XVIlV Steele (1936), and La Crise de I'iconomie franfaise (1944), the author presents the Enlightenment as a "revolution economique et demographique." The period of the Philosophes was a time of prosperity, similar to the Renaissance when the riches of the nation reinvigorated all of French life and stimulated its desire for luxuries. If anything, this Enlightenment prosperity was superior to that of the Renaissance, since it permeated the whole of French society and created a new form of humanism which stressed not only knowledge but action. The population, from fifteen million at the death of Louis XIV, had become between twenty-four and twenty-six million before the Revolution. The material existence of this augmented population was entirely renewed. The cities became wealthy, but the striking change seems to have taken place in the rural population. Duby and Mandrou have noted (II, 72): "C'est la vie rurale elle-meme qui devient plus facile, plus supportable, preservant la masse de la population de ces ponctions eifroyables des temps plus anciens, les famines." Finally, there was a noticeable increase both in waterways and roads. This prosperity, which extended to 1775, was European in its scope. Only with the beginning of Louis XVI's reign did a depression set in which increased with the passing years and reached its culmination in the famine of 1788. The peasant benefited from the break-up of large farms, the dividing of communal land and the gradual disappearance of serfdom, but more still from the prosperity of the surrounding towns, and most of all from the changes in the methods of agriculture. It has been noted that many agricultural societies flourished throughout the century, the most significant being those which grew out of the Physiocratic movement. All of this is still not sufficiently clarified, but it is indisputable that (p. 77) "a quelques exceptions pres, la vie rurale [s'est] tiree partout de cette mediocrite chronique qui etait la regie aux siecles passes." It was indeed a real revolution, characterized by fairs and markets, "signe de cet accroissement massif des transactions." At the beginning of the Revolution, for instance, there were more than five thousand fairs. This presentation •6·

THE CHANGING PICTURE

of Duby and Mandrou, which contrasts so vigorously with our former view has been summed up most apdy in two short phrases (p. 79): "Ainsi, prudemment, lentement, la paysannerie francaise entre dans les circuits commerciaux: vaste mouvement dans les pays de vignobles reputes. . . ." That the peasant's life was still uncomfortable can be confirmed in the reports of the Turgot Committee on poverty. But this fact in no way diminishes the evidence of his relative prosperity. The melioration of his condition actually contributed to the prosperity of the towns, through the sale of agricultural products in the towns and the purchase of luxuries: La grande voie, par laquelle les rentiers du sol irriguent 1'economie francaise, c'est celle des biens de consommation. Tous ces enrichis ont surtout pense a acheter des meubles, des tapis, des tissus: ils ont ameliore leurs menus quotidiens, enrichi leurs caves, fait construire surtout. The provincial towns were veritable centers of culture during the eighteenth century, particularly the provincial capitals which in a way aped Paris. But all moderately-sized cities also had salons, academies, public libraries, and agricultural societies. Moreover, cities of Italy and Germany imitated the urban life of France. In a rather extensive geographical sense of the expression Europe was French in the Age of the Enlightenment, but it was only so in a restricted society.1 This optimistic picture presented by Duby and Mandrou supplemented the studies already made in the late twenties and thirties by H. See,2 where French trade during the eighteenth century is presented in anything but a depleted condition. Thanks to the creation of the ficole des ponts et chaussees (1747) and the Corps des ingenieurs des ponts et chaussees (1750-54), the network of roads was remarkably developed during the second half of the century. On the other hand, there was but little new construction of canals—only 1000 kms. during the entire century—and the secondary road system, involving the cross-country roads, was in a deplorable condition. 1 SCe L. Reau, L'Europe francaise au Steele des lumieres, Paris, 1938; P. Hazard, La Pensie europienne au XVIlP Steele, last chapter entitled "L'Europe et la fausse Europe," Paris, 1946; and C. E. Labrousse, Le XVIIIe Steele, Paris, 1953. 2 Histoire Sconomique de la Trance, Paris, 1939, 2 vols., and Esquisse d'une histoire economique et sociale depuis les origines jusqu'en 1914, Paris, 1929.

•7 ·

E N L I G H T E N M E N T S WE HAVE K N O W N

Thus traveling was often difficult, uncomfortable, and expensive; cross-country shipping was prohibitive because of the duties and tolls; coastwise traffic, on the contrary, was flourishing. Internal trade, the basis of which was agriculture and, along the seashore, fishing, was hampered by all sorts of provincial regulations. External trade was freer and more lucrative. As a consequence. European nations increased their foreign trade sixfold during the century. France was third (to England and Holland) in foreign trade among the European countries, increasing from 215 million francs in 1716 to 1,061 million in 1783. The overseas colonies were encouraged, but only the Antilles gave fully satisfactory results. The maritime cities (Saint-Malo, Bordeaux, Nantes, etc.) became very prosperous because of this colonial and maritime trade. The fiscal techniques were largely a continuation of seventeenthcentury policies, and for the most part were rather conservative. Law's failure having discouraged new and venturesome methods. Nevertheless, private banks, especially the "caisses d'escompte," gradually took over from a depleted treasury. The government stopped changing arbitrarily the value of money which had been a source of much unnecessary misery. A stock exchange was established in 1724 following the Law fiasco, but most financial business remained in the hands of brokers. The guild system became more and more obsolete until in 1776 it was temporarily abolished by Turgot, and then, because of protests, reinstated. Merchants preferred, however, to furnish raw materials to workers. This was particularly true where manufactured goods were concerned, and where merchants supplied what was needed to the peasants who turned it into finished products during the winter months. Thus the peasant became the backbone not only oi agriculture but also of manufactures. The break-up of the land continued throughout the century, accompanied by a tendency toward a break-up in manufactures, which to some extent worked against high industrialization. This fragmentation also produced economic crises when the conditions of the peasantry became critical, as frequently happened in famines. As a consequence, these situations built up antagonisms between the peasantry and the well-to-do merchant class of provincial cities. It should not be forgotten, however, that the economic system of the eighteenth century was so organized that a depressed peasantry inevitably led to local urban • 8 ·

THE CHANGING

PICTUSE

depressions, so there were obvious limits to class conflicts. Moreover, in a regime where the priority was given to agriculture over manufactures, industry was only slowly developed: between 1700 and 1730, it seems hardly to have changed at all; between 1730 and 1750, some progress was made, especially in silks and cottons; after 1750, there was greater expansion in France, but not at all comparable to what was taking place in England. Two conditions particularly limited its growth. Of the twentyfour or twenty-six million population, only about ten percent were urban. In the cities, consequently, the industries were rather small; indeed, it was this situation which led to the farming-out of work to the countryside. In this way rural labor, chiefly because it was cheap, had a tendency to upset the balance of urban industry, especially in regions where agriculture was unsuccessful. The second handicap was the government management of firms. Some factories (Gobelins, Sevres) it ran directly; while others (Van Robais, St.Gobain, Anzin) were run privately with the consent of the government. This condition made government responsible for industrial planning and especially for the modernization of equipment. Since it displayed no great efficiency nor alacrity in assuming this responsibility, manufacturing was slowed. Moreover, there was a great deal of discussion between those who favored state regulation of industry (Melon) and those who proposed the doctrine of free industry (Vincent de Gournay), and this state of affairs was further complicated by the agricultural doctrines of the Physiocrats. See concludes {Hist, ec, p. 362) that "tout compte fait, on peut affirmer qu'un progres tres sensible s'est manifeste dans l'industrie francaise vers la fin de I'ancien regime." See's conclusion, modest though it is in comparison with that of Duby and Mandrou, was nonetheless contradicted by M. Kovalewsky who stressed that at that time France's industry had declined miserably. Perhaps some balance can be struck if the reign of Louis XV is dissociated from that of Louis XVI, where there was an admitted depression, culminating in real famine in 1788. C. Moraze has shown, in La France bourgeoise (1952), that in these periods of declining prosperity only the urban middle class has a tendency to thrive. Moraze presented three interesting facts concerning the economic structure of the eighteenth century (pp. 117-23). The first, already proposed by Labrousse, is that prices rose •9·

E N L I G H T E N M E N T S WE HAVE K N O W N

over an exceedingly long period during the century. This was especially true of cereals, but it was also fairly true of meats. Moraze attributed the rise to an increase in population in which the demand exceeded the supply. The second important fact is that the work in textiles was more abundant when the price of cereals was low. Consequently a famine in cereals led to unemployment in textiles and in that way, the state of agriculture had an impact upon manufacturing. The third important fact is that the owners of land received more income when salaries were becoming lower; that is to say the population increasing cannot find enough land to cultivate at a moment when the price of land is rising. Thus owners prosper while workers suffer, and in general, the bourgeoisie thrives on agricultural scarcity. Moraze maintained that this suffering is a fact which cannot be concealed by a general rise in prices, or by a general bourgeois prosperity. Moraze pointed out that economic equipment lagged behind the increase in population. The general movement was toward prosperity, but the lag constantly produced crises, in which unemployment accompanied the famine and industry was unable to compensate the losses of agriculture. It is at this moment that the antagonisms between classes become sharper, class interests become more pronounced, the attitudes toward life more categorical. "Les mieux lotis," wrote Moraze (p. 120), "peuvent bien croire au progres indefini, moins optimistes doivent etre les sentiments des inferieurs, dont les conditions materielles s'aggravent sans cesse." It was for this reason that the government wished to impose direct taxes rather than taxes on food. The failure of both proposals, at least in the economic field, spelled the end of the Ancien Regime. The Revolution derived in part from this economic and social situation. It was all the more severe since, as See remarked (Hist, ec, p. 376), the bourgeoisie had taken on a consistency hitherto unknown, from which had been developed a deep class consciousness. Their capitalist mentality was affirmed, and business became their one ideal. When during the Revolution their position became threatened by a veritable peasant revolt against them, they averted it by leading the masses against the clergy, and thus, by secularizing Church property, they protected their own. Although the bourgeoisie as a class enjoyed prosperity over the century, there is no reason to assume that all social progress was • 10 ·

THE

CHANGING

PICTURE

achieved by them. There were also, as we have suggested above, important developments among the peasants. The old view, based upon Taine, that the peasant possessed only a disproportionately small amount of the land has to be modified. While it is true that in some provinces he held only a fifth of the land, in others he owned up to three fourths. And while the government treated the peasant with singular harshness, at least as compared with its treatment of the bourgeois, it did take measures to expand agriculture and to support an agricultural fiscal policy. Some of the farming methods were undoubtedly outmoded, but after 1750 only a few of them remained utterly traditional. The agricultural societies, particularly the Physiocrats, as a whole made an effort to introduce new techniques and reforms in agriculture. Some distinction should also be made in the lot of the peasants: the "tenanciers," for instance, were well-off; others (the "metayers"), were more or less comfortable; only the farm laborer (the "journalier") was likely to be miserable, as was also the "compagnon" of the trade guild. There were critical periods throughout the century, however, some of them attributable to the burdens of war, others to the famine years, of which 1709 and 1788 were the harshest; and still others produced artificially by the grain merchants, who had a way of creating panics for the purpose of increasing prices. In spite of these bad moments there were other times of real economic advance for the peasant. The price of grain rose steadily, for instance, from 1730 to 1817. When the increase in prices was not accompanied by the rising price of land, the peasant benefited. These observations by Labrousse, See, and Moraze have necessitated a revision in our views upon the social and economic conditions of the French Enlightenment. They have been summed up rather neatly in Professor Lough's An Introduction to EighteenthCentury France (London, i960). Lough has gone back to the histories of Jean Jaures and Mathiez, who had in the early decade of the century rejected the notion that the Revolution had been the result merely of suffering among the peasantry. They saw in the Enlightenment an economic as well as an intellectual progress in which an augmented trade and industry had offered the bourgeoisie an opportunity to play a more important role in the economic life of the country. Jaures stressed that this bourgeoisie, accustomed to its new privileges, revolted against the recession at the end of the • 11 ·

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KNOWN

century. While this explains the middle-class reaction, it neglects the role played by the peasants when, as a result of the famine of 1788, "la Grande Peur" arose among the masses. That revolt, studied so brilliantly by Georges Lefebvre in his Quatre-vingt-neuf (1939, p. 139ΓΪ.), had its importance also. Professor Lough prudently ob­ serves that though there was a period of general prosperity from 1730 to 1778, the increase in wealth was unevenly distributed be­ tween the two classes. Practically all Enlightenment historians concede now that around 1775 there was a recession which Louis XVI was never able to mas­ ter: business slowed up, profits were reduced, and the royal finances, never abundant, were unable to prime the national economic activ­ ity. Nor were the monetary policies adopted by the government wise. Undoubtedly this slackening in business served to exasperate the struggles between the classes. There were other factors at work, though, especially after 1778, than an exasperated bourgeoisie, an aroused aristocracy, and a wretched peasantry. Still, as Lough states, from one point of view there was a "Revolution de la misere," but that same Revolution seen from a second point of view could easily be called a "Revolution de la prosperite." In all of the views of those who endeavor to clarify the historical background, the final act of the Enlightenment is the French Revo­ lution, and all interpretations of the period must ultimately justify that event. There is implied more than that in these presentations, however. Each of these historians obviously believes that historical action is conditioned not necessarily by the way people think, but by the way they act. Further, the motive for action may be economic, or social, or political. It is perfectly reasonable to see in the prosperity of the time the reasons for the satisfaction which burghers and peas­ ants enjoyed. It seems equally reasonable to expect that any unfavor­ able change in economic status would entail a dissatisfaction which could cause trouble. The age of Louis XVI could be all the more onerous seeing that the age of Louis XV had been exceedingly toler­ able. It is not unreasonable even to go further and see in this reversal of fortune the cause for the misery of the peasantry and its antago­ nism to the bourgeoisie. Lough undertakes to assess the complex problem of the relation­ ship between the crown, the aristocracy, the bourgeoisie, and the peasantry. "It is possible," he writes, "to consider that history as the • 12 ·

THE CHANGING

PICTURE

story of the continued rise of the middle classes and the gradual decline of the aristocracy, and to see in the Revolution with its destruction of absolutism and the aristocratic society of the Ancien Rigime the translation of the economic power of the middle classes into political power." This is a persuasive interpretation. In very recent times, however, these views have been challenged. Professor Palmer and others have tended to stress the opinion that the Revolution was an aristocratic Revolution brought about by the tenacious struggle for power between the King and the nobles. Palmer exposes the argument for this interpretation along these lines (The Age of Democratic Revolutions, Princeton, 1959): As the power of French absolutism waned, the privileged orders demanded more and more loudly a share in political power until in the critical years 1787 and 1788 they shook to its very foundations the authority of the crown; by their insistence on the summoning of the fLtats-Generaux, they ended by destroying both absolutism and their own privileges. We can only conclude that the Revolution, as presented by the historians, involved a revolt by the peasantry, the bourgeoisie, and the aristocracy. It should be noted, however, that the rebellion does not seem in each case to be the same, although it is still possible that there was a merging of the three into a general Revolution. The striking thing, if such was the case, is the way in which the three uprisings occurred simultaneously and coalesced so readily. The three insurrections embraced the whole population, but the underlying political and economic grounds were distinct in each case. While the peasant rebellion took much of its origin from class consciousness and increasing antipathy to the successful, and also class-conscious, bourgeoisie, it was first and last a protest against conditions which were adjudged intolerable because of hunger and misery. And while the middle-class revolt might be more justly attributed to a general tendency on the part of that class to social mobility at a moment when conditions were very favorable, it seems more reasonable to attribute it to that class's exasperation at being blocked in its economic and political ambitions, when these aspirations were well on the way toward realization because of the continued prosperity during the fifty or sixty preceding years (see E. G. Barber, The Bourgeoisie in 18th Century France, Princeton, 1955). The sudden reversal in the economy and its prolonged state over more than a decade did more than anything else to upset the com• 13 ·

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placency of the group. On the other hand, the struggle between the Crown and the Aristocracy for political power is a fact, and there is no denying that this struggle created a power vacuum in the political sphere, or at any rate weakened the hold which royalty held over the nation. The conflict naturally offered an invitation to action to a class eager for power and conscious of its merits. It is certainly not surprising that the bourgeoisie saw in the upset conditions of royalty an opportunity to consolidate its own political interests. In this way the Revolution became above all a political Revolution nurtured by class struggles. The solutions proposed for the monarchy ranged from enlightened despotism to limited monarchy to state socialism to democracy by the will of the people, not to mention the obvious determination to keep France as she was but, in the critical areas, to introduce reforms which had been grounded in the evolution of thought throughout the whole period. What we have overlooked to a considerable extent during the past thirty years or so in our criticism is the fact that, for Enlightened Man, it is thought which leads the world. In this light, the clashes of ideas have their importance too, but only in conjunction with the interests of the people and the incidents of the time.

• 14 ·

2. SOME A T T E M P T S A T D E F I N I T I O N which led to the Revolution are difficult to assess in the developing conditions of the Enlightenment, the causes of the Enlightenment are equally confused. Indeed, the question as to what constitutes the Enlightenment time span has in the past sixty years been given various answers. At the end of the nineteenth century, for instance, it was looked upon as a period of transition which extended between a declining classicism and a nascent romanticism, and spanning a relatively short period of time, from the middle of the eighteenth century to the French Revolution. The emphasis was placed not upon the literary and artistic production, but upon the thought of a few writers, particularly Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Rousseau. The scholars of the time were mainly preoccupied with the responsibility which the thinkers of the Enlightenment must accept for the excesses of the Revolution. In general this view stressed the non-literary, non-artistic aspect of the movement, emphasizing the development of destructive, unorthodox ideas leading to a political, social, and intellectual explosion. It was conditioned by the particular interests of the scholars. Literary scholars felt that the Enlightenment, being an age of transition, was less inviting, in an organic way, than the Classical Period which preceded it or the Romantic which followed. Neo-classicism was judged less worthy than classicism, and pre-romanticism less attractive than romanticism. Literary critics were therefore tempted to direct their efforts to two or three outstanding writers who dominated the period. Historians directed all their attention to the effects of the movement: What interested them, as we have seen, was the Revolution, not any inherent personality in the Enlightenment itself. Philosophers found even less appeal in the development, limiting themselves to Locke, or Hume, or Kant, and leaving the impression that what was not important was the work of the "Philosophes." Only the historian of ideas continued his search in the field, doing what he could to combine the activity of the literary critic with that of the historian and the philosopher.

I

F THE EVENTS

The original view of the Enlightenment reinforced the belief that the century extended from 1715 to 1789. The second part, 1750 to 1789, was the active period; the earlier period, 1715 to 1750, was a time of preparation. In due time, however, a number of scholars • 15 ·

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(Brunetiere, Lanson, Hazard) came to feel that the death of Louis XIV did not mark a change in the direction of thought, or even an intensification. The ideas which were developed between 1715 and 1750 were found to have existed in the period between 1685 and 1715. The studies of Lanson and his students gave great impetus to this opinion. For them, the important thing in the Enlightenment was no longer the way in which it produced the Revolution; it was rather the way in which the "esprit philosophique," organized during the period, prepared modern times. This view was naturally susceptible to great expansion. Once "esprit philosophique" had been identified with rationalism, once the belief was adopted that there is a correlation between thought and action, and an identification between rationalism, "esprit philosophique," and science, the limits of the Enlightenment became suddenly extended. The date 1685 no longer marked the beginning of the movement, particularly if one is inclined to accept Kant's definition. With Hazard, the important period became 1680 to 1715; with Lenoble, the crisis period extended from 1630 to 1660; with Pintard, the author of Le Libertinage orudit, from 1600 to 1660. With his three books on Le Rationalisme en France, Busson has carried the movement back to the early years of the Renaissance in Italy and followed its growth from the formation of Italian free-thinking to the opening years of the eighteenth century. Thus the trend of Enlightenment scholarship has been to expand the period of its origins backward, and at the same time to bring down toward the twentieth century its consequences. There is also the tendency to identify the Enlightenment with "l'esprit philosophique," with the growth of rationalism, with the development of free-thinking, with skepticism, with unbelief, particularly religious disbelief, and with the movement in science. In its consequences, the Enlightenment has been thought to tend toward irrationalism rather than toward a refined rationalism. Seen in this perspective, the central problem of Enlightenment would be to grasp the way in which rationalism, having set out to become aware of its possibilities, has encountered hidden forces within itself which have made it conscious of its impossibilities. Simply stated, it is the story how the human mind came to know and to turn into realities its inner powers, but how, in doing so it discovered not only their ultimate unreality, but their uselessness in • 16 ·

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achieving human satisfactions. To study how this realization was brought about would make an interesting footnote on the hopelessness of our present condition, but we cannot promise so important a diagnosis, nor a lucid 'demonstration of the ways whereby we have become the heirs, or the victims, of the movement. It is our task here merely to record its origins. The difficulties of establishing the correct time span were paralleled by obstacles in marking out its locale. Practically everyone would agree that the center of the movement is in France, but the historians would immediately insist that the preponderant influence in the eighteenth century as far as Europe is concerned is that of England. The general view now held would be that the English influence is very important, especially upon France who introduced it throughout Europe. It is thought, however, that in doing this, France enhanced her own importance. What made this expansion possible was the widespread use of the French language in Europe so eloquently exemplified by the subject proposed by the Berlin Academy when Rivarol took the prize with his Discours sur I'universalite de la langue franfaise in 1784. But as early as 1685, in the Nouvelles de la republique des lettres, Bayle had remarked (I, 3) that the French language was already the common medium of communication of the peoples of Europe. As a matter of fact, it was more widely used in Germany and the central European countries than in England and the Latin countries. Voltaire noted its use in Germany and commented that it had made more extensive conquests than Charlemagne. In reality, it was the language of an international European elite, and was propagated in the salons controlled by women. French literature followed the vogue of the language, either in translation or in the original. Germany, especially, assimilated both French thought and French art and re-exported them into the countries to the north and to the east. Foremost among the writers and thinkers who were thus adopted throughout Europe via Germany was Voltaire, but Rousseau's influence became stronger and stronger, and the popularity of the Encyclopedic also grew in time. Rousseau was more and more appreciated because he united French reason with that "sentiment," which appealed so deeply to the German genius. After literature came art, which also deeply penetrated German culture. In England, there was a strong opposition to the influence of France as early as 1738, when some journalist remarked that the • 17 ·

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ridiculous imitation of things French—clothes, furnishings, even food—had become an epidemic disease. In 1762, someone asserted that the English passion for things French was as nothing compared to the French passion for things English. Actually, there was a broad merging of the manners and customs of the two countries, as we shall see. Some of the causes which underlay the merging are easily perceived, such as the dominant position held by Louis XIV in European affairs. French emigres, like Saint-Evremond and the Duchesse de Mazarin, enhanced the prestige of France in England. The constant flow of travelers between the two countries was very important to the merging process. After the Revocation, the Protestant refugees, who could operate only in a social atmosphere which subordinated the notion of fatherland to the concept of humanity, were a very effective force in bringing together the civilization of Europe. The cosmopolitan spirit prevailed, particularly among the European ilite, but the qualities of the French so appreciated throughout Europe—clarity of thought, sociability, a talent for making conversation, respect for authority of reason—rendered the position of Louis XV's kingdom almost paramount in the culture of Europe. There were even definite indications of a widespread interest in an integrated Europe, a feeling that more important than the superiority of England or Italy was the superiority of Europe. Indeed, many now proclaimed that Europe surpassed the other parts of the world; it had a common legal system, a common religion, and although the national states had different types of government—some monarchies, some republics, some mixed—the same religion, the same principles of public and political law united them all (see Voltaire's Steele de Louis XlV, chapter II). Europe itself was often regarded as a kind of grand republic: the Europeans more than any other peoples were distinguished by their insatiable curiosity, their science, their arts, their culture, their intellectual supremacy. Indeed, there were those who remarked upon the rapid advance which the Europe of the eighteenth century had made when compared with previous centuries: the Europeans not only surpassed the inhabitants of other continents; those of the eighteenth century were deemed superior to those of the preceding centuries. This primacy had been assured by the facility of travel, the circulation of newspapers and reviews, and the publication of large, all-embracing • 18 ·

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compendia, dictionaries and encyclopedias. Into this concept of a united, intellectual Europe, France, the geographical center, with its political and economic ascendancy, its widespread artistic and intellectual activities, and its language widely accepted as the medium of international communication, took on the role of leader of European life, storehouse of European thought, and distributor of European aspirations. Voltaire, whose criticism of eighteenth-century France was certainly not disingenuous, celebrated both her position of primacy and Europe's mission in the making of civilization. In the article "langues" of the Dictionnaire philosophique, he wrote: "Les Francais ont ete, depuis plus de cent cinquante ans, Ie peuple qui a Ie plus connu la societe, qui en a Ie premier ecarte toute gene." Voltaire argued that the French language is more current than any other because of its facile structure and because of the prodigious number of agreeable, though frivolous, literary works. R. Mertz, in "Les Amities franchises de Hume" (R.L.C., 1929), has summed up the whole tendency: "Un meme courant circule alors a travers toute l'Europe occidentale, realisant une unite spirituelle comparable a celle de la Renaissance, de 1'humanisme, et plus tard du Romantisme." Nevertheless, for a Europe focused upon France, for a European elite attracted by French language, customs, and intellectual activities, there was another Europe in which each country was already solidly committed to its own national traits, acknowledging its superiorities and stressing the defects of the others. It was at this point that one country—England—arose to challenge the supremacy of France. Having given to Europe outstanding scientists, moralists, and philosophers, it now claimed the right to impose its literature, its manners, and its arts. France, the leader of Europe, was impressed with the qualities of its rival to the point of widely adopting English costumes, gardens, thought, and manners. Indeed, recent studies have indicated that it was France and its infatuation with things English which was largely responsible for the widespread English influence throughout Europe. There was nonetheless built into this new orientation a tendency toward separate nationalities which contradicted the urge toward integration. The drive toward nationalism, which was to characterize the nineteenth century, had already begun. It became all the more acute since two countries, Prussia and Russia, were demanding their place in the family of European nations. • 19 ·

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Thereby entered into the mind of Europe the diversity which has also become one of its characteristics; not a Europe of one religion, but of several; not one political or economic union, but several; not a Europe directed by one intellectual and artistic activity, but by several; coalitions will be blocs, and there will be wars, revolutions, and ultimately each country will have its own Enlightenment. Before entering upon a discussion of the origins of the French Enlightenment, one must make a preliminary statement concerning its nature. Since in due time I shall want to devote a whole volume to the French Enlightenment proper, it seems best here to limit myself to some general remarks drawn from two of our very finest pronouncements as to its nature: Kant's little essay upon the Enlightenment (1784) and Cassirer's two attempts to define its reality, first in the article "Enlightenment" in the Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences, and again in the lengthy Philosophy of the Enlightenment (Princeton, 1951). In his article entitled "What is Enlightenment?", Kant best described its psychological foundations. To the question proposed, he responded that the Enlightenment is "man's leaving his self-caused immaturity." Immaturity he defined as the incapacity to use one's mind without another's guidance. Such immaturity is self-caused if it is brought about not by lack of intelligence, but of determination and courage to use one's own reason. Instead of this abdication, Kant proposed the slogan, which long before had been adopted from Horace by Gassendi: "Sapere aude!" Kant, however, admits that, once we leave to others the guidance of our lives, it is not easy to abandon the state of immaturity. Indeed, so accustomed has everyone become to his condition that it appears almost natural. However, this state of affairs does not have to continue; the public can enlighten itself, if it is given its freedom. But it cannot do so rapidly; the process of acquiring liberty from the guardians of the public is necessarily slow and awkward, since they who exercise this right of maturity are sometimes loath to relinquish it to the public in general, thus fostering what Kant called "prejudices." Any attempt to abolish them in a revolutionary way may lead to oppression. To avoid these consequences, Kant insists, man must have freedom for the public use of his reason, which is • 20 ·

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"the sacred right of mankind." This is particularly the case, he adds, in matters of religion. Thus nature has fostered within itself the need and the inclination for free thought: "This free thought gradually works upon the minds of the people and they become more capable of acting in freedom. Eventually, the government is also influenced by this free thought and thereby it treats man, who is now more than a machine, according to his dignity." For Kant, as for Voltaire, the Enlightenment is identified with the growth of knowledge which leads to the assertion of maturity, the avoidance of prejudices, and the search for freedom. Freedom thus becomes the source of free thought which liberates man and assures him of his dignity. Cassirer, accepting Kant's definition as the one which best characterizes the intellectual tendencies of Enlightenment philosophy, stressed that the period rejected the view of the world which derived its strength from a belief in divine revelation, and substituted in its place a view established on the powers of human understanding. Those who adopted this latter view are convinced that reason can, by its own power, and without any assistance from any supernatural force, comprehend the system of the world and find means of using it to advantage. The Enlightenment was thus always moving from a system of the universe in which all the important decisions in life were made outside of man to a system where it became the responsibility of man to care for them himself. The instrument which he believed devised for this undertaking was the human understanding, which though called by various vague names—"esprit, pensee, raison, conscience, savoir," etc.—was reduced to the term reason. Since the phenomena first attacked by reason were in the realm of nature, all other phenomena gradually gravitated around the concept of nature, and in that way, the central problem became the relationship of reason and nature. The Enlightenment thus started with the realm of nature and that of mind, understanding its task to be the penetration of nature's reality by an intellectual awareness of that reality. What the age wanted to do was to collect the largest body of impressions in nature from which to deduce the greatest number of principles which would contribute to maximum human activity and happiness. Nature, to the thinkers of the Enlightenment, is a closed system • 21 ·

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of causes and effects, of reasons and implications; there is nothing accidental or arbitrary therein. Everything is subjected to universal laws which can be known by conceptual analysis rather than by experience or observation. The method practiced was to reduce the natural event to mathematical statement. The principle, once established in natural phenomena, was introduced likewise in the area of social and historical fact. The being of man can be explained by the same universal laws which govern the being of nature, since no distinction can be made between nature and human nature. Man's world being no longer separate from nature's world, he has no exceptional place in the scheme of things. The Enlightenment was concerned not only with the penetration of nature, that is total organic nature, by reason, it wanted also to devise an absolute identity between the natural and the reasonable. Natural law is right reason working in the field of human and natural relationships. Natural religion is the working of right reason in the field of religion. Finally, natural morality is right reason working in the field of ethics. The just, the true, and the good are both reasonable and natural. They transcend both time and space, and they have a universal validity because they stand at the origin of positive laws, religions, and moralities. The Enlightenment was fascinated with those laws which are not of "yesterday," and the thinkers inquired diligently into the origin of things as a means of comprehending their meaning for man. The Enlightenment did not attempt to develop a new body of teachings, though, nor did it seek a new dogma. Anxious to discover new facts, it insisted upon their dissemination among the widest number of people. It was by nature encyclopedic and propagandistic. Convinced that in the corps of facts lay an infinite number of inner formative forces, it conceived as its task to seek out the structures which, treated properly, could transform a world of contradiction and chaos into an organic unity. It recommended an effort to sift, clarify, arrange, and organize the ideas which it already possessed. It was confident, too, that the inner formative forces which derived from its corps of facts could create a whole new spirit. This conviction, indeed, led to a totally new kind of philosophical thought, based upon systematic analysis. Cassirer explains that "instead of tying philosophy to definite, immutable axioms and deductions from them, the Enlightenment wants it to • 22 ·

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move freely and in this immanent activity to discover the fundamental form of reality." No longer a special field of knowledge, philosophy is rather the all-comprehensive medium in which the principles of all knowledge are free to develop. No longer mere thought, it wants to enter into the activity of the spirit. Its task is not to reflect but to shape life. Hence, the Enlightenment's inquiry concerned first the competence of thought. The problem was naturally derived from Locke's Essay, but the solution differed from Locke's conception in that it involved both the limits of thought and its capabilities as a dynamic force. Thought became the center of all activity, regarded not only as the unifying element, but also as the immutable factor in all life. In addition to being a collection of knowledge, of truths, and of principles, it was conceived as a dynamic process, an energy, which can be grasped only in its activity. It is a manner of thinking, devoted to constant analysis, to separation into component parts, to the reconstruction of those parts into a whole, and to the expression of this whole in terms of laws. It functions in every enterprise in which the human being is engaged, and by its manner of thinking, it aims to change the common way of thinking and doing. Thus Enlightenment thought carries within itself powers of destruction as well as powers of construction. Finally, knowledge of the world does not stop with knowledge of external objects; it is the means whereby one sees reflected the possibilities of his inner reality. Since the cosmos is limitless both in time and space, knowledge tends to become a never-ending series of relationships between the self and the phenomena of life, in which the correlation between the universe and the self guarantees the validity of thought and the legality of the external world. Knowledge thus involves both thinking and feeling, sensibility and thought, experience and rational awareness. Being and knowing are consequently two poles of the same ontological phenomenon, present both in nature and in all the creations of human nature: history, morality, the state, religion, and aesthetics. Thus the eighteenth century gave a priority to nature, in which were incorporated all the phenomena of man. The real achievement of natural science did not lie in the all-embracing content, but rather in the possibility which this content offered to the human mind for self-realization. The limitless expansion of natural science increased the mind's awareness of a new force within itself. It is not in its infinity, however, that nature informs man of his real intensity. His • 23 ·

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deepest meaning lies in the mind's maintaining itself against the infinite universe. Thus there is a double tendency seen in nature: toward the particular, the concrete, the factual, and contrariwise to the absolutely universal. It is this duality which shifts the importance of nature from the realm of the created to that of the creative process. Nature participates in the divine essence, and eventually identifies herself with God. Contained within herself is the whole plan of the cosmos waiting for the human mind to recognize and express it, and when this occurs, the operation carries with it both identity and autonomy. With one stroke, is brought out the self-sufficiency of nature and mind, the one perfectly accessible to the other. The Enlightenment accepted, though, that certain changes must be effected. The sciences must be organized in a unified way; and the bond between theology and physics must be severed. Nature must incorporate within herself all the intellectual sciences, even laws, society, politics, and poetry; she can be grasped only by that method which begins with facts and attempts to reach to principles. In theory, however, one should never expect to venture beyond description of natural phenomena, since there is no way whereby we can explain the mechanism of the universe or see into the essence of things. We possess no knowledge of first principles, and consequently no final criterion of the truth of phenomena, only a "moral certainty," which is not logical, but rather biological. Indeed, there is a definite shift, recorded by Diderot in the Pensees sur !'interpretation de la nature, from mathematics and mathematical physics to biology and physiology, exhibiting a strong tendency to materialism. For the Enlightenment the basic science became psychology, despite the fact that the word itself became current only late in the century. Thought cannot turn to the objects of external nature without at the same time reverting to itself. The truth which it perceives in nature becomes in a way the truth in itself. Hence the two questions which are constantly propounded in the eighteenth century concern the reality of the objects of nature and the capacity of the mind to penetrate that reality. Involved in those two problems are two larger issues: the limits of the understanding and the nature of the things understood. The question constantly posed is: what kind of object is commensurate with, and determinable by, our knowledge? No legitimate answer, however, can be given to this • 24 ·

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question until an exact insight into the specific character of the human understanding is achieved by examining the extent of its activity and the course of its development. Thus psychology became the foundation of epistemology. The capacities of knowledge are known only by tracing the processes of thought: the critical analysis of the instrument discloses the extent of its possibilities. Fundamentally, what the Enlightenment wanted to ascertain was how one can know, and the connection between knowledge and action. It was faced with the necessity of seeking the agreement between concepts and objects, expressed by the simple question: What is the relationship between knowledge and reality ? The Enlightenment's answer to this question was that every idea in our minds is based on a previous impression. This belief resulted in the reassertion of the Stoic statement that "nihil est in intellectu quod non antea fuerit in sensu." But there was no proof of this statement. There were in fact three explanations for ideas in the Enlightenment. Locke stuck to the senses as their source, but he retained in his explanation of the operations of the understanding such innate factors as comparing, reflection, judging, and willing. Leibniz for his part thought ideas took their origin in the active energy of the mind. Condillac saw the senses as the source, but he eliminated all such innate notions as reflection, comparing, etc. In these explanations there was some ground for agreement: the insistence upon the dominance of the passions, the stress laid upon the concept of effort, the drive toward the active energy. In fact, though only Leibniz stated so categorically, the century tended to insist that the mind is not a composite of faculties, mechanically organized, but a composite of formative forces. The task of philosophy henceforth is to elucidate those forces in their structure and to understand their reciprocal relations. In this way there was opened up a new approach to the spontaneity of the ego, and new paths for progress in epistemology, aesthetics, and morality. Since the initial shift of the Enlightenment was from a system dominated by a religious order to one in which the individual accepted responsibility for making his world, it was inevitable that the institution of religion should be put in question. Usually this attitude was interpreted as an attack which the writers and thinkers of the Enlightenment made against established religion. A thoroughgoing review of the proofs of the divinity of Christianity—miracles, • 25 ·

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prophecies, the continuity of Christian history from the old to the new dispensation, its morality, and its martyrs—was made. Many works investigating these proofs circulated in France and England. Many analyzed the Bible in an effort to point out the inaccuracies of a historical, scientific, moral, even of a computational, order. The conclusion drawn was that a work so filled with errors could not be accorded universal religious significance. Practically all these works affirmed the validity of natural religion, natural morality, and natural law, basing them upon a divinely inspired reason, and stressing that this reason was the source of love of God, justice toward one's fellowmen, and social and political morality. These ideas were propagated by the deists who in a negative way denied the need for dogma, rites and ceremonies, religious organization and a priesthood, but who in a positive way reasserted their belief in the existence of God and in the necessity for a reasonable, natural morality. As a religious movement, deism was very widespread in the eighteenth century. It drew its strength from its pretense to universality, having been the religion of all the wise men of the past. But it was also the religion of all men everywhere, since it was the voice of God-given reason in the hearts of all men. It had its weaknesses, however, the foremost being its instability. Deists found it difficult to explain how every man with God-given reason acted so terribly unreasonably at times, more difficult still to explain how the divine sense of justice seldom led to just acts. The whole realm of evil—natural evil; positive, moral evil; metaphysical evil—became an inexplicable phenomenon in a universe filled with wonders which declared the glory of God, while pain, suffering, and sin declared at least that something had gone awry. It was not consoling to realize that everything lived in this world at the expense of everything else. Since the deist affirmed the wisdom, the goodness, and the all-powerfulness of the Deity, evil could not be explained by reason without putting into question at least one of these qualities. And any rejection of these qualities reduced the concept of the Deity to Nature, and left the way open to atheism, naturalism, determinism, materialism. Pascal had long before seen the deist dilemma and had reaffirmed the doctrine of original sin and the necessity for the Atonement. He experienced difficulty in making salvation universal, however, but the Enlightenment did succeed in making it universal, though • 26 ·

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not without involving the all-powerfulness of the Deity, and even His mode of existence. Cassirer explains that this impossible situation merely indicates that the period was not ripe for the creation of a theodicy, and consequently, the Enlightenment sought replacements for the deficiency, one of which was the doctrine of tolerance. Since there is no metaphysical imperative in any formal religion, there is no absolute validity in any religious sect. Therefore the only reasonable way of approaching a sect is respect for its beliefs and the elimination of all forms of persecution. The Enlightenment was prepared to proclaim that even heresy was the natural state of man and was entitled to the respect of everybody. Indeed, in accordance with the formula expressed by Spinoza in the Tractatus, the century maintained that every man was entitled to the freedom of his beliefs, which the State should protect. The doctrine of tolerance, accordingly, became grounded upon the brotherhood of man and the right to err. In a way this was a social theodicy which justified the ways of God to man, but it was strictly limited to this world and to this life. It led straight to the suggestion of two other replacements for the old theodicy: with Shaftesbury and down to Diderot, the highest form of spiritual expression was not theological but aesthetic; with Rousseau, its highest form was moral and above all political. For the Enlightenment as a whole, however, all of these replacements merely put great emphasis upon the moral category and attributed a preponderant importance to the inner energy of man and his right to express that energy in any manifestation of human creation.

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ENLIGHTENMENT

ITH the new definition which has been given to the "concept" of Enlightenment, and the change in the orientation which it was thought to have taken, there have naturally been revisions in the origins scholars have assigned to it. Indeed, there is now a one-hundred-year or more history of the study in the Enlightenment's origins. Sainte-Beuve saw in the libertine movement of the seventeenth century its source. To the author of the Causeries, the real ancestors of the eighteenth century were Ninon de Lenclos, Cyrano de Bergerac, Saint-Evremond, and Bayle. These free-thinkers had as their ancestors what Sainte-Beuve called a school of epicureanism and of skepticism, people like Gassendi, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Des Yveteaux and Desbarreaux, who, for their part, took their origin in the writings of Montaigne and Charron. There was thus, extending from Montaigne to Bayle, a line of free-thinking. The atmosphere in which it flourished was the polite, conversational, seventeenth-century society which needed only to be extended, regularized, and perfected in the succeeding century. Sainte-Beuve's articles on these libertines are more biographical sketches than the reasoned, carefully presented history of a movement of ideas. As individual biographies, they are charming; as a vital chronicle, they are practically worthless. In the Port-Royal, on the contrary, there is a whole section upon "Jansenistes et Libertins" which takes up the relative positions of the stern, rigorous PortRoyal group and the free-thinking tendencies of the outer world. Here Sainte-Beuve has given some unity to the free-thinkers. They are not, however, presented in the context of the eighteenth century, but rather in connection with the development of seventeenthcentury Jansenism. Hence, the stress is put upon the existence of free-thinking as a condition of seventeenth-century thinking rather than as a cause of eighteenth-century thought. Sainte-Beuve made no attempt to explain or explain away what has been thought the relative unimportance of libertinism in the period from 1660 to 1685, and but little effort to show its continuity into the eighteenth century. As Lanson stated, the philosophical movement of the eight-

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ORIGINS

eenth century is broader and more complex than the libertine movement of the seventeenth. Since Sainte-Beuve's day, practically every critic who has tried to investigate the transition from the seventeenth to the eighteenth centuries has given serious consideration to its libertine aspect, as we shall see. Frederic Lachevre has a whole series of studies under the general title Le Libertinage au XVW Steele, some of them, particularly those on Theophile de Viau and Cyrano de Bergerac, comprise several volumes, and there are lengthy articles upon lesser figures. Lachevre was tireless in seeking biographical and bibliographical material on the figures he treated, many of whom had already appeared in Sainte-Beuve's portrait gallery. In general, the two groups of libertines distinguished by Lachevre are the lyric poets and the Utopian novelists. Theophile de Viau is given as representative of the poets; Cyrano, of the novelists, and each is shown to have had a long line of descendents. One very fine quality of Lachevre's series is that the texts have been well edited. It should be noted, on the negative side, that he treats these libertine characters with a dislike bordering upon passionate hatred. One wonders how he could have spent so much intellectual and scholarly effort on those whom he found so uncongenial. Finally, no more than Sainte-Beuve did he succeed in giving continuity or coherence to the libertine movement, nor has he demonstrated how it produced the Enlightenment. The most recent work devoted to the libertine aspect of eighteenthcentury thought is Professor Spink's French Free-Thought from Gassendi to Voltaire (London, i960). Essentially, Professor Spink has done over Sainte-Beuve's and Lachevre's thesis in a more consistent, coherent, and organic way. He divides his free-thinkers into two groups: Gassendi and the libertines, and Descartes and the rationalists. It is not clear why he did this, since in doing so he has confused free-thinkers with such systematic philosophers as Descartes, Spinoza, Hobbes, and Leibniz, without clarifying what differentiated the activities of the free-thinkers from those of the philosophers. Better than anyone else I know, though, he has traced the relationship between Gassendi and his group of free-thinkers with the revival of epicureanism, although even here he has failed to bring out what significance this connection holds for the origin of the Enlightenment. There is undoubtedly a link between rationalism, epicureanism, spinozism, and skepticism, and all of these had •29 ·

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an influence in the shaping of free-thought during the opening years of the Enlightenment; but these interactions remain obscure. As might be expected by anyone knowing both Sainte-Beuve and Taine, the latter's explanation for the development of the eighteenthcentury "esprit philosophique" and the consequent rise of "l'esprit revolutionnaire" was much more systematic. Taine saw the formation of the "esprit philosophique" as the result of two forces. In Book III, "L'Esprit et la Doctrine," of his Ancien Regime, he attributes the rise of the eighteenth-century doctrine to the "acquis scientifique"—Newtonian cosmology—which provided not mere insights into nature, but a completely new system of the world. This "acquis scientifique" was the revolution which changed entirely man's conception of himself and his possibilities. Unfortunately, it had to be communicated through the medium of the "esprit classique": restricted vocabulary, general expression, oratorical style, logical deductions. There is thus an incompatibility between the "forme" and the "fond": the new discoveries had an insufficient medium for their expression. Nevertheless, it is this combination of the "acquis scientifique" with the "esprit classique" which created the eighteenth-century doctrine. This doctrine was also defective, we are told, because of the weakness in "raison classique": the century was ignorant of history, science was forced to become epigrammatic or oratorical; "Ie beau style omettait ou faussait les petits faits significatifs," and sympathetic imagination was lacking. Failing to understand man and his past, one misunderstood his institutions and his present. Taine, however, who was not very consistent in his theories concerning the origin of eighteenth-century ideas, went on to add a third force. In Book IV of his Ancien Rogime: "La Propagation de la Doctrine," he states that eighteenth-century philosophy, born in England, could not develop in England. It is not clear why a philosophy indigenous to a particular country could not develop in that country, especially if one accepts Taine's own fundamental explanation of what constitutes the personality of a civilization. At all events, for Taine, this English philosophy was transported into France, and there the seeds flourished and spread with extraordinary vigor. Lanson undertook to give a critique of that part of Taine's theory which consisted in saying that the "esprit revolutionnaire" is com• 30 ·

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pounded of the "esprit scientifique" of the eighteenth century and the "esprit classique" of the seventeenth. In a succinct statement, he characterizes this aspect of Taine's theory as "false, vague, inaccurate, and founded upon literary masterpieces." It is indeed difficult to see how Newtonian science brought on the Revolution just because the French language was inadequate to give full expression to Newtonian mathematical concepts. It is probably true, as Voltaire said, that very few people read Newton because of his intricate calculations. It is more than likely, also, that few had the intelligence to grasp the full consequences of Newton's discoveries. The classical style was certainly ill-adapted to express scientific matters, as Voltaire himself was to discover. It is not clear, though, how inadequacies of expression and incomprehension in scientific matters led to the creation of a revolutionary frame of mind. Taine suggests that the new truths of science could not be accurately communicated to the public in France, and therefore a revolution occurred. This kind of simplification is very questionable, indeed; on the other hand, in the sense that Newtonian science revolutionized man's way of thinking about himself, renewed the eternal problems which always beset him, and required his readjustment to a whole new manner of living and feeling, science was undoubtedly a potent force in the forging of the Enlightenment, and it could have had an active role in the Revolution. Further, in Taine's insistence that the Enlightenment was the product of thought transmitted from England, where it could not grow, to France, where it blossomed, there are also obscurities. For instance, it is sheer nonsense to assume, as he does, that although the English tongue was adequate to the expression of the new science, England was unable to absorb the philosophy which derived from Newtonian cosmology and therefore exported it to France, where it could easily be absorbed although France did not have the vital language to communicate it. Taine was especially vague in defining the "esprit classique" and the other "esprits" as well. Moreover, he failed, as did Sainte-Beuve, to solve the problems of continuity. As a consequence, he could not show how the revolution in science led to the French Revolution, nor could he demonstrate how the revolutionary scientific philosophy of England influenced the march of ideas in France. There was in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries a tremendous impact of English ideas upon • 31 ·

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French thought, and the merging of the two civilizations was of paramount importance to the shaping of the Enlightenment, but Taine was unable to exploit these two movements and their consequences. Nevertheless, his is the credit for first suggesting the immense importance they have in the history of Enlightenment ideas. Brunetiere, who had a high regard for the Port-Royal of SainteBeuve, and who shared many of Taine's suspicions about the intellectual deficiencies of the Ancien Regime, brought together the three factors proposed by his two predecessors as responsible for Enlightenment thought: libertinism, science, and the impact of English ideas upon French thought. Two of his articles in the Etudes critiques were devoted to the impact of libertine thought upon the eighteenth century; one, "La Philosophic de Moliere," studied the effect of free thought upon one of the greatest classical artists; the other, on Pierre Bayle, attempted to assess his role as precursor to the Enlightenment. Moliere was credited with the introduction of libertinism into the very heart of classicism, and Bayle's role in transmitting this seventeenth-century classical free-thinking into eighteenth-century "philosophic" was strengthened. Brunetiere thus not only supplied an interpretation which added more consistency to the movement, but he also gave it more continuity and, in the studies on Moliere and Bayle, stressed the influence which the two exercised upon the development of free-thinking. Not content with these achievements, Brunetiere attempted, in an article on "Jansenistes et Cartesiens" and another on "L'Idee du progres," (fitudes critiques, IV) to trace the movement of ideas from the revival of Cartesianism to the formation of a philosophy of progress. Here he studied the struggle between the late Cartesians and the Jansenists, and how the former effected eventually a modus vivendi with the free-thinkers. In this way, he could explain the triumph of rationalism over faith, of philosophy over theology, and of positive philosophy over metaphysics. This theory, reduced to simple terms, consisted in saying that the merging of the libertine with the Cartesian current gave rise to the philosophical movement of the eighteenth century. There was lacking, however, the English influence, which Brunetiere took up at a later date. Lanson, who judged Sainte-Beuve's theory too narrow to account for the origins of the Enlightenment, and Taine's too vague and in• 32 ·

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accurate, was much impressed with Brunetiere's analysis. This view he felt was "juste et profonde," although he did add that Brunetiere did not assign sufficient space to the whole of historical reality, being particularly short in the activities of the Jansenists and the Jesuits. Brunetiere planned, at the end of his life, to bring together the divers currents which contributed to the formation of eighteenthcentury philosophical ideas in France and to give them an organic reality. This he did in 1905 in a course he projected in thirty lessons on the origins and development of the eighteenth century. After his death, two of his friends, Victor Giraud and Rene Doumic, published (1905) the organized notes in a series of eight articles in the Revue hebdomadaire under the title "Huit Le$ons sur les origines de l'Esprit Encyclopedique." These articles constitute a landmark in the history of ideas in the eighteenth century. For the first time, a scholar undertook to assemble the forces which brought about the Enlightenment. The titles of the eight chapters gave a clear indication of those forces: "I. La Libre Pensee au XVIIP Siecle"; "II. La Fortune du Cartesianisme"; "HI. La Querelle des Anciens et des Modernes"; "IV. La Formation de l'ldee Moderne de Science"; "V. La Jeunesse de Voltaire"; "VI. L'Influence Anglaise au XVIIP Siecle"; "VII. Les Idees de Montesquieu"; "VIII. La Situation Litteraire en 1750." The chapter headings show eloquently the central preoccupation of Brunetiere. The nucleus of the eighteenth century is the "esprit encyclopedique" which came into existence around 1750 and led direcdy to the Revolution. It was the result of four combined forces: the libertine current; Cartesianism, and its opponents; the "new" science; and the influence of England. These forces turn the civilization of France (and of Europe) from the humanism of antiquity to a more modern, scientific humanism. Two writers especially are responsible for this transformation. Voltaire, who stands at the juncture of ancient and modern, combines the free-thinking and the rationalism of his predecessors with English empirical science. For Brunetiere, he is the pivot upon which the seventeenth century turns into the eighteenth. But he is not alone, since Montesquieu in many respects did more to actualize English empiricism than Voltaire. At all events, Voltaire and Montesquieu both separated the old from • 33 ·

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the new and joined the North and the South. This movement was achieved by 1750, and the stage set for the creation of the "esprit encyclopedique." There are many interesting observations in Brunetiere's posthumous demonstration. He denied, for instance, that the seventeenth century was solidly Christian in spite of its appearances. Only the lower estate and the elite were religious; the bourgeoisie became more and more libertine. These latter understood La Mothe Ie Vayer when he asserted that faith is not necessary to salvation, or Moliere when he declared that to constrain nature is to mutilate it, or Bayle when he insisted that there is a great discrepancy between our principles and our actions. In the face of these assertions, the more alert took fright. Nicole declared that the great heresy of the moment was not Calvinism, but atheism, while Leibniz hoped that his contemporaries were at least deists, that is "persuades que tout est gouverne par une souveraine sagesse." Brunetiere explained this deviation from Christianity by the activity of Louis XIV in suppressing the Jansenists and revoking the Edict of Nantes, thereby removing the two principal barriers to free-thinking. Brunetiere insisted that critics have been mistaken about the time and nature of Cartesian influence: they should have paid more attention to Baillet, where they would have seen what real Cartesianism is. They would also have seen that it was opposed by Jansenism, but especially by Pascal, who saw that if God, the soul, and providence can be proved rationally, there is no more need for religion. True Cartesianism, the very opposite, of Christianity, was revived around 1667 by the women of the salons and flourished in spite of the Sorbonne and Bossuet. This Cartesianism awakened in the public scientific curiosity, respect for mathematical certainty, and scorn for tradition. Its widespread diffusion coincided with the rise of Newton's principles. It produced the quarrel of the ancients and the moderns, with very serious consequences: tradition became synonymous with superstition; progress was conceived as an emancipation from the past, while education tended to become ahistorical and to encourage a disrespect for antiquity. Added to the results already achieved by libertinism— independence of morality, the creation of a new kind of certainty, the formation of a new idea of science—it transformed the whole approach to knowledge. Science separated from religion, philosophy, • 34 ·

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and history, and constituted itself a new field hostile to other areas and characterized by a new method. Brunetiere insisted upon the opposition of the "new" science to orthodox religion, and recalled that three religious works—Pascal's Pensies, Bossuet's Discours sur I'histoire universelle, Fenelon's Traite de I'existence de Dieu opposed science, and that Leibniz threw his weight on the side of these three. But the new science overwhelmed these opponents, by proscribing the belief in final causes and by insisting upon the immutability of nature's laws, thereby rendering a belief in providence unnecessary, and a belief in the supernatural, the miraculous, and the mysterious impossible. Brunetiere conceded that these things occurred in spite of the firm orthodox convictions of Leibniz and Newton. The latter for instance, wrote: La philosophic de la nature consiste a raisonner sur les phenomenes sans s'appuyer sur des hypotheses et a conclure les causes d'apres les effets, jusqu'a ce qu'on remonte ainsi a la premiere des causes qui certainement n'est pas mecanique. Le but que cette science doit se proposer n'est pas seulement de developper Ie mecanisme de l'univers, mais de resoudre des questions generates telles que celle-ci. . . . D'ou vient que la nature ne fait jamais rien inutilement? . . . Et toutes ces choses etant si parfaitement operees ne parait-il pas qu'il existe un Dieu immateriel, vivant, intelligent, partout present ? While Leibniz concluded: Quand je cherchai les dernieres raisons du mecanisme et des lois memes du mouvement, je fus tout surpris de voir qu'il etait impossible de les trouver dans les mathematiques et qu'il fallait retourner a la metaphysique. Brunetiere maintained that far from continuing the spirit of the seventeenth century, the period from 1680 to 1735 did precisely the opposite. Under the action of multiple causes, everything in France, philosophy as well as politics, but especially literature and criticism, changed its character and its orientation. Brunetiere explained that the spirit of the eighteenth century was not naturally derived from that of the seventeenth, as is an effect from its cause. Although the rupture was not total between the two centuries, there did take place "deviation, inversion, renversement du pour au contre," for which Bayle, in his opinion, was largely responsible. This idea of "renversement du pour au contre," introduced by Brunetiere as the distinguishing characteristic between the seven•35 ·

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teenth and the eighteenth centuries, would play a large role in the thinking of critics during the first half of the twentieth century. Lanson laid great stress upon it in his Histoire de la litterature franfaise. It was his view that at the death of Louis XIV the Church, royalty, and the aristocracy were all in a state of moral bankruptcy. Because of this breakdown in authority, there was a whole series of sudden changes which marked the differences between the two epochs. For instance, the seventeenth century is Christian, the eighteenth is one of disbelief. In the age of Louis XIV, morality was characteristically Christian, while in the succeeding age there was to be a hedonistic morality. The society of the seventeenth was mundane and social, but not patriotic or cosmopolitan. That of the eighteenth would be even more mundane and social, but also patriotic and cosmopolitan. The seventeenth was respectful of authority and tradition, the eighteenth insistent upon a constant application of rationalism even in matters of faith. The seventeenth was seriously committed to speculative philosophy, especially metaphysics and morality; the eighteenth devoted itself rather to experimental science and the historical sciences. The seventeenth, finally, was aesthetic, while the succeeding age was constantly practical in its orientation. Lanson not only accepted "the sudden-change theory" of Brunetiere, he also adopted the four movements which, according to Brunetiere, united to produce the "esprit encyclopedique." Lanson, however, looked with more favor upon these movements which Brunetiere, for personal reasons, came to deplore. The English influence Lanson judged beneficial rather than harmful, and the libertine, rationalist, Cartesian currents he regarded as contributing added richness to the classical spirit. On the other hand, he acknowledged that these influences were induced by a breakdown in the classical tradition, and that they would never have entered the mainstream of French thought had it not been for the peculiar social atmosphere, brought about by a decline in the authority of state and Church. Lanson closely followed Brunetiere's exposition in this respect: the free-thinking spirit progressed because of a flaw in tradition and authority. Seen in this light, the forces which now prevailed were not as pure as they might have been. Seen, however, as contributing factors to a new spirit, they were fruitful, rich movements. Lanson admitted that there were difficulties, though, in these • 36 ·

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explanations. At the time of writing the Histoire de la litterature fratifaise (1894), he remained firmly attached to Sainte-Beuve's and Brunetiere's theories on the origins of eighteenth-century thought, though it was already evident that he would have eventually to give closer consideration to the problems of influence and continuity. After the publication of Brunetiere's "lecons" in the Revue hebdomadaire, Lanson began to seek answers to the difficult problems which the simple assumptions of Sainte-Beuve and Brunetiere raised. In a course which he presented between 1907 and 1910, entitled "Origines et premieres manifestations de l'esprit philosophique dans la litterature francaise de 1675 a 1748," he returned to the problem of the origins of Enlightenment thought. A brief passage will give the new orientation (R.C.C., Dec. 1907, 295): Nous verrons que la litterature du XVIIP siecle sort de la vie profonde du XVIIe, et qu'elle manifeste Ie plus souvent ce qui j usque-la avait ete trop faible pour s'exprimer spontanement, ou ce qui avait ete comprime par la force des autorites et des traditions. Que ces contraintes et ces autorites s'affaiblissent, et cette vie profonde jaillira des oeuvres litteraires. The problem now became not how the "Encyclopedic spirit" was organized by the united forces of free-thinking, Cartesian rationalism, science, and English empiricism, but how these forces were given free expression by a developing "philosophical spirit" which sprang from the "sources profondes" of the seventeenth century. Lanson carefully sought to distinguish between this philosophical spirit and philosophy, but being intimately involved with Cartesian rationalism, it had many relations with other seventeenth-century philosophies in spite of Lanson's intentions.1 Ultimately it was identified with rationalism, compounded with a whole group of "isms" deism, libertinism, epicureanism, Spinozism. This rationalism permeated the morality of the time and brought about its separation from religion. Lanson even attempted to trace the germs of utilitari1 A glance at the headings will show how the problem appeared to him: "L'Esprit rationaliste vers 1680," "Penetration du rationalisme dans la morale," "Separation de la morale et de la religion," "Germes d'utilitarisme dans la pensee catholique et liberalisme des administrateurs de Louis XIV," "Influence du Colbertisme," "Le Cartesianisme," "Le Libertinage," "Le Deisme de La Terre australe," "Le Deisme et L'Histoire des Sevarambes" "L'influence de Spinoza," "Boulainvilliers," "Les fipicuriens: Bernier," "Les fipicuriens: Ninon de Lenclos," "La Philosophic de SaintEvremond," "Chaulieu," and "Bayle."

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anism in Catholic thought and political liberalism in the administration of Louis XIVs government. His study of rationalism in morality and religion and of utilitarianism in politics and religion was supplemented in the second part of his course by an analysis of Colbertism, Cartesianism, libertinism, deism, Spinozism, and epicureanism. True to his method of always making a concrete study of abstract ideas and always drawing his material as much as possible from the literature of the time, Lanson drew his expositions from the authors of the period: the deism of La Terre australe and the Histoire des Sevarambes, the epicureanism of Boulainvilliers, etc. Finally, Bayle was presented as the one who gathered together the threads of the whole movement, although it must be confessed that Lanson's three lectures upon Bayle are not very explicit in stating how this was done. In these lectures Lanson greatly modified the problem of the origin of eighteenth-century thought. By transforming the focus from the encyclopedic spirit to a philosophic spirit growing out of the manners and customs of France in the closing years of the seventeenth century, he augmented the time span of the movement and brought out not only its enlarged dimensions but the complexity of the ingredients which entered into its composition. In extending the period from 1675 to 1750, he rendered rather difficult any distinction between a period of preparation and a period of organization. On the other hand, by shifting from the "encyclopedic spirit" to the "philosophic spirit" as the focus of the movement of ideas, he gave to these philosophical ideas a development and continuity of sorts. He made this development dependent upon rationalism, and thereby broadened the intellectual field and incorporated within it those aspects which had been given a position of priority such as libertinism, natural science, and English empiricism. Other aspects, which he added, such as deism, epicureanism, and Spinozism, had been previously ignored. Under the guise of seeking the philosophical spirit by admitting into its formation every manifestation of rationalism, he was thus able to suggest a broader, deeper, and more complex focus in the movement of Enlightenment. These achievements carried along with them some disadvantages, however. Lanson's attempt to separate the philosophical spirit from the history of philosophy was one, since it arbitrarily severed the movement from what had to be one of its principal sources. In • 38 ·

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addition, when he did discuss the philosophers, he treated their philosophy very superficially. As an inevitable result, a "philosophi­ cal spirit" wilfully divorced from philosophical origins or from a large part of its philosophical content ended as rather distorted. Be­ sides, Lanson, as well as his predecessors, was somewhat vague in his use of "spirit," so that the term conveyed more the idea of move­ ment and tendency than that of intellectual vitality and organic unity. As a consequence he spoke of "isms" as if they all belonged to the same category. Like his contemporaries, he confused those which are collective systems of thought (deism, rationalism) with those which are the development of one philosopher (Cartesianism, Spinozism) with those which have become widespread attitudes and tendencies (determinism, utilitarianism, epicureanism, and stoi­ cism). It is, of course, very difficult to draw distinctions between the system of thought of Spinoza, Descartes, or Leibniz and that philosophy which is the system of thought of Spinoza's, Descartes's, or Leibniz' followers. Failure to make some distinction, however, can distort beyond recognition the development of a spirit. Obvi­ ously, there are philosophers and philosophical currents which tran­ scend individual philosophies: rationalism, skepticism, epicureanism, deism, materialism and determinism, atheism, are all examples of this. In a curious way, they were all involved in shaping the philo­ sophical spirit of the Enlightenment, but Lanson did not show clearly the role they played. This defect was apparent in the study Lanson made in the Ques­ tions diverses sur I'histoire de I'esprit philosophtque en France avant ιη$o (1912), concerning a group of clandestine essays related to the Tractatus. They were products of Spinoza's philosophy and initiators of Spinozism. Lanson concluded that it was an error to regard, as he had done previously, the philosophical movement of the En­ lightenment as a smoldering fire, flickering only intermittently until 1750 and then bursting violently into flames. The catalogues of manu­ scripts in French public libraries had taught him that there was a large number of philosophical manuscripts deeply impregnated with Spinozism and other philosophical ideas in the first part of the century which were written and circulated clandestinely. Prelimi­ nary soundings had led him, he stated, to the opinion that the "esprit philosophique" had been more solidly organized in the first part of the eighteenth century than he had previously thought. He failed • 39 ·

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KNOWN

to penetrate this organization, although he did clarify better than any of his predecessors the elements which entered into the com­ position of the "esprit philosophique." To those which had already been discussed by Taine, Sainte-Beuve, and Brunetiere—libertinism, Cartesianism, natural science, and English empiricism—Lanson add­ ed deism, Spinozism, epicureanism, the Utopian imaginary novel, and the clandestine, Spinozistic essay; but though he was aware of the presence of these elements, he did not know how to bring them together organically. He added, finally, a deeper sense of history, a clearer notion of the change in manners and social groupings which effected a general movement of culture, though he never solved the problems of consistency, continuity, or coherence in the movement (R.C.C., Dec. 1907, 298): En resume, il y a un glissement general du XVIP siecle vers Ie XVIIP siecle: quelques gros blocs, roulant en avant, font grand bruit en se detachant; mais la verite est que tout Ie terrain glisse lui-meme insensiblement. Il y a un mouvement general des esprits qui prepare les exigences du XVIIP siecle en matiere de critique et de certitude. Et c'est a l'etude de ce mouvement, de ce glissement, que je viendrai des ma prochaine Ιεςοη. The statement of purpose is eloquent; the demonstration of Lan­ son, however, in the subsequent lectures was concerned neither with the "mouvement general" nor with the "exigences du XVIIP siecle." Even the idea of "glissement," once it had been invoked, tended to disappear. Professor C. Beyer published in the Romanic Review (XXXIV, 1943: 18-40) an article entitled "Du Cartesianisme a la Philosophic des Lumieres," in which he discussed at some length Brunetiere's and Lanson's theories. Beyer recalled there was, as Voltaire had re­ marked in the "Catalogue des ficrivains" in the Siecle de Louis XlV, a decline in Cartesianism around 1730, because of progress made in geometry and experimental science. Beyer explained that, at that time, Locke's sensualism opposed Cartesian morality, and Newton's discoveries contradicted Descartes's vortices. Descartes had until then enjoyed considerable renown; Malebranche had confirmed his phi­ losophy, and the Church, after having criticized it during the seven­ teenth century, now seemed willing to adopt it. This view of a continuing Cartesian influence until 1730 was widely held, said Beyer, from the time of Voltaire's remark until it was questioned • 40 ·

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by Brunetiere in the "Cartesiens et Jansenistes" (Etudes critiques, 1889) and Lanson in the "Origines et premieres manifestations de 1'esprit philosophique" (R.C.C., 1907). Beyer stressed Brunetiere's insistence that Cartesian influence was unimportant in the seventeenth century and very important around 1750 to 1760. In reality, although Brunetiere's reference to the revival of Cartesianism as "fifty or sixty years later," is ambiguous, it is probable that the period which he had in mind was not 1750 to 1760 as Beyer understood him to say, but rather 1680 to 1690, that is, fifty or sixty years after the Discours. At all events, Beyer is right in pointing out that in his Origines Lanson confirmed Brunetiere's view in the sense that he found little indication of Cartesianism in the classical writers of the seventeenth century, but much evidence of its presence in the formation of the "esprit philosophique" in France from 1675 to 1750. Lanson, in fact, states, and Beyer quoted the remark: "par Ie developpement necessaire de son principe, [Ie Cartesianisme] produira la philosophie du i8 e siecle." It was a fifth element which Lanson had seen in the formation of "1'esprit philosophique." Finally, Beyer referred to a third view expressed by R. Hubert in his article "Descartes et I'Encyclopedie" in the Revue de synthese (XIV, 1937: 42-43). By a close analysis of D'Alembert's Discours preliminaire, Hubert had concluded that "Cartesianism was ruined by the Cartesian spirit," but he accepted also the general opinions of D'Alembert's Discours: What the philosophes rejected was Descartes's doctrine of inneity, the physics of the vortices, the metaphysics of substance, and the "esprit de systeme." For these exclusions they substituted "empiricism, positivism, skepticism." Beyer opposed these interpretations, although he accepted certain statements of fact which each contains. He protested the tendencies of literary historians to make of Cartesian rationalism only a method, a "spirit," and recalled that, historically, Descartes is the founder of modern spiritualist rationalism, a philosophy which derives from the "Platonic Spirit" and which is that of Malebranche, Leibniz, and Spinoza. Being a dogmatic, systematic, rationalistic philosophy, Cartesianism would naturally be opposed to all skeptical doctrines (which would deny the validity of metaphysics), and to all empirical doctrines (which would deny the validity of the rationalist, deductive, sciences). Therefore, Beyer concluded, all explanations which would see in the movement of ideas a progressive, slow passage from • 41 ·

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Cartesianism to an "esprit philosophique" seem impossible. Beyer insisted that the fortunes of Cartesianism have never been explicitly determined. We do know that Pascal criticized the method, and that Regius, always considered Descartes's outstanding disciple, seems to have turned to Gassendi: he found no superiority in Descartes's rationalism over Gassendi's. Finally, Beyer stressed that Cartesianism had two particular enemies: the epicureans with their emphasis upon skepticism and empiricism, and the later Cartesians who were thoroughly mediocre. Beyer feels, therefore, that in these circumstances an insistence upon a fusion of the libertines and the Cartesians must be subject to caution, since such a union could result in one party's absorbing the other. Beyer concluded that it is improper to call the philosophes rationalists or Cartesians by virtue of their critical spirit which, being empirical, polemical, tendentious, and skeptical, has no relationship with Cartesian reason. He conceded that it is possible to see in the libertine spirit the germ of eighteenth-century skepticism. But it is not proper, he insisted, to talk of a fusion of Cartesianism and libertinism. What actually happened was that libertinism—that is, skepticism, empiricism, and positivism—triumphed. Hence the real problem to consider is not the fusion, the evolution, or the development of Cartesianism and libertinism, but the progressive substitution of free-thinking, scientism, skepticism, and empiricism in place of Cartesianism. Beyer's article is important to anyone seeking eighteenth-century origins. His belief that Cartesianism is one thing and that the later Cartesians developed something else is plausible. His distinction between Cartesianism and the epicureanism, Gassendism, Pascalism which opposed it seems valid. His espousal of the libertine origins of the eighteenth century and the triumph of positivism, empiricism, and skepticism, which were anathema to Descartes, can be defended in part. And yet, to subscribe to this interpretation, one would have to overlook a number of obvious facts: it is difficult to understand, for instance, how Cartesianism is weakened, if it is strong enough to produce Leibniz, Spinoza, and Malebranche, not to mention Locke and Newton. Moreover, there is some exaggeration in excluding skepticism, positivism, and empiricism from Cartesianism, as well as in suggesting that libertinism is not a rationalism. Even with • 42 ·

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these reservations, however, it is evident that Beyer's article offers proof that we know but little about how Cartesianism and libertinism merged to overwhelm Jansenism and create a philosophical spirit. It was upon Lanson's foundation articles in the R.H.L. and R.C.C. that Paul Hazard based the composition of his extraordinary Crise de la conscience europeenne: 1680-1715 (1PSS) a n ^ the subsequent La Pensee europeenne au XVIIF Steele (1946). Hazard separated a zone clearly distinct from the seventeenth and the eighteenth centuries proper—the thirty-five-year period (1680-1715) constituting the latter half of the reign of Louis XIV—which displayed three significant characteristics: it was an era of crisis; the crisis occurred in the minds of men, that is, it was a real, psychological crisis; and the crisis was European in scope. This zone, however, is no longer a period of preparation for the Enlightenment; in many respects, Hazard keeps insisting, it is the Enlightenment. But so was the subsequent period from 1715 to 1780, the only difference being that in this second period the Enlightenment reached a wider public. This concept of crisis is in accord with the doctrine of sudden change which Brunetiere and Lanson had adopted. Both had abandoned the theory, however, in the interest of continuity, consistency, and coherence, with which it was not in accord. As a consequence, both Brunetiere and Lanson had conceived of the movement as the development of a spirit ("esprit encyclopedique" for Brunetiere, "esprit philosophique" for Lanson). Hazard, for his part, probably under the influence of German philosophy, shifted the focus from the development of rationalism to the state of the human mind which became conscious of its intellectual condition and confident of its latent powers to give direction to its activity. Consequently it is not its historical development which must be traced, but rather its "position," "situation," or "set of conditions" which have to be seized simultaneously and organically. It is no longer "esprit" which is the ultimate goal, but "conscience." The shock to the "psyche" will explain the subsequent attitudes and events. For these reasons, obviously convinced he could return to the theory of sudden change without endangering his critical position, Hazard introduced this theme in the opening paragraph of his introduction: • 43 ·

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Quel contraste! quel brusque passage! La hierarchie, la discipline, l'ordre que l'autorite se charge d'assurer, les dogmes qui reglent fermement la vie: voila ce qu'aimaient les hommes du dix-septieme siecle. Les contraintes, l'autorite, les dogmes, voila ce que detestent les hommes du dixhuitieme siecle, leurs successeurs immediate. Les premiers sont chretiens, et les autres anti-chretiens; les premiers croient au droit divin, et les autres au droit naturel; les premiers vivent a l'aise dans une societe qui se divise en classes inegales, les seconds ne revent qu'egalite. Certes, les fils chicanent volontiers les peres, s'imaginant qu'ils vont refaire un monde qui n'attendait qu'eux pour devenir meilleur: mais les remous qui agitent les generations successives ne suffisent pas a expliquer un changement si rapide et si decisif. La majorite des Francais pensait comme Bossuet; tout d'un coup, les Francais pensent comme Voltaire: c'est une revolution. Since the psychological was the center of all this activity, Hazard analyzed those processes which brought about the great psychological changes. There are four of them, plus the dominating influence of an outstanding figure. There is the shift from stability to movement best exemplified in the urge to travel; first, in Europe; then, to more distant lands; and finally, in imaginary voyages to Utopian lands. These travels have a profound effect on the evolution of ideas: they furnished new models of wisdom and virtue, occasions for criticizing the defects of civilized society, and ample opportunity to present the perfect society. The change from stability to movement was paralleled by one from ancient to modern, a psychological change in time corresponding to that in space. The classical age respected antiquity, accepted the benefits of tradition, built a sense of respect upon the authority of the past. But now one is permitted to have doubts about the history of Greece, of Rome, of the events in the Bible. One can have but little respect for a history which is a collection of fables and errors. In addition, there was a change in the intellectual hegemony of Europe, hitherto exercized by a Latin country but now passing to a northern country—England—whose influence is felt in France, Germany, and Holland. Russia and Prussia assume a role of importance in the affairs of Europe. The Mediterranean South thus finds itself challenged by the North. Finally, a movement from Catholic orthodoxy to Protestant heterodoxy introduces a further element of instability. The Latin, Catholic South finds itself opposed by the Germanic, Protestant North. Dominance •44 ·

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passes from the lands which had given Europe its moral laws to the lands destined to give Europe its new scientific discoveries. The scattering of the Protestants hastened this movement which could only result in the establishment of heterodoxy, a greater effort to tolerance in religious matters, and a consequent expression of free-thinking. To these four psychological forces of change, Hazard added Pierre Bayle, whose skepticism, he declares, was a fifth force, and whose Dictionnaire was "Ie requisitoire Ie plus accablant qu'on ait jamais dresse pour la honte et pour la confusion des hommes." But Bayle is not only the "questionneur facheux." He also proposes the separation of faith and reason, theology and philosophy, religion and rationalism, thus producing a final breakdown in the unity of thought and action. The psychological "condition" sprang from the climate created by these new forces, while the crisis was produced by the dynamism inherent in them. For Hazard, the crisis was first and foremost religious. He carefully detailed those responsible for it: English freethinkers, like Sir William Temple, and French followers of Gassendi. They have no formal doctrine, they are not very profound in their philosophy, not metaphysicians at all, and they are already "philosophes." The representative libertine for Hazard, as for Lanson and Sainte-Beuve, was Saint-Evremond. There were also the Cartesians, followers of Descartes in every European country. In a way, said Hazard, Descartes had established a philosophical kingdom, where all the philosophers who succeed him discussed his philosophy, even Newton and Locke. To be sure, many of his pronouncements, especially in physics, had been discarded. What remained, though, was his way of looking at life and the world, his method, his simple rules for the conduct of thought; and finally a confidence in reason looked upon as an instrument for the acquisition of knowledge. Finally, there was among these rationalists a number of philosophers who derived from Descartes: Malebranche, convinced that religion is the true philosophy, but convinced also that wherever there is discord between reason and faith, conciliation can be found in a greater attention to reason, a greater respect for order, a greater application to wisdom. Spinoza created the concept of a rational God, in whom he reintegrated man, and upset all the established values. For him the problem of evil no longer existed, the problem of free will was posed differently, the search • 45 ·

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for happiness took on a totally new meaning. Leibniz ever sought a unity in the infinite variety of things, a continual merging of the general and the particular, the possible and the real, the logical and the metaphysical, the mathematical and the physical, the mechanistic and the finalistic, matter and spirit. These rationalists—the free-thinkers, Cartesians, and the successors of Descartes—undertake to restudy the eternal problems which engage the attention of man: ". . . celui de l'existence et de la nature de Dieu, celui de l'etre et des apparences, celui du bien et du mal, celui de la liberte et de la fatalite, celui des droits du souverain, celui de la formation de l'Etat social. . . ." Their inquiry brought to the peoples of Europe a whole new set of alternatives: "Il s'agissait de savoir si on croirait ou si on ne croirait plus; si on obeirait a la tradition, ou si on se revolterait contre elle; si l'humanite continuerait sa route en se fiant aux memes guides, ou si des chefs nouveaux lui feraient faire volte-face pour la conduire vers d'autres terres promises." Their attack, said Hazard, was directed practically exclusively at the traditional religious beliefs: miracles, oracles, and the facts of the Bible. The staunch defender of tradition was, of course, Bossuet, but there were Fenelon, Arnauld, Lamy. Bossuet, however, undertook the task of restoring order, first through his own works designed to present clearly the orthodox dependence upon tradition and authority, then in attacks against his opponents, such as his condemnation of Richard Simon's Histoire critique, and finally in a fruitless attempt to conciliate the Catholic with the Protestant point of view. Hazard's third section is devoted to an analysis of the reconstruction after the assault against authority and tradition had practically ruined religious orthodoxy. Here the work of Locke was paramount. He furnished to the Enlightenment mind, threatened by total skepticism, a new kind of certainty: the psychological fact. Renouncing metaphysics as practiced both by the French and the Germans, he proposed as the subject of investigation the limited world which our senses can embrace. In the opening passage of the Essay he laid down the goal which we may reasonably set ourselves. Our business in this world is not to know everything, but those things which concern the conduct of our lives. Hence his insistence upon the limits of human intelligence. Since our welfare depends upon our • 46 ·

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ideas, it is well to note how they reach us, how they are formed, how they combine, how they are stored in our memory, and finally how they lead to reasonable action. Hazard notes that the empiricism of Locke provides a whole new approach to life: our task is to know the Creator through knowing his creatures, to be instructed in our duties, and to provide for the necessities of our material life. Under the impact of this program, religion ceases being dogmatic or systematic and becomes natural religion, called deism since its only positive belief is in the existence of God. Derived from natural religion is the moral law, the law of reason, God-given reason which dictates our actions and decides naturally what is right. The establishment of a natural religion in place of the orthodox, traditional Christianity generated a revision in the other categories of living: in politics, morality, even in aesthetics. Everywhere the key to the new order was the natural: in the realm of politics, in lieu of the Leviathan state, absolute, orthodox, built on tradition and supported by religion, there was now proposed a society based on natural rights; instead of a traditional morality, there was now an ethics built upon personal rights and social duties. Hazard shows that all this reconstruction founded upon the natural, upon rights, and upon the reasonable brought about a definite reformation in the categories of living. With the insistence upon freedom, naturalness, equality, and tolerance, there was conceived, he said, a new sort of humanity. The note constantly struck is that of happiness upon this earth, tolerance of one's fellowman, and progress through scientific knowledge. The ideal man is the "Gentleman anglais." The reconstruction has been so persuasively presented by Hazard that the idea of destruction all but disappears. One gets the impression that there is no longer a crisis. Everything reorders itself calmly, socially, politically, even religiously and aesthetically. One can not avoid a feeling of disappointment: the crisis promised so much, the "conscience" was so powerful in its creative possibilities, the drive to the new, the modern, the future had been so dynamic, and yet what was accomplished was laicization of rights, the creation of the English Gentleman, and a new set of affective values in which sentiment gradually emerged as superior to reason. The two positive achievements were the establishment of "uneasiness" as the principle of our will and the source of our action, which was done by • 47 ·

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Locke, and the inauguration of a new metaphysics of substance which became the principle of life, of energy, of movement, which was done by Leibniz. Throughout Hazard's brilliant two-volume study, it became more and more apparent that the limits kept extending back into the past, if not also into the subsequent period. Hazard resisted the latter tendency, however; he was less successful in combating the former. And so at the end of his investigation he was led to give a conclusion which does not entirely square with the categorical assertions of the beginning. The "sudden change," the "crisis" theory, is abandoned, just as it was abandoned by Lanson and Brunetiere, in favor of a theory of continuity, of development, and a spirit which Hazard makes not the "encyclopedic spirit," nor even the "philosophical spirit," but rather the "European spirit" (Crise, II, 292). That there are inconsistencies in his theory can be seen from the further evidence which he himself presents in the subsequent three volumes entitled La Pensee europeenne au XVIIF siecle (1946). In spite of the work accomplished in the period of the crisis (16801715), those living in the subsequent age from Montesquieu to Lessing are still attempting to destroy Christianity, trying to convert an age of duties into an age of right, and questioning dogmatic morality. The destructive work is carried on with zest by the "Philosophes." But so does the constructive continue—the same effort to substitute a new legal system for the divine right of kings, a new morality for the old one, a new political system "qui transformerait les sujets en citoyens." From Hazard's own interpretation in this last work the period 1715 to 1780 differed from the period 1680 to 1715 in only three respects: while the ideas where the same in the two eras, they were disseminated more widely in the later; they were also corrupted; and they were complemented by a whole new set of feelings, i. e. sensibilite. Hazard's two books—La Crise de la conscience europeenne and La Pensee europienne au XVIIV siecle—are two superior contributions made to the history of European ideas in the Enlightenment. His intellectual interests extended to England, Germany, and Italy as well as France, and he had the training necessary for a comparative method not only in the field of literature, but in the field of ideas as well. His two bibliographical volumes which came at the end of his two works disclosed a wide and sympathetic acquaintance • 48 ·

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with the scholarship of the last forty or fifty years in the area. If anybody could have succeeded in this enterprise, it would certainly have been he. As a matter of record his work has not only been widely acclaimed, it has long been the basic text for all students interested in the Enlightenment. It has also been the subject of much discussion. One of the things most deplored, curiously enough, is its charm: students are often warned that they must be wary, because it reads "like a novel." No sooner had the Crise appeared than it was reviewed by Mornet in the Revue d'histoire litteraire (XLII, 1935: 396-400) under the rubric "Questions de methode." After praising the work for its real sense of art, a respect for history and erudition, and a sense of clarity and organization, Mornet undertook a discussion of its method, which he defined as a "methode de simplification esthetique." The two volumes of the Crise are dominated by two or three dozen great names or great works—men or works which played an important role in the intellectual history of the time. Behind these great actors there would be two or three hundred secondary works which Hazard has synthesized from special investigations in one or more aspects of the period. Even with these studies, however, the real problem can not be easily solved, because the question is not whether certain of the elite passed through a moment of crisis at this time—everyone will agree that this was the case. What must be ascertained is the extent to which the crisis was general: whether it may be said to have extended throughout the public consciousness. This problem can be solved, said Mornet, only by knowing more about the diffusion of the works, their popularity, and their effects upon the public. Reading Hazard's work "on pourrait croire que tout Ie XVIIP siecle rationaliste, experimental, et sensible est deja realise vers 1715." Indeed, Hazard had stated rather categorically that "toutes les attitudes mentales dont l'ensemble aboutira a la revolution fran$aise ont ete prises avant la fin du regne de Louis XIV." Mornet granted that this is true, at least so far as concerns "!'invention des doctrines ou les aspirations." But he pointed out that these doctrines and aspirations cannot be translated into action by the public. In other words, the ideas were present but the action was not. Mornet granted that new, bold ideas may never go beyond a restricted circle of thinkers and that they really have no profound effect upon life. However, in Mornet's opinion the very characteris• 49 ·

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tic of the eighteenth century is precisely the diffusion of these ideas: the people of that time have invented the influential form of expression, which permeates the public and leads to action. From this context, it is evident that what Mornet is seeking is an augmented documentation, with the belief that the more charged the documentation becomes, the fuller the picture will be. Professor Dieckmann has also offered some pertinent criticism of Hazard's work in his article entitled "Themes and Structure of the Enlightenment" in Essays in Comparative Literature. Dieckmann objects to the theory of sudden change, since, he notes, "there is no indication of the way in which the crisis was prepared during the long period between the Renaissance and the last decades of the seventeenth century, nor does it become clear why the crisis occurred at that particular moment" (p. 48). Further, he objects to the philosophical generalizations, what he calls presenting "history in antitheses." He warns against the constructed historical period which Hazard has given and complains that the work reads "like a novel." But his sharpest comment is that Hazard's books lack unity: they "fall into various unrelated pieces," lack "coherence" and are "thinned out." The most defective part of the structure Dieckmann considers the final section in the second work upon "Desagregation." Hazard's plan leads Dieckmann to sketch a differently constructed eighteenth century. For him, there are different phases in the century: a first part concerned with the liquidation of the past, followed by a middle of the century in which all efforts tend to a reconstruction of the present, and the establishment of the foundations of the future. Dieckmann prefers this preparation and development structure to what he calls Hazard's "synthese" and "desagregation." He proposes uniting ideas more closely with events. Moreover, Dieckmann notes that although with the passing of time complexities occur, the historian is invited to simplify. He must distinguish in the Enlightenment between the fundamental ideas of the century and the ideology which is based upon them. The fundamental ideas organize to form a generalized, simplified program—what we call "the movement of Enlightenment"—and the synthesis of that program is its "general spirit or its ideology." It is significant that, to Dieckmann, the important point to stress is the "movement," which for him eliminates the danger of the "grand tableau." Starting with a few basic assumptions, this move•50 ·

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ment proceeds through a whole set of categories: "the conception of man and his faculties, nature, ethics, laws, economics, politics, religion, and the arts." This kind of analysis will give us, he concludes, the best opportunity to interpret the ideology and the spirit of the Enlightenment. But he confesses that this program, which will undoubtedly be fruitful in tracing the development of the Enlightenment, offers less chance of success when treating its origins. Dieckmann, who commends with respect the general tendency to distinguish between the old and the new, the ancient and the modern, prefers, instead of these antitheses, to go back to specific aspects of humanism, Protestantism, skepticism, and the exact natural sciences. All of this is very interesting, for we now have three ways of structuring the century: a psychological presentation based upon the concept of sudden change; a closely-knit way based on an ever increasing documentation of works and their influence; and a history of ideas, with more than a normal amount of history while sticking closely to certain key movements of ideas. Hazard's two works have been followed by other attempts to trace the origins of the Enlightenment even farther back. In 1943, in a work entitled Mersenne, ou la naissance du micanisme, Professor R. Lenoble called attention to the resemblances between the period around 1650 and that studied by Hazard around 1680. So impressive, indeed, is the analogy which he saw between the two eras, that he claimed he could redo his own work on Mersenne by following the exact order of the chapters in Hazard's presentation. There would appear all the currents of thought which the latter had studied: the movement from stability to dynamism, heterodoxy, the rationalists, the negation of miracles, biblical exegesis, plans for the reunification of Protestantism and Catholicism, and a tendency to sensibility. Lenoble alleged that these currents would be found just as strong in the period of Mersenne as at the end of the century. Although he conceded that these traits could perhaps be found in every age, he maintained that, just as in the 1680-1715 period, these tendencies are coherently organized in the years 1625 to 1650 and produce the same results. In 1956, in a number of the review Dix-sepiieme siecle (No. 30, Janvier, 1956) devoted to "Les Sciences au XVIP siecle," Lenoble took up again the movement of ideas which led to the eighteenth century. He suggested that instead of placing the creative period in •51 ·

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science at the end of the seventeenth century, it is more reasonable to place it in the first half with Kepler, Galileo, and Descartes, where it would flourish around 1630. Lenoble admits that the end of the century would have Newton, but he insists that France, with the exception of Malebranche, makes but little progress during the latter period. Thereupon, Lenoble stated that Hazard, on the strength of evidence presented in the field of the history of science, had withdrawn his thesis and had recognized that those forces which had eventually disintegrated the classical spirit were already organized at the beginning of the century, but that they had been submerged, and held in check by the success of Cartesian mechanism. In 1943, R. Pintard published Le Libertinage erudit dans la premiere moitie du XVIF siecle, a thorough study of those writers who grouped themselves around Mersenne and Gassendi. The first problem he attempted to solve was the extent to which this group took its origin in the free-thinking movement in the closing years of the Renaissance in Italy as well as in the skepticism and fideisme which developed around Montaigne. Pintard brought out that in the two decades preceding the Fronde, these writers organized a body of libertine thought distinguished by boldness of ideas but by timidity of presentation. He thought that the movement had become coherent in 1625, and that its influence was spent before 1655, having fallen into discouragement due to the conditions of the time. Around 1680, however, with the revival of Cartesianism there was a corresponding revival of Gassendi by Bernier and the salon of Mme de la Sabliere. This time timidity is lost, and the ideas, singularly advanced, are picked up by Bayle and Fontenelle. Thus the skeptical thought of the seventeenth-century free-thinkers became the source of the Enlightenment. Pintard gives an abundance of details to show how these ideas were transmitted to the eighteenth century. The important fact to note is that, in some respects, his study contradicts Lenoble's work on the origins of the Enlightenment, since once more, as in the early period of the twentieth century, the stress has been shifted from the importance of science to that of free-thinking. Hazard implied in the final summary of the Crise that the roots of the Enlightenment extended to the Renaissance and that essentially the whole struggle was between the apologists of the Christian religion and the supporters of rationalism. Both these assumptions • 52 ·

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form the basis of Professor Henri Busson's three works (Les Sources et developpement du rationalisme au XVF siecle, 1922; La PensSe religieuse de Charron a Pascal, 1933; and La Religion des classiques, 1948). Busson devoted all three studies to the development of rationalism in France from the School of Padua to the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes. In many respects the ground he covers is the same which interested Pintard but the orientation is entirely different, since Busson's primary interest lies in the realm of Christian apologetics. As a consequence, his whole development is placed in a context largely religious, so that he can subtitle his Charron-toPascal study La Pensee religieuse de Charron a Pascal, without distortion, and his third volume stresses that "jamais Ie catholicisme francais ne fut plus chretien." Busson has developed his study with such extraordinary impartiality and scholarly fullness that neither side of the debate is lost. Besides, he has richly documented himself, in a way with which even Mornet would have to confess himself satisfied. His volumes are literally overflowing with minor writers, very minor thinkers, and with an almost overwhelming number of titles. In the Renaissance, he has traced from the School of Padua the origin of those ideas which we are wont to consider rational problems in theology. The setting which he has given them, however, is that of the unbeliever rather than that of the believer, so much so in fact that Lucien Febvre, in Le Probleme de I'incroyance au XW siecle (1947), took him to task for indicating that the sixteenth century was "un siecle des lumieres." To this accusation, Busson made a very reasoned reply in the preface to his second edition of the Sources. He confessed his concern with those who tackle the so-called Paduan problems: the opposition between reason and faith, creation, Providence, miracles, and immortality of the soul. The discussion of these problems gives rise to a theological rationalism which renews the skepticism of the early centuries, putting in question the incarnation and the divinity of Christ. These two kinds of rationalism—theological and skeptical—weakened belief and led to the rise of Christian apologists, which became one of the characteristics of Renaissance literature. The movement by the beginning of the seventeenth century had spread, especially in France but to other countries also, and led to the rise of libertinage. Contrary to the studies of Perrens, Lachevre, • 53 ·

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and Strowski, who present the libertines as "faibles d'esprit" and "simples desequilibres," Busson's work undertakes to show that the libertines introduce very daring themes, drawn for the most part from the Renaissance, and renewed by the development of science and philosophy, which, he says already constitute "a peu pres tout Ie deisme que populariseront cent ans plus tard les Encyclopedistes." But he confesses that his first intention to bring out the rise and development of philosophic ideas from the philosophers was modi­ fied by the discovery that the libertinage of the seventeenth century was a survival of the naturalism of the sixteenth, which was com­ bated by a flood of Christian apologists. This debate takes place, Busson says, in an atmosphere which is solidly theological and which terminates with the Pensees of Pascal. The period of Pascal was followed by the epoch of the great clas­ sicists. For the first time, the free thought divested itself of the hazy aspect of Arab and Paduan philosophy to take on its modern scien­ tific form: "Ainsi ces vingt-cinq annees forment la ligne de partage des eaux des temps modernes, οία la vieille croyance arrive a son periode, ou la jeune incredulite sourd de terre pour deriver vers Ie XVIIF siecle." {La Religion des classiques, p. i.) The turning-point of this movement, said Busson, was brought about by the clash of religion and science. Thus in the development of rationalistic thought during the pe­ riod from 1515 to 1685 can be found the origin of the philosophical spirit of the Enlightenment. One gathers from Busson that it is neither a constant nor even a coherent development. At one time it draws its sources from ancient philosophers, at another, from philo­ sophical rationalism of an academic order. At one period it leads to a libertinism which gathers much of its strength from science. Paduan School, libertinage, philosophy both ancient and contem­ porary, science—these are the forces which nurture it and bring it to its term. Busson mentioned in his short preface to the third vol­ ume that his demonstration "rejoint par tant de points" the Crise de la conscience of Paul Hazard. And indeed, there is much re­ semblance between the two theories, except that what Hazard had extended back into the seventeenth century for thirty-five years and treated as an intellectual revolution, Busson reached back a hundred and seventy more years and treated as a gradual development of a spirit which issued from the constant dialogue between philosophical rationalism and Christian dogma. • 54 ·

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Busson concluded that the libertine currents of the beginning of the seventeenth century in France are an exact extension of those of the Italian sixteenth century. Until Pascal and Bayle, he insisted, rationalism will add nothing to its arsenal of weapons which the sixteenth century willed it, nor will Christian apologetics renew its methods. The ancestors of the libertines are Pomponazzi, Vanini, Cardano, Cremonini, and Bonamico. The number of libertines in­ creases; the works which attract their attention are nonetheless rather rare: L'Heptaplomeres, the Quatrains du deiste, and the Theophrastus redivivus. The rationalist problems which drew their interest can be better seen in the apologists: the Incarnation, the virginity of Mary, the theory of the "three impostors," and, most important of all, the immortality of the soul. Busson remarks that the resultant philosophy did more to corrode spirituality and to attack Christian miracles than to destroy Christian mysteries. Thus, in his view, the initial movement toward the formation of the Enlightenment philosophy can be found in the offensive of the Paduan School1 of the sixteenth century. The one result of all this intellectual activity was to separate and even to place in opposition reason and faith, philosophy and theology. The thinkers of the time were forced to acknowledge the weakness of their intellectual foun­ dations and to fall back upon fideism. The discredit of Aristotle brought with it the scorn of all philosophy, the insistence upon more fideism, and falling back upon what had been called "la docte ig­ norance," "la sceptique chretienne," that is in reality a total divorce of philosophy from theology. The development of science will in­ crease this separation, and the way will be opened to all kinds of free-thinking: fideism, positive theology, naive belief, absolute doubt, lucianism, revolt, and all shades of skepticism. Heirs of the Italian naturalists, spiritual heirs of Montaigne and his followers, these skeptics struggle with the same problems: immortality, providence, miracles, revelation, the accord of philosophy and faith, and, finally, science. It is thus evident that at least over the past hundred years—from Sainte-Beuve to Busson—French scholars have offered varying solu­ tions to the problem of the origins of the Enlightenment. Each scholar treats the phenomenon as the making of a "spirit": with 1 FOr the importance of Padua, see the three studies of H. Busson: Le Developpement du rationalisme au XVIe siecle, Paris, 1922; La Pensee religieuse de Charron ά Pascal, Paris, 1933; and La Religion des classiques, Paris, 1948. See also J. R. Charbonnel, La Pensee italienne et Ie courant libertin, Paris, 1919.

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Sainte-Beuve it is "free-thinking"; with Taine, the "revolutionary" spirit; with Brunetiere, the "encyclopedic" spirit; with Lanson, the "philosophic" spirit. Very often the spirit is declared to be the manifest expression of a particular movement of ideas: Paduanism, libertinism, Cartesianism, English empiricism, skepticism, humanism, stoicism, or Epicureanism. More often still the assumption is made that there is some sort of dialectical basis to the movement: an intellectual tension between reason and faith, or reason and nature, or theology and science, or natural science and human science, or ancient and modern, or mediterraneanism and septentrionalism. Practically always it is assumed, though for the most part only tacitly, that "ideas" are the ingredients for the creation of that spirit. One should stress that although each critic is talking about a different time-span (Brunetiere, 1680-90; Lanson, 1675-1750; Hazard, 16801715; Lenoble, 1630-50; Pintard, 1600-60; Busson, 1515-1685), and is consequently concerned with varying conditions and events, each one apparently takes for granted either that the conditions and events are similar, or at least he has been able to isolate for study in his period the outstanding factor in those conditions (free-thinking, libertinism, Cartesianism, Jansenism, Anglomania, science, apologetics, etc.). There is a tendency to accept previous proposals, though each critic makes modifications in the theories of his predecessor. In general, there seems no inclination to question the formula that a movement of ideas creates a spirit, and little desire to question the importance of ideas proposed by predecessors. There are, however, few discussions as to the nature of that spirit. Taine derives it from the "acquis scientifique"—defined as Newtonian science—and the "esprit classique." Brunetiere sees it as a compound of the tendencies of libertinism, Cartesianism, and Jansenism, in which the tendencies of the first two merge to overwhelm the third. Beyer suggests rather that in the tendencies of the three movements, there was no merging: free-thinking overwhelmed both Cartesianism, and Jansenism. Indeed, Beyer rather objects to the concept of the formation of a spirit—although he still uses the term. Only Lanson seems to have clearly faced the problem of definition. He refuses nonetheless to define "1'esprit philosophique" in a strictly philosophical sense. He insists that it is "quelque chose qui s'est developpe dans des ouvrages de caractere litteraire autant que philosophique." It is a spirit created for the general public, he says, for everybody interested in literature, and it is developed in all those • 56 ·

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works "addresses a tous les gens cultives." He refuses to identify this spirit with irreligion, or social revolt, but he does have a tendency to regard it as a rationalism and to define it as a negative criticism and a desire for reform. For him, it is "une disposition a examiner avec defiance l'autorite, la tradition, les prejuges." He adds that there is also the insistence "a ne croire que par raison," "a n'enchainer, dans aucun cas, l'independance de la raison, la liberte d'examiner." It is above all a common-sense attitude which assumes confidently that individual and social happiness increases with the augmentation of knowledge. Lanson (R.C.C., 171, 1908-09, 357) has attempted to list the factors which entered into the composition of this spirit. After noting "la philosophic est nee en France au XVIIF siecle," he outlines these forces: a very broad, widespread rationalism in which sincere Christians, including clergy, and even Jesuits, participated; the classical writers of the time—what he calls the school of 1660—who endeavored to give a rational form to their taste, their likes, and their literary habits; the instituting of academies and the publication of periodicals, both of which organized this rationalism; the academies for the intellectual elite, and the periodicals for a wider, more general public; certain special groups which were particularly alert: (a) Cartesians who according to Lanson displayed the most activity, and became the most vigorous and most prolific group; (b) the "libertins"—Gassendists, epicureans, and skeptics; (c) The Protestants, whose contribution was mostly political. Finally, Lanson noted everywhere a general tendency to deism, which in turn led to the organization of "la morale des honnetes gens" distinguished by more emphasis on the role of conscience, moral action, and a morality which no longer depended for its validity upon religion. There is naturally an assumption on the part of these French critics of the Enlightenment that it is French. Lanson even asserted that the role assigned to England had been exaggerated, although in his second series of lectures, he saw the influence of England upon France as "preponderante," over that of other countries. Some of the early critics, Brunetiere especially, deplore the English influence. All of them are inclined when accepting a foreign impact upon the Enlightenment to attempt to make it Mediterranean rather than Nordic. Only Hazard has really removed the whole phenomenon from the history of France and placed it in the minds of all Europeans. • 57 ·

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4. T H E C H A L L E N G E O F T H E RENAISSANCE HEN Voltaire, toward the end of his life, tried to find the appropriate way to express the relationship between man and God, he shifted from his usual metaphor of watch and watchmaker and adopted rather that of eyes and light. The latter had a distinguished history, going back to Sophocles' CEdipus, which interestingly enough was the first dramatic theme which Voltaire attempted. Had he seen the significance of that metaphor in 1719 rather than fifty years later, he could have spared himself perhaps some of his hesitations and uncertainties. It is far from sure, though, that he would have understood its meaning, because of a "prejuge" of his own. He thought that the interesting period of history was the "modern" period; actually he advised a superficial acquaintance with antiquity and a serious study of history beginning with the fifteenth century. We of the present are certainly less assured concerning this point. It does seem reasonable, however, that if one is seeking the right perspective upon the Enlightenment, one has to go back at least to the fourteenth century, when man renounced his faith in divine guidance and providence and set forth upon the conquest of himself and his world, by the use of his intellectual powers. This adventure of the human mind coupled with the spirit of adventure which was destined to open up unknown horizons—whole new continents, vast new worlds, complex inner worlds within man himself—led to an ever-increasing conviction that he could, through knowledge, make of the surrounding world and of himself his own destiny. Man by the use of his reason has the ability to "mettre a profit Ie temps present," as Voltaire expressed it. He wrote (N. Ac. Fr., 2778, f. 44):

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Il me semble que si on voulait mettre a profit Ie temps present, on ne passerait point sa vie a s'infatuer des fables anciennes. Je conseillerais a un jeune homme d'avoir une legere teinture de ces temps recules, mais je voudrais qu'on commencat une etude serieuse de l'histoire, au temps ou cela devint veritablement interessante pour nous. Il me semble que c'est vers la fin du XVe siecle. It is essential that this attitude be understood, otherwise the whole reaction of Voltaire and his contemporaries to the intellectual "con• 61 ·

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ditions" of 1758 becomes chaotic and meaningless. Briefly stated the whole epoch from 1348 (the plague of Florence) to 1948 (Camus' La Peste) forms an organic whole when man dared proclaim his ability to make his world and accept his responsibility for this act of revolt. The instrument which he proposed to utilize for this task was the human mind: with remarkable naivety he assumed that he was free to make choices; that choices depended upon knowing the facts; that the facts of existence can be known and, when recognized, lead to ideas which become principles, so to speak, of action, which can always be readjusted with reaction; and that this constant readjustment gives both the values and the rhythms to living. These assumptions, of course, are beliefs—they require the same exercise of faith as the whole set of medieval assumptions which preceded. Only the object of that faith has changed since medieval times—with far-reaching consequences to man. The act which started the whole movement was the transference of the center of learning from the monastery to the urban university. This one incident, apparently so harmless, transformed the whole condition of knowledge and created a situation in which lay learning began to compete with theology. The changeover was especially successful in the municipal universities of Italy, where a greater freedom obtained than in the more theologically-oriented universities of France and England. Bologna and, especially, Padua early became typical centers of this kind of activity. Indeed, it is hardly an exaggeration to state that from Padua sprang the whole liberal movement in ideas which has swept over western Europe and America during the last five centuries. The movement really began very early. The initial steps in transforming Padua into a modern center of learning came with the introduction of Averroes (1126-98), when Padua espoused Arabic medicine and the psychological explanation of phenomena. The ideas of Averroes, as Renan has shown, have a strangely modern ring. Semi-mystic, semi-rational, semi-scientific, he taught that God eternally produces the Intelligences by a process of emanation, that matter is an eternal potency, that the active intellect is one for all men, that there is no freedom or personal immortality, and that there may be contradictions between religious and philosophical truths. These ideas are fundamental to Italian naturalism, where such doctrines as the universal soul, the eternity of matter, determin• 62 ·

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ism, the eternal power of nature, and the "double truth," become increasingly significant. Averroes made other important contributions too. With the introduction of Arabic science and Arabic medicine, a new interpretation of Aristotle became necessary, where the two paramount problems involved the nature of matter, the nature of mind and the relationship between the two. Indeed, it was the reinterpretation of Aristode which led to the reorganization of the whole corpus of learning and gave added significance to the mathematical and physical sciences. Moreover, with Pietro d'Abano (12501316) who had introduced Averroes, the Paduans had already made a definite effort to clarify the notion of matter. This attempt, coupled with interest in psychological phenomena, particularly abnormal manifestations, encouraged the formation of a corps of knowledge around the rational and experimental sciences, which in time became an area of learning distinct from theology. Thus medicine led to physics, astrology to cosmology, and both medicine and cosmology to natural philosophy. By the end of the thirteenth century, the new approach was solidly established, though the full development was not attained until two centuries later. The outstanding Paduan of the Renaissance was Pomponazzi. In analyzing his works—De Deo, De immortalitate animae, De actione rede, De incantationibus, De fato et de libero arbitrio—the modern historian is struck to see that the five problems with which the Paduan of the Renaissance was preoccupied (existence of God, immortality of the soul, nature of matter, free will, and good and evil, i.e., providence) are the same with which Voltaire struggled at Cirey during the years 1734 to 1739, when he composed a Traiti de metaphysique, and strikingly similar to those which engaged the attention of Sartre, Camus, and other existentialists in the twentieth century. There is, however, another importance to be attached to this recurring preoccupation. Before the Renaissance, these questions belonged to the domain of theology. When, however, the lay university began to replace the monastery as the center of learning and the storehouse of wisdom, there was developed (at least at Padua, Bologna, and other Italian municipal universities) a corps of scientific studies alongside the normal set of theological subjects. It was under these conditions that metaphysics (that is, the science of first principles) became the link between natural science and theology. Its • 63 ·

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task consisted in uniting physics with theology or in aiding theology to dominate with superior principles physics. This simple rearrangement of studies speaks eloquently of the change which was taking place in epistemology. Already the highest branch of philosophy is assuming responsibility for answering the questions normally addressed to theology. This state of affairs brings out the role of philosophy as an intermediary between science and theology and presages the opposition which will naturally develop between philosophy and theology. In a way, it clarifies the tendency of seventeenth-century philosophers to be either philosophers of science or philosophers of metaphysics. And it renders understandable the subsequent break between metaphysics (i.e., philosophers) and science (i.e., scientists), though it happened only after a relatively long period. When philosophers yield to the "philosophes," metaphysics will follow the road of a vanishing theology, and natural philosophy and moral philosophy will have to struggle for dominance. Pomponazzi represented the Paduans at the moment of their greatest glory. Doctor of medicine in 1487, Professor of medicine in 1488, Professor of philosophy in 1495, and later Professor at Bologna and Ferrara, Pomponazzi produced a series of treatises which at one and the same time coordinated the natural and moral philosophy of the ancients with a whole new set of original ideas. Aristotle, particularly in the De Anima and the treatise on animals, Plato's dialogues, Cicero, whom he attacked violently and imitated slavishly, Averroes, Plutarch's Lives, Pliny, in whom he sought miraculous achievements, and Albertus Magnus, whose treatise on animals furnished him with arguments against miracles, were all his sources. An important contribution of Pomponazzi was the De incantationibus in which he discussed the nature of miracles, concluding that those of religious history are similar to those of the pagans: those related in the Bible do not differ from those performed by Apollonius of Thyana: both sets are true, false, or natural. Pomponazzi attributed them to occult powers of man and animals, to unknown influences of climate and race, to imagination and enthusiasm, but, above all, to ruse. These explanations of a psychological order will be repeated from Montaigne to the French Revolution. They do not constitute, however, the outstanding contribution made by Pomponazzi, who presented in the most logical order possible the • 64 ·

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arguments for and against immortality, for and against providence, for and against free will. He concluded that the human mind was incapable of proving these things and affirmed that there must exist two kinds of truth: the truth of reason and that of intuition. This theory of the "double truth" was destined to wreck the whole foundation of the past. There is no need to discuss here the validity of these ideas. It suffices to note that for the Paduans an instrument had been discovered which if rightly used could lead to a whole set of new truths. It should be noted, nonetheless, that the Paduans exhibited no desire to set the new in opposition to the old truths, being satisfied to establish their coexistence rather than their hierarchy. They insisted that knowledge, experience, reason, were means of releasing within man secret powers. To them, this release was the world's great mystery—its miracle. Pomponazzi is less capable of explaining it than some of his followers; Leonardo, for instance, insisted that experience is provoked observation. According to him, metaphysics is an extension of science just as art is an extension of reality. Though he believed miracles unlikely, he presented as an eternal miracle the regularity of cosmic movements. The universe appeared to him a machine in which causes stretch into effects; it is, in fact, a living machine, endowed with an artistic soul, which orders phenomena. Everything, even morality, is organic. Cremonini was more explicit still. Philosophy must begin with physics, not with metaphysics, mathematics, morality, or theology. The first thing known is the thing experienced. Hence matter is the necessary and eternal subject of all generation. But before matter there is form, and form plus matter gives particular forms, that is movement. There is, of course, a First Mover. Matter tends to the absolute through movement from the possible to the actual. The urge for this ascension is desire, love, Eros, of which God is the ultimate end. The implications of this mystic, Platonic philosophy are anything but Platonic. To Cremonini, the universe was both necessary and eternal, hence there is no spiritual soul, or immortality in any personal sense. God being the "end" precludes all notions of providence. But there is the urge to the realizable possible; there is the struggle to form, there is the drive to power. With Giordano Bruno, the movement took on an amplitude which it had hitherto lacked. Until Bruno there had been no desire to draw • 65 ·

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distinctions between the two orders of truth. As the discoveries of Copernicus began to be known, however, and especially as the Holy See began to sense in them a threat to the established order, there arose an intolerance which was destined to become more bitter as time went on. Giordano Bruno, one of the most original thinkers in the Paduan group and an influence upon the thinking of Pascal, Spinoza, and Leibniz was an early victim. He drew much of his inspiration from Lull, Nicholas of Cusa, and Copernicus. He in­ sisted much upon the notion of relativity; indeed, with this idea he set out to destroy Aristotle's authority, which he considered an ob­ stacle to free-thinking. Bruno rejected the division of the universe into celestial and sub-lunar worlds, and substituted therefor the infinity of inhabited worlds which found such a strong advocate in Fontenelle over a century later. He insisted upon the separation of science and theology and criticized such fundamental beliefs as creation in time, the Incarnation, immortality, the Trinity, the universal deluge, the creation of Adam, and miracles. It was, of course, this criticism which caused his difficulties with the Church. It would be an error, however, to see in Bruno a purely negative critic with strange ideas on illuminism. He aimed to grasp objec­ tively the sequence of phenomena and to organize them into a unity. This attempt led him to the modern concept of law. It was he who originated the idea of the monad later adopted by Leibniz, and of the universal unity of form and matter utilized by Spinoza. His underlying principle, however, was the vitalism of matter. He who says matter, says energy, which permeates all things and is the source of life itself. God and the universal soul are one: In questo universo metto una providenza universale, in virtu della quale ogni cosa vive, vegeta, e si move, e sta nulla perfezione, e la intendo in due maniere, l'una nel modo con cui presente έ l'anima nel corpo, tutta in tutto, e tutta in Qualsivoglia parte e questo chiamo natura, ombra, vestigia della divinita, l'altro nel modo ineffabile col quale Iddio per essentia, presentia e potentia e in tutto e sopra tutto, non come parte, non come anima ma in modo inesplicabile. The ideas of the Paduans thus challenged the whole complex of orthodox theology, and even today they seem remarkably modern. Their distinction between the domains of faith and reason has been the hallmark of free-thinking since their day. Their conviction that all dogmatic formulae are mere provisional transcriptions has also • 66 ·

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remained at the core of all liberal ideas. Rites and ceremonies they regarded as symbols, which they declared useless in philosophy. There was perhaps too much boldness in their belief that the Christian religion was similar to other religions, and that it was closely connected with politics. At all events, it was inevitable that the dogma of Christianity should be displeasing to them. They denied the immortality of the soul, and rejected the idea of a particular providence in favor of a more general providence. No longer believing in miracles, they substituted therefor the concept of law. Their interest in the nature of matter, the unity of phenomena, the effects of milieu, climate, upon physical and moral nature revolutionized the field of science and upset the moral realm. To be sure they retained what is now considered occultism, panpsychism, astrology, the cabbala, and other forms of superstition. But they also insisted upon the power of the human mind to release the human spirit. The Paduan movement coincided with the rise of humanism— of which it was in fact a part. Ancient learning had been widespread throughout the Middle Ages, but it had been the particular province of the monasteries and consequently was often subordinated to the interests of Christian theology. It now became the interest of patrician as well as theologian, scholar as well as monk, bourgeois as well as nobleman, layman as well as priest. Thanks to a situation in which the ancient texts were multiplied at will, the fields of knowledge suddenly became extended, a leisure class was being formed, capable of devoting itself to the acquisition of learning, new channels of communication were opened both by economic and political commerce, and thus humanism became a widespread reality in Western Europe. All the great historical events of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—the collapse of the Byzantine Empire, the rise of the Italian city-states, the establishment of a really modern bourgeois society, the founding of a modern university, the discovery of new lands, the discovery of a new cosmology, the invention of printing—contributed to the making of humanism. The details of humanism's spread in Italy have been amply given by Burckhardt. In general, its development in other Western European countries followed similar lines. First came the gathering of manuscripts, then their reproduction: scholars devoted themselves to their study and, finally, prepared them for printing. In time the • 67 ·

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need arose to broaden the study of languages. This led to the organization of commentaries, and thence to the establishment of proper texts. With the collection of manuscripts and the assembling of texts arose the need for libraries: either private as was first the case in Italy, then public, and finally the university library. Thus the university took over from the monastery the function of being the storehouse of knowledge, a function which, added to that of discovering new knowledge, transformed universities into dynamic centers of learning. First in Bologna, then Padua, then all Italy, then in France, Germany, Portugal, Spain, England, these centers became the focal points of modern culture and incidentally hotbeds of unorthodox thought. Except for Italy, and then only in rare instances, they were never entirely free from ecclesiastical interference; they nonetheless offered opportunities for eluding that control which the religious institutions could never have possessed and presumably rarely desired. Besides, the traveling scholar—and all true humanists became traveling scholars—could peddle his new learning relatively free from ecclesiastical constraint. Once again, Western Europe had its unified tradition in the ancient Mediterranean world. It is hard for a man of the twentieth century to visualize just what humanism meant for the scholar of the sixteenth century. Perhaps the most concrete way of understanding its meaning is to study the biographies of particular humanists—Petrarch, Vives, and Boccaccio, for instance, who are very representative of the early humanists; Bude, Ficino, Gaguin, who represent a middle period; Rabelais, Erasmus, and Montaigne, who represent its full flower. When, for instance, Petrarch assembles his manuscripts or Boccaccio attempts a synthesis of ancient wisdom, or Vives chants a hymn to the glory of man in some fable, each in his own way is attempting to bring to man's use man's fulfillment of himself. But, although the conditions have changed, the same thing is true when Bude spends months writing annotations in Greek on the first printed text of Homer's Iliad, or when Ficino expounds over the years the meaning of Plato to his Florentine audience, or when Robert Gaguin tirelessly works to establish the true texts of the ancients. And it is still truer when with Erasmus, Rabelais, and Montaigne, humanism, now in its maturity, has become the instrument of man's becoming, the symbol of his everlasting change, and his relentless quest. • 68 ·

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J. A. Symonds, in his Revival of Learning, a study of this movement which has long been classic, has summed up the aspirations of the humanists (ed. 1898, p. 52): The essence of humanism consisted in a new and vital perception of the dignity of man as a rational being apart from theological determinations, and in the further perception that classic literature alone displayed human nature in the plenitude of intellectual and moral freedom. It was partly a reaction against ecclesiastical despotism, partly an attempt to find the point of unity for all that had been thought and done by man, within the mind restored to consciousness of its own sovereign faculty. Hence the single-hearted devotion to the literature of Greece and Rome that marks the whole Renaissance era. Hence the watchword of that age: the Litterce Humaniores. Hence the passion for antiquity, possessing thoughtful men, and substituting a new authority for the traditions of the Church. Hence the so-called paganism of centuries bent upon absorbing and assimilating a spirit no less life-giving from their point of view than Christianity itself. While present-day thinking would tend perhaps to emphasize less the opposition of humanism to Christianity (compare for instance the very interesting The Christian Scholar in the Age of the Reformation of E. Harris Harbison, New York, 1956) and certainly would reject Symonds' four ages in the evolution of humanism (the ages of inspiration and discovery, of arrangement and translation, of academies, and, finally, its general decline in Italy and spread throughout Europe) as entirely too arbitrary, the general statement of its essence still remains one of the excellent, succinct formulations of the movement. Humanism means the revival of learning, the intellectual ordering of the modern world, the union of the Judaic-Christian with the Graeco-Roman and the Arabic. It is fully Mediterranean. It is thus the organic development of multiple civilizations grasped in their inner vitality. The theological, the moral, the political, the economic, the aesthetic, are all an integral part of humanism. Fullness, ripeness, require that all aspects of life be contributory to life, hence its insistence upon everything which is human from which it derived its name. No human tendency in the humanist way of life is superior to another: the political is as important as the aesthetic; Bude can write a treatise on numismatics—De Asse—which is just as human as his annotations on Homer's Iliad. Nor does humanism question • 69 ·

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the validity of accepted tendencies in order to establish new tendencies in their place. It denies merely any hierarchy to the aspects of life, since the human embraces all those aspects. Thus critics who note its pagan qualities are often tempted to place them in opposition to the Christian qualities. Humanism has, however, no such pretensions. Paganism is a valid form of life, so is Christianity, since both of them have existed in man. The real importance is that man exists. There comes a time nonetheless when the humanist has to express himself; he must have a human style, and since in the normal course of events the human must have its opposite, like everything else in this world, the belief arises that insistence upon the human is a denial of the divine. This of course is not the case, but it was sufficient that those of the old accepted order where the divine had played such a dominating role should believe it. There the trouble began, especially since humanistic style is compounded of the satiric, the grotesque, the realistic, the idealistic, the rational, and the Utopian, but not the divine. What it seems to reject is the mystical. Then, too, it must of its very nature be critical. The result is a tacit outlawing of that which transcends man's intellectual capacities, not because the humanist wants it excluded, but because those who represent the mystical have a deep suspicion of humanism. In this way humanism became a rational way of life more identified with moral than with spiritual activity. The humanist was looked upon as a rationalist, the negative scholar, the apostle of an intellectual reform, divorced from the higher calling. He was thought to vaunt the pagan conception of beauty and to ignore the Christian conception of the Fall. He glorified the flesh rather than the martyrdom of the flesh, and placed the powers of thought above the strength of faith and revelation. He could have been all these things, but what he wanted above everything else was the release of all the powers within man. Humanists and Paduans joined together in the same way in which ancient and new learning usually unite. Their combined influence spread throughout Italy, from Padua to Bologna to Florence. It extended also to France through the intermediary of those Paduans who journeyed to Italy to study: fitienne Dolet, Sadolet, Longueil, Bunel, who transmitted the Paduan doctrine to Montaigne, Simon de Neuville and the jurist Boyssonne, the friend of Rabelais. As the students returned to France, they established Paduan centers •70 ·

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throughout the country—at Bordeaux, Toulouse, Cahors, Orleans, Lyons. Since many of them entered the magistracy or public administration, they were prepared to lend aid to persecuted Paduans anywhere; and although the two outstanding thinkers of Renaissance France, Rabelais and Montaigne, were not Paduans, they were nonetheless saturated with their doctrines. The humanists also spread from Italy through France and on to the countries of the North, but the movement was less a one-direction affair. The spirit of freedom once started blew in all directions and all of Western Europe became humanist, moral, and Mediterranean, while at the same time there was a distinct tendency to enhance the scientific as more philosophical than the theological. The union of the ancient with the modern learning coincided, around 1515, with a third movement, the Reformation. There were, of course, political and economic as well as intellectual reasons behind the agitation for reforming Catholicism. The rise of the spirit of nationalism, in France, particularly at the time of Francis I, was a strong incentive to demand modifications in the conduct of the papal court of Leo X. Moreover, since the suppression of the heresies, there had always been agitation for eliminating corruption in the Catholic clergy. It inevitably came to naught, as in the case of Savonarola who, in spite of his backing by the Florentines, was finally condemned to death. A second attempt led to the calling of councils —the Council of Pisa, the Council of the Lateran—which were drawn out into endless procedures of obstruction (Pisa), or else were turned into whitewashing affairs (the Lateran), or, finally, led only to political compromises like that between Francis I and Leo X at Bologna. So insistent was the demand for a change, however, that in spite of appearances, which seemed to indicate a firmly established papacy determined to resist every effort at reconstruction, the Reformation became inevitable. It was precisely the New Spirit which gave it its vitality. As Renaudet has shown (Les Debuts de I'dge moderne, 1929, p. 167), never had the human mind been better prepared to conceive of a thorough revision of life. The new ideas concerning matter and psychology, the doctrine of the double truth, the rationalist rejection of miracles, and the establishment of a firmer support of an orderly, scientific universe both inside and outside man—all these ideas and tendencies constituted a threat to any established dogma. • 71 ·

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The effect of humanism was perhaps more devastating still for the Church, and that without intending to be so. After having revealed the moral force of ancient learning, and reestablished the cult of pagan beauty, humanists like Lorenzo Valla inaugurated biblical exegesis. A simple move of this sort led to enormous consequences, since the human mind now simply affirmed its competence to interpret and discuss the Divine Word. It was inevitable that the interpretation should be contrary to dogma, in spite of Erasmus who insisted that he had nothing to do with dogma. Indeed, Erasmus is the one humanist who in his whole work from Praise of Folly to the commentary on the Epistle to the Galatians furnished material for attacking the corruption of the clergy, the evils of the papal court, and the sensuality of contemporary Christian life. He proclaimed the need for a simpler, purer Christianity, a more inward, moral religion. Above all, he announced the doctrine of Christian freedom, maintaining that man was emancipated from legal tyrannies and had the right to a more personal cult. He taught a morality half-rational, half-spiritual, richly imbued with stoicism. Lefevre, on the other hand, enriched his moralism with Platonic mysticism. He held, for instance, a strong attachment for the doctrine of grace and salvation by faith alone, not in concert with good works. In all this deviation there was visible no desire to question the validity of the Christian religion or the dominance of religious life in the affairs of man. There would come a time, of course, when it would become the intention of man to suppress all organized religious cults and to put in their place some other human institution, but that day was still relatively far away. In 1515 the situation was much less complicated than it was destined to become. There was a large body of Catholics aware of the corruption of the clergy and the papal court and anxious to clean house, as it were. There was a second group, perfectly sincere, who attached an ever-increasing importance to science and philosophy but had no interest in opposing science and philosophy to theology. What they wanted, rather, was freedom to develop knowledge along human, secular lines. Finally there were those who wanted to enjoy the advantages of the new learning without being hampered by too many moral restrictions or regulations. These people, later to become the "libertins," were destined to bear the brunt of religious persecution. For the • 72 ·

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time being, their greatest fault consisted in being indifferent to religion. There had arisen, however, certain positive assertions which could cause difficulties. The idea that religion is a personal matter, that man must attain salvation by faith alone, that science offers a fruitful ground for speculation, and that the facts of science can even run counter to the truths of metaphysics—all these notions could constitute a danger to established religion. Thus, when Martin Luther and John Calvin entered upon the scene, Western Europe was already prepared for its reformation. Although the activities of the Paduans and of the humanists everywhere in Western Europe certainly prepared conditions conducive to religious change, there is something in the Reformation (or perhaps in the other two movements, according to the point of view) which is antipathetic to the aims and desires of the other group. By introducing all sorts of considerations, some of a scientific order, the two groups, Paduans and humanists, united in one common effort: the development of the human mind. Renan has a sentence in his Avenir de la science which expresses very aptly the inner conviction of every humanist: "Le but du monde est Ie developpement de l'esprit, et la premiere condition de ce developpement, c'est sa liberte." Now the Reformation was not interested fundamentally in either the development of the human mind, or in freedom. When Luther's doctrine of the freedom of conscience led with perfect logic to the notion of political freedom as expressed by Karlstadt and Munzer and then by Zwingli, and the whole subsequent attitude brought about the revolt of the peasants, Luther denounced the revolt and came out flatly for the authority of the State. The humanists took a more reasonable view: they did believe in freedom, political freedom, though they did not believe that revolt was the right way of achieving it. In fact, Luther differed violently with Erasmus, who represented fully the humanistic view. In Luther's opinion Erasmus insisted too much upon free will and too little upon God's grace: Erasmus, said Luther, paid less attention to the latter than did Lefevre d'fitaples. Luther did not mingle with humanists in his formative years; he was a man tormented by his conscience; his faith in rationalism was totally lacking. More than Lefevre and the Platonic humanists, he was driven by a sense of mystery, of intuition. Salvation for a man •73 ·

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of this sort could only be won by faith. Nonetheless, he had a humanistic education, he knew thoroughly Horace and Virgil, and was well versed in Greek. In general, though, despite some leaning toward Petrarch and the Florentine Platonists, he rejected the culture of pagan antiquity. On the contrary, he accepted willingly the culture of Hebrew antiquity and all forms of biblical exegesis inaugurated by Valla. Thus while Luther would make no common cause with the humanists, it is significant that many humanists, particularly Melanchthon, made common cause with him. Luther's ideas, though deceptively simple, are supported by an argumentation which is rather complex and not always rational. He issued with surprising rapidity three essays—Address to the German Nobility, The Babylonic Captivity of the Church, and The Freedom of a Christian Man. In these he developed the thought that every man is his own priest, that the state has the right to reform the Church, that this reform should take place in the organization of the Church (convents, celibacy, etc.), as well as in the intellectual spirit of Christianity. All theology should be restricted to a sound scientific study of the Scriptures, and the sacraments should be reduced from seven to three. Finally, every Christian is master of his own conscience. These propositions led naturally to farreaching results, which Luther, incidentally, diligently deplored. But whether he wanted ultimately to do so or not, he had created a situation in which individual heresy could become perfectly plausible and in which the state could become a more powerful institution than the Church. Both events actually took place in the Enlightenment. The development of Protestantism from Luther to Calvin is precisely the account of the establishment of two antithetical principles: individualism and nationalism. Thus it is not surprising that Lutheranism will be followed by a more radical Zwingli, a revolutionary Karlstadt, an CEcolampade at Basel, a more formal state Church in England, and finally a pitilessly logical and tyrannical Calvin at Geneva. It is less surprising still that each of these sects assumed that it had freed the individual from the tyranny of a corrupt Church, that, in short, each endeavored to strengthen its organization by the authority of the state. It was perfectly natural that there should spring up veritable theocracies as at Geneva, and that there should be constant attempts to unite these Churches into one ecumenical Church. When all attempts at unification had failed, • 74 ·

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there arose a struggle among the Protestants themselves, but more distressingly still between the Protestants and the Catholics, with the result that, at the end of the sixteenth century, there were two irreducible Christian religions. Calvin, like Luther, had been trained in the humanities of the day, under Mathurin Cordier at the College de la Marche, and subsequently under Noel Beda at the College de Montaigu. For five years between 1523 and 1528, he pursued the half-theological course which constituted the program of the arts faculty. From this training, he repaired to Orleans where he studied law under Pierre de l'fitoile and to Bourges where he worked with Alciat, and shortly afterward with Melchior Wolmar, devoting himself to the study of Greek and Hebrew. Everything in his studies pointed to a career as a humanist. Indeed, at this very time he was preparing an edition of Seneca's De dementia which actually appeared in 1532. There can be no doubt that he was now fully prepared to enter the company of humanists. On November 1, 1533, Nicolas Cop, Rector of the University of Paris, pronounced at the opening exercises of the university a discourse in favor of the Protestants, filled with excerpts from Luther and Erasmus which Calvin had supplied. The Institution chretienne, completed two years later and published in 1536, contained Calvin's full Christian doctrine with a precision which required but little emendation in subsequent years. He based this doctrine on the Scriptures which he knew astonishingly well. He declared that they are the source of a Revelation which alone offers assurances of the existence of God. Turning to the nature of man, he marked out the limits of man's understanding and his inability to comprehend first principles. He analyzed pitilessly man's weakness in morality which he asserted can not extend, when man is left to himself, beyond the laws of nature. He noted in everyone impotence of will, inclination to evil, and absence of free will. One aspect of his thought contrasted significantly with Catholic dogma: his insistence upon the idea of predestination. This doctrine, derived from St. Paul via St. Augustine, had always been an article of belief. But the Catholics, while admitting it, had attempted at the same time to preserve both some freedom to the individual and value to his acts. Each man thus cooperates in the task of his salvation. Calvin would accept none of this interpretation. According to him, God has decreed, once for all "par son conseil eternel et immuable" those whom He wishes to •75 ·

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save and those whom He wishes to damn. Calvin does not explain man's salvation or damnation by God's prescience, but by His will. From his city of Geneva, which he organized into a genuine theocracy, Calvin's doctrine spread into France, Holland, Scotland, and throughout the other countries of Europe, possessed of a dynamism which Lutheranism never exhibited. Its success apparently sprang from the very severity of its dogma, as well as from the clear and rational way in which it was presented. Calvin prided himself upon the clarity and brevity of his expression; with a logic devoid of all color but, curiously, not humorless, he expounded his thought and established his beliefs. His outstanding quality was undoubtedly his rigidity, born of his sense of mission. He was unyielding, imperious, combative. He constantly attacked the Paduan philosophy, the mystics, the spiritual libertines, Lutheranism itself, and the humanists. In the case of Servet he showed no mercy, an attitude which so much scandalized Voltaire at a later date. Modern criticism explains all this harshness and brittleness as a defense of God's glory, of which the Genevan prophet was so jealous. And in a recent book on the Renaissance (R. Mor$ay and A. Muller, La Renaissance, i960) he has been likened to Loyola, whose motto Ad majorem Dei gloriam seems more appropriate to the Genevan. But every act of exaltation carries within itself an act of denial. Under pretext of exalting the power of God, Calvin was willing to mutilate the nature of man. Much of his doctrine will reappear in that of the Jansenists, though in a new context, thanks to Pascal. Thus both the Reformation and the Counter-reformation ultimately led away from the powers of man in the interest of proclaiming again the powers of God. This tendency, to be sure, ran counter to the idea so prevalent in both the universities and among the humanists that knowledge—all knowledge—was a means of releasing man's inner powers. Thus, in the end, Calvinism tended, despite its incipient individualism, to negate man's personal religion and to curtail his liberties by stressing the unlimited power of God. In a way, it neither freed man to be himself, nor did it really enhance the glory of God. Rather it established a dilemma between freedom and grace and left the door open to the impression that any desire for intellectual freedom rendered man unworthy of God's grace. This paradox could be solved in only one of two ways: by granting larger powers to man or placing limits upon the absolute powers of the Deity. As in the case of all human paradoxes, both solutions were put into effect. •76 ·

5. T H E R E S P O N S E OF RENAISSANCE MAN historical events in the Renaissance are the collapse of the Byzantine Empire; new inventions such as the compass and printing; the expansion of the geographical world, especially the discovery of America; the rise of the modern university with its emphasis upon science as equal in importance to morality, and philosophy as the equal of theology; the rise and development of a way of life called humanism; and a reconstruction in the field of religion called the Reformation. This phenomenological history leads to a structural history without which no epoch can achieve an inner personality of its own. Just how this evolution is accomplished is one of the mysteries of life, but, with patience, some insight into the process can be acquired. Of the six events which we have detailed, it is evident that the first three create new conditions for living by challenging man's imagination, while the other three offer new possibilities of living by changing his manner of thinking. The relationship between the conditions (which concern man's milieu) and the possibilities (which concern his mind)— whether the former are the causes of the latter or vice versa—we do not know. It can be affirmed, however, that without the phenomena of condition (the external world) and the phenomena of possibility (the world of mind) there cannot be the structuring of the categories in history. Both kinds of phenomena elicit a response which fashions a coherent way of life and produces a change in the interrelationships of the categories. We call the way of life the "spirit of the age" and the change "movements of thought."

T

HE IMPORTANT

The categories which have to be structured are seven: religion, politics, economics, aesthetics, morals, science, and the category of the self. Structural history has the task of arranging them in such a way that they correspond to the reality of living, that they produce an orderly and organic whole, and that they guarantee a continuity of living which is both consequential to the conditions—the possibilities—and compatible with the aspirations of human beings. In the Renaissance, for instance, the Reformation produced an imbalance in the religious category, which required not only an adjustment there, but in other categories also, for example, in the political. But the adjustment has to be made in terms of people living. It is not • 77 ·

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enough to patch up the situation or to make the best of things; the will of the people and their aspirations are equally formative factors in history. It is the third step»—the responses—in the process of making history in the Renaissance which we shall treat now. We shall evoke them in the literature of the time rather than in the other aspects of living. Our simple formula is that Renaissance man is best equipped to respond to the conditions and the possibilities of the Renaissance. Indeed, beginning with Petrarch and Boccaccio and extending to Montaigne, Cervantes, and Shakespeare, over a period of three hundred years, all the writing and all the art attempted to define the Renaissance man. C A S T I G L I O N E AND THE RECONSTRUCTION OF SOCIAL M A N

It was Castiglione who from 1508 to 1516 laid down his specifications for the ideal Renaissance man. Nobly born and of gentle breeding, his courtier should possess all the graces: a well-proportioned body fit for every exercise of agility, dexterity in handling every kind of weapon, and perfect horsemanship. Endowed by nature with talent and beauty of person, attractive, pleasing, and agreeable to all who frequent him, he must display a modest demeanor and gracious bearing. On the other hand, since he is by profession a soldier, he must be stern, bold, and always among the first where the enemy is; but in every other place, gende, modest, reserved, above all things avoiding ostentation and imprudent self-praise. His intellectual attainments are fully as great as his physical prowess. A cultivated gentleman who has taken pains to study with good masters and to surround himself with persons who excel, he will be well-informed, indeed a fountain of knowledge, well-versed in letters, the true and principal ornament of the mind, and equipped to express himself both orally and in writing. Not only is he an accomplished musician and painter, familiar with all those studies called the humanities and conversant with the Latin and Greek language, but he should also have a wide acquaintance with the poets, the orators, and the historians, and be proficient himself in writing verse and prose. Finally, endowed with a delicate taste, he will use it in judging the merit of ancient and modern statues, vases, buildings, medals, cameos, intaglios. Through this aesthetic judg• 78 ·

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ment, he will acquire a sense of the beauty of living bodies, the delicacy of the features, the symmetry, both in man and in other living creatures. In short, he is the whole man, the "uomo universale," who knows how to dispose of his life, and to make the most of his good qualities in social intercourse with all men. More important than his intellectual achievements are his manners. He is without pretense, always on his guard, diffident rather than forward, and free from falsely persuading himself that he knows that of which he is ignorant. He is discreet and governs himself with that good judgment which will keep him from all folly. He can, however, laugh, jest, banter, frolic, and dance, yet with such restraint that he will always appear genial but discreet. Above all, he will avoid affectation, but at the same time practice a certain nonchalance which will leave the impression that what is done and said is effortless and almost without thought. Castiglione's courtier is an ideal attainable, if at all, by the Happy Few. One might well inquire what could he do in the everyday Renaissance world which surrounded him, in that world which had decided "to go it alone" in the light of reason. Obviously Renaissance man had to adjust himself to the experience of the past, the discoveries of the present, and, last but surely not least, those forces which promised to shape his future. It was only natural that he should waver a little because, despite confidence in his ability, he was cognizant of dangers. Ambitions are always superior to abilities, and institutions never seem to keep abreast of the new discoveries or even of past experiences. Still, the spirit of man counts for something, too. And if the challenge appears overwhelming, Boccaccio in the Decameron, and Petrarch in his Sonnets, as well as Pico in his Essay on the Dignity of Man indicate fully that Renaissance Man has accepted it. RABELAIS'S RECONSTRUCTION OF VITALISM

It is not difficult to grasp the elements which Rabelais had to coordinate, although it is well-nigh impossible to harmonize them. His humanism, his interest in medicine, his free attitude to religious dogma whether Catholic or Protestant, his boundless enthusiasm and rollicking good nature, his optimism and his exuberance make him altogether too much a man of the Renaissance. And all these generous qualities are confounded by more puzzling traits. Rabelais's • 79 ·

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good common sense is entirely distinct from his learning, his confidence in man is entirely separate from his religious and political beliefs. His morality of the barnyard variety is certainly not immoral, but it belongs more in a public bar than in an elite society. Still, under the marvelous good nature of this sixteenth-century Pan there lies a deep resentment, a bitter criticism, an anxiety akin to anguish, which Lote has already noticed. And all this variety, this confusion, this mumbo-jumbo of contradictions are covered with a flow of words which engulfs everything. One does not know whether to allow oneself to be swept along by the synonyms or to be caught in the contradictory swirl of the antonyms, whether to stick to the story or to delve into its content, to examine each in the light of day or to sail away into some Utopian world whose meaning is cosmic rather than pedestrian. Rabelais has so arranged things that no matter what choice is made, the reader will always regret that he did not choose otherwise. The confusion is less baffling than the utter frustration of choosing. Should we praise him for his irreverence ? His genealogy of Gargantua is strikingly like that of Christ in the Gospel of Matthew, and for fear we will not be alert enough to grasp the resemblance, he explicitly states "excepte celle du Messias." Gargantua's birth through Gargamelle's ear, is not exactly respectful either, an innovation which Moliere seized upon. When it comes to reverence, Maitre Frangois the Monk, as probably all his fellow monks, takes rather extraordinary privileges. Or shall we praise his learning ? We are overwhelmed with the list of "Messieurs les anciens Pantagruelistes" who confirm that it is not only possible, but legitimate, for a child to be born to woman eleven months after the death of her husband. We can accept Hippocrates: he was a doctor—but Pliny, Plautus, Marcus Varro, Censorinus, Aristotle, Aulus Gellius, Servius? Really, the substantiation of the fact has become more important than it is. Shall we praise him for his ability to depict a scene which brings out all of the ideal of his time? Take, for instance, Eudemon's meeting with Gargantua (ch. xv): Alors Eudemon, demandant congie de ce faire audit viceroy son maitre, Ie bonnet au poing, la face ouverte, la bouche vermeille, les yeux assures, et Ie regard assis sur Gargantua, avec modestie juvenile, se tint sur ses pieds, et commence Ie louer et magnifier, premierement de sa vertu et • 80 ·

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bonnes moeurs, secondement de son scavoir, tiercement de sa noblesse, quartement de sa beaute corporelle. Et pour Ie quint, doulcement l'exhortoit a reverer son pere en toute observance, lequel tant s'estudioit a bien Ie faire instruire; enfin Ie prioit qu'il Ie voulsist retenir pour Ie moindre de ses serviteurs. Car autre don pour Ie present ne requeroit des cieulx, sinon qu'il luy feut fait grace de lui complaire en quelque service agreable. Le tout fut par iceluy profere avec gestes tant propres, prononciation tant distincte, voix tant eloquente, et langage tant orne et bien latin, que mieux ressembloit un Gracchus, un Ciceron, ou un Emilius du temps passe qu'un jouvenceau de ce siecle. All the aspirations of Renaissance man are encompassed in these few lines, but also all the inner characteristics of Rabelais's book are there too, and it is difficult to distinguish whether Rabelais's traits bring out the inner reality of the Renaissance or whether the Renaissance has so permeated Rabelais's style as to imprint some secret meaning to his expression. But this is merely one of hundreds of examples. Gargantua's training, with its insistence upon a healthy body, a sound memory, a limitless capacity for absorbing new knowledge, preparation for life, the importance of a trade, is a Renaissance education, but it is also Rabelais's outpouring of all his yearning to embrace fully the world around him. The Abbaye de Theleme, as has often been said, is a monk's dream or a Utopian monastery, but it is also a Renaissance chateau and a modern university: Tant noblement etoient apprins qu'il n'etoit entre eux celuy ni celle qui ne sceut lire, escrire, chanter, jouer d'instruments harmonieux, parler de cinq a six langages, et en iceux composer, tant en carme qu'en oraison solue. Jamais ne furent veus chevaliers tant preux, tant gallans, tant dextres a pied et a cheval, plus verds, mieux remuans, mieux manians tous batons, que la estoient. Jamais ne furent veues dames tant propres, tant mignonnes, moins facheuses, plus doctes a la main, a 1'aiguille, a tout acte muliebre, honnete et libre, que la estoient. (ch. lvii.) These things are at the same time intellectual and artistic accomplishments, but they have to be set against a satiric spirit seldom equaled in literature. We need not dwell upon the personal satires: Rabinagrobis (Cretin), Her Trippa (Agrippa), and "ce demoniacle Calvin." The religious quarrels go deeper: "papimanes" and "papefigues," "Sorbonagres" and "Sorbonicoles." Rabelais can be scathing to his former fellow monks: "gourmands, paillards, pares•81 ·

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seux." He can find harsh words for that royalty which assumes an excessive, unwarranted authority. But he reserves his sharpest barbs for the purveyors of justice, whom he presents as jargon-ridden, indifferent to justice, and stupid. And he proclaims that humanity's greatest crime is war. It would be unwise to attach too much importance to these points, however. There are certain things which Rabelais dislikes, but they serve as a foil for all the things which he likes, or rather for that one thing which he likes—life itself. He is consequently less interested in political, social, and religious satire than in a good-natured acceptance of man's lot. He defined this attitude as "certaine gaiete d'esprit confite en mepris des choses fortuites" and expressed the good life as "vivre en paix, joie, sante, faisant toujours grand' chere." Posterity has called this attitude his philosophy, which is a bit of a distortion, since Rabelais is less a lover of wisdom than of life. It is precisely this distinction between wisdom and life which makes him (as well as Cervantes and other Renaissance figures) so enigmatic to those who came later. It is significant that Montaigne, who was distinguished by the very opposite tendency, put Rabelais among those who are "simplement plaisants," and Voltaire, for whom the Meudon curate held a peculiarly strong attraction, considered him alternately a buffoon and an uncultured Swift. To those who have always been bursting with life—Balzac, for instance— Rabelais's vitalism has had an extraordinary appeal; and even upon those who are more lovers of wisdom, of moderation, of form, and order, he has often exerted a sort of horrible fascination. There are presumed steps to wisdom which any intelligent man may follow, but there are no valid rules for living, no steps, no blueprints. You merely increase vital energy to the maximum and "let yourself go." Rabelais, accordingly, has responses rather than reasoned reactions. His negative criticisms are, in some very positive way, assertions of being, and it would be folly to deny them rational validity, because they are human rather than reflective. As a matter of fact, Rabelais's whole attitude toward life presupposes simultaneously opposing positions which no rationalist can afford to ignore, no matter how painful recognition may be. There is, for instance, a tendency in Rabelais to reduce metaphysics to physical reality. God becomes a metaphor: "Une sphere dont Ie centre est partout, la circonference nulle part," "Ie plasmateur Dieu," and at the same time a • 82 ·

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"Good Fellow," a "Jolly Companion"; the Soul becomes an "ane" or a "substantifique moelle"; good and evil become a struggle between "Physis" and "Antiphysis." But whether these things are metaphorical entities, or physical realities, or whether the metaphorical entities are, as we have said, reduced to physical realities, or whether finally the physical realities are raised to the superior values of metaphorical entities, we never know. What is clear, though, of course not demonstrably so, is that for Rabelais a reasonable relationship exists always between the real and the ideal, between the satiric and the Utopian, between the rational and the grotesque, even between the real and the unreal. The Abbaye de Theleme is a Renaissance chateau and a monk's dream, and a new center of learning. The unbridled, devastating criticism of Maitre Thubal Holofernes, or of Maitre Janotus Bragmardo, is a means toward attaining the knowledge of the "dive Bouteille." Rabelais's extraordinary good sense when he looks squarely at a problem of personal conduct, social morality, political consequences, or human values breaks without constraint into the wildest assertions, the most grotesque imaginings, the most ludicrous beings: Michelangelo turns into Breughel, the Slaves become The Temptation of St. Anthony. Montaigne in the opening sentences of the Essay on Friendship speaks of the painter he would like to be: Il choisit Ie plus bel endroit et milieu de chaque paroy, pour y loger un tableau elaboure de toute sa suffisance; et, Ie vuide tout au tour, il Ie remplit de crotesques, qui sont peintures fantasques, n'ayant grace qu'en la variete et estrangete. That painter is Rabelais; he has not only a horror for the vacuum, he must fill it with infinite "crotesques." Finally, there is no discrepancy for Rabelais that the country around Chinon becomes some faraway Kingdom of the Dipsodes existing alongside a France struggling between Catholicism and Protestantism, or between Gallicanism and Ultramontanism. All these possibilities are merged and metamorphosed into metaphorical but not metaphysical actualities. They are not abstracted, nor even extracted; they are rather contacted harmoniously into life. Time and place are at the same time annihilated and recreated by the power of expression. After all, the means of reconciling all these incompatibilities into a dynamic living process is words. There is a passage in the Panta• 83 ·

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gruel where the voyagers sail through a sea, and all of a sudden they are surrounded by words bursting from every direction. There had been a battle before their arrival and the sounds had been frozen. With the coming of warmth, all these words are released and they explode into the consciousness of the explorers like shots from cannon. So do the words of Rabelais: they burst upon the consciousness of the reader with the mad rush of battle. If there is one remark in the Bible in which the author of Gargantua and Pantagruel believes with deep and reverent fervor, it is the first verse of the gospel of St. John: "In the beginning was the Word . . . and the Word was God." But now the Word, still sacred, has become Man, and the problem is to find the way to move from the Word to the Act, or, as Goethe said, the Deed. These things are well known, but what critics have been loath to accept is that this is the very spirit of libertinism which is compounded of the real, the satiric, the critical, the artistic, and which must ever push forward to the unreal and the Utopian. It is not enough to be free, that is, to be free from; one must be free to, the urge is at the same time a tearing away and a propulsion forward. The essential, however, is that it is a drive, a force, and, above all, an assertion of being. With a terrifying unconcern, even a nonchalance born of good humor, it destroys and creates simultaneously. MONTAIGNE'S INTELLECTUAL RECONSTRUCTION OF THE EGO

The inner structuring of Montaigne extends from awareness of self to the consciousness of how to use best the powers within that self. It is not sufficient to establish the mood as stoic, epicurean, or pyrrhonist; nor is it satisfactory merely to define the instrument. An alertness of mind and a skeptical approach are the two external factors which disclose the outward reality of the sixteenth-century moralist, and make of him an excellent study in psychological integration and, at the same time, fully representative of his age's aspirations. In general, these aspirations are an index to the biography of the man, but only in a superficial way. To get at the deeper recesses of that intellect in motion, one has to try to grasp the way in which it is attempting to penetrate the inner reality of its time. Fortunately, we have Pierre Villey's study to aid us, one of the most thorough of its kind ever made. We can only trace here the salient features, but we must insist that we are here concerned with sources, • 84 ·

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with an evolution, with another and always another Montaigne. What we wish to glimpse is the infinite number of Montaignes in the making. What we wish to suggest is that everyone who touches the Essais after Montaigne becomes another Montaigne. At a certain moment (1571), Montaigne withdrew from his activities in the Parlement de Bordeaux, and retired to his chateau. The reasons given for this early retirement (Montaigne was then thirty-eight) have never seemed acceptable. Critics often speak of a crisis, but leave the nature of the crisis very unclear. Consciousness of his approaching illness has often been alleged, but Montaigne stated in his inscription that he was "en pleines forces." The loss of his friend La Boetie (1563) has also been cited, and indeed Montaigne recalls that bereavement in his inscription: "Prive de l'ami Ie plus doux . . . ," but that event had occurred eight years before his retirement, and seems too far removed from that event to have been a continuing crisis. Moreover, Montaigne's inscription has more the appearance of a memorial than of an explanation. Some have even gone so far as to attribute the retreat to the troubled condition of the country and note that only one year later occurred the St. Bartholomew massacre. It is very probable that all these explanatory conjectures are inadequate, though not necessarily false. It is more likely that changing conditions made Montaigne the head of his family, and he simply decided to lead the life of a country gentleman. One can readily accept Villey's remark that he retired "pour mener une vie facile." That, however, does not explain how he came to devote himself to letters, or why his thoughts quickly turned to death. But the fact remains that he did become interested in letters, although it is doubtful, as has often been claimed, that they bored him. And as for the stoic note which he immediately struck, that came from an immediate acquaintance with Seneca. If, as Thibaudet states, the Essais were composed at four distinct moments between 1572 and 1588 (1572-73 for most of Book I, 1576 for a part of the Apologie, 1578-79 for Book II, and 1587-88 for Book III), one must adopt rather than a crisis theory, which explains very little, some sort of evolution theory, which at least marks the interests of Montaigne in his intellectual material and the way of turning that interest into himself. The first Essais, as Villey has shown, are rather impersonal, and composed of "sentences" substantiated by one or two examples. The rule here is always to test the • 85 ·

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validity of thought upon others before trying it upon ourselves. These essays show a continual preoccupation with the reduction of ancient wisdom into pithy statements and the substantiation of their validity by using the experiences of others. The sources of this style and content can be found in Erasmus, Plutarch, and Stobeus, not to mention many other collectors of these epigrammatic statements who flourished in the Renaissance. Villey suggested that Montaigne adopted this form of literature because of his lack of literary experience. The important thing, however, is not that he is borrowing them from others, but that the more Montaigne handles these maxims, the more they become a part of him. fltienne Pasquier praised the Essais precisely for this quality and added that they are "d'une telle naivete dans son fond qu'il est malaise de les juger pour autres que siennes"; that is, they have worked their way deep into Montaigne's nature, curiously impregnating the personality of the writer until writer and maxim have become consolidated. Pasquier quoted a number of them. One particularly should be noted: "Il se trouve autant de difference de nous a nous-memes, comme de nous a autrui." This automotive process is fundamental with Montaigne: whatever he touches becomes a part of himself, whatever he is becomes a portion of what he will be. That is why the little Gascon withdrawn within his library becomes, through contact, wise with the wisdom of the past. The distillation of past wisdom was one aim of the Renaissance, to instill it in one representative Renaissance man was Montaigne's task. There is, however, more interpenetration than the simple absorption of ancient ideas. Montaigne is saturated with Plutarch, Seneca, Sextus Empiricus, Cicero, Lucretius, and the poets, to the point that his Essais, simply reduced to quotations from these great writers of antiquity, offer a digest of Western man's intellectual past. But Montaigne is not content to digest, absorb, or even reflect. His excellence as a critic does not derive from his ability to quote meaningful passages. It comes rather from his ability to accumulate by sheer mass the ideas which man has lived, to play them one against another until the inner judgment functions, to assimilate them into his being until they become malleable, and so to structure them that they assume coherence and inner reality. Thus it becomes difficult to distinguish between ideas, which make personality, and personality, which is ever structuring new ideas. The critical act merges grace• 86 ·

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fully into the creative process, and the making of a personality is a form of art just as the living of a personality is a structure of life. It is in this sense that, as Montaigne states, he has no more made his book than his book has made him, "livre consubstantiel a son auteur, d'une occupation propre, membre de ma vie, non d'une occupation et fin tierce et etrangere, comme tous autres livres." It is necessary to grasp the full operation. Knowledge consists first of all in recognizing our ignorance and weakness, and at the same time the infinite power of nature. It is in this way that man learns by experience: "Il faut apprendre a souffrir ce qu'on ne peut eviter." Our lives are composed, as the harmony of the world, of contrary things, as well as different tones, "douz et aspres, aigus et plats, mols et graves." We must learn how to remove the mask from things as well as people. This knowledge, however, is not something outside the soul: "Or, il ne faut pas attacher Ie sgavoir a l'ame, il l'y faut incorporer; il ne Ten faut arrouser, il Ten faut teindre; et s'il ne la change, et meliore son estat imparfait, certainement il vaut beaucoup mieux Ie laisser la." But transforming experience into knowledge, impressing knowledge into being in the soul, finding within this merging the harmony of being, is not enough. One must seek a way of identifying being with the personality of one's self, and of expressing that personality in one's own creation of being: "Icy, nous allons conformement et tout d'un trait mon livre et moi." In this way, we establish the limits of our power, we learn to know and to judge the difficulty of things. It is, as Montaigne says, a grand and limitless science, this knowledge of our power, this recognition of our limits. It is, in the strictest sense of the word, knowledge of our self, and thus our consciousness of self rejoins our awareness of the external world. Conscience and scepticisme meet; in the integral rationality of things, man can now commit himself to nature which is a gentle guide, "mais non plus doux que prudent et juste." This is the absolute and, as it were, divine perfection, to know and to enjoy one's own personality: a god insofar as one recognizes himself man, not a fixed form but a being becoming; one who speaks not only for himself but for all mankind, since every man "porte la forme entiere de l'humaine condition." Montaigne could well boast that never had a man treated a subject which he knew better than the one he himself had undertaken. In that matter, said he, I am the wisest man alive. Nor has anyone • 87 ·

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gone more deeply into his material, or further in its interpretation, or reached more precisely and more completely the goal he set out to attain. In his declaration of independence of the human mind, the author has not only mastered his material, he has given it inner meaning and organic reality. In his opening essay, he defined man as a creature "merveilleusement vain, divers, et ondoyant," and pointed out how difficult it is to come to a fixed judgment about him. This variety, elusiveness, and suppleness, which he saw in himself, he saw in all men and all the phenomena of nature. There is variety of intentions, of subjects, of objects, of attitudes, of approaches, of forms, of conclusions. Ruel has pointed out (p. 44) that in spite of all this many-sidedness, the unity of the work is what constitutes its originality. It is undoubtedly true that there is in the Essais a unity drawn from their very diversity; they are the first real portrayal in France of classic harmony and beauty. That is not the final effect produced, however. Their ultimate impression is multiple and all-embracing: of an artist thinking himself into being; of a book forming itself, through its own inner contrasting criticism; of a character spontaneously and unpremeditatedly developing by transforming ideas into beings—ideas become fancies, phantoms, beings; of a world creating itself by its inner cognition of itself, forming itself by its judgment of itself; of criticism turning itself into creation; of life which simultaneously is present and absent, because of its elusiveness, its variety, its suppleness. The Essais are a clear, wilful merging of the art of living and the art of writing. It is paradoxical that the Essais, which began with the collection and illustration of maxims, ended in a collection of "sentences." Charron's Sagesse represents fully Montaigne's ideas reduced to maxims and classified. Furthermore, the popularity of maxims in the seventeenth century—prevalent with Pascal, La Rochefoucauld, and La Bruyere; present throughout the drama of the period, especially in Corneille, Moliere, and Racine; profusely used also in the Fables of La Fontaine—is undoubtedly a result of Montaigne's preoccupation with the form. It should not be forgotten either that there is a definite correlation between the rise of rationalism and the maxim. In that connection, Bernier, in his introduction to Gassendi's philosophy, attested that one of the very remarkable things about the philosopher was the prodigious collection of maxims which he had made from French, Latin, and Greek poets. From the Latins • 88 ·

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alone, and not counting Lucretius whom he knew in entirety, he had extracted more than six thousand, and every day on taking a walk, he would recite three hundred. "Les beaux vers qu'on apprend par cceur," Bernier quotes Gassendi as saying, "et qu'on recite souvent entretiennent l'esprit dans une certaine elevation, qui inspire de grands sentiments, et qui annoblit Ie style de ceux qui ecrivent." This is the best commentary on Montaigne's style which I know. But it is important in defining the source of his influence, too. The Essais, which in their way assembled the wisdom of an­ tiquity, also expressed the wisdom of their author in a limitless num­ ber of maxims. In this respect both style and content permeated the seventeenth century. Although it is not my purpose here to trace the influence of Mon­ taigne upon seventeenth-century writers, I should indicate briefly the extensiveness and the continuity of that influence and its en­ trance into the eighteenth century. In 1724, Coste, the French trans­ lator of Locke's Essay concerning Human Understanding (1700), began to bring out an edition of Montaigne in six volumes. At the end (volume VI) he collected ultimately (1739) not only a life of Montaigne by Bouhier, but a whole series of statements made at intervals by authors of the seventeenth and early eighteenth cen­ turies. There can be found Guez de Balzac's remark that Montaigne knows well what he is saying, but he does not always know what he is about to say. "Il faut avouer," Balzac added, "qu'en certains endroits, il porte bien haut la raison humaine. Il l'eleve jusques ού elle peut aller, soit dans la politique, soit dans la morale." Also quoted is Lamy's observation that Montaigne's epicureanism is "la morale" of "honnetes gens" with whom we like to associate, and the Abbe de Villier's judgment that the Essais will always please because one will find in them nature and truth. The Logique de Port-Royal con­ demns unreservedly the author's constant reference to himself, his "infamies honteuses et ses maximes epicuriennes," and expresses surprise that the authorities permit him to be read so openly. Pascal's opinion is well-known: "Les defauts de Montaigne sont grands," but, he added, "ce que Montaigne a de bon ne peut etre acquis que difficilement." Malebranche, confessing that he has little esteem for the Essais, nonetheless admits that Montaigne has a seductive charm difficult to resist. He does not have principles, his reasons are not sound, he has no order, but he does have a "beaute d'imagination • 89 ·

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qui attire les hommes." Jacques Bernard, noting in the ~NouveU.es de la rapublique des lettres Montaigne's great popularity, adds that the reading of Montaigne is dangerous, and that there are many maxims incompatible with religion, while Sorel remarks that "tout Ie monde Ie lit pour son instruction." And the Huetiana states that "son esprit libre, son style varie, et ses expressions methodiques lui ont principalement merite cette grande vogue, dans laquelle il a ete pendant plus d'un siecle, et ού il est encore aujourd'hui [1722]." One could gather many other statements which attest Montaigne's popularity throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, while stressing the dangerous nature of his writings in the area of religion. Whoever wished to find encouragement toward free-think­ ing could do so in Montaigne. His nimble skepticism was thought to offer a golden opportunity to those who, for whatever reason, desired the widest possible range of thought. Montaigne, however, was not only attractive to the free-thinkers; he appealed also to the thinkers. Just as he found his inspiration in Cicero, Lucretius, Plutarch, and Plato, so he became the source of inspiration for Descartes and Pascal. Indeed, his peculiar contribu­ tion to the history of ideas was the way in which he shifted the em­ phasis from theology to philosophy. He had become, as the Huetiana said, the "breviaire des honnetes paresseux, et des ignorans studieux." And, as Sorel quoted others as saying, "il ignoroit les autres parties de la philosophic, comme la physique, la metaphysique, et la logique." Nevertheless, although as a formal philosopher he has no status whatever, he became the rich source of three of the greatest philosophers of the seventeenth century: Bacon, Descartes, and Pascal. Bacon, who knew and held in high esteem the Essais (P. Villey, Montaigne et F. Bacon, 1913), made direct use of Montaigne's ma­ terial : he referred to Montaigne by name, he quoted a passage from the Essais and gave its source. Villey judges that it is barely possible that Montaigne suggested to Bacon the title of his own production. A study of Bacon's first edition will demonstrate, however, that there is no comparison between the dry, matter-of-fact, impersonal essays of the English philosopher and the sprightly, lively, personal essays of the Frenchman. Of the ten early essays, two or three re­ semble vaguely Montaigne's titles, and three or four ideas recall Montaigne. But Villey is probably correct in suggesting (p. 29) • 90 ·

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that Bacon had already written these essays before having become acquainted with the Frenchman. The second edition, though much enlarged, does not display great influence either. Three essays, however—"On Death," "Parents and Children," and "On Atheism"— show a decided relationship with Montaigne in form, in attitude, in tone, and in a few specific references. Only the third edition, that of 1625, gives the full impact of Montaigne. Bacon now uses Montaigne's procedures: personal reminiscences, constant appeal to imagery and comparisons, and innumerable examples given to substantiate his ideas. The content as well as the form often recalls Montaigne. There are differences, however. Bacon is both a practical man and a man of action, while Montaigne is a contemplative, self-examining type. Naturally, these distinct temperaments give disparate results in the essays of each. This difference is all the more apparent if the Apologie is compared with the Advancement of Learning. Here it can not be a question of comparing Montaigne's scientific ideas with Bacon's, but if one retains clearly what each author is doing, a very important connection between the two is evident. Montaigne's preoccupation in the Apologie was with three focuses of critique: the nature of man, science, and the human mind. His assumed attitude, which appears to be mostly negative, is that of many moralists of the Renaissance: Pico in Examen vanitatis doctrinae gentium or Corneille Agrippa in De incertitudine et vanitate scientiarum. But there is a vast difference between Montaigne's assumed attitude and his conclusion, especially between the end of the Apologie and the final pronouncement of the Essais, where the French moralist insists upon one idea: it is possible to organize rationally the inner life, i.e. "Ia vie du moi." Villey makes a remark (II, 317) which clarifies this idea: Il faut que les regies de vie qu'il va formuler s'adaptent exactement a ce moi et qu'elles lui conviennent; autrement elles resteraient vaines. Il ne partira pas d'une idee a priori du bonheur, ni d'une conception prejugee de l'homme: il se soumettra scrupuleusement au fait. Il ne fera pas un pas sans s'appuyer sur Ie fait. S'il ne s'y soumettait pas, ce moi profond, trop resistant, se deroberait a ses fantaisies. La peinture du moi va done se doubler constamment d'une legislation du moi, d'une morale qui sera faite pour Ie moi et que Ie moi commandera. • 91 ·

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This submission to the fact, this rational organization and legislation of the ego, is what Montaigne understood to be the act of giving one's self to nature. But nature for Montaigne meant three things: it is that which is not art, and which is natural rather than rational (this definition leads to Rousseau); it is that which is traditional and customary (this interpretation leads to Montesquieu); it constitutes the whole of reality (this attitude leads to Diderot). For Montaigne the paradox still stands: man's strength consists in not only knowing his weaknesses, but his possibilities (this final stand leads to Voltaire). It is at this point that Bacon derives from Montaigne, simply by transferring the moralist preoccupation into a scientific preoccupation, and by giving to Montaigne's skeptical limits a positive affirmation. That is, Bacon affirms his faith in the efficacy of science; he also defines its aim, and finally he proposes a method to follow. He insists, as does Montaigne, on the fact and its utility; but a big distinction is that Bacon regards the fact as something outside of man. For Montaigne, it is something inside man's mind which is, we must never forget, the source of his being, and the origin of his power. Montaigne was also a source for Descartes. In his Fortunes of Montaigne (London, 1935), Professor A. M. Boase has shown that the young Descartes, who went to Holland in 1616 as a very young man, was already in many ways the disciple of Montaigne and Charron. He points out that the "morale provisoire" was taken mainly from the Essais and that the seventeenth-century philosopher's affirmation of animal mechanism was the result of a reaction to the theory of animal intelligence which Montaigne used to such advantage in the Essais. Brunschvicg, in his last published book, Descartes et Pascal: Lecteurs de Montaigne (New York, 1946),1 endeavored to elaborate upon the similarities of the three authors. Both Montaigne and Descartes, for instance, agreed that travel has a profoundly educational effect upon the student. If the De I'institution des enfans is compared with the whole of Part I of the Discours de la methode, where Descartes gives a running account of his education, it will be seen how closely the two agree, especially on the role of judgment in the making of personality. Particularly striking is Descartes's remark: "Je pris un jour resolution d'etudier 1

See also F. M. Chambers, "Pascal's Montaigne," PMLA,

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1950, 791-804.

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aussi en moi-meme." Further, Montaigne and Descartes agree on the spectator role in philosophy and both quote Protagoras to justify the position. Descartes is as firm a follower of custom as Montaigne: "J'apprenais a ne rien croire trop fermement de ce qui ne m'avait ete persuade que par l'exemple et par la coutume." Both agree that the goal of philosophy is the acquisition of wisdom and that this wisdom is a product of knowledge and open-mindedness. They are in accord in assigning certain problems (immortality, nature of God, and all theology) to the realm of "fideisme." Finally, Montaigne's skepticism is at the origin of Descartes's methodical doubt. Montaigne's statements throughout the Apologie are constantly echoed in Descartes. For instance: All the philosophers agree that the sovereign good consists in the tranquility of mind and body. . . . Of all human and ancient opinions concerning religion, the most reasonable and most acceptable was that which recognized God as an incomprehensible power, origin, and protector of all things, allgoodness, all-perfect. . . . When the skeptics say I doubt, you can at least squeeze from them that they \now that they are doubting. . . . We would be awfully foolish to think that we are the most perfect things in the universe. There is therefore something better; that is God. . . . The philosophers' profession is to adopt and approve nothing except through reason.... We know well that things do not lodge in our minds in their form and essence, and do not enter into our knowledge by their own force and authority. . . . What our reason counsels us as most satisfactory, is that each of us in general should obey the laws of his country. One could continue almost indefinitely the short, pithy "sentences" of the Essais which found their way into the philosophy of Descartes. What is more important than their agreements is the way the insights of the moralist seemed to the philosopher to lack order, direction, and organic meaning. Descartes accepted the challenge which Montaigne had laid down: "Voire s'il est en lui [man] d'arriver a aucune certitude par argument et par discours." Finally, we should note that these two thinkers in their dialogue bring out very clearly the powers and limitations of the human intelligence. Montaigne seems to stress that a mind left free is more capable of developing in accord with its inner nature. But he seems also to feel that even the "free" intellect will develop tendencies (tendencies of destruction as well as of creation) which constitute • 93 ·

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as many dangers as possibilities. This knowledge (which with Montaigne almost amounts to intuition) of man's powers and his restrictions constitutes a more balanced but less orderly view than Descartes's, who sacrificed balance to order in the interest of developing human powers against human weaknesses. The impact upon Pascal, who absorbed practically the whole of Montaigne's argument in the Apologie, was hardly less remarkable. The initial plan of Montaigne—"Le moyen que je prens pour rabatre cette frenaisie et qui me semble Ie plus propre, c'est de froisser et fouler aux pieds l'orgueil et humaine fierte."—became the starting-point in the Pensoes. The exposure of man's weakness—"la deneantise de l'homme," as Montaigne called it—was practiced by Pascal. The critique of the human mind, the opposition between thought and will, between thought and the passions, between thought and the senses, were all developed by Pascal from Montaigne's presentation. The uselessness of the sciences, which Montaigne stressed with some amusement and paradox, Pascal emphasized with great seriousness and sincerity. The autonomy of thought, which, though weak, is man's glory, is reechoed in the Pensies. Man's place between the two infinites, which became one of the finest passages of the Pensees, was sketched first by the sixteenthcentury essayist: "Qui luy a persuade que ce branle admirable de la voute celeste. . . ." The condemnation of Democritus, the De omni re scibili, and the affirmation of Tertullian's Credo quia absurdum were adopted by Montaigne before Pascal took them up. Individual expressions of Montaigne, such as "et que Ie traict d'une riviere fait crime," reappear abundantly in the Pensees. In fact, so closely does Pascal follow Montaigne that one wonders how the "sublime misanthrope," as Voltaire called him, had the courage to write that "it is not in Montaigne, but in myself, that I find what I write," or how he could condemn an author who had so generously furnished him with all the material he needed. There is, of course, between the intentions of the two authors a vast difference. Pascal would never have concluded his discourse by praising Plutarch and Seneca. One can only marvel that a work which only set out to summarize man's intellectual past and organize rationally his future could have exercised such a strong influence over three of the world's great philosophers—Bacon, Descartes, and Pascal. The most amazing thing about Montaigne, however, is not that he furnished these three • 94 ·

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philosophers materials with which to construct the foundations of their philosophies. He also furnished to the free-thinkers—to those who ultimately opposed Bacon, Descartes, and Pascal—the wherewithal to combat the dogmatism, the restrictions, and the immoderation of their philosophies. He is the source, as it were, of Montaigne and an anti-Montaigne, and the debate which continually goes on in Montaigne and his Essais continues throughout the seventeenth century between the dogmatists and the free-thinkers. Our astonishment becomes all the greater when we realize that he created his work when two of the greatest literary artists of all time—Shakespeare and Cervantes—were creating theirs. The Essais are not unworthy to take their place beside the drama of Shakespeare and the Quijote which they often resemble. In a world which had suffered the loss, or at least the diminution, of religion, Montaigne by a constant critique of man's intellectual powers and a constant insistence upon his creative possibilities gave him an ethical basis on which he could build himself and his future. Although Montaigne had no personal connection with the Paduan School and actually made no reference to it in his Journal when he visited Padua, Busson asserts that he is nonetheless a Paduan in his attitude and his thought (see Le Rationalisme dans la litterature frangaise de la Renaissance, 1957, pp. 424-47). Busson regards Montaigne's skepticism as the logical development of Bunel's "fideisme," and the Apologie as the climax of the whole Paduan movement. Indeed, Busson finds in Montaigne's development of skepticism in the Apologie the complete Paduan strategy which consisted in questioning faith only to lead to "fideisme" and thence to skepticism and thereafter, by a sudden turnabout, to a return to faith. The apparent objective of this exercise is to acknowledge once for all, after having gone through the whole procedure, faith's supremacy over reason, as well as the powerlessness of reason in problems which concern faith. Montaigne in his Apologie confessed that the Paduan attack against Aristotle favored "fideisme" and skepticism. Likewise, in the Apologie his analysis of reason brought out both its weaknesses and the conclusions one must draw from its inability to penetrate the nature of things. Busson infers from these conclusions that the author of the Essais was led to found his philosophy upon the separation of reason and faith while at the same time stressing the • 95 ·

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powerlessness of human reason to establish philosophical truths. This conclusion may be an oversimplification, particularly in so far as the powers of reason are concerned. At all events, Montaigne never lost an occasion to assert that in those things where faith operates, it is so far above reason that the latter will never be able to compete with it. He maintained often that Christians believe rightly those things which appear unbelievable to reason, and this attitude he approved as all the more reasonable, since these things are opposed to reason. Montaigne further followed the Paduans in the problems which he judged insoluble by reason. In general, they concern the five philosophical questions treated by Pomponazzi in his essays. Two of them, the immortality of the soul and miracles, Montaigne discussed at length. Like Pomponazzi, he felt that the question of the immortality of the soul is "la partie de l'humaine science traictee avec plus de reservation et de doute." He concluded that our attitude, since the matter of immortality is not to be decided by reason, should be to confess naively that God has willed it thus and faith reveals it to us. As for miracles, Montaigne likewise agreed with Pomponazzi in attributing them to chance or to ruse. With some inconsistency he sometimes ascribed them to the all-powerfulness of nature, often explained them, as did the Paduans, by the strength of imagination, and remarked that priests feigned them in order to establish religion. Busson judges that Montaigne in philosophy is only a Paduan, both by the comprehensiveness and by the nature of his skepticism. This opinion, too, appears an oversimplification, since it is clear that Montaigne resolves the first problem by reverting to "fideisme" and the second by having recourse to skepticism. His determination to seek no rational proof for anything which is a matter of faith, particularly the immortality of the soul, to explain miracles by the force of nature, to consider religion a constraint necessary for the ignorant masses and the founders of divers religions as intelligent and shrewd men, may well be an echo of the Paduan doctrine. It does not necessarily prove that Paduanism moved from skepticism to "fideisme." The strategy of the Paduans is difficult to penetrate. The first impression which one receives in reading such a man as Pomponazzi is that his works are full of reasoned statements for and against an orthodox point. This approach has all the earmarks of being so • 96 ·

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impartial and impersonal that one can with difficulty avoid the conclusion that no method could be fairer or more objective. The intention behind the method is harder to grasp. It is possible to argue that Pomponazzi, or any other Paduan, is merely employing the scholarly method of the impartial critic. But it is also not too difficult to see in the approach a questionable tactic, a kind of scholarly ruse devised to achieve a certain end. Any statement as to the nature of that end immediately gives rise to much discussion, because of the diversity of interpretations to which the mere logical presentation of this material may lead. For instance, it is possible to conclude that the Paduans' final aim is to bring out the paradox of trying to know things beyond the range of knowledge. However, since Pomponazzi practically always maintains that those truths derived from faith should always take precedence over those derived from reason, it is possible to argue that he is trying to show that the human mind is incapable of dealing with certain metaphysical problems. And there is always the further possibility that he wanted, on the contrary, to bring out that the human mind is sufficiently powerful to create rational objections to orthodox beliefs. Thus one could with some appropriateness see in his arguments grounds for belief, or for skepticism, or for denial. Hence, four explanations of the Paduan strategy are plausible. Either the whole argumentation leads to faith, or to ambiguity, or to skepticism, or to denial. The tendency of Busson's criticism is to stress the fideistic strategy of Paduanism. What if this was a minor goal, or what if the danger of skepticism is psychologically more prevalent than any tendency to believe? Naturally, in that event, it would be better not to bring up questions which the human mind cannot handle. Since the problems were proposed, there accordingly remains a doubt as to the purity of intention of those who raised them. It is therefore not the least bit surprising that every person who declares for "fideisme" and who at the same time glories in rationalism is ipso facto suspected of concealing his motives, of playing a game, or of creating a situation which can only lead to paradox, to skepticism, and ultimately to denial. Montaigne's conformity with the Paduans only presents one side of the problem. Modern criticism has been somewhat at a loss to determine exactly where he does stand in religious matters. Ever since Pascal with his characterization of Montaigne as "mol et . 97 .

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lache," we have thought that the latter's beliefs are neither orthodox nor stable. On the other hand, no one can read the Essais with the conviction that they were written with the express intention of battling religion. Nor can the most critical reader discern in him indifference to religion. A reasonable way of defining his attitude is perhaps to regard it in the light of a public-spirited man of the Renaissance who feels that religion has a place in life, analogous to politics, society, morality, or aesthetics. It is not, however, an aspect of life which is subject to attack, or even to discussion. Especially after the deplorable effects of the schism, it is unseemly to approach these matters either in the spirit of cavil or in that of contestation. A gentleman from Perigord responsible for the stability of his society could not normally be expected to be a troublemaker, a revolutionary, a radical, or even a purveyor of dissidence. In I, xxvii, Montaigne has best succeeded in stating his personal position to the problem of religion: C'est une hardiesse dangereuse et de consequence, outre l'absurde temerite qu'elle traine quant et soy, de mespriser ce que nous ne concevons pas. Car apres que, selon votre bel entendement, vous avez estably les limites de la verite et de la mensonge, et qu'il se trouve que vous avez necessairement a. croire des choses oil il y a encores plus d'estrangete qu'en ce que vous niez, vous vous estez des-ja oblige de les abandonner.

However, Montaigne, who ordinarily counsels an open mind, did not approve of compromise in religious belief: Ou il faut se submettre de tout a l'authorite de nostre police ecclesiastique, ou du tout s'en dispenser. Ce n'est pas a nous a establir la part que nous luy devons d'obeissance.

He confessed that he can speak with competence about this attitude, because he himself had practiced a careful selection, "mettant a nonchaloir certains points de l'observance de nostre eglise." Happening to confer with scholars about these matters, he had understood that they fitted intimately into the full picture of religion. And Montaigne added that there are many instances when there are impossible contradictions in our judgment, many occasions when what were articles of faith yesterday have become fables today. It must be concluded that he is neither hostile nor indifferent to religion; but when he takes up its defense, he speaks naturally like a conservative who has experienced some uncomfortable moments • 98 ·

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and who would not like to have them repeated. But he speaks also as a "free-thinker" who finds things critically wrong in our beliefs and who recognizes in man's nature such limitations and hesitations that whatever his reactions may be, they will likely prove inconsequential and unacceptable. This notion, particularly disconcerting, is derived from three incontrovertible truths: like Hamlet, Montaigne believes that there are more things in this world than man has ever dreamed of; he believes also that, without God's grace, man will never even begin to understand these things; and, lasdy, he believes that even with God's grace there will be inconsistencies, irrelevancies, contradictions. In fact, he gives the case away when he counsels either to accept everything or to reject everything. Pascal, who in many respects understands man's religious dilemma as Montaigne did, would never have adopted that conclusion. It is one of Montaigne's paradoxes that the question of his attitude toward religion is both crucial and irrelevant. He accepts the status quo so resignedly that it seems impossible to class him among the libertines. He supplies naively so many arguments to those who do not wish to believe that it is impossible to class him among the simple believers. An eighteenth-century writer who uses one of these naive, innocent remarks is immediately considered insincere and accused of making the "apostolic bow." Bayle, for instance, who in so many respects resembles Montaigne, has been considered sly, subversive, and satiric, but these qualities are never, so far as I know, attached to Montaigne. There is nevertheless among the critics a wide divergence of opinion as to the value of his religious position. Pierre Villey concluded that Montaigne's destiny willed that he organize human life in the sole light of reason {Sources, I, 6). Many are those who have seen in him an evolution which begins with stoicism, passes through skepticism and pyrrhonism, enters upon epicureanism, and ends with "fideisme." Villey, Strowski, Lanson, even Busson, would subscribe to all the steps of this evolution save the last. On the other hand, Citoleux (Le Vrai Montaigne, 1937) maintains that the doctrine of Montaigne has always been consistent with itself. He is first and foremost Christian, and whatever naturalism creeps into his beliefs is used to reenforce his thought against the dissidents. It must be confessed that each of these evaluations is eminently persuasive and that Montaigne has given ample evidence to support any one of • 99 ·

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them. It is only with the recognition that each explanation is incompatible with the others that the trouble begins. It does not console us very much to discover that for Montaigne there are perfectly satisfactory ways of rendering them compatible. This reconciliation was effected merely by changing the perspective of religion in the affairs of men. Instead of focusing all of man's activity on salvation, it was now centered upon the means of living the good life. What was desired was wisdom. Therefore, the worst mistake one could make would be to treat the Essais as if they were an apology for Christianity. Even the Apologie, that magnificent paradox in the middle of his Essais, is in no way a defense for Christianity, although it furnished Pascal with practically everything he needed for his apology. It was, however, an apology for Raimond de Sebon. What Montaigne saw in Sebon was that he dared build his faith on reason, and what he tried to say was that things have come to pass where faith can be built on nothing else. Properly speaking, this is what "fideisme" is: building one's faith on reason. It is, of course, a rationalized faith, different from the simple, ingenuous, naive faith which had characterized the Middle Ages. Montaigne would never think of ultimately believing that which is absurd, in spite of his quotation from Tertullian. He would believe what goes beyond the powers of human reason, but even here he would require a sort of rational content in the phenomena. This attitude explains why he can be at the origin of both Descartes's and Pascal's thought. While the former saw in the wily Gascon a desire for clear and distinct ideas, although not without a hesitation in ordering his thought to obtain that end, the latter found him "mol et lache," that is, possessing a "fideisme" which was faltering faith, and while he approved all of Montaigne's references to "misere" and "faiblesse" in man's nature, even to the point of taking possession of his arguments, he could not approve what he considered total abdication before man's helplessness. This, of course, was a misreading of Montaigne's conclusions: time and again the author of the Essais reverts to the idea that salvation lies only in God's grace. If the problem of grace becomes the fundamental preoccupation of all theologians and all philosophers of the seventeenth century—even Pascal—it is because "fideisme" based on reason could find no other way out. Montaigne saw the paradoxical aspects of that situation (Reason is powerless to . . . ; reason is all we possess • 100 ·

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which can . . . ) and while he gloried as a Gascon in paradoxes, this one constituted for him a danger which had to be avoided. Instead of showing that the human mind can offer some very solid proof of the validity of Christianity (witness Sebon's arguments) or that we must not fall into the error of assuming that the human mind can give man all the answers he needs for a Christian life, Montaigne merely left the impression that there is a vast chasm between our duties and our powers as a Christian, and that the human mind is powerless to make man conscious of these duties and these powers except as a man, and even in this latter case, one cannot trust it too far. At the very end of the Apologie, after having given the conclusion "si religieuse d'un homme payen"—Plutarch—he added Seneca's "O la vile chose et abjecte que l'homme, s'il ne s'eleve au-dessus de l'humanite." His first comment was that nothing was truer than that remark in the whole group of stoic philosophers. Further reflection, however, led him to replace this opinion with a second one. Seneca's remark is a "bon mot" and a "happy inspiration," but it is also "absurde." Because, said Montaigne, reverting to a type of wisdom which we call "common sense," to expect a fistful to exceed a fist, or an armful to surpass the capacity of an arm, or to hope to leap further than our legs can carry us is impossible and against our nature. Nor can man surpass himself and humanity, for he can only see with his eyes and grasp with his capacities. The only thing which can make him go beyond himself is God's grace, and nothing else. This final remark also demanded an emendation: "par la force de la foy non de sa sagesse, et point autrement." Montaigne apparently did not believe that his argument led to the conclusion that "the strength of faith" vied with "wisdom." He accordingly erased the whole statement and added: "C'est a nostre foi Chretienne, non a la vertu stoique, de pretendre a cette divine et merveilleuse metamorphose." Evidently the opposite of "Christian faith" is "stoic virtue." The struggle between these two approaches to life was not easy, and we know now that it was resolved in the first part of the seventeenth century by absorbing stoic virtue into Christian faith, giving a kind of Christian stoicism not too unlike our modern Christian humanism. For Montaigne, though, the merging was achieved with a good deal of prudence and much expression of an orthodox position. • 101 ·

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Thus in I, 27, which in a way was much more crucial for Montaigne's religious attitude since it grew out of the first full blush of stoic resignation, he finds that it is human folly to restrict truth and falsehood to our capacities for understanding. This assertion he makes all the more vehemently precisely because he had taken this position, which he now declares himself ready to abandon. This approach merely leads not to Christian humility, but to recognition of our ignorance and to a firm resolve not to yield to compromise in matters of miracles: "Ce n'est que betise et ignorance qui nous fait les recevoir avec moindre reverence que Ie reste." But glory, that is pride, and an inordinate curiosity, the two scourges of our soul, force us into an unorthodox position, the first by urging us to stick our nose into everything, and the second by forbidding us to leave things undecided. Montaigne gives the impression that human self-assertion is foolish, but perfecdy natural. Montaigne thus saw the moment approach when he had to accept fully or reject entirely the Christian religion. His decision seems to be based upon considerations which he exposed throughout the apology. The first is "c'est la foy seule qui embrasse vivement et certainement les hauts mysteres de notre Religion." But it is also true that we received our religion in our way and by our own hands, and not at all differently from the way in which others receive their religion: "Nous nous sommes rencontres au pays ou elle estoit en usage." We are Christians by virtue of the same authority that we are "Perigourdins" or Germans. This means that society has established religion as it has established its manners and customs, and religious action is a part of our social activity. That is why there are no considerations which should keep a man of understanding from following the way of thinking of his society. That is why Montaigne writes that "toutes facons escartees et particulieres partent plutot de folie ou d'affectation ambitieuse, que de vraye raison." That is why, finally, a wise man must withdraw his soul from the common herd, and keep it free and capable of judging things on their own terms, but as for outward appearances, he should follow entirely "les facons et formes recues." The public has nothing to do with our thoughts, but as for the rest—our actions, our tasks, our wealth, and our very life— we must lend them, even abandon them to its (the public's) service and to the opinions of the group. This declaration of independence • 102 ·

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is categorical and in a way leaves the disturbing impression that it has created more problems than it has solved. How can our thoughts, for instance, be free and our actions controlled if there is a relationship between what we think, what we are, and what we do ? Montaigne does not, for the moment, pose that problem; what interests him now is what we are, what we think, and what we do. To get at these problems, he establishes his provisional morality, which was to become the morality of Descartes and the Enlightenment. Religion is a custom, we must submit entirely to it; but thought is free from custom. Our soul belongs to God, our actions belong to society, our thoughts belong to us. Thus theology, the science of those who believe, is quietly replaced by philosophy, the science of those who know. Montaigne rejoins antiquity—classical antiquity. It is, however, not strange that he should have done so. He had bolstered his so-called apology with an inordinate number of quotations drawn from Cicero and Lucretius, thus presenting a queer defense for Christianity with the remarks of two other pagans, Plutarch and Seneca. The quartet was rich with possibilities: if Cicero and Plutarch stressed man's capabilities, Lucretius and Seneca stressed his weaknesses. Montaigne laid them on the scales and measured them with the same precision with which he weighed justice and truth. The important thing, however, is not the way in which he used antiquity to restore to man his duties and his possibilities, a maneuver which was to be expected in a humanistic age. What was supremely important was that the restoration was effected in such a way that man became a revelation to himself. His very weaknesses, once known, were sources of strength. This self-assertion had all been prepared from the first essay, where Montaigne made the discovery that man is a being "merveilleusement vain, divers, et ondoyant" about whom it is difficult to have a fixed, consistent opinion. From this initial thought to the very last one in book three—"Les plus belles vies sont, a mon gre, celles qui se rangent au modelle commun et humain, avec ordre, mais sans miracle et sans extravagance."—Montaigne devoted his entire energy to transforming thought into personality. The range thus extends from the given nature of man to the making of the good life. It is, however, not its breadth which should be stressed but its inherent richness. Every thought is an "essay," a trial, an as• 103 ·

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sertion of one's self, as rich in ambiguity as in possibilities. To recapitulate them would be to re-essay them. But there are fundamentals which must be stressed. Perhaps the best way of getting at them is to put things in terms of Montaigne's own question: Que scais-je? First and foremost is the conviction that "science sans conscience est la ruine de l'ame." Brunschvicg has brought out well the role of consciousness in Montaigne's thinking. "Conscience" is knowledge of oneself, an immediate knowledge between God and man, as Calvin said. It is a form of reason which Montaigne defined not only as "nos resveries et nos songes," but "cet apparence de discours que chacun forge en soy." This reason is of a sort which may have a hundred different opinions about one subject. It is "un instrument de plomb et de cire, alongeable, ployable et accommodable a tous biais et a toutes mesures." All one needs is the capability of getting around it. But reason has its responsibility too. If, as everyone agrees, pleasure is our goal, when all is said and done, we all aim for some kind of voluptuousness; therefore, reason makes sport of us, or it, too, should aim at our contentment: "Tout son travail doit tendre en somme a nous faire bien vivre, et a nostre aise." There are difficulties, however. In a world where man is constantly changing, elusive, and variable, opinions and external objects are doing likewise. In the face of the number and variety of events, the unceasing variability of nature, and the great diversity of opinions, the human mind finds it difficult to achieve order and proportion: "Les hommes sont tous d'une espece . . . mais la diversite des opinions que nous avons de ces choses la montre clerement qu'elles n'entrent en nous que par composition." However, there are certain truths which can be grasped. We are never right here, we are always further on. To establish oneself solidly, clearly one's first lesson consists in knowing oneself and to what one may aspire. There is nothing in our power except the will; in it are established all the rules of duty. Our taste for good and evil depends to a large extent on the opinion which we have of them. If evils enter into us only by our judgment of them, it seems that it lies within us to change that judgment. The three evils are wealth, poverty, pain. Fortune offers us neither good nor ill: it merely offers us the material for good or ill. Our soul, far more powerful than fortune, can turn this material as it pleases. There are thus not only three evils, but there are also three remedies for evil: our will, our • 104 ·

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judgment, our soul. Life is neither good nor ill, it is the place of good or ill according as one makes it so. The human mind has some power of dealing with the diversity of opinions, especially in matters of judgment and in some others which require the assertion of the will. We must remember though that it is limited: by our pride and vanity; by our passions and our senses; and finally by usage and customs. Both the inside and the outside of man are full of weakness and falsehood. It is one of the miseries of our condition that often what is conjured up by our imagination as the true is not necessarily the most useful to our life. Presumption is our natural, original sin. Though the weakest of creatures, we are the most proud and pretend to be the equal of Gods. Everything strange and ununderstandable we condemn, while at the same time we marvel at and measure strange things rather than ordinary ones. Everything marches in step because of our senses, they are our masters. Still, we do not know whether we are lacking in some senses or not. Knowledge of ourselves is gained by unreasonable reason, mad and crazy. We do not know even what constitutes reality: our reason, conjuring up fancies and opinions which arise while we sleep, can not distinguish whether our action is not a form of dreaming and our dreaming another kind of action. And thus, caught in the perpetual whirl of existence, we can find nothing stable, nothing permanent. Greatness of man, misery of man. Reason, judgment, and will are possibilities; the senses, imagination, passions present obstacles. The supreme defect is the lack of one single truth to which everyone would give his consent. But we know well that things do not penetrate our reality in their form and essence, they do not even enter by their own strength and authority. Everything foreign to us is thus at our mercy, it takes its place in us according to our pleasure. The conclusion seems to be that one must know how to doubt everything. The supreme quality which Voltaire attributed to Montaigne, that of knowing how to doubt, would have delighted him. However, there are those who have maintained that it leads to indifference and non-action, that it is a negative quality. This can be the case, of course, but it is not the way Montaigne understood the position. He mentioned Valerius' remark that, as Cicero grew older, he came to place no great importance on letters, which he now approached without any obligation to a party, adopting that which • 105 ·

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appeared to him the most probable, first in one sect, then in another, "se tenant toujours sous la dubitation de Γ Academic" This position of Cicero, one feels, is that of Montaigne also. Christian morality had its appeal, but so did stoic virtue, as well as epicurean pleasure. The most reasonable approach is to find some way to merge them: humanistic antiquity and Judeo-Christian thought are humanly valid, since they all have human content. One cannot live them successively, however, nor compartmentally; one can only live them within human organic experience. At first glance, this frame of mind appears to be a superficial eclecticism, and there are critics, such as Lanson and Strowski, who talk of Montaigne's stoic or epicurean period as if each had some sort of historical reality. Perhaps they do have: certainly one can note a strong stoic, or a similarly strong epicurean, quality in cer­ tain particular essays. It was not Montaigne's task to discover which attitude of antiquity was the proper one for the good life, but rather to merge all these attitudes into the good life. Hence whatever else can be said for his skepticism, it was the basis of his merging proc­ ess; it identified itself not as a mode of thought, but as a way of life; it is free of schools and solidly individual; essentially, and in both senses of the word, it is free-thinking. Emerson, of all the critics, seems best to have understood this in his essay entitled "Mon­ taigne the Skeptic," but Villey's expression "rationalisme integral" is also very apt. Fundamentally, it represents the free play of the human mind over the phenomena of the universe and equates ex­ perience with thinking and living. In the very center of his Apologie, which itself is at the mid-point of his work, Montaigne gives a long essay which is an apology for skepticism. It should be read with great care, because it not only summarizes Montaigne's thought up to that moment, but also pre­ pares for that greater experience which he now intends to under­ take: the passage from knowledge to living. Whoever is looking for something, said Montaigne, eventually comes to this point: either he asserts he has found it, or that it can not be discovered, or that he is still seeking. All philosophy is divided into these three posi­ tions, since its objective is the search for knowledge and certainty. Peripatetics, stoics, and epicureans claim to have arrived at truth: they have established science. Carneades and the Academicians have despaired of ever reaching it. Pyrrho and other skeptics say they • 106 ·

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are still looking for it: they believe those who say they have attained their goal and those who say that it can not be achieved are both mistaken. They draw their origin from Homer, the Seven Sages, Archilochus, Euripides, Zeno, Democritus, Xenophanes, but they are best represented by Plato and Socrates, especially Socrates. Montaigne carefully distinguishes the skeptics' attitude, even defends with some warmth their position. Ignorance recognized is not entire ignorance. To be complete, it must fail to know itself. So that the profession of the pyrrhonists is to put everything to question, to doubt and to inquire, and to be certain of nothing. Of the three faculties of the soul, they accept the imaginative and the appetitive, but they reject that of approbation. This rejection of all objects leads them to their "ataraxy," a state of peace and quiet, free from the agitations produced by things. And thus no opening is given to the evil effects of instability: fear, envy, avarice, ambition, immoderate desires, pride, superstition, search for novelty, rebellion, disobedience, stubbornness—and the greater part of corporal ills are also avoided. It must not be thought, though, that the skeptic is inactive. His motto is "Je suspends," his device is a pair of scales which he attempts to keep in balance by constantly asking a question. But "ils sont en cela de la commune facon" in the actions of life: "Hs se pretent et accommodent aux inclinations naturelles, a l'impulsion et contrainte des passions, aux constitutions des lois et des coustumes et a la tradition." Fundamentally, Montaigne approved of their action. For him, the good life is that of Cicero, or better still of Socrates, who goes inquiring into the past and present. It is not the pagan quality which dominates, it is rather the life of the rational man—prudent, thoughtful, natural. BODIN'S RECONSTRUCTION OF THE STATE

The rational organization of the ego pursued by Montaigne is one of the means of combating the confusion produced by the scientific preoccupations of the Paduans, the rise and spread of humanism, and the dominance of the Reformation. In reality, it is the highest expression not of Paduanism so much as of humanism. In the midst of the threatened disintegration of the papacy, the breakdown of the social and political orders, and the religious wars, the individual could find some consolation in calling from within himself the powers which a rationally organized life can give. The ethical or• 107 ·

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ganization of Montaigne's world, or the assertion of admissible, personal, human values, can partly compensate for the loss of effective religious values. At any rate, the individual constructing his life on rational grounds in a world now out of joint can persuade himself of the reality of his powers and the efficacy of the self, particularly if he has but the smallest touch of stoicism and the least tendency toward epicureanism. Strowski, in tracing the ethical development of Montaigne, uses for the final stage a very significant phrase: "Le Sage ne vit que pour soi." It is exceedingly apt in stating a condition, but it is less accurate in marking a dynamic reality. The sad truth is that the "Sage" could not breathe freely in the persecution and torture of the religious wars, any more than he would be able to do in our present-day political struggles. It is therefore not surprising that the Renaissance had to give as much attention to the rational reconstruction of the state as it gave to the intellectual formation of the individual personality. A whole line of thinkers—humanists, reformers, jurists—devoted themselves to this problem.1 Machiavelli, fascinated by the Roman Empire's stability, horrified by the instability of contemporary states, proposed the use of force, the virtu of the Prince. Erasmus, on the contrary, refused to adopt any theory which did not accord with the concept of a Christian prince trained in his duties by a Christian education. He condemned wars, as well as international, dynastic marriages, and nationalisms which are at their source. Political authority, he thought, is derived from natural law and consists in the consensus of the social group. He conceived of the social community as a pacific Christendom, animated by the evangelical spirit. And while he assigned great importance to an accord between the ethical and political, he neglected to clarify the notion of right. Thomas More, for his part, laid great stress on the economic and insisted that the state has the task of developing social solidarity and all means of making daily life more pleasant and facile. In contrast with these positions of the humanists were those of the Reformers. The most inconsistent was Luther, who astounded Europe with his doctrine of Christian liberty although the concept had validity only when it upset pontifical theocracy. When the notion led to political revolt, as in the case of the peasants, Luther de1

See P. Mesnard, L'Essor de la philosophie politique au XVle Steele, Paris, 1951, pp. 663-77.

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nounced it, maintaining that the authority of the state is the expression of the wrath of God and cannot be tyrannical. Calvin's views were more consistent: political and social order are only an extension of theological order; the representative of God is the leader of the state; the city and the Church are a solid theocracy. This position justifies the autocracy of the Protestant community and leads to the doctrine of legitimate insurrection founded on the rights of God and popular sovereignty in the non-Protestant communities. It was only in the lesser sects, like the Anabaptists, however, that the tendency to popular sovereignty found any real expression. As can be easily seen, these views are elusive, varied, and changeable, like Montaigne's man. There was, though, as Mesnard writes (p. 665), a whole political philosophy being formed around the three directing concepts of the time: the state, sovereignty, and the international community. The first fundamental idea to be elaborated was naturally that of the state. Machiavelli conceived of it as a self-generating living organism. Luther looked upon the German soul as the state's generating factor, but in reality he regarded nations as little more than the necessary background of a higher authority. On the other hand, Althusius thought that society began with the simplest groups and developed into complex groups which he called the "communaute symbiotique." This republic possessed its own autarchy and had as its task the integration of the normal life of its citizens. The state, however, did not establish hierarchies or even political administrations; it was concerned with the unity of social categories: of religion with ethics, or with politics, or with economics. This embryonic idea of Althusius was pursued by others who attempted to give a hierarchy to the categories. Calvin, for instance, thought that the state derived from the Church; its principal duty, consequently, was to look to the religious (and ethical) health of the citizens. Thomas More, on the other hand, thought that its primary duty was to supervise the group's economic welfare. In general, there was agreement that the state had a cultural, spiritual activity—a very important point, since this cultural, spiritual activity had been previously exercised by the Church. The second problem treated by these political theorists concerned the question of sovereignty. Wherein lies the power which guaran• 109 ·

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tees to the state the authority to function as it should ? Machiavelli proposed practical expedients, but concluded that the force to shape the constitution of the body politic should be imposed upon the group by the ruler. Against this outspoken principle of dictatorship arose a protest in the name of human dignity and Christian freedom. Erasmus, for instance, warned kings that there is a natural equality among Christians which no political hierarchy can subvert. In general, the Protestants, particularly the Anabaptists and the minor sects, followed this reasoning even to the point of contesting all authority of the state. They were nonetheless forced to organize into small Christian communities which, as Mesnard notes, were often more tyrannical than the state. To unbridled tyranny the political theorists proposed the ancient idea of tyrannicide: La Boetie in the Contr'un, or even Calvin who sought his justification in the Bible. There were imposed restrictions, though, and ultimately all agreed that there must be some submission to the sovereign power, whatever its source. The problem was not so much how the individual responded to sovereign power, but wherein it lay: Thomas More refused to grant the principle of personal sovereignty; Erasmus drew it from the accumulation of regional liberties and insisted on the importance of provincial estates. Many others maintained that it belonged to privileged orders: towns, Calvinist nobility, princes of the blood. But these arguments were merely academic, especially since political organization was constantly tending toward the rule of one. The problem thus was shifted to the relationship between the ruler and the ruled, i.e., to the idea of contract, and here the contribution of Althusius was essential. His view was that the body politic was composed of preexisting groups. Before entering upon a contract they have a right to discuss the terms of their entry and in what way to give to the body politic the necessary force. It is evident that sovereignty rests with the "conserving Senate," which represents the combined forces of all the members. In case of an infraction of the contract, this body can denounce the federation and even dissolve it, an indication that popular sovereignty is the final arbiter. All the Latin jurists rejected this concept although they agree that the individual has rights against the unbridled expression of sovereignty. But no one, not even Althusius, seemed capable of guaranteeing or protecting those rights. • 110 ·

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In the development of the idea of the international community, little progress was made, because the break-up of Christendom had left humanity without a directing force, almost without an ideal. If the hope for individual rights lay in small sovereign organizations, all the more did the guarantee for national rights lie in the closelyorganized nations. Machiavelli gave full expression to this national egotism, but it can be found in the activities of every political European state. Nevertheless, the idea of one government persisted, particularly in Erasmus, who refused to renounce his dream of a universal Christian humanism. It was precisely on this point that he and Luther parted company. After their struggle, no international organization was possible on an ecclesiastical basis. Numerous were the attempts, however, to find another basis for unification: the integration efforts of Guillaume Postel; the organization of colonies proposed by Vitoria; the sketch of a rational universal legislation proposed by More. Out of all this variety, Jean Bodin's Republique of 1576, absolutely contemporary with Montaigne and La Boetie (the Contr'un, published posthumously, is of the same date), best summarizes the political thought of the time and locates it in perspective against the declining religious dogma and the magnificent organization of Montaigne's ethical ideas. Bodin attempts to give that opinion which best conciliates all the others, but he also strives to give to it a juridical and rational validity not always evident in the others. The result is that Bodin appears both a theorist and a practitioner, an idealist and a realist, a historian and a jurist. His sense of history, in fact, showed him the republic as the product of a common evolution which brings together privileges balanced against obligations, and simultaneously constructs a society and its legal status. In this society he distinguished the units, particularly the family. The republic, thus, is a complex organization of simple units which, because of a social evolution under the guidance of a wise legislator, has eradicated natural inequalities and established harmony among its members. Bodin attempts to unite into this society the necessities of its political activity and the exigencies of Christian morality. He thus devises the principle that what constitutes the sovereign power is the right to promulgate or to annul the law. But the power has to be exercised within the law. Sovereignty therefore resides in the • 111 ·

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vital instincts of society itself, it is the expression of the legal health of all the members: "La Republique est Ie droit gouvernement de plusieurs menages avec puissance souveraine." Thus the concept of sovereignty is not based on force, but on right, on justice, on the law; and all must submit to it. In his introduction to Bodin's works entitled "Vers un portrait de Jean Bodin" {Corpus General des Philosophes Franfais, V 3 ,1951), Mesnard underlines how difficult it is to get the right perspective of the French jurist's works. Bodin not only suffered from his broad scholarship, which most of us find difficult to digest, but from his diversity, ranging as he does from jurisprudence to history to political theory and even to a critical deism in religion. The eighteenth century experienced no such difficulty with Bodin, however. Both Voltaire and Montesquieu had a high regard for his theories on the relation between climate and political and social institutions. It was Pierre Bayle, though, who seems to have accorded him the most undivided attention. Indeed, Bayle, who wrote one of his finest articles on Bodin, noted that the sixteenth-century jurist preferred court practice to jurisprudence, but that he finally renounced it to compose books, in which task, said Bayle, he succeeded admirably. Bayle expressed a rather unusual enthusiasm for his predecessor. One feels that he sensed instinctively how closely Bodin's ideas on public affairs coincided with his own. In one place he noted that Bodin had been accused of plagiarizing Turnebe in his Commentaire sur Oppien, and he ventured the opinion that Bodin was much more skilful than Turnebe in jurisprudence, in politics, and in history, but that he was inferior to him in criticism, and everything which is called the humanities. He recalled that Naude thought the four most artistic works were Aristotle's Rhetoric, Scaliger's Poetics, Charron's Sagesse, and Bodin's Republic. Furthermore, Bayle stressed the popularity of the Republic at Cambridge University, where it was given public readings. He remarked with evident approval that Bodin disagreed with those who adopted the view that the royal power was limitless and cited several examples to bring out the liberal quality of his politics. In the Estates at Blois, for instance, the jurist took it upon himself to defend the interests of the common man by arguing that the royal domain belonged to the public and that the king only enjoyed its use. He also denied that the clergy and the nobles could unite to decide anything prejudicial to the third Estate. Moreover, he refused to give his adherence to • 112 ·

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the partisans of the Guises who wished to wage war against the Protestants. Finally, he opposed the scheme to constrain all the king's subjects to profess the Catholic religion. When one remembers how Bayle himself stood on these matters, one can understand with what relish the seventeenth-century critic composed his article on his sixteenth-century counterpart. Bodin entered into eighteenth-century thought with a fine recommenda­ tion from the author of the Dictionnaire historique et critique who quoted Possevin's remark that Bodin had written "bien des choses qui sont contraires a la religion" and who promised that he would not neglect his Heptaplomeres, which had never been printed, "et ού l'on pretend qu'il debita beaucoup de choses impies." In spite of this promise it seems that Bayle did neglect it after all. He did not complete his article, however, until he had presented, as witnesses of Bodin's indifference to religion, Possevin, Naude, Casaubon, and "Ie ministre Lutherien qui m'apprend cela." In fact, said Bayle in conclusion, he was "depouille de tout sentiment de Christianisme et fut de la religion naturelle." If Bodin fared well at the hands of Bayle, he was slighted in the seventeenth century. The return to Machiavelli's concept of royalty as endowed with a divine right greatly obscured Bodin's more tem­ perate view of royalty's obligations and rights. Moreover with the firm establishment of Lutheranism and its anodyne political ideals after the thirty years' war, Bodin with his desire to create a new Europe after the model of the French monarchy was discredited. Indeed, his insistence upon the constitution of a European spirit was practically ignored throughout the seventeenth century. Insofar as the political baroque is represented, as Mesnard maintains, by the liaison of Lutheran evangelism and Catholic absolutism, it is evident that Bodin could not receive much favorable consideration. Grotius, however, took up his defense, while the revival of Calvinist thought in Holland also offered him much support. And if his political ideas were subordinated to those of Machiavelli on the Continent, they did not lack a hearing in England, while the Heptaplomeres, al­ though never printed, came near to being one of the most popular seventeenth-century clandestine works. The secret of this durability in spite of keen opposition can be at­ tributed to the careful preparation which Bodin gave to his work. He approached politics and social dynamics from the standpoint of the jurist and in the light of the historian's experience. His view of • 113 ·

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the social order was thus colored simultaneously by his sense of real­ ity, a spirit of idealism, a feeling for historical change, and a de­ termination to give his exposition a firm legal basis. This point of departure can be clearly seen in his dedicatory preface to his Methode de I'histoire. Bodin stated quite simply that ever since he had en­ tered the law in the service of the public, he had been resolved to devote himself to appropriate studies during all the time when he was not engaged in judicial affairs. H e acknowledged his devotion to the republic, "a qui nous sommes (apres Pfiternel) redevables de toutes choses." H e proposed, following Plato, to approach politi­ cal knowledge in a comparative way: one must unite all the laws of all republics and entrust to wise men the task of comparing them in order to draw the best therefrom. These wise men for h i m are the jurists. Unfortunately, they are of three sorts: those who have the theory but are lacking in practice; those w h o have practice, but are lacking the theory; those w h o try to combine the two things. Bodin does not feel that anyone of these three groups is adequate. H e thereupon sketches, in a passage fundamental to his own prep­ aration and insight into politics, his ideal of the well-trained jurist who should undertake this task: Les auteurs qui, formes non seulement par les usages et les preceptes du barreau mais aussi par les connaissances les plus riches et par une solide philosophic, comprennent que la nature de la justice n'est pas de changer selon les volontes des hommes mais de se conformer a la loi eternelle; qui manient adroitement la regie de l'equite, deduisent les origines du droit d'un premier principe, montrent une connaissance exacte de toute l'antiquite, savent parfaitement apprecier l'autorite et Ie pouvoir du prince, du senat, du peuple et des magistrats romains; qui apportent dans !'interpretation du droit les discussions des philosophes sur les Lois et la Republique, qui n'ignorent ni la langue grecque ni la latine dans lesquelles les lois sont ecrites; qui enferment enfin toute science dans ses limites, en precisant la nature, la distribuent en ses parties, en definissent les termes et l'expliquent par des exemples. H e concludes by stating that the history of jurisprudence is the mas­ ter science of m a n : C'est elle qui nous permet de rassembler les lois des anciens dispersees ca et la, pour en operer icy la synthese. Et en realite Ie meilleur du droit universel se cache bien dans I'histoire, si Ton y trouve cet element si im­ portant pour Γ appreciation des lois, a savoir les mceurs des peuples, sans • 114 ·

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compter l'origine, l'accroissement, Ie fonctionnement, les transformations et la fin de toutes les affaires publicques, c'est-a-dire Ie principal objet de cette methode. To understand his position clearly, it is essential to recall the condition of France in 1576. Not only was the royal power shaken because of the opposition of the nobles and Catholics, but it was exhausted by the wars of religion. The Catholics dreamed of a theocracy, the nobles of a return to power, even the industrial towns had ambitions of local autonomy. The spirit of free examination flourished, and the economy was in disarray. The Protestants tending to democracy opposed the monarchists clamoring for absolute government. Bodin understood that his primary task was to restore the prestige of the traditional French monarchy, to give it at the same time a sense of justice and reestablish its theoretical superiority over other forms. He thus opposed Machiavelli, whose political doctrine also took its origin in a concrete state of affairs. The real opposition, however, is not between two different expediencies; it is rather between two different principles. For Bodin, the permanence of the body politic must be founded on justice, which he defines as "la prudence de commander en droicture et integrite." This concept, the fundamental principle of all Enlightenment political thought, controls the whole organization of the Republique, which Bodin has constructed with great rigidity. He has given in very succinct fashion his plan (Aiii) which contains many analogies with Montesquieu's De I'Esprit des lois, particularly its first ten books: C'est l'un des points que j'ay traite en cette ceuvre, commencant par la famille et continuant par ordre a la souverainete, discourant de chascun mem'bre de la Republique: a sgavoir du Prince souverain et de toutes sortes de Republiques; puis du Senat, des officiers et magistrats; des corps et colleges, estats et communautes, de la puissance et debvoir d'un chacun: apres j'ay remarque l'origine, accroissement, l'estat renaissant, changement, decadence et ruine des Republiques, avec plusieurs questions politiques qui me semblent necessaires d'estre bien entendues. Et pour la conclusion de l'ceuvre, j'ay touche la justice distributive, commutative, et harmonique, monstrant laquelle des trois est propre a l'estat bien ordonne. That is, the work, in order to establish this essential justice which Bodin ultimately calls "justice harmonique," institutes three stud• 115 ·

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ies: a study of the concept of sovereignty, a study of the composition of the state, and a study of the manner in which sovereignty is exercised. These studies are effected in the first three books. The next two are concerned with the laws of evolution of the state, the different phases through which the organism passes, and the conditions of its stability or instability. The final book discusses the principles of social life, defines the nature of a prosperous monarchy, and establishes the concept of harmonious justice. Bodin defined the republic as "un droit gouvernement de plusieurs mesnages, et de ce qui leur est commun, avec puissance souveraine." Thus one essential to the concept is that government should be "droit," that is in conformity with the notion of justice, everyday justice, not impossibly idealistic or overly realistic, but just the right balance between the two. Another essential is that it be composed of families. Bodin insisted firmly upon this idea since he discerned in the activities of the family a situation in miniature similar to the workings of the state. The third essential is that the social groups should possess something in common which gives reality to the community. It can be common domain, a common treasury, a common set of customs, common notions of justice, or even all these things and many others. The only requirement is that it must be something thought worth defending by the community. And finally there is necessary a sovereign power. Bodin defines sovereignty as "la puissance absolue et perpetuelle d'une Republique." It is the "majestas" of the Roman Empire and is founded in the nature of things. When one thinks of a social group, one says immediately it is authority which orders. This authority is developed from the chief of the family to the commanding of the chief of the state, but the head of the family is only the citizen subordinated to the sovereignty. Bodin accepts the concept of a state of natural freedom, that is, the state of a man who with the exception of the Deity takes no orders from anyone except himself. This natural freedom does not exist in the state because of a contract, but because of violent changes which take place before the state is formed. Bodin thus rejects the golden age of politics; he rejects also the advantage of slavery. The citizen is the "franc sujet," the non-slave who has a right to privileges and participates indirectly in government. He can also transmit his property to his heirs, but equality among citizens is unrealizable. The king applies the law which establishes justice, but • 116 ·

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should he fail to do so, the citizen must submit anyway, since it is impossible to invoke a right against a law. A republic may be monarchy, aristocracy, or democracy. The mixed republic Bodin rejected, but he approved different forms of each kind of republic. A monarchy can be a popular form, which means that any citizen can occupy an office; or aristocratic, which means that only the nobles can occupy office; or royal, which means that only the king occupies the office. He favored monarchy, chiefly because it is the only kind where sovereignty is vested in one person. Bodin conceded that changes may take place in the republic, because of social phenomena and psychological repercussions. In addition to these changes, there are alterations in laws, customs, and religion. He counseled the gradual modification of laws and customs over the years. This concept, one of the very original contributions he made to political science, was destined to exercise a major influence on the political thought of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. He became very interested in the problem of adjusting a nation's laws to the nation's character. Like Montesquieu, who took over much of this thinking, Bodin did not believe that any country could adopt indiscriminately any kind of government: Jusques ici nous avons touche ce qui concernoit I'estat universel des Republiques, disons maintenant ce qui peut etre particulier a quelques-unes pour la diversite des peuples, afin d'accommoder la forme de la chose publique a la nature des lieux, et les ordonnances humaines aux lois naturelles. A quoy plusieurs n'ayant pris garde, et s'efforcans de faire servir la nature a leurs edicts, ont trouble et souvent ruine de grands etats. (531.)

And further on, he added: "L'un des plus grands, et peut-etre Ie principal fondement des Republiques est d'accommoder I'estat a la nature des citoyens, et les edits et ordonnances a la nature des lieux des personnes et du temps." This means that each people has a national character of its own, a sort of ethnic personality which is in part determined by its geographical position, its climate, and the fertility of the soil. He attempted to distinguish between south and north, east and west, and mountain and plain. In principle, he maintained that the wise legislator must take into account these factors whenever he endeavors to establish a government agreeable to the character of a people. Bodin is an important influence in the preparation of eighteenth• 117 ·

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century ideas, occupying in the area of political thought a position analogous to that of Montaigne in ethics. Indeed, while the religious wars were discrediting the Church, Montaigne offered as an antidote the rational reconstruction of the individual personality, a man's dignity and integrity, and Bodin proposed the rational reconstruction of the community's personality. While one utilized all the resources of integral humanism to carry out his task, the other created, as Mesnard has pointed out, a kind of integral politics which made of the social community the object of scientific study, particularly in the three essential problems of its origin, the nature of its inner power, and its position as a member of sovereign states. Over and beyond these problems, the sixteenth-century jurist offered a method for penetrating the meaning of the state in an age when it was beginning to assume the role formerly played by the Church. Bodin, so far as I know, made no mention of this transitional state of affairs. He did, however, give to the principle underlying the creation of the community as firm a setting as possible, and a method for readjusting the state to the exigencies of the people and to their character as a group. His theory of climate became as significant in the eighteenth century as his theory of sovereignty. But the goal to which all this tended was the theory of political (i.e., civil) justice, the goal which had been heretofore the preoccupation of the Christian Church. BACON'S RECONSTRUCTION OF LEARNING

As A. Cresson pointed out (p. 17) in his little book on Bacon (Francis Bacon, sa vie, son ceuvre, 1948), the sixteenth century is animated by the spirit of reform: reform first in the religious foundations of society, then also in the individual, and finally in the construction of the state. These movements have each been exemplified in the activities of Rabelais, Montaigne, and Bodin. There was, however, a revision which transcended all others, because in a way it embraced them all—the reform in learning, represented by Francis Bacon. Bacon made no pretense of creating a new philosophical system or of bringing forth new epoch-making discoveries in science. What he understood as his mission was a searching critique of past and present knowledge and the establishment of a program for a more dynamic learning. His attack against the old learning was violent. • 118 ·

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The previous philosophers are sterile; they agree to nothing and their thought is stagnant. Indeed, they have no program for their intellectual activities, and no definite goal, being content to know for the pleasure of knowing. Consequently, theirs is a passive philosophy, full of superstitions and prejudices, and far too dependent upon antiquity. They assemble an inordinate number of facts, but draw from them no significant conclusions. Bacon compared them to spiders who spin from themselves their web of a priori ideas, or to ants who assemble everything but to no purpose. He would have them as bees, which, after all, were the basis of a dynamic metaphor of sixteenth-century poetry and thought. Bacon proclaims that present-day science, which has come down from the Greeks, is devoted to dialectical subtleties rather than useful discoveries. Those who established sects in the past were more interested in expressing personal convictions than in seeking the truth. Bacon never tired of castigating this lack of usefulness in ancient learning. In place of a worn-out science and philosophy, Bacon proposed a Great lnstauration—a learning which progresses, which he once spoke of as "the marriage between the mind of man and the nature of things." In the preface to the Great lnstauration, he urges that all consider the "true ends of knowledge," not for any personal advantage or pleasure, but for "the benefit and use of life." He proclaims that he is laying the foundation "of human utility and power." It is difficult for us in the twentieth century to comprehend the intellectual ambitions of the man of the late Renaissance. Gilson has pointed out that Descartes's intentions were from the first the creation of intellectual conditions which would bring about a limitless flow of plenty and a constant satisfaction to man. Bacon, who preceded Descartes by three decades or so, had similar intentions. As Professor Farrington {The Philosophy of Francis Bacon, Liverpool, 1964) expressed it, Bacon's ambition "was to make a new England, not a new logic." He was a product of that reformation which was pushed by Colet, Erasmus, and More. Like them, he wanted the moralization of religion and rebelled against the contamination of the Gospel with the philosophy of Aristotle; like them, he sought a solution to the plague of poverty. But what he yearned for above all was the creation of plenty by subduing the forces of nature to the satisfaction of man's necessities. What he had • 119 ·

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in mind was the domination of nature for the good of humanity. The "instauration" should restore to man the powers he held before the Fall. Bacon discovered this enthusiasm for a new learning in Colet, More, and Erasmus, but Professor Farrington adds Bruno, particularly in his Spaccio de la Bestia Trionfante. This current, however, was not new to Bacon or Bruno. It can be found in Pico, and even as far back as classical antiquity: Ovid and Cicero, for instance. There is more to Bacon's new "instauration" than a facile optimism, though, and even more than a new ethical interpretation, important as that is. One of his ultimate objectives was the stimulation of arts, crafts, and technological inventions developed from a genuine scientific knowledge. This revival had already been sketched by Leonardo in Italy and by Bernard Palissy in France, and especially by Agricola, the author of the De Re metallica (1546). Italy, France, and England were united in advancing a utilitarian movement which took its sources in antiquity. Bacon's approach to learning will differ, however, from those of the outstanding scientists of his day. Although he was contemporary with people like Harvey, Galileo, and Kepler, he does not seem to be familiar with their work, or interested in developing an aspect of science, or in making new discovery in one of the areas then under close scientific scrutiny. His biographers often stress that the one experiment which he made came at the end of his life and could even be considered the cause of his death. On a cold, snowy day, he descended from his carriage, purchased a chicken in order to test whether the cold would preserve the fowl once dead, and thereby contracted some pulmonary trouble which led to his death. In reality, his interest lay not in experimentation, but in the design of a new kind of encyclopedia. Its primary function should not be the assembling of knowledge, nor even the criticism of former learning, although both of these are implied in his plan. Bacon proposed a new method to draw from all the learning hitherto achieved and all which would be in the future assembled a practical science, subject to revision in the light of new data, more useful to man, and always opening up new horizons for new scientific labors. It was to be a real socialization of knowledge. With this goal, truly encyclopedic, Bacon's titles become clear. The whole conception is a grand reform, an Instauratio Magna, which was to com• 120 ·

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prise six parts: an inventory of the sciences already in operation and those which would have to be created; a logic for understanding the new science, a Novum Organon, a new instrument for penetrating the meaning of thought, and for rendering knowledge useful; a collection of all known facts in natural science, or an encyclopedic universal history of natural science; a compendium of the progress of the human mind; a provisional sketch of the new physics, a sort of programming of the procedures devised to advance the "new learning"; the definitive philosophy of science, subordinated to practical considerations. Bacon's vision was never completed by him: indeed, it has never been completed, although it has played a major role in the development of the intellectual life since his time. He came to look upon it as always open to new discoveries, new conditions, and new possibilities. The two parts which he did compose—the De Augmentis and the Novum Organon—have been of inestimable value in the development of knowledge. Bacon discussed in them the classification of the fields of knowledge and the way in which one may make this knowledge serviceable. In effect, he forged a method for increasing knowledge and deducing from it useful results for humanity, and a means whereby knowledge may be stored, revised, reformed, and always put to the service of man. He wrote: "Now the true and lawful goal of the science is none other than this: that human life be endowed with new discoveries and powers." He was well aware, from his early experiences with ancient learning, that the human mind was not necessarily a highly-developed tool. He spoke of the consummate laziness and normal tendency to stagnation of the human understanding, and deplored the effect of superstitions and prejudices. He predicted, though, that one can overcome these limitations. He urged the development of our inherent talents to observe the causes and effects in any phenomenon; but, he advised, we ought to train ourselves to produce new effects, by intervention into the phenomenon. It is not enough to know, we must constantly seek ways to use. Bacon proposed three indispensable conditions. We must first free ourselves from prejudices, refuse to make pronouncements superficially, correct our practice of satisfying ourselves with words, reject the authority of others, break away from traditions, react against our tendency to accept appearances without trying to penetrate reality, and finally learn how to doubt. • 121 ·

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It is astonishing how close these precepts are to Montaigne's practice and Descartes's method. In addition, we must know further the nature of our understanding, and its manner of operating. Since it is the instrument of knowing, we should be particularly careful to control its reactions, lest we see in nature our thoughts and our impressions only. Already Bacon is advising an examination of the "cogito" as a means of purifying the "cogitata." Otherwise, nature will appear to us under a mask and enchanted ("larvata et incantata"), as Descartes asserted before the establishment of his "marvelous science." Finally, Bacon urged that while we should devote ourselves to the "forms" of nature, we ought to take care not to seek the form of those objects which are closest to our experience, because they are usually very complicated. Bacon proposed an inquiry into the form of simple natures first, proceeding from the simple to the complex, which was also a rule with Descartes. Indeed, the conformity between Bacon and Descartes so far as regards the initial method is very surprising. On the other hand, Bacon presented more clearly than Descartes the goal of scientific knowledge, which he declared to be the discovery of "forms" in nature. He defined them very carefully: By forms I mean: those laws and determinations of absolute actuality, which govern and constitute any simple nature, as heat, light, weight, in every kind of matter and subject that is susceptible to them. Thus the form of heat and the form of light is the same thing as the law of heat and the law of light. He suggested that, once we know the form of a given quality of nature, the means lies within our power to produce it. Hence this scientific activity is actually a source not only of discovery, but of power. "On a given body to generate and superinduce a new nature or new natures, is the work and aim of human power," he wrote, "of a given nature to discover the form . . . is the work and aim of human Knowledge." It was in this search for forms that Bacon foresaw the possibility of truth in speculation and greater freedom in operation (Nov. Org., Part II, Aph. XVII, I, III). Bacon further differs from Descartes in a clearer enunciation of the causes of our errors. Where Descartes attributes them to a lack of conformity between our will and our understanding, Bacon explains them by false notions which have taken possession of the • 122 ·

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human mind. These erroneous ideas are of four kinds: the idols of the Tribe, of the Cave, of the Marketplace, and of the Theater. The remedy for all these errors is, Bacon suggested, the formation of ideas and axioms of true induction. He stated, however, that there is a distinct advantage in pointing out these errors, since "the doctrine of idols is to the interpretation of nature what the doctrine of the refutation of sophisms is to common logic." The existence of idols of the Tribe which are common to all men arises from a structural defect in the human mind. It does not accept what is, but what it wants to be, preferring abstractions to realities and following slavishly passions and appetites. Consequently, it is an unfaithful mirror of the external world. As well as these errors, common to all, there are the idols of the Cave, which are individual. Each philosopher, as if shut in a cave, reasons according to his own temperament, incorporates in his thoughts his own dreams. The idols of the Marketplace are induced by our social life. They stem from our relationships with others, our conversations, the needs and desires of the populace, and the relationships between words and things. The idols of the Theater are those errors derived from theories and false demonstrations which we parade before the public. Bacon gives a critique of the human understanding which shows much affinity with Montaigne. Since it has a great desire "to spring up to positions of higher generality" where it can find rest, it easily wearies of experiment. Nonetheless, if it is not hampered by commonly accepted doctrines and is left to itself "in a somber, patient, and grave mind," it rightly tries the way of experiment. It has to be directed and assisted, though, since it is quite unfit to contend with the obscurity of things. In fact, Bacon, like Montaigne, found in the understanding all kinds of defects. It is inclined "to suppose the existence of more order and regularity in the world than it finds." It has a way, once having adopted an opinion, of forcing all other things to support it. Further, it is more excited by affirmatives than by negatives, whereas, said Bacon, "it ought properly to hold itself indifferently disposed towards both alike." It is altogether too slow and awkward when flexibility is required, and "unquiet" at all times. Its greatest hindrance and aberration, however, "proceeds from the dullness, incompetency, and deception of the senses." Finally, it is given to abstractions, and assigns substance and reality to things which are fleeting. • 123 ·

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Bacon's clear statement of the causes of error, his analysis of the defects in the human mind, and his condemnation of ancient learning, while important, are less significant than his theory of induction and his classification of the sciences. He judged his theory of induction his most original contribution. The starting-point of his method derives from the simple fact that forms, which constitute the true aim of science, are inaccessible to sense experience. The means of discovering them must necessarily be indirect, since neither empiricism with its simple enumeration, nor rationalism with its tendency to spin out a priori fancies, can produce the necessary results. Bacon proposes a method which combines what is valuable in both extremes. The empiricist is right in insisting upon facts, but he must remember that empiricism is description, not explanation. The rationalist is correct in maintaining that it is the province of the mind to discover "forms," but he must not forget that the understanding can accomplish nothing by the mere operation of thought. Induction thus becomes the instrument by whose aid the understanding, in itself no match for nature, is equipped for the task of discovering the latent causes, the laws, and the configurations of non-sensible things. Forms are not given actualities of sense, nor are they logical deductions; they are rather inferences drawn from experimentation (see M. T. McClure, Bacon Selections, London, 1928, p. xxxix, and A. Rivaud, Histoire de la philosophic, 1950). Bacon's induction is thus the procedure which leads from facts to laws or from description to interpretation. He likened his method to that of Socrates. It consists in collecting the instances in which the phenomenon occurs and abstracting through analysis the element common to them all. Bacon explained it thus (Nov. Org., I, Aph. CV): "But the induction which is to be available for the discovery and demonstration of science and arts, must analyze nature by proper rejections and exclusions; and then after a sufficient number of negatives come to a conclusion on the affirmative instances." The law is not a summation of instances, it is rather an interpretation after the analysis of the phenomena, and it is abstracted from the occurrences only after further experimental activities. This experimental, as opposed to merely observational, treatment of nature must precede the final abstraction. Bacon's second noteworthy contribution was his classification of the sciences. It was, in fact, an inventory rather than a classification, • 124 ·

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but as things turned out, the manner of classification became supremely important in the Enlightenment. It was Bacon's idea that in making an inventory he could stress what had been accomplished in the various sciences, what needed to be pursued with renewed vigor, and what ought to be initiated immediately. He intended that it should be utilized in his program for the advancement of knowledge and as a storehouse of what had already been achieved. What should be stressed is that he wished above all to provide for the advancement of knowledge. The division was made in accordance with the three faculties of the human mind, memory, imagination, and reason. To each of these faculties Bacon assigned a large branch of knowledge: history depends upon memory; poetry upon imagination; philosophy upon reason. These branches of knowledge, however, unite in theology, which is still accepted as the dominant intellectual activity. Bacon divides and subdivides his matter with much tediousness. Leaving aside the details of his division, there are a few points to be made. Bacon regarded natural history as being on the same plane as civil history. He insisted, therefore, that each should be constructed as an inductive inquiry into natural phenomena, and not as a priori analysis. All the sciences of nature, including the human sciences, must rest on the facts of observation. Curiously, he states that there are three kinds of human history: chronicles, which are most complete; biographies, which are most useful; and narrations, which are most true. His treatment of poetry is not without interest: from one angle he considers it a restrained style, but from another angle he looks upon it as "feigned history." Bacon explains that the realities of everyday existence are insufficient to satisfy the mind's hunger for "heroic" things: "therefore, because the acts or events of true history have not that magnitude which satisfieth the mind of man, poesy feigneth acts and events greater and more heroical." Bacon adds that to the heroic events are often added symbolic meaning in poetry. He appears to imply in all of this that poetic history which is fiction can have more meaning than history which merely relates, which was precisely the opinion of Descartes also. Lastly, for Bacon science has two master divisions, into philosophy and sacred theology. Philosophy treats of God, nature, and man. We perceive nature directly; God appears to us indirectly in His creation; we know ourselves by an inner light within. First philosophy, • 125 ·

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natural theology, and metaphysics are treated by Bacon as three distinct sciences. The striking thing about this division is that metaphysics is a branch of natural science and is concerned with the problem of causes, while mathematics is a branch of metaphysics. Bacon's position in the development of rationalism was extremely important, and, indeed, it is a fact that he was generally accepted throughout the seventeenth century. Hobbes got his initial training from him. Descartes, Gassendi, and Leibniz considered him the founder of experimental research. As we have noted, there is a close affinity between Bacon and Descartes, both in the philosophical vocabulary employed, and in the problem of method. Leibniz, who was also essentially encyclopedic, was an enthusiastic follower. Bacon's supreme importance, however, lies in the popularity which he enjoyed in the Enlightenment, where his classification of the sciences was resurrected and adopted by the Encyclopedists. D'Alembert, who assigned him a place of importance in the "Discours preliminaire," asserted that the Encyclopedic could ill afford to do without him.

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ROM a set of new positive conditions (the School of Padua and the rise of the modern university, America and the discovery of new geographical horizons, the beginnings of modern science, and the rediscovery of ancient learning), consequently, derived a movement characterized by conflict and change on the one hand, and an effort at harmony and stability on the other. In reality, the effect of these conditions working together produced three extraordinary movements: science, humanism, and the Reformation, which permeated all the categories of living— religious, aesthetic, social, moral, political, scientific, and the category of the self—and introduced into each a certain distintegration and even, in some cases—religion, morality, politics, and science—a rather violent dislocation. This result stimulated a magnificent response from Renaissance man. In the field of aesthetics, it was full, almost overwhelming: beauty as a source of human power and a goal of being had never exercised such domination in the affairs of man. Not even in fifth-century Greece nor in the Augustan Age of Rome did it express more consistently the totality of existence. Every aspect of life—the state, the Church, society, and even the individual—became a form of art, while art itself became the fullest expansion of life. Magnificent as the expression was, it demanded of Renaissance man a deeper engagement, a fuller response, a new reorganization of life. The whole process became solidly rational: that is, the instrument to which Renaissance man entrusted the integration of his inner powers and his outer categories was the human mind. The European Renaissance man, since he was first Italian, inherited the three finest qualities of the Italian: a sense of art, an appreciation of the value of the intellect, and, above all, an understanding of the power of life when its goal is beauty and its means rational order. For these reasons, the high points of Renaissance man's response are marked by a rational reconstruction of ethical man, a rational remaking of the state and society, and a rational reorganization of the scientific world. But the goal to which this renewal tends is the aesthetic and moral expression of life. The Decameron, Petrarch's Sonnets, though the earliest of Renaissance expressions of its totality, contain all its aspects. Castiglione understood the problem of the rational structuring of the individual in

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society, while Machiavelli was preoccupied with the rational unification of that society. The Italians thus started the effort toward the rationalization of virtu. But it took three particular Frenchmen, and an Englishman, to give to this organization the correct ethical value and a social superiority.

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6. T H E C O N D I T I O N S O F B A R O Q U E THOUGHT HE THREE main intellectual currents which dominated Europe at the end of the Renaissance were science, humanism, and religious reform. Science operated in the external realm of nature; humanism in the inner domain of man; reform in the Kingdom of God. Man had become involved in all three areas, being particularly concerned with the implications of the new discoveries in the natural sciences and the modifications which they introduced in the moral field. Indeed, in the Paduan School, these tendencies were already visible, since its scientific interest was characterized by investigations in the nature of matter, the psychological response to this external phenomenon, and the coordination of these two preoccupations with the teachings of the humanities. In this intellectual program, medicine and morality served as a means of unifying these diverse fields. This union of medicine and morality for bringing science and humanism together continued until the time of Descartes, when these same two subjects, together with mechanics, formed the upper branches of the Cartesian tree of knowledge. In spite of this effort toward integration, the problem of disintegration became more acute, because of the instability which had developed in the area of religion. While the new science and humanism made the Reformation and the Counter-reformation in religion inevitable, the resultant imbalance introduced in the religious sphere created problems for the scientists, the humanists, and indeed for Renaissance man in general. It was not only his religion which became threatened, but his integrity as well. He was thus forced to shore up the defects which appeared in the categories of both the self and society. Hence the weakness which developed in religion created difficulties in the other categories as well, which is explained by the fact that man must have some sort of balance in all the kinds of life he leads, if he would escape uneasiness: science, politics, economics, society, the arts, religion, these are the elements which go to make up his organic life, plus an inner reality which he calls the self. They can be organized in any way one chooses: all of them may be

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subjected to the dominance of a particular one, or each of them may be equally important. What creates difficulties, however, is the development of a serious deficiency in any one element. If it has been the dominant one, all the others are upset, producing a kind of frustration, a desperate reappraisal in which one endeavors to rearrange first the defective element, and then to readjust it with the others. This rearrangement is precisely what took place in Europe at the end of the Renaissance and during the first quarter of the seventeenth century (1550-1625). The Catholic Church organized the Counter-reformation, while the Protestant Churches prepared their defense. The immediate result was an outburst of religious vitality, fostered by the Council of Trent (1564), the activities of the Jesuits (in existence since 1534), and the Edict of Nantes (1598). These moves were calculated to restore some sort of unity, or at least vitality, to religion. In reality, although they led to a flowering of religious fervor, they ultimately produced a greater diversity. The reform in religion continued, but it had now to combat, in the break between the Jesuits and Jansenists, greater disunity. This fragmentation of the Church into very dynamic religious sects squabbling with each other offered a fertile ground for the rise of religious skepticism which inevitably contributed to a further weakening of religion. Moreover, religion became more deeply involved with science and humanism. Science, for instance, which had first developed within the frame of reference of Christian theology, now began to develop within its own logic. It started its own reform: instead of relying upon the scientific explanations of the ancients, it worked out its problems by new methods, leading to a new cosmology, which began to challenge the whole pattern of religious dogma. As a consequence, science became more assertive of its own rights, and was thought a great menace to theology. As for humanism, with its introduction of paganism, its more tolerant attitude toward morality, and its tendency to confirm the rational development of man, it, too, constituted a danger to the unity of the religious life. These difficulties encountered by religion, both within itself and in its relationships with science and humanism, led to the rise of the two further intellectual movements of great importance to the seventeenth century: skepticism and free-thinking. It is not a thor• 132 ·

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oughgoing explanation to say, though, that the weakness in the religious category produced a generalized skepticism and free-thinking; actually, the most it did was open up an opportunity which skepticism and free-thinking seized. It seems more accurate to note that rather than the action of a cause-effect principle, there are all sorts of possible relationships taking place, and any change in any one entails a restructuring of any number of others. In any case, the most important fact is that any modification of these relationships produces a change in the human mind. What makes the history of ideas so difficult to comprehend is the fact that we are never sure we have selected the important relationship or the correct readjustment of the others, or the right psychological change they brought about. It is like following the ripples after throwing a stone in the water. Our aim here is to attempt merely to situate these conditions in the period 1550-1660, in terms of these adjustments and psychological changes. RELIGION

Pintard, Busson, and Chevalier1 have each attempted in his way to describe the climate of opinion during the first few decades of the seventeenth century. This climate was characterized simultaneously by a rise in religious fervor and an outburst of anti-religious activity. Indeed, hardly had the Edict of Nantes been promulgated than there was a revival of religious life in France seen in the works of St. Vincent de Paul and St. Francois de Sales, to mention only the two outstanding representatives of a group which was destined to give to the seventeenth century the name of "Siecle des Saints." The spiritual revival taking place in the upper hierarchy of the Church now extended to the religious orders. Throughout Europe there was a characteristic formation of religious orders: dissident in England; unorthodox in Poland and Holland; and orthodox in France; the movement extended even to Russia. Chevalier has given an account of these activities in France (III, p. 73): the introduction of the Carmel from Spain and the mystic devotion of St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross; the Order of the Visitation founded by Mme de Chantal; the Congregation of the Oratory, established by Berulle in 1611. There was also a general reform in some of the already 1 Le Libertinage erudit, Section I; De Charron a Pascal, pp. 15-88; Histoire de la Pensee, III, "Crise religieuse," pp. 55-97.

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established orders—the reform of the Abbey of Sainte-Genevieve (1624), and that of La Trappe—and, finally, the appointment of the Cardinal La Rochefoucauld by the pope to reform all the major religious orders, except the Carthusians and the Jesuits. Throughout the religious communities—Augustinians, Dominicans, Benedictines —all accepted a tightening-up of their rules. But the reforms are perhaps best exemplified in the accounts of what went on in particular convents and monasteries: at Maubuisson and Fontevrault, for instance, where a worldly attitude was replaced by a deep spiritual devotion, and, above all, at Port-Royal, where Angelique Arnauld had her "journee du guichet." This inner Catholic reform was undoubtedly genuine and expressive of an almost heroic will. It was not entirely homogeneous, however. The insistence upon inner devotion, a humble spirit, and especially upon Christian love and charity; the aspiration of the heart for God—all of these acts of simple piety represented in the teachings of St. Franfois de Sales contrasted with the dignified, highly intellectual and philosophical mysticism of a Cardinal de Berulle and a Condren. This intermingling of Christian charity and intellectual mysticism meets in Pascal and explains much of the ambiguity of his apology. There was also an aspect to this spiritual reawakening far removed from intellectual mysticism. The Jesuits had now become the greatest force for the reform and reconquest of Catholicism. They were the champions of the primacy of Rome, of faith in the sacraments, of the efficacy of good works, of the virtue of prayers for the dead, and of the cult of the immaculate Virgin and the saints. They undertook to confront Protestantism, and to defend through education and guidance the discipline of Rome. There entered into this defense a concept of morality founded more closely upon human possibilities. In a peculiar way, the Jesuits undertook to unite the traditional with the modern, the intellectual with the spiritual, and the human with the divine. It was they who first taught how to "plier la machine," to act as if one believed, which Pascal used so effectively later. There were nonetheless those who thought that the Jesuits, by wishing to make Christian truth more available, easier to believe and to practice, and open to all, had stripped it of its rigid quality, and had thereby undermined its secret, inner strength. By stressing human freedom, it was objected, they forgot to show man his need for • 134 ·

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grace. Because of a spirit of accommodation, and especially a doctrine based upon casuistry, they were deemed to have made too accessible to humans, ever eager to follow the easier path to glory, a singularly diluted religion. There arose to confront the Jesuits, a group, the Jansenists, more rooted in true Augustinianism, more rigid in its interpretation of the spiritual life, and stricter in its insistence upon purity in morals. They laid emphasis on the depravity of man since the Fall and the urgent need thereafter for God's grace. Their position was thus more traditional, sterner, and certainly more strictly moral. Jansenism had come into existence through an inner reform; unlike the Jesuits, it was not a new organization created to combat the Reformation, but rather a deeply devoted group which accepted its responsibility to return to the Augustinianism of the Catholic Church as the "true" religion. Hence it represented within Catholicism an authentic Counter-reformation. The influence of Port-Royal was immense; throughout the seventeenth century and far into the eighteenth, long after Port-Royal des Champs had been razed to the ground, it occupied a powerful place in French thought. The religious quarrels which seemed to have been settled with the wars of religion of the Renaissance sprang up anew; Jesuits and Jansenists fought over the problems of free will and grace, they debated interminably throughout the century the underlying causes of moral action, and presented to a public long saturated with theological discussions the choice of a modernized or a more traditional Christianity. The revival of Catholicism which had promised so much in the first quarter of the century had led only to another religious division, this time within the Church itself. There is thus a deceptive quality to the renewal: the wars of religion had taken their toll in the lives of the people and a consequent reduction in the vitality of religion which could not be concealed by the flowering. Along with the renewed vigor we have to reckon with what Busson calls "une immense lassitude" (De Charron a Pascal, p. 14). This weariness can be attributed to two factors: the breakdown of scholasticism, which had been the firm support of theology for many centuries, and the disunity in the Christian Church generated by a half-century of disputes, wars, and murders. We who have just experienced a war in which over forty million people were killed or allowed to die in the name of the state • 135 ·

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ought to understand these wars of religion where millions were also killed or allowed to die in the name of religion. There arose in many a religious indifference, if not a totally hostile attitude toward religion, with the result that a way was opened for the rise of deism, or what was then called atheism. There was a notable display of impiety in the customs of the time. In some few cases, it was brutally expressed, but even in those who were the main support of the state, a tendency to laxity, to simple immorality, or, at times, to outright revolt against Christianity was evident. One group in which this reaction flared up was the "politiques," comprising those who were thought to be the simple descendents of Machiavellian expediency. In reality, they were horrified by the religious wars and felt that anything is better than another bitter conflict. Among them were the jurists of the time, simple conservative moderates yearning for peace. To these solid citizens should be added the "gaulois"—those who desired a certain amount of debauchery in their lives—and the "Gallicans"—who rejected the political (in particular, what they saw as an increase in the political power of the pope and cardinals) decisions of the Council of Trent. Against them, the Church delivered a constant attack: atheism, heresy, debauchery, blasphemy, mockery of sacred things were punished with increasing severity. But the laws were totally unrealistic and inadequate, and the measures taken ineffectual. Thus, along with the revival of Catholicism, there was a movement distinguished by a steady resistance to the piety of the time. Nourished by Italian naturalism, fostered by the civil wars, by a consequent lack of moral discipline, and by the corruption of the Regency, it spread throughout society. The writers testified to its spread although their testimony varied greatly, so much, in fact, that Busson (De Charron, p. 37) concludes that many of the apologists must have augmented the numbers of deists and atheists in order to make their apologia more important, or exaggerated these impious activities in order to arouse the public to the dangers involved in free-thinking. Busson conjectured that while the atheists were few, the deists and heretics were very numerous indeed. He surmised, in fact, that the number of unbelievers was greater than the most alarming of the writers declared. It is difficult, though, to name them in large numbers, for the simple reason that either they produced but little or else they concealed their activities beneath • 136 ·

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a mask. Sometimes the government pursued them with great vigor, as was the case with Theophile de Viau and Vanini, with the result that those who were "true" unbelievers became scarce, and their writings circulated clandestinely. RELIGION AND SKEPTICISM

(1560-1660)

Around the religious quarrels developed a strong current of skepticism2 which was as important as Italian naturalism in the formation of the libertine. At first, it was not a philosophical doctrine, but rather an attitude of mind, concerned principally with the possibilities of the ways of knowing. There had been no great need for it during the Middle Ages. With the revival of Cicero and the introduction of humanism, however, and especially amid all the theological discussions, skepticism became very useful as an attitude. And the notion that the suspension of judgment led to ataraxia, or repose, in which there was no need to worry about things beyond appearances became a ready antidote to all violent discussions as well as all dogmatism. This attitude can be detected first in the De docta ignorantia of Nicholas of Cusa in the middle of the fifteenth century. In the first half of the sixteenth century, it seems to be derived from Diogenes Laertius, if not direcdy from Cicero's Academica. Rabelais made mention, in the third book, of Trouillogon as "philosophe ephecticque et pyrrhonien," but the discussion with Panurge seems more double talk than skepticism. More important is Agrippa's De incertitudine et vanitate scientiarum (1526), but the invective is against the villainies of scholars and poets rather than against the impossibility of knowing. Agrippa's position is that the only dependable source of truth is faith, while he scores knowledge as the cause of misery. The humanists Reginald Pool, Pierre Bunel, who had so much influence upon the Montaigne of the Apology, Duperron, Sadoleto, a Paduan and friend of Pool, the group around Pierre Ramus, Guy de Brues, and especially Omer Talon were concerned with the history and ideas of academic skepticism. In general, though, all these authors are more representative of a growing interest in the subject than of a deep understanding of it. While they tended to regard themselves or to be regarded by their critics as "new Academicians," they were really interested more in intellectual activity than in re2

R. H . Popkin, The History of Scepticism from Erasmus to Descartes, Assen, i960.

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establishing the Greek skeptical movement. Their importance should not be minimized, though, as Professor Popkin seems to do by taking Busson to task for making them too characteristic of the movement of ideas in the sixteenth century. In reality they were developing a skeptical approach to life which had little to do with the Academics and less still with the pyrrhonists. This remark would not, however, hold for Francisco Sanchez, whose Quod nihil scitur (1581) is an attack against Aristotelianism because of its simple nominalism, its use of the syllogism, and its faith in demonstration. Sanchez goes beyond his Aristotelian attack, seeking to what extent anything can be known. Because our senses only perceive the surface of things, because of the impossibility of knowing each object separately (since science ought to be the perfect knowledge of things) or of making generalizations about things which are true (since all generalizations are abstractions, and all abstractions go beyond our capacities in science), Sanchez concludes that "scientific" knowledge is impossible, although one can achieve a limited knowledge through observation and experience. This view, which has been likened to that of Bacon at a later moment, really has more similarities with the "constructive skepticism" of Mersenne and Gassendi. Skepticism became firmly established with the publication of the works of Sextus Empiricus in the sixteenth century. There appears to have been some Latin manuscripts of the Hypotyposes in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and the text in Greek entered Italy in some fifteenth-century manuscripts. Not until 1562, however, did Henri Estienne print a first Latin edition of it, followed by a Latin edition, in 1569, of all of Sextus Empiricus's works. They were used extensively by Montaigne, particularly in the Apologie, and thereafter skepticism became a significant movement of thought. Scholars are in general accord that Montaigne's Apologie is at the fountainhead of modern skepticism. Professor Popkin calls him the "most significant figure in the sixteenth century revival of ancient skepticism" (p. 44). His Apologie, written at a moment when Montaigne saw his whole world dissolving into doubt, carries within itself the advocacy of a new kind of fideism which Popkin calls "Catholic pyrrhonism." It is still not very clear how this was developed, at least not in the Apologie. Montaigne recalled at the beginning of his essay that two objections were often leveled at Se• 138 ·

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bond's work: that religion ought not to be based upon reason, but faith; and that Sebond's reasons for adopting Christianity were not very sound. These two points furnished the plan of the whole Apologie: the first gave Montaigne an opportunity to develop his fideism, and the second his skepticism. Montaigne argued that, though religion is based upon faith, there is no objection to the use of reason to support it, always remembering that faith does not depend upon ourselves or our efforts. He added that religion is closely related to human factors, too, such as custom and attendant circumstances. To the point that Sebond's reasons were weak, Montaigne made answer that everybody's reasons are weak, and that no one can achieve certainty by rational means. Here again he made a diversion which was a critique of man's reason, this time of unprecedented length since it is the rest of the Apologie. There he showed by comparison that animal instincts are superior to human rationalizations. He concluded from his highly amusing examples that because of the feebleness of our judgment we must return to that fideism which is not academic skepticism, stating that since one cannot know the truth, he must suspend judgment on all propositions, even that all is doubt. Therefore, the pyrrhonist lives according to nature and custom, which, said the wily Gascon, is most compatible with religion. To prove this point, he contrasted the simple expediency of skepticism with the endless quarrels of ancient philosophers and their lack of religion. He then moved from the critique of reason to the critique of the senses, and concluded that these latter can never distinguish between reality and appearances. Professor Popkin has pointed out that in the Apologie Montaigne touched upon all three aspects of the skeptical crisis which disturbed the intellectuals of the early seventeenth century: since we have no standard of judgment which is evidently true, we must accept pyrrhonic doubt, tradition, and the Catholic rule of faith; since there is a vast variety of opinions among the ancients and contradiction between them and the inhabitants of the new world, we must adopt the view that all opinions are relative, never necessarily true; and finally, since science cannot be justified either by a self-evident criterion, or by a set of irrefutable principles, or by any acceptable knowledge of the senses, we must resign ourselves to a world of appearances. These are certainly some of the implications of Montaigne's dia• 139 ·

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tribe, and they will have importance in the early seventeenth century, but to conclude that the important thing about the Apologie is its insistence upon the necessity of God's grace as a support of our faith in religion, and its rejection of the rational way of life, is to fail completely to understand either Montaigne's humanism or his skepticism. There is no doubt that Montaigne agreed to the need for God's grace. Nor is there any doubt either that he used the Apologie to show his disapproval of the religious quarrels of his time, to voice his protest against all those things which are the result of social injustice and human folly, and to express his amazement at the immense variety, elusiveness, and diversity present in all phenomena. In all this there is a spirit of protest which is more than a simple expression of bewilderment. His list of things he dislikes is almost as long as Voltaire's two centuries later. But Montaigne differs from Voltaire in that he has a deeper respect for custom. His faith in custom seems to be the counterpart of his faith in religion. There is one little sentence in Montaigne which echoes long throughout the Essais. After the long and violent requisitoire which the Gascon launches against his time, one is amazed to hear him say: "Toutes ces considerations pourtant ne doivent pas detourner un honnete homme de suivre la voie commune." But there is another aspect to Montaigne's skepticism. At the end of the Apologie, he divides the world into three kinds of thinkers: those who deny the possibility of knowing, those who say that they know, and those who say they are seeking knowledge. Montaigne, acknowledging that Sextus had the same three divisions, concludes that he himself belongs to those who say that they are still seeking knowledge. That is, fundamentally, his skepticism consists really in playing a nimble intelligence over the world's possibilities. He may inquire what he really knows and what is the distinction between things and the appearance of things—but what interests him ultimately is neither faith nor social conformity, but human experience. After all, the Apologie, though central to his argument, has to be balanced against the De Vinstitution des enfants, which is also crucial, and the two essays must be harmonized with Book III, where the final conclusion of these amazing Essais is a judgment upon experience. It seems to me that Montaigne transformed the skepticism of antiquity. His pyrrhonism looks in two directions; it can be used in • 140 ·

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combating intellectual complacency and dogmatism, as well as in justifying fideism and the rule of faith, and it was a fine tool to forge paradoxes. He was immensely successful in this transformation, and for this reason he left an inordinate line of skeptics in France. We should be prepared to see in them not only his descendents, but also followers of Sextus Empiricus whom Montaigne had introduced to the public of his time. Charron, Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Guy Patin, and even Gassendi are first and foremost followers of Montaigne's brand of skepticism before adopting any other variety. One can accept the title "nouveaux Pyrrhoniens" which has been attached to them, but we must be very careful to mark out what are these "new" aspects of pyrrhonism. Even so, the important thing is that we are dealing with an "open-ended" form of skepticism. What made Montaigne so successful, however, was the rise of religious skepticism. The Reformers had rejected the rule of faith of the Catholics even from the beginning. Luther had stated that one could no longer accept the traditional authority of the Church: truth resided not in the Councils nor in the Fathers but in the Scriptures. He supported this view by showing the different explanations of the Church. It was on this point, indeed, that Luther disagreed with Erasmus, who, convinced that he could not distinguish between truth and falsehood, was willing to leave the decision and the responsibility to the Church which had held it for so long. Luther, for his part, argued that too much was at stake to leave the decision to an institution which had erred in the past. The truth was in God's Word, nowhere else; every Christian should seek it there. Calvin (Institution I, vii) likewise held that Scripture is the source of religious truth, maintaining that the Christian is convinced of this through the revelation of the Holy Spirit: we have an inner persuasion that Scripture is the Word of God, and we are compelled to believe it. Against Calvin's assurance, Sebastien Castellion argued in the De Haereticis that there are many things in the Scriptures which are obscure and about which controversy has raged for centuries. The best proof of this, he argued, was Servetus who had been put to death, although he was convinced by inner persuasion that since there was no scriptural basis for the doctrine of the Trinity, it was false. Castellion, attacked by Theodore de Beze, replied in the De arte dubitandi, where he noted that there • 141 ·

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are some things which everyone believes true, and others which are subject to dispute. These latter can only be resolved by the human capacity of sense and intelligence. In this broad conspectus there was thus an ample occasion to introduce pyrrhonism into Protestantism. It was precisely this situation which brought about the publication of Sextus Empiricus's works in 1569 by Hervet, who in his preface called attention to the fact that in Sextus's pyrrhonism could be found the weapon which would prove that the Calvinists had no satisfactory criteria for truth. The weapon was used extensively by Maldonat, St. Francois de Sales, Cardinal Duperron, and especially by the Jesuits. Though adopted early by the Catholics to combat the lack of a criterion on the part of the Protestants, it became in time a way of attacking the position of the Catholics also. If the persuasion of Luther, Calvin, and others was not free from attack, the Church Fathers whom Bayle criticized so fiercely at a later time were open to the same treatment. Popkin, however, sees an even greater importance in the tactic, which represents an alliance between Catholics and pyrrhonists in the advocacy of fideistic Christianity. Their arguments were complicated and roundabout, but that there was some validity in the alliance between the two can be measured by Bayle's remark that skepticism can be a good ally of Christianity against free-thinking (see Diet, hist., "Pyrrhon"). Pyrrhonism in religion gradually spread to science and philosophy, but it is not clear exactly how. It is certain that Aristotle became involved: he had been a support of Christianity, and he had been subjected to a "new" interpretation by Pomponazzi and the Paduans. The situation in science was created by the conflict between certain aspects of Italian naturalism and the dawn of modern science. The occult, the cabbala, demonology and sorcery, astrology and alchemy of the old science were confronted by the dim glimmerings of the "new" scientific world. It was recognized now that there was a false science as well as the possibility of a true science. Lenoble (p. 83) has remarked that at the moment when Mersenne entered upon his intellectual career, the grave defect in all scientific activity was the lack of a method! "On cherche, on etudie avec ferveur, certains font pressentir une nouvelle forme d'experience, mais la science n'existe pas." Popkin (p. 112) has noted also that the battle between the pyrrhonists and the scientist-philosophers was • 142 ·

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less a search for certainty than a quest for intellectual stability. It is, however, in situations of this sort that doubts find ample occasions to thrive. It is essential to comprehend how the introduction of skepticism complicated the situation. Taking its origin in the religious discussions, skepticism's first service was to palliate the violence usually attending religious conflicts. But it was equally serviceable to those who did not wish to accept the orthodox religious views. On the other hand, the Catholics, for their part, encouraged skepticism in Protestants as a device to prove that the latter were lacking in a criterion for truth. The Protestants eventually retorted that the Catholics had no more assurance of the criterion of truth then they did. However, in the Protestant camp itself there was open debate concerning the acceptability of reason or faith as the rule of truth, with the result that rationalism became a source of doubt, first in religion, then in science, and finally in philosophy. Skepticism both abetted and at the same time undermined religious, scientific, and philosophical dogmatism, not only in the inner integrity of each field but in the interrelationships of all three, with the result that the skeptic and the free-thinker became closely identified. Around the years from 1619 to 1625, it was clear that the freethinkers had become a menace to the orderly arrangement of society. In France, two widely-publicized cases—Vanini, condemned to be burned at the stake, and Theophile de Viau, likewise convicted, but eventually exonerated by the Paris Parlement—made abundantly clear that there was an inner disorder in the society of the time. It was definitely understood that the wellspring of this disorder was free-thinking in the area of religion, that it consisted mainly in indifference to the doctrine of Christ and a renunciation of God. Those who belonged to this group were sometimes designated as "Achristes" or "Athees," both terms designating that the individuals so named were separated from all religion in general and from Christianity in particular. The Jesuit Garasse was the most violent of their critics. His Doctrine curieuse des beaux esprits de ce temps (1623) was followed one year later by his Somme theologique des verites capitales de la Religion Chretienne, incidentally with official approval. Garasse presented Charron as the archenemy of religion, and denounced him along with all Catholic pyrrhonists. It was this denunciation which • 143 ·

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threatened not only the free-thinkers, but the avowed plan of the Catholics to use pyrrhonism to convict the Protestants. There was consequently a lack of unity among the Catholics in support of Garasse's attack. F. Ogier, in his Jugement et censure du livre de la Doctnne curieuse de F. Garasse (1623), defended Charron's Sagesse against the onslaughts of the Jesuit, while Saint-Cyran published an enormous Somme des fautes et faussetes capitales contenues en la somme theologique de Pere Fr. Garasse in which he literally buried Garasse under the errors which he had committed in quoting and interpreting Scripture—which was precisely what the Catholics maintained was unacceptable in Protestant reliance upon Scriptures as a criterion of religious truth. Thus it did not help to have two representative Catholic churchmen demonstrating the inability of Catholics to quote and interpret Scripture. The whole discussion led to a condemnation of Garasse by the Sorbonne. In the meantime, Mersenne, the Minim priest, had been mounting his attack against free-thinking in a series of works: Questiones celeberrimae in Genesim (1623); lmpiete des deistes, athees, et libertins de ce temps, combattue et renversee de point en point par raisons tirees de la philosophic et de la theologie (1624); and finally the VeritS des sciences contre les sceptiques ou pyrrhoniens. Popkin (p. 120) has noted that after the concentrated attacks of Garasse and Mersenne there followed a whole array of similar refutations of pyrrhonism which continued through the second quarter of the seventeenth century. Indeed, Busson has given {De Charron, pp. 29-31) a large number of works belonging to this category. Popkin further observes that the refutations fall into one of three groups: refutations based upon principles of Aristotle; those which admit the full force of the pyrrhonian arguments, and try to substitute for total skepticism a mitigated form; and those which attempt to construct a new system of philosophy as a means of meeting the skeptical challenge. While this division may be satisfactory for Chanet, or Bagot, or Sorel discussed by Popkin (pp. 120-30), it does not entirely fit the works of Mersenne (see Lenoble, op. cit.), since he wants at the same time to combat the false Christians (the libertines, deists, free-thinkers) and the false scientists. He seems to feel that there are right answers to be found in theology, in science, and in philosophy, and that those answers are equally valid against deists, atheists, Italian naturalists who are false scientists, and skeptics and • 144 ·

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pyrrhonians who are false philosophers. Mersenne devoted his life to the search for these answers, not in any active way himself, but by gathering around him all those who could contribute to the task. As far as he was concerned, after the first, rather violent assault of L'lmpiete des daisies, where moderation was not a distinguishing quality, the fermentation of the time and its consequent disorder did not present the Christian philosopher with a crisis as much as with a challenge. It could be met by assembling the wise men—the theologians, the scientists, the philosophers—and, in perpetual discussion, working out the rules of order, of faith, and of science. Mersenne recognized that what was needed in the contemporary disorder was a means of living a modern life, in terms of distinguishing not between the ancient and the modern, but between the true and the false. La Verite des sciences, which was certainly directed against the pyrrhonists, a purpose clearly stated in its title, has a deeper meaning which can be seen in its own structure, however. It is simply a continual conversation between an alchemist, a skeptic, and a Christian philosopher. Significantly, Mersenne saw as his function the intellectual organization of the Christian-philosopher-scientist. His career was therefore spent in encouraging the search for right answers in the fields of religion, science, and philosophy. He was convinced that these answers were fundamentally in the "new" science, and he accordingly insisted that there are things which can be known, and right ways of knowing. He asserted that this knowledge, though certainly not absolute or radical, is adequate to our needs as Christians, philosophers, and scientists. The significance of his stand cannot be exaggerated. Mersenne had apparently understood about skepticism what Bayle at a later date put so clearly in his Dictionnaire: that it is an ally rather than an enemy in science and social organization, but it must be constructive rather than destructive. The usefulness and reliability of science do not depend upon discovering the grounds of all certainty. We do not have to know the ultimate nature of things in order to profit from those limited things which we can know. Scientific achievements, hence, do not depend upon some unshakable metaphysical system. Both dogmatist and pyrrhonist can be wrong: between the two stands the constructive skeptic, or rather the Christian philosopher, doubtful of our abilities to find the essence of our knowledge, but in the meantime actively engaged in exploring the world. • 145 ·

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The survival and modification of ancient philosophies3 played an important though still ill-defined role in the development of seventeenth-century thought. The usual way of regarding this role is first to distinguish between ancient philosophies which were now discredited and the formation of new philosophies which were especially reputed for their modernism. It is in this light that Cartesianism is the first of the "modern" philosophies, and Descartes becomes thereby their "Father." It is also characteristic of our interpretation of these "new" philosophies to insist upon a cleavage which took place between the ancient philosophies and those of the seventeenth century. It has been thought that this seventeenth-century philosophy became a sort of perpetual quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, in which the moderns are, as always, the victors. This way of generalizing upon the movement runs counter to a whole series of facts which have been brought out during the twentieth century. The simple integration of skepticism, stoicism, and epicureanism, for instance, which began in Montaigne's work and culminated in the appeal to Plutarch, Seneca, Lucretius, Sextus Empiricus, and Cicero for support in the Apologie, obviously evidences the importance of the three philosophies in Montaigne's masterpiece. Indeed, the one quality of his Essais which makes them something greater than Sebond's apology, and even his own, is the way in which the Gascon integrated the Judaic-Christian and the stoicepicurean with the aim of giving the fullest possible interpretation to life. It would have been surprising indeed if the influence of the master had been so important in the seventeenth century but these ancient philosophical aspects of his way of life had been ignored. This neglect, of course, has never been the case. After Montaigne, there was a magnificent flowering of skepticism generated almost singlehanded by himself. What is sometimes overlooked is that he also gave impetus to a stoic and an epicurean, as well as to a skeptical, current. There are nonetheless those (Strowski, for instance) who mark out in his work particular periods called stoic, skeptic, epicurean; others (Busson, for example) debate whether the final judgment ought to be stoic, or epicurean, or Christian. In reality, Montaigne sought means of merging all the ancient ways of interpreting life. 3

P. Gay, The Enlightenment, vol. I, New York, 1967.

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There was between Montaigne and Pascal (1600-60), a whole development of stoicism.4 The Manual of Epictetus was translated and republished innumerable times before 1660. Seneca more than Epictetus permeated the time; La Mothe, Chapelain, Bouchard, all professed respect for him. For example, La Mothe wrote: "Je n'ai guere vu d'homme de vertu qui n'aimat Seneque tres ardemment." Strowski has traced this stoicism, first in Montaigne himself, where the misfortunes of the times led him to look to his welfare by means of the cultivation of his soul, based upon two principles: we must place our contentment in ourselves and in the things over which we have some control, and good and evil depend upon our opinions of them. At the time of writing the Apologie, however, skepticism undermined all Montaigne's ideas, and one would expect that in the general upheaval the stoicism he had adopted would vanish. But stoicism was no longer a mode of intelligence; it had become the personality of Montaigne. Being an individual stoicism, it could not be taught, though it exercised a tremendous influence in Europe for over a century. Montaigne thus created a modern stoicism, which was not without its followers. Juste Lipse, for his part, in the De constantia libri due (1584), also applied stoicism to the misfortunes of the time. In subsequent works, the Manuductio ad philosophiam stoicam and the Physiologia stoicorum (1604), he endeavored to present systematically the stoic philosophy concerning physics, the nature of God, the soul of the world, providence, fate, and the origin of evil. Lipse's work was at the same time an exposition as well as an apology and it united the tenets of Christianity with the ideas of Zeno and Epictetus. Like the early stoics of the Renaissance (Coras, Altercation en forme de dialogue de I'Empereur Adrian et du philosophe Epictete, 1558; Riveaudeau, La Doctrine d'Epictete sto'icien, 1567), Juste Lipse turned his efforts to the christianization of stoicism. This movement was continued by Du Vair in La Sainte philosophie (1588), where his objective was directed to uniting the ancient with Christian morality. Later, Du Vair published the Traite de la constance, which went through fifteen editions before 1641 and was a major influence upon contemporary authors. In it he discussed in stoic terms the doctrines of providence and of the immortality of the soul. Eventually he made a translation of Epictetus's Manual and wrote the Traite de la philosophie morale des stoiques. * F. Strowski, Pascal et son temps, 1907,1, 18-126; H. Busson, De Charron a Pascal, Paris, 1933, chapter VIII; P. Pintard, Le libertinage, Paris, 1943, pp. 51-61.

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The movement continued from Montaigne, Juste Lipse, and Du Vair throughout the first part of the seventeenth century. Strowski concludes (1,123): "Ainsi vers l'annee 1640, en France, Ie plus grand ecrivain en prose, Balzac; Ie plus grand philosophe, Descartes; Ie plus grand poete, Corneille, sont tout remplis de l'esprit stoicien. L'esprit sto'icien s'est universellement insinue." Busson (pp. 379-427) confirms Strowski: "C'est par la Sagesse, par les traites de Du Vair, par les etudes de Juste Lipse que Ie XVIF siecle va etre penetre de Sto'icisme." We must examine carefully the nature of this stoicism. It was first of all a means of injecting into the public a steadfastness of purpose in the face of threatened instability. At a moment when the saint was less possible, people welcomed the hero, the man who could stand firm before the adversities of life. Indeed, stoicism was to offer a new ideal to man, teaching him how to meet life with wilful design and with respect for one's self. But it likewise offered an alternative to the debauchery and the corruption of the time by presenting a substitute morality for the unbridled activity of the libertine. Moreover, by stressing the use of the will and the moral value of reasonable action, it fostered a new social ideal. Man could be told that he lived not for himself or for specific rewards, but for the community. Devotion to society, therefore, is a beautiful thing and brings with it a satisfaction which is its own reward. This new viewpoint was particularly helpful because the breakdown in the belief of the soul's immortality had impaired to some extent the consequent doctrine of rewards and punishments. Stoicism thus became a rule of conduct, a laicization of morality, and an ideal way of life. Above all, it identified itself with the reasonable, stressed the accord between reason and conscience, and offered a day-to-day source of strength during perilous times. We should not overlook either that at a moment when religion was faced with serious difficulties, stoicism could offer a reasoned morality which had admirable qualities. Moreover, it manifested itself in some of the finest literature by some of the foremost writers of antiquity. One could not easily resist the eloquence, the deep sincerity, the beautiful character of such writers as Epictetus, Seneca, Plutarch, Cicero, and Marcus Aurelius. Though pagan in outlook, these writers carried in their works not only a deep understanding of the nature of man, but a clear, sententious style of presentation. • 148 ·

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In an age striving for true thoughts and exact expressions, the stoics had as much to offer aesthetically as morally. And so the inevitable happened: if Christianity was weakened to the point of losing some hold upon moral man, what better way of strengthening it than with stoicism, Christian stoicism? Almost inevitably, however, there was opposition to this stoicism. The apologists of Christianity—Silhon, Yves de Paris, S. Goulard, Polycarpe de la Riviere—condemn stoic morality for its pride and for neglecting the fall of man and his weakness. This reproach, of course, was to become the key argument of Pascal in the Entretien. The greatest opponent of seventeenth-century stoicism, however, was Jansenism, which attacked it under the name of semi-pelagianism. Indeed, the Jansenists, who derived from a strong Augustinianism, inherited in their quarrel with the Jesuits the same quarrel which St. Augustine had waged against the pelagians and the semi-pelagians of his time. What shocked the Jansenists was the confidence which those who professed the stoic faith had in themselves: the happy life is built upon the will. Naturally, if the good life is rational, expressed by the exercise of one's will, the need for grace is less evident, and there will follow a consequent diminution in the Christian religion. Stoicism's rationalist tendency, with its emphasis upon the "lumiere naturelle" and its claim that man can distinguish the just from the unjust, merit from blame, and virtues from vices, rendered it anathema to Jansenism. Besides, having proclaimed human ideals natural rather than supernatural, the proponents of the stoic way of life naturally proposed the salvation of the good, wise men of antiquity. Against this idea, the Jansenists protested, assailing it as an impossible deism. At the time when Jansenism (1645) began to combat stoicism, epicureanism was also revived. The philosopher who devoted himself diligently, from 1628 until his death in 1655, to the rehabilitation of Epicurus was Gassendi. He was not without predecessors, however. Although epicureanism had been discredited as a philosophy since the fourth century, it persisted as a spirit of disbelief and irreligion. Hence, when a tendency toward free-thinking developed, Epicurus became a symbol, at least, of that movement. A more serious liaison was established early in the Renaissance between the alchemists and the corpuscular theory characteristic of Epicurean science, and was represented by such exponents as Nicholas of Cusa, • 149 ·

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Agrippa, and Paracelsus. There was, in addition, a whole group of atomists around Padua: Cardano, Telesio, Campanella, and Van Helmont. But the most persistent exponent of atomism in the Renaissance was Giordano Bruno, whose Monadology resembles to a great extent the Epicurean conception of matter, and who is known to have exerted a considerable influence upon Leibniz and Spinoza. Finally, there was a current of epicureanism at work in the medical profession. Although the alchemists and the doctors of medicine tended toward an atomist philosophy, it did not receive any close attention until Francis Bacon who, of all the ancient philosophers, gave the greatest commendation to Democritus. After Bacon can be found a fairly widespread group of atomists, practically all of them doctors. Characteristic of the group was Magnen who, after having practiced medicine at Paris, became a professor at Pavia where he published in 1646 his Democritus reviviscens sive de atomis, along with a life of Democritus. The work seems to have had a fairly wide appeal, with editions at Leyden, London, and the Hague.5 The important thing, however, is not that there were particular groups of people, such as the alchemists and the doctors, who espoused epicureanism during the fifty years which preceded Gassendi's resolve to rehabilitate Epicurus and his philosophy. The real significance lies in the fact that, in concert with stoicism, epicureanism exercised the role of creating a new kind of morality, which became in part individual and then social, and which consisted fundamentally in asserting that the goal of life is personal pleasure and social amelioration. The same merging process took place, therefore, between stoicism and epicureanism as between stoicism and Christian ethics. The debate which was carried on was not concerned with the opposition between the stoics and the epicureans. Each philosophical sect represented a valid pagan way of approaching life; each gave a moral interpretation which was pagan in the sense that it was concerned with the powers of man and sought to generate that activity which was human, natural, reasonable, and social. In other words, stoic and epicurean interpretations are both concerned with human values of human activities; they are, in short, what humanism had now become. 5

See G. Sortais, La Philosophic moderne, 11, 67-77; a n d J· S. Spink, French FreeThought from Gassendi to Voltaire, pp. 75-102.

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It is necessary to see clearly what is going on here; otherwise it is with difficulty that we can understand the need that was felt for merging Christian and stoic ethics into something called Christian stoicism. It is more difficult still to understand that once the merger had taken place and apparently with much enthusiasm and some satisfaction, it was bitterly attacked by a long list of works, and eventually by Pascal and the Jansenists, as constituting a serious menace to the doctrine of grace and the whole canon of Christian ethics. Our greatest difficulty, perhaps, lies in comprehending how morality became more important than Christian dogma, how the good life here and now became a more vital problem than the existence of God and the immortality of the soul. Once the proper relationship between Christian religion and pagan morality in terms of humanism is understood, however, it is relatively easy to see that not only the religious category of life is deeply involved, but also all the moral categories, in which we include the political, the social, and the category of the self. Thus a separation is already started between the religious and the moral, between the religious institution and the political, and, in individual man, between faith and conscience. The center from which all of this stemmed was Montaigne's Essais (see F. Villey, Sources, 1-40). Long before the Essais, however, humanism had been preparing for this eventual dichotomy. Villey has noted that even in the third, the twelfth, and the sixteenth centuries, whenever paganism came in contact with Christian morality, the discrepancy between the two became apparent. Only in the sixteenth century, however, did the situation become crucial because, I suspect, of the weakening of the importance of Christianity in the life of the times. In a way, the institution of religion was placed in that peculiar situation where either its police function or its moral function was jeopardized. In an effort to preserve its two responsibilities, it attempted to absorb the morality of antiquity and thereby laid itself open to a greater menace still. I am not sure that Montaigne analyzed the situation in this light. It is nevertheless certain that what he did, as Villey has shown (p. 6) was "d'acclimater la morale pa'ienne en France," and that his outstanding quality was "d'avoir ecrit un livre dont la preoccupation dominante est d'organizer la vie a la lumiere de la seule raison," which is, to be sure, the pagan way. • 151 ·

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RELIGION AND THE FREE-THINKERS

It should now be evident that all the circumstances we have here detailed as the challenge of the baroque and which involved in one way or another the position of religion in the life of the time produced a new movement, free-thinking, and a special kind of individual responsible for its development, the free-thinker. There would seem to be no difficulty in defining this individual. And yet the confusion concerning the rise and spread of free-thinking during the seventeenth century has grown with each attempt to clarify the situation. Since the libertine movement has been given as a major cause of the Enlightenment by Brunetiere, Sainte-Beuve, and Lanson, and is stressed as one of the important factors by Taine, Hazard, and Mornet, it is imperative that we understand as clearly as possible the way in which free-thinking developed. Indeed, both Pintard and Spink state that the "libertin" of the seventeenth century became the "philosophe" of the Enlightenment, although neither explains how. It will be important to see just how this evolution took place, since we ourselves experience some difficulty in defining the "philosophe." Busson (pp. 5-15) has attempted to define the term. In the sixteenth century, libertin meant "libertin spirituel," freed from Church but in sympathy with the spirit of Christianity. This was the group which Calvin denounced so viciously. By the beginning of the seventeenth century, the word meant, in general, an unbeliever either because of an inclination to tolerance or through indifference. In this sense, the libertine resembles the "politique" or the "machiaveliste." By 1602 the word had been firmly established and was used thereafter throughout the century to designate either an epicurean in tendency (as "debauche libertine") or a free-thinker. A substitute expression for the libertine was "esprit fort," defined by Cotin (1629) as one who believes nothing except what he can see or touch, by Claveret (1629) as one who frequents cabarets and brothels, and who becomes his own judge and a law unto himself. Yves de Paris (1635) states that they boast of refusing to yield to truth. In general the "esprit fort" was thought to be the opposite of the "esprit faible," the "superstitieux." In due time, the "esprit fort" came to designate the unbeliever, while "libertin" was reserved for those who displayed a dissipation in morals. However, all attempts at classification • 152 ·

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failed: "Libertins," said Garasse, "gaussent la religion catholique." Caussin called "libertinage" "une fausse liberte de creance et de moeurs," while Bacon called the libertine and the "esprit fort" "deistes, disciples de Lucrece." Charron divides them into the "nieurs," i.e., atheists, the "doubteurs," i.e., skeptics, and the "Epicuriens," i.e., deists. Everyone seemed to agree that whatever name was applied, the distinguishing mark of the group was an unorthodox attitude in religion which derived from or led to a laxity in morality. Since their views on religion, morality, and politics did not conform either to orthodox thought or to systematic thinking, the most appropriate term was "free-thinker," which is the way they have come to be designated in present-day criticism. The source of this libertinage is usually attributed to Montaigne or to the Italian naturalism of the sixteenth century. Since it is customary to identify this naturalism with the doctrines of the Paduans, and since Montaigne has been regarded, especially by Busson, as the end of the Paduan development, there is a tendency to merge the two sources into one. It is obvious, however, that Montaigne is not a descendent of Italian naturalism, though he may be regarded as a follower of the Paduan School. The difficulty of organizing the tenets of Italian naturalism in some coherent manner is what causes the confusion. Charbonnel (La Pensee italienne au XVF Steele et Ie courant libertin, 1919, pp. 709-20) suggests that it is compounded of Machiavellianism with its apparent justification of tyrannicide. Its successors in France were the "politiques" whose mouthpiece, as we have seen, was Jean Bodin's RSpublique. But these "politiques," as Charbonnel concedes, are more opposed than favorable to the essential theories of Machiavelli. They reject not only his political expediency but also the separation of morality and politics, although not because of any inherent desire to defend Christianity. In general, they incline more to natural, than to revealed, religion. On the whole, Italian naturalism is really a broader intellectual movement than Paduanism, though it incorporates many of the traits of the latter attitude. It is particularly concerned with that type of speculation which gives rise to a new image of the material universe, and in which the concept of the Deity and His relationship with man is transformed. This speculation is thoroughly • 153 ·

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grounded in Averroism, and has some mystical aspects, consequently, but is an essentially positivistic approach to life. It seeks to judge the past and the present, to establish psychological laws, to practice a realistic politics, and to adopt an experimental approach to knowledge. It investigates the phenomena of the outside world with the same assiduity as the psychological phenomena of man. In fact, it is deeply imbedded in the atomism of Democritus and Zeno, but it is just as saturated in neo-platonism. While it regards the universe as a combination of infinite atoms, it asserts that this combination has a soul. "L'ame du monde" is as much a reality to these practical realists as atomism. Infinity is as much a basic concept as unity. There is thus a diversity and ambiguity in their beliefs which render their creed unsystematic. They are nonetheless first and foremost naturalists, because they believe firmly in the inner powers of nature. To be sure, all this thinking has a negative aspect. The mere assertion that reason has the power to attain to truth, which was one of their tenets, and which is certainly positive enough, worked against the Christian doctrine of revelation. Consequently, they leave the impression of excluding religion and its role in the moral conduct of societies. They assert the importance of religion in the orderly arrangement of social life, but their denials work against it. There is implied in their atomism, for instance, a strong monism, which renders less necessary a personal providence, while their affirmation of a more general providence ruins the concept of the Church's divine mission. In short, a compound of Averroism, Machiavellianism, and Aristotelianism; derived in part from Paduanism; a mixture of Democritean atomism, Lucretian materialism, and a fervent belief in the powers of nature and the soul of the universe; and shot through in its strange eclecticism with the full currents of stoicism, epicureanism, neo-platonism, and a diluted Christianity—such is the formula of Renaissance naturalism. Their doctrine is anything but a system, therefore, though it does have well-defined traits tending to a separation of faith and reason, to an insistence that rites and ceremonies, while necessary for the masses, are no longer necessary for the philosopher, and to a suggestion that the Christian religion is, as are all religions, a creation of man. It has a further tendency to see in the institution of religion a design to bolster the political state. It denies the immortality of the • 154 ·

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soul, and affirms the importance of milieu, climate, and attendant circumstances upon man. These beliefs will pervade the libertines of the seventeenth century and even to some extent the philosophical systems of that time. They will also make themselves felt in the full becoming of Enlightenment thought. As Busson stated in the title of the conclusion to his Rationalisme au XVY Steele: "Que les courants libertins du debut du XVIP siecle sont Ie prolongement exact de ceux qui ont ete etudies au cours de ce livre." RELIGION AND SCIENCE

(1543-1633)

6

The role which science plays in all this transformation is so astounding that we must go back and retrace each step in its advance. Professor Butterfield, who has delineated the movement very clearly, notes that the first steps occurred not because of technological discoveries in the making of instruments, but because of a change in the minds of scientists. Tycho Brahe's new approach in astronomy was effected without the use of telescope; Harvey's findings in physiology were made by observations almost entirely performed with the naked eye; Galileo transformed mechanics by virtually playing with rolling stones on inclined planes. What all three of these scientists had in common was flexibility of mind, a way of questioning established facts and of ordering intellectual problems. The starting-point of the scientific revolution was the problem of motion, which culminated in the law of inertia now considered the foundation of modern science. The previous view was the Aristotelian, according to which all heavy terrestrial bodies had a natural movement toward the center of the universe. Motion in any other direction was violent, and since it contradicted the tendency of a body to rest in its natural place, it had to be explained. The usual explanation was that a body could move only so long as a mover remained in contact with it; otherwise it would fall immediately to earth or drop to rest. This theory conflicts with the modern law of inertia which states that bodies tend to continue at rest, or in motion along a straight line until something intervenes to stop them or deflect their course. Aristotle's theory presented difficulties: an 6 See W. Gillispie, The Edge of Objectivity; H. Butterfield, The Origins of Modern Science, 1300-1800, New York, 1951; M. Daumas, Histoire de la science, Paris, 1957; and R. Lenoble, Mersenne, ou La naissance du mecanisme, Paris, 1943.

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arrow should drop to the ground on leaving the bowstring. The fact that it did not do so was explained by the rush of air behind the arrow. The same phenomenon also occurred in accelerated falling bodies. Moreover, since there is implied in Aristotle's explanation a notion that hands of Intelligences are always present to guide the motion, matter possesses some sort of mystic quality. These views were challenged in the school of Paris as early as the fourteenth century, when Jean Buridan and Nicole Oresme protested against the interferences of Intelligences, Oresme going so far as to suggest that God might have started off the universe as a kind of clock and left it to run of itself. This Parisian school offered a contradictory theory of movement to the Aristotelian: that bodies are carried forward by an acquired impetus which lies in the object until it is spent, as heat in a poker. Though it did not solve all problems of motion, this impetus theory did discredit Aristotle, and led to the modern explanation of Galileo and Descartes. What was needed to carry the explanation further was a move to geometrize or mathematize a problem, a step taken with the introduction of Archimedes's works in translation in 1543. As a result, the problem shifted entirely. The vacuum which Aristotle could not conceive of, and the resisting media which he introduced, could now both be eliminated if one thought of objects as geometric. Aristotle's explanation of the universe reigned supreme in the Middle Ages. According to his view, the earth is composed of four elements—earth, water, fire, and air—two of which, being impure, tend to fall, and the other two, being less impure, tend to rise. Above the four elements is a fifth, the real matter which permeates the sphere above the earth. The earth is subject to corruption and decay, being sublunar; the other spheres are not, because they are formed of an incorruptible matter. All, except the tenth, which is at rest, are in motion. Each, though transparent, carries one or more heavenly bodies on its back as it rotates around the earth in a circular motion. The eighth sphere carries the fixed stars; the ninth carries no object whatever and is the "primum mobile." This universe, moved by Intelligences and Spirits, is a closed universe. As a matter of fact, it tended to be more crystalline, more solid as time went on. The motion could only be circular, a frictionless movement of weightless bodies. Because they were moved by the Intelligences or Spirits, the • 156 ·

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spheres and their bodies were rigidly ordered, but more often than not they appeared to move in very irregular fashion. To preserve the regularity of movement, a whole series of circular motions, or epicycles, was devised by Ptolemy and his successors. As the complications grew it was evident that the system could not correspond to reality. There were more pressing problems, however. It was understood that God created the matter of the material world and left its formation to the higher Intelligences. Only He created human souls, but some influence was exercised by the heavens upon souls. There was some discussion as to the nature of this influence but everyone seemed to agree that it depended upon the right reading of the stars. Hence the Shakespearean conclusion that "the fault, dear Brutus, lies not in the stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings," when this point of view became questioned. Copernicus, in the De Revolutionibus orbium (1543), attempted to simplify the Ptolemaic universe. He was disturbed by the differences of opinion among mathematicians, puzzled by the variation of brightness he had observed in Mars, very perturbed by Ptolemy's use of the equant to preserve the circular motion of stars, and determined to reduce, if possible, the enormous number of circles. He worked out a system in which the positions of the sun and earth were exchanged and in which the spheres and epicycles were reduced from eighty to thirty-four. The rotation of the earth eliminated the need for the vast movements of the spheres. In general, Copernicus' system introduced a much simpler economy. Thus, though he seems to have made every effort to preserve as many fundamentals as possible of his predecessor, his system actually destroyed Aristotle's cosmology, though it did not construct an adequate cosmology to replace it. That is why his explanation of the new scientific world required so long a time (from 1543 to 1633) to become widely adopted. The third great discovery of the Renaissance was made in the field of biology, and was achieved by an insistence upon observation and experiment, and especially by a changed method of dissection. Here the authority was Galen, who had ordinarily practiced his dissections upon apes. Dissection was used in the early Renaissance, too, but it was conducted to demonstrate the accuracy of Galen's observations, rather than to train students in the process of new discovery. Galen's pronouncements, however, provoked some discus• 157 ·

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sion, since they did not square with Aristotle's ideas, particularly in the matter of the function and activity of the heart. This divergence of opinion perhaps explains why the working of the heart became a central biological problem in the Renaissance. Vesalius undertook a reexamination of the problem and in 1543, the same year of Copernicus' De Revolutionibus orbium, published his De Fabrica. The central point under discussion concerned the way the blood passed from the right ventricle of the heart to the left. Galen had taught that it flowed through the septum, but this view had been contradicted in the thirteenth century by an Arab physician who had insisted that it could only pass through the lungs to get from one ventricle to the other. His treatise was published in Latin in 1547, and following its publication, Vesalius undertook to review Galen's explanation. Earlier experiments he had conducted had already raised doubts in his mind. Even in the De Fabrica, he ventured, though still a Galenist, to question Galen's solution. Thereafter, the matter progressed rapidly: Leonardo attacked the old theory that air passed from the lungs to the heart; Colombo in 1559 correcdy described the passage of blood from the right ventricle to the lungs, and thence to the left ventricle; and Cesalpino, who followed Aristotle rather than Galen, began to introduce the larger problem of the circulation of the blood, though apparently it was presented in a wrong context. Finally, in 1574, Fabricius called attention to valves which he had discovered in the veins. It was at this point that Harvey took up the problem and proposed eventually the complete answer in the De Motu cordium of 1628. The discovery of the correct principles of impetus, the motions of the planets, and the movement of the blood throughout the body constitutes the three great scientific achievements of the Renaissance. In each of these problems it was Padua which made the greatest contribution, or at least those who had been Paduans. It was in Padua that the new interpretation of Aristotle was inaugurated, based on findings of Averroes. It was there also that psychology had begun to play a role in natural phenomena, that medicine began to be developed, and that the nature of matter became a key problem. Butterfield has pointed out that all the discoveries in the fields of the movement of the heart and the circulation of the blood were made by a line of Paduans—Vesalius, Colombo, Fabricius, and Cesalpino were all Paduans, as was Harvey himself, having studied • 158 ·

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under Fabricius. Butterfield notes that the study of the heart is "primarily the glory of that University." But Copernicus and Galileo were also at Padua in important periods of their career, and so were Leonardo and Giordano Bruno. The university had inherited the scientific activity which had taken place in the fourteenth century at Paris (Buridan and Oresme). In their medical school, the Paduans adopted wholeheartedly the method of observation and experiment which had been recommended by Galen. Other Italian universities had, by the sixteenth century, become rather liberal, but Padua, in 1402, had fallen under the rule of Venice, reputed to be the most secularized government in all Europe. Indeed, already in the fifteenth century, discussions of scientific method in Padua brought up the problem of the purely quantitative as against the Aristotelian qualitative mode of treatment, while Paduans were questioning that motion was inherent in falling bodies and suggesting that it was the result of an exerted external force. The one historical fact in the shift from medieval to modern science is the overthrow of Aristotle and Ptolemy. One would think that it would have occurred with the discredit of the Aristotelian concept of motion and the breakdown in the Ptolemaic system. In reality, these events did initiate the changeover, but they represented halfway stations between the two concepts of science. It was fairly evident that the old views were inadequate: still, the new views did not seem sufficiently sound to constitute a breakthrough in science. Though the new theory of impetus demonstrated that the Aristotelian ideas of motion were no longer acceptable, it lacked final proof that its own explanation of motion was correct. Despite his rectifications, revolutionary though they must have seemed, Copernicus preserved in many respects the Ptolemaic universe. Only the researches in the circulation of the blood seemed to proceed in a consistent, coherent fashion, and even they awaited a final proof in the genius of Harvey. In reality, the battle between Aristotle and Ptolemy on the one hand, and Copernicus, Vesalius, and the other moderns on the other was destined to be decided in the struggle between the old and the new cosmology, where the system of the world united with the laws of motion and to some extent with the biological concepts of animism. It was undoubtedly aided by incidents of great import, one of which was the appearance of the nova of 1572, said to have created • 159 ·

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more shock than the Copernican theory itself. Besides the fact that it was thought to be of greater magnitude than any celestial body save the sun, being actually visible in daylight, and the further fact that it remained until early in 1574, it shook to the very foundations the notion that the heavens were unchanging, incorruptible, and closed. The appearance of a new comet in 1577 confirmed that the universe was not closed, since it shot across the presumed crystalline spheres that formed the skies. Finally, William Gilbert in his De magnete (1600) proposed that the earth was a magnet whose gravity was a form of magnetic attraction, and that this principle, if applied to the other planets, explained the workings of the Copernican system. Ultimately, the three who effected the downfall of the old system were Kepler, Galileo, and Harvey. The works of Kepler were astonishing, both in quantity and profusion of ideas. He set out to create a new system of the universe, but did not succeed in this endeavor. He had collaborated with Tycho Brahe in the latter's last days at Prague and profited by the enormous number of stellar observations which the latter had been making; Kepler himself actually increased the observations of his predecessor by a third. It was not in these stellar notations that he played his most important role, however, but in the discovery of three laws which he deduced from them. In seeking to put some order in the irregular speed with which the planets moved, he came upon the law that if a line is drawn from a planet to the sun, that line will describe equal areas in equal times. He realized that the pace of the planet was controlled in a way by its distance from the sun, which he suspected of exercising some power over these celestial bodies. Moreover, in investigating the eccentricities of Mars, Kepler hit upon a second law; having guessed that an ellipse might probably explain the data, he found that he was right and concluded that, instead of circular motions, all the planets described ellipses. Finally, in studying what he believed was the music of the spheres, he discovered the third law: the squares of the period of the orbit were proportional to the cubes of their mean distance from the sun. These laws, essential to Newton's theory of gravitation at a later date, became the foundation of a new kind of astronomy, a mechanistic system which tended to turn the universe into clockwork. Galileo consummated, in the establishment of mechanics, the over• 160 ·

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throw of Aristotle and Ptolemy. It was he who stated that nature's secrets would be revealed when the right questions were formulated in nature's language—mathematics. With a telescope which he himself contrived, he discovered the satellites of Jupiter, spots upon the sun, and the phases of Venus. Again it became evident that the heavens were no longer immaculate or incorruptible. Objects could and did rotate around other planets than the earth. The satellites of Jupiter could be offered as a minor solar system. These observations led him to turn his attention from the problems of mechanics to the larger problem of Aristotelian physics in general. In the Two Principal World-Systems, he surveyed the whole range of Aristotelian arguments, astronomy as well as mechanics, and proposed a new system to replace Aristotle's. In fact, the second system was strengthened by a new kind of mechanics wedded to Kepler's astronomy, and this mechanics was Galileo's own contribution to the solution of the problem. It is paradoxical that his Dialogues failed to produce the clinching argument. Indeed, what he gave as the irrefutable proof—the cause of the formation of tides—was a total error. Furthermore, his system was condemned, and he was forced to recant before the Inquisition. He had nonetheless succeeded in offering the picture of a mechanical world subject to the laws of movement, which could be expressed in the language of mathematics. Galileo's condemnation by the Church in 1633 has had more farreaching effects than any one event in modern history. Even now the problems raised by the incompatibility of science and religion, or, at any rate, by the assumption that there is an incompatibility between them, are as acute as they were in the beginning of the seventeenth century. The clear implications of Galileo's condemnation were tragic in the downright miscarriage of justice which the decision portended, but the symbolic implications of a chasm between science and religion, which was clearly indicated by the whole procedure, were more tragic still. Even more than in the burning of Servetus, Vanini, and Giordano Bruno, it became evident that man's search for his truth was henceforth to be thwarted by the assumed truth of dogma. It does scant good to allege that the condemnation was readily justified by the fact that Galileo was unable to prove his point scientifically. One could argue that, if such were the case, the Church would have been justified in having his arguments re• 161 ·

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futed by other, more orthodox, scientists. But the Church did not take that position; its stand was predicated upon the fact that Galileo's and Copernicus hypothesis, right or wrong, was heretical, and its proponents should be condemned for holding such a view. Nor does it help matters very much to argue further that Galileo made a mistake in attempting to reconcile the Bible with the new hypothesis. It was perfectly natural at that moment in history for a scientist to seek support from Scripture for his scientific position. The only reasonable stand in opposition to Galileo's appeal to the support of Scripture was to point out that such support could nowhere be found. While this may not have aided the scientific accuracy of Scripture, it at least would have made the situation clear. As it was, the response which the Inquisition made to the Two Principal World-Systems could be attacked on grounds of both scientific inaccuracies and political injustice. Worst of all, the requirement which the Church seemed to lay down that its decree should be accepted without discussion by the scientific world carried with it an arbitrariness which it could ill afford at a moment when its authority had been put in question by the consequences of the Reformation. Had its decision been fair and just, as well as correct, it might have extricated itself from the dilemma. Since its action could be defended on neither of these grounds, it did science no service and itself a great disservice by insisting upon its own scientific infallibility. As a result, the decree spread consternation among the European scientists of the time. They were literally driven to subterfuge to satisfy their conscience as scientists, or as humanists, or as Catholics. Thus, this one event did more to bring about the conflict between science and religion than the intellectual development of the previous two centuries had done. T H E ORGANIZATION OF KNOWLEDGE

An effect of the movement in the Renaissance to shift centers of learning from the monastery to the theologically-oriented school and finally to the urban university was to reduce the dominance of theology in the scheme of thinking, and this resulted in significant changes in the conditions of thought. In these modern universities there could be greater freedom in conducting one's thought; there was, since they became more and more lay institutions, more open • 162 ·

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discussion even among the theological representatives in the universities. There occurred a shift in the importance of the role assigned to the various branches of knowledge, as well as in its organization, and in the method of approaching it. Once started in Italy, the movement slowly spread northward. Though slow, the movement's lay aspects became more apparent in the second half of the sixteenth century at such places as Toulouse, Montpellier, and Lyons, in France, as well as Oxford and Cambridge in England, and, during the first half of the seventeenth century, in the universities of Holland and Germany. In the meantime, another development was taking place in Italy, France, and England. There is no doubt that places like Padua and Bologna had become the leaders in the lay universities by the sixteenth century: Padua seems indeed to have been in all its aspects the model modern university, attracting students from all over Europe and sending them back to their communities in France, England, Holland, and Germany. These people formed an elite in their native communities, but they did not necessarily become university people; many indeed became magistrates. There thus arose the community center of learning outside the university which in time became the center of learning. A change was again made in which there was a tendency to move from the university to the academy. The Academy in Florence and the Academia dei Lincei seem to have been the early models for this new organization of learning, but the most effective academies were developed in France and England. There were in France during the first third of the seventeenth century several such groups which became outstanding.7 Professor Adam (p. 296) has noted the rise of three of them in the decade from 1620 to 1630. First there was that of the President de Mesmes, established in the rue de Jouy where Grotius was received on his visit to Paris in 1623. The de Mesmes, who prided themselves upon the preservation of humanism, had assembled one of the most beautiful libraries of Paris, with Gabriel Naude as its librarian. One can readily see how sixteenth-century humanism with its emphasis upon erudition and the cult of antiquity was extended through 7 See A. Adam, L'Histoire, i, 286-88; R. Pintard, Le Ubertinage, Part II, chapter III; and H. Brown, Scientific Organizations.

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organizations of this kind, and became identified with the social and intellectual life of the time, rather than with the professorial and university life. Another of these centers was the sixteenth-century hotel of the President de Thou, at that time the property of Jacques and Pierre Dupuy, who had inherited not only the deep sincerity and solid integrity from the maternal side which was de Thou, but who also had received from their father, Claude Dupuy, respect for the humanistic learning of the previous age. Claude had studied with Turnebe and Dorat, and was acquainted with Scaliger and Juste Lipse. Around 1630 their library, which was the finest of the period, was open to the scholars of the time, who congregated each afternoon to discuss the authors of antiquity as well as contemporary writers. This group included such scholars as Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Gassendi, and Diodati, when these last two were in Paris. Here the emphasis was still upon the science of man, and the predominant interests were jurisprudence and history, but the society of the Academie Puteane, as it came to be known, was also turning its attention to natural science. (See Pin tar d, Le Libertinage, pp. 90-101.)

The third group, in its case definitely open to all fields of learning but thoroughly interested in the "new" science, assembled in the cell of a Minim priest, Pere Mersenne, in the Place Royale. (See R. Lenoble, Mersenne, ou La naissance du mecanisme, 1943.) Their great ambition was the ruin of Aristotelianism and the establishment of mechanism. After a violent attack against the deists of the time in the Impiete des deistes, and an equally enthusiastic defense of the "new" science in the Verite de la science, Mersenne settled down to achieve the one ambition of his life—the establishment of a truly modern science. Around him gathered Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Sorbiere, those in fact who were to be called the Tetrade and who now stand out as the characteristic "libertins erudits" of the time. But the Minim's cell was not at all exclusively a center of libertinage. To it came the outstanding philosophers: Hobbes, Gassendi, and Descartes, when they were in Paris, and, somewhat later, the Pascals, father and son. When his devotees were elsewhere, Mersenne kept up a never-ending correspondence in which he literally drove his fellow scientists into activity sometimes through persuasion, but more often through indiscretions which had all the • 164 ·

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air of calculated ruse. It was Mersenne who read the then unpublished chapters of Gassendi's Epicurus, and approved them, long before they appeared in print; it was he who encouraged Sorbiere's French translation of Hobbes; it was he who arranged for the six sets of objections to Descartes's Meditations and Descartes's replies. His scientific enthusiasm is as disconcerting at times as is his attitude toward free-thinking. While latter-day critics are embarrassed to excuse the libertines of the time, Mersenne associates as intimately with them as we would expect him to mingle with his fellow priests. While heated discussions still arise concerning the sincerity or insincerity of Gassendi, Mersenne treated his brother priest from Digne without the least suspicion of unorthodoxy. Though he must have known Hobbes well, and Descartes more intimately than did any of his contemporaries, he never entertained the slightest suspicion that Descartes was essentially a deist, as Pascal did from the very first, and he expressed only a mild surprise concerning Hobbes' views upon religion. Moreover, the tolerance which he showed his close associates was extended to his correspondents throughout Europe. To the scholars of England, Holland, and Italy, he displayed the same generous openness, without inquiring into their religious convictions or inclinations. As a result, he became a sort of corresponding secretary of the scholarly world of his day, and his cell a common center of that world. Mersenne was not without his limitations, however. Although Lenoble judges that in many respects he was a better scientist than Descartes, he concedes that Mersenne often seems not to understand the philosophical positions of others. Though he showed a deep interest in Descartes's physics, he appeared absolutely indifferent to his metaphysics, and though he eventually could endure free-thinkers with the greatest equanimity, he found intolerable many aspects of Italian naturalism and all forms of mystical illuminations. These three centers were typical of what was now happening in the world of learning. The scholar priest still exists, but he operates beyond the confines of his monastery, and he shares his intellectual ambitions with those who show no great relationship with the religious community. He can, and often does, protect his own sincere religious convictions against the ironies of the free-thinkers, but does it with an astonishing unconcern, as if it were no longer important. Mersenne and Gassendi are entirely on the side of Galileo • 165 ·

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against the Inquisition. The scholar priest is not alone in his tolerance. The magistrate, the retired gentleman, the traveling scholar, partake often of the same unexpected liberalism. Gassendi can disagree with Hobbes' religion, but he praises his erudition; Descartes can disagree haughtily with Gassendi's materialism, as the latter may object strenuously to the former's idealism. They may address each other as Mr. Spirit and Mr. Flesh without resorting to violent denunciation. Moreover, this freedom of thought extends rather far; so far, indeed, that even the orthodox often seem unorthodox. It is perhaps not as simple as it seems; one can hazard the guess, though, that between 1630 and 1645 thinking tended toward freethinking, but the important intellectual event was the attempt to cast this free thought into a more permanent and stable order. It is as if for a short time there are no longer any dogmatists, only skeptics; and then, all of a sudden, the world becomes filled again with dogmatists. These three groups are likewise typical of the way intellectual society was organizing itself in France. One could name others, equally significant—those surrounding Montmor, or those who congregated at Peiresc's in Aix. They were not identified with the universities or (in the case of the Peiresc group) only slightly, although others could be closely connected with the university, like the Gresham group in England. In general, they were practically always incorporated in the theological seminary or the town university in Holland, because there was a greater tolerance toward the freedom of thinking in that country during the seventeenth century (in spite of some very violent discussions and some very stern repressions in religious matters) than in France and England. The thing to note, however, is not so much the political policy toward the organization of knowledge. Since the universities still placed restrictions upon learning, the academies became freer as centers of thought. They integrated thought better, too, since a systematic philosopher could submit his philosophy to a group composed of doctors, lawyers, magistrates, librarians, and priests, not to mention free-thinkers of all kinds. It was precisely a group of this kind which gathered at Mersenne's, or at Dupuy's. Sociologically a group of this diversity is better constituted to give encouragement to free-thinking since it is identified neither with the religious nor the political institution. Society itself, of course, could impose (and • 166 ·

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probably often did) its own restriction upon the members, but the attitude of a social gathering could be expected to be more lenient. At all events, it is not in the universities that the discussions are held nor are they conducted by university men, in the sense that the members continue their relationship with a university; they belong rather to the academy, and in many cases they are associated with several academies. Thus in science, philosophy, and the arts, the dynamic conditions of thought are found rather among the mature university-trained elite now dissociated from the university but closely associated with one or more of the private academies. Later on in the century, in France and England, these private academies will lead to the founding, in the fields of science and the arts, of national academies. Those centers will assemble (and to some extent restrict) the members who are drawn from the local communities. These latter, however, retain their autonomy, and there is much exchange between the local and the national groups. In science, history, and philosophy, the universities have lost their control to the academies, both local and national, which, being freer and usually more tolerant than the schools, offer more opportunities in dynamic development of thought. On the other hand, there is a general tendency to retain religion in the seminaries and the university, with the result that the schools exercise control over religious thinking. Thus, particularly in France and England, the teaching of theology and philosophy tends to be conservative and lacking in dynamism. A more important effect still is the breaking-up of knowledge: the schools have control of theology and aim to have it in philosophy, while the academies guide the thinking in science, philosophy, and history. Thus in the intellectual world, an educational system springs up which is dynamic and relatively free in science, philosophy, and history, while it is rather restricted, conservative, and traditional in theology. There results, therefore, from this severing of theology from the other humanistic studies, a certain disunity in the field of learning. The noteworthy point, finally, is that the center of all these discussions—political, social, moral, scientific, philosophical, religious—• was Holland. Here the system was more organic and, thanks to the tendency toward freedom of thought which characterized these people, to the country's geographical position as lying between Eng• 167 ·

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land, France, and Germany, and to the fact that events in these other neighboring countries contributed to a rather continual migration of thinkers from them, between 1630 and 1670 the Dutch came near being the intellectual center of Europe. Besides, there was a definite filiation with what went on in Holland in the intellectual sphere and the academies and universities of the other European countries, especially France and England.

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7. T H E I N T E L L E C T U A L R E S P O N S E OF BAROQUE MAN HE PERIOD which began around 1595 and extended to 1640 was characterized in part by a great outburst of incredulity. In the heat of battle those who took part in this movement were often called atheists. The word carried unwarranted overtones: to a sincere, but scandalized, citizen, it could easily mean some person who deviated from the orthodox belief; to a person having liberal views, it could be followed with such terrifying consequences that its use would make many a person flinch. There were people burned for atheism—G. Vallee, Vanini, N. Journet, Giordano Bruno—but close investigation of each case makes the charge appear unfounded. These people were irregular, but not atheists. To listen to their traducers, they were very numerous, they were upsetting religion, and they constituted a danger. Busson is probably correct in feeling that there were very few atheists, but many deists. As a matter of fact, Busson has produced the document—a letter (1627) from Jean de Silhon—which portrays the true state of affairs. Silhon wrote:

T

Ceux qui font la plus grande foule sont quelques deliez et qui pensent avoir raffine la sagesse du monde; ceux-la dis-je confessent un Dieu Autheur de l'Univers, reconnoissent sa Providence, avouent l'lmmortalite de Fame, condamnent l'ldolatrie, blament les philosophes payens d'avoir connive au culte de tant de Dieux que l'ambition des grands, et 1'artifice des Legislateurs avoit introduits, et croyent que la vraye Religion n'est autre que vivre selon la raison, et que Ie plus agreable sacrifice qu'on puisse faire a Dieu, est la pratique des vertus morales: consentent neantmoins et approuvent pour Ie bien de la societe humaine, et la fermete du repos public, de suivre Ie culte et les ceremonies exterieures qui sont en usage en chaque Republique ou Estat, et laisser cette bride au peuple, pour Ie retenir dans Ie devoir: bien que eu egard a Dieu, qui veut etre seulement servi en esprit et verite, cet ordre soit indifferent, et ces ceremonies impertinentes.

Silhon's portrait of the deist as a thinker who accepted the two essential doctrines of the immortality of the soul and the existence of God, but rejected the divinity of Christ and Christian doctrine, is startlingly accurate. Moreover, this Christian dogma was replaced by natural religion which insists upon moral virtue directed by reason. • 169 ·

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At all events, the movement was in full swing between the condemnation of Vanini (1619) and the affair of Theophile de Viau (1623) when a number of apologists published their attacks against them. The libertines also had their works, all deistic in nature—Les Trots imposteurs, the Heptaplomeres, Vallee's Fleo de la joy, and Quatrains du deiste, all of which circulated in manuscript copies, while Theophile's and Vanini's works were also printed. Curiously, three of these treatises came out of the last years of the sixteenth century, one of them, the Heptaplomeres, being Bodin's last work. The fourth, the Quatrains, dates from around 1622. Bodin's work, especially the Heptaplomeres, and the Quatrains seem to have enjoyed a wide popularity. Although the Heptaplomeres has never been published, it has been studied by Chauvire who found manuscripts in Latin and in French translation, eight of them at the BibUotheque Nationale, and three of them at the Bibliotheque Mazarine. But the astounding evidence of how widespread deism was can be inferred from Chauvire's remark that in Germany about fifty manuscripts exist in public libraries and about thirty in private libraries. Not even Meslier, a century later, enjoyed that kind of popularity. More impressive than the numbers of people possessing a copy are the names of some of the owners mentioned by Chauvire: Naude, Patin, Christina of Sweden, Leibniz, John Milton, Huet, and Bayle. It was an interest which extended throughout the seventeenth century. The plan of the Heptaplomeres is simple: seven friends meet at the home of Coroni, a Catholic of Venice, and take part in a long discussion on the verity of the Christian religion and its relation with other religions: Jewish, Mohammedan, Pagan. Coroni's six interlocutors are Octave Fagnola, a renegade Christian who has now turned Muslim; Antoine Curtius, Calvinist; Frederich Podamicus, a Lutheran; Salomon Barcassius, a Jew; Diego Toralba, an apologist for natural religion; and Jerome Senamus, who is indifferent to all religious sects. Each participant tends in his intervention to uphold his personal bias, but each is likely to present aspects of the problem which do not in any way support his stand. Salomon, for instance, is quite ready to defend the Jewish concept of God against the concept of the surrounding tribes, but he is prepared to acknowledge that in the multiplicity and diversity of the concepts there lies a real dilemma. The interest is therefore not in the information produced, not even in the defense of any particular sect; it is in the conclusion which disengages itself from the conversation. • 170 ·

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The points made, however, are of interest and sometimes of genuine historical importance. Curtius asserts that nothing is more dangerous in a republic than to have two factions, either political or religious. On the other hand, there is no danger of civil war if there are several factions. This idea eventually became Voltaire's famous remark, in the Lettres philosophiques, that one religion is tyrannical, two religions try to cut each other's throat, while thirty live in peace. The conversation often turns to the diversity of religions and of laws. Senamus asks if, since there are so many religions, we should not accept them all on the score that one is as good as another, or reject them all, on the score that all must be wrong? Salomon believes that we should seek the true God as the Jews did. Coroni upsets things by stating that it is better to have a false religion than no religion at all. But Frederich objects that if we excuse those who follow a false religion sincerely, we cannot legitimately uphold the persecution of impiety. Curtius takes the stand that if the laws of God are published openly no one has a right to ignore them. But how are we to decide between so many contradictory laws, so many contradictory religions, asks Senamus. We must seek the one which is best and truest, replies Toralba. Who doubts, interrupts Frederich, that the Christian is the true religion or the only one? But there are so many parts of the world which have never heard of it, objects Octave. We can't pick the best religion by the number of people represented, but by the forceful reasons which God has presented, maintains Curtius. Do we really have a right to bring up and discuss matters of this sort, asks Coroni. Toralba replies that in his opinion it is better to keep silent than to speak lightly of sacred things. Salomon, too, finds it is very dangerous to discourse on religion. Yet the discourse continues to treat these matters: whether the name Messiah implies a God, how the solid establishment of Judaism contrasts with the variations of the Christian Churches, in what way the contradictions of the gospels can be explained, whether the miracle of the resurrection is proof of the divinity of Christ, how explain the doctrine of the Trinity, and how excuse the corruption in the writings of the Church Fathers. It is certainly true that the author did not miss many dangerous subjects which he was still bringing up long after the main point had been made. Very early in the conversation Octave, the renegade turned Muslim, made it (p. 46, Chauvire ed.): "Tous les hommes sont agreables a Dieu qui avec sincerite d'ame adorent une diviniti quand meme ils ne sauroient pas quelle elle est, parce disent-ils que la source • 171 ·

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de toutes les actions est dans la volonte dont Dieu connoist toujours Ie fond et la purete." The situation concerning Les Trots imposteurs is more complicated. As was shown in an exchange of memoirs around the beginning of the eighteenth century, there was circulated rather widely throughout Europe, from the thirteenth century on, a rumor of a De tribus impostoribus, purported sometimes to have been composed by the Emperor Frederick II. One of the eighteenth-century memoirs, of La Monnoye to Bouhier, was written to prove that there was no such treatise. Several years after this pronouncement there appeared a Traite des trots imposteurs, attributed rather widely to Boulainvilliers. Then in the nineteenth century, Gustave Brunet published the Latin version with French translation and a competent introduction. The work as published by Brunet is incomplete, since it breaks off in the middle of a comparison between Moses and Mohammed with the statement that "Ie reste manque." As a consequence, Christ as the founder of the Christian religion is not treated. The underlying theme, however, is that every religion accuses a preceding religion of falsity and fraud. The Christians accuse the Hebrews and in turn are accused by the Mohammedans of being spurious. Even the various sects of one religion accuse each other of error. The author rather quietly remarks that we should be on the lookout for this pious prevarication. He thus insinuates a second idea very prevalent in the seventeenth century: political leaders created religion in order to restrain the people. He firmly states that there are two principles from which one should not depart if he would not be deceived: he must examine carefully the religion which is presented to him, and remember that natural religion is what is left after all the fraud and superstition have been removed. Natural religion teaches that there is a God, but no cult, that matter is eternal, and that the soul is material, a mechanistic part of the body. The author, to be sure, does not reach a conclusion—or rather we do not have his conclusion—but the impression which is left is of a mature deistic document written with some care. In several respects, indeed, Brunet's edition and translation of the Latin version recalls the Traite des trots imposteurs attributed to Boulainvilliers. The third treatise of this sort was the Quatrains du deiste ou I'Anti-bigot, which, around 1622, enjoyed a widespread popularity, • 172 ·

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as well as the bitter condemnation of Mersenne. (For the text see F. Lachevre, Voltaire mourant, Paris, 1908.) The poem of 106 quatrains was designed to present the deist's beliefs and to attack the opinions of the "bigot," or "superstitieux." The latter, with an anthropomorphic conception of God, present Him as a cruel God of vengeance and predict an everlasting torment as the result of His wrath. They speak of a religion of love, but they hate their enemies, and threaten them with eternal damnation. The whole picture of the deity which they present is of an unjust God whose love is subject to human inconstancy and whose punishment for sin is contrary to the laws of justice. They confuse God's will with His prescience, and seem to believe that He created man for the purpose of eternal misery. They attack the senses and the reason as evil, and hypocritically try to suppress the pleasures of this world. To these negative attitudes of the "bigot" the Deist opposes a whole series of positive assertions. God is good, He is neither choleric nor cruel; He is all-wise, all-knowing; His will is so powerful that no one can oppose it. He cannot foresee sin and condemn it, He can only foresee sin and prevent it. He did not sacrifice His Son. Man cannot offend Him, this particular idea being, as Lanson has shown, constantly repeated by Voltaire. Moreover, the deist notes that Christian laws are not valid for all people. He declares that fear of Hell's flames is a sign of weakness of mind. He asserts that every man has the religion of his climate and receives it from tradition, one of the ideas most repeated from Montaigne to Voltaire. And, after all, religion was invented by politicians "pour brider les esprits des hommes insolents." The deist protests vigorously against the doctrine of the "bigot" formed only to frighten people: Avons-nous pas assez de naturels malheurs, Sans nous en inventer? Est-il rien plus inique Que de nous procurer de nouvelles douleurs, Ni qui ressente plus une ame frenetique? FIVE FRENCH FREE-THINKERS

In an indirect way these works are connected with Montaigne, although the good Gascon would have been scandalized to know it. Perhaps the best way of putting it is to say that both Montaigne and these works grow out of a situation which fostered this free-thinking. But the responsibility of the writer of the Essais is greater than • 173 ·

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that. Among his literary descendents were five of the leaders of this movement:1 Charron, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Naude, Guy Patin, and Sorbiere. The remarkable thing is that a number of the writers of the time recognized the connection between Montaigne and Charron. The poet Sarasin called the two the breviary of the "libertins"; D'Assoucy makes both of them the leaders of deism. Naude, one of the descendents, himself wrote in the Considerations sur les coups d'itat of his high esteem for the two: "Seneca has been of more assistance to me than Aristotle; Plutarch more than Plato; Juvenal and Horace more than Homer and Virgil; Montaigne and Charron more than all the others put together." Even Gassendi wrote to his friend Pibrac: "Tu fais bien de me recommander d'emmener Charron dans ma solitude. Quel juge plus sur! Surtout si on lui donne pour compagnons ceux dont il a lui-meme fait son profit: Montaigne, Lipse, Seneque, Plutarque, Ciceron." And when Chanet undertook to refute La Sagesse he spoke of the large number of those who took Charron for Socrates and the Apologie for gospel. Indeed, Charron, the priest of Condom, was known personally to Montaigne. He had been an instructor at Bordeaux in 1576, but Montaigne had already withdrawn to his chateau. Charron could have known him in 1582, when he was again in Bordeaux, though we have no evidence that he did. In 1586, however, Montaigne gave Charron a copy of Ochino's Catechism, in which Charron recorded the event in a Latin inscription. It is not certain that this edifying treatise (its author was a Franciscan turned Lutheran) sealed the friendship; it merely establishes a date. That the relationship was close and enduring can be seen in the facts that Montaigne permitted his family court of arms to be adopted by Charron, since there was no male heir, and Charron later left a substantial legacy to a member of Montaigne's family. He might well be grateful to his old friend, since Montaigne furnished him with a mine of material, so much so that if it is true that the Essais reduced the wisdom of antiquity to a myriad number of maxims, Charron did the same thing for the Essais in his Sagesse. Sabrie stated that the latter work was the anthology of humanism, but that is what the Essais are. What Charron really did, as Busson has pointed out, was to establish an order, a dogmatism, and a classification within the anthol1

See H . Busson, De Charron a Pascal; P. Bonnefon, Montaigne F. Pintard, Le Libertinage erudit, 1946.

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ogy. Bayle noted that Charron "fit un merveilleux cas des Essais et en adopta plusieurs maximes," and added that the theologian learned more from the gentleman than the gentleman from the theologian. Later, he remarked that in the books of La Sagesse, there are an infinite number of pensees which had appeared in Montaigne. This writing of pensees in the late sixteenth and throughout the seventeenth centuries merits a close study. It has much to do with the movement of ideas, since a pensee can move much faster than a treatise, particularly among the public. Charron clearly announced his purpose in composing the Sagesse (see Bonnefon, p. 271): Notre dessein en cette ceuvre de trois livres est premierement enseigner rhomme a se bien connaitre en I'humaine condition, Ie prenant en tous sens et Ie regardant a tous visages, . . . puis 1'instruire a se bien regler et moderer en toutes choses, ce que nous ferons en gros par avis et moyens generaux et communs au second livre; et particulierement au troisieme par les quatre vertus morales sous lesquelles est comprise toute !'instruction de la vie humaine et toutes les parties du devoir et de l'honnete. This intention differs but little from Montaigne's, though it is a little more specific, since Charron speaks of rules, and four moral virtues. The desire to teach man to know himself and the human lot, however, accords well with the earlier essayist's rational organization of man's personality. What is noteworthy is the frankness with which the theologian announces that he is interested in a morality which can be taught, in a life which is social, in a human activity which is separated from the divine. The four cardinal virtues, as he explains in the third section of his work, are "la prudence," "la temperance," "la justice," and "la force." They are certainly social, not theological, virtues. Moreover, he who studies his Montaigne diligently, would find that they are present in the Essais in a predominant way, too. Then how comes it that Montaigne enjoyed such widespread acceptance while Charron not only raised a storm of protest but has ever since appeared in an equivocal position ? Being a churchman, would he be expected to present his moral reflections in a Christian frame of reference ? This is what he certainly did not do. As Bayle expressed it: "Notre Charron ne flattoit pas son parti." As a matter of fact, Bayle's concluding remarks will bear quoting here: • 175 ·

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Il avoit l'esprit penetrant, il decouvrait a perte de vue les ressources et les repliques d'un adversaire qui attaque, ou que Ton attaque. Il prenoit ses mesures la-dessus, il s'expliquoit ingenument, et n'emploioit point la ruse pour vaincre. MaI lui en prit, car Ie monde ne s'accommode point de cette candeur." This candor has not only been adversely interpreted; indeed, because of it Charron has been removed from his party and put in the opposition party. The procedure began early. Garasse, who inaugurated it, exhibited a patent hostility: Ma conscience m'oblige a dire de lui que ce fut un tres pernicieux ignorant, qui a voulu parler de ce qu'il n'entendoit pas, a fait comme les mauvais macons batissant sur sa tete; et par quelques periodes bien enflees, par quelques pensees aucunement subtiles et plausibles, par un langage doucement immodeste, il se glisse insensiblement dans Ie coeur des lecteurs, avec un tel ascendant sur leur esprit, qu'il y en a qui ne jurent que par lui. Mersenne, whom we regard as more judicious than Garasse, possibly because of his friendship with Descartes, hardly treated Charron much better; indeed, he actually added a new note. Not being content with attacking Charron's intellectual ability, the Minim priestturned-scientist involved Charron's personal morality, a practice which must have been so common at this age that its use was almost automatic. Mersenne said of his brother theologian: "Neanmoins, puisque vous me pressez, je vous dirai un mot de ce que je pense des oeuvres de ce personnage, sans toucher a ce qui est des propos qu'il tenoit es compagnies qu'il avoit coustume de frequenter, lesquelles etoient fort libertines et ressentoient souvent l'atheisme, ni a ses faeons de vivre desquelles je pourrois dire beaucoup de particularites, s'il etoit a propos et necessaire." This allegation of moral turpitude followed Charron's reputation throughout the seventeenth century, as it did all the libertines to the point where Bayle was constrained to deny it vigorously. After noting that the book was condemned as a "seminaire d'impiete," he mentioned that it was also defended by those in high position; otherwise, said Bayle, it would have been exterminated. This liberal attitude on the part of those in authority he cites as showing that the government, even in the early days of the century, approved "la liberte de philosopher" when it contained itself within certain limits. Garasse, who misrepresented Charron's point of view, found it • 176 ·

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impossible to distinguish between what an author believes through faith and what he confesses openly that reason has suggested to him concerning religious dogma. It was probably very difficult for many intellectuals to make the distinction much later, even in Bayle's day. At all events, Bayle asserted that the morals of Charron who did not doubt of the truths of Christianity were beyond reproach. He conceded nevertheless that "la bonne foi avec laquelle ce savant homme representoit toute la force des objections, contribua puissamment a faire douter de son Christianisme." And Bayle concluded laconically that he did not augment the difficulties of the "libertins." Nor are the modern critics wholly in accord either about what Charron was attempting. Bonnefon stated that he pillaged Montaigne and then arranged his ideas in summaries with the result that what was true in Montaigne's form became false when systematized. Bonnefon notes that the theologian clearly wanted to attach to religious faith a lay morality. What advantage a Catholic priest would have in doing this is inconceivable. Indeed, he seems only to have proved that philosophic wisdom can be acquired by purely human means, if one only follows the rules. He did teach a lay virtue, separating morality from faith, and favoring the "libertins." Strowski's interpretation is hardly less confused. Charron was, he says, only a "ramasseur de lieux communs," but he knew how to express them, to distinguish clearly between them, and to put them in order. Since the book was written to furnish a moral foundation to an age in crisis, it adopted at one and the same time a stoic tone and a skeptical manner. But it was wrongly interpreted because it was composed too rigidly and "sans nuance." Besides, thinking that he had preserved the Christian religion in Les Trois verites, Charron, declares Strowski, turned the Sagesse into a series of "pensees libres." It is difficult to accept these interpretations when one turns to the general arrangement of the book. There the distinction is immediately made between religion and wisdom, or "prud'homie," as Charron calls it. Wisdom he defines as man's excellence and perfection as man. He speaks disapprovingly of those who think that religion is the source of all good, and of all virtues. To him "prud'homie" is as much a source of virtue as religion. Moreover, Charron finds qualities in wisdom not possessed by religion: for instance, it is uni• 177 ·

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versal, while religion is particular; it finds its satisfaction in virtue, while religion is forever seeking a reward; there is only one faction in wisdom, while there are many religions, all of them "etrangeres au sens commun, surpassantes de bien loin toute la portee et intelligence humaine." Finally, we receive our religion according to the place of our birth: "Nous sommes circoncis, baptises, juifs, mahometans, chretiens avant que nous sachions que nous sommes hommes." Therefore the wise man will form his own judgment, he will examine, weigh, balance, his reasons. He will of course believe in God, that is, he will be a deist. But he will distinguish himself from the "superstitieux," just as he did in the Quatrains du deiste. Bayle laid great stress upon Charron's main statement concerning the nature of the Christian Religion as we now live it. Charron had written: C'est a la verite chose etrange que la Religion Chretienne, qui estant la seule, vraye au monde, la verite revelee de Dieu, devroit etre tres une et unie en soy, comme il n'y a qu'un Dieu et qu'une verite, soit toutefois dechiree en tant de parts, et divisee en tant d'opinions et sectes contraires; tellement qu'il n'y a article de foy, ni poinct de doctrine qui n'aye este debaty et agite diversement et n'y aye eu des heresies et sectes contraires. He added that the same phenomena do not occur in the false religions. On the contrary, the Christian Religion has overthrown empires and upset the world. And he concluded: "Il est permis aux seuls Chretiens d'etre meurtriers, perfides, traitres, et s'acharner les uns contre les autres." Bayle applauded the remark: "It is certainly possible to present, today, the great defect of Christianity in more elegant terms, but I defy our best writers to express it more forcefully, or to bring out more vividly the shame of it." If this is the condition of religion, then it is with difficulty that one can build a code of action upon it. Since the saint is no longer possible, we can only attempt to create the sage; and thus saintliness yields to "prud'homie," which is Charron's word for the social rather than the religious ideal. Charron defines his sage in the preface of the book: he knows how to set forth handsomely the man within him; knows himself well and the human lot; avoids vices, errors, passions, and defects, both within himself and in society; keeps his mind clean, free, frank, universal, considering and judging all things, not surrendering heed• 178 ·

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lessly to any; aims always to regulate himself in all things according to nature, that is upon reason. This reason is the first universal law inspired by God which enlightens us, and to which we yield and submit our own feeble intellect. To attain his goal, the sage has to know himself, the rules for the achievement of happiness, and the cardinal virtues. These three verities of moral man balance the three verities of religion. Tirelessly, Charron expatiates upon them and the problems to which they give rise: he considers the elements which compose man, the comparison of man and animals, the defects of humanity, the physical and moral differences which separate mankind, the rules for action. These rules are important because they not only initiate a tendency which will be pursued by Descartes, but they actually show similarity to Descartes's. The first is to judge everything: "Juger, c'est examiner, peser, balancer les raisons et contre-raisons de toutes parts." The second is to possess a steadfastness of purpose and a firmness of will, to refuse to give oneself thoughtlessly and unpremeditatedly to anything, and to adopt that which is true or seems most likely. The third is to acquire a universality of mind whereby one becomes an interested observer of the whole universe. The fourth is to husband the will and the emotions, committing oneself only to those few things, which are distinguished by their exactness. With the study of oneself, with the right application of these rules, one acquires this wisdom by drawing from within the forces for the good life. Charron grasped in Montaigne the inner source of vital energy: "Nous disons done, naturellement et universellement avec les philosophes et theologiens que cette sagesse humaine est une droicture, belle et noble composition de l'homme entier, en son dedans, son dehors, ses pensees, paroles, actions, et tous ses mouvemens, c'est !'excellence et perfection de l'homme comme homme." The same tendencies noted in Charron appear also in La Mothe Ie Vayer,2 who moved in the free-thinking circles of his time. He was a friend of Charron, familiar with Naude, a frequenter of both Gassendi and the irrepressible Guy Patin. Guez de Balzac seemed somewhat suspicious of his ideas, although in their correspondence 2 See J. S. Spink, French Free-thought from Gassendi to Voltaire, pp. 17-19; H. Busson, De Charron a Pascal, pp. 156-58, 210-14; F. Wickelgren, La Mothe Ie Vayer, sa vie et son ceuvre, Paris, 1934; R. Pintard, Le Libertinage erudit, Paris, 1946.

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he treats him with marked courtesy. He became the "protege" of Mile de Gournay, who remained his patroness until her death in 1645 and who bequeathed to him her library. He was celebrated among his contemporaries for his erudition, so renowned, in fact, that he was considered for the position of tutor to Louis XIV and actually did become the preceptor of the Duke of Orleans. Naude and Bayle called him "Le Plutarque francais," while Sorbiere referred to him as "Ie Plutarque et Ie Seneque de la cour, . . . un parfait modele de vertu et d'erudition." Bayle remarked upon his erudition and his propensity for quoting others, and regretted that he did not push his own ideas with a greater independence. Strangely enough, with this reputation for being another Plutarch, he seems to have utilized the works of his patronymic very infrequently, contrary to both Montaigne and Charron. Miss Wickelgren has explored the extent of his erudition in her thesis. Starting with his plan for assembling a small model library, she has examined his rather voluminous work with a view to collecting his references to these works. Among those which he seems to utilize the most are the Old Testament and Aristotle, though he also quotes abundantly from Sextus Empiricus, Seneca, and Cicero. Those whom he recommends are Campanella, Giordano Bruno, Telesio, that is to say the Paduans, and Francis Bacon whose works, particularly the 1619 translation of the (Euvres morales and the 1624 translation of the Advancement of Learning, were peculiarly attractive to him. This ability of La Mothe Ie Vayer to unite the Paduans, Montaigne and his sources, particularly Sextus and Seneca, and Francis Bacon is very interesting, indeed. When coupled with Sorbiere's translation of Hobbes, the extent of the English impact (at least in potentia) becomes apparent at a very early date. And when added to La Mothe's quotations from Pliny, from Averroes, Pomponazzi, and Cardano, not to mention the immense interest he took in voyage literature, the full range of this early seventeenthcentury erudition and its importance in the evolution of ideas become very impressive. Perhaps one example will bring out the significance of this remark. La Mothe wrote (Wickelgren, p. 51): "L'atheisme (dit Ie Chancellier Bacon dans ses Essais moraux) laisse a l'homme Ie sens, la philosophic, la piete naturelle, les loix, la reputation, et tout ce qui peut servir de guide a la vertu; mais la superstition detruit toutes ces choses et s'erige une tyrannie absolue dans • 180 ·

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l'entendement des hommes." In other words, atheism is less a menace than superstition, a point which Voltaire discussed and which became one of the most debated problems of the eighteenth century. La Mothe's reputation was not restricted to the first half of the seventeenth century. His works were widespread throughout most of the century, so much so that one can subscribe without difficulty to Miss Wickelgren's estimate as to his influence (p. 2): "La pensee de La Mothe Ie Vayer forme en effet un lien entre les idees de la Renaissance et celles du XVIIF siecle." Besides the many separate printings of some of his Essais, there were three editions of his collected works during his life: in 1654, in 1662, and in 1669, and Perrault gave him a significant place in the letters of his time in Les Hommes illustres (1700, t. II, p. 59if.): Les ouvrages qu'il a composes et qui sont d'un nombre prodigieux, sont dans les mains de tout Ie monde, et ont ete recueillis en 3 vols, in-fol. et en 15 petits in-12. Il n'y a presque point de matiere de celles qui meritent l'attention et l'examen d'un homme de lettres et particulierement de question de morale, dont il n'ait ecrit, et sur lesquelles il n'ait rapporte presque tout ce qui a ete dit par les anciens et les modernes. On Ie regarde comme Ie Plutarque de notre siecle, soit pour son erudition qui n'a point de bornes, soit pour sa maniere de raisonner et de dire son sentiment, toujours fort eloigne de l'air decisif des dogmatiques. It was Bayle, however, who gave him the strongest recommendation to the eighteenth century. There is, said Bayle, a lot of profit to be had in reading the works of this writer, who more than any other Frenchman resembles Plutarch. There are beautiful thoughts throughout his works, interspersed with good solid reasoning. Wit and learning are to be found together. The wit would be more attractive, perhaps, if it were alone; the authorities he quotes make for dull reading sometimes, but at other times they are the source of some of the most brilliant passages in his works. Bayle commented upon his great fascination for travel literature and surmised that he found therein his arguments for skepticism: La diversite prodigieuse qu'il rencontroit entre les mceurs et les usages des difrerents peuples Ie charmoit... . Il ne cache pas trop les consequences qu'il voudrait que 1'on tirat, c'est qu'il ne faut pas etre aussi decisif qu'on Test a condamner comme mauvais et deraisonnable, ce qui ne se trouve pas conforme a nos opinions et a nos coutumes. • 181 ·

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Bayle read his own intellectual problems into those of La Mothe as he was inclined to do with all the free-thinkers. He stressed La Mothe's tendency to confirm his own thoughts with those of the best authors of antiquity, while using them to create new thoughts "par !'application qu'il en faisoit, et par les consequences qu'il en tiroit." Bayle praised highly the Traite de I'instruction and the De la Vertu des payens. He insisted that their author was irreproachable in his morals, "un vrai philosophe dans ses moeurs" who scorned even permissible pleasures. He added that all this wisdom and austerity of living did not prevent some from suspecting that La Mothe had no religious convictions. Bayle concluded that La Mothe was perhaps too favorably inclined to skepticism and that there was "beaucoup de libertinage dans les Dialogues" but he denied that La Mothe was devoid of religion. Bayle's introduction of La Mothe to the eighteenth century must have been very successful. Between 1756 and 1759 there was published a new edition of the latter's CEuvres in fourteen vols., in-8°, printed at Pfcerten and distributed at Dresden by Michel Groell. The editors added a forty-page biography of La Mothe drawn in large part from Bayle. They asserted that the CEuvres could serve as a miniature library for those who wish a smattering of arts and sciences. They emphasized the erudition of the author, and noted that his works contain a selection of the best thoughts of the ancients and the moderns and a summary of all that a gentleman needs to know. The rest of the biography was given up to quotations from others concerning La Mothe's merit. The one taken from Naude's Mascurat is most interesting (I, 47): Frappe d'y trouver cette multiplicite, cette contrairete d'opinions sur tous les points que Dieu a livres a la dispute des hommes, il en vint a conclure que la Sceptique etoit de toutes les philosophies la plus sensee. Heureux ceux qui comme lui, ne chancellent que dans les routes de l'histoire et de la physique! Un doute eclaire peut quelque fois servir de flambeau pour s'y conduire. Mais si Ie pyrrhonisme etend ses droits jusque sur la morale, il ne sauroit qu'etre l'auteur de tous les maux et Ie destructeur de toute societe.

Naude's estimate of the core of La Mothe's thought is startlingly accurate. Frederic Lachevre has remarked that skepticism had a depressing effect on the minds of the writers between 1600 and 1625, leaving the way open for the free-thinkers, but that with the found• 182 ·

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ing of the new religious associations of laymen between 1625 and 1630, such as the Compagnie du St-Sacrement, this libertinage was checked. This analysis of the situation certainly does not hold for La Mothe, since it was in 1630 that he published the first volumes of his Dialogues. In these articles he defined the nature of his skepticism, based upon Montaigne's concept of diversity of races, of tastes, of conditions, of morality, and of religions. It is essentially an aristocratic attitude directed against the masses and especially against all forms of dogmatism and intolerance. La Mothe, like Montaigne in the Apologie, drew his controlling ideas from the Hypotyposes of Sextus Empiricus, and insisted that the true skeptic is still seeking the truth. For him, as for his predecessor Montaigne, skepticism is a method of examination which compares and opposes the objects of the senses to those of the intellect. Its ultimate goal is to encourage indifference, or at least impassibility. That is, it partakes largely of the qualities of stoicism. Indeed, for La Mothe as well as for Montaigne, it was conceived as a means of merging stoicism with epicureanism. Hence, in his Dialogue de I'dme, he attempted to define a philosopher who would embrace all these qualities: Nostre philosophe aux longues oreilles meprise les richesses, ne cherche jamais les charges et les magistratures; sa plus grande gloire provient du mepris de la gloire meme. Comme biens exterieurs, il a la sante, la beaute, la force, l'agilite. Il a la prudence, la vertu, la volupte. La Mothe even asserts that skepticism is the best preparation for the Christian religion, and in that, too, he is in accord with both Montaigne and Charron: Par consequent, puisqu'entre tous les genres de philosophic, il n'y a que celui des sceptiques qui nous donne instruction de la vanite des sciences, et nous apprenne a les mepriser avec raison, il s'ensuit que conformement a ce que nous avons establi des Ie commencement, il doit estre tenu pour Ie plus approprie a nostre vraye Religion, Ie plus respectueux envers la Divinite, et Ie plus fidele interprete de nostre Christianisme. But it remains a philosophy. In one of his Homilies academiques entitled De la philosophie (VI, 156-167) La Mothe notes the tendency to delimit the concept of philosophy: Du reste, quoique la philosophie etende en quelque facon sa juridiction sur toute sorte de connaissances, si est-ce qu'on appelle gueres philosophes • 183 ·

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que ceux, qui cultivent la morale, la physique, et l'art de raisonner en bonne consequence; car pour ce qui concerne la metaphysique, beaucoup de gens croient que dans une physique bien conduite et bien entendue, l'on se peut passer de cette quatrieme partie. Je sais bien qu'en nommant la philosophic comme Ton fait ordinairement, la science des choses divines et humaines, il semble qu'elle doive s'appliquer indifreremment a toute sorte de metiers, et parler a propos des arts les plus meprisables, aussi bien que de la theologie, et d'autres objets metaphysiques. Thus skepticism is a manner of penetrating philosophy—logic, physics, morality—which is as broad as human experience. It must undertake to speak of ordinary things as well as of theology and metaphysics. In contrast with the diversity of religions, it becomes a positive not a negative factor. Its examination of religions brings out their origin which often lies, as Lucretius had said, in fear. It concludes that all religions have elements in common, such as belief in the immortality of the soul and promise of recompense after death. But though they all have these things in common, they are also exceedingly different, and the question arises as to which is the best. La Mothe agreed with Montaigne and Charron that it was undoubtedly the Christian religion. In vaunting the skeptical approach, however, and, at the same time, in depreciating the possibilities of knowing, La Mothe, like Montaigne, introduced the notion that skepticism leads to the impossibility of proving one's faith by reason. Thus he, like Charron, becomes a very enigmatic character. From one angle, he seemed to justify the Christian religion, from another, he appeared to be attempting to dissociate philosophy from religion. The works of La Mothe are noteworthy not only for their content but for their form. The De Vinstruction de Mgr. Ie Dauphin consists in a series of miniature essays—De la Religion, De la Justice, Des Armes, Des Sciences—most of them presenting an encyclopedic introduction fundamental to the instruction of a prince. These little essays are followed by a set of longer essays on subjects which a prince should have investigated: geography, rhetoric, morality, economy, politics, logic, and physics. Each is broken down into its essentials. The section on morality, for instance, is divided into moral philosophy in general, the understanding and the will, the nature of moral action, the passions, love and hatred. These, too, are miniature Montaigne "essais," but they resemble more the abbreviated essays of • 184 ·

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Charron, and foreshadow the little topical essays of Descartes, as seen, for instance, in the Treatise on the Passions. The De !'instruction was followed by a whole series of essays entitled Opuscules et petits traites—De la Lecture de Platon, Du Sommeil, Des Voyages, Des Habits, De l'Amitie. These essays resemble even in title as well as in subject-matter the Montaigne "essai." Others have a notable difference—De l'Action et du repos, De l'Humilite et de l'orgueil, De la Sante et de la maladie, De la Conversation et de la solitude, Des Richesses et de la pauvrete—their distinctive feature being the way in which they involve a world of contradictions, which was one of the characteristic eighteenth-century ways, especially with Voltaire, of seeing the world. On the other hand in the Discours ou homelies academiques, there are many essays—Sur les Disputes, Sur les Manages, Du Repos, Des Jeux, Des Louanges, Des Injures— which recall Francis Bacon. Certainly one of La Mothe's achievements was the way in which he united the Montaigne, Charron and the Baconian essay, and at the same time gave the resultant product a sort of encyclopedic flavor. This tendency continued throughout the works of La Mothe. There are, of course, some longer essays, such as the skeptical discourse on music in the Discours, designed to show that the doubts of skeptical philosophy are very useful in the sciences. Even these longer essays have a tendency to break into little essays. The Discours on skeptical problems, for instance, consists in thirty-one moral propositions in which the editors note "notre auteur n'a rien oublie de ce qui peut raisonnablement se dire, pour et contre de pareils sujets." These problems are usually presented in the form of questions : Need one always follow the opinions of Aristotle ? Is science so very valuable that we must abandon everything to attain it ? Can the desire for glory, of whatever nature it is, justify all our actions ? Can one hold the law in too high esteem and become too rigorous a judge? Does the study of languages seem absolutely necessary? These thirty-one propositions are like the building blocks of a pragmatic morality. They resemble rather closely the article notes which Bayle often added to the Dictionnaire items. Finally, there are one hundred and fifty articles in the form of letters assumed to have been addressed to friends, whose names are, of course, not given. The subjects are most varied—De la paix, D'une jeunesse vicieuse, Des habitudes vertueuses, D'une belle vie, Des gentil-hommes, Des • 185 ·

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sepulcres, De la poesie. Put together, they resemble somewhat Voltaire's 1764 Dictionnaire philosophique. In fact, if all of these essays are looked at in an attempt to get at their organic meaning, they will not differ too radically from Voltaire's Questions sur I'Encyclopedie. Their analysis will offer some insight into the continuity of influence between Montaigne and Voltaire. Such an examination is not the only way of getting at this continuity, however. The editors undertook to reduce the content of La Mothe to key words rather than to miniature essays: history, religion, impostures, inequality, judgment, economy, etc. An examination of the key word "history" will bring out the technique: "Good historians relate many things which can never pass for true. History is one of the principal parts of oratory. It is very difficult to write the history of the present. It must always be written as if it is only intended for some future time. There are countless impostures and deceits utilized to achieve sovereign power. The judgments which we form concerning the manners of men, and taken from their writings, are not always trustworthy. In fact, our judgments are all uncertain. Human judgment is full of vanity and subject to tremendous mistakes." Or take the key word "Religion": "Religion is the first mainstay of monarchy. It is very worthwhile in temporal matters and its unity is very important to the state. The greater part of the abuses which were committed in pagan religions are practiced in the Christian religion. However, religion is not contrary to wisdom and reason." While these examples of key statements could be continued indefinitely, these two instances will serve to show their nature and their tendency. They are not at all unlike scores of others which could be extracted from any writer of the eighteenth century, nor do they differ markedly from Bayle's and Voltaire's. One aspect of La Mothe's thought—his attitude to the writing of history—was particularly important. Although he made frequent references to the subject, his views are concentrated in an essay entitled Preface pour un ouvrage historique, in which he takes the initial stand that the historian not only relates the event but he must insofar as possible explain it. This explanation entails disclosing the reasons which have preceded the event and the counsels which were taken, what we would call the valid causes of the event. What he seems in reality to be seeking is a history written in a beautiful style, • 186 ·

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presented in an impersonal way, and as impartially as possible. In an essay entitled "On the uncertainty of history," he stressed its usefulness (X, 443): "L'histoire a tant de beaux preceptes, tant d'exemples instructifs, et tant de choses notables pour touttes les parties de la philosophic, qu'il n'y en a point, qui ne puisse tirer beaucoup d'avantage de la lecture des histoires." We have presented this analysis of La Mothe's work in order to suggest the great variety of subjects treated and the nimble way he has handled them. One can now, perhaps, more clearly comprehend that the "sceptique" which he is constantly using does not really mean the expression of a doubt about what is known or cannot be known, but an inquiry into what may be known. La Mothe really is seeking something rather than wondering whether something can or cannot be found. "Skeptical" as an approach to life is thus a "critical" method rather than an attitude of dubiousness or even a suspension of judgment. Hesitations and inactivity are tolerated only at that point where one has attained the limits of the known; as for the rest, the skeptic approaches his world with the same inquiring mind we all use; he tries to penetrate its reality in the same way the human being has always wanted to become conscious of his inner reality, he makes a trial, an essay of what he perceives which is submission to experience, and he fashions that essay into his expression of it, which is the ultimate purpose of art. La Mothe has seized fully the technique, that is, the criticism of Montaigne, and at the primary level has shown how it can with genius be converted into the creation of Montaigne. The third member of the group was G. Naude,3 intimate friend of Guy Patin and Gassendi, sometime doctor of Louis XIII, and librarian of Cardinal Mazarin. Like La Mothe and Charron, he had a reputation for erudition. G. Patin (Lettre XLIII) confessed to being overwhelmed by his learning. Busson likens him to Diderot "style Louis XIII." This erudition had been acquired, at least in its early stages, at Padua, where Naude had studied on two occasions, in 1627 and 1633. Although he was a student of medicine, much of his attention was directed to philosophy. His fullest admiration was 8 See J. Charbonnel, La Pensee italienne, pp. 49-65; C. Sainte-Beuve, Portraits Utteraires, 11, 466-512; H . Busson, De Charron a Pascal, pp. 367-72, 481-94; R. Pintard, Le Libertinage erudit, Paris, 1946.

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accorded to Cremonini, who represented for the seventeenth-century French what Pomponazzi had represented in the sixteenth. Naude gave a glowing account of his master: "Ce Cremonin etoit grand personnage, un esprit vif et capable de tout, un homme desniaise et gueri du sot, qui scavoit bien la verite, mais qu'on n'ose pas dire en Italic" Naude added that all the professors of Italy, but principally those of Padua, were "desniaises." The Italy which he adored was, as he said in the Naudeana, "pleine de libertins et d'athees." Naude became the faithful interpreter of the Paduans in France. Time and again, he vaunted Aristotle, the Aristotle of Averroes and Pomponazzi. What he admired most in Aristotle, as well as in Pomponazzi, was clarity of reasoning. When in 1625 he wrote the Apologie pour les grands hommes accuses de magie, he applied the same critical method to miracles, possessions, and demonology in general which Pomponazzi had utilized in the De incantationibus. Naude's general thesis is that the "magie" so often attributed to great men is the result in part of their political ruse and in part of public gullibility: "La faussete s'accroist ainsi par contagion et par applaudissement donne, non par jugement et connaissance de cause, mais a la suitte de quelqu'un qui a commence la danse." This thesis was resumed in the Considerations sur les coups d'Etat (1639), where he dared write under circumstances requiring more than usual tact that the affair of Marthe Brossier "n'etoit qu'une pure feinte." In a country where a respectable priest4 had been burned five years before for casting a spell upon a whole convent, it took some courage to have an opinion of this sort. This, however, was only one of the Paduan positions which he espoused. The Naudeana attributed to him a remark concerning immortality which had been treated so rationally in Pomponazzi's day. After stating that according to Aristotle the soul dies with the body, he added: "No one has yet convicted his books of falsehood or upset his reasons." Perhaps his most startling thesis was the insistence that all government took its origin in some deceit in which religion and miracles were used to confirm the trickery. Voltaire utilized the theory in his 4 Near the end of the sixteenth century, Marthe Brossier, a woman of Romorantin, was said to be possessed; there is a long account of her activities in the Grand Dictionnaire Larousse. Urbain Grandier, curate of Loudun, was accused of having cast a spell upon the nuns of that town and was burned at the stake in 1624.

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Mahomet and in other places in his work; so did the author of Les Trots imposteurs. Naude gave a whole set of examples of rulers who employed this device: those who were preserved by some miraculous feat; those who spoke for some divinity; those who claimed to be the son of some divinity; finally, those who arrogated to themselves the condition of divinity. Naude's attitude toward this trickery was ambiguous; in a cynical way he approved the phenomenon, chiefly because he believed the public is so stupid that it wants to be fooled. His cynicism extended further, however. Living in a regime which held Machiavelli in equal authority with the Catholic breviary, he could not refrain from stating that a good prince will claim all the prerogatives of religion and will say that he is inspired by God. He will produce false miracles, revelation, and prophecies, and will enlist the cooperation of the clergy. They will support each other as "deux coupeurs de bourse," to quote Meslier, who was not at all favorably disposed to the practice. Religions, Naude wrote in the Considerations, created and exploited for political ends die with the coming of enlightenment. He noted that in his time "Ie trop grand nombre de colleges, seminaires, etudiants, joints a la facilite d'imprimer et de transporter les livres, ont deja bien ebranle les sectes et la Religion." One cannot tell exactly whether Naude is sincere or not; indeed in this sort of ambiguity of intention it is difficult to know where sincerity lies. It is certain that Mazarin's librarian was dead set against all kinds of fables, superstitions, occultism. He began his career by condemning the Rosicrucians, declaring himself opposed not only to this particular sect, but to all occult sciences, superstitions, ignorance of "chymistes, astrologues, magiciens et charlatans." He attacked the legends and fables surrounding Zoroaster, Orpheus, and Pythagoras, denying every manifestation of supernaturalism. He made sport of Numa Pompilius and his nymph Egeria, and called Numa "un politique admirable." Thus utilizing the same approach as Pomponazzi a century earlier, Pietro d'Abano two centuries before that, and Cardano his contemporary, he rejected every interpretation based on miracles, when one can always interpret "les experiences inou'ies par les principes de la philosophic naturelle." All fables are impostures, good when the world was young, ridiculous now that humanity is "deniaisee." Naude is contemptuous of the imbecility of • 189 ·

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the popular mob, and all imaginings of the learned, affirming that both religion and science are infested with all kinds of extravagances. He proposed as a countermeasure the establishment in colleges of a philosophy which he defined as "la pratique moderee et controlee, de toutes les disciplines, dans l'usage discret des instruments propres a raisonner et s'instruire en la verite de toute chose." Like his contemporary Descartes, he was in search of a method for penetrating the secrets of the world around him, and he also insisted that it should be capable of rising to the highest, most eminent speculations, of offering an opportunity to withdraw from the common herd, "prendre l'essor, se guinder a tire d'ailes a ces voutes assurees du plus pur de notre ame." But it must be recorded that he failed to discover it, possibly because, as Pintard suggests, he was more humanist than philosopher, and more critic than metaphysician, and in that respect he distinguished himself from Descartes. He spoke nonetheless of "squaring all things with reason." His method for this task was twoedged. Sometimes he rejected the miraculous because it is unscientific, at other times because it is unsubstantiated by contemporaries. Thus he had two weapons: the facts of science and the witnesses of history. Of the two, he, like La Mothe, preferred the historical approach, supported by psychological interpretations. However, despite his liking for history, he refused all validity to the general consensus, thus affirming a critical spirit characteristic of Bayle and Fontenelle. Naude, however, who came so near to having Descartes's dream, only to shy away and take another tack more characteristic of the eighteenth-century "philosophe," undertook in his way to write a sort of Discourse on Method in the Syntagma de studio liberali. The ideal which one has in learning, he said, is the acquisition of a bona mens, that is, not wisdom, but a sharpening of the intellectual instrument. Obstructing the way to this goal are a thousand obstacles: pedantry, scholasticism, prejudices of the vulgar mob, false opinions, naivety. Naude proposed five principles to combat these obstacles: persuade oneself that truth has never been attained; remember that nothing is stable in this world; keep constantly in mind that practically everything in the traditions of the past is legendary; recognize that in the order of the human spirit everything tends to go beyond its limits; and, finally, keep an open mind, • 190 ·

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free from the constraints of opinions or passions as well as from those of authority. With these general considerations, Naude, like his fellow "libertin" La Mothe, succeeded in putting some order in his thinking. Pintard calls it a "debut de methode," and notes that its author mapped a way between dogmatism and skepticism. Naude also utilized it to confirm rationalistic criticism which he espoused. He broadened his field by abandoning the superstitious aberrations of his time, railed at credulous piety, condemned the fear of poisons, and set himself firmly against the notion of fate or destiny, no matter what form it takes. And yet strangely enough this positivist, as Pintard has shown, "persevere dans sa tentative pour interpreter l'histoire dans un esprit rationaliste, et pour faire servir l'histoire au triomphe de l'esprit rationaliste." Naturally, his efforts ended in irreligion. Nevertheless, in the Apologie, he reaffirmed his belief in God and in the devil, and struck out boldly against atheism. When the circumstances required it, he separated the truths of faith from those of reason, as all good Paduans did. It was a way of proceeding which he had learned among the "deniaises." Further, as happened at Padua, he had a tendency to deny providence and replace it with a natural chain of causes. Giordano Bruno had burned for less, but he had not been blessed with an Italian cardinal as his patron. The fourth of the free-thinkers we are considering here was Guy Patin (1600-1672),5 more important for the lively interest which he took in free-thinking than for the contribution which he made to it. Like Naude, he was a physician, who seemed to have an affinity for Rabelais and a disposition not unlike that of the Meudon curate. His satiric nature, a penchant for making sport of others, and an uneasy curiosity were points of resemblance between the two, while others of Patin's traits—a confused mind, a particular regard for litde details, and liking for the anecdotal—would hardly be duplicated in the author of Gargantua et Pantagruel. Patin pursued the cult of letters with great assiduity, but perhaps, as Busson suggested, as a relief from his profession rather than for 5 See Spink, op. at., pp. 21-22; H. Busson, De Charron a Pascal, pp. 347-348, 374377. 501-510; R. Pintard, Le libertinage erudit, pp. 311-315; Sainte-Beuve, Lundis, VIII, 83-133·

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any active purpose. He was, as Busson added, "frotte d erudition," but in spite of some confusion which appears in his readings, a careful examination of the list will show that his interests were not as unmotivated as they seem. Among the writers of antiquity, he expressed admiration for Aristotle and Plato, a deep respect for Seneca, Pliny, Lucretius, and Juvenal, and enthusiasm for Plutarch, whose Moredia he calls "Ie meilleur de tous les livres." Among those of the Renaissance, besides his high regard for Rabelais, he gave unqualified approval to Erasmus, whose Epistles he pronounced "un tresor incomparable," to Montaigne, to Jean Bodin, and to de Thou. Among those of his contemporaries whom he praised for their excellence were Charron, Grotius, Vanini. Charron, for instance, he called "un admirable esprit." Finally, he showed a keen interest in the Paduans and the post-Paduans—Pomponazzi, Cremonini, Campanella—and those who gathered around Gassendi, especially Naude and La Mothe Ie Vayer. Patin not only made the acquaintance of these writers through their works, he went around in the company of those of them who were his contemporaries. As a member of the Faculte de Medecine, and eventually its "doyen," he enjoyed a certain distinction which he could use to gain admittance to the intellectual circles of his day. He attended assiduously the little group which gathered at the Oratory with Nicolas Bourbon, his old teacher, but he also frequented Grotius when the latter was in Paris in 1623, was quite intimate with Naude in the 1640s after the latter returned from Padua, and became an admirer of La Mothe and Gassendi during the next decade. Genuinely interested in the intellectual life, he conceived of erudition first as a medical man, but also as a humanist and a free-thinker who possessed an inordinate curiosity and a true desire to know. His was not an orderly mind, however; in all probability, among the free-thinkers, he was the "erudit moyen," more conservative than radical, more "grondeur" and "frondeur" than intellectual. He has been likened to Homais, a compliment he would have received with cold disdain, since he loathed all apothecaries. Patin dabbled in the foundations of religion, read the Koran in Italian, and possessed a copy of Bodin's Heptaplomeres—there is, indeed, some small evidence that he was well acquainted with this clandestine literature. Bayle, who devoted an article to him in the • 192 ·

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Dictionnaire, noted that, on the occasion when Patin's son was dis­ graced, the father explained in a letter the reasons for the disgrace. Bayle gave an extract of the letter which throws some light on the period: Parce qu'on a trouve parmi ces livres, quelques volumes du factum de Mr. Fouquet, et de l'Histoire de l'entreprise de M. Gigeri.... On a nomme trois livres, savoir un plein d'impiete; c'est un livre Huguenot intitule L'Anatomie de la messe, par Pierre Dumoulin, ministre de Charenton, comme si !'Inquisition etoit en France. C'est un livre de six sous. Paris est plein de tels livres, et il n'y a gueres de bibliotheques ού Ton n'en trouve, et meme chez les moines. . . . Le second etoit un livre, a ce qu'ils disent, contre Ie service du Roy; c'est Ie Bouclier d'etat, qui s'est vendu dans Ie Palais publiquement, et auquel on imprime ici deux reponses. Le troisieme est l'Histoire galante de la cour, qui sont de petits libelles plus dignes de mepris que de colere. Clearly, the circulation of clandestine literature in the seventeenth century, which Busson has suspected but not been able to prove to any great extent, did occur. Patin was familiar with it, and on sev­ eral occasions displayed a lively interest in Les Trois imposteurs. Patin's religious views have probably been overstressed. He had a deep aversion for monks, whom he judged much after the fashion of Rabelais, and Jesuits, whom, for some unknown reason, he could not abide. In fact, he regarded all ecclesiastics with suspicion. His greatest disdain was poured upon the pope and the corruption of the papal court. In general, he expressed contempt for all bigotry, and superstitious people. Taking what he says at face-value, one con­ cludes that everything was wrong with Catholicism, which does not at all mean that he rejected it. Like a good Parisian bourgeois, he could find all kinds of defects in his religion without abandoning it. He showed much sympathy for the Protestants, especially for their persecution, and in their discussions with the Catholics he seemed inclined to take their side. Nevertheless, he always came back to his traditional position. Even in his final instructions to his son, which Pintard quotes at length, he urged him to accept in silence those things which he does not approve ("audi, vide, tace"). Patin's position regarding the Church is duplicated in his attitude toward the government, where he likewise condemned everything and everyone (the functionaries, the intendants, the magistrates) except the king. In the society of his time, he had harsh words for • 193 ·

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those who show a lack of piety, for the superstitious, the heretics. The Loudun affair he dismissed with a contemptuous snort. Long before Bayle, he ridiculed those who thought comets portended ill luck—although mingled with this general condemnation there is a certain questioning uneasiness. The pompous physician is not at all sure of the stability of his own position, nor even of a possible orderliness in the society of man. Are the ancient philosophers really atheists? Is the soul immortal? Are miracles possible? Can creation actually occur? Is matter eternal? The great doctor makes no pretense to give answers to his interminable questionings. He pronounces that religion exists to deceive the populace and laments that no man can attain truth. Most of all, he scourges his fellow men for betraying his ideal. He himself did not commit that sin of betrayal, but he was caught in a situation where his ideal had had its day. For him, the grand period of Europe was the time of Erasmus, a period full of humanists, not yet suffering from the schism. Patin seemed to think of it as a moment without "mechancete, hypocrisie, fanatisme," where everyone obeyed the law of nature and enjoyed the thrill of Litterae humaniores. Pintard was correct, no doubt, in calling him "un amoureux de£u, un devot contrarie." Bayle, who naturally gave him a place in his Dictionnaire, was more interested in Patin's letters for the picture they gave of Paris "comme un egout de corruption" than for any portrait they presented of the author as free-thinker. Having seized upon the story of an abortion related in Patin's letters, Bayle allowed himself to be carried away, even to the point of seeing in the affair confirmation of his theory that morality is more determined by the "point d'honneur" than by the precepts of religion. Most of his information on Patin was extracted from the editor's introduction to the Lettres, but Bayle had much respect for him too: Il disoit les choses avec un froid de Stoicien, mais il emportait la piece, et sur ce chapitre, il eut donne des lecons a Rabelais. On disoit qu'il avoit commente cet auteur, et qu'il . . . en savoit tout Ie fin. C'est ce qui Ie fit accuser d'etre un peu libertin. La verite est qu'il ne pouvoit souffrir la bigoterie, la superstition, et la forfanterie, mais il avoit 1'ame droite, et Ie cceur bien place. Il etoit passionne pour ses amis, affable et officieux envers tout Ie monde, et particulierement envers les etrangers et les savants. .

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Patin's role was thus more that of commentator than of thinker, and, consequently, his reactions are more important than his ideas. His general approach is that of a commonsense skepticism, in which he is more inclined to question than to discuss. In all probability his free-thinking was motivated more by personal likes and dislikes than by reasoned reflection, but his career of doctor was also a determining influence. He questions miracles, the intercession of providence in the affairs of men, immortality. In his opinion, all matters of sorcery, possession, etc. are fakes, which, in general, he is likely to attribute to normal, physical, causes. "Je pense que de tout temps on a trompe Ie monde sous pretexte de religion," he wrote. While carrying out his religious practices as a normal bourgeois is expected to do, he regards with suspicion all kinds of ceremonies, legends, fabulous stories, everything which partakes of show. In reality, however, he condemns not the underlying falsity of religion, but the evil character of men: "Je ne vois ici que de la cabale, tyrannie, fourberie, singerie, hypocrisie et tout cela confit en beaucoup de ceremonies, et meme les plus fins y trompent in nomine Domini" The fifth member of this group was Samuel Sorbiere (1610-70),6 a Protestant from the region around Nimes and nephew of the distinguished Protestant Samuel Petit. The uncle directed the education of the youth, expecting that he would become a Protestant minister. The nephew, however, elected to continue his education in Paris, where, through his uncle, he was introduced into the intellectual centers of the day. He was received at the Academie Puteane as well as at Mersenne's assemblies, and thus became acquainted with the ideas of the time as well as with Gassendi and his group. He also discovered Kepler, Galileo, Descartes, and Hobbes. In the Sorberiana, there are some interesting remarks about these intellectual giants. It is clear that Sorbiere preferred Gassendi and Galileo to Descartes. While admitting that the latter is "un grand genie," he also remarked that "il se demene vigoureusement sur ses fantaisies" e See R. Pintard, op. cit., pp. 334-344; A. Morize, "Thomas Hobbes et Samuel Sorbiere," R. G., IV, 1908, pp. 195-204: "Samuel Sorbiere et son Voyage en Angleterre," RHL, XIV, 1907, pp. 231-275; and "Samuel Sorbiere," ZFSL, XXXIII, 1908, pp. 214-265; Guilloton, V., "Autour de la Relation du voyage de Samuel Sorbiere en Angleterre," Smith Studies, XI-XII, 1929-31, pp. 1-29; G. Ascoli, La Grande Bretagne.

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and he found his thought abstract. Sorbiere confessed that he himself was unable to follow Descartes and, besides, he was far more interested in Gassendi's experimental philosophy and atomism. Suddenly thrown into the midst of all this intellectual fermentation, the youth was somewhat overwhelmed. He embraced the new physics and the new astronomy, and turned his attention also to Epicurus and atomism. He became deeply interested in medicine and continued his theological pursuits. In this latter area, however, he was now anything but orthodox and, like Gassendi, he dabbled in the illuminated theology of the moment. Pintard suspects (p. 336) that Sorbiere underwent a moment of violent crisis from which he emerged convinced that the important questions of life cannot be answered and that man is condemned in this world to obey without understanding. There are indications that the young Sorbiere approached his difficulties with more practical considerations, however. On the other hand, it is probably true that his was not at all a first-rate intelligence and that he understood badly the deep philosophical problems then under discussion. He did possess, nevertheless, that everlasting curiosity which his friend Patin displayed and, with it, a dogged ambition to play his role among the erudite humanists whom he frequented. Sorbiere left Paris in 1642 for Holland, apparently attracted by his newly-acquired interest in socinianism. There he met Grotius, Vossius, Wiszowaty, and his own cousin fitienne de Courcelles. He at first became a preceptor, but finding his task rather boring, in 1644 he took up an editorial task at Amsterdam. The medical profession still beckoned, and after two years of study at Leyden, he began the practice of medicine. He had no great success, however, and so, now married and literally penniless, he saw no other outlet than to return to the post of principal in the college at Orange (1650), a position which the Dhona family had secured for him. At this moment he became a Catholic, though Pintard depicts him (p. 341) as a cynical hypocrite, totally disinterested in all religious manifestations and committed only to "l'ardeur philosophique." Just what this philosophical enthusiasm amounted to is not easy to define. Certainly, his intellectual interests which range from Protestant theology to socinianism, to medicine, to natural science, to education are varied. He was physicist at the Montmor Academy, historian with Mazarin, abbe at Noyon, preceptor on various occa• 196 ·

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sions, collector of letters of the important figures he knew, pamphleteer, journalist and hack writer, but above all translator and editor of the great. In all this diversity he gave the impression of immense curiosity and constant superficiality, which his contemporaries did not fail to note. Baillet, for instance, wrote that he was "plus curieux que savant," and Chapelain stated that he talked "a tatons des choses qu'il ignore." Voltaire, who gave him a place in the catalogue of writers in the Louis XIV, noted: "Il effleura beaucoup de genres de sciences." His favorite writers were those of his friend Patin: Rabelais, Montaigne, Charron, and among the ancients Seneca, Lucretius, and Sextus Empiricus, whom he translated in part. Gravenol, his biographer, wrote in his Memoires that Sorbiere worshipped the memory of Rabelais, and that Montaigne and Charron were his particular heroes. The three great philosophers of his time—Hobbes, Descartes, and Gassendi—he knew personally, having met them at Mersenne's. He approached Hobbes at first with much suspicion, but under Mersenne's proddings he studied the Englishman and in the end regarded him with much favor. In 1648 he brought out a second edition of the De Cive and a French translation of the same work in the following year. His experience with Descartes was more or less the reverse of what had happened with Hobbes. He began enthusiastically, but as time passed he criticized with some severity the abstract quality of Descartes's thought, and some of this criticism could have been motivated by wounded pride. In 1642, for instance, the French philosopher, now at Endegeest, and craving nothing more than solitude and peace, was literally hounded by Sorbiere who became a kind of official spy commissioned by the Mersenne group to track down the ideas of the philosopher. Under these circumstances, Descartes could be expected to protest this type of persecution. Later, after Descartes had gone to Christina's court, and hearing that Sorbiere was now angling for an invitation also, he probably did nothing, as the latter suspected, to further that enterprise. Sorbiere was almost as active as Mersenne himself in encouraging these philosophers to be up and doing. He prodded Descartes into writing the Reponses to the Objections in connection with his Meditations, and the following year, 1643, he published Gassendi's Objections, Descartes's Reponses, and the very long lnstantiae of Gassendi, which he had also promoted. After having declared that • 197·

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Hobbes, Descartes, and Gassendi were greater philosophers than any three in antiquity, he came finally to feel that the greatest of these three was Gassendi. He not only felt an attraction for Gassendi's experimental method, but approved willingly the commonsense factualism of the Digne priest. When the full works of Gassendi were brought out in six volumes after his death, Sorbiere wrote the biography. What he admired most in his thought was its skepticism, but he also shared Gassendi's interest in epicureanism. He seemed to place more restrictions upon the Greek philosopher than Gassendi did, however. When Sorbiere brought out his Lettres et discours de M. de Sorbiere sur diverses matieres curieuses in 1660, he wrote one of the items (XXXIII) to Chapelain apropos the Syntagma of Gassendi entitled "De la Vie, des moeurs et de la reputation d'fipicure"; a subsequent treatise was entitled (XXXIV) "Qu'il y a des natures incorporelles, contre l'opinion d'lipicure"; another (XXXV), "Contre l'infinite des mondes et de l'eternite des univers," still another (XXXVII), "De la Providence de Dieu, reponse aux erreurs d'lipicure," and a final one (XXXVIII), "Reponse aux objections d'fipicure contre la Providence." These deviations in no way turned him from his admiration for Gassendi. Bernier at a later moment insisted that Sorbiere was the greatest of the Gassendists, greater even, he added wryly, than Gassendi himself. Sorbiere, for his part, declared openly that for twenty years he had been the disciple of La Mothe Ie Vayer and that he had neglected nothing to form his own style and his judgment upon the writings of La Mothe, whose skepticism he praised. In fact, he stated, there can be no finer philosophy than "un scepticisme epure par les pieux sentiments et fortifie par la morale chretienne." Sorbiere has come down to us as a relatively mediocre intellectual who so dispersed his efforts that he was superficial in everything. This portrait, which Morize has painted in his articles on Sorbiere, is certainly not incorrect, though it is exaggerated in two respects: the erudition of his time, especially among the free-thinkers, was often characterized by a superficial curiosity and by a wide dispersal of interests. The other contemporary "erudits" of Sorbiere shared the same faults, although probably to a less glaring degree. What characterized their erudition was a mixture of humanism and modern science. They are at the same time followers of Greek and Latin schools of thought (stoicism, skepticism, and epicureanism), his• 198 ·

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torians rather than philosophers, and enthusiastic dabblers in the "modern" philosophies of Hobbes, Bacon, Descartes, and Gassendi. Since, however, they are more humanists than scientists, they naturally appear freer and superficial. Sorbiere merely appeared more so because of a much wider dispersal and a more limited intelligence. He was extremely important, though, in being one of the early popularizers of England in France. In 1663, he made a three months' sojourn in England and upon his return published a Relation d'un voyage en Angleterre in which he announced his intention of treating, among other matters, the state of the sciences and religion in England. The trip was planned, as he states, to see his friends, to get acquainted with English scholars, and to investigate the scientific activity of the country. He therefore visited Hobbes and Monconys, and met Moray, whom he praised highly for the measures he took to advance natural science and to improve thereby "les commodites de la vie." Sorbiere was an associate member of the Royal Academy, because of his relationship with Bignon and probably because, as historiographer of Louis XIV, he was deemed by the English entided to this honor by virtue of his office. While in England, he visited some sessions of the Royal Academy which in a way became the center of his Relation. It is not, however, exact to see in his work only a description of the activities of English scientists. He himself insisted that he had neglected nothing "du gouvernement, des moeurs, et du genie des peuples." He confessed to having acquainted himself with much of London and having consulted scholars from all areas of learning, but he adds that "cela ne suffit pas, a mon avis, pour me faire penser que j'aye penetre dans Ie fond des affaires, ny connu une nation, a Ie dire entre nous, fort bizearre et fort irreguliere." Sorbiere remarks sagely that one must be prudent and not adopt as accurate an early impression which one has of a foreign country. This caution was especially recommendable if the foreign visitor, as was his own case, could not speak the language of the country he was visiting. Recognizing that this was a real handicap, the seventeenth-century Frenchman did exacdy what Montesquieu did in the eighteenth: he tried to supplement his observations with information drawn from books. Morize (pp. 238-42) has meticulously studied Sorbiere's borrowings from Camden (whom Sorbiere translated) and others. Indeed, Morize is inclined to deny the author of the Relation much original• 199 ·

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ity in his views on England, showing that the opinions expressed in the Relation can be found in other contemporary works. However that may be, Sorbiere deserves more than a little credit for undertaking a work on the civilization of England after the fashion of the travel literature of his time. He should also be commended for following the pattern of those who were interested in arriving at the concept of civilization by establishing certain fundamental elements. Sorbiere announced in the title that he was going to deal particularly with two of those elements—science and religion —but in the body of the work, he also stated that he was determined to investigate three others: government, manners, and customs, and the "genie" of the people. Much later, Voltaire was rather contemptuous of the Relation, both because it was written by a traveler who had spent only three months in the country of his interest, and because he was unable to speak the language of that country. He described Sorbiere's book as an unworthy "satire" and recalled that the author had been condemned by the French authorities. In this appraisal Voltaire was not any too generous. He might be forgiven for criticizing Sorbiere for his short stay in England and his presumption in writing about that country on such short acquaintance; even Sorbiere's deficiency in English should not be condoned. Since these two defects did not handicap Voltaire in the Lettres anglaises, calling attention to them in Sorbiere was undoubtedly a way of advertising his own Lettres. But he was certainly unjust in condemning the work as a "satire," for the Relation was no more satiric than the Lettres. And he was ungrateful for not recognizing that his predecessor had discovered a way of dividing the subject so that the essential parts of a civilization could be analyzed. Moreover, Sorbiere's observations for one who spent so little time in England are far from stupid. The Englishman appeared to him lazy and somewhat shiftless, but proud, "d'humeur libre et arrogante," full of "presomption," possessed of "quelque sorte d'extravagance des pensees," and contemptuous of other races. Sorbiere attributes this pride and haughtiness to a feeling of security and contentment. He further represents the English as exceedingly patriotic and brave when danger approaches, like the ancient Romans. With foreigners they are somewhat reticent. Sorbiere does not fail to state that they suffer from a melancholia "qui leur est toute particuliere." The Frenchman noted that the people of his race are received • 200 ·

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coldly in England, and that the English way of expressing contempt for them is to call them "chiens de francais." He is generous enough, however, to admit that French travelers are indiscreet, sometimes frivolous, and ever hasty to condemn others. As for himself, he is careful to declare that he was treated civilly and courteously. He noted no misery among the populace. There were poor people, of course, but everyone had the ordinary necessities of life and cared not about the superfluities. He gave a fair amount of his work to religion in England, described very clearly the organization of the ecclesiastical hierarchy, noted that the king was the titular head of the Church, and made some effort to explain the background of the Reformation in England seen from the Catholic point of view. He nevertheless praised the moderation of the Protestants, but mentioned only cursorily the Quakers and the Independents. For him the two Protestant sects of consequence were the Presbyterians and the Church of England, the former being an opposition Church. Finally, he deplored in passing the persecution of the Catholics. Sorbiere commented upon the superior position of English science with Gilbert, Harvey, and Bacon. The last he praised highly for his "grandeur de dessein" and "cette docte et judicieuse tablature." "Ce grand homme," he added, "est sans doute celui qui a Ie plus puissamment solicite les interets de la physique, et excite Ie monde a faire des experiences." After the presentation of these rather heterogeneous works, it would seem reasonable to stop and inquire just what these five writers contributed to the formation of eighteenth-century thought. The remark, practically always made, is that with the exception of Charron, the four others—La Mothe, Naude, Guy Patin, and Sorbiere—form a group which it is customary to establish around Gassendi. In reality, all five as well as Gassendi were centered around Montaigne. Each attempts to develop in his way the ideas in the Essais. In general, all of them aspired to a reputation for learning characteristic of Montaigne. They were all library scholars and their erudition was humanistically oriented. When a list of classical books relevant to each is drawn up, it turns out to be with unimportant exceptions the ancient writers who were so dear to Montaigne: Aristotle and Plato, Plutarch and Seneca, Cicero and Lucretius, Sextus • 201 ·

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Empiricus and, finally, Pomponazzi. Their attitude toward knowledge represents a merging of stoical thought with Epicurean action, or contrariwise Epicurean thought with stoical action. Not one is stoic in thought and action, or epicurean in thought and action; and in this, they resemble the master also. But the outstanding quality of their thought and action is neither stoical nor epicurean, it is skeptical in the third sense of skepticism as defined in Sextus Empiricus and explained by Montaigne in the Apologie: a constant searching for truth based on the continuous quest for oneself and unyielding determination to draw therefrom all the resources of which one is capable. They have a tremendous enthusiasm for antiquity, a high regard for the Paduans, and they hold in esteem the Italians. They have some inclination to pursue the exact sciences, but a special interest in the facts of history. Uniformly, they reject all authority in science and philosophy; they criticize the prejudices of common opinions; they inaugurate and apply with precision the experimental method; they counsel caution in regard to miracles, oracles, superstitions. When the unorthodoxy of their views attracts a hostile comment, they hide behind a fideism which may be sincere but is nevertheless suspect. They are followers of Gassendi rather than of Descartes; they openly declare for atomism and the vacuum rather than for subtle matter and the plenum. They are greatly preoccupied with the Paduan problems, but not very efficient in coming to positive conclusions about them. They are more apt to stress the impossibility of knowing God's nature, or of knowing rationally His existence, than of proving His existence by ontological reasons. They discuss interminably the immortality of the soul, but get no further than Pomponazzi a hundred years earlier. They identify this soul with the soul of the universe, a view the Renaissance Italians had adopted. They are suspicious of all religions and of the clergy, and they hold the opinion that one of the outstanding services rendered by religion is the establishment of the state, albeit by ruse. They oppose any manifestation of the supernatural, sorcery or demonology, and they decry prophecies and revelations. Their ideas seem lacking in formal order, although each of them has a particular way of handling the material: the historical criticism of La Mothe, the critical rationalism of Naude, the experimental naturalism of Gassendi. Obviously what each is seeking, besides an inner knowledge of himself, is some or•202 ·

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der of knowing, some theory of knowledge which will replace the old outworn theories. But though they seek an order, they reject all forms of intellectual constraint. If they have confidence in anything it is in the ultimate efficacy of thought, limited though it be, but solely on condition that it be free. The question naturally arises whether, in the opposition of these "libertins" and Descartes, one impeded the growth of the other or whether they eventually effected a compromise? Scholars who have discussed this problem have offered three answers. Sainte-Beuve and Brunetiere agreed that the eighteenth-century philosophical movement reached back to the libertines La Mothe, Naude, and others, but they differed in the way they considered the influence was exerted. Sainte-Beuve thought that the free-thinkers of the early part of the century (1600-1640) joined forces with the free-thinkers of the latter part of the century (1680-1700). Brunetiere, however, thought that the free-thinkers of the first period merged with Cartesianism, and that the two movements together became sufficiently strong to combat Jansenism. A difficulty in validating either opinion lies in the fact that there has always been a period extending from 1655 to around 1680 in which admittedly neither libertinism nor Cartesianism has seemed a dominant intellectual movement. It became necessary, therefore, to explain first what checked these two movements and second what conditions led to their revival. Lanson, in the Origines ei premieres manifestations de I'esprit philosophique, attempted to give a specific answer: he saw both Cartesianism and libertinism as primary causes of the philosophic spirit. But the libertinism was that of Bayle, Fontenelle, the Marquis de Lassay, and the late Utopian novelists, not the men whom we have just presented. The problem therefore still persisted. Hazard explained that the philosophical ferment which came out of the Renaissance extended to the middle of the seventeenth century, where it was checked by a movement of order, regularity, balance, and proportion which lasted for twenty-five years or so. Then classicism fell into disorder, a crisis developed, and the old uneasy ferment started anew. In his conclusion to De Charron a Pascal, Busson sees an entirely different situation. "En apparence," he says, "les soixante annees qui separent Charron de Pascal preparent Ie triomphe de l'fLglise." Unbelief, either because of a regression of the rationalist movement or as a result of the revival of Christian spirituality, is practically •203 ·

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silenced. Busson concedes that the number of unbelievers was probably high, but he maintains that their intellectual quality was low: it is difficult to find a professor comparable to Vimercati or a work comparable to that of Jean Bodin, or philosophers comparable to the Averroistes of the Paduan group. The Quatrains d'un deiste, which is the only manual of free-thinking of the period, is puerile. Rationalism, having lost its vigor, is not renewed. Rationalists pose the same questions and use the same formulae which are to be found in the Renaissance. Science, which could have raised new problems, said Busson, hesitated either because of timidity or of fear. There was an abundance of apologetics, but it, too, was not renewed. Nothing resembles a treatise on the soul of 1550 like a treatise on the soul of 1650. Even the arguments are worn-out with usage. And Christianity itself begins to absorb all the contrary pagan philosophies: stoicism, pyrrhonism, atomism, epicureanism, and Cartesian rationalism. Busson concludes (p. 612): "Le resultat en est un appauvrissement de la demonstration religieuse, un universel scepticisme, fruit du fideisme theologique, de la ruine des grandes ecoles philosophiques, du pyrrhonisme popularise par Montaigne, de !'influence du Jansenisme, et peut-etre aussi des deceptions multipliees qu'apporte aux esprits serieux la pauvrete de l'apologetique." This weakened religion, however, is all-powerful against the "esprits forts," who incidentally are badly named, since they have no strength to combat even an adulterated religion, whose powers of absorption, said Busson, are indicative of its virility. Busson's interpretation is in line with a critical movement which has been rather prevalent since 1935 and consists in presenting freethinking as only a mild deviation from orthodox thinking. It is undoubtedly true that men living in a Christian society conformed to the religious dictates of that society. But just how Christian was that society ? Where is the line drawn between the orthodox Catholic and the free-thinker, for if there is no point of demarcation there is scant need to use the term free-thinker. Busson seems aware of the difficulty, for at the very end of his amazing conclusion, he asks: "Du Vair, Descartes, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Gassendi [and he might have added Vanini, Theophile de Viau, Cyrano de Bergerac, Patin, Sorbiere, Charron, Naude, et al.] qui ont attache leurs noms a ces essais de fusion, sont-ils encore, malgre leurs protestations, memes sinceres, des chretiens ?" But he does not proffer an answer. •204 ·

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Pintard, for his part, subscribes to that point of view which holds that these free-thinkers assembled around Gassendi. He concedes that after Gassendi's death (1655) they went into an eclipse until 1680, but he maintains that their works were often printed following their eclipse. Finally, he stresses the close relationship between those who wrote in the first part of the century and those who came after 1680, particularly Bayle and Fontenelle. Indeed, in Pintard's opinion, the event which assured the triumph of libertinism was the revival of Gassendi and his disciples in the salon of Mme de la Sabliere, in the work of Guillaume Lamy and a whole group of followers interested in the problem of the animal soul, and especially in Chaulieu, La Fare, and the Marquis de Lassay. Bayle had noted this appeal of Gassendi in 1686: "Depuis l'apologie de M. Gassendi pour les mceurs et pour la morale de ce philosophe [Epicurus] on est si bien revenu de la vieille preoccupation, que c'est a present une chose trop commune que d'etre Gassendiste a cet egard-la." Pintard also notes that the philosophy of Fontenelle has very many points of resemblance to the works of Naude and La Mothe Ie Vayer: a similar skepticism, a common pyrrhonism in the treatment of history, a general distrust of superstitions, miracles, and oracles, and a constant accord in exposing the imbecilities and gullibility of the vulgar mob. Otherwise, Pintard can only cite some generalizations of agreement: "Il [Fontenelle] separe la raison de la foi. Il affirme l'impuissance de l'esprit humain a concevoir la nature et les fins de Dieu. Il rejoint Naude dans sa critique de la tradition." Lastly, Pintard remarks that the form of the dialogue utilized by Fontenelle recalls La Mothe's Oratius Tubero, and suggests that the ideas of Naude and La Mothe Ie Vayer were transmitted to Fontenelle through Van Dale. Pintard presents Bayle as the supreme case of fusion of these writers at the end of the century: the Rotterdam philosopher displays in his own approach to knowledge so many tendencies of these writers; he attempts to establish a philosophy upon erudition, at the same time skeptical, critical, rational; he bases this criticism upon history designed, according to Pintard, to discredit popular opinions "par une analyse des chances d'erreur avant d'en entreprendre la refutation directe." Bayle's attitudes concerning criticism of religion, support of politics and of the consensus in philosophy, • 205 ·

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affirmation of the uselessness of moral beliefs, insistence upon the virtue of atheists, and suppression of all relationship between faith and reason are similar to those of Gassendi's group. In addition, Bayle quoted Guy Patin, and suggested in 1701 and 1703 the publication of the Naudeana and the Patiniana. He was extremely interested in Gassendi, while he wrote of La Mothe in 1675: "Il y a bien de l'erudition, mais il y a encore plus d'impiete. Ce sont des coups de jeunesse, je I'avoue; je ne sais pourtant si I'auteur s'en est repenti, car toute sa vie il a ecrit a la defense du Pirrhonisme d'une maniere qui ne sentoit pas son ame fort devote." Pintard concludes that it is not impossible that Bayle, who was a careful and faithful reader of Naude and a disciple of his critical method, was also his disciple in the art of subterfuge. It is of course possible that this was the case, but we have no particular evidence of its having been so, though it is true that Bayle did write in 1675: "Je tiens M. de la Mothe Ie Vayer et Mr. Naude pour les deux savans de ce siecle qui avoient Ie plus de lecture et l'esprit Ie plus epure des sentiments populaires, mais parce qu'ils font trop les esprits forts, ils nous debitent bien souvent des doctrines qui ont de perilleuses consequences." Pintard concludes that the libertinage of the first half of the seventeenth century transmitted to Bayle and Fontenelle the traditional heritage of the Renaissance. This transmission, however, was not of worn-out facts and dead notions, but an ensemble of tendencies still active, of doctrines still being developed, of principles now ready to lead to serious consequences, of remarks prepared to be organized into arguments: Estime-t-on, comme tout conduit a Ie croire, que l'essor de l'esprit philosophique a la fin du XVIP siecle est, dans une large mesure, une suite de la Renaissance du XVP? Du meme coup, il faut conclure que Ie libertinage triumphant des Fontenelle et des Bayle n'eut existe sans ce "libertinage militant." T H E ROLE OF THE PHILOSOPHERS IN THE BAROQUE

Gassendi's Matter Pierre Gassendi's biography reveals a devotion to religion, a passion for study, and an unquestioned loyalty to the priesthood. Distinguished by intellectual curiosity, he was an omnivorous reader and a voluminous writer, practically always in Latin. He possessed •206 ·

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a warmth of personality commingled with modesty, humility, and more than a fair amount of timidity, which contrasted with a vivacious and petulant nature, and at times a dogged persistence. His friends at Mersenne's regarded him as a thoroughly enjoyable companion. We know of no loose living in his life; in all respects he seems to have led an exemplary existence; his morals were simple and pure; his language above reproach. Born at Champtercier in 1592, the year of Montaigne's death, he received his early education at Digne where, in 1612, he took minor orders. Two years later he completed his doctorate at Avignon. After a short trip to Paris in 1615, he returned to Digne where he became an instructor of rhetoric. Because of his steadiness and studiousness, his superiors rewarded him by making him regent of the college at twenty, and entrusted him with the teaching of theology at twenty-three. In 1616 he became professor of philosophy at Aix, where he remained for six years, although he found his task as teacher of scholastic philosophy somewhat trying. Indeed, it appears that, his duties duly performed, Gassendi sought relief from the tediousness of his task by elaborating a more personal philosophy. In the meantime, he had taken full orders, had been appointed "theologal" at Digne, was entrusted with the business affairs of the diocese. In 1624, he brought out the Exercitationes against Aristotle and his followers. Gassendi displays many of the intellectual traits of Erasmus as well as of Pierre Bayle, his successor. Like these two, his erudition was extensive and broadly humanistic. His love of classical poetry was an avocation. He knew well both the historians and philosophers of antiquity—Plato, Seneca, Pliny, Cicero, Plutarch, and Aristotle—and was also familiar with the writers of the Renaissance— Luis Vives, Pico, Ramus, and, of course, Montaigne and Charron. More than his associates, he devoted himself to the study of physics, astronomy, and some mathematics, although he was said to be rather deficient in the latter subject. In him was fused theology and humanism, as Gouhier has pointed out (R.P.F.E., 134, 56-60, 1944). Indeed, it was this fusion which formed the basis of his libertinism. Once more, we are reminded of similarities in this respect between Gassendi on the one hand, and Erasmus and Bayle on the other. He shows not only the rambling thought, but the same profusion and richness of material treated, above all, historically. • 207 ·

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His first work, the Exercitationes, amply brings out these qualities. As he projected it, the book was to comprise seven lengthy volumes, but only the first (a general commentary upon Aristotle's philosophy) was published during his life. A manuscript of a second part, apparently never finished, was printed in 1658, three years after his death. As for the remainder, there is no evidence that it was ever started. Why the project was abandoned has been much discussed. Gassendi wrote a friend, who inquired why the sequel was never produced, that the first part had just missed creating a tragedy. This particular expression seems so out of place with the known circumstances, that critics disagree greatly as to the interpretation to be accorded it. Mr. Rochot, who is certainly the scholar most versed in Gassendi's biography (see Pierre Gassendi, 1592-1655, sa vie et son ceuvre, 1955, pp. 13-58, 71-115), judges that the reaction in Paris to the first part was so unfavorable that Gassendi was easily persuaded by Mersenne that attacks against Aristotle were not only dangerous but outmoded. Gassendi himself mentioned that Patrizzi before him had delivered one of these assaults. Other critics suggest that the well-entrenched Aristotelians at the Sorbonne made it very clear to Gassendi that they would brook no open criticism of the Master. At all events, this first volume was an attack against the whole Aristotelian establishment. With characteristic vigor Gassendi pointed out contradictions in the Aristotelian text and opposed to this ancient philosopher and his abstract rationalism the more experimental rationalism of other ancient writers. It was a tactic which he was destined to continue, especially in his arguments with Descartes. He forged for himself a universal pyrrhonism as protection against the persecution of his contemporaries. Of course, this stance was characteristic of the free-thinking of his time: Charron, Naude, and La Mothe showed the same tendency derived, as we have seen, from Montaigne. The preface of the Exercitationes relates how the author was led, upon completing his humanities, to address himself to the study of philosophy, attracted as he was by Cicero's praise of it in the De Senectute. Gassendi states that he was unable to see in scholastic philosophy the philosophical virtues proclaimed by Cicero. He hesitated, however, to attack a group which enjoyed such solid support, until he was emboldened to do so by reading Vives and Charron. He • 208 ·

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felt further encouraged by the urgings of Pico and Ramus to examine the opinions of the other ancient sects, and he confesses that nothing appealed to him more than the "suspension of judgment" recommended by the pyrrhonists and the academicians. He concluded therefrom that in view of the immense distance which separates the human mind from the genius of nature, the "profound causes of natural phenomena are beyond all human comprehension." He therefore determined to repudiate those dogmatists who boast of having achieved a knowledge of natural phenomena and who stand completely dumb when asked to explain the working of the organs and limbs of a little "ciron qui est pourtant si peu de chose dans l'ceuvre de la mere nature." Gassendi's objection to the Aristotelians is, however, motivated by other considerations. Recalling a passage in the Acadetnica, he remarks that the Peripatetics trained their students more in the subtleties of rhetoric than in the search for truth. He admits that he is himself not at all convinced that the truth concerning the nature of things is accessible to mortal man. Nevertheless he stoutly affirms that he will express his opinion freely upon these matters, at the same time eschewing dogmatism. He asserts that in all his opinions he defends the "truth, authority, and majesty of the Scriptures, the Fathers, and the Councils," and that he bows without reservation to the judgment of the Church. It is in his preface that Gassendi outlines the main points of his seven projected volumes. He announces his intention to attack, in volume I, the Aristotelians' dogmatic method of philosophizing, and to demand the philosophical freedom which its adherents have denied. He promises to demonstrate that the Aristotelians have no superiority over the other sects, that their doctrine is full of lacunae, superfluities, errors, and contradictions. In volume II, he intends to criticize Aristotle's dialectic, which is neither necessary nor useful, and he mentions three difficulties here: Aristotle's treatment of universale, categories, and propositions is unclear; his understanding of the nature of knowledge and its demonstration is in error; and his belief in the possibility of knowing is contradicted by the weakness of the human mind. In volume III, it was his intention to enter upon a discussion of Aristotle's physics. Here he would undertake to put in question the doctrine of substantial forms and Aristotle's views on movement, space, and time, which he considers unaccepta•209 ·

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ble. Gassendi expresses his intention to introduce opinions drawn from other ancient writers which will explain more cogently the vacuum, and more clearly the nature of time and space. He wanted to discuss Aristotle's cosmology thoroughly in volume IV. It is in this book, apparently, that he planned to take up the new scientific discoveries from Copernicus (1543) to the conception of the Galilean universe. The subjects to be debated included the immensity of the universe, the causes of movement, the nature of light, phenomena, generation and corruption of the stars. In volume V, an extension of volume IV, he was to devote his attention to the advances in biological sciences: the problem of circulation, the nature of living matter, the meaning of the word "soul." He would distinguish clearly among kinds of animals, and warns that he has given a soul to the atoms of life ("semences") and a reason to animals, that he makes no distinction between the understanding and the imagination, and that he urges man not to believe what does not exist. In volume VI he planned to undertake a thorough analysis of Aristotle's metaphysics, not only his ontology, but his definitions of unity, truth, goodness. Here Gassendi would affirm the power of Christian faith and show the vanity of arguments drawn from "la lumiere naturelle." The final book was to be concerned with moral philosophy, where the epicurean doctrine of pleasure, with its insistence that the Sovereign Good abides only in contentment, and with its belief that virtue and human actions are derived solely from this principle, would be stressed. Recording that he stood at a moment when "tout est mis sens dessus dessous," Gassendi states that had he wished to do so, he would have created a unified philosophy "a ma fagon." He confesses, though, that he prefers not an absolute, but a relative manner of philosophizing. He asserts that Aristotle's worst enemies are his disciples. They are, he declares, for the most part theologians, and are, consequently, not primarily philosophers at all. Gassendi complains that the theological approach to philosophy has not worked to the advantage of philosophy, particularly in Aristotle's case. In the first place, it is an error to suppose that, having been adopted by the Church, Aristotle is dogmatically correct. He has, in fact, been contradicted and modified in all sorts of ways by the Church Fathers. These modifications and interpretations of the Fathers have lent dogmatic sup• 210 ·

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port but weakened the inner structure of the philosophy. Indeed, Aristotelianism has most suffered because of its dogmatism. Had it been forced to compete with other ancient philosophies—skepticism, stoicism, epicureanism—the cause of philosophy would have been better served. Because, adds Gassendi, for philosophy to be vital and dynamic it must be free. It cannot thrive if it is subjected to a frozen dogma built upon authority. Gassendi labors this point: for him, it is evident that thinking is really free-thinking. In addition, he condemns roundly Aristotelians for holding erroneous views about the nature of philosophy. Whereas it is nothing more than searching for truth, enjoying knowledge, and leading a respectable, virtuous life, they make of it a subtle form of argumentation, "une pepiniere d'arguties propres a favoriser les querelles." They arrange their discourse according to a certain order and use most barbarous terms. Though they pretend to possess truth, they actually display a terrible lack of confidence in themselves. Their greatest error consists in placing all their faith in one man. Gassendi observes that only in matters concerning religion should we bow before a higher authority: there, it is proper to humble one's reason before faith. But when the subject touches upon the nature of things and depends solely upon philosophical speculation, it is unworthy of a philosopher to trust in the wisdom of one man, as the Aristotelians do. It is at this juncture that Gassendi sings the praise of intellectual freedom: ". . . la liberte de l'esprit est chose plus precieuse que tout l'or du monde, et sous l'impulsion de la nature, tout tend a etre libre, de sorte que non seulement les etres vivants, mais la plupart des choses inanimees font entendre cet appel du Poete: la liberte est un besoin." Gassendi protests against the timidity of the Aristotelians. He who was to adopt as his motto the "sapere aude" of Horace, which Kant was to proclaim much later as the watchword of the Enlightenment, finds intolerable any attitude of mind which defers to the authority of another. It is for this reason, he is sure, that many possible discoveries in nature are overlooked. Like Fontenelle at a later date, Gassendi announces that nature always remains the same, and if in the past she has produced great minds, she will continue to do so. It is often claimed that in his attack, Gassendi carefully distinguished between Aristotle and the Aristotelians. While it is true • 211 ·

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that he has his harshest terms for the followers of Aristotle, and that he even concedes that some of the Master's writings, the Boo\ of Meteors, for instance, can be useful, his final verdict, by and large, is that Aristotle has added nothing to the Christian religion and nothing to the science of ethics. Moreover, Gassendi insists, Aristotle's doctrine contains many loopholes; it is full of useless and repetitious material; it is bristling with falsehoods, impieties, and slander; it is crammed with contradictions. The Exercitationes appeared in 1624, at Grenoble, and shortly thereafter, Gassendi made a trip to Paris, where he supposedly met Mersenne. In 1626, he announced to his friend Peiresc that he had begun to assemble material upon Epicurus. Thereupon he began the life of the traveling scholar so characteristic of Erasmus and Rabelais of the previous century: journeys to Aix, where Peiresc resided; to Grenoble, where he met with Diodati who introduced him to the works of Galileo; to Paris, on an interminable number of occasions where he joined Mersenne, and Mersenne's close associates Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Patin, Boulliau, the Dupuy brothers whose library he put to use in preparation for his work, and the financier Luillier, with whom he made a trip to Holland where he met Beeckmann, the mathematician friend of Descartes. Historians of ideas often express surprise that anyone who was as committed to his calling as was the "theologal" of Digne should have undertaken the defense of Epicurus, a philosopher who was reputed to be not only a voluptuary and a fatalist, but an atheist as well. Indeed, the remark is often made that Gassendi's choice, in view of his obvious orthodoxy and his unquestioned sincerity as a priest, was totally incomprehensible. Even in his day, Campanella, upon hearing of Gassendi's determination to defend Epicurus, expressed some concern about the wisdom of the choice. Gassendi replied that he was fully conscious of his responsibilities as a priest and that he would not hesitate to refute Epicurus when the latter's philosophy ran counter to orthodox Christianity. In fact, Gassendi came at the end of a rather long line of defenders of Epicurus, finding especially in Montaigne an enthusiastic precursor. Spink has demonstrated the immense popularity of Lucretius at the time of Gassendi, while Sortais has stressed the revival of interest in Democritus. In the late sixteen-twenties, when Gassendi was just beginning to manifest interest in Epicurus and • 212 ·

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expressed the intention to rehabilitate his memory and to renew his atomism, his friend Luillier told him about Puteanus, professor at Louvain, who in 1609 had published his Epicuri Sententiae aliquot aculeatae. A correspondence ensued between Gassendi and the Louvain professor in which it is difficult to say which displayed the more enthusiasm. Gassendi submitted to his new friend some of his observations on Diogenes Laertius' tenth book of Illustrious Men which dealt with Epicurus, and they were warmly commended by Puteanus. Spink, who has noted how difficult it is to determine which of several possible reasons attracted Gassendi to Epicurus in 1626, has offered two suggestions: that Gassendi intended his defense of Epicurus to be a sequel to his own attack upon Aristotle, and that he was led, by the success of his acquaintances—Beeckmann, Descartes, Galileo, and Mersenne—in formulating problems of physics in terms of mechanism, to undertake the study of a mechanistic philosophy. While these two conjectures have validity, there is a simpler explanation. If the outline of the full work of the Exercitationes in the preface of the first volume is compared with Gassendi's plan for the work upon Epicurus, it will be seen that the traits of Aristotle which he planned to attack were to be replaced by contrasting aspects in Epicurus which he now intended to defend. There can be no doubt that Gassendi was led to the defense of Epicurus by his antipathy to Aristotle, an antipathy shared by Descartes and apparently by the whole Mersenne group. The normal tactic of anyone who wished to break the hold of Aristotle upon "modern" philosophy in Gassendi's day was to replace him by another ancient (or medieval) philosopher. Plato had often been utilized in this way in the Renaissance. Lange was probably correct in his Histoire du materialisme when he remarked that Gassendi "choisit, parmi tous ces systemes, avec un jugement sur, celui qui repondait Ie plus completement aux tendances empiriques des temps modernes." Sortais, who quotes this, insists that Lange exaggerated the materialism of Gassendi and though he may be correct, it is really beside the point. What is important is the liberal way in which the Mersenne group pursued its study of philosophy, and the tendency on the part of seventeenth-century philosophers to espouse a major ancient philosophy. • 213 ·

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Gassendi's work on Epicurus gives evidence of a solidly reasoned program. It consists of a De Vita et monbus Epicuri liber octo (1647), designed to reestablish the moral reputation of the Greek philosopher and to clear him of the accusations of atheism and immorality. The second step was taken when Gassendi published the Animadversiones in librum decimum Diogenis Laertii (1649). To the texts of Epicurus, Gassendi added a careful, judicious commentary of the doctrine. This work thus became another kind of apology for the Greek philosopher by presenting his ideas drawn from his own statements. The third step was taken in the Syntagma Philosophiae Epicuri (1649), where Gassendi endeavored not only to defend the reputation of his hero but to give a synthesis of his philosophy. Thus the Vita and the Animadversiones are a preparation for the Syntagma, while in another way all three works are a preparation for Gassendi's Syntagma philosophicum. Pintard (p. 478) has suggested that the composition of the Syntagma indicated a consistent evolution of Gassendi's thought from 1630 to 1648. At all events, over a period of twenty years or so Gassendi elaborated a complete Epicurean philosophy, comprising a logic, a physics, and an ethics. Thanks to Professors Spink, Sortais, Pintard, and especially Rochot, Gassendi's intentions are clearer, and his work is not at all as dispersed and as fragmentary as it has sometimes appeared. Starting with an attack upon Aristotle in the Exercitationes, he projected a whole series of volumes aimed at ruining Aristotle's position. Suddenly, though, Gassendi switched the direction of his attack. Instead of a negative criticism of Aristotelianism, he now proposed a positive defense of another ancient philosopher whom he planned to put eventually in the place of Aristotle. For twenty years he prepared himself to achieve this substitution. In the meantime, however, he had discovered another opponent. Drawn into the criticism of the Meditations, Gassendi became aware of a dogmatism in the "new" philosophy which equaled that of Aristotle, and he opposed it with the same vigor which he had displayed against the dogmatism of antiquity. The Instantiae are but a continuation of the attack in the Exercitationes in a more modern realm. Thus, as the Syntagma philosophiae Epicuri was designed to give the synthesis of a philosopher who could be offered as a replacement for the inflexibility of the Aristotelians, Gassendi's own Syntagma philoso• 214 ·

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phicum presented a more free-thinking philosophy which could be substituted for the arbitrariness of Cartesianism. From the beginning of his career in 1624, Gassendi's main con­ cern was with the problem of knowledge. More specifically, what he sought was philosophy's worth in its relationship with the doc­ trine of faith. Instead of a positive attitude to the problem, though, he became very negative. Even in the Exercitationes, he not only opposed Aristotle's dialectic, his metaphysics, and his physics; he included all dialectic, all metaphysics, all physics. Basically, his was the skeptical approach to knowledge. Like Sanchez, he adopted the "nihil sciri" of fundamental skepticism: we are deceived by the senses, or rather, we deceive ourselves in regard to the senses; we grasp the appearance rather than the reality of things. Also, nothing is more variable than the morality of peoples. As for metaphysics, he con­ siders as absolutely futile the pronouncements of philosophers on the nature and being of God, not to mention their opinions con­ cerning such matters as the unity of God, or His providence. More­ over, he points out that we lack a criterion for truth. We cannot trust the common consent of peoples in such matters as the existence of God, providence, and the immortality of the soul. In the first place there is no such thing as common consent; even if there were, we would be giving the same weight to the opinion of a fool as we do to a wise man's. These views led Gassendi to attack the doc­ trine of "internal feeling" as it was expressed in Lord Herbert of Cherbury's De Veritate. Lord Herbert's work appeared first in 1624, and a second edition was made in 1633. Copies were sent to Dupuy, Peiresc, Campanella, and Gassendi, through Diodati, who happened at the time to be traveling in England. Gassendi did not compose his Lettre until the following year, while visiting Peiresc at Aix. It was sent, when com­ pleted, to Mersenne who was preparing for the publication of Lord Herbert's essay in French. This French edition eventually appeared in 1639, and a copy was sent to Descartes who received Lord Her­ bert's ideas more favorably than Gassendi (Λ.Τ. II, 566, 570, 596 ff.). Gassendi's Lettre did not appear in print until the 1658 edition of his (Euvres completes. The discussion is of more than passing im­ portance, though, since it not only involves one of the major ideas of the Enlightenment, but also demonstrates that differing attitudes can be taken to the movement by two philosophers who stand at its •215 ·

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origin. Moreover, it is of some consequence that the idea originated first in England and is one of the early examples of Franco-English fusion.7 In the Lettre, Gassendi approves Lord Herbert's aim which he characterizes as "faire connaitre la verite des choses." He finds, however, that Lord Herbert's definition of truth is obscure, since it presupposes something inherent in things which has to be reached by the mind. Gassendi proposes as a substitute definition "the agreement of the knowing mind with the known thing," that is, it is a relationship. He admits that his definition is not altogether satisfactory either, because it does not state what the laws are whereby a mind and things are in agreement. He concedes that truth is possible in dealing with the external nature of things, but up to the present it is not possible to perceive their internal nature. He does not seem to deplore this state of affairs, though, because he believes that so long as we dispose of those truths which are essential to life and to the preservation of the species, we can do without "superfluous" truths, as he calls those of deeper meaning. Man, naturally, cannot know the inner truths of things, since he is ignorant of himself. At this point, Gassendi enumerates the things which he himself does not know about man: Is he composed of a body and soul? Is it natural that the soul should be immaterial? What are its substance, its faculties, its nature, its origin, and in what way are these things effected ? Whence does the soul come, and how is it introduced into us by the Creator ? Why does it need the body ? Whence comes the power to form the body ? Why do some portions of the body become bones and other portions muscles or membranes? How is the soul united with the body? How can the soul, being incorporeal, take possession of organs which are corporeal? Gassendi insists that the human mind has no way of attaining answers to these questions. Until it can do so, he declares, it is futile to talk about knowing oneself; and until one can know oneself, it is idle to talk about knowing the inner meaning of things. Since these things cannot be known by the rational man, Gassendi could presumably argue, as Locke did later, that they are things we do not need to know. However, he had already taken the position that for 7 See M. Rossi, AlIe Fonte del deismo e del materialismo, Florence, 1942. Gassendi's letter to Lord Herbert has been translated in the Appendix of the Actes du congres du tricentenaire de Pierre Gassendi, 1955, pp. 251-94.

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our eternal felicity we do need to know things of this order: the existence of a God, a providence, immortal souls, natural law, our duty to do unto others what we would wish them to do unto us. These things, he says, we know by revelation or faith, but we must remember that there are peoples who have no idea about them; presumably because they lack this revelation, they reject them as untrue (witness a countless number of philosophers in antiquity). In this way, Gassendi's argument was twisted two ways. We know that which is necessary for our life through our experience with the appearances of the outside world. We provide that which is necessary for our eternal felicity through revelation. We cannot know ourselves sufficiently to understand the inner meaning of life. When one makes allowance for some obscurity, his stand is not too far from Pascal's: philosophy cannot give answers to the really important questions of life. Science cannot penetrate the inner meaning of things. Revelation and faith alone are efficacious in these matters. Gassendi actually adds that all a method can do is present in correct order what we have learned, not augment our knowledge. It follows from this argument that the simpler knowledge is, the greater chance we have of grasping it. Gassendi protests against the complications proposed by Lord Herbert. He condemns the four means of knowing suggested by the Englishman—natural instinct, internal sense, external sense, and reasoning—chiefly because of the complications entailed. He particularly criticizes Lord Herbert's exclusion of the external sense when the nature of things is in question, but he objects still more to the obscurity of Herbert's "natural instinct," which Gassendi identifies with the intelligence of principles in scholasticism. He agrees, though, that there are notions of this sort to which we give immediate consent, though it would be difficult to recognize them, and concludes by expressing the desire that man agree, for instance, on one religion. That, paradoxically, was precisely what Lord Herbert was trying to accomplish. Subsequent to the attack upon Aristotle and the analysis of Lord Herbert's De Veritate, came the Objections to Descartes's Meditations. Gassendi's rejection of Lord Herbert's deism and Descartes's metaphysics, when taken in connection with Descartes's somewhat favorable opinion of the De Veritate, demonstrates how difficult it is to distinguish among the free-thinker, the metaphysician, and the theologian. In this case, Gassendi the theologian is modifying Gas• 217 ·

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sendi the free-thinker in a very consistent manner. Since the problem concerned the means of knowing, he, like Pascal, rejected all explanations which did not give some consideration to faith as a legitimate way of knowing, and opposed all tendencies to dogmatism in knowledge. He distinctly believed that metaphysics is no proper substitute for either theology or ethics. These points, already visible in the Exercitationes and the letter to Herbert of Cherbury, reappeared in the fifth Objectiones to Descartes's Meditations. He declared again that there is a distinction to be made between the appearance of things and their intimate reality, and he affirmed the impossibility of getting at this inner reality. He repeated the arguments of the skeptics against certainty and noted the lack of a suitable criterion for truth. Indeed, his attitude toward the skeptics contrasted vividly with Descartes's. He defended their way of living and praised them for their doctrine of the suspension of judgment. He declared that they lead an exemplary life of wisdom, and approved their stand that in everything one should act as a true citizen and perfectly moral man. He explained that in their search for truth, they naturally distinguish between the things which affect the senses ("les phenomenes"), and things grasped by the mind ("les noumenes"). He insisted, finally, that the skeptics have preserved a complete independence of mind free from prejudice while pursuing their search for truth. Thus, Descartes and Gassendi differed radically in their attitude toward skepticism. While the whole effort of Descartes has been interpreted, perhaps with some exaggeration, as a maneuver to force skepticism to commit suicide, it is undoubtedly true that he directed much of his philosophical criticism at the skeptics themselves. He insisted above everything else that his way of thought was a means of establishing in the life of the mind more order and coherence. Since these things were precisely what the skeptics did not think possible, Gassendi in his support of their position naturally criticized Descartes for his lack of method, meaning of course that Descartes's method was totally unmethodical in the skeptics' terms. Gassendi attacked the first Meditation for this lack of method, asserting that there is not a single principle which has the necessary evidence and validity to make it acceptable. He criticized Descartes for believing he can "arriver aux choses intelligibles en dehors de toute sensation prealable," whereas Gassendi considers that "les choses sensibles" are •218 ·

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the means of attaining knowledge. Moreover, Gassendi's attack on the dogmatism of Descartes was in reality a quarrel of method. The manner of deriving from the "cogito" all the rest of knowledge, Gassendi condemned as absurd, and he called "vain" the formula "je pense, done je suis." What is involved in this criticism is Descartes's insistence upon the organic unity of his philosophy (Gassendi, Disquisitio, p. 472): Comme apres avoir rapporte ici quelques-unes de mes paroles, vous ajoutez que e'est tout ce que j'ai dit sur la question proposSe, je suis oblige d'avertir que vous n'avez pas suffisamment pris garde a la liaison interne de ce que j'ai ecrit: car je la crois telle qu'a la demonstration de chaque point contribuent toutes les choses qui Ie precedent et une grande partie de celles qui Ie suivent; de sorte que vous ne sauriez fidelement rapporter tout ce que j'ai dit concernant une question sans passer aussi en revue tout ce que j'ai ecrit des autres. Thus, while Descartes holds to the unity of systematic thought, Gassendi is more inclined to support the erring, unsystematic, freethinking mind. For this reason he accused Descartes of being above the human lot, and stressed that Descartes's commentary is not directed at the truth of things but at the validity of his reasoning. The two differed also concerning the role of wisdom. Gassendi defined a philosopher as one who makes a study of wisdom, not one who makes a display of it, while Descartes, for his part, thought that wisdom is the goal of philosophy, and that the philosopher has consequently to make a display of it in order to make his philosophy acceptable. This difference is important because it shows an effort on Descartes's part to distinguish between the philosopher and the free-thinker, while Gassendi identifies the two. It was Descartes who drew a distinction between his way of proceeding and Gassendi's: it is best not to prove false the things we do not accept, because in reality we are ignorant of their truth or falsehood. It is much safer to be sure that the things we do accept can demonstrably be shown to be true. Finally, a fundamental difference between the two lies in Descartes's insistence upon the spiritual side of man, while Gassendi seems to give more importance to the material side. It is on this plane that Gassendi questioned Descartes's assertion: "Je suis done absolument une chose qui pense, e'est-a-dire un esprit, une ame, une in• 219 ·

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telligence, une Raison." This forced Descartes to define "esprit": "J'entends en effet l'esprit, non comme une partie de l'ame, mais comme la totalite de l'ame pensante." Descartes identified it with the inner reality of the person, and insisted that it is the only thing which cannot be separated from the moi. Gassendi, of course, did not accept this. It was this divergence of opinion which led Descartes to address Gassendi as Mr. Flesh, and Gassendi to respond by calling Descartes Mr. Spirit. Gassendi criticizes continually point after point in Descartes's Meditations. Where Descartes regards as uncertain the testimony of the senses, Gassendi maintains that they are our only source of external knowledge. Where Descartes stresses that they deceive, Gassendi, conceding that they may often lead to error, insists that they also lead to truth. Where Descartes believes that the mind has the capacity of creating ideas within itself, Gassendi asserts that the mind does not possess any idea which does not come from the senses. Where Descartes singles out the lack of harmony between the will and the understanding as a source for error, Gassendi refuses to accept this mechanical interpretation. Where Descartes insists that the criterion of truth lies in clear and distinct ideas, Gassendi replies that the rule is not that what we perceive clearly and distinctly is true, but whether we perceive a thing so clearly and distinctly that we cannot be wrong. Thus, they are far apart on many of the fundamental points of rationalism. They differ as to the meaning of the words relating to the intellectual process—reason, intellect, "esprit," imagination, etc.— and the role played by each of these factors. They disagree radically on the origin of ideas: Descartes distinguished three kinds: innate, adventitious (senses), and false ideas (imaginative ideas), while Gassendi reduced all three to adventitious ideas and thereby denied the possibility of innate ideas. Where Descartes offers the concept of perfection as proof of the existence of God, Gassendi presents as the only reasonable proof the doctrine of final causes. In general, he stresses that Descartes's metaphysical proofs of the nature of things are invalid, the assumption being, as he stated in his argument with Herbert of Cherbury, that revelation only is an acceptable proof of these things. Curiously, this was later Pascal's position also. In a way, both Gassendi and Pascal emphasize the inability of philosophy to give answers previously proposed by religion. • 220 ·

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Gassendi refuses to accept Descartes's theory on animal mecha­ nism. He rejects also the distinction Descartes makes between mind and body, asserting that the soul is not merely a "thinking thing" and the body merely an "extended thing," and affirming that it is not excluded that there may be extension and thought in the same subtle body. Reopening the old argument of thinking matter which was to play such an important role with both Locke and Voltaire, he tended to accept that the spirit is mingled with the body and consequently is neither lacking in extent, nor non-corporeal. The discussion between Gassendi and Descartes led from the fifth Objection to the fifth Reponse, and thence eventually to the publica­ tion of the Instantiae by Samuel Sorbiere.8 Descartes brought the dis­ cussion to an end rather scornfully with a letter to Clerselier (Λ.Τ. IX, 202-217). He assured his friend that the most intelligent of those who have perused Gassendi's Instantiae agree that the author has suggested nothing of importance. Descartes explained that all of Gassendi's Objections are founded upon some misunderstood term or some erroneous supposition. Two of the words which he cited as having been misunderstood by Gassendi are "prejudice" and "thought." In the commentary upon the first Meditation, for in­ stance, Gassendi had accused Descartes of requiring the impossible in asking that everyone divest himself of his prejudices. Moreover, Gassendi added, it is well-known that those who have abandoned them usually take on others, which are even more harmful than the first. Descartes rejoined that the word does not extend to all the notions which are in one's mind (which it would be impossible to discard), but only to the opinions which our former judgments have left in our beliefs. As for Gassendi's comment that the renunciation of prejudices only leads to the substitution of more dangerous ones, Descartes observed that Gassendi misunderstands: false prejudices should be replaced by truth. Moreover, Gassendi had objected that Descartes's whole attitude led to a position of universal doubt which does not lead to any important truth. Descartes replied that this is mere quibbling, because although doubt does not lead to truth, it does clear the mind and make room for truth. A second word understood differently by the two was the concept "thought." Here, Gassendi had taken exception to the "je pense, done 8 B. Rochot, "Les Writes eternelles dans la Querelle entre Descartes et Gassendi," R.P.F.E., 1951, v. 141, 288-98.

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je suis," calling it, curiously enough, a prejudice. To this Descartes replied that Gassendi abuses the term, by forgetting that Descartes had required that the mind examine the proposition before accepting it as evident. Moreover, Gassendi has inverted the correct order of reasoning by demanding that particular cases be deduced from general cases, whereas in reality one should begin with particular cases in order to arrive at general ones. Where Gassendi had objected that Descartes cannot know that he thinks until he knows what thought is, and that is impossible to do because he has already denied everything, Descartes replied that he has rejected prejudices, but not the notion which is known without affirmation or denial. Where Gassendi asserted that thought cannot exist without the body, Descartes replied that Gassendi was being ambiguous because thought can mean either the thing which thinks or the action of thinking. Descartes denies that the thing which thinks needs anything except itself to produce the action of thought, although of course it may extend to material things when it examines them. Gassendi's next remark—that Descartes may have a thought of himself but does not know whether the thought is a corporeal action or an immaterial substance—is met with the same complaint of ambiguity in Gassendi's use of the word "thought." This debate upon the meaning of the word "thought" is also crucial in the bearing it has upon the origins of the Enlightenment. Those who discuss the quarrel of Gassendi with Descartes eventually attempt some conclusion concerning the superiority of one of the philosophers over the other, often in a general and arbitrary way. Thus P. F. Thomas, in La Philosophic de Gassendi (1889), judges that among the objections made by Gassendi practically all of them have been made at a later time by critics of Descartes, and that very few of them have been considered refutable. On the contrary, F. Bouillier, in his Histoire de la philosophic cartisienne (1854), finds that Gassendi is right on only a few particular points, and then very imperfecdy. Sortais mentions these two opinions (II, 55) and ventures one of his own: sometimes, he says, Gassendi's criticism is correct; at other times, he is wrong; at still other times, he is correct in what he denies, and wrong in what he affirms, because he is constantly trying to substitute a doctrine which is either no better than Descartes's or on occasion may be worse. These criticisms, though probably justified, are beside the point. •222 ·

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Did Gassendi's arguments represent the general attitude of the "libertins" to Descartes ? Did they present a materialist and empirical attitude in opposition to the idealism and abstract reasoning of Cartesianism? Was the direction of thought changed by the methods or the intent of the two men ? These questions involve not only the philosophical intentions of the two philosophers, but their actual influence, as well, and the success of their followers. If, for instance, as Sainte-Beuve, Brunetiere, and Lanson believed, libertinism is responsible for the origins of eighteenth-century thought, we should be able to show how Gassendi and his followers dominated Cartesianism. If, on the contrary, it was Cartesianism which eventually overcame libertinism, as it set out to do, we should experience no difficulty in showing how Cartesianism lay at the roots of the eighteenth century. For the moment, all that can be said in this regard is that these two philosophers are at the fountainhead of two diametrically opposed philosophies. Wherever there is a clash between their views, no way seems possible to reconcile them, because they differ in the subjects under discussion, in the principles from which they proceed, in the methods which they employ, and the objectives which they set. The meaning of time and space, the primacy of the senses, the origin of ideas, the role of atoms in the formation of the universe, the importance of matter, the mechanism of phenomena—these are the elements which Gassendi defined and with which he established a basic philosophy of science. He drew from them a cosmology, a psychology of sorts, and an epicurean morality. It is questionable whether he believed that matter is uncreated and eternal, or whether there are infinite plural worlds. On the other hand, it is certain that he placed his emphasis upon a materialist and mechanist universe, upon the importance of the senses in the nature of man, and upon a hedonist morality. Gassendi also gives fairly clear answers to the five questions which had been the objects of attention since the Paduans. He believes that the existence of God can be proved philosophically from the argument of final causes; that the immortality of the soul is founded upon faith; that matter, although basically under the control of God, is subject to a set of laws which determine its nature and its activity, and that it is not infinite; that man is not free; that he, as well as the animals, is determined by a set of conditions; and, • 223 ·

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finally, that vice and virtue have a meaning only in relationship to the social milieu, and the needs of man. Gassendi knows where to find the answers to these problems. Basically he depends for them upon Epicurus and the subsequent epicureans, upon Democritus and the subsequent atomists, and upon Lucretius and the subsequent naturalists. But he seems to lean even more upon theology, and, in the opinion of Rochot, upon Aristotle. Just what predominates in this inchoate hurly-burly is not readily apparent. Is Gassendi first a theologian and only later a philosopher; is he a humanist and only later a moralist; is he a mechanist and only later a naturalist? Where do skepticism and faith enter into his thought ? On the relatively simple problem as to whether we are dealing with a theologian, a philosopher, a metaphysician, a libertine, a naturalist, or a skeptic, the answer is not easily forthcoming. These questions have led to a lengthy debate between the two outstanding scholars of Gassendi: Messers Rochot and Pintard.9 The latter, in his Le Libertinage erudit, had gone so far as to write a chapter on Gassendi's two philosophies: one is orthodox, or at any rate the ideas contained therein are orthodox, while the other is just the opposite. Rochot concedes that in the free-thinking movement studied by Pintard the dominant influences of the sixteenth century became complicated by Jansenism and the Fronde, and there resulted a state of mind which took its origin in the area of humanism. But there were, according to Rochot, two kinds of humanism, what he calls a "humanisme devot" and a more pagan variety, and there are three kinds of libertins as Pintard has demonstrated. Rochot, following Gouhier (R. P., 1944, 56-60), proposes two modern spirits which, he says, cannot both be called libertinage as if they were both opposed to the tradition of religion. Gassendi is precisely at the point where these two currents (modernism and libertinism) converge, having among his personal friends many who are predominantly "libertins," but having also other friends who are not at all "libertins." Rochot insists that the core of his thought as well as the principles whereby he acts are not libertine. He therefore opposes the opinion of Pintard, who would make of Gassendi the leader of 9

See B. Rochot, "Le Cas Gassendi," R.H.L., XLVII, 1947, 289-313; and R. Pintard, "Modernisme, humanisme, libertinage," R.H.L., XLVIII, 1948, 1-52. • 224 ·

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the libertine group. Moreover, he alleges that Pintard grants no sincerity to Gassendi's attitude in the struggle between science and faith. The "dualite d'ame" he ascribes to Gassendi is represented by Pintard as the duplicity of a hypocrite. Rochot objects to this interpretation of Gassendi. He recalls that since the end of the seventeenth century there is a traditional view of a Gassendi who is sensualist, epicurean, and skeptical. He finds that Pintard has aggravated this opinion: instead of presenting a hesitant Gassendi, prudently silent upon certain fundamental philosophical problems, Pintard finds that Gassendi's is a spontaneous philosophy, especially negative, opposed to dogmatism and metaphysical speculation, and analogous to the anti-Christian humanism which took its origin in Italy and which sometimes expresses itself in a positive way as a kind of scientific rationalism tinged with skepticism. In contrast with this spontaneous philosophy, though, Pintard adds that Gassendi has also a calculated philosophy which will free science from the control of religion. He is thus subtle in his machinations, at the same time clever and naive, and perturbed by a constant inner struggle. Rochot attempts to refute this view, which in his opinion comes from the Enlightenment. He questions whether it is fair to see in Gassendi a man of duplicity, because of his associates, who may have pushed skepticism and irreligion rather far, while other of Gassendi's friends—Mersenne, for example—accepted him as a man of honor and a scholar. As for the Galileo affair, where Pintard sees not only signs of indecision but a continual calculation also, and a duplicity of conduct unpardonable in a Christian churchman, Rochot endeavors to show in rebuttal that the discussion was conducted on both sides with tact and calculation, and that Gassendi's conduct differed not at all from Peiresc's, nor did it display any more duplicity than that of the Roman Curia. Rochot's final judgment is that Gassendi writes enormously and heavily, and therefore without Pascal's luminous quality or Descartes's brevity: he recalls more Bacon's enthusiasm for novelty or Erasmus' love of tolerance. These are the qualities which make of Gassendi the precursor of the Enlightenment, and not his materialism or his "esprit frondeur." Pintard for his part, does not accept that the anti-Christian humanism of the seventeenth century derives from the pantheistic • 225 ·

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naturalism of Giordano Bruno. The libertines of the seventeenth century, he insists, will have none of this Italian naturalism, to which they preferred a "humanisme critique," careful of its action and positivistic in its conclusions, which came from Charron and the ancient philosophers: aristotelians, stoics, and skeptics. Pintard objects to the term modernism as a "humanisme devot," although he does admit to some advantage in comparing libertinage and that modernism, which represents an effort to reconcile the new philosophy with faith. He admits this movement, but insists that in the seventeenth century this modernism is always merging with libertinism, and as there are all sorts of libertinism, so are there all kinds of modernism. In general the varieties of modernism tend either to a new apology of Christianity or toward free-thinking. Since everyone was implicated in these two tendencies, the only way they may be separated is in the psychology of the individual. Pintard concludes that Gassendi is representative of a strong current of pagan humanism in the first part of the seventeenth century. Although there still remains some doubt concerning the inner sincerity of Gassendi's thought, there can be none concerning the far-reaching effects of his influence. The center of his activity was the Mersenne group, where he was the acknowledged leader of Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Patin and Sorbiere. Through these followers he had access to the intellectual academies at Paris. He also frequented the group surrounding the Abbe Bourdelot, a group which was very anti-Cartesian. Mongredien, who has undertaken to assess Gassendi's impact upon his contemporaries, affirms that all his published work between 1624 and his death in 1655 permeated the European scholarly world, but, because of its heavy erudition and the use of Latin, it made but little headway in the mundane society of the time. In fact, it was not until the publication of Bernier's AbrSge in 1674 that the mundane society began to show an appreciable interest in his work. There was, however, a strong Gassendi influence through his followers and his friends. Around 1641 or 1642 there appeared in Paris a group of young people very preoccupied with his thought. This intellectual center was formed around Chapelle, the illegitimate son of Luillier, who called the "Theologal" of Digne "Ie Prince des philosophes." Bernier, who was to compose the Abrege later, ad• 226 ·

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mitted he was drawn into the group by Chapelle, and in time he became Gassendi's secretary. With Chapelle and Bernier, there was the son of Gassendi's good friend and ally, the young La Mothe Ie Vayer, D'assoucy, and Cyrano de Bergerac, in whose Voyage dans la lune can be found all the important points of Gassendi's philosophy—his atomism, his explanation of the senses, the origin of ideas— as well as denials of God's existence and of the soul's immortality and a strong antibiblical criticism, all of which would have scandalized Gassendi. There remains as a possible member of the group, the most important but also the most problematical of Gassendi's followers—Moliere. It is important that the relation between Gassendi and Moliere be clearly understood, because in Brunetiere's theory of the origins of the Enlightenment, Moliere plays a key role (see fctudes critiques IV, iygt.) among the free-thinkers. In his Vie de Moliere, Grimarest stated that Gassendi, once become the preceptor of the young Chapelle, taught his philosophy to both Bernier and Moliere. Moliere's later biographers, among them Michaut, have shown that it is difficult to find a period when Moliere could have followed a course of instruction with Gassendi. Mongredien has observed that although we do not have any confirmation that Moliere did in fact study with him, we are nevertheless totally ignorant of Moliere's activities in 1641 and 1642, which are precisely the years when the group of young men are supposed to have gathered around Chapelle. Moreover, even if Moliere was not officially of the group, his familiarity with and his friendship for Chapelle certainly constituted a sufficiently close relationship to make Gassendi's ideas available to him, and he did compose a translation of Lucretius, now completely lost, which shows at least his own interest in Epicurean philosophy and atomism. Through the Mersenne group and especially through Sorbiere, Hobbes' editor and Gassendi's editor also, there was a relationship between Gassendi and Hobbes, not too well known, it is true, but we do have passages in which the French follower of Epicurus expressed a considered judgment of the Englishman's work, and critics have often noted a close similarity between the naturalism of Hobbes and the atomism of Gassendi. In addition, Cavendish in his correspondence with Pell speaks of a letter from Hobbes which praises • 227 ·

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Gassendi highly for the completeness of his philosophy. Further, Gassendi was probably known to Cudworth and the Cambridge Platonists, since his works were in Cudworth's library. Gassendi's influence10 actually increased long after his death. Though Professor Adam finds that little interest was shown Gassendi in German universities, in Italy, on the contrary, such interest was still strong enough to warrant the publication of his works in Florence in 1727. In England, W. Charlton, friend of Hobbes, having been introduced to Gassendi by his English colleague, wrote a Physiologia epicuro-gassendo-charletoniana in 1654, and two years later a study on Epicurus. Boyle, adopting Gassendi's atomism, composed an Origin of Forms, according to the corpuscular philosophy, while he also encouraged Cudworth to utilize Gassendi's Syntagma in his True intellectual system of the universe. The most important influence exercised by Gassendi in England, however, was upon Locke, who possessed the French philosopher's works. Both writers held similar views concerning the origin of ideas and Gassendi's empiricism, with its insistence upon the senses, reappears likewise in Locke. Strangely enough, this similarity was remarked upon at the very end of the seventeenth century. Leibniz, in the Nouveaux essais sur I'entendement humain, wrote: "Locke ecrit visiblement dans l'esprit de Gassendi . . . et il semble dispose a approuver la plupart des objections que Gassendi a faites a Descartes." Adam, who points out that only recently (in the work of Bonno) has a direct relationship between Locke and Gassendi been established, stresses that the point of contact between the two philosophers lies in their anti-cartesianism. It was in the circle of H. Justel that Locke came in contact with the anti-cartesian movement. Indeed this was the important gathering in Paris between 1670 and 1680. Justel's house, as Bonno has shown, was open to all foreigners who passed through Paris. Finally, the salon of Mme de la Sabliere, where Bernier, La Fontaine, and Sorbiere were often found, was distinctly open to Gassendi's thought. More important than these relationships, however, is the way in 10

A. Adam, "Gassendi: L'Influence posthume," in Pierre Gassendi, /592-/655, Paris, 1955, pp. 157-82; also his "L'Influence de Gassendi sur Ie mouvement des idees a la fin du XVII e siecle," Actes du congres du tricentenaire de Pierre Gassendi 1955, 7-11.

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which certain of Gassendi's ideas penetrated the European mind. Brucker stated that those who insisted upon atomism and the vacuum were known as followers of Gassendi. These two points of his thought became dominant ideas of late seventeenth-century thinking, and played a major role in the thinking of Boyle, Huyghens, and Newton. Gassendi's concept of matter as active, which Bernier stressed, became central to Leibniz's monad. Indeed, in all three of these points, both Leibniz and Locke are in accord with Gassendi and they concur likewise in rejecting the Cartesian theory of beastmachines. These indications of Gassendi's influence, while striking, should not be accorded too much importance. Practically all critics have a tendency to regard an agreement between Gassendi and any of his contemporaries on any of these points as evidence of Gassendism rather than Cartesianism. But the problem which ultimately has to be solved is less how the thinkers were divided between the two systems, than how the thought of the two philosophers became merged in the thought of those who followed them. One very important influence exercised by Gassendi upon his followers, according to Adam, was his theory of "volupte," which was the basis of his morality. Essentially, it was taken from Epicurus's statement that it depended upon indolence and tranquillity of mind. Gassendi thought that it was the quality of the "honnete homme." In this, he was followed by Saint-Evremond, by Sarasin, and by a whole long line of epicurean poets—Dehenault, Mme Deshoulieres, La Fare, and Chaulieu—which in fact extended from Theophile de Viau to Chaulieu and thence to Voltaire. The viewpoint was, of course, one of the dominant influences upon the young Voltaire. It is an exaggeration, though, to attribute it solely to Gassendi, since it was more likely an epicurean current of the century to which Gassendi and the others belonged, a spirit of the time, rather than the influence of a philosopher. Yet one has to be careful here. The Abbe de Marolles, for instance, avowedly followed the thought of the philosopher. Moreover, there does seem to be a close liaison between the apologist of Epicurus and the libertine founders of the social ideal of the century. Both Saint-Evremond and Mere have an Epicurean idea of the "honnete homme." It is all the more striking coming from Saint-Evremond in that he describes minutely his meeting with Gassendi whom he calls "Ie plus eclaire des philosophes • 229 ·

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et Ie moins presomptueux"; and more important still in the case of Mere and Mitton, because of the effect they had upon Pascal, who found their style of life extraordinarily attractive. Adam concludes his study with a general remark which merits examination. The central problem of the seventeenth century, he says, revolved around whether humanism ought to be pursued or abandoned, whether truth is more possible through a rupture with the past, whether it is more likely to be acquired through the sole use of reason, and, finally, whether science is the discovery of primary evidence, the basis of a whole new reconstruction of the world. All these questions are really aspects of the first problem: whether in the broadest terms, the organic unity of our lives is built upon humanism or science. Gassendi elects to continue humanism, while Descartes opts for science. In every respect, the former is the opposite of the latter: he believes in tradition, he believes in the collective character of intelligent effort, he believes in history. Charles Perrault said of him: "Il taschait a faire voir par de favorables interpretations que les Anciens avoient pense les memes choses qu'on regardait comme nouvelles." We shall see in time that this was also the attitude of Bayle; it had also been that of Erasmus. Berr calls Gassendi a historian of ideas, precisely the label I have attached to Bayle. I suspect there is a difference in degree only, and that before Bayle, Gassendi had assembled the elements of a historian of ideas, but did not know very well what to do with them. Koyre, for instance, at the end of a discussion upon Gassendi remarked that the interest in history attributed to Gassendi by Adam actually belongs to Bayle alone (p. 177). Descartes's Spirit Several points of interest in Descartes's intellectual biography merit special attention. His studies at La Fleche, particularly in the field of philosophy, left a lasting mark upon him, in spite of the impression he gave in the first part of the Discours of having retained practically nothing. Although in specific details, and even as it applies to the pattern of his education as a whole, his condemnation of it has some justification, he nevertheless profited, as Professor Gouhier has shown, from the structure which his teachers gave to philosophy. In the Jesuit schools down to 1626, the program in philosophy was • 230 ·

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a three-year affair: the first year was given up to the study of ethics and logic; the second year to mathematics and physics; the third year to metaphysics. As they saw things, there was a close connection between thinking (logic) and doing (ethics), between the external world (physics) and its measurements (mathematics), and between all these operations of the mind and the world within and beyond man (metaphysics). Philosophy has already become an operation of consciousness: its subject is the way one thinks, the relationship between thinking and doing, the phenomena of the external world, and finally the world beyond man and the Superior Power who creates and rules that world. Thus there was an underlying assumption that the function of philosophy is to support the cardinal principles of religion. Not that religious faith needs its testimony, but thought which does not confirm religious belief is sterile. Hence the climax of the three-year course is metaphysics, and the two principal problems encountered are the nature and existence of God and the immortality of the soul. With increasing experience other relationships become sharper: the link between thinking and doing has a value of its own, and so does the one between physics and mathematics, that is, between the phenomenon and its quantification. These relationships were stressed after 1626 when the Jesuits rearranged their program in philosophy: logic and ethics still occupied the students' attention in the first year, but physics and metaphysics were put together in the second year, and mathematics became the preoccupation of the third and last year. This scheme reflected certain changes which were taking place: there was a growing conviction that physics depended upon metaphysics (having no metaphysical assumptions invalidates physical observations), that mathematics is the crowning philosophical act (the operation of the human mind in analyzing, organizing, and quantifying phenomena is the climax of philosophy), and that philosophy is thus one thing and theology is something else. This last idea was slow in development, but it was all the same involved in the Jesuits' reorganization of philosophical study. Descartes organized the Discours in the light of this experience, as can be seen from a casual examination of its various parts. After the biographical section which relates the failure of his education, the second part undertakes to establish the rules of logic, the third part treats of the ethical principles which have to be adopted in the • 231 ·

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light of these rules, the fourth part deals with the two metaphysical problems which it is important for man to solve, the fifth part is given to physics, and the final part deals with mathematics. Thus is preserved the relationship between thinking and acting, between metaphysical principles and physical phenomena, and mathematics has been accorded a position of superiority in philosophy, thereby contributing to the enhancement of natural science and to a tendency to regard philosophy as an intellectual activity rather than a theologically-oriented act. The ultimate outcome of this organization is evident: metaphysics becomes less theological but very necessary for physics. Science (knowledge of the external world) becomes a gready enhanced field of interest. Mathematics is now the key science which opens up the external world as a measurable mechanism and the internal world of man as an orderly mode of thinking and doing. All of these things are clearly involved in the title: Discours de la methode pour bien conduire sa raison et chercher la verite dans les sciences. Though usually regarded as a methodology, it is in reality an epistemology. A part of Descartes's experience was derived, in all probability, from the Rosicrucians. This aspect of his biography is rather obscure, and Baillet has rendered it more ambiguous still. We know, however, that Descartes was in communication with a Rosicrucian— Faulhaber at UIm—just before the famous dreams on the night of November 10, 1619. Precisely what the group represented has been explained by Bougerel's biography of Gassendi, who also evinced some interest in the group: Les Freres de la Rosecroix etoient une confrerie chymerique de savans, etablie, a ce qu'on disoit, en Allemagne depuis l'an 1604. La fin de leur institut etoit la reforme generale du monde, seulement dans les sciences, ils s'obligeoient a garder Ie celibat, ils embrassoient l'etude generale de la physique dans toutes ses parties, mais ils faisoient une profession plus particuliere de la chimie et de la medecine: c'etoient des gens qui savoient tout et qui promettoient aux hommes une nouvelle sagesse qui n'avoit pas ete decouverte.

Baillet spoke of the Rosicrucians in practically the same language: they "savoient tout," they were seeking "une nouvelle sagesse," they promised "la veritable science qui n'avoit pas encore ete decouverte." Their founder was regarded "comme celui qui devoit etre l'auteur • 232 ·

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d'une reformation generale dans l'univers," destined to be a "reformation dans les sciences seulement." Whether Descartes was an active member of the organization is not known. At all events, his own expressed attitude was similar to theirs, as Baillet and Bougerel described it. In his early letters, and even more in his early fragmentary notes and remarks, there is a continual reference to "a universal mathematics," a "universal science," and an "admirable science." It is evident that the young Descartes was in search of a "key" which would completely remake the conceptual foundation of the universe. Strongly influenced by Raimon Lull, to whom he refers frequently in these early years, he was committed to the destruction of the old, Aristotelian conception of the universe and to the creation of a new, modern outlook. It is immaterial whether his interests led to a highly mystical experience or whether such an event turned him toward those interests. There is no doubt that the dreams, which Baillet explained with great detail, actually occurred, since Descartes inscribed in his diary {CEuvres, A. et T., x, 179): "X Novembris, 1619, cum plenus forem entusiasmo et mirabilis scientiae fundamenta reperirem." These marvelous foundations of science appeared to him the key he had been seeking, all the more universal in their scope since he held to the principle of the unity of knowledge: "Toutes les sciences sont liees, et Ton ne peut tenir une parfaitement sans que d'autres ne suivent d'elles-memes et qu'on n'embrasse en meme temps toute l'Encyclopedie toute entiere." This intellectual organization led to a new order of science: above the region of sensible things are the things of experience, experimenta; above the region of experimental things, is that of the Muses, Parnassus; above the region of intellectual things is that of divine things, Olympica. This is the hierarchy of human experience as it avails itself of the admirable science: a world of scientific experiment; above it, a world of poetic insights; and above that a world of symbolic meaning. In short, a universe of nature, man, and God. Essentially this new ordering of human experience does not differ greatly from Pascal's. There are two adjustments to be made, however. Descartes drew a sharp distinction between science (what one can know) and the sciences. The term science seems to be equivalent to our word wisdom (he often uses the word "sagesse"). The sciences correspond to fields of knowledge, and are divided into three classes: the cardinal • 233 ·

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sciences: the general notions deduced from the simplest principles and widely known among ordinary men; the experimental sciences: clear and certain for those who have grasped them through experiments and observations; and the liberal sciences: those which demand, in addition to the knowledge of truth, an elasticity of mind or at least a habit acquired by practice. Descartes mentions in this group politics, medicine, music, poetics, and rhetoric. He adds, significantly: "Ces sciences n'ont en elles de verite indubitable, que celle qu'elles empruntent des principes des autres sciences." Finally, according to Baillet, he divided studies into two categories: studies of imagination and the senses, approached by meditation (we would now say speculation), of which mathematics would be the best example; and studies of the intellect, approached by contemplation (we would say ratiocination), philosophy being the most typical. From the first Descartes was preoccupied with the unity of knowledge, the means of knowing, the classification of knowledge, and the functions of the instrument of knowledge in which are included meditation and contemplation, mathematics and philosophy, imagination and intellect. The world of thought, apparently, was already characterized by a constant dualism. The whole operation of the understanding he incorporates in the term "reflection." Descartes, however, was led constantly to inquire into values: is meditation superior to contemplation, or mathematics to philosophy, or poetry to philosophy, or imagination to intellect? Each time the problem was posed, he gave priority to the first term in each pair, while recognizing the necessity of establishing some kind of balance between the two. This latter tendency can be seen in the earliest of his writings, fragmentary though they are. The discovery of the marvelous science destined to be the key to all knowledge was made in a series of dreams and duly recorded ((Euvres, A. et T., x, 179). This entusiasmus does not have any direct relationship with reason; it is a product of the imagination and of intuition—a poetic act. Indeed, in the same fragmentary early works ((Euvres, x, 217) Descartes inscribed: "Mirum videri possit, quare graves sententiae in scriptis poetarum, magis quam philosophorum. Ratio est quod poetae per entusiasmum et vim imaginationis scripsere." He attributed a greater significance to the vision of the poet than to the contemplation of the philosopher. Baillet, remarking that he • 234 ·

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had a higher regard for poetry than one would think, recalled that Descartes had a talent for poetry, that he declared that he was not insensible to its beauties, and that he wrote poetry at the close of his life as he had done at the beginning. Later in the biography, Baillet, translating the passage we have just quoted from the Olympica, attributed the poet's superiority over the philosopher to the poet's inspiration and the strength of his imagination. To show how this inspiration worked, Baillet paraphrased a passage Descartes had written in the early works (CEuvres, x, 2iyS). The "semences de la verite," he wrote, can be found in all as fire in stone. They take their origin in the reasoning of the philosopher as well as in the imagination of the poet, but they derive essentially from that intuition which is a combination of the imagination of the poet and the reasoning of the philosopher. This intuition strikes the seeds of truth from our soul as one strikes sparks from stones. It must be prepared by doubt; it can produce sparks of truth only if it understands what the phenomenon is and, to do this, it must raise questions. Intuition which begins in doubt must end in action; it must unite the symbols of the imagination with the truths of the understanding, the physical with the spiritual world. Of supreme importance are the things which are revealed by intuition: our imperfection, perfection, the perfect Revelation, the unchanging Will, order, the laws of thought, the laws of nature, essences as well as existences, and finally, the Sovereign Good. This poetic dialectic which appears at the very beginning of Descartes's career permeates all of his work. In the Cogitationes and the Regulae, his aim was to intuit reality through the "natures simples"; he strove to acquire clear ideas ("entendement pur") through the use of reason, imagination, and the senses, and he sought to express the apprehension more profoundly by symbolization. In a remark inscribed in the Olympica he had already noted {(Euvres, x, 218): "Les choses sensibles sont tres propres a nous faire concevoir les olympiques; Ie vent signifie l'esprit, Ie mouvement avec Ie temps signifient la vie; la lumiere, la connaissance; la chaleur, l'amour; l'activite instantanee, la creation." His works, as critics have often remarked, are filled with these metaphors. This external way of performing the poetic act is, however, only a preparation. There is in the act of thought itself as Descartes conceived it an inner vitality which is its poetry, its creation, its metaphor. Descartes understood • 235 ·

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that by virtue of this gift, the seer can plunge into obscure reality and penetrate its meaning beyond appearances. In this ecstasy he makes his great discoveries, first of himself and then of the universe: all science is but one, but the principle of wisdom must be sought within ourselves; reality is not a point of departure, but a terminal goal. The highlights of this philosophy were all discovered when rational thought seemed to have reached its limits and was at a standstill: the cogito, the rules, the distinction between the soul and body, the substitution of the notion of matter for that of substance— these dramatic moments in the unfolding of his philosophy are similar to those found in Corneille's drama, and, indeed, Cartesianism could be called the drama of the mind. But nowhere is Descartes more poetic, dramatic, organic, and creative than in his definition of thought (Decorte, p. 140): Par Ie nom de pensee, je comprends tout ce qui est tellement en nous que nous l'apercevons immediatement par nous-memes et en avons une connaissance interieure. Ainsi toutes les operations de la volonte, de l'entendement, de !'imagination, et des sens sont des pensees.

Thus there is identity between awareness of oneself and of the world around us, which is proof both of our existence, and of that which is beyond us. The essential of thought, however, is not only that it reveals us to ourselves. It calls up, from within, those possibilities which become realities, and thus it becomes a total act, a spiritual force, a dynamic power of expansion. It is creative activity. If we keep before us this drive to creation, this actualization of possibilities, we can better understand what philosophy is for Descartes (see E. Gilson, Discours de la methode, 1935). For him it is the love and pursuit of wisdom, not the accumulation of knowledge. The philosopher is therefore less interested in content than in the perfecting of the mind. He has the conviction that the more perfect it is, the more it tends to distinguish the true and to follow the good. Cultivation of the intellect cannot come from without, from erudition; it must come from within. Man has to discover within himself the proofs of his existence. Wisdom, strictly speaking, is awareness of oneself and one's possibilities; it is derived from the thinking thing ("res cogitans") and the thing thought ("res cogitata"). Thought, as we understand it structurally (the thinker thinking and the thing thought), is capable of deducing from itself all the knowl• 236 ·

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edge useful to man. To actually do so, it must be cognizant of two simple truths: all knowledge is one; to acquire it organically, we must have a method. The best method is the mathematical, hence the four rules for the conduct of thought: to admit nothing which is not evident; to divide problems into as many component parts as are necessary to solve them; to proceed from the simple to the complex; to make constant checks and reviews of past solutions. These rules, geometrical in nature, are descriptive of a process rather than indicative of a method. They counsel moving from corollaries or axioms to specific problems, from proposition to analysis, from analysis to synthesis, to a continual review of past solutions. The method, once acquired, is capable of extension to a "mathematique universelle," that is, all phenomena may be treated mathematically. Since it produces certainty in mathematics, it will do likewise in other spheres, provided we proceed from ideas to objects, and arrange all ideas in order. Certainty, however, is never possible until there has been a successful application of methodical doubt, which can be used only in the realm of knowledge. Doubt, too, is subject to three rules: one must never stop at methodical doubt; one must not utilize it in theology, and in dealing with the eternal verities (this rule not only separates reason from revelation, but also metaphysics from theology); finally, one must never use it in the realm of action. This last rule is the source of Descartes's provisional morality, which contains four precepts: to abide by the manners and customs of the country, to come to a decision concerning moral activity and to stick to it, to limit one's desires rather than attempt to achieve those which are impossible and, finally, to devote one's life to the search for truth. The first application of methodical doubt serves to destroy all the testimony of the senses. But there is one testimony which doubt cannot destroy, and that is the act of doubting or rather the fact of thinking that I doubt. In a whole series of syllogistic axioms, Descartes reaches the proof of existence: "Je pense, done je suis." From the most radical doubting comes the first piece of incontrovertible evidence. Immediately, three facts become apparent: I am a nature uniquely "pensante"; the existence of thought is really independent of that of the body; the criterion of truth is what is conceived (like existence) clearly and distinctly. The existence of myself clearly im• 237 ·

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plies the existence of a superior power. There are three proofs of this: the clear distinction I can make between perfection and imperfection; the source of the idea of perfection; and the identification of perfection with God. What then is the source of error? It lies in the same place as truth: in man himself, that is in his psyche. The mind is finite and imperfect; it is consequently limited in the two respects that it cannot of itself know the perfect, and that it does not always identify the true. Descartes thought that the mind consisted of three faculties: intellect, will, judgment. When there is a lack of harmony, a misunderstanding, the understanding does not clearly perceive the will, and judgment produces error. We have now reached the eternal verities: the existence of thought, God, and extension. Extension is guaranteed by God and thought. A whole new world opens up, characterized by movement, a universe which is no longer filled with "formes substantielles," or qualities, but rather a mechanistic world, consisting in measurable quantities. Man is composed of soul and body, animals are "pure" machines, the world is a combination of whirling vortices and subtle matter, and all are subject to nature's eternal laws. Descartes's philosophy's unique quality is its comprehensiveness: it embraces in an absolute way all the philosophic aspects of life. Further, it lays great stress on science and mathematics. One gets the feeling that mathematics is a kind of philosophical language and that the phenomenological universe is a sort of self-functioning machine. The problem is to know how to express the phenomenon in a mathematical language. When the expression is adjusted correctly, the idea is clear and distinct; when the ideas are arranged in a correct order, the apprehension of reality results. The three essentials, however, are clear and distinct ideas, orderliness, and consciousness. The realm of possible awareness comprises man, God, nature, and these, too, are fully comprehensive. This is a "new universe," absolutely mechanistic. Its elements are proportionate, related, expressible in terms of equations. Everything is neatly arranged, and whatever happens can be immediately explained. This comprehensiveness is apparent in Descartes's ordering of knowledge. When he likens it to a tree whose roots are metaphysics, whose trunk is physics and mathematics, and whose branches are mechanics, medicine, and ethics, in one simple metaphor he has • 238 ·

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expressed his system in its totality, and at the same time he has stressed the necessity for order, for a causal relationship, for a mechanical concept, for the interdependence of all branches of knowledge, and for the perfect relationship between awareness and reality. The only trouble is that his explanations do not square with our reality. The Cartesian universe is built in a series of vortices interspersed with subtle matter: there are, consequently, no atoms, no vacuum. Man is composed of soul and body. Each part is separate from the other, yet both are united. Man is born with innate notions which can be indefinitely expanded. Animals are "pure machines." Light is an emission which reaches us instantaneously. All of this is very well, but there are no vortices, no subtle matter. There is a vacuum. Though man may be composed of soul and body, their union is neither clear nor distinct. Atoms do exist; they appear infinite. Animals do act with sympathetic response. There is hardly a pronouncement of Descartes in the realm of the natural sciences which is not an error. It is not, therefore, surprising that a manual was issued in 1706 by the Jesuits forbidding the teaching of the following Cartesian propositions: that it is possible to doubt everything; that substances are eternal; that essences are dependent on the will of God; that the essence of matter is extension; that the universe is a plenum, indefinitely extended; that there is a constant amount of motion in the universe; that the present universal order is the only possible one; that qualitative differences may be reduced to the arrangement of particles; that secondary qualities are subjective; and that the brutes are machines (see Spink, pp. 193-94). In all probability, they sincerely believed that Descartes's pronouncements in natural science were impossible. It is disconcerting to have to deal with a philosophy which is so beautifully unified, so completely organized, but which turned out to be wrong and apparently useless in the area of natural science. In fullness, in ripeness, in organization, there has never been a betterstructured philosophy. One of its outstanding features is that it is so carefully thought out; another is its presentation, which has all the simplicity and clarity of a geometrical proposition or perhaps a whole set of geometrical propositions. Its metaphysical insights are surpassed only by its idealism and its practical value. Never did a philosophy present itself under such auspicious circumstances, promise • 239 ·

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so much to mankind, or possess such inner integrity and balance as Cartesianism. After all this has been said, though, it has to be recorded that never has a philosophy proved so completely deceptive, in reconstituting the physical world. Once it had proved its falsity in that area, it was only natural that it would be discarded. Indeed that is exactly what eventually was attempted. One after another the parts of the whole philosophy were dismembered: the metaphysics was discredited, the physics was rejected, the methodology was replaced by a different one, the cosmology was suppressed, the ethics was entirely revised. One of the strangest things about the breakdown in Cartesianism is that the break-up of its various parts is what enriched all the philosophies of the seventeenth century. Every philosopher of worth in the century, including Newton and Locke, Spinoza and Leibniz, MaIebranche and Bayle, and, above all, Pascal, began by being in one way or another Cartesian, continued by taking something important from Descartes, and ended by declaring his philosophy impossible. Finally, the whole of Cartesianism was declared a ridiculous fiction, and it was on one occasion reduced by the Abbe Daniel to the form of a Utopian novel. Newtonianism was triumphantly established in its place, but only after a gigantic struggle which was waged over a period of forty years. In spite of its suppression, though, it still remains one of the world's greatest philosophies, sharing its survival with other great philosophies, such as Aristotelianism, Platonism, and Spinozism. It is the height of paradox that though created in the first place to supplant Aristotelianism it resembled more closely the idealism of Plato, and it had the good fortune of being largely responsible for Spinoza. Moreover, what is of greatest concern to us here, it is often given as the cause of the Enlightenment. It is, of course, possible that Descartes could be wrong in his interpretation of the phenomena which entered into the composition of nature and correct in his apprehension of the nature of God and man. He could certainly be in error in natural science without necessarily going astray in metaphysics, psychology, and ethics. He had, however, so built his philosophy that a gross error could easily involve the integrity of the whole system. There has always been a grave danger of that in all systematic philosophy. Disprove the possibility of "substantial forms" and the whole of Aristotle's philosophy • 240 ·

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of qualities will collapse. Moreover, Descartes had played his chances on a method which would lead to truth in the sciences. He had constructed the method so tightly after the fashion of geometry that all corollaries and axioms had to fit in a compact relationship with all propositions. Any slip would threaten the efficient conduct of reason and could destroy the marvelous science. On the other hand, there is some risk in passing a totally negative judgment upon a systematic philosophy because it is not free of errors. Descartes, for instance, had as an ambition the creation of a systematic philosophy of quantity which would replace Aristotle's philosophy of qualities. The mechanism which he introduced—la mecanique—became in time the one characteristic of modern science adopted by all subsequent philosophers. Indeed, what they all reproached Descartes was not pursuing "Ie mecanisme" to its logical consequences as Newton did. Just as Descartes was most certainly on the right track here, however, so he may have been pursuing an intelligent road in other aspects of his thought—the "cogito," for instance, that is the identity of existence with thought, or the order and harmony which he demanded in the universe, or the insistence upon the unity of knowledge. Consequently, if we would understand the destiny of Cartesianism we have to inquire diligently into the intention of its author. R. Lefevre (L'Humanistne de Descartes, 1957) has defined Cartesianism as a humanism, "un effort d'amelioration de la nature par la culture, un appel a l'epanouissement de la liberte en verite, une ascension du vouloir individuel, collectif vers l'univers et vers Dieu. D'un mot, un humanisme. . . ." This humanism becomes for Descartes a means of setting straight the disorder of his time. Two unremitting battles are going on, that of the Church against the libertines, that of science against scholasticism. These battles have produced confusion in the manners and customs of the time, and have caused disorder in its thought. The Church, while combating the free-thinkers, attempted to support scholasticism in its struggle with the innovations of science. There resulted a dislocation of religion and philosophy, an opposition between faith and reason, a vacillation in the relationship of the human and the divine. In this crisis, Descartes esteems that his method, by establishing the "true" philosophy, ought to create the necessary harmony between the op•241 ·

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ponents: ". . . de meme," says Lefevre, "que Ie spiritualisme sera l'assise d'une croyance plus vive, Ie mecanisme sera l'assise d'une connaissance plus feconde." The imbalance which occurred between religion and philosophy and occasioned a severe crisis coincided with a corresponding dislocation between the science of nature and the science of man. Under the impact of the new astronomy and the new physics, there was formed a new politics and a new ethics. But there was a great difference between the positive discoveries of science and the negative assertions of "la morale." Nature had become a positive reality, while man had become a negative reality. There arose therefore a situation in which skepticism became the foundation of moral thought, while positivism formed the core of scientific thought. But thought is an entity, truth is a unity. How can one reconcile the truth of skepticism with the truth of nature ? There was, finally, a latent conflict between science and metaphysics, and a similar conflict between the human and the divine, which enlarged the crisis in the human consciousness at war with itself. This crisis, says Chevalier (Histoire de la pensee, in, p. 55), very quickly manifested itself on both the political and religious levels. The existence of these conflicts between the Church and the freethinkers, between scholasticism and modern science, between the science of nature and science of man, between science and metaphysics, and between the human and the divine had introduced a disunity in the realms of religion, morality, and the sciences. The center of this disorder was in the area of the new science, but the areas where its effect was felt most keenly were in the fields of religion and morality—hence Descartes's intention to coordinate the new science with religion and morality in a harmonious way. Gouhier, for his part (Essais sur Descartes, 1957), notes that the philosopher discovered, in the moment of conflict, his philosophy neither in books nor in the experience of the world. His search was for a "vie de l'intelligence" which could be placed between the "vie spirituelle" on the one hand and the "vie pratique" on the other, and which could assimilate first one, then the other of these two conditions without losing its own identity. In the opening part of his Discours, Descartes clearly indicated the steps of this search. He confessed he was led to it by the failure of the culture which had been imprinted upon him at La Fleche. In spite of the repute of • 242 ·

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the school, the excellence of the teachers, his own assiduity, and an age as competent in intellectual matters as any previous age, he was convinced that the humanities which he had learned had failed because they betrayed their definition: they did not succeed in making man. Hence, on leaving La Fleche, Descartes resolved to seek no other science than that which could be found within himself and within the "grand livre du monde." It would seem, however, that both the seclusion which he sought and the experience which he desired left him unsatisfied, the former because of a lack of focus, and the latter because of its relativity of manners and customs. This aspect of his search nevertheless made clear to him the necessary qualities of his "marvelous science": it should produce certainty, and it should possess the unity and order which is guaranteed by the control of one man. Hence, although the withdrawal into oneself, travel, and observation did not give certainty and unity, they encouraged the belief that the "marvelous science" could be apprehended only under those conditions. Its source, however, was more specific: his experience with Beeckmann had provided him with a clue. His discovery within himself of a talent for mathematics and in mathematics the absolute certainty and perfect unity which he sought led him to feel that he had finally found the road to the "vraie science" and its nature. After his vision, Descartes became assured of his certainty: the "vraie science" is one; truth and unity can only be the task of one man. To achieve his task he must address himself to the principle of all unity: to Reason, but Reason in the seclusion of oneself. Thus the first act of a philosophy is a meditation from which arises an intuition and which forces a conversion. Descartes is now sure of his route, assured that the use of his method will lead to truth, confident that this method is available to every man since "Ie bon sens" is "la chose du monde la mieux partagee." Cartesianism thus becomes a means of restoring man to the certainty of his powers, and to the knowledge of himself. Under these circumstances, it does not really matter whether his scientific world-view is correct or not. What is really important is whether Cartesianism was capable of releasing within man his inner powers and whether this knowledge of himself could reestablish his true relationship with God and nature. Descartes's dilemma, thus, did not differ materially from Mon• 243 ·

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taigne's except that it was much sharper and demanded a clearer definition as well as a more unified solution. Essentially, though, what was necessary was the reconstruction of moral man through the power of science, whereas Montaigne had proceeded to the reconstruction of moral man through the power of humanism. That is undoubtedly the reason why Descartes from the very first addressed himself to Montaigne, who thereby became an unquestioned source in the former's meditation. It would perhaps be exaggerated, though, to say with Brunschwicg that the Essais opened up the way for the Discours. Baillet, Descartes's biographer, noted that he read very little. In the case of Galileo, Descartes wrote Mersenne that he had found practically nothing which he would have wished to have said himself. To be sure, he wanted to give the impression that he had drawn his philosophy from himself and, as a consequence, he was inclined to stress the novelty of his ideas. This would certainly never have been a characteristic attitude of Montaigne, who loudly proclaimed his dislike for "la nouvellete" in all its forms. On the other hand, the tendency of Montaigne to regard his life as his masterpiece would appeal but little to Descartes who, as Gouhier says, regarded his life as worthy of being related because of the greatness of his works. In spite of these fundamental differences, there are nevertheless close points of similarity between the two. Descartes's conception of wisdom is, as Gilson has said, a legacy of the Renaissance and derives particularly from Montaigne, but Descartes transformed it. Charron assumed that science and wisdom are two distinct things, while Descartes made a distinct effort to give to the concept of science its true meaning and to unite it closely with the concept of wisdom. Descartes defined wisdom thus as "la parfaite connaissance de toutes les choses que l'homme peut savoir, tant pour la conduite de sa vie que pour la conservation de sa sante et l'invention de tous les arts" (Principes, Preface, rx, 2nde Partie, p. 2). Closer still are Descartes and Montaigne in their regard for "bon sens." The latter, in "De la Presomption" (11, Chap. XVII), writes: "On dit communement que Ie plus juste partage que nature nous aye fait de ses graces, c'est celuy des sens: car il n'est aucun qui ne se contente de ce qu'elle lui en a distribue," while at the beginning of the Discours Descartes stated that "Ie bons sens est la chose du monde la mieux partagee." They are closest together in their resolve to seek the truth within themselves. •244 ·

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Montaigne stated: "Il y a plusieurs annees que je n'ai que moi pour visee a mes pensees, que je ne controle et etudie que m o i . . . , " which Descartes echoed in his remark " . . . de ne chercher plus autre science que celle qui se pourrait trouver en moi-meme. . . ." The further resolve to seek the nature of things in the world around us, which Montaigne counseled in his Institution des enfants—"Ce grand monde . . . je veux que ce soit Ie livre de mon ecolier."—is repeated literally by Descartes: " . . . ou bien dans Ie grand livre du monde...." Even the rationalistic basis which Descartes gave to his system had been foreshadowed by Montaigne who wrote: "Aller selon nature pour nous, ce n'est qu'aller selon notre intelligence, autant qu'elle peut suivre et autant que nous y voyons, ce qui est au-dela est monstrueux et desordonne." In two particular places in the Discours there is such a close similarity between the two authors that it is impossible not to perceive it. Gilson {Discours, p. 98) has already sketched the general agreement: Il est a peine besoin de faire remarquer a quel point Ie dessein d'ecrire un Discours en langue vulgaire, qui s'adressera par consequent a tout Ie public cultive, et dans lequel Descartes "representera sa vie," ou la racontera "comme une histoire," afin que ce lui soit un nouveau moyen de s'instruire, combien enfin ce recit de ses etudes venant apres I'Institution des enfants de Montaigne rappellent Ie dessein des Essais dont plusieurs passages du Discours trahissent d'ailleurs l'influence. The parallelism between the two in these two specific items is indeed remarkable, not so much perhaps in language as in conviction. Montaigne and Descartes are in full agreement that the making of a personality is fundamentally a problem in epistemology. They agree that the personality requires certain stimuli in order to express itself. Both are convinced that consciousness of oneself is evidence of the existence of the self; that a guarantee of this self derives from the ability to relate, i.e., to recite, oneself to others. Both undertake this relation in as ingenious and straightforward a way as possible. This injection of the "je" into the history of the universe is not sufficient though. It must be stimulated by certain procedures: by the determination to observe and compare the different sorts of characters, societies, countries; by traveling as a means of acquiring, at first hand, evidence for this comparison; by extracting from these • 245 ·

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experiences with the outside world a mode of conduct or at least a general ethical position based on comparison of these countries, their customs, their general character. Finally, these digested experiences should give fresh impetus to knowledge of oneself, one's possibilities, one's own character. In fact, the whole of Descartes's provisional morality is but a repetition of Montaigne's moral position. Some latitude would, of course, have to be given to abiding by a decision to which one has come. Firmness of character was precisely not the outstanding characteristic of one who celebrated that man is "merveilleusement vain, divers, et ondoyant." In addition, it has always been understood that Descartes composed his philosophy for those who, "esprits brouillons," needed instruction precisely in how to become firm, ordered, unified in their thought. Although the parallels which can be drawn between Montaigne's Essais and Descartes's Discours are striking, we are not sure whether Descartes continued this close imitation throughout his life. Professor G. Gadoffre, in an article entitled "Le Discours de la methode et l'histoire litteraire" (French Review, 1948) has restricted the influence of Montaigne upon Descartes to the period between 1619 and 1630: "tres marquee" in the early fragmentary works, still noticeable in the biographical section of the Discours which critics have often suggested was written in 1627 or 1628. Thereafter the influence decreases until, in the later works it is, says Gadoffre, almost imperceptible. This judgment is in all probability misplaced. The Studium Bonae Mentis, which Baillet (II, 406) characterizes as "considerations sur Ie desir que nous avons de savoir, sur les sciences, sur les dispositions de 1'esprit pour apprendre, sur l'ordre qu'on doit garder pour acquerir la sagesse, c'est-a-dire la science avec la vertu, en joignant les functions de la volonte avec celles de l'entendement," seems also a discourse on method. What Descartes was proposing specifically in both works was a way of coordinating the dispersal of thought and action, characteristic of the age of Montaigne, Shakespeare, Cervantes, Bacon, and Galileo. It was not so much a problem for Descartes to unify this diversity as to harmonize it. This very determination to put order, form, system, into his own thinking would naturally occur at an early moment in the history of his interest in Montaigne. Thereafter, Descartes changed the focus of each work: from epistemology to metaphysics in the Meditations, to philosophical principles • 246 ·

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in the Principes de philosophic, to principles of ethics in the Passions de I'ame. Or else he repeated the essential aspects of the Discours. Thus, fundamentally, Descartes found the understructure of his philosophy in Montaigne. Besides, there are more specific influences which Gadoffre has overlooked. Lefevre, in Le Criticisme de Descartes (1958), has undertaken to show that Descartes, from the very first, was able to find in Montaigne all the motives of his doubt. Descartes, however, assigned to doubt more positive ends than did Montaigne, but not until he had used doubt as proof of thought and thought as proof of existence. Montaigne had also anticipated Descartes in certain specific points: the impossibility of distinguishing between reality and dreaming, the vanity of reason, the idea of a deceiving God, the falsity of scholasticism, and the failure of principles in philosophy. Although the whole direction of Descartes is toward infinite movement with all the consequences, his doctrine meets first of all the necessity of putting order and unity in the spheres of religion, morality, and politics, as well as in science, philosophy, and art. Cartesianism is above all an organic philosophy, but it embraces particularly religion and science, and it first expressed itself in aesthetic, i.e., creative terms. It is not only the drama of the mind, it is equally the life of the spirit—man's spirit. It is not easy, however, to state in what the organicity of Cartesianism consists. Practically everyone who writes of Descartes's philosophy either treats it as an abstract system or merely treats various of its points—the "cogito," the animal soul, the ontological proofs of God, the laws of motion, etc.—which are allowed to whirl around some central idea in much the same way that Descartes's own vortices whirled around in the universe. His philosophy, deeply involved with religion and science, tended to be all-inclusive, in the sense that it united all the aspects of philosophical inquiry: metaphysics, physics, ethics, psychology, methodology, and epistemology. Descartes gave a relative position to each aspect of his system, but the dominant role he assigned to metaphysics, holding rigidly to the principle that no science can develop save from a strict metaphysical basis, consisting in the two incontrovertible truths of the existence of God and the immortality of the soul. Without these two axioms, philosophy, that is the acquisition of wisdom, is idle and indeed impossible. But Cartesian metaphysics also requires •247 ·

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two necessary axioms (in fact, corollaries of the first two axioms): there is a relationship between a knowing being and an existent being, and there is a corresponding relationship between knowing the external world and being oneself. This is the problem of the "cogito"; it is at one and the same time an epistemology, a psychology, a physiology, a morality and a methodology. The second pair of axioms, needless to say, are intimately connected with the first two axioms, so that all these parts—God, soul, ontology, and epistemology—of metaphysics are not parts at all: each is fully integrated with the others. Harmony is the ultimate goal of all metaphysics, just as unity and order are the ultimate goals of all philosophy. If there is this drive to harmony, order, and unity, it must be confessed that there are situations in which these "donnees" are not harmonious, indeed they appear, as Chevalier has noted, as "complexio oppositorum": man's intellectual powers often seem more important than God's providence; man's body makes demands which the soul finds impossible to satisfy; nature's world often exhibits forces which man's spiritual world finds incomprehensible. At any given moment, each "donnee" taken separately may negate or distort its relationship with the others. The affirmation of the self-sufficiency of human reason, of its dominance; the all-importance of clear and distinct ideas, of mathematical deduction, of pure mechanics in physics and biology, or of natural laws in morality and religion—any one of these can at any moment make for disharmony, disunity, disorder. Descartes made every effort to centralize all these tendentious centrifugal forces, but his effort to clarity only succeeded in systematizing reality and in establishing a set of focal points around which the system could be organized. Specifically, he undertook to organize it as it had occurred in his vision. Though born in a dream, it was intended to be a clear way of intuiting reality: it was a "marvelous science." But it quickly became a "universal mathesis," and then the "method" of the mathesis, and finally a set of "regulae." The "regulae" proved insufficient in a world where miracles still prevailed. Descartes certainly leaves the impression that the human mind must prove the eternal truths rather than that the eternal truths must prove the human mind. The "semences" which are like sparks in stones are within man, and although they are intimately connected with God, •248 ·

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they must be struck from man. The "cogitationes" are "privatae": the method is less important than thinking oneself into being. The secret lies not in the order of man's knowing, but in the intuition of his being. The important thing is that I think, that therefore I am, that therefore God is, or rather, that all these affirmations are made simultaneously because I, thinking, know myself in God. Hence the all-importance of the "cogito," of doubt which must precede the "cogito," of intuition which must follow doubt, of consciousness, of analytic geometry and mathematical physics, of the existence of God and divine veracity, of wisdom, the end of philosophy, and the return of the soul to its principle, God. We have to be careful, for so many things are all-important that we easily lose the thread of order, unity, and harmony. Taken one by one, the allimportance of each distorts the organic unity; taken all together in one gigantic intuition of reality, the organic unity is preserved, but we are overwhelmed. A certain ambiguity occurs between the unity and the order, however. So long as unity and order meet in a harmonious vision, so long as they are a "marvelous science," or a "mathesis universel," or a "physical geometry," or simply a "metaphysique," then all is well. When the question of order, or rather of orders, as Pascal said, arises, then the unity of Cartesianism is immediately threatened, and, it must be clearly understood, the threat is first of all within the reality of Cartesianism itself. Although the danger of disharmony and disorder was present, however, even when Descartes exposed his philosophy (as is witnessed by the five or six replies to his Meditations, and again in Descartes's change in objective between the Regulae, the Methode, the Meditations, and the Principes, each of which offered Cartesianism as an organic something but with a different purpose in mind), it never actually develops because the essence of Cartesianism stems from a personal experience, it is the philosophy of the "individuum" in the original sense of the term, fully integrated in the self, "one and indivisible" as we have learned to say about that which is seldom "one" and often "divided." In that respect, its essence is similar to Pascal's philosophy or that of all seventeenth-century mystics. That is why Descartes can relate his philosophy as if it were a novel, or geometrize it as if it were a set of axioms, corollaries, or propositions, or meditate on it as if it were a suite of mystic experiences, or reduce it to a body of systematic • 249 ·

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principles as if it were something to be passed on to a group of Jesuit students, or subjected to a series of correspondences or treatises as if it were thoughts to be shared with a distant friend. In each case the unity and order are guaranteed by the presence of the "individuum"; it is the inherent power of the self Descartes, which by knowing itself makes itself, and all that which is made and which produces the necessary unity and order. This inner power can be demonstrated by reference to Descartes's own statements. The Preface of his Principes (CEuvres, ed., A. & T., ix, 14) for instance, contains the statement, to which we have already referred, of an organic Cartesianism which is that of the metaphoric Cartesian tree: la vraie philosophic, dont la premiere partie est la metaphysique, qui contient les principes de la connaissance, entre lesquels est !'explication des principaux attributs de Dieu, de l'immaterialite de nos ames, et de toutes les notions claires et simples qui sont en nous. Ainsi toute la philosophic est comme un arbre, dont les racines sont la metaphysique, Ie tronc est la physique, et les branches qui sortent de ce tronc sont toutes les autres sciences qui se reduisent a trois principales, a savoir la medecine, la mecanique et la morale, j'entends la plus haute et la plus parfaite morale, qui, presupposant une entiere connoissance des autres sciences, est Ie dernier degre de la sagesse. This is integral Cartesianism as Descartes saw it: it is the expression of a personal vision, but presented as a philosophical principle of order. What is that order? From the statement itself, one could argue that it is a developing ascension which moves from the "premiere partie qui est la metaphysique" to the "dernier degre de la sagesse." But the order could just as easily be from the "principes de la connaissance" to the "connaissances des autres sciences" to the "dernier degre de la sagesse," that is from knowing the principles of knowing, to the knowledge of the external universe, to knowing the principles of being. This order which differs from the first is nonetheless held intimately connected with it by the "principes de la connaissance," that is, the principal attributes of God, the immortality of the soul, and the "notions claires et simples qui sont en nous." This is a third order: the order of metaphysics which moves from the principle or knowledge of God, to the principle or knowledge of the self, to the principle or knowledge of knowledge. We thus have at least a methodological, a moral, and a metaphysi• 250 ·

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cal order, and an order which is the resultant of all these orders. Which one is Descartes's? The answer is simple: all of them integrated in the personality of Descartes. But suppose we push matters to an impossible point and inquire what unity Descartes saw in his "vraie philosophic" excluding the notion of possible unities? The answer is still clear: in this case the ultimate unity is the "dernier degre de la sagesse." In whatever way we regard this philosophy, the final act is the liberation and the ascent of man. If we turn from this statement to a corresponding statement at the other end of Descartes's intellectual life, the cause for ambiguity becomes more apparent. The passage to which we have already referred is a paraphrase from the Cogitationes (see J. Chevalier, "Le Discours de la methode." Archives de philosophie, xiu [1937], 11): Les semences de Ia verite se trouvent en nous, comme Ie feu dans Ie silex, et c'est en nous, dans nos ames qu'il les faut chercher;—grace a cette intuition qui ressemble plus a !'imagination du poete qu'au raisonnement des philosophes:—une intuition preparee par Ie doute, qui delivre notre esprit du malin genie en Ie purifiant des sens et de Porgueil, et par Taction, qui nous fait obeir au bien avant de Ie connaitre.—Une intuition qui use des liaisons naturelles que Dieu a etablies entre les signes de !'imagination et les verites de l'entendement, entre Ie monde de l'espace et Ie monde de 1'esprit;—une intuition, enfin, qui nous revele tout a la fois notre etre et son imperfection, et qui, dans cette marque en creux, saisit l'ctre meme de Dieu, l'£tre parfait qui seul peut expliquer notre etre imparfait et Ie sentiment de notre imperfection—volonte immuable, fondement de l'ordre des choses, des lois de notre pensee, comme des lois de la nature, des essences comme des existences, et finalement du Bien, qui est Dieu meme, ce Dieu qui mene toute chose a sa perfection. Here a change is made from the formal order of principles to that which moves from the imperfect creature to his perfect Creator. The motion is from "les semences de la verite" to "Ie Bien qui est Dieu meme." Truth first of all lies within ourselves: there is thus a second movement from imperfection to perfecting ourselves to knowledge of the perfect. But how can we know ourselves, that is, develop the seeds of truth which will lead from our imperfection to perfecting ourselves to a vision of the Perfect? The answer is clear: by sharpening our poetic intuition rather than our philosophical reason. It is the poetic vision of possibilities which draws from within us the truths of existence and leads us to the "Bien qui est • 251 ·

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Dieu." It must, however, follow its order: it is prepared by doubt, by an action which forces us to recognize the good before knowing it, and by the establishment of rapports between the powers of imagination and the truths of understanding. This order, this unity, this movement, is in direct opposition to that which we founded on the statement of principles. One no longer moves from metaphysics to morality; one moves from the self to God. The means which formerly were philosophical deductions have now become poetic inspiration. The core has changed, too: whereas it was the physical world in the first case, it is now the world of the spirit. Only intuition leads to the Absolute, but the seeds of the vision lie within each man. What then is the source of this spirit and this intuition? Descartes has given two answers to this question. To Mersenne, he wrote on April 15, 1630 (I, 144-45): "Or, j'estime que tous ceux a qui Dieu a donne l'usage de cette raison sont obliges de !'employer principalement pour richer a Ie connaltre, et a se connaitre euxmemes." This would seem to indicate that the right use of reason is to seek to vindicate inspiration. But in a letter to the Duke of Newcastle, March, 1648, at the other end of Descartes's career, he wrote {(Euvres, ed. A. & T., v, pp. 136-38): La connaissance intuitive est une illustration de l'esprit, par laquelle il voit en la lumiere de Dieu les choses qu'il lui plait lui decouvrir par une impression directe de la clarte divine sur notre entendement qui en cela n'est point considere comme agent, mais seulement comme recevant les rayons de la Divinite... .Or cette connaissance n'est point un ouvrage de votre raisonnement, ni une instruction que vos maitres vous aient donnee: votre esprit la voit, la sent et la manie; et quoique votre imagination qui se mele importunement dans vos pensees, en diminue la clarte, la voulant revetir de ses figures, elle vous est pourtant une preuve de la capacite de nos ames a recevoir de Dieu une connaissance intuitive. It is clear (and note that Descartes here uses the metaphor "light" just as Voltaire did at the end) that Descartes conceives of reason as God-given; when we are prepared to receive it, it has the capacity to lead us to the "dernier degre de la sagesse." It is comparable to Pascal's conception of God's grace. Thus we have a third order: it is not the development of the method by reason and science, nor the development of intuitive perception by doubt and experience which assures the knowledge of God and knowledge of ourselves. • 252 ·

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It is the combination of these developments which prepares us for the final act of will: intuitive knowledge comes from God, but it can only bring from us the powers of man if we have prepared ourselves to receive it. Once more the final source of order, though it abides in God, and must be communicated by God, is within ourselves. Cartesianism without Descartes is an empty shell. It would probably be more fitting to say, however, that Cartesianism grasped without Descartes's organic unity is not authentic Cartesianism but a distorted form of something called Cartesianism. One could even venture the remark that all Cartesianism is a distorted form of Descartes's philosophy, regarded either as a type of rationalism, or of mechanism, or of materialistic and scientific naturalism, or of idealism, or of a fallacious dualism. Very often it is reduced to a set of Cartesian explanations usually called Cartesian metaphysics, or "morale," or physics, or method, or psychology. These explanations have proved to be either totally in error, or so ambiguous and unconfirmed by experience as to be useless. Descartes's philosophy was conceived as a total world-view, explaining the universe in which we live, and ourselves in that universe. It was deliberately devised to replace Aristotle and scholasticism, which had also aimed at being a totality, and which had been a basis for another —now decaying—world-view. Descartes, of course, was not the only opponent of decadent scholasticism, nor the only philosopher to seek a replacement. Gassendi's attempt to reinstate Epicurus and epicureanism, and Pascal's efforts to enhance St. Augustine and Augustinianism are a part of the same movement. Descartes's contribution, though, was a more thoroughgoing affair. Contrary to what both Gassendi and Pascal did, he presumed to cut himself away from all forms of traditionalism (which, of course, he could not do, as has been so richly shown by Gilson's work) and to launch out in a totally new intuition of reality, possessing novelty and independence in addition to harmony, unity, and order. The Abbe Daniel was therefore well-advised to assemble, in a popular little work entitled Voyage du monde de Descartes (1690), the spirit of Cartesianism. The title was apt, for Cartesianism aimed at explaining in its totality a "nouveau monde," the world of man's spirit. Its anti-traditionalism, however, which has often been called the unhistorical aspect of Cartesian philosophy, is responsible for an additional ambiguity. In replacing scholasticism, it had to take into • 253 ·

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account that Aristotle and scholasticism had been adopted by Catholicism, which is itself firmly rooted in tradition and has always shown some hesitation in the face of novelty. Descartes must have recognized the inconsistency of maintaining a novel position in face of an institution which he fully accepted and whose authenticity depended upon its traditional authority. And yet, I know of no evidence in Descartes's work which gives the slightest indication that he desired in any way to question this authority. Indeed, all his correspondence with Mersenne offers ample proof that he accepted unquestioningly the authority of the Church and defended its interests with a scrupulousness which no philosopher in modern times, save Pascal, has equaled or desired to equal. Even Bossuet, not a particularly generous witness in matters where orthodoxy is concerned, declared that Descartes showed over-zealousness in wanting to avoid all contestation with the Church. Descartes's attitude toward the Church at the time of Galileo's condemnation is indeed one of excessive prudence, to the point where present-day criticism can hardly understand his motives. R. Lefevre, for instance, in La Vocation de Descartes, has interpreted this attitude as a perfectly logical reaction on the part of the thinker who was convinced that the works of Galileo were correct and that the opinion of the Church was worthy also of respect. In fact, the situation, though less logical than Lefevre would have us believe, was symbolic of all the future difficulties of Cartesianism: it is exceedingly difficult at one and the same time to put a premium on innovation and retain a respect for tradition. At all events Cartesianism is a highly organized and even hierarchized way of interpreting the world and man's position in it, and its outstanding virtues are harmony, order, and unity, the original source of which lies in the "semences" of the creator, but in the "semences" there are inherent ambiguities which spring from the nature of things, or from the conditions of the time, or from the philosopher's own insufficient knowledge, or from Cartesianism's inherent dynamism. These ambiguities have been noted with more than ordinary diligence by all the critics, some with an apparent intention of discrediting the whole philosophy, others with the intention of marking its weaknesses as a better means of bringing out its strength. While their efforts have added startling dimensions to Descartes's thought, they have complicated more than ever the prob•254 ·

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lem of the fortunes of Cartesianism (see particularly J. S. Spink, French Free-thought, etc., pp. 187-257). Descartes made numerous efforts, most of them very intelligent, to bring his philosophy to the attention of the public. His relationship with Mersenne and his group was certainly motivated by more than friendliness. The care which he took in explaining every little detail, in answering queries, in discussing criticisms, is indicative of a desire to have a group of learned individuals sympathetic to his work. The fact that the center was conducted by a priest whose reputation for attacking free-thinking was irreproachable was an additional recommendation. It was to Mersenne that Descartes affirmed: "Je ne voudrais pour rien au monde qu'il sortit de moi un discours ou il se trouvat Ie moindre mot qui fut desapprouve de l'Eglise" (I, 271). This affirmation was strengthened by the sincere conviction that he could not fail to be in accord with the Church. To Mersenne he wrote in December, 1640 (III, 259): . . . "fitant tres zele a la religion catholique, . . . croyant tres fermement l'infaillibilite de l'Eglise, et ne doutant point aussi de mes raisons, je ne puis craindre qu'une verite soit contraire a l'autre." It is in statements of this kind that the position of Descartes toward religion seems absolutely irreproachable. Notwithstanding this evident sincerity, the suggestion persists that Descartes masked his ideas, calculated their chance of being accepted, and made every effort to circulate them in the public. The initial grounds for this suspicion lies in an early statement in the Cogitationes (A. & T., x, 213): "De meme que les comediens appeles sur la scene revetent un masque pour qu'on ne voit pas la rougeur de leur front, de meme moi, au moment de monter sur la scene du monde ou je n'ai ete que spectateur, je m'avance masque." In the Cogitationes (x, 215) also, he refers to sciences which are now "masked": "Iarvatae nunc scientiae sunt; quae, Iarvis sublatis, pulcherrimae apparerent," which explains the earlier remark ("larvatus prodeo") to some extent: in nature's world, where the phenomena are concealed, we, as a part of that nature, also carry concealed within ourselves our phenomena. It seems exaggerated, though, to infer from these two examples that we are dealing with a sly and calculating philosopher, as could easily be the case with some of his successors a century later. It is well to remember, however, that Descartes was • 255 ·

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always extremely desirous of avoiding censure, that he selected Holland as his abode motivated at least to some extent by this fact, and that while there is no question as to the quality of his outward sincerity, there is, as in all true philosophers, a problem of inner sincerity. As a matter of fact, there is some discrepancy between what Descartes set out to accomplish and what Cartesianism actually achieved. The discrepancy between his avowed intentions and the ultimate results of his thought has been so astounding that critics become naturally suspicious. In reality, Descartes's "case" is not unique. The problem of sincerity interposes itself in the interpretation of all thinkers from Montaigne to Bayle. It is curious that the more a man's sincerity is put into question in the seventeenth century, the more he makes an effort to put it beyond all doubt. Perhaps the clearest case of the century was not Descartes, but Moliere, in his character Alceste: Vous voyez ce que peut une indigne tendresse, Et je vous fais tous deux temoins de ma faiblesse. Mais, a vous dire vrai, ce n'est pas encor tout Et vous allez me voir la pousser jusqu'au bout, Montrer que c'est a tort que sages on nous nomme, Et que dans tous les cceurs, il est toujours de rhomme. This elicited from Sainte-Beuve: "C'est d'un grand art et d'une grande sincerite." Alceste, curiously, thought that this "insincerity" was a mark of weakness, when it was the surest evidence possible of his strength—which is what his name means. (See R. Verneaux, "La Sincerite critique chez Descartes," Archives de philosophic xni, Cahier II, 1937, 15-100.) Descartes insists that perfect sincerity with oneself is the essential condition of all philosophy, which is by nature an effort of the mind to enter into contact with itself, to become aware of what it really thinks, and thus to discern and weigh the reasons which support its judgments. This inner contact is achieved by what Verneaux calls "critical sincerity," which in reality is consciousness of the mind's operations through a rigorous examination of itself. Like Locke, Descartes is committed to the principle that if one wishes to acquire wisdom, he must ascertain what knowledge the human mind is capable of. The critical act is thus concerned with grasping simul• 256 ·

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taneously the limits of knowledge, the powers of consciousness, the movements of the mind, and the value of thought. In strict terms, criticism is the movement of the mind exploring its capacity in the realm of thought and the value of its operation. To do so, it must analyze, that is, reflect itself to itself. Thus sincerity is an effort of reflection which puts the mind before itself, in the opening move. It is followed by the application of doubt in an effort to acquire a complete sincerity. Seen from one angle it appears a simple suspension of judgment, but it is also a reflection on the certainty of the foundations upon which rest all our judgments. The application of doubt is supposed to be universal: it embraces everything; it is also "methodique": it is the only approach to truth; finally, it is metaphysical: it is divorced from simple, common sense, everyday matters. It is, as Verneaux says, "vecu," and it appears as the extension of critical reflection. It is the first reaches of science. There are, however, regions which cannot be touched by doubt. In the critique of the limits of the mind, its capacities, its elements, and its prejudices, doubt is a method of acquiring certainty and achieving sincerity. Doubt, however, cannot attain moral certainty, since life is separate from speculation, and since the principle of human action is the will, while the principle of speculation is the understanding. The critique of understanding for Descartes does not imply a critique of manners and customs, hence the establishment of a provisional morality which is not subject to doubt. The conclusion is evident: the mind knows itself through the speculative analysis of itself and through the application of universal, methodical, metaphysical doubt. Here the maximum of critical sincerity is possible. But in the realm of life, or in the realm of the unconscious, or finally in the realm of faith, doubt cannot operate. All this suggests that there could be in Cartesianism itself a "critical" insincerity; so long as the fundamental goal was to seek out the capacities and limits of consciousness as a means of knowing oneself and that of which one is capable, Cartesianism is fully sincere, thanks to the application of methodical doubt. So long as Cartesianism is concerned with consciousness and knowledge—that is, "conscience" and "connaissance"—it can rest assured that it is sound psychologically, epistemologically, and methodologically. It can establish the principles of science, mark out its limits, confute all scien• 257 ·

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tific prejudices, and lay down a set of values which will justify analysis, deduction, and judgment. In short, one can learn to conduct one's thought and arrive at truth "dans les sciences." However, with the exclusion of manners and customs, politics, and religion, which are beyond the test of methodical doubt, a great chasm is created between speculation and action. There is consequently no sure test for the authenticity of morality, statecraft, or religion. In Descartes's view, none is needed, because these things are assumed to be true before the application of methodical doubt. The "provisional morality" is as true as Transsubstantiation; methodical doubt cannot make it more or less true. Thus, methodical doubt is neither universal, methodical, nor metaphysical. Of course, one can understand why Descartes, living at a moment when the libertines were applying doubt precisely to morality, statecraft, and religion, and anxious to establish some sort of rational order in these spheres, would be led to exclude them from doubt. The way has, however, been paved either for the justification of science as against religion and morality, or for the insistence that religion and morality must be submitted to the same rigorous test as science before universal truth can be affirmed. Descartes's attitude to religion, clearly favorable, thus becomes ambiguous the moment one tries to strike a balance between the role of consciousness, science, and religion in the organic thought of the seventeenth-century philosopher. The problem is rarely presented in these terms: ordinarily it is broken up in a whole series of problems such as: Does Cartesianism set as its principal goal the creation of a new metaphysic or the establishment of a new science? Is it primarily engaged in laying the foundation of thought and the limits of knowledge in order to combat free, that is, disorderly, thinking, a way of organizing a new approach to life? Or does Descartes's critique of reason, that is, consciousness plus knowledge, merely perform these two tasks as a preliminary to the reestablishment of religion's organic unity? Simply stated, the question usually is put: In Descartes's design, does physics hold priority over metaphysics? Or metaphysics over psychology ? Or psychology over methodology ? Or are all these developments for the purpose of restoring to Christianity its pristine place in the life of man? While it is difficult to give categorical answers to these questions, it is certainly possible to make out a strong case for the primary role • 258 ·

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of the new science in Descartes's thought. Certainly he was led to the discovery of the new and marvelous science by his mathematical interests; he was encouraged in these pursuits by his association with Beeckmann; he looked upon the new science as a sort of universal mathesis; finally, when he decided to put it before the public, it was in the form of a book on natural science entitled Le Monde. In the opinion of Descartes and of his associates Berulle, Mersenne, even Gassendi, the area of knowledge exploited was the area of natural science. Even though as was commonly thought at the time, especially by these men all of whom were theologians, the establishment of a new science of nature would strengthen the position of Christianity, their emphasis was, notwithstanding, on the establishment of the new science. Curiously enough, it was felt that what was hurting religion was the old Aristotelian science of nature. Gassendi, as we have seen, spoke out against it; Mersenne spoke out against it in La Vorito des sciences contre les sceptiques ou pyrrhoniens (1625); Galileo spoke out against it in the Dialogues. Everything indicates that Descartes merely followed, in preparing the Monde, the popular intellectual preoccupation of his time. Then came the condemnation of Galileo and Descartes's evident anxiety. The Monde is not published, but instead a Discourse on Method, followed by the Essais, which are examples of the way the marvelous science works with the analysis of the world. One might expect that although, up to the condemnation of Galileo, Descartes had given priority to science, after the condemnation he would have accorded priority to metaphysics as can be seen in the title of the Meditations. Such an assumption can hardly be justified since the Principles of Philosophy, which was Descartes's full presentation of his philosophy and which certainly was intended as a fully-rounded textbook of that philosophy, devotes three of its four parts to the science of nature (II. "Des principes des choses materielles"; III. "Du monde visible"; IV. "De la terre"). Evidently, in the author's view the goal of his philosophy was the penetration through metaphysical principles of the science of nature. The conclusion could be that Descartes deemed physics—his physics —a more vital interest to him than either metaphysics, religion, statecraft, morality. Or it could be that Descartes believed that only by replacing the old Aristotelian view of the world by a new, modern, scientific view could one serve the cause of religion, statecraft, and • 259 ·

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morality. It is even conceivable that Descartes did not regard his philosophy as a set of priorities among its various elements, or as a series of conflicts among its various parts. To him it was the discovery of a new way of approaching life, a new world in which to make this approach; it was a new spirit with which man could initiate his entry into this new world. This is tantamount to saying that for Descartes Cartesianism was a totality, which he was led by circumstances to develop not into a system but into a way of being and knowing—a way of life. It was consequently conditioned by circumstances, and the desire to establish order and stability and harmony in a world distinguished by opposite qualities; to avoid scandal and to escape persecution; to seek peace and quiet; to come to terms with the new astronomy and the new physics; to change from a world of qualities to a world of quantities, to reduce all the contradictions to the simplest sort of mechanics—movement and thought, extension and thought, matter and spirit, matter and soul. We must keep in mind as nearly as possible Descartes's own intentions, a requirement which is difficult because of the mystical origins he gave to his philosophy. It can be argued, barring a full and explicit statement on the part of the philosopher, that a philosophy born in a dream has so many analogies with a mystical experience that seeking out the intentions of the dreamer will lead nowhere. We do have, though, if not a full body of explicit statements as to intentions, a number of explanations which Descartes made in his desire to make acceptable his marvelous science. It is incontestable that Cartesianism was designed to combat the disorder of libertinage, to restore order and balance to Montaigne's free-thought, to harmonize the conditions of life so that orthodox religion could resume its normal accord with political stability, and moral restraint with philosophical truth. It was a bold attempt to reunite organically religion, politics, morality, and thought. This desire to bring Montaigne and his followers into a more orderly attitude toward life is clear. Clear also is Descartes's feeling that his marvelous science will give a much-needed support to a faltering Christian theology. He was absolutely certain that, having found the truth, it would produce a philosophy which would at the same time replace Aristotle and give to Christian theology a renewed strength. Moreover, he was determined, in replacing Aristotle, to organize a complete philosophy with a metaphysics, as well as a physics. A very great pre• 260 ·

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occupation with him, as with all his associates, was the creation of a modern physics, a physics which would be able to penetrate the external world mathematically rather than through descriptive qualities. This physics, however, he wished to be derived from sound metaphysical principles. In this way metaphysics would be the connecting link between theology and physics. Finally, he wanted all this transformation to redound not only to the glory of God but to the indefinite perfectibility of man. It was not strange to him that metaphysics should offer to physics the unquestioned truths which the latter needed for its stability, or even that the new physics should offer confirmation of these same truths. To Descartes there was nothing strange in founding true physics and defending God's cause as one and the same task. In his way of looking at things his philosophy is not only a religious, but a Christian, philosophy. For him, it was perfectly plausible that it should be an apology for religion: all of his explanations with Mersenne, or Regius, all of his discussions with Gassendi, Hobbes, even Voetius, evidence a desire that the philosophy be a good apology. It all the same remains true, as Gouhier {La Pensee religieuse de Descartes, 1924, p. 194) has remarked, that the Christian philosophy of Descartes has but little in common with the profound expression of Christianity: On y parle de Dieu, certes, mais du Dieu des philosophes et non du Dieu d'amour qui a donne son FiIs aux hommes; on y parle de morale, mais on s'abstient de la faire beneficier de l'enseignement revele; on y parle du monde, mais on est fort bref sur 1'episode initial de la creation; enfin, Ie probleme de l'homme n'y est meme pas pose: d'ou vient l'homme? Ou va-t-il? Quelle est sa condition ici-bas? Pourquoi est-il si imparfait? . . . Qu'est-ce qu'une philosophic chretienne sans une philosophic du peche, alors que Ie pa'ien Plotin et Ie juif Spinoza en font un element essentiel de leur doctrine! Moreover, the themes of Cartesian philosophy established from the very beginning in the Cogitationes and repeated continually in all the major works—the application of mathematics to physics; the idea of a definitive science in which all its parts are rigorously integrated the one within the other; the idea that the origin of the marvelous science is intellectual and must be discovered in the mind by one; the profound difference between man and beast; the attribution of free will to man and its denial to animals; the idea that God • 261 ·

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is pure intelligence, the source of all light, and that He can be proved metaphysically and only metaphysically—are singularly removed from the simple truths of Christianity. Three of the themes are particularly troublesome: the relationship of matter and spirit, of man and beast, and of reason and faith. Indeed, the most astounding thing in Cartesianism is that the universe is reduced to a whole series of relationships. In the relationship between reason and faith there is built into Descartes's explanations a considerable amount of indefiniteness: what has been noted by Mr. Vartanian as a distinction between explicit statement and implicit meaning. Descartes's position is clear and distinct when he marks out the domains of reason and faith. It is less clear and distinct when he suggests that the domain of faith has some kind of dependency upon deduction and intuition. It becomes downright confusing when he insists that there is a necessary accord between the two, that specifically the rational development of philosophy not only is in accord with scriptural statement but that the two confirm each other. It is beyond our capacity to apply the rules of simple logic when we understand that reason and faith are at the same time distinct and united. To be sure, explanation can be given for this state of affairs: it can be pointed out that in Descartes's way of looking at things there is a delicate, but harmonious, balance between the two orders, which in spite of their complexity and, at times, threatened contradiction are held firmly together by the understanding and the will. In this one respect, at least, Descartes's philosophy has the same inner reality, the same precarious stability, and the same threatened disintegration present in all forms of classical humanism. When subjected to the strains of implicit meaning, it will evolve either into fragmentary presentations or utter disintegration, due to this "it is" and "it is not" quality. Thereby enters into Cartesianism an unsuspected weakness. This weakness becomes more apparent in Descartes's treatment of the relationship between matter and reason, body and mind, the world and the soul. The starting-point here is in the distinction between matter and thought. Simply stated, matter is distinguished by extension, while reason is distinguished by thought. The idea of an extended thing is entirely different from that of a thinking thing (Secondes roponses, II, 131-2). Still, Descartes admits a reciprocal action of the body upon the soul and of the soul upon the body. This • 262 ·

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means that the body receives from the soul certain of its determinations, as does the soul from the body. In some respects the soul becomes "material" in its union with the body, and receives from it certain of its thoughts, while the body obtains from the soul certain of its movements and acquires in this union a unity, even an indivisibility, which it can not possess in the pure state. It was this close union of the two substances and their mutual dependency which occasioned that, of two different substances which they were originally, they have become one substance. This does not mean, however, that they cannot be conceived hitherto as two separate, distinct substances. They can, since their union is contingent rather than necessary. In another sense, though, since God has seen fit to bring the two natures together, the union is also necessary. By His will, our soul and our body constitute "un tout par soi et distinct de tout autre" {Roponse aux 4emes objections). In uniting they constitute a man; it is the only way in which a man can be constituted, in fact (Discours, Ve partie). Descartes concludes in the Abregi des Meditations with two statements which bring together the two aspects of his thought: IX, p. io: . . . et enfin, Ton doit conclure de tout cela que les choses que Ton concoit clairement and distinctement estre des substances difierentes; comme Ton concoit l'esprit et Ie corps, sont en eflfet des substances diverses, et reellement distinctes les unes d'avec les autres: et c'est ce que Ton conclut dans la sixieme meditation. IX, p. I I : J'y montre que I'ame de l'homme est reellement distincte du corps, et toutesfois qu'elle lui est si etroitement conjointe et unie, qu'elle ne compose que comme une meme chose avecque luy. Once again, the "it is" and "it is not" quality which was apparent in the first case reappears here. For the moment Descartes is able to bring together and hold in a delicate balance seemingly contradictory circumstances. For more abstruse philosophers or less profound ones, the balance can be very precarious indeed. The third of these troublesome relationships is that between man and animal. "From the very perfection of animal actions," he wrote in the Cogitationes, "we suspect that they do not have free will." Thereupon Descartes developed the idea that animals are devoid of a soul as well as of free will, and that their actions are mechanical. In Part V of the Discours he recalled that he had advanced the • 263 ·

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theory that man himself is a body which moves mechanically. This, he says, should not surprise anyone who remembers how cleverly man-made automata can act. How much more perfect are the parts— the muscles, the nerves, the veins, and arteries—of the human animal. This same cleverness of arrangement can be found in the beast also. However, there are in man two qualities which distinguish the two kinds of animals. Man has speech and the facility for adapting it to all sorts of human circumstances, whereas the animal, although he may acquire ways of making known his desires or intentions, cannot adjust his communication to clivers circumstances. Furthermore, although an animal may be adept in doing one particular thing—more so in fact than man—it does not have the capacity of doing all sorts of skillful things. Descartes concluded (Gilson, p. 58): C'est aussi une chose fort remarquable que, bien qu'il y ait plusieurs animaux qui temoignent plus d'industrie que nous en quelques-unes de leurs actions, on voit toutefois que les memes n'en temoignent point du tout en beaucoup d'autres: de faeon que ce qu'ils font mieux que nous ne prouve pas qu'ils ont de l'esprit, car a ce compte, ils en auraient plus qu'aucun de nous, et feraient mieux en toute chose; mais plutot qu'ils n'en ont point, et que c'est la nature qui agit en eux, selon la disposition de leurs organes: ainsi qu'on voit qu'un horloge, qui n'est compose que de roues et de ressorts, peut compter les heures, et mesurer Ie temps, plus justement que nous avec toute notre prudence.

Several other presentations of the theory of animal automatism followed in the works of Descartes, particularly in the letters to Mersenne, but essentially the original statement of the Discours represents Descartes's position. From that work until the letters to H. More, written in 1648, there seems to be scant deviation. Its importance as a theory lay for Descartes in the way it fitted into his dualism of man's nature and gave an explanation for the link between soul and body. For the general public, however, it had wider relevance in that it offered grounds for arguing that since man had a spiritual side to his nature which was lacking in beasts, he must have a soul which is immortal. Descartes himself made this assumption at the end of Section V of the Discours. It was just as easy, however, to argue that if animals did not have a soul and performed their responses in ways which were somewhat analogous to the reactions of human beings, there was no serious reason for attribut• 264 ·

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ing to man an immortal soul. This is precisely the inference which Gassendi drew in the Cinquiemes objections when he wrote (VII) : "La faculte de sentir que vous rangez parmi les modes de la pensee n'est pas differente en l'homme de ce qu'elle est chez les betes; or, comme l'&me des betes est materielle, celle de l'homme peut l'etre aussi." The theory of the animal soul was widely discussed from Des­ cartes to La Mettrie.11 It was the source of a final weakness in Cartes­ ianism. Like the other weaknesses which appeared, this one also occurred as the result of an effort to strengthen the metaphysical position of Cartesianism, which in turn was devised to restore to re­ ligion its position of pristine importance in the affairs of men. It is worthwhile to note that in each case the effort to produce strength ended, paradoxically, in creating a further weakness. As R. Hubert 12 has pointed out, Descartes's influence is difficult to trace for three reasons. The first is that Cartesianism is only one of several movements of ideas which are evolving together. Sometimes it united with them, at other times it opposed them, at still other times it performed both tasks simultaneously. The second reason is attributable to the complexity of Cartesianism itself. Although it ap­ pears at first glance a well-rounded, full, and perfectly-integrated system, it does not on closer inspection possess as much coherence as one would think. Or rather, it presents so many contrasting aspects that a follower of Descartes encounters difficulty in grasping in its integrity the whole corpus. It should also be recalled that Descartes's followers were not necessarily motivated by his preoccupations. Regius is a good example of how difficult it is for someone other than Descartes to talk about integral Cartesianism. We have seen how the mechanists agreed with Descartes on mechanism but on practically nothing else. Every follower or disciple modified in one way or another some aspect of the doctrine. It was notorious, for 11 See L. C. Rosenfield, From Beast-Machine to Man-Machine, New York, 1941; A. Vartanian, Diderot and Descartes, Princeton, 1953; and La Mettrie's L'Homme machine: A Study in the Origins of an Idea, Princeton, i960. 12 "Le Cartesianisme et Ie mouvement des idees philosophiques au XVIIe siecle," R.H.P., N. S., ν (15 Avril, 1937), i2iff. See also, for the influence of Cartesianism, J. S. Spink, French Free-thought from Gassendi to Voltaire, Chapter X: "The For­ tunes of Descartes," and Descartes et Ie cartesianisme hollandais: Etudes et Docu­ ments, Paris, 1950.

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instance, that many so-called Cartesians rejected without any compunction the doctrine of animal automatism. The philosophers following Descartes—Leibniz, Spinoza, Malebranche, and Bayle— modified the doctrine of the union of soul and body. Hardly a single aspect of Cartesianism was not greatly altered by some later Cartesian. So that one may conclude with Hubert that the history of Cartesian influence is essentially the story of the disintegration of Descartes's doctrine. There is finally a third reason for the difficulty in measuring this influence: Descartes himself left the system unfinished; indeed, the very bedrock of his thought requires that it be an "unfinished symphony." At the end of his life, he was busied with the elaboration of an ethic, but practically the whole field of "la morale" was left undeveloped, particularly what we would now call the sciences of man: history, philology, politics. And the whole field of aesthetics was to all intents and purposes untouched. As a matter of fact, Cartesianism was precisely crucial in these areas in the Enlightenment. In spite of these difficulties, it is possible to get some perspective of the spread of Cartesianism. Descartes, as is well-known, tried to interest not only the philosophers surrounding Mersenne, but the Jesuits also, whom he hoped to win to his philosophy and secure their commendation so that Cartesian philosophy would become officially adopted in their schools. He was in no way modest, and readily foresaw that his thought could replace Aristotle's. The Jesuits, however, were wary in committing themselves to Cartesianism, which was more successful in the Protestant theological seminaries of Holland (see P. Dibon, p. 278). Dibon adds, however, that in spite of this liberal interest, the course of philosophy teaching in the schools of Holland was hardly modified over the following fifty years. The universities, particularly Utrecht, Leyden, and to some extent Amsterdam and Groningen, showed keen interest in the new philosophy. But it must not be assumed that the university opinion was predominantly for Descartes. In some places, Utrecht, for instance, where Descartes had an ardent follower in Regius, he had a bitter opponent in Voete. And so it went throughout the universities, although the struggle was not so intense in others. The penetration of Cartesianism into France was not through the universities, but through private academies. Descartes cultivated carefully his relationships with Mersenne and his group, and entertained • 266 ·

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a steady correspondence with several of its members. Later, when Montmor organized a similar group, Cartesianism had free entry there. Otherwise, his followers at first were limited to a rather restricted circle: Clerselier, Poisson, Rohault, Pierre-Sylvain Regis, and Cordemoy. The same tendency can be noted here as was seen in Holland: each follower modifies the doctrine of the master as he wishes. In England, as in Germany, the number of disciples is relatively small (Clauberg in Germany, H. More in England), and their adhesion to the doctrine somewhat restricted. Nonetheless, the debate which went on throughout Europe during the second half of the seventeenth century after the death of Descartes was something fantastic. Spink has given (p. 188) a list of authors who took part in that debate, noting in each case the favorable or unfavorable attitude which each assumed. The great influence of Descartes, however, was exercised upon all the subsequent seventeenth-century philosophers. We shall have to inquire, in each case, to what extent each was a Cartesian. Hobbes' State In the Mersenne group could be seen at times, particularly between 1634 and 1637, Thomas Hobbes. It was not his first visit to the Continent, since he had spent a part of 1628 in France and Italy and 1629 in Paris, where he studied mathematics and natural science. He brought a rather diversified experience to Mersenne's group. He had known Francis Bacon in his youth and had gotten from him the idea of a science of nature, but he had shown no interest in Bacon's experimental philosophy. In this respect, he was more a follower of Descartes whose inductive method he admired and whose views on mechanics he even pushed to radicalism in political theory. However, he rejected Descartes's metaphysics, and was even persuaded by Mersenne to compose the "Troisiemes Objections" to the Moditations. Here he followed Gassendi, who had also criticized Descartes's metaphysics at Mersenne's suggestion in an "Objection." Hobbes was indeed on friendly terms with Gassendi, in whom he found the same desire to establish a science of nature, and whose tendency to sensualism, materialism, and naturalism he found attractive. After his three years' sojourn in Paris, Hobbes returned to England with the intention of composing a full philosophical system •267·

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to be expounded in three treatises: De corpore, De homine, and De cive. He composed his first sketch under the title The Elements of Law, natural and politic. He was not destined, however, to carry out his program. The struggle between the Parliament and the Stuarts put him in jeopardy since he was a confirmed defender of the Stuarts. He therefore returned to France, where he completed the De cive in 1642 and the Leviathan in 1651. These two works comprised the last third of his project of constituting a universal science. But two essays, published in 1650 without his consent, "Human Nature," and "De corpore politico," along with later essays, give some clue to his full intention. The first part of his universal science was to be devoted to physics, the second to the nature of man, and the third to the nature of civil society and the duties of those who compose it. The De cive was published in French, 1649, by Samuel Sorbiere, under the title Elements philosophiques du citoyen. Traite politique ou les fondements de la societe sont decouverts par Thomas Hobbes et traduict en frangais par un de ses amis. A Amsterdam (Jean Blaev), 1649. ^ w a s accompanied by a dedication which was in part a eulogy to Hobbes: La particuliere cognoissance que j'ay de la bonne intention de Mr. Hobbes, et de ce qu'un si rare homme peut contribuer a !'advancement des sciences me feroit parler de la sorte, si je croyois que quelques-uns de ses sentiments eussent besoin de mon apologie. Il est certain que nous avons a esperer beaucoup de ses laborieuses veilles, et qu'il est l'un de ces trois qui composent dans l'estime que j'en fais Ie triumvirat des philosophes de ce siecle. Oui, Mgr., Hobbes, Gassendi, et Descartes sont trois personnes que nous pouvons opposer a tous ceux dont l'ltalie et la Grece se glorifient. In the preface, Hobbes sketched an interesting account of his work, announcing that he would undertake to speak of the duties of man (1) as man, (2) as citizen, and (3) as Christian. Therein are included the elements of natural law, the law of nations, the origin of force and justice, and the essence of the Christian religion. These subjects properly speaking constitute the material of what he calls political science. He notes succinctly that Socrates, the first to treat of this science, was followed by Plato, Aristotle, Cicero, and others. It is the only science, he says, which can produce "sages"— • 268 ·

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the very ideal, ironically, which Descartes set out to achieve. Hobbes remarks that many contemporary scholars have become interested in it because of its present utility. He here rejects the theory that kings may be deposed and even killed if they are unacceptable to their subjects. If those who assume this attitude knew political science, he added, they would recognize that there is no legitimate way in which a citizen can either dispossess or slay a ruler, nor does any private individual have the right to judge the justice or the injustice of the monarch, except such as he designates to do so. The fundamental principle of political science is the following: ". . . il n'y a aucunes doctrines recevables et authentiques touchant Ie juste et l'injuste, Ie bien et Ie mal, outre les lois qui sont establies en chaque republique; qu'il n'appartient a personne d'enquerir si une action sera bonne ou mauvaise, hormis a ceux auxquels I'etat a commis !'interpretation de ses ordonnances. . . ." The remainder of the preface is devoted to the general plan of the work. Hobbes promises to begin with the organization of civil society and the conditions under which it exists. Only then will he undertake to investigate the origin of justice. He declared that it was essential first to study in man's nature what makes him capable or incapable of forming the body politic, and what should be the attitude of those who wish to unite into a political body. He asserts that men must fear some common power or live in perpetual fear of each other. He insists that men are born animals, that a wicked man is the same as a robust child, because wickedness is a lack of reason at an age when the instincts of nature are trained by discipline. Hence the condition of the individual outside society is a perpetual war of man against man, a situation which all men would like to escape. Their only remedy is, however, to yield their claims to all things and to surrender all their rights. Only then can they seek the maxims which right reason dictates to us, maxims which are the natural laws. This first section is entitled "On Liberty." Hobbes takes up in the second part of his treatise, "On Empire," the question of sovereignty, whence it comes, what rights each citizen must surrender to it, the different kinds of government and where sovereignty is placed in each, the causes for the destruction of the Republic, and the duties of the sovereign. In the third section, "On Religion," he endeavors to demonstrate that civil law is not contrary to divine law, that the citizen must perform certain • 269 ·

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duties as a citizen if he wishes to be rewarded as a religious observer. Among these duties, the greatest is fidelity to the prince. In conclusion, Hobbes notes that there have been strong criticisms of his views. Some have objected that he has given too much power to the magistrate, while others have objected that he has suppressed freedom of conscience, and still others have condemned him for having the ruler excused from observing civil laws. Hobbes' theories of the state, which grew out of the political situation in his own country at the time of the Stuarts' quarrels with Parliament, and which also represented a logical development of Luther's political ideas and Machiavelli's Prince, have not always met with approval. In France, however, they seem to have been received with enthusiasm in certain circles. When Sorbiere's edition appeared, Gassendi wrote the translator a letter in which he stated (Sortais, II, 215): . . . Aussi c'est un ouvrage hors du commun, et digne d'etre leu de tous ceux qui ont Ie gout releve au-dessus du vulgaire. Je vous advoiie que je ne connois personne qui penetre plus profondement que ce rare autheur dans les matieres qu'il traite (permettez-moi d'en excepter celles qui regardent la religion en laquelle nous ne sommes pas de meme sentiment). Mersenne's opinion was more curious still: Ce livre vaut un thresor. . . . Mais surtout pressez l'auteur, a ce qu'il ne nous cache plus son corps entier de philosophic . . . ce sera alors que vous renoncerez de bon courage a 1'Epoque, et a toutes ces bagatelles de la Sceptique, et que vous embrasserez volontiers Ie parti des dogmatiques, dont vous serez contraint d'advouer que les fondements sont inebranlables. Descartes, for his part, gave a more circumstantial judgment in which there were a number of reservations (ed. A. & T., iv, 67): Tout ce que je puis dire du livre De cive, est que je juge que son autheur est Ie meme que celuy qui a fait les troisiemes objections contre mes Meditations, et que je Ie trouve beaucoup plus habile en Morale qu'en Metaphysique ni en Physique; nonobstant que je ne puisse aucunement approuver ses principes ny ses maximes, qui sont tres-mauvaises et tres dangereuses, en ce qu'il suppose tous les hommes medians, ou qu'il leur donne sujet de l'etre. Tout son but est d'ecrire en faveur de la Monarchic: ce qu'on pourrait faire plus avantageusement et plus solidement qu'il n'a fait, en prenant des maximes plus vertueuses et plus solides. Et il ecrit aussi fort au desavantage de l'Eglise et de la Religion •270 ·

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Romaine, en sorte que, s'il n'est particulierement appuye de quelque faveur fort puissante, je ne voy pas comment il peut exempter son livre d'etre censure. The final remark is undoubtedly the most interesting part of Descartes's opinion. In fact, the significant thing about Hobbes' approach to politics is that he has not only divorced it from any control by religion; he has actually subjected religion to political control, whereas before him, the normal relationship between the two was thought to be just the reverse. It is therefore not surprising that Leibniz maintained that though Hobbes possesses a great and profound mind, he remains obstinately attached to the false principles which he has adopted. As for the Leviathan, he called it a monstrous work, just as the title indicated. Professor Derathe states (/. J. Rousseau et la science politique, p. 162) that Bayle did not like Hobbes. In the article of the Dictionnaire, however, which seems to me far from unfavorable, Bayle calls him one of the outstanding minds of the seventeenth century. He remarks that the Englishman, who had studied Aristotle for five years at Oxford, perceived that Aristotle was no longer esteemed "des plus sages tetes" in France and Italy. Bayle ascribed Hobbes' interest in mathematics to a desire to acquire a solid method of reasoning. Further, Bayle praised highly the De cive, stating that although it made Hobbes many enemies, and was probably exaggerated, it nonetheless forced the more perspicacious to admit that no one had ever penetrated so well the foundations of politics. He declared that Hobbes' system was well-organized and welladapted to a state in times of civil stress, but less satisfactory when put to practical usage. Bayle does not blame Hobbes for this, remarking that any system is weakened when subjected to the myriad passions of men. Bayle agreed with Descartes that Hobbes has one fault—that of believing that all men are wicked. It is certain, he added, that there are people who conduct themselves according to the strict rules of "honnetete," and that most evil-doers are only moderately wicked. Bayle's article, fairly well-disposed to Hobbes' ideas, insisted even more upon the Englishman's integrity. His long life, said Bayle, has been that of a perfectly respectable gentleman: "Il etoit franc, civil, communicatif de ce qu'il savoit, bon ami, bon parent, charitable envers les pauvres, grand observateur de l'equite, et il ne se souciait • 271 ·

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nullement d'amasser du bien." Indeed, only Hobbes' religion can be put in question. Bayle commented that the Englishman has been thought an atheist, in spite of his biographers who insist upon his orthodoxy. Bayle judged that Hobbes believed in God, and that he embraced Christianity as it is established by law in England. Otherwise, he found him averse to all theological disputes and respectful only of that which led to piety and good morals. Barbeyrac and Pufendorf also reacted favorably to Hobbes' works. Barbeyrac in his Grotius wrote: "Le livre d'Hobbes [De ewe] avec toutes ses erreurs, etoit l'ouvrage d'un genie meditatif, qui donne lieu d'examiner bien des choses, auxquelles on ne penserait pas sans cela; et qui debite souvent des verit.es tres utiles, et qui ne manque que d'etre remenees a de bons principes." Pufendorf agreed with Bayle in condemning Hobbes' religious principles, while recognizing in his political ideas a great number of estimable things. The German remarked that the English publicist had studied the constitution of civil and human society so profoundly that but few of his predecessors could be compared with him, adding significantly: "Meme lorsqu'il s'ecarte de la verite, il fournit a ses lecteurs l'occasion de mediter des choses qui ne sont sans doute jamais venues a l'esprit de personne." These opinions, stressing as they do Hobbes' reputation among the European public as a political theorist, are less satisfactory in giving a picture of Hobbes' full philosophy. We must not forget, however, as Chevalier has stated (Histoire de la pensee, II, 46) that Hobbes conceived of a universal science, though he left only a part consisting of fragments and essays. In reality his philosophy comprised a method, a physics, a logic, a psychology, an ethic, and a politics. It is in fact hardly less organic than Cartesianism, although the orientation is entirely different. The method is deduction: it aims to achieve knowledge, acquired by a correct reasoning, of the causes which will give a satisfactory explanation for the given phenomena, and make possible its repetition. Reason is reduced to a process, while using generally agreed upon names to designate a series of objects, to express our thought, and to transmit it to another {De corpore, I, 2). Thus we use only a verbal logic which reasons on names as one calculates with figures, without bothering about the things represented. For Hobbes the intellect or psychic phenomena ("discursis mentalis") consists of a • 272 ·

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series of organic phenomena, thought leading to words, words to images, images to sensations, and these last to movements. The theory of knowledge derived from this method is simple. We make no deductions concerning the nature of things, but only their name. Reason tells us only whether we are assembling cor­ rectly the names of things according to the conventions which we accept as to their meaning. "Si cela est ainsi," wrote Hobbes, ". . . Ie raisonnement dependra des noms, les noms de !'imagination, et !'imagination peut-etre (ceci est mon sentiment) du mouvement en certaines parties du corps organiques." Every judgment is not only subjective, but arbitrary. Things are thus true or false only according to the will of men. We cannot assert from experience that a thing is just or unjust, true or false, nor can we generalize except insofar as we recall the names which men have arbitrarily imposed upon things. Hobbes' physics is characterized by an indifference to experiment and is confined to definitions: notions of bodies, space, time, prin­ ciples and laws of movement. The unit of physics is body which, when subjected to analysis, will be found conditioned both tem­ porally and spatially. The analytic study of these conditions of a body in time and space is what constitutes the subject-matter of science. What can be constructed is only what can be developed in and by principles, or what is susceptible to analysis. Consequently, history and religious faith cannot be analyzed in these terms and are therefore not sciences. Indeed, physics is the only science: "La physique en tant que science du 'reel' saisi avec tout ce qui la conditionne, ού qu'on Ie trouve, et quelque [sic] soient ses expressions les plus diverses" (see Sortais, II, 328). This reality presupposes "per­ ceptions" which bring the science back to man: "Done la seule physique qui compte e'est la science de l'homme et Ie concept de l'fitat par extension." In this way perception unites physics with psychology, and physics becomes in the system the fundamental science. But everything is physics which corresponds to movement, which has a body, and which is analyzable. For example, the State is a "body" whose "caractere physique" takes its origin in the biological determinism of men. Thus without man and without the physical determinism of his nature, there would be no analytic structure of the state. AU the exterior bodies of science affect us physically and produce • 273 ·

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in us movements from which the sensations and the accompanying phenomena are derived in accordance with the laws of a purely mechanical causality. One thing to be retained is the role of effort, or "conatus," conceived by Hobbes as a movement which takes place the length of a point in an instant of time. This little movement, which introduces motion everywhere, even in what appears at rest, manifests itself in the characteristic urge of the living being from which springs desire or appetite. If these small movements are favorable to the vital functions, they engender pleasure. Pleasure gives rise to desire, and will is nothing but the dominant desire. Thus man is subjected to necessity, to fate, to the arbitrary will of God, call it what you wish. From this determinism springs the indeterminism of Hobbes' ethic. Good and evil are relative notions, desire is what gives value to things, and, accordingly, the achievement of desire is in the long run a utility. This mechanistic, materialistic psychology implies a view of man which was destined to have a long history. Hobbes regarded him as a monster of egotism, driven by self-love and personal interest. All our actions, even those which are called disinterested—pity, charity, benevolence—are subject to this personal interest. The passions furnish the underlying principle of egotism. They serve to divide men while reason unites them. Since, however, reason is powerless in the face of the passions and personal interests, it is necessary to substitute a unique will in lieu of individual wills. From this consideration Hobbes deduced the justification for despotism. Liberty is no more existent in politics than in metaphysics and morality. Everything is determined, mechanist, materialist. The same qualities are present in Hobbes' political views. In society, there are the same forces which are to be found in man and in nature. Right is nothing but the sum total of these forces; in fact, it comes from force, and is founded upon interest. In a society of men, each following his interest, and each a law unto himself, the state could never be a natural thing. Homo homini lupus, said Hobbes, repeating the idea found in Bacon. Right is the will of the strongest. Thus the state of nature is the state of war: bellum omnium contra omnes. However, the law of nature, which is nothing but the God-given Reason, teaches us that we must seek peace by contracting with others. Driven by fear and the capability of others to wage war and to inflict harm, people unite and renounce their • 274 ·

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natural liberty, their independence, their rights. They agree to put them, in accordance with Right Reason, in the hands of a single power (man or assembly) who can reduce all their wills to a single will, and who will have henceforth all powers and all rights, including coercion, punishment, lawmaking, and maintaining order, peace, and security. In the state formed by this social compact, that thing is good which the sovereign decrees, that thing is bad which he forbids. His will is the supreme law; the decrees which interpret this supreme law are the conscience of the citizen. Against this law, the citizen has no right. Assemblies, and all other groupings of a factional nature, only work for the subversion of the state. For this reason Hobbes, though he admits that the sovereign may be the assembly, prefers the power to be handed over to a single person, who will govern with a select council of men from whom will issue all the orders for the preservation of peace and prosperity. Even religion is subject to this supreme will: the fear of the invisible powers which the state recognizes is religion, the fear of other invisible powers unrecognized by the state is superstition. Finally, the state has the duty to impose the cult which it recognizes and to proscribe all others. Such was the corpus of ideas which led to the formation of Hobbes' philosophy. Contained therein was the wherewithal to arouse much opposition: a morality distinguished by its egotism, a psychology which was frankly materialistic, a politics which tended to the absolute and justified despotism, a religion which was distinguished by its rationalism, if not by an utter indifference to theology. A conclusion in any area of Hobbes' thought was enough to arouse protests from all idealists and all those affiliated with spiritualism. These continually reproached Hobbes for leaving no place whatever for spiritual things and for having founded a rigid mechanism. His insistence upon materialism, mechanism, and determinism has made him appear inimical to all his contemporaries. One would think that he would have the greatest affinity with Gassendi, and indeed, so far as the materialism is concerned, the two have much in common. Even in the sensualism, there are also things which are shared by the two; and they both agree that metaphysics is no longer a valid science. But in the sphere of religion, the two are poles apart, as Gassendi insisted. •275 ·

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There are analogies which can be drawn between Hobbes and Descartes also: they both adopt a deductive method, exhibit an indifference for experiments, attempt an organic philosophy, dream of a universal science; finally, they both stress mechanism in science. But they are miles apart in metaphysics, morality, psychology, and even science. It seems impossible for Hobbes to give a meaning to the concept "spirit." He wrote in one of his laconic moments: "We Christians acknowledge . . . that there are spirits . . . but to know it, that is to say, to have natural evidence of the same, it is impossible." And in another passage he defines the spirit as a "body natural, but of such subtility, that it worketh not upon the senses." With this strong addiction to materialism, it seems superfluous to inquire into Hobbes' religious beliefs. To be sure, he advised accepting the religion of the state, and he himself adopted without cavil the dictates of the Anglican Church. He insisted, however, that theology cannot be a science any more than metaphysics, and his statements clearly indicate, as S. Holm {Archives de philosophic, 1936) has pointed out, that he makes only respectful references to the doctrines of the Church. Hobbes' political philosophy not only moved from England to France through the normal political, philosophical, and literary channels of the seventeenth century, it had an important effect upon the political thought of Spinoza, and thereby played a major role in German political philosophy of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. In fact, it was so influential upon the thinking of Spinoza, that Sortais (II, 461 ff.) does not hesitate to put it at the very foundation of Spinoza's political thought. Like Hobbes, he conceived of a system founded on man's nature, from which are drawn its first principles. Politics for both Spinoza and Hobbes is thus a moral science, which strives not to condemn but to understand human nature. In this view, human passions are not vices but properties of human nature, which must be studied with the same objectivity as the properties of air. Spinoza, again like Hobbes, aspires to steer a course between the Utopians, such as More and Campanella, and the empiricists, such as MachiavelH. His method—deductive and only partially supported by • 276 ·

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experience—is rather similar to that of Hobbes. Right, for him, is a matter of power, which everyone has an obligation to defend. This, Spinoza explained, is the natural law: "Les lois de la nature de chaque individu, selon lesquelles nous Ie concevons determine a exister et agir d'une facon particuliere." Spinoza accepted that the fundamental law of nature is that everything tends to remain in the condition in which it is. This law is at the basis of self-love, or egotism. Man, however, is like all the other animals; he does not obey the laws of reason, but rather the blind desires which drive him. The power of these desires is not controlled by reason, but by the appetites which determine their actions and their efforts to preserve themselves. Since these multiple passions are opposed to the passions of others, man is naturally the enemy of man, and the state of nature is the state of war. Up to this point, there is no great difference between Spinoza and Hobbes. Hobbes, however, deduced from this state of affairs that the sovereign power cannot tolerate any limitation whatever, and thus became the champion of absolute monarchy and to that extent a declared opponent of the democratic form of government. He assumed also that once the civil law was promulgated, the law of nature was no longer operative. Spinoza, for his part, while admitting the absolute power of the sovereign state, regarded the law of nature as still in force. When asked what difference existed between his views and Hobbes', he replied: "ElIe consiste en ce que je conserve toujours fidelement Ie droit naturel et n'attribue pas dans chaque cite au magistrat supreme plus de droit sur ses sujets que n'en comporte Ie degre de puissance qui fait sa superiorite, ce qui a toujours lieu dans l'etat naturel." Thus Spinoza moved from the concept of the state as absolute to the more reasonable concept of the state as liberal. Thus, also, he insisted that the state not only must confirm free-thinking, but must also protect the right of every man to free thought. Thus, finally, he tended to a more democratic form of government. And while Hobbes founded right on force and both Grotius and Leibniz founded it on natural law, Spinoza, striking a middle ground between the two positions, established it upon force and reason, at the same time attempting to preserve the integrity of natural law in the social state. • 277 ·

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Hobbes' influence in Germany throughout the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries seems to have been rather widespread. Pufendorf, for instance, was as eager to acknowledge his indebtedness to the English publicist as Spinoza was reticent: in the preface to his Elements de jurisprudence universelle (as translated into French by Barbeyrac), he admits that he owed much to the De cive, which in spite of its irreligious tendencies contains ingenious and sound insights. He inserted in his Du Droit de la nature a eulogy of the English philosopher. It is therefore not surprising that he not only adopted, but actually defended, many of Hobbes' ideas. His definition of law, for instance, as "Ie decret par lequel un superieur oblige ceux qui lui sont soumis a conformer leurs actions a ses prescriptions" has a strong Hobbesian flavor. Pufendorf further agreed with Hobbes that it is not nature, but education, which makes man fit for society. However, he often vacillated in his opinions. In the Elements, for instance, he maintained that the sovereign power is absolute and indivisible. Therefore a prince, as Hobbes had stated, dominated by a popular control, does not have sovereign power. In the Droit de la nature, Pufendorf reversed this opinion and accepted both the absolute and the limited power. On the question of the relationship of Church and state, he also hesitated. Once the cult is formed, all citizens should approve and profess it. If anybody protests, he must be silenced; if he continues his attacks, he must be banished from the realm. But, added Pufendorf, if there are a lot of dissidents, they may be tolerated in the interest of peace. Leibniz, who was hostile to Pufendorf not only because the two differed as to the constitution of the German Empire, but because they differed likewise in political theory, admitted no debt to Hobbes. In an early letter to Hobbes, he insisted that movement does not explain the sensations, and thus he rejected Hobbes' materialism. With his usual courteous approach often followed in time by a disillusioned rejection, he lavishly praised his correspondent for his intellectual vigor. It is evident, though, that he found Hobbes' theory distasteful. He speaks of his "false principles," and refuses his concept of a state of nature. He notes with some asperity that the absolute monarchy favored by Hobbes has never existed; it is neither possible nor desirable. His final judgment of the English philosopher is expressed in a work entitled Reflexions sur I'oeuvre •278 ·

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que M. Hobbes a publiee en Angleterre: De la liberie, de la nocessite", et du hazard'. Il faut avouer qu'il y a quelque chose d'etrange et d'insoutenable dans les sentiments de Mr. Hobbes. Il veut que les doctrines touchant la divinite dependent entierement de la determination du Souverain et que Dieu n'est pas plus cause des bonnes que des mauvaises actions des crea­ tures. Il veut que tout ce que Dieu fait est [sic] juste, parce qu'il n'y a personne au-dessus de lui qui Ie puisse punir et contraindre. Cependant il parle quelquefois comme si ce qu'on dit de Dieu η etait que des compliments, c'est-a-dire des expressions propres a l'honorer, et non pas a Ie connaitre. Il temoigne aussi qu'il luy semble que les peines des mechants doivent cesser par leur destruction: c'est a peu pres Ie sentiment des Sociniens, mais il semble que les siens vont bien plus loin. La philosophic qui pretend que les corps seule sont des substances, ne parait gueres favorable a la providence de Dieu et a l'immortalite de l'ame. Finally, he takes exception to Hobbes' idea of justice, which cannot depend, said Leibniz, on arbitrary laws drawn up by the ruler, but upon eternal rules of wisdom and goodness, in men as well as in God. In addition to Pufendorf and Leibniz, there were, as Sortais has noted (p. 494), a number of persons—mostly university professors— who directed their attention to Hobbes. Among them was J. F. Bud­ deus (1667-1728), professor at Halle and Jena, and author of a whole series of books on the elements of philosophy. In 1717, he published a Theses theologicae de Atheismo (republished 1722, 1737), which was translated and published at Amsterdam in 1740 under the title Traito de Vatheisme et de la superstition par feu Mr. J. F. Buddeus, docteur et professeur en thoologie, avec des remarques historiques et philosophiques. Buddeus, like Pufendorf, recognizes his debt to Hobbes in the Histoire du droit naturel, but adds that the irreligion of the English philosopher has done much harm. Hobbes' state of nature, Buddeus concedes, was a creation to please Charles II: "Tandis qu'il se montre tout devoue aux interets du Prince, il est, ou peu s'en faut, impie a l'egard de Dieu." The author rejects the idea of subjecting religion to the arbitrary actions of those who rule. More­ over, though he admits that "Hobbes de l'avis de tous etait doue d'un genie tres subtil," he reproaches him for a portrait of mankind seen in a bad light. Most of all, he affirms that both Hobbes and • 279 ·

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Spinoza have waged constant combat against the Scriptures. Hobbes especially wanted to overthrow religion; it is difficult, Buddeus added, to avoid the suspicion that he was an atheist. In France, there was the same tendency to separate Hobbes' religious ideas from the political, scientific, sociological, psychological ideas. Hobbes' connection with the Mersenne group assured him of at least consideration from three important thinkers in the period. Sorbiere was originally hostile to him, but further acquaintance, with some encouragement from Mersenne, disposed him so favorably to the Englishman that he himself undertook the second edition of the De cive at Leyden in 1642. Moreover, he translated the De cive and the De corpore politico, accompanied by a preface filled with praise of the author. This translation was frequently reprinted throughout the seventeenth century and, even as late as 1787, was considered sufficiently accurate to merit another reprinting. Mersenne was similarly well-disposed to Hobbes, and fascinated by his dogmatism, in an age which tended still to skepticism. He did not even object to Hobbes' religious views, which fact has surprised those who recall the Minim's attacks against the impiety of the time. Gassendi, however, was more alert to the difficulty; he shared Mersenne's enthusiasm for the English philosopher, but distinctly expressed his disagreement with Hobbes' attitude to religion. There is evidence that he underwent some influence of the Englishman in his own thinking. In part III, chapter XXVI of the Syntagma, in a discussion on the state of nature, "De origine juris, ac justitiae," Gassendi presents views which are more or less in accord with those of Hobbes. The general tendencies toward materialism which each author exhibited undoubtedly contributed to some mutual understanding. This materialism was precisely the reason for disaccord between Hobbes and Descartes (see Sortais, II, 302-309). The English philosopher had permitted himself some observations upon the Dioptrique, eleven pages of observations in fact, and Mersenne with customary enthusiasm transmitted them to Descartes as coming from "un Anglais." The Frenchman received them with no joy. To Mersenne he wrote: "D'une part, la maniere d'ecrire de l'auteur indique un esprit ingenieux et docte; d'autre part, chaque fois qu'il met en avant une idee de son cru, il semble toujours s'ecarter de la verite. Contraste • 280 ·

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qui m'etonne grandement." Obviously, the French philosopher found the Englishman unsympathetic from the start. A second letter to Mersenne announced that a careful study of the Englishman's objections merely had confirmed his first impressions, and per­ suaded him not to reply: "S'il est de l'humeur que je Ie juge, nous ne saurions gueres conferer ensemble sans devenir ennemis; il vaut mieux que nous en demeurions, lui et moi, ού nous en sommes." Descartes strongly suspected in fact that Hobbes was bent on mis­ chief, and with customary distrust urged Mersenne to exercise some care in discussing his unpublished ideas: "Je vous prie aussi de ne luy communiquer que Ie moins que vous pourrez de ce que vous scavez de mes opinions et qui n'est point imprime; car je me trompe fort, si ce n'est un homme qui cherche d'acquerir de la reputation a mes depens, et par de mauvaises pratiques." The suspicion was not wholly groundless. Hobbes had invented the notion of a "spiritus internus" which he likened to the "matiere subtile" of the French philosopher. Moreover, he maintained that he had sustained this idea since 1630, that he remembered that Descartes had had access to it, and that he, Hobbes, should be credited with its discovery. Mersenne dutifully and tactlessly passed these remarks to Descartes, who re­ plied that "c'est une chose puerile et digne de risee." When the Meditations were presented, Hobbes undertook the "Troisiemes objections" at the suggestion of Mersenne, and the latter forwarded them to Descartes, who complained that the one who composed the "Troisiemes objections" had not understood a thing which he had written. He thought, moreover, that the Englishman had only perused the Meditations rapidly without giving any thought to the demonstration. Descartes wrote a short reply to Hobbes' critique, and undertook to excuse its brevity to Mersenne: "Je n'ay pas cru me devoir etendre plus que j'ay fait en mes Reponses a Γ An­ glais, a cause que ses objections m'ont semble peu vraysemblables, que c'eust este les faire trop valoir, que d'y repondre plus au long." Hobbes had taken exception to the notion of thinking matter, to the meaning of reasoning, to the idea of God and His existence, and to the doctrine of freedom of the will. He had in this connection at­ tacked the "je pense, done je suis" as a spiritual act; maintaining that it is impossible to conceive of any act without the material no­ tion of the thing acting. Hobbes implied thereby that thought being a substance is corporeal, not spiritual. Descartes replied that there are • 281 ·

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two kinds of substances, some corporeal, others spiritual, and thus there are certain acts which are corporeal, and others which we call intellectual. Intellectual acts have no affinity with corporeal acts. In addition to asserting his materialism, Hobbes hazarded his ideas in psychology: "Que diriez-vous, maintenant, si peut-etre Ie raisonnement n'est rien autre chose qu'un assemblage et enchainement de noms par ce mot est?" Descartes replied that the association in reasoning consists in bringing together things, not words, and the things have a sense in themselves, not in the words. And he cites the cases of a German and Frenchman who have the same thoughts about a thing, but two different names for it. In reality, although both philosophers adopted mechanism, it was just about the only thing they ultimately held in common. Hobbes, confirmed materialist, held no lasting esteem for Descartes, ardent spiritualist. The Englishman wrote to Cavendish: "For here is one Mr. de Bosne [Florimond de Beaune] in towne, an excellent workman, but by profession a lawier, and is counsellor at Blois, and a better philosopher in my opinion than Descartes, and not inferior to him in the analytiques." Descartes reciprocated with the same indifference to Hobbes. When, in 1643, Mersenne offered to send him some manuscripts of Hobbes, he replied that he was not "curieux de voir les ecrits de cet Anglais." And yet by a strange quirk of fate they were united at the end of the century by one of Descartes's most ardent followers. In 1690, Regis published his Systeme de philosophic, contenant la logique, la metaphysique, la physique, et la morale, in four volumes. In the section on "morale," Regis, finding Descartes insufficient, copied Hobbes in dealing with the fundamental natural law, the natural laws which derive from it, the social pact which humanity has been forced to form, the nature of the sovereign power, and the impossibility of revolting against one's sovereign. It is interesting to see a thoroughgoing Cartesian follow Descartes's ideas on logic, metaphysics, and physics, and Hobbes' ideas on ethics. It is probably what a number of people were doing around the years from 1685 to 1690. It should be noted, though, that Regis does not accept Hobbes in toto. He speaks of the natural disposition of people to love one another and in other ways he attempts to palliate the egotism propounded by the Englishman. Strangely enough, this professor who added Hobbes' ethics to Descartes's metaphysics found it impossible • 282 ·

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to tolerate Malebranche. Sortais (II, 511) explains this "besoin de reagir contre les exces du Malebranchisme" as the effect of "la frequentation de Hobbes." Pascal's Jansenism In the sixteenth century there developed two religions, Catholic and Protestant, so profoundly hostile to each other that one understands with difficulty, at this far removed date, how they could be permeated by Christ's spirit and so inhumanly harsh to their fellowmen. The thing to note, however, is the political nature of these Churches. Though fundamentally pretending to speak for religion, each succeeded better in representing the spirit not so much of religion, as of politics. The struggle could have been for a pure religion; but it had more the appearance of a fight for political power. The Reformation led to a Counter-reformation. Those Catholics who understood the nature of the religious problem—St. Vincent, St. Fran$ois de Sales, Berulle, and many others—comprehended the necessity for a spiritual reform in religion. Besides, in 1534, a religious order—the Jesuits—had been initiated to defend this "new" religion, whose theoretician—Molina—attempted to conciliate the free will of man with God's prescience and His grace. He directed his arguments particularly at the Protestants who denied absolutely man's free will. In the meantime, a priest of Louvain named Baius proposed a solution to the problem which resembled the stand of the Protestants and reestablished a profound interest in Augustinianism. Baius proclaimed that salvation or damnation was the result not of divers graces but of human works, good or bad. Adam, Eve, and the fallen Angels would have preserved eternal life for themselves if they had persevered in justice. But of their own will they sinned and thereby they transmitted to their posterity their fallen state. This habitual concupiscence destroyed freedom, which, as a moral act, does not consist in doing or not doing, but in being free from constraints which enslave us. Consequently, our soul is weakened, so that it no longer has the strength to overcome any temptation. We must have, therefore, in order to escape damnation, a special grace from God which will restore our lost freedom. Baius more or less subscribed to the opinion of the Calvinists that, given these conditions, the solution proposed by Molina was frightful heresy. • 283 ·

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It was in Holland that the thesis of the relationship between God's foreknowledge and man's freedom was debated. Gomar, a reformed theologian of Leyden, offered an explanation similar to that of Baius. He was opposed by Arminius, who proclaimed that predestination was not total, that the merits of Christians are applicable to all, and that Adam's fall has not destroyed our freedom: we have the power to cooperate with God by accepting His grace, or refusing to cooperate by rejecting it. The dispute between Gomar and Arminius grew so loud that a conference of reconciliation was proposed. Gomar refused to accept this solution and Arminius, though disposed to accept, died (1609) before the conference could be called. Whereupon Gomar exerted pressure upon the Synod and secured a verdict in favor of his rigid interpretation. The liberal Protestants thereupon united with the free-thinkers to defend freedom of the will along with freedom of thought. They were, to be sure, persecuted and, ultimately, with the expulsion of Episcopius, the doctrine was declared unacceptable in Holland. Around 1620, there were organized the "collegiants," who met in small groups throughout Holland for the purpose of discussing theological problems in a reasonable way. The "collegiants" ended by defending a religious and philosophical thesis affirming the inner freedom of the Christian and a political thesis limiting the powers of civil authority in matters of religion and philosophy. They were among the first to use clandestinity as a weapon against persecution. Their insistence upon free will, upon freedom of thought, and their use of clandestinity to defend both theses make them an important influence in the organization of early Enlightenment thought. The quarrels over grace and free will among the Protestants in Holland had a direct effect upon the rise of two movements which they would have regarded as antagonistic to their views: Jansenism and libertinage. Jansen, who followed closely their disputes, discussed them with Saint-Cyran, and in these discussions the two were seized with the ambition to conciliate the Christian doctrines of predestination, grace, and free will. On the other hand, L. Meyer and Spinoza grew up in the midst of these "collegiant" groups and clarified their own attitude to the same problems in their "libertin" works. Thus, a rather local discussion carried on with great vigor produced at one and the same time a radical Christian interpretation of the central • 284 ·

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problem of man's relationship with God and what was thought to be the radical atheistic interpretation of that same problem. Important as these two interpretations are, the implications of the discussion are more significant. The whole foundation of Christian morality is put in question, because freedom of the will implies responsibility for good and evil actions, which in turn involves the nature of God's justice. One cannot open up these matters without reviewing all the moral relations of man to God and indeed to man. Hence, in the debate of Gomarism and Arminianism lie the seeds destined to grow into the problem of evil which so beset the eighteenth century. Arminius was very correct when he accused Gomar of expounding a doctrine which makes God responsible for sin and evil. In addition to this, though, what should be stressed is the way in which the problem of evil becomes a religious, a philosophical, and a political problem, that is to say a total moral problem. The official Catholic point of view on these matters was pronounced at the Council of Trent. On the question of God's foreknowledge, the Council clearly affirmed God's infinite science, that knows from all eternity everything which has been, which is, and which will be. Therefore, and beyond all equivocation, God's prescience and His predestination are complete and total. The Council further insisted upon God's grace, "completely gratuitous" and "always efficacious." Finally, it stressed man's freedom to obey God's command and cooperate with that grace in his own salvation, or to reject it and persist in sin. The key was contained in the sentence of the Council of Trent, which formed the core of Pascal's Merits sur la grace: "The just experience no difficulty in obeying God's commandments" (Cone. Trid., sess. VI, ch. n , can. 18). The Council arrived at this point of doctrine by interpreting in the most liberal sense possible the doctrine of St. Augustine. It asserted that God gives full consideration in choosing His elect to the merits which He foresees they will acquire. The opinion is clearly expressed that each Christian possesses a sufficient grace to reject sin and to carry out the law of God. Molina, in his treatment of the subject, even seems to enlarge the freedom of man over the official view of the Council. Thus, there was a noticeable tendency in the Church to a liberal Arminianism rather than toward the more rigid doctrine of Baius. Jansen, Saint-Cyran, Arnauld, that is the whole Jansenist hierarchy, will oppose this trend of the Council of Trent and will •285 ·

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demand a strict interpretation of St Augustine, the other Fathers, the Bible, and the canons of the early Councils. A situation develops in which all discussions terminate in a minute exegesis of the Christian texts. The Bible and the Church Fathers are subjected to a rigorous analysis, conducted by the human intelligence. The Jesuits and the Jansenists, however, differed concerning the right of the human mind to weigh the problem. For the Jesuits, and the liberals in general, the function of the human intelligence is to interpret directly the Word of God, without passing through the Church Fathers. For the Jansenists, on the contrary, human reason intervenes only as a means of understanding more clearly the opinions enunciated in the texts. For the former group, then, philosophy is the expression of universal reason and the Divine Word. It can give the real sense to revealed doctrines. It is consequently clear that, even in the dispute between Jansenism and Jesuitism, rationalism is an important issue, but more important than that is the thought that philosophy can interpret theology. Critics during the second half of the nineteenth century and the early decades of the twentieth stressed Pascal's opposition to Descartes. In fact, one of the normal ways of presenting the movement of ideas in the first half of the century was to draw from Montaigne the thought of Descartes, Pascal, and Gassendi, and to show the irreconcilable opposition which each expressed toward the thought of his contemporary. It was assumed that each was speaking for a particular body of thought: Descartes for Cartesianism, Pascal for Jansenism, and Gassendi for libertinism. This view was based on Bossuet's remark in one of his letters that a strong attack was being prepared against the Christian religion under the name of Cartesianism. Eighteenth-century historians consequently inferred that Cartesian rationalism was deleterious to religion. With his strong tendency to express philosophical thought in absolute terms, Descartes emerged as prophet of that rational thought which led to the dry rationalism of the period between 1680 and 1730. It was this rationalism which was held responsible for undermining Christianity and for the decline and ultimate ruin of classicism. Before it took effect, however, Descartes had a worthy opponent in Pascal, who, by contrast, became the apostle of the "heart" against "reason," and who pursued his defense of Christianity so vigorously that a bulwark was set up against the •286 ·

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Cartesian forces of disintegration. Consequently, not until Voltaire's Lettres philosophiques in 1734, in spite of a long anti-Pascal movement which had been going on since 1670, did "reason" triumph over the "heart." Critics have now come to feel that this explanation of the origins of the Enlightenment needs some modification. Many now point out that the relationship between Descartes and Pascal is not one of unremitting irreconcilability. Indeed, the former way of looking at things has always been difficult to sustain in view of the renascence of Cartesianism around 1680, when Pascal's Pensees, published for the first time in 1669 and 1670, should have been showing real strength. It was equally difficult to justify the decline of Pascal's defense of Christianity actually before it had gathered momentum. Finally, it has not been easy to explain the aims and purposes of an anti-Pascal movement from 1670 to 1734, or even its need. These difficulties have brought about some revision in the interpretation of the Descartes-Pascal relationship. Descartes and his thought no longer appear as the great enemy of the Christian religion. As we have seen, he is rather a staunch supporter of religion against those who would present an exclusively scientific, mechanistic interpretation of the universe. While he did offer the free-thinkers material which could be utilized in pushing their own naturalistic tendencies, it was not devised to give them comfort, but developed rather from the internal stresses of his own system of thought. It is therefore not surprising that Lenoble (see Mersenne, p. 610) states that "Descartes nous est apparu comme un genie beaucoup plus metaphysique et religieux qu'on ne l'a dit autrefois. Certes il aime la science. Mais il n'aime pas moins la religion." Descartes's metaphysics appears closer to Pascal's than the latter ever imagined. The Cartesian dialectic resembles Pascal's with the reservation that it is more abstract, and that it would naturally appeal more to those who distrust their heart. Descartes's position, like Pascal's, is not only grounded in Augustinianism, but offers to the intellectuals of the time the proof that the grandeur of man resides in his thought, as his misery lies in his error and his doubt. And he believes, like Pascal, that the enigma of man can only be explained by God. Lenoble concludes (p. 615): Leurs divergences peuvent paraitre presque negligeables comparees a Pimportance que presente pour l'histoire l'accord fonder de leur effort metaphysique et religieux. Il reste toutefois que Pascal represente une •287 ·

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pensee plus murie que celle de Descartes, moins optimiste, plus souple, mais, en tout cas, tout aussi rigoureuse. Chevalier (Histoire de la pensee, III, p. 194) is more explicit still. In a section entitled "Deux voies convergentes," the critic concedes, like Bergson, that "ils ont ouvert les deux voies, la raison, Ie cceur, qui s'oifrent [to human thought] dans sa quete de la verite." Two opposing ways, says Chevalier, but only in appearance; in reality, in spite of Descartes's reason and Pascal's heart, in spite of the rationalism of one and the transcendence of the other, in spite of Pascal's way to knowledge by immediate apprehension and Descartes's by the principles which rule the "donnees" of experience, each made of his life a search for truth, both agreed that God can be known with certainty by the natural light of human reason, and finally both believed that our knowledge of God is not complete except through the revelation of Christ, and that the reason does not suffice, since both see in the will the instrument of salvation. Professor Lanson's study of the intellectual relationships between Pascal and Descartes has stressed that Pascal adopted many of Descartes's views: the treatment of experience, the conversion of expressed reality into intelligible notions, the distinction between extent and thought, the automatism of animals. In addition, added Lanson, he retained without demurring, in matters of science and psychology, the points of view, the definitions, the concepts of Christian philosophy. He, like Descartes, made of belief the result of a common effort between a limited intelligence and an infinite will. As a matter of fact, Pascal, as well as Descartes, assigned a supreme importance to the use of the will ( # 99): Il y a une difference universelle et essentielle entre les actions de la volonte et toutes les autres. La volonte est un des principaux organes de la creance; non qu'elle forme la creance, mais parce que les choses sont vraies ou fausses, selon la face par ou on les regarde. La volonte, qui se plait a l'une plus qu'a l'autre, detourne l'esprit de considerer les qualites de celles qu'elle n'aime pas a voir: et ainsi l'esprit, marchant d'une piece avec la volonte, s'arrete a regarder la face qu'elle aime, et ainsi il en juge par ce qu'il y voit. In spite of these comparisons, though, it is debatable whether Descartes's preoccupation with religion as the true goal of all philo• 288 ·

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sophic thought corresponded to a similar preoccupation in Pascal, or whether Pascal's strict rationalism was analogous to Descartes's. Baudin, in La Philosophic de Pascal (Neuchatel, 1946), for instance, has seen in Pascal's rationalism something entirely different from Descartes's. He discerns in him a most authentic rationalist, one of the most convinced, as well as one of the most unknown, rationalists. When his rationalism is compared with the different varieties of the past, it shines with an extraordinary brilliance and originality. It would have been a philosophy eminently French, added Baudin, an empirical rationalism, satisfying the two great passions of the French, the passion for reason and the passion for facts. And, said Baudin, the Enlightenment would have been entirely different (p. 13): "Au lieu de s'epuiser, comme il Ie fit, dans un cartesianisme devenu infecond, ou de se livrer, comme il Ie fit encore, a l'empirisme anglais plus infecond encore, Ie XVIIF siecle eut vu grandir Ie Pascalisme, s'en fut nourri et en eut actualise les si riches virtualites." Pascal, however, sterilized his rationalism by insisting upon an anti-rationalist morality, which won over to him both the Jansenists and the libertines. This rationalism was furthered by Pascal's education which, said Baudin, was excellent for a scholar, but not for an apologist or for a philosopher. There were, in fact, serious gaps in his preparation. The philosophers of antiquity were abstract names for him; he did not know either the moralists or the political thinkers, nor the Church Fathers, not even St. Augustine. This ignorance of the past produced three results: he himself had to invent; he had to seek his experience in life itself; and finally he had to undergo the influence of the moderns. In reality, Pascal seemed to think that the essential of antiquity could be found in Montaigne and Epictetus, and the latter philosopher he equated with Descartes. It was for this reason that Pascal remained faithful to a goodly number of Cartesian doctrines. His "esprit geometrique" is a complement of the Discourse on Method. He accepts the ontological proofs of God which Descartes proposed, though he attaches no great importance to them. In general, he finds that the affirmations of Descartes are not sufficiently strong. He, as well as Descartes, professes mathematical mechanism and a theory of animal automatism, and deplores an excessive anti-finalism. There is no doubt after the demonstration of Baudin that Pascal is, like Descartes, "un franc rationaliste, un rationaliste sans defaillances." • 289 ·

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Along with this rationalism, however, Pascal professed an antirationalism which had been taught to him by the libertines and which he utilized in his conception of morality. His joining the libertines in morality is analogous to Descartes's union with the mechanists, also libertines. Consequently, Pascal having judged the libertine view of man to be true, adopted it in its totality and rejected the dogmatists in morality. Thus, while his philosophical criticism remained rationalist, his moral philosophy was anti-rationalist, with the consequences that there was an abyss, as Baudin said, between his philosophy and his morality. The Jansenists confirmed the anti-rational tendencies which Pascal absorbed from the libertines. Like the libertines, they were convinced that man without grace was corrupt, steeped in sin and unable to achieve a rational morality. But Port-Royal not only confirmed the anti-rationalism of Pascal; it ruthlessly suppressed his tendency to mysticism, and crushed out his rationalism (Baudin, II, p. 26). Pascal's attitude toward Descartes has thus been complicated by the critics. We must not forget that the relations between the two were not close, or cordial. Pascal's father was said to have been a friend of Descartes. The latter was familiar with Pascal's interest in physics and even indicated that the idea of an experiment on the pressure of the atmosphere originated with him. There was a meeting between the two on September 23 and 24, 1647, but other than that it was a friendly meeting passed in discussing mutually interesting subjects, we know nothing about what transpired. We do know, however that Pascal made four entries in the Pensees referring to Descartes, "ficrire," said he, "contre ceux qui approfondissent trop les sciences. Descartes." In another pensee ( # 7 7 ) , he added: "Je ne puis pardonner a Descartes; il aurait bien voulu, dans toute sa philosophic, se pouvoir passer de Dieu; mais il n'a pu s'empecher de lui faire donner une chiquenaude, pour mettre Ie monde en mouvement: apres cela, il n'a plus que faire de Dieu." "Descartes," he stated in #78, is "inutile et incertain"—useless, Brunschvicg explains, because his metaphysics does not touch upon what is uniquely necessary; uncertain, because he builds his system of things on "a priori" principles which cannot be other than hypotheses. Brunschvicg has added (Pensees et opuscules, p. 361, n. 2) an interesting note which tends to contradict the views of Lanson, Baudin and Chevalier: • 290 ·

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Il ne faut pas voir dans cette critique de Descartes par Pascal un desaveu de son passe scientifique. C'est au contraire en savant que Pascal parle ici: ni en geometrie, ni en physique il ne suit la methode cartesienne: il ne croit ni a l'evidence des idees simples ni a la possibilite de construire rationnellement Ie monde. Sa geometrie est synthetique et concrete, sa physique est experimentale et antimetaphysique. Le Pascal cartesien, au sens absolu ού on l'a entendu, est une legende. Finally, Pascal made his fourth reference to Descartes in #79: Descartes.—Il faut dire en gros: "cela se fait par figure et mouvement" car cela est vrai. Mais de dire quels, et composer la machine, cela est ridicule. Car cela est inutile, et incertain et penible. Et quand cela serait vrai, nous n'estimons pas que toute la philosophic vaille une heure de peine. His opposition to Descartes was thus motivated by intellectual rea­ sons rather than personal antipathy. Fundamentally, he does not think that philosophy is a subject to be compared with theology. In a moment of pique he wrote "se moquer de la philosophic, c'est vraiment philosopher." He had especially a contempt for metaphysics: the metaphysical proofs of God are so far removed from the reason­ ing of ordinary man and so complicated, he wrote, that they are most unimpressive. Even if they should be of service to some, it is only for the short time during which they are witnessing the demon­ stration; an hour later, they are afraid of being mistaken. Even sci­ ence, great as it is in his view of the world, is of scant importance in comparison with the science of man, i.e., oneself. This science of man, indeed, is the link between the science of nature and the knowl­ edge of God. If there is much ambiguity in the relationship between Pascal and Descartes, there is more still between Pascal and the libertines. The impression given by the biographical documents is that Pascal was seized with the zeal of converting his libertine friends who were at the same time "honnetes gens." When the arguments were pre­ pared, a large number of them were drawn from that arch libertine of all times, Montaigne (see L. Brunschvicg, Descartes et Pascal, lecteurs de Montaigne, N. Y., 1946). Baudin (II, 83) notes that Pascal studied Montaigne's work with the greatest care, as if it were a verita­ ble Bible for man. Brunschvicg affirms that Pascal's discovery of Montaigne saved him thirty years of study and observation. Therein was contained all the experience of antiquity and of the sixteenth • 291 ·

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century, all the organization which Montaigne had given it, all the penetrating commentaries which he had made upon it, all the concrete pictures of humanity, with its infinite variety of individuals, its diversities of events, its infinitely changing attitudes, and its constantly changing manners and customs. Pascal could not have failed to find therein a Summa of libertinage. He saw in his predecessor the incomparable author of the "art de conferer," the art which Pascal was also attempting to develop. He appreciated highly Montaigne's manner of writing, which consists of thoughts "nees sur les entretiens ordinaires de la vie," one of the qualities which he was himself endeavoring to practice. He discovered with admiration that what good qualities Montaigne possesses can only be acquired with the greatest difficulty; his bad traits, except for his way of living, can be corrected in a moment. All one need do is warn him that he tells too many stories and talks too much of himself. Because he does have, like everyone else, imperfections. In the first place, lacking a proper method of presentation, he is full of confusion. He knew well he was deficient in this essential and tried to cover it up by jumping from subject to subject. And then, too, how foolish to be always talking about oneself: "Le sot projet qu'il a de se peindre! et cela non pas en passant et contre ses maximes, comme il arrive a tout Ie monde de faillir; mais par ses propres maximes, et par un dessein premier et principal..." ( # 62). His defects are great: "mots lascifs," they have no value, in spite of Mile de Gournay; credulous to the point of talking of people without eyes; ignorant to the point of pronouncing inanities on the squaring of the circle, or suggesting a larger world. His ideas on suicide, death, repentance are totally unacceptable. Not only do his Essais not lead to piety, they actually turn one away from it. One may excuse some thoughts a little too freely expressed, but there is no excuse for his pagan presentation of death. He is "ce lache et mol Montaigne." It could be readily inferred that this kind of condemnation would carry with it a total indifference to the Essais, particularly after Pascal took great pains to assert that it is not in Montaigne but in himself that he found what he saw in man. Such was not the case, however. The argument of the two infinities, the disagreement of all philosophers on the question of the sovereign good, the whole of Pascal's critique of the powers of reason; how it is in disaccord with the senses and the imagination, all come bodily from Montaigne, and they are some of the strongest passages in Pascal's apology. • 292 ·

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While Pascal was steeped in Montaigne's Essais, he had access to Montaigne through others: through Charron, for instance, whose Traite de la sagesse and Traite des trots verites were exceedingly useful to him. Not only had Charron summarized Montaigne in little chapters where the smooth developments were literally reduced to "pensees," but he had also shown how the ideas of antiquity, of which the Essais were in themselves a brilliant summary, how the currents of that thought—stoicism, epicureanism, skepticism—could be ordered as a reasonable introduction to Christianity. Charron not only saw the possibilities of an apology for Christianity in the Essais, he had also seen how they presented an ideal of "prud'homie" which was a desirable social ideal. Finally, while he had not failed to stress the virtues of "prud'homie," he had also noted the other side of human nature: the vanity, the weakness, the inconstancy, and the presumption of man. Nor did he overlook the three essential truths—that there is a true religion, that this religion is the Christian religion, that the Christian religion consists in Catholic orthodoxy. Pascal was certainly not impressed by the disordered orderliness of Charron's works, but he was well aware that, though a hodge-podge, they contained the essential Montaigne plus the essential apology drawn from Montaigne which could give to his treatment a high social, as well as a Christian, ideal. In the order of life, Pascal judged that one might use the same material, but, to quote Mitton, fly higher ("voler plus haut"). Mere and Mitton confirmed this point of view. Pascal met them through the Due de Roannez, his neighbor, who was very interested in mathematics. According to Marguerite Perier, the Duke attached himself to Pascal and became so infatuated with him that he took him off to Poitou. In all probability, this was the trip which Mere described in his works and which included, in addition to the Duke and Pascal, Mere and Mitton. The account of the journey was supplied by Mere himself: Pascal is represented as a man "entre deux ages," familiar only with mathematics, old-fashioned enough to admire the eloquence of Du Vair, and who, by his own confession, loved only those things "qui ne me pouvoient donner que de tristes plaisirs." His conversion was instantaneous and complete: "et quoique je regrette Ie temps que j'ai perdu, je suis beaucoup plus aise de celui que je gagne." Mere and Mitton exercised a strong influence on Pascal's thinking. In the first place their own thinking had been strongly affected by Montaigne's and Charron's. The renaissance courtier and the "prud'• 293 ·

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homme" had now become the "honnete homme." Mere became his aposde and in the Discours sur la vraie honnHeto established the principles of what was for him a new religion. His firm ally was Damien Mitton who in the Pensoes sur Vhonnetete has given an admirable definition of the ideal (H. Grubbs, p. 55): L'honnetete done doit etre consideree comme Ie desir d'etre heureux, mais de maniere que les autres Ie soient aussi. Pour avoir cette honnetete au plus haut degre, il faut avoir l'esprit excellent et Ie coeur bien fait, et qu'ils soient tous deux de concert ensemble. Par la grandeur de l'esprit on connait ce qu'il y a de plus juste et de plus raisonnable a dire et a faire; et par la bonte du cceur, on ne manque jamais de vouloir faire et de vouloir dire ce qu'il y a de plus raisonnable et de plus juste. L'honnete homme fait grand cas de l'esprit, mais il fait encore plus grand cas de la raison. Il aime la verite sur toute chose; il veut savoir tout et ne se pique de rien savoir. Il prend garde a tout, il examine tout, connoit Ie prix, Ie fort et Ie faible de tout; il n'estime les choses que selon leur veritable valeur. Les erreurs et les preventions les plus cachees ne lui imposent pas, et ne font aucune impression sur son esprit. The definition carries a blueprint of the future, with its elimination of prejudices, its insistence upon the heart and the intellect, sentiment and rationalism, desire to know and skepticism concerning one's ability to know, striving for perfection, but giving the impression of indifference. These new glimpses into man's moral possibilities held much attraction for Pascal. Baudin (II 1 , 82-92) explains that Mere and Mitton opened up for Pascal a view of the world which until then had been unknown to him. Its characteristic was its worldliness; it was essentially aristocratic, restricted at least to a small group of those who were the happy few. These were concerned with building a society within the social order which would possess not only delicacy of feeling—social feeling—and refinement of manners, but also in superior degree a knowledge of the world, awareness of man's intellectual possibilities, and a taste for the beautiful, the true, and, within limits, the good. Hence, it placed emphasis upon enjoyment, social graces, refinement, but also upon knowledge, judgment, and feeling. Mitton was correct in saying that the supreme desire was to be happy, and that to be really happy one had to take into consideration the happiness of others. All activity thus became intellectually oriented and socially focused: the one sin was excess, disproportion, disorder, a disharmony in the com• 294 ·

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position of the elements which go to make existence a unified something. Excess could happen in any of these elements: one could, if not careful, have too much religion, too much political sense, too much morality, too much knowledge, too much philosophy. It was even possible to be too wise: superfluity of wisdom was as much a vice as no wisdom whatever. This society was "the Society," the world which it reflected was "Ie Monde," life which it disclosed was the "mundane" life, its primary preoccupation was to reflect upon the happy life as its devotees conceived it. Its science par excellence was not the science of nature nor the science of God, but the science of man. Without being conscious of their orientation, these "honnetes gens" placed the supreme good in knowing man, his vices which are limitations, his possibilities which are so carefully integrated in his nature but which require the avoidance of all excess, all distinction, all superiorities. Those who represent this mundane ideal know enough about the nature of man to be aware of his duties, but they understand also from that nature how incapable he is of performing them. Thus they have an ideal of man, but pessimistically disclaim the possibility of achieving that ideal. Mere, who was their high priest, noted that achievement of the ideal was so rare that one would make the trip from India to Paris just to see one "honnete homme." Not for that, however, did the members of this world despair. They confined their activity to the happiness of living, to the resignation of being, to the pleasures of knowing the depths of the human heart. What fascinated them was human comedy, the mask which everyone must wear in his world of limited possibilities. They were charmed with what these actors proclaimed in eloquent terms on the stage of life. Their preoccupation is frankly moral—moral man—they are the "Moralists," their triumph represents the ultimate victory of Montaigne. They form their view of life upon his "golden mean," no theological, philosophical, or political rationalism—they prefer to be divorced from theology, philosophy and politics. They are now the free-thinkers, subjected to no theological, philosophical, metaphysical, political system. Their heroes are those who know the human heart. Pascal complements Descartes and Montaigne, and at the same time gives a different interpretation to their positions. Both Cartesians and libertines seem to him to offer a solution to the problem of being which is in neither case fully satisfactory. Descartes is "inutile • 295 ·

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et incertain," Montaigne is "mol et lache." Rationalism is true within limits: though it gives the impression of infinity, it does have limits. Libertinism has its pleasant side; it is an extremely attractive way of living, but it leads nowhere. Can one derive from the very opposition of these two ways of life a correct plan for living the good life ? The answer seems to lie in the Entretien avec M. de Saci (1655) which took place after Pascal's conversion, but before the Provinciales and the Pensees. The scene is carefully laid. Pascal, touched with God's grace, "embrassa avec humilite la Penitence." He came to Paris to fall into the arms of M. Singlin who sent him to Port-Royal des Champs, where M. Arnauld "lui preterait Ie collet en ce qui regarde les autres sciences, et ού M. de Saci lui apprendrait a les mepriser." In the conversation which ensued, M. de Saci was impressed by the penetrating intellect of Pascal, but found that although he was ex­ tremely praiseworthy for having perceived the deep truths without having read the Church Fathers, he nevertheless offered no new opinion, all his ideas being already expressed in St. Augustine. M. de Saci, venturing one day to turn the conversation to philosophy, asked Pascal what he was reading, and being told that "ses livres les plus ordinaires avaient ete Epictete et Montaigne," the priest invited the philosopher "de lui en parler a fond." There follows an exposition of these two authors which makes of the Entretien one of the finest pieces of philosophical criticism ever written. Pascal's penetration to the core of each man's thought, rep­ resentative of the two currents of thinking common to all men, the way in which each has a strong and a weak side, the conclusion that in the very contradiction of the two points of view resides the truth of man's situation if he can only seize the two aspects simultaneously, all of this analysis leading to a total view of man makes of the En­ tretien a document of supreme importance both in the establishment of Pascal's position, and in locating the dilemma of seventeenth-cen­ tury thinking. Pascal stressed that Epictetus is one of the philosophers who have known best the duties of man. He has urged that man regard God as his principal object, that he have faith in His justice, that he sub­ mit to His law, and that he follow Him voluntarily in all things. Thus he will be prepared to suffer patiently all the events of life. And Pascal concludes as the final counsel of Epictetus: • 296 ·

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Souvenez-vous, dit-il ailleurs, que vous etes ici comme un acteur, et que vous jouez Ie personnage d'une comedie, tel qu'il plait au maitre de vous Ie donner. . . . Ayez tous les jours devant les yeux la mort et . . . les maux . . . qui semblent les plus insupportables. For Epictetus, at least as he was interpreted by Pascal, as for Descartes, man was the actor in the cosmic drama, he had his role cut out for him, and like a good actor, he had to wear his mask—"Larvatus prodeo." Thus Epictetus, like Descartes, taught man his duties, but he forgot to teach him his weaknesses. Having so well understood what one should do, he becomes lost in the presumption of what one can do. He asserts that God has given man the means of fulfilling all his obligations, that we must seek our happiness in the things within our power. These things are not life, property, esteem, but rather the mind and the will. These two powers are free, and it is by them that we can become perfect. Montaigne has discarded his advantage over Epictetus, in that he was born a Christian, by willfully seeking in what way reason should dictate morality without the light of faith, seeing that man is destitute of all revelation. His primary act is to put all things in doubt, and he carries this general universal doubt so far that he ends by doubting that he doubts: "C'est dans ce doute qui doute de soi et dans cette ignorance qui s'ignore, et qu'il appelle sa maitresse forme, qu'est l'essence de son opinion, qu'il n'a pu exprimer par aucun terme positif." Pascal notes that the symbol of this universal doubt is a pair of scales weighing contradictions, perfectly balanced. Montaigne destroys all those things which pass as the most certain among men, not to put the opposite in its place, but to demonstrate that, appearances being equal, there is no way to come to a fixed opinion. Thus he mocks all assurances—justice, the most widely-accepted opinions, all the actions of man, and all points of history. It is true that with this weapon he succeeded in combating the heretics of his time, and that he crushed more vigorously still the horrible impiety of those who dared proclaim that there is no God. He shows them how impossible it is for finite creatures, stripped of all revelation and depending solely upon their natural light of reason, to know anything about the infinite. The soul cannot know itself, nor does it even know its body; it cannot assert that it survives the body; it can have no fixed principles; nor can it know what are time, space, extension, move• 297 ·

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ment, unity, health, sickness, life, death, good, evil, justice, sin. Nor can it know whether those things we call axioms, common notions which are held by all men, are in conformity with truth. We do not know what truth is, nor what existence is, nor what right principles are. All the sciences are uncertain: geometry, physics, medicine, morality, history, politics, jurisprudence, and the rest. Montaigne, who was so successful in humbling mankind, which he saw as overconfident of its reason separated from faith, should have followed the rules of morality and urged man to give himself up to God. But Montaigne concluded that one must give oneself up to a life of tranquillity, treading lightly with certain subjects for fear of arriving at their falsity, accepting appearances without closely scrutinizing them. Thus he follows the customs of his country, and gives himself up to ignorance, "incuriosite," and a life of repose. From his analysis of the thoughts of these two men, Pascal drew some very significant conclusions. Epictetus and Montaigne are the outstanding representatives of the two famous philosophical sects most in conformity with reason. One can only follow one of these routes: admit the existence of God and place therein one's sovereign good, as Epictetus and the stoics did, or admit that everything is uncertain and that "Ie vrai bien Test aussi." Nevertheless, though each has made some progress toward wisdom, each has also strayed from the right path. Moreover, added Pascal, Christians can find but little profit in the study of philosophy. Still Pascal ventures to mark out what is advantageous and what is lacking in each position. The fundamental error in both groups is failure to recognize that the state of man is entirely different from that at the time of his creation. Hence one attitude stresses man's former grandeur but ignores his present misery, thereby leading to pride; and the other, emphasizing his present state of misery and forgetting his former dignity, turns to despair. One teaches man his duties but neglects to tell him that he is incapable, in the present state of corruption, of accomplishing them, while the other, teaching him his powerlessness, fails to reveal to him the powers which derive from his former dignity. Epictetus combats sloth, which leads to pride; while Montaigne combats pride, which leads to indifference. What must be added is God's grace. Pascal does not oppose the two forces of man's nature represented in the stoic and skeptic views. Nor does he reject the positions of • 298 ·

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Descartes and Montaigne. He finds them useless and uncertain, weak and cowardly, but only because they have not pursued their quest far enough. Pascal insists that science, reason, man's dignity, human wisdom are not enough, especially since the Fall. All of these things have their place in being, but they become "real" only when touched by God's grace. The heart of Pascal's doctrine is incorporated in the Ecrits sur la grace of 1655, where he attempted to demonstrate the differences between St. Augustine, Calvin, and the Molinists on the subject of grace, and to show that the doctrine of grace adopted by the Lutherans and the semi-Pelagians is an error. The crux of the Calvinist doctrine, said Pascal, is that God, in creating man, chose some to be damned and others to be saved, by His absolute will and without foreseeing any merit on their part. He thus caused Adam to sin and not only permitted, but brought about, his Fall. He then sent Christ for the redemption of those He wished to save, and He continued to damn those whom He had resolved to damn in creating them. In Pascal's view, this is an opinion "epouvantable . . . injurieuse a Dieu et insupportable aux hommes." The Molinists have taken the opposite stand, and say that God has a conditional will, in general, to save all mankind. Christ was made incarnate to redeem all without exception and, His grace being given to all, it depends upon their will and not upon God's whether they use it well or ill. Molinism maintains that God, foreseeing from all eternity the good or the ill use which would be made of His graces by the expression of free will, wishes to save those who make good use of it and damn those who use it ill. This interpretation, said Pascal, has the opposite effect from that of the Calvinists: "elle flatte Ie sens commun que l'autre blesse." It makes man the master of his salvation, and it removes from God all absolute will. The disciples of St. Augustine established two states of man: that of Adam before the fall, when he was pure, holy, and perfect, and the state to which Adam was reduced by sin and revolt, through which he became detestable in the eyes of God. In the state of innocence, God could not justly damn any man, nor could He deny any a sufficient grace for salvation. In the state of corruption, however, God could damn everyone. In the state of innocence, God had a general will to save all men, provided they wished it by their free will aided by the sufficient grace which had been granted. In the state • 299 ·

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of corruption, God has separated the mass of people into two groups: the one which He wished to save by His absolute will and mercy, the other which He wished to damn. Christ was thus sent to save those whom God has chosen in the state of corruption. Some of those who are not predestined are nevertheless called for the good of the elect and thus participate in Christ's redemption. And so there are three classes of men: those who never attain faith; those who achieve it but, not persevering, die in mortal sin; and those who, having acquired it, persevere in charity until their death. Christ did not wish to save the first group; He was willing to redeem the second, but did not give men in this group the efficient grace to persevere; He desired absolutely the salvation of the third group. Finally, all men are obliged to believe, filled with fear and deprived of certainty, that they are of the small number of elect whom Christ wishes to save. The argument of the third and fourth essays turns on the interpretation to be given to the Council of Trent's assertion: "That God's commandments are not impossible for the just." Pascal argues that those who have God's grace can obey the commandments, but that there are those who, though just, have not God's grace and therefore lack the power to obey. The Lutherans, on the other hand, argued that the actions of the just, even "faites par la charite," are necessarily sins, that the just are so submerged in sin that they cannot carry out the precepts of God, even when favored with grace. Pascal naturally treats this doctrine as an "insupportable erreur." The Pelagians, on the contrary, believed that the just always have the "pouvoir prochain" to carry out the commandments. Pascal condemns this interpretation also, while subscribing to the opinion of St. Augustine, which he explained thus: Reconnaissez done suivant Saint Augustin que la priere est toujours l'efTet d'une grace efficace; que ceux qui ont cette grace, prient; que ceux qui ne Font pas, ne prient pas, et qu'ils n'ont pas Ie pouvoir prochain de prier; que tant que Dieu ne laisse point sans la grace de prier, on prie; que ceux qui ne prient pas sont laisses sans pouvoir; que e'est un mystere inconcevable pourquoi Dieu retient Tun et non pas l'autre de deux justes; . . . que e'est l'ouvrage de la grace. . . . Pascal's situation is thus very complicated. In some respects, he is Cartesian, although he surpasses Descartes. In other respects, he is a free-thinker after the fashion of Montaigne, though he also goes •300 ·

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beyond Montaigne. He feels that the stoic attitude offers many advantages but insists that the skeptics also have good points in their doctrine. Above all, he celebrates the skeptical approach in science, in philosophy, in theology. Truth is derived from the dialectical interplay of contradictory half-truths. Thus Epictetus is right, but only half-right; Montaigne is the opposite of Epictetus; he is also right, but only half-right. To attain the true, one would have to seize simultaneously the interplay of both half-rights. This must not be thought an eclectic philosophy which Pascal is striving to create, such as one would be justified in seeing in Gassendi's thought. Pascal does not use Epictetus as the foundation of Christian ethics, theology, or metaphysics, although in his view Christian theology can be better understood if one understands what is lacking in Epictetus. And the same holds true for the stoics, the epicureans, the modern as well as the ancient philosophers, Montaigne or Epictetus, Descartes, natural or moral science, or metaphysics. The procedure consists not in selecting, adapting, absorbing, nor in moving from facts to principles, or from one science to another. It consists in identifying being with existence, which can only be done for the limited human by a procedure which moves by discourse, and is dialectical only in the sense that the movement depends for its direction upon the concepts of contradiction, integration, order, integrity, form, realization, creation. For Pascal, entering upon his third conversion to Jansenism, these things seemed possible through St. Augustine, but only if man could carry into the act of faith all that is implied in the act of thought. The problem of grace thus became all-important, but always in relationship with that of being, of knowing, and, above all, of doing. Fundamentally, Pascal conceived of man as the focus of all these problems, but the one burning question was how, given man's nature, he can realize himself, that is, put himself into the right relationship with the essence of being, God. The crux of the situation thus becomes the nature of matter, the nature of man, and the nature of God. But the key resides in the median term: the nature of man. Only through some deep penetration of his being and his relationships with the two extremes can one comprehend his possibilities. Pascal judged that his best chance of succeeding lay in adopting the Jansenist faith. Under its impact, he produced the four essays on grace, and immediately thereafter the Lettres provinciates which started out as if they were going to be a continuation of the Essais. • 301 ·

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Instead of putting meaning into the discussion, however, his tactic consisted in showing that the Jesuits acted against Arnauld for personal, not theological, reasons. He further demonstrated that the Dominicans, who were in fact of a contrary view concerning grace, supported the Jesuits not for theological, but for political, ends. As a consequence, it was easy to prove that there was such a thing as sufficient grace which was totally insufficient, a "pouvoir prochain" which was not a power and not "prochain"; a dispute of words, not of things; a quarrel of monks, not of theology. Never in his most effective assaults against theology was Voltaire more successful in ridiculing the cynicism, the confusion, the bad faith of the disputants, and the impossible positions of theologians who were thought to be serious, than Pascal in the first four of the Lettres provinciates. St. Augustine is still the hero, but he is so little the hero that not much will be needed to incorporate his disciples in the general condemnation. This point has always been troublesome; it usually presents itself as an inquiry into the genuineness of Pascal's Jansenism. M. Blondel, in an article in the Etudes sur Pascal (1923) entitled "Le Jansenisme et l'anti-Jansenisme de Pascal," attempted to give a clear exposition of Pascal's position. Historically, Pascal learned to appreciate the political reticences, the expedient subterfuges, and the cautious "distinguo" of his Jansenists. On the occasion of signing the Formulary, he differed from Port-Royal: without going into the divergences of opinion which separated him from the others at the convocation, it suffices to note that his conclusion is eloquent of his contempt for procedures which he had not scrupled to condemn in the Jesuits and Dominicans, and which he now witnessed in "toutes ces personnes la que je regardais comme etant ceux a qui Dieu avait fait connaitre la verite et qui devaient en etre les defenseurs." Pascal's final remark concerning his co-religionists was not different from his position toward the Jesuits in his Lettres provinciates: D'ou je conclus: 10 que ceux qui signent purement Ie formulaire, sans restriction, signent Ia condamnation de Jansenius, de Saint Augustin et de la grace efficace. 20 Que qui excepte la doctrine de Jansenius, en termes formels, sauve de condamnation et Jansenius et la grace efficace. 30 Enfin, que ceux qui signent en ne parlant que de la foi, et en n'excluant pas formellement la doctrine de Jansenius, prennent une voie moyenne, qui est abominable devant Dieu, meprisable devant les hommes et entierement inutile a ceux qu'on veut perdre personnellement. • 302 ·

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As has been pointed out countless times, Pascal stated "Je ne suis pas de Port-Royal." More bitter is the remark attributed to him: "Les malheureux, ils m'ont fait toucher aux fondements de la religion." He insisted in his final confession: "Je n'ai d'attache sur la terre qu'a Ia seule liglise Catholique, apostolique, et romaine dans laquelle je veux vivre et mourir, et dans la communion avec Ie Pape, son Souverain cher." Finally, some weight should be accorded the declaration of Beurrier and even his divers retractations, not to mention his Memoires where he obviously attempts to be conciliatory, and not, as Baudin says, "prudent." Beurrier could well have given more importance to Pascal's act than was warranted by the facts; it remains clear nevertheless that Pascal himself treated it with great seriousness. Pascal, as Blondel says, went through three conversions, and always, even at the end, there was something in the dogmatism of the PortRoyalists which he could not tolerate. He felt, notwithstanding, an attraction to its procedures; it begins with a leap of consciousness, a spiritual experience which one proceeds to develop by discourse. In the realm of theology it does not differ greatly from the spiritual vision of Descartes in philosophy. This spiritual experience, this awareness of being, is followed by recourse to tradition and to the text of the Fathers, especially St. Augustine, as is clear in the Entretien. Then comes the intervention of reason and the making of a doctrinal synthesis. Pascal accepted these steps, but he understood their importance differently. The Jansenists insisted that one begins with interiorization and ends with exteriorization, whereas with Pascal the spiritual experience is necessarily always interior. They argued that tradition was always separate from reality, whereas Pascal could conceive of no tradition which was not reality itself. Finally, they made of reason an instrument of dialectic, that is, it is a doctrine, whereas for Pascal reason is dialectic, the essence of being. Moreover, while Pascal agrees with every thesis of Jansenism, he modifies it in a way which would be totally inacceptable to his allies. To their affirmation that fallen man is blind to his own end and to the essential truths, Pascal proposes the use of reason in order to arrive at faith. To their assertion that the will is a slave to desire, Pascal maintains that a way must be found to teach how to will. When they assert that man can do nothing for his own salvation, he proposes perseverance, a wilful effort toward God. Whereas they accept only the supernatural state of man before the Fall, he pro• 303 ·

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claims the continual Fall of every man. It is not that he wishes to undermine Jansenism; he is convinced that the Jansenists are not sufficiently imbued with the spirit of their founder. He is more Jansenist than they because he is more Augustinian than they. He therefore represents in his revitahzation of St. Augustine's spirit a more vital Christianity than the arid, dogmatic religion of the "Solitaires." In short, he did with Jansenism exactly what he did with Descartes, with Montaigne, with Epictetus, with stoicism, with libertinism. He adopted it and surpassed it. If Pascal is Cartesian and not Cartesian because he has gone beyond Descartes, libertine and not libertine because he has outstripped Montaigne and Montaigne's followers, Jansenist and not Jansenist because he has adopted a more genuine Augustinianism than Jansenius and the Port-Royalists, then it is clear that Pascal's science of nature and its meaning to his science of man has been developed far beyond Descartes's marvelous science, that Pascal's science of man and its meaning to his science of God has been advanced far beyond Montaigne's moral philosophy, and Pascal's science of God which was his ultimate goal at all times has evolved far beyond that of his Jansenist friends. Pascal formed his thought—sources of his philosophy so to speak —in Cartesianism, libertinism, and Jansenism. In each case he does not reject, but begins by absorbing; he actually continues by incorporating, though in time he realizes that there are in each source insufficiencies, if for no other reason than that each one has not pursued the consequences of an idea to their uttermost limits. The same thing is true of stoicism, epicureanism, and, shall we say, Christianity, although in this last case we have to make allowances for a Christianity which has not yet realized itself. Its ideal embraced many of the aspects of stoicism and epicureanism, and also gave a true reality to the spiritual value of its founder. For Pascal, there can be but little doubt that St. Augustine understood best the possibilities of that Christianity. It is not sufficient, however, to single out in each one of these predecessors or in each of these movements what meets with Pascal's approval and to what he refuses to subscribe. Pascal's inner meaning cannot be reached by marking in his work the points of contact with these other thinkers, nor by assembling the differences or the places • 304 ·

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which he actually criticized. It is necessary to look for the content of his thought in his own expression. This is not easily done, though, because of the multipolarity of that content. As has often been remarked, he has a tendency to draw the illustrations for his demonstrations from the simplest human experience. It should also be added that he expresses them in the simplest human expressions. The metaphoric values of his thought differ from Descartes's in that the latter used comparison to carry his inner meaning while Pascal practically always used a harmonized contradiction. The result is in both cases metaphoric, but Pascal lays more emphasis upon the sign and the symbol than does Descartes. These tendencies will have to be developed in time (see Sister M. J. Maggioni, The Pensees of Pascal—A Study in Baroque Style, Washington, D.C., 1950). For the present moment, we must occupy ourselves not with Pascal's structure, but with his content proper. Perhaps the best way to get at it is to state rather arbitrarily that it embraced a method, an epistemology, a critique of moral man, and an apology. The method is so radically different from that of Descartes that it is disconcerting. Pascal's manner of treating the natural sciences does not differ from that of modern scientists. It is founded not upon a priori reasoning but upon reasoning applied to concrete facts, to the experiments which he inaugurates and verifies. Always he proceeds in the same way. A fact attracts his attention, captivates his mind, holds him. He draws hypothetical conclusions and reasons upon them, but not to content himself with pure deduction. Pascal imagines other experiments, so that not only does he arrive at a result which is an exact, precise piece of knowledge, he follows what he calls the "raison des effets" in all directions. In each case, the experiment is the necessary means to the end, while the concrete fact is the essential. Pascal distinguishes three means of getting at the concrete fact, all of them legitimate: the senses, reason, and faith. In the De I'esprit geometrique he has given the procedure: Cette veritable methode, qui formerait les demonstrations dans la plus haute excellence, s'il etait possible d'y arriver, consisterait en deux choses principales: l'une, de n'employer aucun terme dont on n'eut auparavant explique nettement Ie sens; l'autre de n'avancer jamais aucune proposition qu'on ne demontrat pas des verites deja connues; c'est-a-dire, en un mot, a definir tous les termes et a prouver toutes les propositions. • 305 ·

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Pascal notes that one may have three objectives in the study of truth: to discover it when one seeks it; to prove it when one possesses it; to discern it from the false when one examines it. The crux of the search, however, is in the second term, because when we recognize the method of proving truth, we will know at the same time how to discern it from falsehood. Thus if the proof is in conformity with the rules which are followed, it will be known whether it is clearly and precisely demonstrated. That is to say, the validity of the demonstration is tested by analysis; it is similar to rules of literature, the test of quality being the conformity with the rules to which the author has subjected his work. The science which excels in this form of demonstration is geometry, which consists in demonstrating truths already discovered and clarifying them in such a way that the proof is incontestable. This art in geometry comprises a twofold capability: its ability to prove each particular proposition and to arrange all of them in the best order possible. If man were capable of pursuing these steps, science would be a splendid, almost miraculous, thing. Unfortunately, however, if one tries to clarify a point by pushing research farther and farther back, one arrives finally at "primitive words" which cannot be defined, and if one tries to elaborate the definitions from these "primitive words" to more and more concrete examples, one so complicates them that they can no longer be controlled. This, however, does not mean that we are forced to abandon any attempt at order; if we hold onto the geometric process, we will understand that we cannot prove indiscriminately all sorts of things; we have to restrict their number, and then we can perform within these limits the task which we propose. Hence the rule for order in thought is clear: "Cet ordre, Ie plus parfait entre les hommes, consiste non pas a tout definir ou a tout demontrer, ni aussi a ne rien definir ou a ne rien demontrer, mais a se tenir dans ce milieu de ne point definir les choses claires et entendues de tous les hommes, et de definir toutes les autres; et de ne point prouver toutes les choses connues des hommes, et de prouver toutes les autres." These are the principal procedures for demonstrating truth. There are, however, three rules for discerning truth. The first is that one should accept only those things the opposite of which appears false. The second is that every time a proposition is inconceivable one must suspend judgment rather than, because of its inconceivability, reject • 306 ·

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it; its opposite should be examined and, if it is manifestly false, the first proposition can be accepted as true, no matter how inconceivable it is. The third rule concerns the union of opposites: some truths are not true (and this is particularly the case in statements concerning moral opinions) until they are completed by their opposites. Pascal's is not only a method of discovering and demonstrating truths which is essentially geometrical, but also a procedure for persuading to the truth when it is known. Persuasion depends on the general principle that those truths which are within our reach enter into our consciousness either by our understanding or by our will, that is, as Pascal states, by the "esprit" or the "coeur." Because of the diversity of possibilities offered by the "cceur," one must always take into consideration the temper of the person to be persuaded; that is, one must know his "esprit" and his "coeur," the principles he grants, the things he likes, and then establish an accord between these principles and these likes, and the object of persuasion. In this way, it is possible to employ a method of convincing, but it is more difficult to discover the manner of persuading by pleasing ("agreer"). This latter manner is so difficult, so subtle, although more useful and admirable, that Pascal refuses to discuss it. He notes, however, that the reason for his difficulty lies not so much in his incapacity to apply rules to the situation, as in the immense variability of our principles: " . . . il n'y a presque point de verites dont nous demeurions toujours d'accord, et encore moins d'objets de plaisir dont nous ne changions a toute heure, je ne sais s'il y a moyen de donner des regies fermes pour accorder les discours a l'inconstance de nos caprices." As for the first manner, persuasion by rules, Pascal divides it into three essential parts: ( i ) define the terms which one is going to use by clear definitions; (2) propose evident principles or axioms in order to prove the matter at hand; (3) always substitute mentally in the demonstration the definitions in place of the things defined. By observing these three rules, one is sure of convincing, since with agreement in the definitions and in the principles, there must follow, in the substitutions of definitions for the things defined and the avoidance of abuses in the terms, agreement in the consequences (Brunschvicg, Minor, p. 190). The geometrical method so capably presented by Pascal, and so beautifully adjusted to our intellectual capacities, can be applied without difficulty to mathematics, but cannot be applied beyond a •307·

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certain point to either natural science or the problems of human experience, because of our inability to define continually the terms employed, and our deficiency in proving by previous propositions those under discussion. For instance, we can never properly and clearly designate a term like "time," "space," or "soul," or "good," by referring to other terms which are more clear or more distinct. Similarly, we do not have the capacity to move from known propositions to unknown propositions in natural or moral sciences, because we have no clear means of ordering our experiences. We are prevented here by the enormous mass of experiences, the limidess possibilities of never-ending phenomena, which intervene. So long as only a few terms and propositions, as in mathematics, are involved, the a priori method is satisfactory and its application makes for advance in knowledge. We know through use, says Pascal, much more than the ancients in mathematics. Intellectual, rational, mathematical progress is possible. When the terms and the propositions become overwhelmingly numerous, however, neither the abstract approach of mathematics nor the orderly arrangement of the propositions is possible. Such is the case in the natural and moral sciences. In the natural sciences, clearly, it is impossible to proceed by an a priori method. Pascal here points out that Descartes's notion that he can seize the first truths of metaphysics by intuition, and deduce a priori the principles of natural philosophy is an error. In the sciences of nature there is only one way to proceed: observe how the phenomenon occurs, experiment with it to force it to give up its secret. Observation and experimentation constitute the proper method, or rather, as Pascal presents the method in "Preface pour Ie traite du vide," it consists in reasoning, observation, and experiment: Les secrets de la nature sont caches; quoiqu'elle agisse toujours, on ne decouvre pas toujours ses eflfets: Ie temps les revele d'age en age, et quoique toujours egale en elle-meme, elle n'est pas toujours egalement connue. Les experiences, qui nous en donnent !'intelligence multiplient continuellement; et comme elles sont les seules principes de la physique, les consequences multiplient a proportion. It is useless to assume that nature obeys certain laws. One can only experiment to find out whether she does or not, and then only under the conditions which are observed. •308 ·

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There are, however, certain subjects in the field of the moral sciences—history, philology, arts, theology—which can be reduced neither by abstract reasoning nor by experiment. If one wants to know who was the first king of France, or where geographers place the first meridian, or the meaning of words in a fixed language, no amount of reasoning or experiment will produce the correct answers. Here the proper method is recourse to authority. Pascal notes that we cannot add to nor develop these truths, since we seek only the right answers. This is particularly true, he says, in the case of theology. Although in many respects this discussion of how we can know must necessarily concern what we would now call the psychological aspects of knowledge, it is neither a system nor a doctrine, but rather a manner of proceeding. Pascal is more interested in the mechanical operation of the faculties than in their capacities, and in the relationship between their apprehension of the truth and its expression. "Je ne prends point cela par systeme," he writes, "mais par la maniere dont Ie coeur de l'homme est fait." As for the manner of expression, he distinguishes between two kinds of exact expressions: what he calls "faire des figures justes," that is, to square thought with itself; and what he calls "conforme a la raison et a la verite," that is, to square thought with reality. For Pascal the operation of the human faculties in apprehending truth is not completed until the accurate expression of this apprehension is attained, which cannot be done in any systematic or doctrinal way. The best we can hope to accomplish is to keep the proper relationship between the thought, its expression, and its conformity with reality. Pascal proposes three ways of achieving this end: by the use of antitheses which is a way of squaring thought with itself; by thinking in a method "multipolaire" rather than "lineaire," that is by a manner of thinking which does not proceed by principles of demonstration or of orderly arrangement, but by digression; and finally by a constant searching, knowledge not being an end-goal, but a means of approaching some other end goal (a "voie," not a "terme"). Knowledge enters into one through the understanding or through the will. If it comes through the understanding, it becomes subject to the rules of orderly arrangement and demonstration; its outstanding characteristic is its logical possibilities. If its entrance is through the will, it is subject only to its inner integrity; its characteristics are its • 309 ·

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immediacy and spontaneity. There are, therefore, two types of knowing derived from these two operations: that of the heart and that of the reason. The heart knows instinctively through the immediate apprehension of principles. Reason knows through a logical proceeding by discourse, by reasoning, or by the attempt to demonstrate by order. Knowledge of the heart is identified ultimately with faith; that of reason with the experiences which are derived from the senses, as well as those which are derived from faith. Thus the senses, reason, and faith are all sources of knowledge. The senses are the organs of experience, they present the natural facts of which they are the legitimate judges. Reason presents natural and intelligible things, those which are the objects of science. Faith, which is above the senses and reason but not opposed to them, has as its object supernatural and revealed things. The final distinction between reason and the heart consists in the ability of the former to know things only indirectly by negation, whereas the latter can know these things immediately but can not give proofs of their apprehension. In the latter case, the heart produces a "sentiment de la verite." For Pascal, this is not only real but "true" knowledge, that is, the highest form. Pascal's scale would be arranged as follows: i. At the base is the knowledge acquired by experience, which is the area of everything which falls beneath the senses. These experiences are the principles of physics and even the basis of faith. 2. Above the senses or experience, and establishing itself upon the knowledge furnished by them and which it interprets, is thought, which extends all the way from reason to sentiment. There are three kinds of thought: by extension, which is the ability to draw conclusions from the principles; by negation, which is the ability to establish principles by showing that the opposite is absurd; and by the heart, which is the capacity for feeling the truth in itself and apprehending it in an immediate fashion without being able to furnish proofs of it to reason. 3. Uppermost is knowledge which is above experience and thought, superior to the senses and to reason, called by Pascal charity and which includes living faith in which the object is presented to our soul by inspiration and glory or the Vision, of which grace is only the figure. These sources of knowledge, working together or in sequence, produce a type of reasoning which moves from the clear to the obscure, the opposite of Cartesianism and its movement. Pascal's knowledge •310 ·

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tends to the incomprehensible, and in this respect it is also the opposite of Cartesianism which depends for its values upon the notion of clear and distinct ideas. Pascal's reasoning ruins that notion, and places instead ultimate confidence upon what was said to be Tertullian's definition of belief: "credo quia absurdum"—the proof of wisdom is folly, "stultitia." This notion of the incomprehensible is valid in two senses: we finite creatures are incapable of knowing infinite things, but we nevertheless act upon our assumed knowledge; further, certain ideas are incomprehensible to us in the sense that we are incapable of conceiving them. For instance, it is, says Pascal, incomprehensible to us—in the first sense, that we finite creatures cannot understand infinite things—that God is. But it is incomprehensible that God is not, in the second sense which Voltaire exemplified in his "Si Dieu n'existait pas, il faudrait l'inventer." Pascal lists these incomprehensible things: God, creation, soul, original sin. This interpretation is not against reason, but above it; it is not irrational, but transrational. In addition to the method of thinking, the art of persuading, and the ways of knowledge, Pascal's work comprises also a critique of reason (see J. Laporte: he Coeur et la raison selon Pascal, 1950). For Pascal, reason is perfectly capable of dealing with the facts of science, of logic, and of sentiment. The problem is not the area in which reason is effective, but rather the effectiveness of reason as the controlling force in life. Pascal's position is essentially that of Montaigne, which he has in fact summarized in the Entretien: C'est ainsi qu'il gourmande si fortement et si cruellement la raison denuee de la foi, que, lui faisant douter si elle est raisonnable, et si les animaux Ie sont ou non, ou plus ou moins, il la fait descendre de !'excellence qu'elle s'est attribuee et la met par grace en parallele avec les betes, sans lui permettre de sortir de cet ordre jusqu'a ce qu'elle soit instruite par son . . . Createur meme de son rang qu'elle ignore; la menacant si elle gronde, de la mettre au-dessous de toutes, ce qui est aussi facile que Ie contraire, et ne lui donnant pouvoir d'agir cependant que pour remarquer sa faiblesse avec une humilite sincere, au lieu de s'elever par une sotte insolence. This tactic in Montaigne was adopted by Pascal also. The attack is directed at reason from every point of view: it is opposed by the imagination, which creates belief, causes doubt, and denies reason: • 311 ·

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"La raison a beau crier, elle ne peut mettre Ie prix aux choses." Moreover, reason is countered by the passions; indeed, between reason and the passions there is constant war. If only there were one without the other; but there are both, and man cannot be without strife, being unable to have peace with one without having war with the other. The result is that men have divided into two sects: those who have wished to renounce passions and become gods, and those who have desired to suppress reason and become brutes. But no one succeeds in rejecting either reason or passions. Finally, reason is checkmated by the senses. It orders us more imperiously than a master does a slave. It must acknowledge though that there is an infinite number of things which surpass it, and if so many natural things go beyond it, how much more will the supernatural transcend it? For instance, it cannot prove either the existence of God or the immortality of the soul. Thus, while it would be unwise to exclude reason, it would be foolish to admit of nothing but reason—because there are several ways of organizing one's life. If reason is a source of action, sentiment is another. In fact, while reason acts slowly and with all sorts of hesitations, sentiment acts in an instant and is always ready to move. There is also instinct, which is the mark of another nature. And there is above all the heart. It has its reasons which reason does not know. It is the heart which feels God, which releases the power of instinct, and which gives the principles of morality. It leads to truth and has its order. Reason, which has its weaknesses, has also its strength. It is the one thing which gives man his dignity. In addition, there are many situations in which, far from opposing faith, reason seems to work along with it. In general, Pascal does not hold it in contempt; he rather inclines to the view that, well-conducted, it leads to faith and, when it has achieved this goal, it finds therein and in its light the wherewithal to establish the certainties man needs. Reason thus envisaged admits the need for revelation, the necessity of recognizing things which go beyond its power, and the wisdom of inserting these surpassing things into the experience of history. This appeal to the reason of history is a new technique devised by Pascal. He marshals all those who can offer some favorable testimony to the cause he is defending—Epictetus, Montaigne, Isaiah, David, and a whole long line of prophets. If anything, he reasons too much, lending to his histori• 312 ·

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cal witnesses the aid of his own keen intelligence. The result is a truth "toute pure et toute vraie," although, as Mme Russier remarks,13 it is a confused sentiment rather than a clear vision. Finally, the fourth intent of Pascal's Pensees is an apology for the Christian religion, for which the three other aims were designed to prepare. Pascal's conception of faith and its origin is complicated and dependent upon a rather esoteric vocabulary (reason, intellect, sentiment, instinct, will, heart, custom), and though in reality he practically always reverts to some sort of duality in which there are two hearts, and two faiths, it is clear that he conceives of the validity of conversion by persuasion, that is, an apology in which one proceeds by discourse and in which the appeal is made to the reason. This aspect of Pascal's approach, though rational in the broad sense, does not lead to salvation; it merely prepares for it, if perchance God wishes to give His faith to the heart. It may not be necessary, since God may give His faith to whomsoever He pleases. There is, however, in Pascal's way of looking at things, some merit in this preparation. In the first place, it can give rise to a deep desire—which if fulfilled by God becomes all the more meritorious—for salvation; it can also contribute to a reawakening of the moral consciousness, and encourage a desire to abandon the world of concupiscence; finally, it may restore to man some confidence in himself as a dignified being. He would still be a subject of misery and grandeur, still a creature of original sin, still deserving of the damnation which is his lot. He can have some satisfaction, however, in knowing that he is leading a more moral existence, that he is doing everything possible to pre13 I have attempted to summarize a small portion of the excellent work of Mme Russier. Here is her own summary given in the preface to her second volume: "Pascal, en definissant la foi par la formule: 'Dieu sensible au cceur, non a la raison' a-t-il voulu, comme l'ont pense certains lecteurs et commentateurs des Pensees, faire de la foi une affaire de sentiment, au sens courant et moderne du mot? Nous avons essaye, dans une precedente etude, de montrer qu'il n'en est absolument rien. Pour lui, la religion a des preuves rationnelles et certaines, et ce qui nous est reste de l'apologie qu'il preparait montre surabondamment qu'il aurait cherche a les presenter de la maniere la plus demonstrative et la plus rigoureuse. Si c'est, en definitive, Ie cceur, au sens biblique du mot, c'est-a-dire Ie fond de l'ame sur lequel agit la grace divine, qui sent Dieu et reconnait la valeur de ces preuves, c'est que la raison finie de l'homme n'est pas, laissee a elle-meme, a la taille de Pinfini divin, et surtout que cette raison, aveuglee par la volonte corrompue, a besoin d'etre remise par la grace en presence des lumieres capables de lui faire voir clair. Dans tout cela, remarquions-nous en achevant cette premiere etude, il ne faut rien chercher d'autre que la geniale mise en ceuvre d'un enseignement traditionnel."

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serve his dignity as a thinking person, and that if and when he is elected for God's grace, he may regard himself as more worthy, or at least as less unworthy, of that grace. There are thus four steps in the movement which leads the unbeliever to faith: psychological preparation aimed at proving the Christian religion reasonable and desirable, and at encouraging him to wish that it is true; rational proofs addressed to the intelligence and producing a human belief through discourse and by persuasion; a recourse to custom and habit which induces the unbeliever to practice the gestures (prayer, ritual, etc.) of the true Christian; veritable faith, which cannot be given except by the grace of God, when and if He wishes. Pascal cannot offer in his apology complete material for each of the four steps. The fourth step, for instance, the state of grace, has no place there. Once man has been led to recognize his miserable estate without God, and to acknowledge his state of bliss with God, once he has been induced to submit to custom and to practice automatically the gestures of the Church politic, the task of the apologist has been accomplished; the art of rational persuasion has been spent; the patient can only await the final decision with fear and trembling. It is in this respect that Pascal's work differs from the many others with similar intent which appeared between the Renaissance and the French Revolution. While others treated voluminously the state of grace and the beatitude of man with God, Pascal structured his work only to the point where God's grace was possible. The Pensees, for all of Pascal's planning, are an unfinished symphony, and it is a cruel paradox that the one work which in the opinion of many contains the blueprint of man's salvation should be lacking in organic unity. We are therefore faced always with the necessity of forever seeking in the structure of the Pensees their meaning. We do not propose to review the many attempts which have been made by Pascal scholars to put unity into a work so vital to the need of Pascal's time and indeed of all subsequent time. We shall merely try to seize it at the moment of its meaning. Pascal conceived of his apology as being in two parts: a first part devoted to knowledge of oneself and the consequent awareness of man's misery without God, and a second part which deals with the happiness of man with God and the consequent awareness that there • 314 ·

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is a compensation in Christ for corrupt nature. The two parts comprise a vision of the two Augustinian cities: the city of man and the city of God. Obviously, Pascal proposed in dealing with man's misery and the causes of that misery in his corrupted state a complete inquiry into the means of penetrating the reality of oneself by the knowledge of that self. While undoubtedly derived from Socrates, the basic approach does not difTer from the Cartesian principle of identifying reality by penetrating it with the "cogito." It is, as with Descartes, a philosophical problem in consciousness. On the contrary, the second part undertakes to offer solace to those persons "destituees de foi et de grace" who are seeking with all their lights everything in nature which may lead them to the knowledge of God but find only darkness and obscurities. Pascal rejects all efforts to reveal God in His works. For those who no longer believe or now are lacking in God's grace, proofs from final causes have little significance. Such people must be shown that God is the Hidden God, not a God revealed in nature. He can only be revealed through Jesus Christ. To reach God, therefore, they must approach Christ through the Christian religion. Consequently, they should be given the proofs of religion which will lead to the acceptance of Jesus Christ, who in turn will reveal the Hidden God—"Deus absconditus." We have three documents which give us some clue to Pascal's procedures: M. Perier's preface to the edition of Port-Royal, Filleau de la Chaise's Discours sur les Pensees de Pascal, and Pascal's own explanation of his procedures in his Pensees #416 and #430. M. Perier said that Pascal wrote practically nothing of the principal reasons which he intended to use, practically nothing also of the foundations upon which he expected to establish his work, and very little concerning the order he wanted to follow. M. Perier noted, though, that Pascal had been invited by Port-Royal to speak of his intention to construct an apology and that he had there given in considerable detail a clear outline. M. Perier concluded with the statement that this plan is scarcely visible now in the extracts published by PortRoyal (Brunschvicg, p. 309): "Parmi les fragments que Ton donne au public, on verra quelque chose de ce grand dessein: mais on y verra bien peu; et les choses memes que Ton y trouvera sont si imparfaites, si peu etendues, et si peu digerees, qu'elles ne peuvent donner qu'une idee tres grossiere, et la maniere dont il se proposait de les traiter." • 315 ·

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The Discours sur les PensSes de Pascal of Filleau de la Chaise, published at Paris in 1672, two or so years after the Pensees, was intended originally to serve as a preface to Pascal's work. It was rejected by those involved in the publication of the Pensoes, and M. Perier's version was substituted for it. The implication has always been that FiIleau's draft of the preface contained material unsatisfactory to the committee, particularly since Mme Perier, in a letter of 1 April, 1670, to M. Valiant, indicated that Filleau's version "ne contenait rien de toutes les choses que nous voulions dire, et qu'elle en contenait plusieurs que nous ne voulions pas dire." It is true that there is a difference between Perier's draft and Filleau's, especially in the matter of personal observations which in Filleau's preface are more abundant. In addition, Filleau is more verbose, and writes with greater literary solicitude; nevertheless, when his draft is compared with the Perier sketch, the essentials appear in both prefaces. Both indicate a desire to outline "quel etait Ie dessein de M. Pascal"; both suggest that the plan was much more ambitious than one might imagine in reading the Pensees themselves; both begin with Pascal's exposition in 1658 before the committee at Port-Royal. Filleau carefully stresses Pascal's intention of restoring the significance of the "cceur." A comparison of the oudine by M. Perier and the second outline by Filleau de la Chaise, notwithstanding the differences, brings out a surprising conformity of purpose. Indeed, the accord between the two is so consistent that it is with difficulty that we can escape the suspicion that the details to be stressed in the preface to the PortRoyal edition were agreed upon by the committee in charge of the publication before the two drafts of the prefaces were made, and that both Filleau de la Chaise and M. Perier made every effort to emphasize these details. This conclusion merely strengthens a suspicion that the Pensees could have served an intention which may have had little to do with Pascal's decision. A third document throws some light upon this last point. Both M. Perier and Filleau refer to Pascal's appearing before the group of friends at Port-Royal in 1658 and sketching for them his plan for the composition of the apology. It has always been thought that the notes which Pascal used on that occasion have been preserved in #416 and #430, chiefly because they have been marked APR which has been interpreted "A Port-Royal." Section 416 is a short observation on the tension between "grandeur" and "misere," this time arranged in • 316 ·

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paradoxical juxtaposition. The misery is derived from the grandeur as the grandeur is derived from the misery. Some have drawn their conclusions from the misery "d'autant plus qu'ils en ont pris pour preuve la grandeur," and others have done exactly the opposite. The arguments presented by some to prove the grandeur of man have been used by others to prove his misery, and exacdy the contrary has taken place also. There is thus continually created a vicious circle. What is certain is that in proportion as men are more enlightened, they discover more grandeur and more misery in man. In short, man knows that he is miserable, since he is, but he is also grand, since he knows that he is miserable. This theme could be taken as a summary of the whole first part of the Pensees. It is the result of knowledge of oneself without God. For the friends of Port-Royal, it does not have to be developed, since it represents in all its diversity their belief. The question which would interest them is, granted that man is— as they are perfectly willing to admit—both great and small, what arguments can be presented to him which will persuade him to return to God ? These arguments are developed in #430. The first concerns the nature of incomprehensibility—which, if properly understood is "comprehensible." In this argument, which concerns the method of presenting ideas as well as the logic of ideas, both the psychological problem of appeal and the mathematical problem of formalizing ideas will be discussed. This part of the presentation consists in assuring Pascal's audience that there are proofs of religion which can be as rigorous as mathematical proofs. The second argument derives from the abridged Pensee #416. The grandeur of man is visible as his misery; consequently, it is necessary that the true religion recognize and elucidate both the principle of grandeur and the principle of misery. Obviously, only in stressing this duality of man's nature, recognizing both principles simultaneously, and explaining the paradox of the Christian religion, can one prove that it is the true religion. The third argument is directed to the principle that every man seeks happiness. To satisfy this craving for happiness, the true religion must show man that there is a God and that man is obliged to love Him. It must show that "notre vraie felicite est d'etre en Lui, et notre unique mal d'etre separe de Lui." It must recognize that we are full of darkness, which prevents us from knowing and loving •317 ·

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Him, and that with our love of worldly things thus turning us away from God, we are full of injustice. The true religion must explain our opposition to God and to our own good, and teach us how to remedy these weaknesses. Pascal's fourth argument is that only the Christian religion can adequately answer these needs. To prove this point, however, he suggests undertaking to show that all other religions are ineffectual. Pascal mentions as an example the Muslim religion which promises earthly pleasures throughout eternity. The philosophers are also powerless to suggest remedies for our misery, insufficiencies, injustices, weaknesses, and opposition to God and to our own good. Philosophy can only offer to man confirmation for his misery, to propose as the only good those perfections within him, and which are, of course, insufficient, or he would not be miserable. Religions (Islam, for example) have likened us to beasts; philosophers have likened us to God. Both comparisons must be rejected. We must listen to the Wisdom of God. In a passage as fine as any written in literature, the Wisdom of God explains how man was created "saint, innocent, parfait," "rempli de lumiere et d'intelligence," full of God's glory and wonders: "L'oeil de I'homme voyait alors la majeste de Dieu." Man has been incapable of sustaining so much glory without falling into presumption. Believing himself equal to God, he sought his happiness in himself. Thus he was abandoned to himself, he became like unto the beasts and so far removed from his God that there scarcely remains in him "une lumiere confuse de son auteur." He is dominated by all other creatures or charmed by their gentleness, and he retains merely a feeble instinct for happiness. The "prosopopee" of the following day repeats in eloquent fashion the themes of the previous demonstration: it is vain to seek within oneself the remedy for one's miseries; it is not within oneself that one will find truth or goodness. The philosophers have falsely promised to furnish these virtues, but they do not know what is good for man, nor his true state. Man's real illness is in his pride and his concupiscence. The philosophers have only encouraged this pride which separates man from God. Others, having seen the falsity of this vanity, have thrown man into the opposite dilemma, stressing that he is only like unto the beasts. That is no way to cure man of his injustices : "Je puis seul vous faire entendre qui vous etes. . . ." • 318 ·

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The original state of Adam differed from his condition after the Fall. Christ has come to restore that original state; man's nature is now double and his state differs from that of his creation. Pascal thereupon returns to the concept of the incomprehensible. "Tout ce qui est incomprehensible" does not fail to exist. How can one doubt the union of God with us ? Man must confess that he is incapable of knowing either himself or the mercy of God. God only demands that man know and love Him. Man at least knows that he exists and he loves something. Therefore if he sees something in the darkness and if he finds something to love in the things around him, if God gives him some glimpse of His essence, will he be incapable of knowing and loving Him ? Pascal concludes that there is doubdess some unendurable presumption in all this arguing although it is founded on an apparent humility, which is neither sincere, nor reasonable. Contemporary critics are rather inclined to attribute to Pascal a position which is more supple than the one we have been accustomed to give him in the past. As a defender of the Christian religion in an age which for the preceding sixty years had been characterized by an increasing amount of free-thinking, Pascal had assumed some kind of monolithic position in the history of thought. What distinguished him was his orthodoxy as opposed to the unorthodoxy of the others. There have, however, been deviations from this strict point of view. The problem of Pascal's Jansenism, which has been discussed voluminously, has had a disturbing effect upon the concept of his orthodoxy. For if he is Jansenist and Jansenism is, as many assumed in his day and have since, a heresy, Pascal's orthodoxy becomes suspect; and if he is not Jansenist, it is difficult to see whence he derives his orthodoxy, for there is hardly any other orthodoxy, unless it be that of the Jesuits. Baudin's studies (La Philosophie de Pascal, Neuchatel, 1947), make of Pascal a Jansenist-plus, a follower of Port-Royal who saw the unorthodox deviations of his colleagues and tried to return them to the path of strict orthodoxy. But Baudin presents Pascal in another dilemma because of his relationships with the libertines and the Cartesians. Here the representative of strict Catholic orthodoxy becomes the exponent of the libertine view of man and the practitioner of the marvelous science of Descartes. It is with difficulty that one can strike a proper balance in Pascal's position between his Catholicism and his preoccupation with man in nature and, particularly, with the nature of man. Chevalier's last summary of • 319 ·

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Pascal and Descartes (Histoire de la pensee, 1961) as two philosophers who by two routes are tending to the same philosophical goal has only contributed another ambiguity. Now comes the disturbing recognition that Pascal's orthodoxy in the Pensees lack inner vitality and organic unity, with the consequent conclusion that the apology is stillborn but the Pensees are very vital indeed. The "autres sujets" of the original title of the Pensees throw some light on this vitality. It has been often pointed out that Part I of the work is more carefully composed than Part II. Many critics, in fact, explain that Pascal had time to work over Part I, but was denied sufficient time to compose Part II carefully. This conclusion is not justified by a study of the manuscript. As a matter of fact, vital passages can come from any section of the manuscript. The impression of devitalization may also come from any portion of the work; it is the subject matter of a passage rather than its position in the manuscript which produces the effect of weakness. When Pascal talks about the nature of man and his place in the universe, when he presents him in his search for himself, when he shows him in the City of Man, in spite of the deeply pessimistic note, and the tragic tone which he strikes, perhaps even because of these things, the thoughts take on an insistence, an urgency, which is all but overpowering. What is more, these thoughts eat deeply into the apology itself. It is striking, as A. Adam (pp. 276-301) has pointed out following Baudin's studies, that these presentations are either derived from or are analogous to the thoughts of the libertines. The passage on the "Disproportion de l'homme," for instance, besides taking its inspiration from Montaigne, goes back to Giordano Bruno, who attacked the Aristotelian rationalist concept of the orderly universe which consisted of reason at the summit, which is God, while suspended from Him is a universe participating in this reason and, finally, man, distinguished likewise by reason. Pascal is particularly in accord with the libertines and especially with Hobbes in the matter of justice, law, and custom. He rejects the common orthodox attitude that there is a rational natural law which is the source of our laws and justice. Adam has remarked (p. 282): "On sent chez Pascal la volonte de ramener toute la vie de l'esprit a un jeu de forces." Custom is a force, law is a force, justice is united with force. One does not obey a law because it is just, even though the people think it is just; one obeys it because it is a force. • 320 ·

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And Pascal wrote the marvelous #298: "Et ainsi, ne pouvant faire que ce qui est juste fut fort, on a fait que ce qui est fort fut juste." Baudin adds (II2, 16): Sous toutes ses formes, force originelle, forces de !'imagination, de la coutume, de l'opinion, la force cree et maintient, en meme temps que les institutions et les lois, les droits. Il n'y a point de droits naturels; il n'y a de droits reels que ceux que la force etablit et defend. Thus Pascal offered almost simultaneously a critique of rationalistic philosophy and a critique of reason as an instrument for penetrating to truth, and of its optimistic faith in justice. In this latter respect, he deviated from the humanistic tendency to see the primacy of moral law over political coercion, and the existence of a providential order of reason and justice which mankind must respect. This current, which will be resumed in the eighteenth century and which was continued from Erasmus in the Renaissance through Grotius in the seventeenth century, was ignored by the libertines. They were more inclined to subscribe to the more realistic politics of Machiavelli. Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, and even Cyrano de Bergerac all adhere to the belief that the prince should be the unquestioned ruler of his people without the interference of any form of representational government; Hobbes, of course, was its principal exponent, since it was the keystone of his doctrine of peace. This idea that the leviathan state is a guarantee of order and peace was accepted by Pascal also, who thereby rejected the principle of an antecedent natural law, seeing that it had been corrupted by the nature of man. Custom is the only basis of equity, merely because it is accepted by the masses. "Rien, suivant la seule raison, n'est juste en soi." The consequences of this doctrine are even more disastrous than Montaigne's paradoxical stand. Law is just because it is the law, and it must be obeyed merely for this reason. Property rights are not a natural right; they represent a usurpation which has been confirmed by custom. The social order does not represent a justice supported by force, but rather a force imposed upon the people as a system of justice. The power of the king is founded upon the ungovernable folly of the populace. The wise man, knowing well these incompatibilities with reason, will always retain "la pensee de derriere la tete." He knows that all social life, which rests only on force, is a comedy. The point to be noted here is that Pascal's views which accord with •321 ·

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those of the libertines and especially with those of Hobbes are motivated not only by skepticism (as was the case with the libertines) and by a desire for peace and order (as was the case with Hobbes), but by a conviction that man's reason is an unreliable instrument in formulating his world, that facile optimism as regards his natural birthright is totally unjustified, and that (as St. Augustine proclaimed) man's corrupt nature has corrupted everything. The importance of this position in the evolution of thought lies in the fact that on this stand Pascal and the libertines, and to a certain extent the Jansenists and the libertines, are united against Cartesianism because of a certain compatibility between the skepticism of the libertines and the pessimistic Augustinianism of Jansenism, whereas, according to Brunetiere, there are other times in which the forces of libertinism and Cartesianism are combined against Jansenism. Acceptance of this interpretation entails seeing in Pascal not only an opponent of Cartesian rationalism but an opponent also of that derivative of Cartesianism, rationalistic optimism. Pascal's view of man borders upon despair and is the very opposite of the "genereux" of Descartes. Further, Pascal entered upon his subject of demeaning man with such effect that the second part of his program, that of enhancing man's value, was all but forgotten. Adam explains his pessimistic portrayal as the result of foreseeing the triumph of this rationalistic optimism which was at the origin of the deism adopted by the subsequent period. It is certainly true that insofar as Voltaire represents the opposite point of view to Pascal's, it is on the grounds of rationalistic optimism based on confidence in the power of God. This attitude of Voltaire, however, wore thin in the fifties and was replaced by a view which, while not as permanently hopeless as Pascal's, was nevertheless full of misery. Spinoza and the Ethical Problem of Deus sive Natura In 1670, when Port-Royal brought out Pascal's Pensees, another work of great importance, the Tractatus theologico-politicus, appeared in Amsterdam. Baruch Spinoza, its author, was well-equipped to handle his material. He was the descendent of Portuguese Jews established in Amsterdam since 1593 and regarded as leaders in the community from 1628 on. He himself had attended the school for Jewish boys where all the subjects were taught in Hebrew. He was very proficient in other languages, having learned his Latin and Ger• 322 ·

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man from a private tutor. Spanish and Portuguese were the languages used at home and he knew some French and Italian. Where he acquired his interests in physics and mathematics is not known. From the beginning he was identified with a long line of distinguished Jewish liberals. His two eminent teachers were Saul Morteira, presiding rabbi at the Amsterdam synagogues, and Manasseh ben Israel, a young rabbi. Spinoza's inquiring mind, however, led him far beyond the teachings of these two. He was familiar with the critical commentaries on the Old Testament of Moses Maimonides (11351204), and the attacks of Germonides (1288-1344) upon the miracles and the prophecies. These two early biblical critics attempted to harmonize the teachings of the Scriptures with reason. They specifically denied the creation ex nihilo, attacked the doctrine of final causes, rejected the view that man is the center of creation, suggested the relativity of good and evil, and maintained a thoroughgoing determinism. In addition to these traditional Jewish scholars, there had been at Amsterdam forerunners of Spinoza. Uriel Acosta (15851640) had opposed the doctrine of immortality as well as certain rites on the ground that they were unsupported in the Bible. Acosta was twice excommunicated by the Jewish community; he recanted both times, and finally committed suicide. There was also Daniel de Prado, who opposed supernaturalism, was likewise forced to recant, and eventually was excommunicated. In general, Spinoza adopted the views of his unorthodox predecessors; he was alleged to have asserted that nothing in the Bible indicated that God has no body, or that angels really exist, or that the soul is immortal, or that the author of the Pentateuch knew more about physical or spiritual matters than anyone else. The upshot of this indiscretion was that Spinoza was urged to desist from expressing these opinions, and when he refused, he was excommunicated and banished from Amsterdam for a short time. On his return, he lived with Van den Ende, who ran a school in Amsterdam, became acquainted with a group of Cartesians, and associated with the "Collegiants," who were also interested in Descartes's new philosophy. He undertook as a profession the grinding of lenses, gave private lessons in Hebrew, and organized courses in philosophy for a number of theologians. His closest friend of the time was Simon de Vries, while his other friends included Oldenburg, the Secretary of the London Royal Academy. • 323 ·

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Spinoza's work14 was connected with liberal Judaism, Cartesianism, and the revolution taking place in science. It presented a type of rationalism which differed from the Greeks' and from that which grew out of the new science. In a peculiar way, it was compounded of scientific rationalism, religious determinism, and biblical free-thinking. Its fundamental problems were those of Descartes and the freethinkers. First and foremost was the problem of epistemology, undertaken in the Treatise on the Improvement of the Understanding. There Spinoza divides knowledge into three stages: opinion, which may be the cause of error; rational knowledge, consisting of "adequate" ideas of the particular properties of things; and intuitive knowledge, which is philosophic rather than scientific, synthesis rather than description and analysis. Spinoza's "knowledge" is what the ancients called wisdom; in some respects, it compares with Pascal's charity and is a true way of knowing. Knowledge by opinion, the lowest type, takes place when one assents to what one hears, perceives, or imagines; it is a pre-scientific stage of knowledge. By its use objects and events are apprehended as detached things, without any understanding of their relationships or laws. The second stage, on the other hand, rational knowledge, is scientific and distinguished by an insight into the connections of things, events, and their laws. Although things become more intelligible through this insight, it is an imperfect way of knowing, since it lacks organic unity and provides no synoptic vision of the cosmos as a whole. This vision is apprehended only by the intuitive mind, after much disciplined training in the rational stage. It is the highest form of knowing, not different from thought; but, as Spinoza called it, "thoughtfulness matured to inspiration." Spinoza's three ways of knowing—opinion, rational knowledge, and intuition—presuppose that reality is an interconnected system. Opinion is adequate only where perception and imagination are concerned with the images of things, not with their connections. Conception and understanding, however, which are functions of rational knowledge, bring out the relationships of things, their "rapports," 14

For this digest of Spinoza's thought, I have used particularly R. McKeon, The Philosophy of Spinoza, New York, 1928. See especially, chapter III: "Spinoza and Descartes." See also J. Dunner, Baruch Spinoza and Western Democracy, New York, 1955. The Ple'iade Spinoza has also been very helpful. The English translations of Spinoza are taken from R. H. M. Elwes, The Chief Wor\s of Benedict de Spinoza, New York, 1951, 2 vols. • 324 ·

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as the Enlightenment will say. Observations and experiments, though, do not lead to laws. Laws or general truths of science depend on their harmonious interconnection in a system of truths, where they find their place according to their logic. Consequently, for Spinoza, the criterion of truth is really more coherent truths. The ultimate test of truth is the coherence of all that is known, hence concepts and ideas are acts of thought by which interconnections and laws of things and events are apprehended. They are "adequate" in that they enable us to systematize a certain range of facts. This way of organizing a system of reality as a true representation and interconnection of things was not only a new epistemology, but a contribution to the solution of one of the most troublesome problems of the Enlightenment: how to pass from facts to ideas to theories to doctrines to actions. By insisting that concepts are ideas and that ideas are adequate, that is, true to the facts; by holding that thought must not only be a means of penetrating reality, but that the reality which it represents must be both organic and coherent, Spinoza offered the eighteenth century a means of being scientific, organic, and dynamic at the same time. Indeed, by conceiving of intuitive knowledge as something much richer and fuller than scientific knowledge, Spinoza injected into the concept of life not only the necessity of active commitment, but also the principle of identity in which knowledge is a means of entering into the living activity of the eternal cosmos. There are certain particular concepts which occupy a place of supreme importance in the total system of Spinoza: "substance," "attributes," "modes." They are devised and in fact redefined as means of entering into the character and structure of reality. For Spinoza reality signifies total reality: it is at the same time organic, dynamic, and infinite. It embraces transient objects and events of experience, but is not dependent upon them; it is thus independent, uncaused, self-sustaining, and self-existent. This total activity Spinoza called God or Nature. There is a constant harmony between the eternal activity of infinite reality and the transient activity of finite material things and finite ideas or thoughts. This is the link between knowing and being, between restricted and infinite reality. Infinite physical force is the substance extension, the sum-total of all the movements and changes which occur in space. There is also a corresponding infinite and eternal consciousness, a mind-energy which embraces all • 325 ·

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the finite experiences of perceiving, conceiving, and understanding, of feeling and striving ("conatus"). This mind-energy is "thought," also infinite. Since thought and extension unite in an intimate way in the life of man, Spinoza applied to the organic whole of infinite reality—God, or Nature—the concept "substance," and to the two qualities of infinite space extension and infinite thought energy the concept "attributes." Thus the whole cosmic system is the universal substance, while extension and thought are its two known attributes. Spinoza suggested that there might be others, but they are not known. Reality is activity, movement, change, thought. Consequently, the infinite attributes of thought and extension occur in our finite world as "modes" of movement, of experience, of thought. These modes are not external creations of the attributes, they are rather immanent results, they are modifications of the infinite attributes. Thus everything which is happens in God—Tout en Dieu—who is the infinite cosmic expression of all reality, physical as well as spiritual.15 Spinoza's epistemology is derived from three assumptions: the world of man is a completely intelligible world; it can be penetrated and understood by the human mind; this comprehension leads to an awareness of true reality and the identification of the human mind with the Divine Mind. This system is not only similar to Pascal's, it also has, at least in its initial stages, many analogies with Descartes. Spinoza's terminology—extension and thought, mind and body, the identification of ultimate reality with God, the notions of substance, attributes, and modes as contributory to the higher Infinite Reality —all occur in one way or another in Descartes. Though the language is similar, however, the meaning, as McKeon has pointed out (pp. 127-29), is different. Still, Spinoza took the foundation of his philosophy from Descartes: the laws of motion, the geometrical method, the conviction that truth could be arrived at by a process of mathematical reasoning. At an early moment, he composed the geometric demonstration of Descartes's Principes de la philosophic, along with the Meditations metaphysiques. In an earlier version prepared for one of his students, he had restricted himself to the second part of 15

For further treatment of this problem, in addition to McKeon's study, see V. Delbos, Le Spinozisme, Paris, 1916, especially pp. 208-14: "Le Cartesianisme et Ie Spinozisme," and P. Lachieze-Rey, Les Origines cartestennes du Dieu de Spinoza, Paris, 1932. This last work only serves to confirm Delbos's point of view. See, especially, pp. 252-65.

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the Principes. At the request of some friends, he consented to add the geometrical demonstrations of the first part also, that is "the chief points that are dealt with in metaphysics." Thereby, he undertook in some sort of formal way to give a critique of Descartes's metaphysics and physics. There has always been divergence of opinion as to Spinoza's relationship with Descartes.16 At the present time, it is customary to class the Amsterdam philosopher along with Malebranche as a Cartesian (see G. Boas, Dominant Themes, p. 117). Even at the end of the seventeenth century, Leibniz wrote to Nicaise (February, 1697): ". . . aussi peut-on dire que Spinoza n'a fait que cultiver certaines semences de la philosophic de M. Descartes." The German philosopher often insisted, in fact, upon a connection between Cartesian and essential Spinozan theses; he stressed that Descartes introduced a God who really has neither will nor understanding, since He possesses neither the good as the object of the will nor the true as the object of understanding, and that Spinoza presents the same picture of God. Moreover, Descartes's and Spinoza's exclusion of final causes makes of the deity a blind power. Finally, Leibniz maintained (Foucher de Careil, Leibnitz, Descartes et Spinoza, 1852, p. 207) that Descartes conceived of matter as passing through all possible forms, and thus, in making the divine nature subject to infinite modification, turned to naturalism, which is the origin of Spinoza's concept "Deus sive Natura." Leibniz concluded that the major concepts of Spinoza took their origins as consequences of Cartesian premises, and that Spinoza's atheism was the result of Cartesian thought (see infra, p. 462). Spinoza, however, had taken pains to dissociate himself from Descartes's philosophy. When he reduced the Principia to a geometrical pattern, he stated in the preface that many of Descartes's ideas which entered into that demonstration were not held by himself. In a letter to Jarig Jelles (XL) of March 25, 1667, he wrote: "Descartes's axiom [concerning the existence of God], I confess is in a certain sense obscure, as you say, and it might have been expressed more clearly and truly thus: 'That the power of thinking to think is not greater than the 16

Materialism considers that "to think" is to remount the series of Beings in the contrary order of their production; spiritualism attempts to see God in his works; antiquity went from what is last to what is first, from sensation to idea to concept.

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power of nature to exist and to act.' The argument of the aforesaid author which you mention shows clearly enough that he does not yet understand the matter." Spinoza was more explicit still in his letter to Oldenburg who had inquired what errors he perceived in the philosophies of Bacon and Descartes: "Their first and greatest defect is to stray far from the knowledge of the First Cause; their second is to fail to understand the true nature of the human mind; their third is never to have hit upon the real cause for error." A major difficulty in attempting to draw distinctions between Cartesianism and Spinozism arises from the failure to distinguish clearly between the intentions of the two philosophers. Spinoza noted one of these differences when he remarked that some philosophers began with creatures, others with mind, while he began with God. Delbos has remarked that Spinoza discovered in Descartes everything which aided his pantheistic outlook. Neither Descartes, however, nor his descendent Malebranche fell into naturalism. The better explanation, Delbos thought, is that the specific concept of pantheism in Spinozism existed before his contact with Descartes's philosophy. The concept of God's love, so strong with Spinoza, and involving all sorts of religious and moral problems in his philosophical system, does not occur in Descartes, says Delbos, and consequently does not involve Descartes in similar religious and moral preoccupations (p. 212: "Descartes veut avant tout decouvrir la verite; il ne songe point a faire par elle son salut"). Delbos concluded that Spinoza was never a real Cartesian, and that he was in all probability more shocked than attracted by Cartesianism. Consequently, the influence of Descartes resides more in certain tendencies of Cartesianism than in specific Cartesian concepts. Delbos wrote (p. 213): Ce que du cartesianisme Spinoza a saisi avec energie, c'est la conception d'une verite objective pure, developpable par l'entendement, radicalement exclusive de tous les elements de subjectivite qu'introduisent les sens et !'imagination; c'est Ie droit qu'a l'idee claire et distincte, en tant qu'elle est la prise de possession de cette verite, de s'imposer a tout Ie reste, de reduire les pretensions du sentiment et de la volonte a valoir par soi, de refouler toutes les representations qui ne font pas assister !'intelligence a l'enchainement des choses. Spinoza did take this general directive of Cartesianism, but in doing so he wilfully neglected Descartes's use of doubt, the "Cogito," the • 328 ·

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existence of free will, the transcendence of God, His freedom and His creative power. Spinoza's attitude toward Descartes is consequently very subtle. Even the physics, which he at first was readily inclined to accept, was ultimately rejected, because of his differing opinion concerning extension and motion. The two were likewise miles apart concerning the nature of God and the nature of the human mind. But the greatest difference was in the concept of the freedom of the will steadily maintained by Descartes. For Spinoza, on the contrary, the will can no more cause volitions than humanity can cause men. Particular volitions, therefore, are necessarily such as their causes determine them to be. There are other places where the Amsterdam philosopher diverges from his predecessor: Spinoza finds incomprehensible the union of body and mind as Descartes explains it. There is no contact between will and motion; it is therefore silly to attempt their union in the pineal gland. Even Descartes's explanations of the power of the mind over human emotions are faulty. For Spinoza, the emotions are explicable parts not only of us, but of all nature; for Descartes they represent rather the difficult border phenomena which lie between matter and spirit. It should be added that though Spinoza was initiated into philosophy by his interest in Descartes, and although he retained Cartesian principles as basic to his own philosophy, the system of thought which he developed is something else. The core of his doctrine lies in the Ethics, where the central problem concerns the relationship between reality-activity and human activity. Fundamental with Spinoza is the idea that everything tends to self-preservation. In inanimate things this tendency manifests itself in inertia; in living things, it is expressed in the urge to live. Seen physiologically, this drive ("conatus") is called appetite; seen psychologically, it is called desire. Good and evil are intimately connected with desire: man considers a thing good insofar as he desires it, and bad insofar as he has an aversion to it. Hence pleasure is felt to heighten vital activity, pain lowers it. All human feelings are thus derived from desire, pleasure, and pain. They are very numerous and likewise very varied, because of the innumerable external objects which give rise to them. Spinoza gives a detailed analysis of each, dividing them into active and passive feelings. Man is active insofar as his feelings are forms of self-realization, of heightened activity, of strength of mind, and of augmented • 329 ·

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knowledge. The passive feelings (i.e., the passions) are responsible for the evils of life; they are usually caused by external things and consequently hold us in bondage. Good and evil are intimately connected with our capacity to know. In the first stage of knowledge, that of opinion, man is under the influence of things outside himself and consequently in the bondage of his passions. In the second stage, that of reason, he achieves the ability to affirm his intelligence and thus frees himself from the domination of the senses and external objects. It is also through reason that man gains insight into the nature of the passions. This active use of intelligence leads to understanding, and with understanding comes resignation and peace of mind. Man learns to submit to the universal order, where he finds his place. In the third stage of knowledge, intuitive knowledge, man sees all things in God and God in all things. Now become a part of the infinite, the eternal, he can identify his thoughts with those of the cosmos, and his interests with those of God. Spinoza, unlike Descartes, did not stress the seclusion of the contemplative life, since he felt that asceticism is unnecessary to the good life. Indeed, he emphasized that to be wise one should learn to use the world and delight in it as best one may. In addition, he insisted that the highest moral good is social rather than individual. The good enjoyed by reasonable men is a good open to all. Men's needs are best satisfied, he said, by mutual assistance. In a pragmatic way, this means that good and evil in this world of man are relative things; in the world embraced by God, things are different: there the cosmic system is "beyond good and evil." Here and now, where man is finite, much can be done to heighten the good and to avoid the evil; much can be done to share the good, and to shun the evil. The conclusion of the rationalist Spinoza is that the good life is the reasonable life. Spinoza's initial point of departure in forming his doctrine is the conviction that there is nothing which surpasses the grasp of human intelligence. In this, he opposed both Descartes and Pascal. He undertook, in fact, to present another way which ought to lead the human intelligence to conceive and to explain clearly the things which seem to us obscure. Spinoza attempted to sketch the steps necessary to enter upon this new way: "The first step is the knowledge of the union of mind with total nature. Then, we must take up the problems • 330 ·

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of moral philosophy." The fundamental step, however, is knowledge, not of abstractions, nor of generalizations, but of simple things, singular things, things distinct from each other, "etres individuels, et evenements particuliers." We should seek in them a Being, the cause of all these distinct things, in such a way that we may follow not the changing order of causes, but the eternal fixed order. As a consequence, the intellect must perceive things under a certain aspect of eternity. In spite of great difficulties, we arrive at Spinoza's first definition, or rather at his first six definitions: God = a Being at the same time singular, necessary, and infinite, whose essence implies existence, so that He is cause of Himself, substance, eternal. It is from this fundamental intuition that are derived the propositions of the Ethics. Spinoza conceives this Being as the unique term in which is resumed and from which emanates all the necessity constituting the universe. The existence with which this God or Nature, this unique Infinity, this All, is endowed, is not physical, as we conceive it in particular beings, but necessary, as a mathematical existence would be. God is as sure for Spinoza as a problem in geometry. Although he insists, however, upon the necessity of establishing a mathematical certainty in all his fundamental statements (and hence his geometrical order), he presupposes parallel to it a place for moral certainty, just as he reserved alongside reason a place for religion and faith. Notwithstanding, the mathematical order, i.e., the synthetic, dominating the entire systematic presentation of his philosophy controls not only his theory of being, and his doctrine of causality, but also his theory of knowledge. In this respect, what distinguishes the philosophy of Spinoza from all others is that true knowledge is not a "conversion," but a "procession." Indeed, knowledge of things proceeds with their production, and the two make one single processus: creation and awareness are the simultaneous ingredients of reality. Hence, for Spinoza, one cannot know the truth unless one is placed in it, without departing from it. In that way, one knows it perfectly, because the soul when it perceives the true idea, and insofar as it perceives it, is a portion of God's intellect—so that the soul's clear and distinct ideas are as true as God's ideas. Certainty is more than the absence of doubt; it is possession of the truth, and thereby coincides with God's essence. This doctrine destroys, of course, both Bacon's and Descartes's notion that error's source lies in the fact that • 331 ·

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the will is free. We believe our wills are free, according to Spinoza, because we are conscious of our acts and ignorant of the causes which determine them. Error is only the privation of knowledge which inadequate ideas imply. Spinoza's doctrine is, as Chevalier says, entirely dominated by regard for the infinite and the eternal, mingled with the necessary. It is a doctrine of the totality of things and their possibles assembled in God. This high form of spiritual idealism was united in Spinoza with a pragmatic defense of personal liberty. When one turns from the Ethics to the Tractatus theologico-politicus (1670), one could easily be persuaded that one is in a different world. The latter work was devised as an attack against bigotry and superstition, perhaps among Spinoza's own people, but certainly among the people of Amsterdam, although Spinoza disclaimed such a purpose. Convinced that the Bible had become the source of superstitions, he undertook to give it a thorough rational examination. Oldenburg, hearing of his venture as early as 1665, assumed that Spinoza was abandoning philosophy for theology. To his inquiry as to the reason for composing the work, Spinoza replied: "I am motivated by the prejudices of the theologians. These prejudices are among the chief obstacles preventing men from directing their minds to philosophy, and I must therefore dedicate myself to the task of exposing them." Spinoza stated that he was further motivated by "the opinion held by the common people who do not cease to accuse me of atheism, and I consider myself compelled to defend myself against this opinion." A third consideration was perhaps his most compelling: "I am motivated by the freedom of philosophizing and saying what we think. This freedom I want to vindicate in every possible way, since due to the excessive authority and impudence of the preachers it is suppressed here." There is certainly confirmation for this attitude in the subtide of the work: "Containing certain discussions wherein is set forth that freedom of thought and speech not only may, without prejudice to piety and the public peace, be granted; but also may not, without danger to piety and the public peace, be withheld." It was a full declaration of the rights of free-thinking, consciously and wilfully directed against the forces opposed, as the author thought, to freedom o£ thought. Spinoza was evidently serious about his desire to preserve freethinking in a democracy, since he repeated in his preface the same • 332 ·

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remark which he had used as the subtitle of his treatise. The source of the trouble, he reiterated, lay in the inclination of the public to superstition, which derives from credulity, a tendency to accept opinions without examination. They interpret every event as a manifestation of the wrath of God; anything uncustomary they call a miracle; they declare reason blind and human wisdom without foundation. This superstition caused by fear produces instability, gives rise to all sorts of passions, and is responsible for all kinds of disorders and civil wars. Rulers take advantage of it in order to keep the masses in subjection, as witness Quintus Curtius who, long ago, wrote that "superstition is the surest means one may employ to govern the masses." Kings, who have been particularly adept in its use, have surrounded religion with false ceremonies in order to foster fear. Spinoza protests particularly the introduction of these procedures in a republic "because general freedom obviously can not permit that personal judgment be besieged by prejudices, or subjected to any kind of constraint." Civil disturbances can all be traced to the establishment of laws concerned with speculative religious questions. In reality, beliefs are declared criminal solely to crush one's adversaries, not to protect the state. The state should therefore declare that opinions and statements are never punishable by law; only overt acts can be pursued criminally. Spinoza notes with satisfaction that this repressive condition does not obtain in Holland, where each freely exercises his judgment and honors God as he wishes, and where freedom is cherished as the most precious of gifts—but his letters to Oldenburg belie this opinion. Spinoza not only denounces the errors of statecraft; he declares that things have come to such a pass that Christians are indistinguishable from Turks. The populace confuses ecclesiastical dignities with true religion, bestowing untold honors upon the clergy. Those who have entered the Church have been attracted by personal ambition and sordid motives. Churches have degenerated into theatres where spectacle has replaced piety, where eloquence is substituted for religious instruction. Practically nothing has remained of primitive religion save an external cult, while faith has been transformed into credulity and prejudices. Spinoza reproaches Christians for having accommodated their religion to Aristotelianism and Platonism. The direction of Spinoza's thought is clear. What he endeavors to effect is a natural religion. He states plainly that the word of God • 333 ·

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does not consist in a number of books, but in a simple concept, formed by the spirit of God: As I pondered over the facts that the light of reason is not only despised, but by many even execrated as a source of impiety, that human commentaries are accepted as divine records, and that credulity is extolled as faith; as I marked the fierce controversies of philosophers raging in Church and State, the source of bitter hatred and dissension, the ready instruments of sedition and other innumerable ills, I determined to examine the Bible afresh in a careful, impartial and unfettered spirit. His resolution to undertake an inquiry into the authenticity of the Bible is rarely accorded the importance it deserves in the origin of the Enlightenment. To inquire coldly, as he did, on what grounds the Jews can be considered God's elect was very daring. Without hesitation, he placed reason before revelation, and "lumiere naturelle" before "religion universelle." He asked if prophecies have any validity beyond the Hebrew race; if miracles have any validity at all; if the books of the Old Testament were written by their supposed authors, or collected at a later date by some copyist, such as Ezra; what one thinks of the errors in dates, in historical events, in simple computations; how one may explain the contradictions in morality; and finally whether the Epistles of the New Testament have prophetic meaning. Having sketched the scope of his investigation, Spinoza drew most troublesome conclusions: one must not adore the books of Scripture rather than the Word of God; "la connaissance revelee" is entirely distinct from "la connaissance naturelle"; every man must preserve his freedom of judgment, and interpret faith as he understands it; he must be judged by his works, must obey God with a sincere heart, and must strive for justice and charity; finally, individual freedom founded upon natural law must be accorded every man by the community itself: "In order to establish my point, I start from the natural rights of the individual, which are coextensive with his desires and power, and from the fact that no one is bound to live as another pleases, but is the guardian of his own liberty." It is too easy to see in Spinoza's undertaking, especially after three centuries of deism, merely the machinations of a free-thinker. There is, nonetheless, evident in his presentation a genuine desire to seek out the validity of the Old Testament. The author attempts to distinguish between the cult of his people and the broader claims of religion. His motives, based upon his conviction that his people's • 334 ·

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adopted country now shows a tendency toward superstition, fear, and a political move toward monarchy, seem genuine. There were, however, intentions of a profounder sort in Spinoza's mind. He undoubtedly held a different view of piety from that of his contemporaries, while his respect for the powers of reason went beyond all bounds. He was profoundly shocked, too, when the ignorant accused him of atheism. It was this accusation, in fact, which led him to separate philosophy from theology. This philosophy, like Cartesianism, is oriented to wisdom. Real happiness consists for everybody in the enjoyment of the good and the knowledge of the true. This truth is synonymous with God. Spinoza attempts at this point a definition of God's providence: "By God's government I understand the fixed and immutable order of nature, otherwise called the chain of natural things." The universal laws of nature are nothing but the eternal decrees of God. The power of all things in nature is nothing else than the power of God: "So whatever human nature can furnish itself with by its own effort to preserve its existence, may be fitly called the inward aid of God, whereas whatever else accrues to man's profit from outward causes may be called the external aid of God." Man has three desires: to know things through their first causes; to overcome his passions, that is, to achieve a state of virtue; and finally to live securely and in health. The means whereby one gains these ends are common to all. Especially has man learned by experience that security is achieved through the formation of a society supported by laws. Supreme among the laws is the divine law, which tells us that the love of God is our supreme felicity, and our sovereign good. This divine law, which is universal, requires no ritual or ceremonies, no faith in historical events. Finally, the greatest recompense of the divine law consists in knowing the law, i.e., loving God. Seen "sub specie aeternitatis," things are thus. Seen from the human angle, however, the word "law" applies whenever individuals either together or separately conform to a determined rule of action; thus a "law" depends either upon a necessity of nature or upon a human decision. In general, one may define it as a rule of life which man imposes upon himself and upon others with a definite purpose in view. Since the vulgar mob is not capable of perceiving this purpose, legislators promise to those who obey all sorts of rewards and to those who disobey all kinds of dire punishments. This situation leads to the estab• 335 ·

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lishment of human laws serving to assure the security of the state. A divine law, on the other hand, is a rule envisaging only the sovereign good, i.e., the real knowledge and love of God. Therefore he who bends his efforts to the love of God not by fear but by the simple reason that he knows God follows the divine law. Spinoza thereupon poses four questions: Can we, by the light of reason, conceive of God as a legislator or a prince prescribing laws to men? What do the Scriptures teach about this natural law? With what object in view were religious ceremonies formerly instituted ? Finally, what advantage is there in knowing sacred history and giving it credence ? To these questions, Spinoza replies that God cannot be characterized as a legislator, nor does He qualify as just, merciful, etc., save in the language of the common people and through lack of knowledge: "In reality, God acts and directs all things simply by the necessity of His nature and perfection, and His decrees and volitions are eternal truths and always involve necessity." Natural law, common to all men, is derived from human nature and innate in the soul. Ceremonies, on the contrary, are instituted for a special people: those for the Hebrews are solely for the Jews and devised for the temporal felicity of that race. Society is not only useful because it protects against enemies; it provides for division of labors, mutual aid, and a host of other necessities. In society, every man looks out for his interest, not according to right reason, but driven by the appetites of pleasure and passions. Hence no society can subsist without a constituted authority, a force, and a set of laws which place constraints upon these appetites: "From these considerations it follows, firstly that authority should either be vested in the hands of the whole State in common, so that everyone should be bound to serve, and yet not be in subjection to his equals." In addition, laws should be arranged in such a way that men are constrained less by fear than by the hope of some gain. As for the teachings of Scriptures, they concern essentially the existence of a god, i.e., a Being who creates, directs, and preserves all things with a supreme wisdom, who rewards and punishes His people according to their merits. These teachings are founded upon experiences, which, however, cannot give any clear knowledge of them nor indicate what God is or how He directs and preserves His people. • 336 ·

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Consequendy, those historical stories cannot have anything to do with the divine law. In Spinoza's view, then, the Scriptures are a Jewish document only, instituted by Moses to teach obedience to the Jews. Seen in their proper perspective, they do not confirm for any except the Jews the validity of the natural law. The teachings of the prophets are particularly inappropriate, because they are valid only for the people to whom they were delivered: "Thus to suppose that knowledge of natural and spiritual phenomena can be gained from the prophetic books is an utter mistake." It is paradoxical that at a moment when Pascal was placing the greatest emphasis upon the prophecies, Spinoza was refusing them any importance except for the Jews. Miracles are just as inappropriate, he thought. Moreover, one cannot know either the essence, the existence, or the providence of God through miracles, while one can know these things much better through the immutable laws of nature. Spinoza undertakes to show that the Scriptures themselves understand that miracles are of the order of nature and promises to treat of the way to interpret them. Since miracles do not prove God, Spinoza in a note discusses in what way He may be known: Now, to conceive the nature of God clearly and distinctly, it is necessary to pay attention to a certain number of very simple notions, called general notions, and by their help to associate the conceptions which we form of the attributes of the Divine nature. It then, for the first time, becomes clear to us, that God exists necessarily, that He is omnipresent, and that all our conceptions involve in themselves the nature of God and are conceived through it. Lastly we see that all our adequate ideas are true. Further, Spinoza insists that when things happen by the command of God, they happen only according to the order of nature. Hence any deviation from the order of nature would actually run counter to the command of the Deity, since Spinoza unfailingly identified God with nature. Much of the Tractatus theologico-politicus (chapters VII-XIII) is taken up with the analysis of specific points in the Bible. It is this part which, continuing the biblical criticism of the Renaissance, set the model for the innumerable clandestine essays which circulated throughout the period from 1670 to 1770. This section of the Tractatus is derived from the works of Valla or the criticism of Erasmus •337 ·

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or, at a later time, the Heptaplomeres of Bodin, not to mention the Quatrains du deiste or the Trois imposteurs. Whereas these works tend to analyze only a part of the Bible or to use it in a negative way, Spinoza's investigation was much more thorough and was designed to lead to one particular idea. He acknowledges that it is commonly said that the Scriptures are the word of God and that they teach man the way to salvation. But the conduct of men, who rarely live by the teachings of the Bible and who substitute their own inventions for the word of God, belies this belief. Theologians, particularly, twist the meanings and substitute human rather than divine interpretations. They thus spread not charity among their followers, but strife and discord under the guise of zeal: "for it is an observed fact that men employ their reason to defend conclusions arrived at by reason, but conclusions arrived at by the passions are defended by the passions." Condemning this approach, Spinoza proposes a method for the analysis of the Scriptures, which does not differ, he states significantly, in any respect from that used in the interpretation of nature. Just as in natural science, we consider the phenomenon as an observer, and, after having collected certain data, derive therefrom the definition of the objects of nature, "so, in order to interpret Scripture, we must proceed by an exact historical acquaintance, and inferring the intention of its authors as a legitimate conclusion from its fundamental principles." Not only is this the sure means of proceeding, it is the only way. Spinoza recalls that the Scriptures often speak of things which cannot be deduced from known principles by right reason. A conglomeration of stories, revelations, miracles, moral precepts, these things must be interpreted by the Scriptures themselves. Only by this means can one prove their divinity: "Wherefore the Divine origin of Scripture must consist solely in its teaching true virtue. . . . If we would bear unprejudiced witness to the Divine origin of Scripture, we must prove solely on its own authority that it teaches true moral doctrines." This rule is novel and of extreme importance: the criterion of truth in history and in human phenomena is the same as that in natural science. Spinoza details at length the elements which condition historical verity. The historian must understand the nature and the properties of the language in which the Scriptures were written. He must also group the statements made in each book and reduce • 338 ·

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them to a certain number of leading ideas, mark out the contradictions, discuss those which are ambiguous or obscure. All meaning should be deduced as objectively and as liberally as possible from the text itself. Finally, all inquiry must take into account the life, the manners, the customs of the author of each book, his aim in composing the work, and the conditions—the time of its writing, the history of its acceptance, the modifications of its text, and its incorporation—surrounding its composition. Spinoza concludes that all this effort should be directed to the search for universals. Fortified with his method, Spinoza set out to examine the Scriptures. Aben Ezra, he noted, had already demonstrated that Moses did not write the Pentateuch. Besides, the book attributed to Moses was said to be contained in twelve tables and was therefore infinitely smaller than the Pentateuch. In Deuteronomy, the author related: "And Moses wrote the law." In referring to Abraham, he stated "and the Canaanite was then in the land," proof that the statement was made after Moses when the Canaanite had been evicted. Similarly the reference to Og could have been made only a long time after Moses. To Aben Ezra's observations, Spinoza added his own: the author of the Pentateuch speaks constantly of Moses in the third person; he relates his death and burial; the town of Dan, which was in existence only long after Moses, is named; the events related often occurred after his death. Similarly, the other books of the Old Testament were not written by their presumed authors. Spinoza believed them the product of a single author, judging by the sequences, and he suggested Ezra. Or rather it was Ezra who collected the stories taken from various authors, who copied them, and thus transmitted them without having examined them or put them in order. This fact accounts for the discrepancies, the historical contradictions, the differences in point of time between events, etc. Add the errors, the passages truncated, the marginal notes, the inconsistencies in the psalms, the prophets, Job, Daniel. The word of God, as written in the Old Testament, Spinoza stated, is falsified, mutilated, deformed; we have only fragments. On the contrary, the word of God as recorded in the heart of man is true and entire. In this sense the Scriptures can themselves also be viewed as the word of God, but under these conditions, they no longer favor superstitions, ambiguities, and contradictions; they are reduced to one universal divine law: "Love God above everything and one's neighbor as oneself." The teachings • 339 ·

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of the Scriptures therefore transcend the private Jewish religion. It clearly affirms that God exists; that His providence is universal; that He is all-powerful; that by his decree the pious man is happy, the wicked unhappy; that our salvation depends upon His grace. Granted that there are included in the Scriptures points of doctrine. Spinoza indicated, however, that they are few and extremely simple. In fact, he declared, all that is demanded of everyone is knowledge of divine justice and divine charity; what is expected is not wisdom, but obedience. To be sure, the prophets have conceived of God each according to his imagination and his prejudices; they have pictured Him with passions, even with a body. These things, however, do not require credence. Pure faith requires only knowledge of God's justice, God's charity, and obedience. This point made by Spinoza is extremely important since it distinguishes between dogma and works: If the works of a person are good, it is unimportant whether he deviates in dogma from the majority of believers, he is nonetheless a believer. A man is filled with the Spirit of God when he practices charity. This is the fundamental article whence are deduced all the other simple beliefs which Spinoza detailed: "That God or a Supreme Being exists sovereignly just and merciful; that He is one . . . the supreme object of devotion and love; that He is omnipresent, or that all things are open to Him; that He has supreme right and dominion over all things; that the worship of God consists only in justice and charity, or love towards one's neighbor; that all those, and those only, who obey God by their manner of life are saved; and lastly, that God forgives the sins of those who repent." Though this to a large extent represents the deistic position, it should be stressed that Spinoza concluded that he who would follow these beliefs can be said to know truly the Spirit of Christ and Christ's Spirit is within him. The final deduction which Spinoza made from this demonstration is startling: between theology and philosophy, there is no common measure. In fact, the aim and the principle of the two disciplines are radically incompatible. Faith requires obedience, while philosophy has only truth as its goal. Philosophy must be established exclusively on nature; faith, upon history, philology, the Scriptures, revelation. Faith consequently leaves to everyone entire liberty to philosophize, and they are considered believers who preach justice and charity. Moreover, if there is one natural religion derived from right reason • 340 ·

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which transcends all formal religions, we may assume that particular theologies are adaptable only to those peoples for whom they are created, not to mankind. It is therefore idle to expect that theology is in the service of philosophy, any more than that philosophy is in the service of theology: "To sum up, we may draw the absolute conclusion that the Bible must not be accommodated to reason, nor reason to the Bible." Spinoza makes a very important distinction, however. When theology is concerned with submission on the part of all to the word of God (which he calls strictly revelation and natural law), reason and theology are in full accord. Otherwise, reason and theology operate in entirely different ways. The result is that those who accept theological dogma claim the right to persecute those who do not, while those who live by reason claim the right to freedom of thought. Thus arises the problem of the right of freedom and the corresponding problem of the limits of free-thought. Spinoza undertakes to resolve this problem by an analysis of the state. He proceeds from a number of fixed principles. First and foremost is the natural right of every man. Nature enjoys a sovereign right over everything in its power. Its rights extend to the limits of its power, and are identified with the power of God. Every man is a part of the power of nature and of God, and therefore enjoys within those limits the free expression of those rights. Hence the supreme law of nature is: "that each individual should endeavor to preserve itself as it is, without regard to anything but itself." But when the power ceases in the state of nature, the right ceases. The individual can, to be sure, subject himself to laws: the wise may will to live by reason even in the state of nature and the ignorant by appetites. This can be done strictly in the limits of power. Wherefore it follows that natural law forbids no actions save those which are undesired or impossible of being achieved. But that does not guarantee the Tightness of our views: "In reality that which reason considers evil is not evil in respect to the order and laws of nature as a whole, but only in respect to the laws of our own nature." It is, however, true that men have a peculiar interest in living according to the dictates of reason. Besides, everybody also desires to live in security, free from fear, insofar as it is possible. To do so, men have had to come to some understanding. The result of this understanding is that the right which everyone enjoyed in nature has become a collective right. It is no longer de• 341 ·

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termined by the force of each, but by the power and the combined will of all. To effect this combined will, each entered into a pact for his own good: In this manner a society can be formed without any violation of natural right, and this covenant can always be strictly kept—that is, if each individual hands over the whole of his power to the body politic. The latter will then possess sovereign natural right over all things; that is, it will have sole and unquestioned dominion, and everyone will be bound to obey, under pain of the severest punishment. This type of social organization constitutes a democracy. Provided man accepts reason as his guide, in this organization he can aspire to a reign of peace, which has as its condition absolute respect for the laws of society. Hence the more man is directed by reason, the freer he is to observe faithfully the laws of his country, and serve its power. At this point a problem arises, however. What happens if the collectivity orders something in contradiction to the obedience which man has promised God ? Spinoza answers simply that he must obey God. However, if this were interpreted that everybody would be excused from following the laws of the land when he deemed them contrary to his belief for any minor reason, the situation would become intolerable. In these cases, Spinoza concludes that one is obliged to obey the decisions taken by the state. There are, however, other restrictions. No individual, for instance, can transmit to the community his rights to the point of ceasing to be a man. He might even reserve his independence in several domains of his activity. Spinoza indicates that, in general, the individual, whatever his motives, is inclined to give obedience to the state, and the state, whatever its power, is disposed to refrain from tyrannical action. The faithfulness of the citizens, their moral value, and their constancy in executing the orders are what give power and strength to society. It is true that it is difficult to know by experience how far the citizen should be guided. Everyone recognizes the fallibility of the masses, their arrogance, their unlimited desires, the crimes of those who desire novelty, and the violence caused by poverty. Spinoza recalls that reigning is so difficult that rulers have often attempted to persuade their subjects that they are descended from gods, with the result that this ruse has sometimes led to the enslavement • 342 ·

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of the subjects. Government has often ceased being democratic, aristocratic, or even a monarchy, to become a theocracy. Spinoza indicates that this is what happened in the Jewish government. From its history, he deduces the following conclusions: i. It is unfortunate, both for religion and for the state, to grant to the representatives of the sacred order, any governmental or executive authority whatever. 2. It is very wrong to make the divine law depend upon purely speculative doctrines and to establish laws upon opinions. 3. It is extremely necessary, in the interest of the public as well as of religion, to grant to the holders of sovereign power the rights to distinguish the value of action. 4. It is unwise if one lives in a democracy to trade it for a monarchy. It is equally unwise to suppress a reigning monarch even if his conduct is tyrannical. 5. The most reasonable position, in fact, is to preserve the regime one has rather than to risk in change a total ruin. There remains only the question of the two kinds of authority, theological and political. Spinoza makes the point that God does not exercise any rule over men, except through the mediation of political authorities. Justice and charity, therefore, do not acquire force of law save by virtue of political right. This reign of justice and charity, i.e., true religion, is enforced by the statesmen. Furthermore, religion, whether revealed by natural law or by the spirit of prophecy, has no force of law save through the will of those who govern. Whence we must conclude that the external religious cult, and all devotional practices, as signs of obedience to God, must contribute to the preservation of the community and its peace. In a republic this latitude of thought is especially precious. Every man has an inalienable right to his opinions, which is only natural, seeing that each prefers to any other his way of thinking. Here Spinoza makes a concession: It is obvious that the sovereign power may be prejudiced by words as well as by action. Consequently, while the government cannot reasonably remove entirely the freedom of expression, it cannot grant an unbridled license either. Government exists not to oppress, enslave, or dominate the citizens. Its one goal is the acquisition of freedom. On the other hand, the individual has no advantage in upsetting the peace by constantly challenging the authority of the state. The proper manner of resolving a conflict • 343 ·

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of this sort would be for the state to grant to each inhabitant the right to say and to teach what he thinks. For his part, the individual should leave to the state all decisive action, and must never undertake any move against a decision it has taken, because every measure adopted by the state expresses the general will, that is to say those members of the assembly who have voted against the measure as well as those who have voted for it. Anyone who goes against this measure is in sedition and cannot be tolerated. On the other hand, to try to regulate human life entirely by laws is to invite defects rather than to correct them. What the state must elicit from the individual is loyalty, respect, justice, and love of one's fellowman. What it must give in return is freedom, peace, and the blessings of society. Spinoza concludes in summary fashion: i. It is impossible to deprive individuals of freedom to say what each thinks. 2. The granting of individual freedom to judge does not menace either the right, or the prestige, inherent in the sovereign power. 3. The individual enjoyment of freedom to judge does not constitute a danger to the peace. 4. Nor does it threaten the devotion of anyone else. 5. Laws concerning speculative matters are invalid. 6. The individual enjoyment of freedom to judge is in reality indispensable to the preservation of peace, to the security of piety and of the state.

The assumption is often made that Spinoza's philosophy is contained in the Ethica and the ancillary treatises, while the Tractatus theologico-politicus and the Tractatus politicus, though interesting represent personal reactions to contemporary problems and are not closely tied to his philosophical thought. This viewpoint not only distorts the organic quality of Spinoza's thought, but renders impossible a proper analysis of Spinozism. Very often the observation is made that the Ethics met with staunch opposition even on the part of free-thinkers, and that it was vigorously suppressed by the authorities throughout Europe. Often cited as proof of the opposition are Bayle's article "Spinoza" in the Dictionnaire historique et critique or Montesquieu's unfavorable remark, or Voltaire's continual affirmation until 1769 that, though virtuous, Spinoza was an atheist. It is certain that Spinoza did not view matters thus. Had he lived beyond his forty-five years, he would have in all probability presented his "system" under a different arrangement. As it is, he preoccupied • 344 ·

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himself with metaphysics {Court Traite, 1661-63), with epistemology {Traite de la reforme de I'entendement, 1661), with metaphysics {Les Principes de la philosophic de Descartes, 1663), with metaphysics and ethics {Ethica, begun 1661, interrupted 1665, resumed after 1670, published 1677), biblical criticism with politics {Tractatus theologico-politicus, 1665, published 1670), and finally with politics {Tractatus politicus, unfinished). It is evident from this chronology of his work that in his philosophy Spinoza gave as much importance to political thought and religion as to metaphysics and ethics; indeed, religion and politics seem to have taken precedence over metaphysics and ethics, at least for the period 1665 to 1670. This conclusion is onesided, however, since Spinoza's constant preoccupation was the establishment of an organic philosophy free from theological domination. He held the view that the Tractatus theologico-politicus and the Ethica formed a single philosophy. At the beginning of Chapter II of the Tractatus politicus he remarked: In our Theologico-Political Treatise we have treated of natural and civil right, and in our Ethics have explained the nature of wrong-doing, merit, justice, injustice, and lastly, of human liberty. Yet, lest the readers of the present treatise should have to seek elsewhere those points, which especially concern it, I have determined to explain them here again, and give a deductive proof of them. Obviously, Spinoza laid great stress upon the necessity of a homogeneous philosophy. In fact, he directed his work, as McKeon (pp. 313-17) has so forcefully brought out, to a single unvarying aim: how man should live to realize his best potentialities. Hence, though the book which undertook to combine the sum total of his reflections upon this central problem was called an "ethics," and though the specific problems which he considered germane to it were introduced there, all his treatises are ultimately concerned with this question of inner power. Other questions—such as politics; theology as it enters into the governance of man; the relationship between religion and the state; man's freedom, his beatitude, and his justice—appear as ramifications of the central doctrine. Clearly ethics must be based on metaphysics and physics, but, contrariwise to Descartes, Spinoza makes no effort to treat metaphysical, mechanical, methodological questions separately. They occur only insofar as they are relevant to ethics. But the • 345 ·

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fact remains that what Spinoza achieved was a new theory of politics, a new historical criticism applied to theological matters, and a new relationship between politics and theology; and he did these things so adeptly that a man may adopt one of them without the others, or he may embrace all of them with their total destructive consequences, or he may reject them all. The Enlightenment ultimately accepted all of them.

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8. T H E C O N D I T I O N S O F F R E N C H CLASSICISM not undertake in this section to discuss the inner reality of classicism which reached its climax in the period from 1660 to 1685. It was, admittedly, the dominant movement of the century. In fact, it was being prepared from the Renaissance and was destined to continue until the opening years of the French Revolution and even beyond. We propose only to show that out of its reality came many of the aspects of the Enlightenment. They evolved throughout the classical period in the same continuous, coherent way in which they had been developing since the early days of the Renaissance. We do not wish, however, to leave the impression that this Enlightenment activity has a greater significance than the flowering of classicism. We concur fully with the belief that classicism represents one of the glorious attitudes of man, and that the period produced some of the finest art and thought known to man. We do not intend to enter into a discussion of its qualities—though we admit fully the order, stability, balance, and unity which characterize it, and grant cheerfully that its creations are distinguished by truth, reality, reasonableness, and beauty. We accept without protest that it was an imitative art, derived from the art of antiquity which its proponents constantly admired. We are fully committed to its apollonian traits of peace, harmony, serenity, and that healing quality of art which transcends the sorrows of life. Further we are easily persuaded that at times there can be perceived also some dionysian traits in which the God of Wrath can conduct himself with the utmost brutality. We confess that often this wrath is controlled by a sense of decorum dictated by the "bienseances" of social life. Besides, we subscribe to the efforts of classicists to enforce by rules those traits which they deemed the hallmarks of their very superior art. We would probably enter a modest protest against that view which holds that the rules produced the beauties of classic art. While it is undoubtedly true that in the classical aesthetic there was much which was dogmatic and arbitrary, it is also true that it was applied with reasonableness and discretion. Finally, we celebrate along with everyone else the magnificent works of art which the period produced. We experience a certain difficulty, though, in adopting that mono-

W

E SHALL

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lithic opinion of classicism which consists in vaunting its superiority over all non-classic expressions of art. We rebel mildly against those, including Voltaire, who would have the classic age one of total peace, harmony, and serenity. While its highest expression is certainly one of dignity, self-respect, and repose, there is practically always in that expression, as in all human life, a side which is painful, anguished even, satiric, and bitter. The last act is just as "sanglant" in classicism as in other expressions of life. Finally, we are inclined to question that notion which makes of classicism a discontinuity of French art, thought, culture, and life. Paul Hazard besl expressed this view in the conclusion of his Crise de la conscience (11,293): A partir du milieu du dix-septieme siecle, environ, un arret provisoire: un paradoxal equilibre qui se realise entre des elements opposes, une conciliation qui s'opere entre des forces ennemies; et cette reussite, litteralement prodigieuse: Ie classicisme. Aussi, des que Ie classicisme cesse d'etre un effort, une volonte, unc adhesion reflechie, pour se transformer en habitude et en contrainte, les tendances novatrices, toutes pretes, reprennent-elles leur force et leui elan; et la conscience europeenne se remet a sa recherche eternelle. It is an explanation which all of us have been in the past more 01 less willing to accept. If, however, we concede that classicism is an event cut off from the consistent development of thought from 1515 to 1660, our first problem consists in inquiring what happened tc that development. According to some, the movement toward Enlightenment disappeared because of its own timidity and its failure to provide for its successors (Pintard). In the opinion of others, il died because it lacked vitality and so fell easily a victim to Pascal and those who wrote the apologies (Busson). This view stresses thai the "esprits forts" are really "esprits faibles" who had nothing more to offer. Still others insisted that those who had brought the movement to its peak were checked by Pascal and the Jansenists until, around 1680, the free-thinkers were able to renew their struggle by joining forces with the revived Cartesians (Brunetiere). Still others simply felt that the free-thinkers had gone underground only tc emerge after classicism had run its course (Sainte-Beuve, Hazard). Finally, an interpretation sometimes presented is that the Enlightenment grew not consistently from the development of Renaissance •350 ·

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thought, but took its origin in the ruins of classic thought. It really started after the breakdown of classicism in the decline of Louis XIVs reign when free-thinking and skepticism prevailed over order and harmony (Tilley, Sainte-Beuve, Brunetiere), or when the revival of Cartesian rationalism prevailed (Lanson, Hazard), or when a crisis occurred fostered by rationalism, free-thinking, and skepticism in the struggle with religious thought (Hazard). In general, we have assumed that the factors which entered into the making of the Enlightenment developed from 1515 to 1660 disappeared for twenty or more years—while something more important was taking place—and then revived to go on to the Enlightenment. Or that what had been developing since 1515 to 1660 were the elements of classicism which became coherently organized in 1661 in some miraculous fashion, stayed organized for twenty years or so, then just as miraculously fell apart in 1680 or thereabouts, whereupon the broken bits and pieces were reassembled and the Enlightenment started. The formula which we have adopted in this treatise is very simple: certain events contribute to particular ways of thinking which produce specific directing thoughts which lead to definite ways of acting and being. Anywhere along the chain there may be revision, regression, or even interference. That is to say, events do not make themselves felt and then stop; they have an impact and then other events grow out of them and replace them, producing changes all along the line. Every living person has to be prepared to move with the change. But the job of the historian of ideas is to follow out in consistent, continuous and coherent fashion the changes wrought in the intellectual chain. In this particular case we have had to deal with what happened in science, humanism, religion, free-thinking, and skepticism, and now politics, economics, morality, and aesthetics, when some coherence was put into the thought of the time and classicism resulted. The coherence was effected by a reorganization in the government, in which the King took over his full powers. At the Assemblee du Clerge, March 10, 1661, the day after Mazarin's death, Louis declared that henceforth he would be his own prime minister. What actually happened was that France, after the turmoil and hesitations of the first half of the century, particularly after the two Frondes of 1648 and 1652, was turned into the model Leviathan State. The • 351 ·

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institution of religion having lost its primacy in the affairs of man, the state undertook to return it to its prestige, but proposed henceforth to control its activities. Louis XIV retained Mazarin's counselors—Michel Le Tellier, Hugues de Lionne, and, for the time being, Foucquet—to whom he added, at Mazarin's suggestion, Colbert. These were the "Ministres d'litat." The departments—war, foreign affairs, the King's household, religion, both Catholic and Protestant, finances—were under the jurisdiction of "Secretaires d'fitat." The provinces had two systems, the old administration of "officers" who possessed their positions as judges or financiers through purchase, and the new administration of "Intendants de justice, police, et finances," named by the King for three-year appointments and usually recruited from the "Conseil d'fitat." The King immediately suppressed the political powers of the Parlements. They retained the right of "remontrance" albeit it could be exercised only after the King's decree had been registered. In addition, Louis carefully excluded the higher nobility from power, depriving it of all political activity, and, in its place, he installed administrators recruited from the middle class or from those recently ennobled. In practice, the bourgeoisie, having enriched itself in commerce and banking, already administered the municipal affairs throughout the kingdom. It is clear that what had occurred was a centralization of power in the King. The nobility, now relegated to living idly at court or to fighting on the battlefield, was dependent upon the generosity of the monarch for its honors and even its subsistence. The bureaucracy, composed of the rich bourgeois who constituted a new nobility, became the backbone of the kingdom. In the government, it existed first in an advisory capacity and later served in administration, particularly in the provinces and municipalities. It was thoroughly loyal to the King's policies. Only the clergy, of the different orders, exercised some independence of thought, because it was not a homogeneous group and because it was wracked still with religious turmoil provoked by Jansenism, Quietism, and Gallicanism. The policy of the state was founded upon the prestige of Louis XIV, whose magnificence was to be exalted. It was understood, however, that this could not succeed unless the King's revenues were increased enormously, which could be done only by raising the wealth of the •352 ·

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state. Thus, in proportion as France became richer, the King disposed of increased means of enhancing his kingdom; his prestige became greater and the glory of France was assured. This policy, which consisted in reforming completely France's economic system, was devised, though not created, by Colbert. He had been fascinated by the Dutch economic policies which had made of Holland the greatest economic power in Europe, and by the trade activities of the Italian city-states, and he consequently patterned his mercantilism upon those policies. He planned a whole new French industrial set-up to be developed alongside the old corporation and "Jurande" establishment, in operation since the Middle Ages. He maintained that only the state was capable of organizing gigantic manufacturing plants. What was needed, in his opinion, was a combination of far-seeing financiers, a corps of skilful, experienced artisans, and a large body of semiskilled workers capable of being trained in new techniques. He sought his capital among the tax-collectors, treasurers of the provincial estates, the "fermiers generaux," and French and foreign bankers. Once the foundation capital was assembled, he himself disposed of state funds which were utilized as subventions to the developing enterprises. He recruited qualified workers from Holland, Italy, England. He organized courses in instruction so that the French themselves could be trained to carry on their own enterprises, especially when the recruited artisans were real artists, although the system was applied to people engaged in all kinds of manufactures: tapistryweavers, dyers, paper-makers, embroiderers, silk-weavers, hatters, gilt-leather making, and even miners, founders, and naval construction engineers. Even the "Jardin des Plantes" and the Academies were encouraged to collaborate with the program. The result was a sudden burst of prosperity, aided by government subvention, and all kinds of privileges, monopolies, and titles. A whole set of regulations were promulgated to guide the operations, which in time became onerous. By and large what interested the government was production, and it was willing to sacrifice personnel, especially the workers who finally rebelled against a system which exploited them in favor of a court far removed from their life. Even the directors of the enterprises showed some exasperation at the regulations, which often curtailed initiative. Also, there was much ill-feeling between the older • 353 ·

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corporations and the new manufactures over Colbert's subventions and his more liberal policies with the latter. On the whole, however, the plan succeeded in achieving the goal he had set. Colbert's changes in manufactures entailed modifications in the organization of foreign trade and colonization. The handicap under which he had to work out a scheme can be seen in one of his observations. Of the 20,000 bottoms required to take care of European trade, he said, Holland had fifteen to sixteen thousand, England three to four thousand, and France five to six hundred. Since the scheme called for a rapid increase in French exports, and a corresponding decrease in imports, Colbert made two moves: a project to begin building French bottoms to carry the increased exports, and a customs program to protect French exports and to impede French imports. Though these two undertakings were at first carried out with some restraint, tariffs in many areas had doubled by 1664, and in some cases tripled. Colbert supported these moves by all kinds of measures: a reform of the consulates, particularly in the Levant, commercial missions sent to all the countries of Northern Europe, and finally the formation of French trading companies to compete with the Dutch and the English. He had some difficulties in establishing these companies because they spelled the ruin of individual traders and because of reluctance of the French to enter into these gigantic enterprises. In spite of this opposition, however, large trading companies were organized; the French merchant marine grew strong, and the maritime cities became prosperous. Furthermore, the dormant colonies, particularly the Antilles, Santo Domingo, and, to a lesser extent, Canada, now started developing. Colbert's final move was in the area of finance. Here the difficulties existed not so much in the tax structures as in the way the funds were dissipated before reaching the Treasury. Of the taxes assembled only a third became available to the government. The reforms consisted in capturing a larger proportion of the taxes and in cutting back on everything—reducing financial offices, limiting the amounts collectors were allowed to withhold from the government, reducing the profits of the "officiers de finances," retiring of past "rentes." In this sector, also, the plan worked. Taxes increased as the kingdom became wealthier. The government captured two thirds of its income, which means that it doubled its resources. Colbert had thus carried out his plan step by step and very successfully. The new in• 354 ·

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dustries had progressed quickly, trade had been revived, new markets had been found for French goods, maritime trade had prospered and the means of transport had been augmented proportionately, tariffs had been readjusted in favor of French exports, and taxes had been redistributed in a way which greatly increased the government's revenues. Everything now depended on the way the funds were used to enhance the prestige of the King and make for the glory of France. French historians are generally in agreement that Louis XIV used his resources to build a military establishment superior to any in Europe and a French culture second to none. The army received the attention of Michel Le Tellier at first, then of his son Louvois, and Louis XIV himself took a direct interest in the proceedings. What was needed, evidently, was a total transformation of the system. Its recruiting methods (racolage) had to be improved, something had to be done about the purchase of rank by the wealthy, and modern equipment had to be furnished. This aspect of the reform was handled by Louvois. Subsistence and lodging also required attention, and there were no military hospitals. The navy had to be rebuilt, armed, and manned. With his usual dispatch, within two years (1665 to 1667) Colbert had a fleet of one hundred vessels. The interesting thing about this army and navy was that it was "modern." What was needed now was a foreign policy geared to the military. Louis XIV himself directed that policy for twenty years with a firmness of purpose and a skill which amounted to genius. Consequently, from 1661 to 1680 the power of France made itself felt, admired, and respected in the affairs of Europe. By 1678, it had reached its zenith. Louis XIV confessed at the end of his reign that he had spent his funds too lavishly in wars and buildings. Versailles, probably more than the wars, became the symbol of his activity, since it incorporated, as architecture is inclined to do, all the arts. Indeed, in 1664, long before the court moved to Versailles, Louis began using it as a place of pleasure. One of the first spectacles offered to the guests was a suite of fetes called Les Plaisirs de Vile Enchantee. In a way it was characteristic of the whole new culture which followed. Comedy, comedy-ballet, ballet, opera, music, spectacle, dancing, games, or an evening in the galleries admiring the paintings and the statuary or the sumptuousness of the tapestries—every conceivable form of enter• 355 ·

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tainment was eventually presented. Along with the representations, there was a continuous round of presentations so that Versailles indeed became an enchanted world where, as Taine pointed out, it became difficult to distinguish between the reality of the presentations and the verisimilitude of the representations, or the verisimilitude of the presentations and the reality of the representations. The world became literally a stage in which living was a form of acting and drama a true expression of life. Nor must we believe that the sheer quantity of the entertainment resulted in a mediocre art. In all its aspects the pleasure of this enchanted island was true, authentic, and artistic. The good taste extended from Versailles to Paris, and from there to all the courts of Western Europe, so that there was hardly a petty court in Germany which did not attempt its Versailles. The culture created became thus a European phenomenon and the good taste which supported it reigned throughout Europe until the French Revolution. If, as Boileau said, classicism is composed of "vraies pensees" and "expressions justes," its harmony is not a kind of accommodation between one thought and another, but between that thought and how it is expressed. Classicism is what gives a perfect adjustment between the "fond" and the "forme." And if, as Valery declared, what is fixed is dead, the adjustment must always be subject to change. Classicism must contain an order, a harmony of its parts, a balance and a rhythm, but it must also hold within its unity a constant diversity; within its order a limitless number of orders which may become disorder; within its thought and expression a continual ambiguity of thought and expression. Even in those twenty years of supreme unity, consequendy, it would be foolish to attach too much importance to the concept of rules and regulation in art, thought, and the institutions of man, or to the arbitrary and the absolute. The rules are there, to be sure, and the discussions about their relevance are well-nigh interminable, but the difficult thing is to find somebody of consequence who needed them. Certainly, in the field of art for instance, Racine, Moliere, and La Fontaine did not need them. Classicism is above all a free art. It would be just as foolish to expect total submission to the arbitrary power of Louis XIVs regime, or an unthinking acceptance of mercantilism, or a conformity with orthodox religious, political, and moral thought. In reality there was a care• 356 ·

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fully planned program, organic unity, and fidelity to the ideals of ethics and aesthetics. But there never was a lack of discussion, or of opposition, even in the supreme period between 1661 and 1680. This activity can be clearly discerned by even a casual glance at the conditions of the time. Science was developing normally, the formation of the Academie des Sciences being merely a better organization and scientific journals being a better medium for the communication and the spread of scientific thought. Moreover, science apparently had found a way of accommodating itself, at least temporarily, to religion—at any rate Cartesian science, which was both condemned (1666) and revived (1678), was the foundation of Malebranche's philosophy (1674 if). It was being closely scrutinized by all the great philosophers of Europe who, while taking their origin in Descartes's thought, questioned very seriously the validity of his philosophy. Humanism also seems to have reached a normal and adjusted plateau. Antiquity had now become established at the basis of arts and letters: the ancients practically always appeared as guides in the great dramatic literature, in the painting, sculpture, and architecture. They furnished the themes, the models, and the techniques for French classicism. Gassendi was revived as well as Descartes (1678) and gave an epicurean expression to the thought of the time, along with Christian stoicism. As a matter of fact, Christian thought was being suffused simultaneously with stoicism, epicureanism, and Augustinianism. The moral expression was rather diverse: sometimes pagan, at other times naturalistic and hedonistic, and very often Jansenistic. It had to find ways to absorb these three moral philosophies. In addition, humanism had simultaneously become an aesthetic expression, a morality, and a social ideal, and its striving for an aesthetic interpretation of life gradually yielded to a yearning for the useful and the social. There was some conflict between this humanism and the Christian religion. In the latter area, things were very confused: the Counter-reformation having produced a second schism, there was now a five-way struggle: Protestant-Catholic, Jansenist-Jesuit, Protestant-Jansenist-Jesuit, Protestant-Jansenist-Jesuit-Free-thinker, and finally Gallican-Ultramontane. Thus, if conditions were upset in the sector of morality, they were doubly so in that of religion. In the area of free-thinking and skepticism the tension was between the pyrrhonists and the believers, or between the "libertins" and the dogmatists, or between the •357 ·

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rationalists and the Christians. We have thought that the Christians (Jansenists), and the dogmatists in aesthetics, morality, and philosophy, won out over the free-thinkers and the skeptics, which accounts for their temporary eclipse. We are none too sure, now, that such was the case. We must now return to that point of view which holds that between the baroque and the classic there was a cessation of those traits which were distinctly Enlightenment characteristics and which were thought to have been resumed only after classicism had run its course. It is not altogether easy to get at them without falsifying the previous or the subsequent period. The one quality which characterized classicism was undoubtedly its orderliness, which led to unity, harmony, and repose. But it was a momentary order. The ingredients which had to be ordered, as we have tried to assemble them, would be free-thinking, libertinage, skepticism; a definite tendency to adopt an epicurean rather than a stoic way of life; a religious struggle of considerable proportions between orthodoxy and heterodoxy; a similar struggle between Catholics and Protestants; a tendency in science to develop in terms of its own logic; a definite movement to strengthen the monarchy by weakening the power of the nobility and by subjecting the Christian Church to the power of the state; a general view of the nature of man which consisted in emphasis upon man's corrupt nature, in contrast with the very opposite view that knowledge is the source of power and the origin of moral happiness; finally, a firm conviction that man's salvation does not lie within a sterile theology but in an intellectual reform which will lead to a moral reform. If rather than treating these general tendencies as so many disparate items, we tried to see just what had taken place in man's world between 1560 and 1660, we would be justified in insisting that it had become more humanized, more scientific, more structured. In the dibtkle which had been brought about by the collapse of the Church, all categories had been affected: religion, aesthetics, politics, and economics; society, science, morality, and the category of the "self." The challenge had been posed with great vigor, but it had been met in some of the categories with surprising energy also. Science, for instance, had been completely renewed, but so had aesthetics, politics, and morality, and above all, philosophy, especially that part of philosophy which dealt with the relationship of know• 358 ·

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ing, being, and doing. The activity had been pushed with such force that between 1620 and 1650 a group of philosophers—Descartes, Hobbes, and Gassendi—strove through the uses of philosophy to reshape man's universe for the greater convenience of man. Descartes proceeded organically by stressing methodology and metaphysics, Hobbes by stressing politics, Gassendi by stressing empirical science. In a way, metaphysics was already replacing theology, the state was replacing the Church, science was replacing morality. But only to a certain extent: the great struggle was engaged between the dogmatic philosophers and the free-thinkers, between the believers and the skeptics, between the Christian moralists and the libertines. Consequently, we historians of ideas have always tended toward the belief that what should be stressed in the development of ideas from the Renaissance to the Enlightenment is the rise and evolution of freethinking, libertinism, and skepticism. These are the forces which introduced the changes in life, and which played havoc with the organization of the categories, in particular religion and in general all those closely identified with the institutions of man. The great change brought about by these new forces, however, was the revolution which they fostered in man's mind by modernizing and reshaping his thought. Literally, what these three movements of thought were attempting was a rebuilding of man's world—what we call his civilization—through the knowledge of that world and man's place in it. Naturally, the effort is made amid great confusion and frustrations at times, and hence the impression of lost energies, puerilities, crises, and revolutions. But the building of a new, modern conception of life was deeply imbedded in these free-thinkers, these epicureans, these new skeptics. We twentieth-century critics of the Enlightenment have in general overlooked two significant facts. In the first place, the source of all these free-thinkers and skeptics are the dogmatic thinkers—the philosophers—of which there was an inordinate number during the period from 1580 to 1715. One can count at least twelve or thirteen firstrate philosophers in Europe during that period, many of whom deserve to rank with the great philosophers of all time. As a matter of fact, the period, if it has any claim to renown, can only justify that renown upon the magnificent power of its thought and the artistic value of its expression. So that the whole movement was essentially, as Boileau thought classicism, a harmony between "pensees vraies" • 359 ·

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and "expressions justes." But the extent of the movement transcends the petty arguments of first-rate philosophers and third-rate freethinkers, since what is involved is the cooperation of the two groups irrespective of their rank in the making of a new world. What seems evident is that the philosophers without the aid of the free-thinkers could not initiate this enterprise any more than the free-thinkers could without the aid of the philosophers. The problem, therefore, is to find ways to follow the evolution of thought throughout the period from Montaigne to Bayle among the real philosophers, and its consequences as this thought was espoused by the free-thinkers. The immediate problem, however, is to inquire carefully into the continuity of free-thinking in the classical period.1 We propose to study the continued presence of free-thinking in travel literature, including both accounts of authentic travels and imaginary, Utopian voyages. We propose, likewise, to study the roles of Moliere and La Fontaine as free-thinkers. After these presentations, we shall return to the decline of classicism in the last half of the reign of Louis XIV (1685-1715) in an effort to understand what strengthened free-thinking during that time. 1

In the Intellectual Development of Voltaire, we devoted a chapter to the continuity throughout the century of a Horatian, epicurean, free-thinking poetry from Theophile de Viau to La Fontaine and thence to Voltaire.

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9. T R A V E L F I C T I O N A N D T H E D R I V E FOR C O N T I N U I T Y N 1746, the Abbe Prevost brought out the first volume of the Histoire generale des voyages, purported to be basically a translation of the English collections of Hakluyt, Purchase, Harris, and Churchill, with modifications in the selection and arrangement of material. Prevost announced on a very full title page that his compilation would be a new collection of all the travel accounts on land and sea hitherto published in the different languages of known nations. He promised to include all that was noteworthy, useful, and truly authenticated in the countries visited by the foreign travelers, especially their geographical situation, their boundaries, the divisions of the country, the climate, the soil, the productions, lakes, rivers, mountains, mines, fortified towns, principal cities, ports, harbors, and important buildings. This presentation was designed to furnish the reading public with a full system of world geography. To enhance that particular aspect of his work, the author-translator announced his intention of adding detailed studies on the manners and customs of the countries treated, the nature of their religion, their government, their arts and sciences, their commerce and manufactures. In this second division of the work, he confessed, he hoped to establish the groundwork of a new historical system which could portray the present state of all the nations of the earth. Prevost's enterprise was evidently broader than the original plan of his English predecessors. In his preface, for instance, he emphasized that he had added materials concerning the history, government, and religion of foreign nations, particularly those of the Orient. He announced that his purpose extended beyond the mere reproduction of a body of travel literature to the formation of a universal geographical and historical system. He promised to divide the accounts into two sections: one would be the "journal de chaque voyage," and the second would be devoted to "remarques des voyageurs sur chaque pays, sur ses habitans et ses productions naturelles." The Histoire generale and the corresponding preceding English collections climaxed a movement which had been evolving since the early days of the Renaissance. With the discovery of new lands, and with the subsequent attempt to describe and introduce the inhabitants

I

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of these lands to the Europeans, a whole new kind of travel literature developed and became a significant movement in the organization of Enlightenment thought. Early travel accounts aimed merely at introducing a new society which the traveler had witnessed. Professor Atkinson has remarked that those who wrote at first were the soldier, the sailor, the functionary, and the businessman, none of them interested in doing more than recording what he had seen. In time, these personal and casual observers of the foreign country, who were necessarily limited in what they saw, were followed by the man of feeling—the missionary, the poet, the adventurer. The first group thus kept to actual experiences, while the second was inclined to see things in the light of conditions back home. As a consequence, the travel account not only took on a fictional quality, it also assumed a propaganda role. Finally, the whole setting was changed. Instead of an actual realistic background, presented in some extraordinary way, the writers imagined a Utopia in which the conditions they observed contrasted with those of Europe. It is possible, therefore, to distinguish four kinds of travel literature: the pedestrian account of what had been experienced; this same realistic memoir interlarded with more unusual experiences recounted in other works; the fictional account which stressed the finer qualities of life as they had been observed among the savages; and finally, the Utopian novel, where all is fiction but related for purposes of contrast with the civilization of Europe.1 No sooner had the new lands been discovered, when geographical works began to appear, treating of Asia, Africa, and America. In his Horizons nouveaux, Professor Atkinson has listed around 550 titles printed between 1480 and 1610. Not all of them, however, describe actual journeys which the authors made to distant lands. In addition to this category, there were those works representative of the geographical works of the time, others were universal histories, while a final group included histories of particular countries. Of these works devoted to history, geography, psychology, manners and customs, and personal reflections drawn from experiences with the foreign coun1

For a full treatment of these various travel novels see G. Atkinson, Les Nouveaux horizons de la Renaissance jrangaise, Paris, 1955; G. Atkinson, The Extraordinary Voyage in French Literature jrom 1680 to 1700, New York, 1920; G. Atkinson, The Extraordinary Voyage in French Literature jrom 1J00-1J20, Paris, 1922; and finally, G. Atkinson, Les Relations de voyages et revolution des idees, Paris, 1928. See also G. Chinard, L'Amerique et Ie reve exotique au XVIP Steele, Paris, 1913.

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tries, a few—Jean de Lery's Histoire du Bresil (1578), and the two works of Loys Ie Roy, Histoire universelle and De la Vicissitude for instance—were distinguished also by an inherent literary worth. These works embrace not a single part but all parts of the globe. The Orient appears to have as much significance as the Near East; Turkey is as interesting as the newly discovered lands of America. Some writers are attracted by the primitive civilizations encountered in America, while others display an equal interest in the advanced civilizations of the East, and certain parts of Africa, such as Abyssinia. The aspects of civilization which appealed to the readers were religion, morality, social and political organization. What greatly occupied the attention of the writers were the costumes, the manners, and particularly the religious traditions of the inhabitants. The more insignificant details, for instance, are often given a religious interpretation. Atkinson has noted that the observations most generally made concern the nakedness of the inhabitants. Since they display no shame whatever, it is readily concluded that they must not have been subjected to the consequences of Adam's sin. The remark is often made that women do not bear children in pain, and that the children in primitive countries are cared for more in accordance with nature. Differences in the constitution of the family are also noted. The writers remark upon divergences or similarities in beliefs: the absence of a universal flood in China, the rejection of a Trinity in Japan, the adoration of a Virgin in China and Japan. The assertion is frequently made that the natives believe in the immortality of the soul, in rewards and punishments in the afterlife. Some recall that there are those who, though believing in immortality, do not manifest any belief in the existence of God. This was possibly the most startling discovery made in the field of religion, since the existence of those who admitted no god contradicted the wide-spread notion that all men had an inner awareness of God by natural light. On the other hand, the authors argued that those who admitted the existence of God without benefit of Christian revelation could only do so by the inner light of reason. The geographers as well as the professional writers displayed a lively enthusiasm, stressing the novelty, the relativity, the progress, and the superiorities of these distant lands. Gomara, for instance, wrote: "Le monde est si grand, si beau et si diversifie de choses differentes les unes des autres, qu'il ravit en admiration qui Ie veut bien •363 ·

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contempler." The slightest fact thus became a source of amazement: the climate, the longevity among the savages, the health of the natives, the fertility of the land, the riches of the country, the skill and industry of the inhabitants. Little by little, the faraway lands became lands of dreams, where uneasiness and discontent could be appeased, where yearning for peace and quiet could be assured, and where even the ambitions of the adventurer could be satisfied. There was, however, a second result. If the facts of these accounts were authentic, it became certain that these lands were the successors of the Golden Age. Here the facts substantiated the dream. The Tartars "menent la tres simple vie de l'age dore, ne cherchant pas les honneurs et les dignites du monde." The Brahmins "vivent sobrement et de la il advient qu'ils ne sont guere malades, mais demeurent en sante.... Parce qu'ils sont aussi tous egaux, et qu'il n'y a point de superieur entre eux, ils ne portent point envie les uns aux autres." As for the inhabitants of the Antilles and money, for example, "ils ne savent pas ce que c'est, et ne s'en servent point. Certes, ceux de Cuba et des lies prochaines . . . pour la plupart vivent une vie du siecle d'or." The Peruvians "sont des gens simples, qui se ressentent encore de l'ancien age dore." Many are those who praise the simple life of the Americans. Vespucci explains that they have neither wool, linen, nor cotton cloth, because they do not need any. Nor do they possess any property of their own, for all things are held in common. They live together without king or emperor, and each is lord of himself. They have as many wives as they wish. They have no churches, nor do they follow any religious law, but for all that they are not idolatrous. In short, they live in accordance with nature. Pierre Martyr added that they hold the earth in common as the air, the water, and the sun. Mine and thine do not exist among them. And they demand so little, that the broad expanse of fields are superabundant to supply their needs. They do not dig moats, nor do they enclose their possessions within hedges. Their gardens are open, and they live without laws, without books, without judges, following by nature that which is just, and condemning as unfair those who harm a fellow creature. From this concept of the Golden Age was derived the myth of the noble savage. From the simplicity of these people's lives and the freedom of their actions is inferred a natural goodness. Belleforest remarks that they are "simple et doux," without any subtlety or malice, •364·

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living most of the time idle in the shade, content with little, and caring little about superfluities, provided they can subsist. The Mexicans are said to be "dociles et doues de l'entendement." But of them all, the Brazilians were deemed the best example of the noble savage, perhaps because of the talent of }. de Lery in describing them: "C'est une chose incroyable, et qui ne peut se dire sans faire honte a ceux qui ont les lois divines et humaines, qu'etant seulement conduits par leur naturel, quelque corrompu qu'il soit, ils s'entretiennent si bien en paix, les uns avec les autres." The contact with the new world and the noble savages, and the changing geographical conditions of the Renaissance, gave rise to new ideas in the various manifestations of life. It was often remarked that the savages lived without property, without laws, and without political organization, and the inference was drawn that happiness does not depend upon political organization or economic laws. The authors occasionally stress the possibility of a socialism or even a communism which they declared more satisfactory than the social and political organization of Europe. Only rarely, however, does the travel literature of the Renaissance assign undue importance to the government of these foreign lands or find them more reasonable and better administered than European societies. A few works conceded that the governments of Peru and Mexico are superior to any in Europe, but the ideal government became China. Mendoza stated that it was one of the best governed countries in the world, and Marco Polo had highly praised the police: "Les etrangers et les voyageurs passant par Ie pays y pouvaient aller de jour et de nuit en grande surete, et sans crainte d'homme vivant." Mendoza described the operation of government in China at great length: "La principale intention qu'ont Ie Roi et les Gouverneurs, et la chose qui leur est la plus recommandee, c'est de preserver leur republique de tout vice, imposant des peines a cet effet, et les executant sans remission; ce qui est la cause qu'ils sont tous soigneux de bien vivre, de peur d'encourir ces peines." The writers praise the valor, virtue, stoic fortitude, patience, and civic pride of the natives. Many stress that subjects are obliged to be loyal to their ruler, and that justice must be speedily administered. Among the virtues are emphasized probity, sobriety, politeness, charity, and humility. On the other hand, what is condemned is cruelty. The Spaniards' torture of natives is roundly denounced, especially by • 365 ·

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Las Casas and Chauveton. By contrast, the Turks are praised for their honesty, their charity, their social virtue. Religious ideas which they discussed turned upon the diversity of religious practices. It should not be concluded, though, that the writers were prejudiced against orthodox ideas. They note especially the existence of religious tolerance among the Asians and the Africans, especially the Turks and the Chinese. Indeed, Postel devoted a large amount of his work to an apology for the Turks. The two central philosophical ideas in these books are the supperiority of the moderns over the ancients and the possibility of progress, with equal stress upon relativism. What the writers are trying to do in their groping way is to seek means of analyzing the processes of civilization. What interested them above everything else was the importance of manners and customs in social groups, the relationship between these manners and the nature of the men, and the effect of climate upon their nature and customs. As Belleforest expressed it (Atkinson, Horizons, p. 268): D'ou vient que ceux qui naissent au Septentrion sont grands et les Austraux et ceux qui naissent aux regions chaudes n'approchent pas de cette grandeur et stature, si ce n'est que les terres etant diversement disposees, les corps qui y naissent y recoivent aussi de diverses impressions? Et comme les affections de l'ame sont souvent disposees selon ce qui est du naturel du corps et du sens exterieur, aussi voit-on que les hommes ont ou plus ou moins de raison et d'intelligence, selon l'assiette des lieux. This geographical literature of the Renaissance was not without influence on the mainstream of letters. On some of the genres—the chronicles, for instance, the histories, and the theatre—the influence was minimal. Further, except for certain poets, especially Ronsard, whose regard for Thevet was expressed at length, the poetry of the time paid but little attention to the theme of exoticism. On the other hand, political thinkers, especially Bodin and Louis Le Roy, were deeply influenced by the whole corps of travel literature. These two drew significant conclusions from the geographical works, and both ventured interesting theories concerning the nature of civilization and the rise and fall of states. Their theories concerning the close relationships between social institutions and manners and customs on the one hand, and climate and the natural conditions of a society on the other, also found confirmation in the travel reports. • 366 ·

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That the whole movement held a tremendous importance for Renaissance man can be divined by the way the urge to travel to new lands, to strange lands, to Utopian lands lies at the root of Rabelais's Gargantua et Pantagruel. As for Montaigne, he did not fail in his De I'institution des enfants to counsel travel as an effective means of broadening knowledge. The travel which these two advised was fully practiced in the Renaissance. One has only to recall the wandering of Rabelais or, better still, of Erasmus—indeed, of all the humanists who became in a way "scholar gypsies." This mobility, which Hazard has made one of the characteristics of the changeover from classicism to the Enlightenment and which he regarded as typical of the period between 1685 and 1715, was at full development from the earliest days of the Renaissance. The strange lands visited by Pantagruel and his attendants resemble closely those visited by the writers of voyage literature, and the drive from the realistic to the critical to the Utopian which characterized Rabelais will be an outstanding characteristic of this travel literature from his time to Voltaire and even beyond. For his part, Montaigne set the model for the exotic travel genre in his "Des Cannibales," or better still, he assembled therein practically all the conclusions drawn in the travel literature of the Renaissance. He remarked that we have a way of calling barbarous that to which we are unaccustomed. Each of us is inclined to judge foreigners after his own customs, he added. Hence, barbaric and savage should mean no more than strange and uncustomary, but in reality those whom we so designate have developed according to nature, thereby, he points out, they have preserved their simplicity, their inherent goodness, and those pristine virtues which God has given to all men. Hence, when it comes to barbarous actions, those whom we call civilized far surpass these primitive peoples. Indeed the latter, living in accord with nature's law, preserve that peace and tranquillity which every man seeks. Montaigne concludes that they represent that Golden Age of which poets dream. The seventeenth century witnessed not only an increase in the amount of travel literature produced, but some modification in its tendencies as well. There arose around the last quarter of the century, for instance, a group of four professional travelers who related their trips to the East and who were very popular among the reading public: F. Bernier, Histoire de la revolution des Etats du Grand • 367 ·

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Mogol (1671), and Voyages de Franfois Bernier, Amsterdam (1699); J. Chardin, Journal du voyage du Chevalier Chardin en Verse et aux Indes Orientates, London (1686); J. B. Tavernier, Nouvelle relation de I'interieur du serail du Grand Seigneur (1675), and Voyages de M. Tavernier (six) (1677); and, finally, J. Thevenot, Relation d'un voyage fait au Levant (1664), followed by a volume of his uncle, M. Thevenot, Relations de divers voyages curieux (1686). Locke, who was an avid reader of voyage literature and made a collection of these works, was known personally to Bernier and to the two Thevenots, whom he had met at Henri Justel's in Paris. A more curious fact still is that Voltaire possessed in his own library all these works except J. Thevenot's. The most curious fact of all, however, is that only Tavernier shows up in Bayle's Dictionary. Finally, these professional works tend to be very popular at the moment when the Utopian novel became popular (1676-1710). There was one group of travel works produced by those travelers who undertook specifically to introduce to the French public the life of the new colonies in the far-distant regions. While some of them deal with Madagascar, by far the larger number attempt to describe the French colonies in America. The outstanding one both in popularity and in merit is undoubtedly by M. Lescarbot, Histoire de la nouvelle France (1609). But there were also A. Biet's Voyage de la France Equinoxiale (1664); F. Cauche's Relation de Vile de Madagascar (1651); J. B. Du Tertre's Histoire generate des Antilles (1667); and J. Laet's L'Histoire du nouveau monde, Leyden (1640), and many others. (For a rather full list see G. Atkinson, Les Relations de voyages au XVW Steele et revolution des idees, 1928.) These works offered to the readers first-hand, authentic experiences which led to the formation of philosophical ideas. Moreover, in their halting way they made more and more evident that when one visited a primitive country there were certain things one tried to observe in order to understand the reality of its people. These observations disclosed the manners and customs which eventually, in the first half of the eighteenth century, lay at the origin of historical causality. Like other travel-authors, these writers, also, were especially curious concerning the specific attitudes of the peoples toward political, economic, religious, and social questions. It is not clear whether their motivation was directed by some particularly interesting preoccupations or was the result of simple curiosity. At all events, they often • 368 ·

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sought novel attitudes among the natives and were quick to point out differences between Europeans and non-Europeans. Many of them—Biet, Du Tertre, Abbeville, Le Jeune, for example—note the freedom which exists in these foreign communities, not as a theory, but as a fact: freedom from compulsion, freedom to act, freedom of speech. Bouton, in his Relation de la Martinique (1640), states that the inhabitants live peacefully in great idleness, and with entire freedom to say and to do what they wish. Du Tertre adds that they are without police, and thus live in absolute freedom. Biet stresses that, having no religion, the natives have no political law; they follow tradition only and thus they have a great freedom. Many of the writers affirm that the savages are without religion, that they have no political society, and therefore neither laws nor police, and, consequently, everyone acts as he deems best. The writers also stress a widespread respect for equality among the natives. Abbeville wrote: "Et encore qu'ils ayent quelques meubles et jardinage en particulier, ils n'en sont point neanmoins tellement proprietaires que si quelqu'un de leurs semblables en avoit affaire, il ne s'en peust librement servir . . . ainsi n'ont-ils rien de particulier qu'ils ne Ie distribuent les uns aux autres." Biet added that the equality was seen in the fact that they had no kings. Boyer said that they had no taxing system, no avarice, no cupidity, no law-suits, no masters, no beggars. Lescarbot described how the mine and thine were absent from the manners of the Canadians, and consequently there were no poor, no beggars. All are rich because all work and share alike. Du Tertre likewise confirmed that in the Antilles all are equal; there are no rich or poor and all limit their desires to what is useful. Finally, Abbeville added that the savages were distinguished by their love of others, in contrast with Christian families. Lescarbot related that the savages in Canada have a natural charity for each other, which the Europeans have lost since the introduction of property rights. And Biard stressed the same point. This insistence upon fraternity by the savages will have much importance in the thinking of Voltaire at a later date. While some of the travelers emphasized the lack of government among the savages, others were inclined to point out the republican nature of the society. The community is usually presented as a free alliance between the individuals and the chief, who customarily is freely elected. Consequently, he is obeyed only when his followers • 369 ·

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wish to do so. Often, as in the case of Champlain, the writers remark that the assemblies consist of elders and leaders, and that counsels are taken and decisions are made in groups. Some authors even suggest that Europeans upon arriving in these foreign colonies are inclined to organize among themselves a more republican form of government. The company colonies, for instance, often elected the leaders for a limited period of service, as both Biet and Duquesne pointed out. The Jesuits were said to have encouraged the republican form in their South American colonies, which became in time model societies. Some travelers, Champlain again, for instance, noted that the tribes of Indians were guided by a counsel of wise men, "ou ils decident, et proposent, tout ce qui est de besoin, pour les affaires du village:... ce qui se fait par la pluralite des voix." Finally, there was a general tendency to see in the simplicity of the natives the highest qualities of virtue. Indeed, their "natural goodness" seems to have been their supreme characteristic. Lescarbot protests against those Europeans who call them wild beasts, cruel and unreasonable. He insists, on the contrary, that he found them judicious and nothing like as cruel as the Europeans who call them savages. They were fully as human as the Europeans, and more hospitable. Their actions were noble, and free from slander. Boucher remarked that they are neither avaricious, nor jealous. Le Jeune praised them for their lack of ambition, and stressed that they endure hardships without complaining, that they are not quarrelsome or hostile, and that they can be generous with their fellow citizens. Finally, they are brave, respectful of honor, and insistent upon justice and truth, having a deep dislike for wickedness and deceit and scorn for cowardice. Many writers remark that they go naked without any sense of shame or indecency. Du Tertre has succinctly summed up these qualities in the Histoire generate des Antilles: lis ont Ie raisonnement bon, et l'esprit autant subtil que Ie peuvent avoir des personnes, qui n'ont aucune teinture des lettres, et qui n'ont jamais este subtilises et polis par les sciences humaines. . . . Hs sont d'un naturel benin, doux, affable, et compatissant souvent. The deistic tendencies of the natives, along with their humanity, the simplicity of their morals, are contrasted strongly with the political and religious defects of the Europeans. The writers remarked time and again that the savages "vivent sans foy ni loy." Although • 370 •

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Pere Lallemant stated that the natives believe in one God and in the immortality of the soul, the model and usual presentation was given by Biet: Hs n'ont aucune religion et ne rendent aucun culte ni adoration a aucune divinite. . . . Ne reconnaissant point de divinite, ils n'ont point de mots pour Ie nommer. . . . Ces peuples croient l'immortalite des ames par la seule lumiere naturelle, disant qu'apres leur mort ils vont la-haut. . . . Hs ne connaissent les choses que par la seule lumiere naturelle. In all these remarks there were, to be sure, many inaccuracies, and no small amount of wishful thinking. There was also in the constant way of comparing the happiness of the savage life with the defects of civilized Europe a critical content which was all the more effective because it was in all probability naively unintentional. With their varied observations, the writers left a definite impression, as Montaigne had predicted in his Institution des enfants, of the relativity of morals; they also served to enlarge the horizon of their readers and, from time to time, even suggested specific reforms. Among the other foreign countries which attracted the attention of the public three particularly stood out: Turkey, Persia, and India, not only because of a certain exotic attraction, but because they were presented by travelers who were, in a way, professional writers: Bernier, Tavernier, and Chardin. A fourth country—China—was more popular still, also because of the professional sponsors of exoticism, such as La Mothe Ie Vayer, Huet, and Bernier. Pinot {La Chine et la formation de I'esprit philosophique: 1640-1740, 1932) has shown that France considered China a most interesting country because of its history and its customs. Throughout the century a set of treatises appeared with the intention of developing that interest: N. Trigault, Histoire de I'expodition chretienne au royaume de la Chine, Lyon (1616); M. Baudier, Histoire de la cour du roy de Chine (1624); Semedo, Histoire universelle du grand royaume de la Chine (1645); and Martini, Sinicae historiae decas prima, Amsterdam (1658), which was revised in Paris (1692), as Histoire de la Chine. The keen interest in China was enhanced by the multiple aspects in which it came to be regarded: since it was thought by many to be the oldest of civilizations, it offered to those immersed in ancient chronology (and it was a subject of much debate at the time) material for their hypotheses (La Peyrere, Prae-Adamitae, 1655; Vos•371 ·

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sius, Dissertatio de vera aetate mundi, 1659). From a religious point of view, it was a mine for those interested in deism and natural religion (La Mothe Ie Vayer, Huet, and especially Couplet, Conjutius Sinarum philosophus, 1687). In his works, Bernier emphasized the morals of the Chinese, which were in reality the source of their European reputation for wisdom. Du Halde, however, wrote the allembracing book on China—Description geographique, historique, chronologique, politique et physique de I'empire de la Chine—in 1735. By that time the entrance of China into western thought was over a century old. In effect, from 1600 on China had assumed a place of great importance in the religious discussion of the time because of attempts to convert the Chinese to Christianity. The effort dated from 1601 with the Jesuit Ricci's mission, which was only moderately successful. In 1685, Louis XIV sent a mission of Jesuits to establish an intellectual rapport with China, with the intention of wringing from the Dutch and the Portuguese their trade advantages with the Orient The mission was in fact merely a continuation of the groups of priests who had, beginning in 1652 and 1653, been sent from Rome sponsored by the Societe des Missions. This move assured the French king of a band of loyal missionaries; but in fact the result was that there were two Catholic groups in China competing for the favors of the Emperor. It was this situation which led to the quarrel concerning the "Chinese Rites," in 1700. What was involved in the dispute was the approval which the Jesuits seemed to accord to the religious and ethical practices of the country. They accepted as a true moral code, for instance, the teachings of Confucius; they declared non-idolatrous the Chinese custom of the cult of ancestors; and they asserted that the Chinese belief in the Tien proved the worship of one god. Because of this approval, the Jesuits were accused of condoning deism and natural religion. In defense of their stand, they called attention to the antiquity of the Chinese race, stressed the people's monotheism, and commended their morality. Finally, they insisted that the Chinese put into practice the touchstones of true religion—charity and the golden rule—and they suggested that China could well be a favored country of the Deity. These assertions naturally confirmed the idea of "Ie Sage Chinois," and the notion that the Chinese were, indeed, the most civilized, most prosperous, oldest, and most moral of races. • 372 ·

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The approbation of the Chinese by the Jesuit order, which continued throughout the eighteenth century, left the field open for the discussion of several problems embarrassing to orthodoxy. The ideas of the "Sage Chinois," for instance, brought up the matter of the salvation of the unbaptized, which the discovery of America had already rendered acute. Little by little, point after point became the subject of discussion: the sole election of the Jews, the need of a revelation in religion, the chronology of the Old Testament, the need for the Atonement, the theory of the state of atheists which Bayle had proposed, and, finally, the doctrine of universal consent. In reality the question of the Chinese religion was a difficult one. In presenting the Chinese as rationalist, spiritualist, and deist, the Jesuits had neglected to stress that they were also superstitious, believers in magic, and very materialist. These traits were brought up just at a moment when the three most discussed topics were the eternity of the world, primitive atheism, and the independence of ethics. These matters were debated back and forth, and eventually Catholic dogma became involved. In 1686 a thesis was presented (by Musmier) which tried to draw a distinction between "peche theologique" and "peche philosophique." By this doctrine, the need for grace became less evident. Since grace was, however, the prime condition for salvation among the Jansenists, the thesis was opposed by Arnauld. The affair was brought before the Sorbonne for a ruling upon the real religion of the Chinese. Whichever decision was made was embarrassing, and at a time (1696) when Bayle was still defending vigorously his remarks of 1682 on the possibility of a moral state of atheists. The Renaissance early developed the Utopian novel, More's Utopia having been published in 1516, and Rabelais's work some fifteen years later. From the start, the genre carried within itself a criticism of contemporary conditions while urging reforms in religious, political, economic, and social life. There is thus built into the story not only condemnation of contemporary life but propaganda for changing things; each work thus becomes potentially an attack and a blueprint for reform. The early years of the seventeenth century continued the genre, especially in Bacon's New Atlantis in England, and Campanella's Civita del sol in Italy, while toward the middle of the century, in • 373 ·

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France, appeared Cyrano de Bergerac's Voyage dans la lune and at a later date still his £tats et royaume du soleil. The period extending from 1676 to 1720 saw a whole series of Utopian novels in France, beginning with Gabriel de Foigny's La Terre australe connue (1676), and continuing with Veiras's Histoire des Sevarambes (1677-79), Fenelon's Telemaque (1699), Claude Gilbert's Histoire de Calejava (1700), Lahontan's Memoires sur I'Amerique septentrionale and his Dialogues (1703), Misson's Voyage de Franfois Leguat (1708), and Tyssot de Patot's two novels, Voyages et avantures de Jacques Masse (1710), and the Voyage en Greenland (1720).2 Cyrano, for all his dependence upon Rabelais, seems to have rationalized Utopia rather than to have recreated it, probably because he shifted his form of thought from the Meudon curate to the Italian naturalists. His Voyage dans la lune as well as his Etats et royaume du soleil derive from Campanula's Civitas solis and the works of Bruno and Cardano, and, as such, they display a distinct Italian flavor. In addition, as has often been remarked, the author of the Voyage dans la lune owed his initial inspiration to Godwin's Man in the Moon. Indeed, Cyrano builds his whole concept of Utopia upon the ancient myth of the plurality of inhabited worlds which extended from Plutarch to his day. The myth did not provide Cyrano with the core pf his presentation, though, since the work proceeds by discourse. Unlike Rabelais's work, the Voyage has but little political and social satire, and the religious satire, though sly, is not very effective. In general, Cyrano criticizes celibacy, attacks those priests who condemned Galileo, and strongly denounces all prejudices. The philosophical criticism is by far the most important in the book, and at times it can be very trying. Cyrano rejects miracles; he asserts his belief in the eternity of matter and in the infinity of worlds. He admits the existence of God, but denies the immortality and immateriality of the soul. Like his teacher Gassendi, he sustains the existence of the vacuum, and adopts Gassendi's treatment of the sensations, his atoms, and his denunciation of Aristotle. Cyrano uses these ideas 2

For these authors and their works see F. Lachevre, Cyrano de Bergerac, and the Successeurs de Cyrano, 1921 and 1922. For Gabriel de Foigny, see Wencellius; for Veiras, see Von der Muehll, Denis Veiras et son Histoire des Sevarambes, 1938. Professor Chinard has given an edition of Lahontan with excellent introduction: Lahontan: Dialogues curieux, et Memoires sur I'Amerique septentrionale, Baltimore, 1931. For Tyssot de Patot, see D. R. McKee, Simon Tyssot de Patot and the Seventeenth-century Bac\ground of Critical Deism, Baltimore, 1941.

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to explain his own belief in the unity of matter and the relativity of morals. It is obvious to anyone reading the Voyage that Cyrano was immersed in the intellectual activities of his time. He appears to have had a facile acquaintance with antiquity, but he knows even better the writers of the early Renaissance. Though he is clearly permeated with ideas of materialism, however, he also has a penchant for those mysterious forces of illuminism which spread through the universe. It is not always certain that his allusions to miracles, to spirits, and to secret happenings are satiric. His reference to the Rosicrucians displays the curious irrationalism of his contemporary rationalists, Descartes as well as Gassendi. There is deeply imbedded in him a rationalist, a naturalist, a materialist, and a mystic bordering on the poetic and highly imaginative. For him, as for Voltaire almost a century later, man's distinguishing mark is the limits of human intelligence. All our reasoning, consequently, though we apply ourselves to it with great energy, is defective because of our limited experience. The daimon of Socrates explains: "Il y a trop peu de rapport... entre vos sens et !'explication de ces mysteres." Not for that does Cyrano decry the use of the senses or of the imagination. The language of the inhabitants of the moon is actually music, or at times a dance. Their food is a series of odors, although one may have a more substantial meal of roasted larks. Money there is poetry. Cyrano observes that precisely this sense of mystery and this imagination are lacking in our world. It is for this reason that he literally drinks in the thought of Galileo, Descartes, and, above all, Gassendi. The unity of matter, the relationship between matter and the senses, the existence of the vacuum and all the other "scientific" problems which he discussed are in reality poetic manifestations, since "tout est dans tout." It has often been stated that Cyrano left a long line of imitators, whom we have come to designate the Utopian novelists. But these works show more analogy to the authentic travel accounts than to the Voyage dans la lune. While Cyrano, in the Canada episode of his Voyage skirts these travel memoirs, for the rest of his story, and for the whole of the fitats et royaumes du soleil, the background is one of pure fancy, though the discussion is free-thinking, paradoxical, philosophical, and pseudo-scientific. In a way, ideas take the place of characters, and discussion by dialogue takes the place of action. •375 ·

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The foundation of the story rests upon the new astronomy and the new physics, rather than upon the new world. The real descendants of Cyrano are Swift in Gulliver's Travels and Voltaire in Micromagas. Or perhaps more precisely, the Voyage dans la lune deserves a place alongside Kepler's Iter exstatica, Huyghens' Cosmotheoros, and Fontenelle's Entretiens sur la plurality des tnondes, all of which represented a type of popular science fiction. In any case, when all allowances are made for Cyrano's espousal of Gassendi's revival of Epicurus and epicurean atomism, and his attachment for Lucretius, his one outstanding merit lies in the creation of a kind of philosophic "conte." Voltaire derived from him more than Foigny, Veiras, Gilbert, Fenelon, and Tyssot de Patot, while Lahontan had no connection with him whatsoever. In one sense, however, all of them do have an inner resemblance in that they portray an imaginary voyage and interlard their satire and their fantastic experiences with philosophical free-thinking. Usually the extraordinary novelists begin with a real voyage which ends in a shipwreck and casts the travelers in a strange, unknown land. The political, moral, social, and religious differences of this new-found land offer many opportunities to contrast the manners and customs of the inhabitants with the conditions of civilized Europe. As might be expected, the advantages of the comparison lie practically exclusively with the newly-discovered land. The myth which underlay these Utopian works was an undiscovered land thought to be south of Tierra del Fuego. Jean Moquet had described it in his Voyages as the third and as yet undiscovered continent. Thevenot, in his Voyages curieux (1663), urged that a French colony be sent to this continent. In 1676, Foigny's Terre australe connue, the first of a series of Utopian novels which appeared between 1676 and 1720, apparently capitalized upon the popularity of the new continent. Indeed, throughout the period from 1676 to 1720 when these novels flourished, interest in the myth seems never to have ceased. Even in 1716, a document presented to the King of Spain, a translation of which appeared in Paris, announced the discovery of a fifth part of the world called "terre australe," and praised the mildness of its climate and the purity of the air, so nothing can spoil, and no sickness can occur, and lauded the goodness of the inhabitants, who lived without fortresses or walls, and who have no rules or laws. After narrating the usual shipwreck which preludes the entrance • 376 ·

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of the protagonist into the country, but which in this particular case is followed by a terrible struggle with some enormous birds, Foigny begins a very precise description of the land. The natives, red in color, and hermaphrodites, have a law which requires that any foreigner entering the land be put to death. In the case of Sadeur, Foigny's hero, the law is not applied, because of his bravery in combating the birds, and because he too is a hermaphrodite. The land is completely flat but surrounded by lofty mountains, except on the side of the sea which is shallow so far out as to be inaccessible to an approach by boats. The buildings are community houses, are geometrically shaped, and are massed in some 15,000 settlements, each of which has 16,000 men. The people's food consists in fruits, some of which have psychological effects, and some kind of nectar. Eight feet tall, the natives are naked and are immortal, but when weary of living, they can commit suicide by overeating a certain fruit. It never rains, and there are no storms, and no insects. In short: "C'est un pays de benediction" which, containing an infinite number of strange and delicate things, is without all the inconveniences which usually surround us. Each native has to present to the state at least one child, whose generation is a closely guarded secret, so much so that it is a crime to speak of it. There are no property rights. The inhabitants love one another with a true, cordial affection. Sadeur, however, soon becomes very critical of the natives to the point where his life is endangered by his hostility. An elderly citizen endeavors to explain the "australians'" point of view, and succeeds so well that there is an almost total reversal in Sadeur's attitude: he puts aside his hostile criticism and becomes an enthusiastic supporter. The cause of his change lies in the country's fundamental principle of freedom, which the "Vieillard" explains: man by nature is born free, and consequently can be subjected to no slavery without thereby ceasing to be a man. A lengthy discussion ensues of the religion of the "australians," a delicate subject among them. In fact, it is a crime to discuss it, although everyone takes it for granted in some mysterious way. God, the "Incomprehensible," is respected and honored, but His perfections are not discussed. The idea that the doctrine of final causes can offer some proof of the existence of a first cause is approved by the "Vieillard." The argument that the great revolutions of the universe must have taken an eternity is not rejected, although the point is made that we can have no valid notion of eternity. On the other hand, the • 377 ·

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idea that these revolutions could have occurred without design by the fortuitous movement of chance is rejected, and it is for this reason that the "australians" forbid the discussion of the nature of God, insist upon His Being as the "Souverain £tre," the "Grand Architecte," and the "Supreme Moderateur." Otherwise, he is "!'Incomprehensible." And thereby all kinds of diversity of opinions are avoided, and the consequent hatreds and wars, and the murders which accompany religious wars, cease. The "Vieillard" rejects all notions of particular revelation and all beliefs in miracles. He adds that one can with difficulty affirm that man survives after his life any more than the animal, and expresses doubt about the efficacy of prayer. Praying for some benefit is unwise, he says, because we thereby suppose that the deity is unaware that we desire it (a blasphemy) or that He is aware of it and does not wish to grant it (an impiety), or finally that we can turn Him from His purpose (a sacrilege). Sadeur notes that, since the "australians" never overeat, they are never sick. Also, they have no passions. Nonetheless, they weary of life, and since they have a yearning for rather than a dread of death, a native sometimes chooses a young surrogate to replace him and, an arrangement of substitution having been made, puts himself to sleep forever. The day is divided into three parts: except once every five days, when it is spent in meditation in the temple, the first third is passed at the school of science. When some positive discovery is made there, it is recorded. The second third of the day is spent in cultivating their flowers. The last third is devoted to three kinds of exercise, the first being the display of what each has invented: if it is accepted as absolutely new, the inventor's name is inscribed in the Livre des curiosites publiques; the second exercise is devoted to the manipulation of arms; the third consists in throwing bullets of three or four different sizes. Sadeur enumerates the advantages which Europeans could expect from imitation of the "australians." He suggests that their birds could be utilized for transportation as well as for cultivation; the fruits of the country would be splendid for nourishment and are, besides, very abundant. The only difficulty, he remarks, is communication with the "australians." Since they don't desire anything, it is impossible to attract them with either recompense or pleasure. In any •378 ·

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case, they hate all Europeans, make fun of their clothing, and do not know what gold and silver are. Atkinson concludes {Extraordinary Voyage . . . to ijoo, p. 85) that Foigny's work is characterized by "fantastic adventure and the interest in exotic and extraordinary things and people." This is merely Foigny's medium, however, for the book's philosophic and social content, which is derived from the comparison of an ideal with a European society. Specifically, the author criticizes geographers and scientists. He rebels against man's domination of woman and against anything which limits man's freedom. He objects to revealed religion, the Old Testament, and holds firmly for a silent deism. More solidly composed and more logically arranged than Foigny's book, Veiras's Histoire des Sevarambes was more popular and, after its original publication from 1677 t 0 ^79 (Paris), it was reprinted numerous times down to 1787 and was translated into English, Dutch, German, and Italian. Marchand, in his Dictionnaire historique of 1758, gave a lengthy article to "Allais" (i. e., Denis Veiras d'Allais), in which the compiler noted that the public was of two opinions concerning the Histoire's worth: some thought it was a bit of realistic fiction discussing a newly-discovered land, while others suspected that it was a dangerous work which under the guise of fiction directly attacked government and religion. It was attributed to Vossius, Sidney, and even Leibniz. There is no doubt, however, that the true author was Denis Veiras or Vairasse, whose protagonist, Captain Siden, was an anagram of Denis, and whose founder of the Sevarambes, Sevarias, was an anagram of Vairasse. Marchand has given a succinct summary of the subjects presented in Veiras's book: reflections upon government, police, laws, army, manners and customs, sciences, arts, and entertainment. This is in fact the only Utopian work I know where the inner reality of a nation is said to consist in political and social institutions, manners and customs, arts and sciences. What distinguishes Veiras's "australians" from Europeans is justice, good government, innocence of morals, temperance, and the love and charity which all men should have for their fellow men. Reason and virtue are their sole guides, while disorder and crime are practically non-existent because just laws have suppressed the three vices which upset all societies: pride, avarice, slothfulness. Moreover, these same laws preserve equality by banish• 379 ·

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ing property rights and by judiciously employing each citizen in arts and trades useful to the republic. Marchand adds that this equality now exists "chez beaucoup de peuples nouvellement decouverts, comme les relations en font foi." He neglects to mention that the society of the Sevarambes was founded on a type of stern repression enforced by their ruler—the Viceroy of the Sun—and the creation of a type of slave labor. We must not exaggerate this aspect of the society, however, which was, I suppose, an allusion to Louis XIV. More important was the purpose of society as outlined in a speech by Scromeras, one of the book's main characters: the preservation of the individual, the maintenance of happiness, and the increase of the species. The ideal things required for fulfilling these conditions are bodily health, tranquillity of mind, freedom, a good education, the practice of virtue, a society of "honnetes gens," good food, suitable clothing, and comfortable housing. The founder of the land, Sevarias, was a Persian who had traveled extensively in Europe, aided by a Venetian preceptor who had accompanied him to "Australia." The two proceeded to set up the most satisfactory laws and customs. Government is a representative democracy, such as one could find in Geneva. Each unit of housing— an "osmasie"—elects a delegate, who unites with those of the other "osmasies" of the district to elect a representative. The representatives elect a governor. The highest officials elect a new viceroy on the death of the incumbent. The viceroy, though elected popularly, rules despotically, and holds all property. Money is not used. Work is apportioned to everybody, the results of labor are stored in vast warehouses, and state officials are charged with law and order, as well as with the distribution of necessities and allocation of work. Education, both cultural and practical, is directed by the state after each individual reaches the age of seven. Each student learns a trade and each receives military training, regardless of sex. Marriage may take place once the girls are 16, the boys 19; they are permitted to choose their mates, and those girls who remain unmarried may become additional wives of public officials. Every effort is made to preserve equality. Veiras describes the exercise of justice at great length. Capital punishment is rare, but severe penalties of imprisonment seem rather frequent. Religion is a form of sun-worship. Everyone has freedom of conscience, however, and respects the principle of natural right, and • 380 ·

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the society. There is no religious persecution, and no oppression. The central belief is the incomprehensibility of the Deity and all accept the doctrine of the immortality of the soul. The government, which in many respects resembles the regime of Louis XIV in organization, is at the same time paternalistic and despotic, republican, authoritarian, and bureaucratic. Designed to supply the needs of every member of the community, it has as its task the equal distribution of food, clothing, and housing, the equal administration of education, the equal allocation of work. Its one goal is the equality of every citizen. But this equality of rights carries with it equality of duties. Hence everybody is a soldier in the service of the state. The country's religion is fundamentally a deism, undogmatic in general but not without ceremonies or priesthood, and it can be mystical. On the other hand, everyone is free to believe what he wishes and even to express his opinion, but not to upset the public peace with his actions. The whole functioning of society owes much to Platonic theories, but more still to Inca civilization. And there are many occasions where the advantages of the "australian" way of life are contrasted with European manners. Fenelon's Aventures de Tolemaque appeared in 1699. Professor Chinard, recalling that Fenelon's brother was a missionary to America, surmises that the Archbishop knew some of the accounts which the missionaries to Canada composed. TSUmaque, however, stems resolutely from the classical literature of Greece. It recounts an extraordinary voyage, but in terms of the Iliad, the Odyssey, and the Aeneid, and it recreates the atmosphere of ancient Greece and the lands around the Mediterranean. Along with this recreation of the historical past, and the inherent beauty of its style, there stands out also a message for Fenelon's time. The author makes every effort to distinguish between a good king and a bad one (since the work was designed as a "history-teaching by example" for the young Duke of Burgundy), and between a good, healthy, wise society and a sick one. Fenelon insists that a ruler is responsible for the health of his subjects. Society, on the other hand, has an equal responsibility to practice the humble, simple life of man in nature. Fenelon is prepared to censure severely the society of his time as too complex, too artificial, too far removed from the ideal. Its greatest misfortune is a ruler who places his own glory above the welfare of his people, while they, for • 381 ·

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their part, run after false pleasures and give themselves up to luxury. Fenelon sees in their conduct a deep depravity and corruption of morals. His work combines, therefore, the exhortation of the moralist and the idealism of the reformer. Fenelon presents to his compatriots the portrait of two countries: one (La Betique) in which he attempts to describe the ideal state, and a second (Salente) into which are introduced a whole set of reforms. The travelers never visit the ideal state, since Fenelon was too preoccupied with historical verisimilitude to permit such an indiscretion. He nonetheless describes its virtues, which are those of More's Utopia, Bacon's New Atlantis, and Campanella's Civitas solis, but modified with considerations drawn from accounts of American Indians. The inhabitants have no permanent dwellings, but live in agglomerations of tents fabricated from skins. They have no cities, they are either farmers or shepherds, and they take no interest in material things. What delights them is the simple, primitive life of the fields. Their land is shut in by high mountains or by the sea, and protected by the lay of the land as much as by their love of freedom. They have never been conquered. All their goods are held in common, and they are thus both free and equal. They have no institutions, no government, no slaves, no wars, no wealth. It all seems so remarkable that one can only conclude that it represents the earthly Paradise before Adam's fall. Fenelon, however, does not seem to feel that the inhabitants of La Betique owe their blessed state to a God-given religion. He affirms, in fact, that "ces hommes sages n'ont appris la sagesse qu'en etudiant la simple nature." ToUmaque contains not only the description of an ideal state but the blueprint of changes for a reformed state. The visit of Telemaque and his companions to Salente provides the author an opportunity to present a full criticism of society with suggestions for reform and the improvement of the people. Once again, the basis of its success is the reinstatement of the simple life of primitive peoples, the curtailment of luxury, and the return to the fields. Fenelon urges a king free from avarice, sensuality, and vainglory. A family is permitted to possess the land it requires for subsistence. Freedom of commerce is entire; duties which hinder it are removed, bankruptcy is severely punished, and marriage is encouraged by the suppression of taxes for the married. Wars are avoided, although the country must always •382 ·

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be prepared for war. Foreigners are well-received. Thus from a community threatened with destruction, it is possible to build a happy, prosperous country free from oppression, luxury, and corrupt morals. In Fenelon's Salente there is implied the same criticism of Louis XIVs France as in the Memoire of 1694, which the Archbishop addressed to his king. The point of view of Claude Gilbert in the Histoire de Calejava is amply explained in the subtide of the book, where he calls Calejava an island of reasonable men and where he indicates he will describe a parallel of their morality with Christianity. Gold is unknown in the country, and religion is a matter of personal choice, provided one believes in the existence of God and the soul, although the author expresses doubt concerning its immortality. Marriage, which is obligatory, exists for the generation of the young, and the length of time it endures is fixed by the state. The state is highly socialized, money is suppressed, and all property is held in common. The author insists that happiness prevails because the state is in accord with nature and reason. Each inhabitant works five hours a day at farming or at a trade, after which each is free to pursue his own ends. Magistrates and elders oversee the fulfillment of all obligations. The inhabitants dwell in community-houses not too different from the "osmasies" of the Sevarambes. Crops are stowed in warehouses and distributed according to need under the supervision of the magistrates. The author remarks that the islanders, the Ava'ites, live in common like the early Christians (see A. Lichtenberger, Le Socialisme au XVIIP Steele, 1895). Claude Gilbert reserves most of his criticism for religion. He opposes Pascal and miracles. In fact, he conceives of religion only in terms of deism, with the abolition of Church ceremonies, of prayers, and the suppression of the priesthood. What is left after these changes is a religion which is nothing more than ethics, in which he offers a strong apology for the passions. "Dieu," he wrote, "n'exige rien de nous pour Lui, mais Il nous commande seulement d'etre heureux." He urges tolerance with arguments reminiscent of Bayle: "Contraindre les gens d'agir, contre leurs sentiments ou contre leur conscience, e'est les contraindre de pecher et pecher soi-meme, nous sommes done obliges en conscience de laisser un chacun libre dans ses opinions, pourvu que, par ses actions, il ne trouble pas Ie repos de • 383 ·

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Properly speaking, Lahontan's Memoires sur VAmenque septentrionale, which was followed by the Dialogues (1703) between himself and Adario, a Huron whom he purports to have met in Canada, is not an extraordinary novel, nor is it Utopian fiction except in the sense that it presents life among the Hurons as ideal in comparison with life in Europe. The Memoires are devoted to a full description of that life, and indeed, apart from Lescarbot, who wrote a century earlier about Indian life in the French territory, I know of no one who wrote more fully, or more interestingly, or with more enthusiasm about the existence of the savages. Both volumes were certainly well-received, since, according to Roy, they went through twenty-one printings, and Professor Chinard states that there were many more printings not known to Roy. Nothing testifies more to the popularity of travel literature around the beginning of the eighteenth century than the widespread circulation which this work enjoyed. The title page explains explicitly the intention of the author: Nouveaux voyages de M. Ie Baron de Lahontan dans VAmenque septentrionale: qui contiennent une relation des differents peuples qui y habitent, la nature de leur gouvernemenf, leur commerce, leurs coutumes, leur religion, et leur maniere de faire la guerre, which reminds one very much of Prevost's title page of the Histoire generale des voyages. The second volume of the Memoires carried a similar description to which was added the statement that the author was adding a "petit dictionnaire de la langue du pays." An English edition was more explicit still: "A discourse of the habit, houses, complexions and temperament of the Savages of North-America." They were followed in each case by the Dialogues, which the English edition designated as containing "a circumstantial view of the customs and humour of that people." In the Memoires, Lahontan gives the impression that he has collected all the important comment concerning the savages made by travel works during the previous two centuries. There are several points he stresses continually. The natives do not recognize property rights, since they admit that what belongs to one belongs to all. Furthermore, they call money the "Serpent of the French" and attribute to it a long list of ills; when they hear that wealth provides means for progress in science and the arts, they express contempt for money. On the contrary, they attribute crimes, malice, evil, and treachery • 384 ·

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to money. They conclude that Europeans deserve the title "savages" because of their cruelties, more than the Americans who live in absolute equality in conformity with nature's laws. They insist that since all men are born alike, there should be no distinction or subordination among them. They have no political or civil laws, nor do they have judges. Possessing no moral code, they nevertheless never quarrel, never steal, never speak ill of their neighbor. They have great respect for old age. Decisions concerning tribal affairs are taken after consultation in a council of elders. They have a chief, but do not always follow his leadership. The Hurons accept only natural religion. When efforts are made to convert them to Christianity, they reply that there is a great discrepancy between the principles of Christianity and the conduct of Europeans. They have no priesthood, no dogma, no ritual, no church. Their religion is a simple faith in the existence of God, which they prove by the existence of the universe. They conclude that since man did not create himself, there must be a Superior Power which they call the "Grand Esprit." They likewise believe in the immortality of the soul, which they deduce from the fact that happiness is not universally widespread in the world. For the rest, they insist that man should never divest himself of the use of his reason in religious matters. Thus they reject revelation, prophecies, miracles. They live a gay, free life, concerned only with eating, drinking, dancing. Singularly devoid of passions, the inhabitants do not know what jealousy is, and their marriages are consequently not spoiled by crimes and violence. Women as well as men have perfect freedom to dispose of their bodies as each sees fit. Parents do not consider it their duty to interfere with a son's or daughter's choice of a mate. Young people are free to take lovers and husbands or mistresses and wives. Apparently childbirth out of wedlock is not condoned, although promiscuity is not forbidden. Separation of husband and wife can occur at a week's notice. However, families often stay united during the full life; fidelity is the common practice, especially during a woman's years of childbearing. In general, the Hurons are strong, agile, robust, and free of diseases prevalent in Europe. They are sober in their eating, refrain from taking drugs, refuse highly seasoned food. They scorn doctors, but accept the counsel of their medicine men, who amuse with their gyrations rather than aid with advice. These pseudo-doctors skilled • 385 ·

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in the use of herbs usually prescribe a banquet or a type of steam bath for all illnesses. Women give birth with the greatest ease, and they suckle their young themselves. They are opposed to war in principle and point out that only human creatures conduct wars. Though peaceful and gentle by nature, however, once they enter upon war, they conduct themselves with courage and steadfastness and display the greatest cruelty to their enemies. In the Memoires, the characteristics of the savages are divided into five classifications: their social organization, their religion, their temperament, their physical nature, their attitude toward war. The Memoires as a whole thus constitute for the author a description of the factors which together are the manners and customs of the natives, and in a broad way are at the basis of the Hurons' civilization. As a society, the group has a number of traits which give it a particular identity of its own. This idea was important for Lahontan, and permitted him to pass from this society at a descriptive level in the Memoires to a more philosophical comparison, in the Dialogues, of the Hurons' civilization with that of the Europeans. Lahontan's work thus marks a decided progress beyond the preceding travel literature. It was clearly not designed ultimately to be descriptive, but to be encyclopedic and propagandistic: inciting not to interest so much as to action. In this respect it has much in common with Diderot's Supplement, while some of its strongest statements recall Rousseau's Essai sur I'inegalite. Professor Chinard, who has studied the importance of Lahontan's ideas in connection with the thinkers of the eighteenth century, has remarked (pp. 71-72) that the author's most important contribution was the forthright way in which his book, for the first time ever, stressed the happiness of those who lived a primitive existence and condemned the civilization of the European. In one of his numerous prefaces, the author himself excused his criticism with the remark that if one had a library of travel works as well-stocked as Sir Hans Sloane's, he would find more than a hundred works which contained much stronger criticism of the Europeans by the natives. The last of the Utopian writers, and in many respects the most interesting, was Tyssot de Patot, whose two novels, the Voyages et avantures de Jacques Masse (1710) and La Vie, les avantures, et Ie Voyage en Groenland du Reverend Pere Cordelier Pierre de Mesange • 386 ·

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(1720), in a way summed up the whole development of travel literature and passed on its aims, ingredients, and techniques to Voltaire's contes philosophiques. Indeed, there are obvious connections between the Jacques Masse books and all the important imaginary voyages of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries: Cyrano (whose use of discourse Tyssot imitated), Swift (whose satiric intent he repeated), Defoe (whose Robinson Crusoe presents a situation much like Masse's), and finally Voltaire (whose Candide repeats Tyssot's techniques and ideas). Tyssot was a pedagogue who fell upon evil days in Deventer because of indiscretions published in an edition of letters. In the introductory material to the voyage proper, he indicates very clearly the atmosphere in which these indiscretions flourished. He remarks that in 1639 (the year when the story opened) until 1655, philosophy and mathematics (he himself taught mathematics) were very popular. He refers to Mersenne, mentions Descartes's Meditations, and Pascal's Traite des sections coniques. Although he rejected Descartes's metaphysics, he approved the Methode. He recalled that Descartes was attacked by both Gassendi and Hobbes, and intimated that in this attack he sided with the attackers, since (like Voltaire much later) he was convinced that it is better not to attempt to surpass the limits of human intelligence. He refers unfavorably to Galileo's condemnation by the Catholic hierarchy. Tyssot's hero, Jacques Masse, explains his interest in traveling through a chance meeting with the Wandering Jew, as a result of which he entered into the service of a Captain Lesage, was shipwrecked, picked up by an English convoy, and returned to Lisbon, where he became apprenticed to a Dr. Dupre, a Protestant surgeon who introduced the Bible to him. His reaction was curious: he thought it a novel, especially Genesis, but he objected likewise to Jewish laws (which he called "puerilites"), prophecies (which he thought "galimatias"), and the Gospels (which he considered a pious fraud). Thereafter Masse, like his creator Tyssot, was obsessed by biblical criticism, which was not devoid of "puerilites" either: he noted, as did many of the critics of his day, that the sun was created after light, that Adam was condemned to labor because of his sin, Eve was condemned to bear children in pain, and the serpent was forced to move about on its belly. He remarks that countries have been recently discovered where man is neither forced to work, nor woman to give birth in pain. He criticizes the appearance of the rain• 387 ·

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bow after the flood, ridicules Lot's experiences in Sodom, treats severely Sarah's conduct with the Pharaoh and Abimelech, laughs at the Red Sea crossing, and does not neglect Balaam's talking companion. Masse explains his attitude to these incidents simply by stating that man was not made to be immortal, that effects cannot precede causes, that the experiences of travelers whom he had read agree that savage women do not bear their young in pain, and that human experience practically always runs counter to miracles. His own opinion was founded on the theory of the sensations (which he got from Locke undoubtedly) and he concludes (contrary to Locke, to be sure) that man and animals are subject to the same fate. Masse's opinions, freely expressed before his travel experiences, fluctuate during his voyages. In his conversations with the natives and thereafter with his fellow travelers, he assumes the orthodox position. There are exceptions, however: with his companion Laforest, who accompanies him upon his strange journey, he reverts to the pedagogue and explains the nature of sun-worship, the movements of the earth, the discrepancies in the calendar, and the size of the sun. The country which they discover is organized and governed much like the land discovered by Captain Siden in the Histoire des Sevarambes. It is divided into cantons, each having twenty-two families and headed by a "baillif." Ten cantons constitute one government, directed by a "president"; ten governments constitute a "cour souveraine," headed by a representative assembly which meets for a session of twenty days annually. The king is elected, and distinguished by his virtues, but his power can be despotic. There is no capital punishment, the usual punishment being condemnation to the mines. The most serious crime is blasphemy against the deity, who is presented simply as an "esprit Universel." Marriage takes place when women are twenty, kings twenty-five, and other males thirty. The social contract of the state and the administration of justice, which Tyssot describes very minutely, are derived from natural law. There are ceremonies to celebrate birth and death. Everybody works at an assigned task, but the limited hours of work leave much freedom for other activities. An amusing piece of information is their manner of passing on the news from canton to canton—by couriers from neighboring cantonal capitals who exchanged news across their shared provincial frontier! A curious bit is that the land was devastated by smallpox—though it was a "utopia." • 388 ·

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Masse's story is interspersed with lengthy dialogues. One with a priest involves revelation and the divinity of Christ. To the request, " . . . dites-moi, s'il vous plait auparavant, quels sentiments vous avez de Dieu, du monde, de rhomme et de son origine, aussi bien que de sa dependance, et de ce qu'il doit attendre apres cette vie," the priest gives the answer of the deist: one worships, but asks nothing; no prayers are offered; no immortality is expected. "Je crois," he adds, "qu'il suffit de savoir que Dieu a tout fait, sans se mettre en peine de quoi, comment, et en quel temps." His arguments against immortality are drawn from the atomists with some leanings to the doctrine of the eternity of matter, but a stronger tendency still to the theory of relativity. Masse's conversations with the King are perhaps more interesting for what is not discussed than for the subjects undertaken. The King is presented as a man more interested in virtue than in religion. He is, consequently, opposed to war, and above all to religious wars. His main interests, however, are science and philosophy. The conversations turn upon physics, mechanics, and astronomy, therefore. Masse is enthusiastically Copernican, but more enthusiastically still, Cartesian, with his "tourbillons" and his "matiere subtile." The Jacques Masse is thus a complicated affair compounded of adventure, a whole long series of conversations on unorthodox subjects, and a discovery of an earthly Paradise which contrasts sharply with the world we know. The final impression is that there is no difference between the search for knowledge and the search for that happiness which abides in that "undiscovered country" from which no traveler is supposed to return. Yet this time the traveler does return, only to meet a world full of injustice, torture, slavery, and every human vice, where man belongs, since it is his world. Thus between 1480 and 1720 there developed a whole body of popular literature dealing with or derived from the discoveries of new lands and the travel experiences of those who visited them. Beginning as biographical memoirs, they quickly turned to fiction, geography, and to extraordinary accounts of the peoples visited and their institutions. There is a set way of composing these works, which is often outlined on their title pages. For instance: Nouveau Voyage aux isles de VAmerique contenant Vhistoire naturelle de ces pays, Vorigine, les moeurs, la religion et Ie gouvernement des habitans anciens et modernes: les guerres et les evenements singuliers . . .Ie commerce •389·

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et les manufactures qui y sont etablies, et les moyens de les augmenter, La Haye (1724). Or Garcilaso's Le Commentaire Royal, ou I'Histoire des lncas, roys du Peru, contenant leurs origines, depuis Ie premier Inca Manco Capac, leur etablissement, leur idolatrie, leurs sacrifices, leurs vies, leurs lots, leurs Gouvernements en Paix et en Guerre, etc. Or, finally, Du Tertre's Histoire naturelle des Isles Antilles de I'Amerique, in which chapters VIII to XIV deal with "moeurs." The same pattern is repeated over and over: to be presented are the "moeurs et coutumes," the temperament of the people, their political and re­ ligious institutions. There is an insistence on what Lescarbot called (Book III) the "marvelous difference in manners and fashions of life": . . . there is a marvelous difference which (without troubling ourselves in crossing the seas to have the experience thereof) we see visibly in our very neighborhood. Now forasmuch as it is a small matter to know, that people differ from us in customs and manners, unless we know the par­ ticularities thereof; a small thing is it likewise to know but that which is nerre to us: but the faire science is to know the manner of life of all nations of the world. And Garcilaso undertakes in his "Au lecteur" to point out the ad­ vantages of works of this sort: "De vous dire au reste quel fruit Ton peut recueillir de cette lecture, ce serait superflu, puisqu'a bien considerer la facpn de vivre des plus civilisez d'entre ces peuples, il paroist assez que les connaissances naturelles leur ont apris a joindre ensemble celles de la politique et de la morale." The translator points out the conformity between the lncas' ideas on government and Plato's, and insists that they have formed the idea of a perfect government for the highest form of public tranquillity. And the author promises to add to a description of their religion, everything one would want to know about their "moeurs." For his part, M. Thevenot, in his Relation de divers voyages curieux qui η ont point ete publies (1663-72), also insists on the ad­ vantage which can be had from the knowledge of other countries, particularly in perfecting the arts: "On n'a peut-etre point encore fait assez de reflexion sur Ie profit que peut produire cette communi­ cation des pratiques des arts, ni pense combien elle peut apporter de commodite a la vie humaine." He expresses especially the desire to develop these arts which are "les plus utiles au bien de la societe." •390 ·

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It has often been said that the discovery of new lands eventually broke down the classical concept of man, and changed the view which regards man as possessing traits common to all men regardless of time and place to one which consists in stressing the differences between men because of circumstances attributed to changes in time and place. Very often, this explanation is advanced by those who attempt to distinguish between classic history and romantic history or by those who are attempting to differentiate between classicism and romanticism as two distinct ways of life. It is undoubtedly true that the change took place and that the travel novel played its role in bringing about the modification. While doing so, however, it introduced other considerations destined to become dominant Enlightenment concepts. One of these was the conviction that the variety of men ran parallel with the unity of man. Not only did all men differ because of attendant circumstances, but all men were simultaneously the same because of the natural law, which was the law of reason, the law of God, the law of nature, and the law of justice. Thus the unifying principle entered into the diversifying principle with the result that two new notions became paramount: the diversifying principle proved the relativity of morality, while the unifying principle proved its basic oneness. Thus these travel novels not only modified the concept of history; they also offered material to reform morality, religion, and politics, by insisting upon two further relationships: between thought and action in which one's attitude toward life expresses itself in one's way of living, and between manners and customs and the organized condition of a society. These works, consequendy, whether descriptive, fictional, or Utopian, or whether satiric, encyclopedic, or propagandistic, are all doing the same thing: they are preparing for the reform of man through knowledge of man in a medium where free-thinking is more understandable than systematic philosophy and where the audience is the largest possible audience for that moment.

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Moliere as free-thinker1 has often been discussed, ever since Brunetiere's article. The core of the comic poet's thought, he maintained, was the imitation of nature with the added injunction that the moral and aesthetic lesson which nature instills in everyone is that each must, so far as possible, live in conformity with her. Brunetiere remarked that what Moliere attacked in his comedies was not libertinism or debauchery, but rather those who "fardent la nature, qui, pour s'en distinguer, commencent par en sortir." On the other hand, those whom he approved follow nature, "la bonne nature." On their side are truth, common sense, "honnetete," and virtue, while on the opposite side are ridiculousness, pretense, folly, and hypocrisy. Brunetiere surmised that Moliere found this way of thinking in Rabelais and Montaigne, where it was developed as a result of religious indifference, skepticism, and epicureanism resulting from the Reformation. Having adopted these attitudes, Moliere opposed religion, which not only insisted upon the corruption of human nature, but urged that one's will must be exercised to constrain this human nature to virtue. Brunetiere pointed out Moliere's position in the licole des femtnes, in Le Tartuffe, and in Le Misanthrope, concluding with Baillet that the great comic writer is one of the most dangerous enemies of the Church. "On y apprend," said Baillet, "les maximes les plus ordinaires du libertinage contre les veritables sentiments de la religion." Professor Nitze, in his "Moliere et Ie mouvement libertin de la Renaissance," found Brunetiere's affirmations too dogmatic, "impliquant des consequences tout a fait erronees," although he granted that they are partly true. Nitze, recalling Perrens's statement: "Moliere est libertin jusqu'aux mcelles."—conceded that up to a certain point the author of Tartuffe is a "libertin." The problem which he proposed to examine in his article was "la qualite transcendante de sa doctrine," to discover Moliere's source and the form it took in his works. He began, consequently, by defining Moliere's outstanding HE CASE of

T

1 See F. Brunetiere, Etudes critiques, iv, 179-242; W. Nitze, "Moliere et Ie mouvement libertin de la Renaissance." R.H.L., xxxiv, 1927, 255-76; P. Benichou, Morales du grand Steele, Paris, 1948, pp. 156-218; A. Adam, Histoire, m, 255-410; and J. Guicharnaud, Moliere, Une Aventure thedtrale, Paris, 1963.

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characteristic, common sense, which he declared was "au fond de tout ce qu'il ecrit" and always used by the comic poet to resolve the situation in his plays. This "bon sens," Nitze (like Brunetiere) thought, originated in Rabelais and Montaigne, but more particularly in Charron's Sagesse, which gave Moliere his two other major qualities: "prud'homie" or integrity, and "volupte." Nitze quoted from Charron to show that underlying this integrity is the law of nature and concluded that Moliere was indirecdy connected with Montaigne, through Charron, and that the point of contact uniting these three was the philosophy of nature: "fidelity to custom, avoidance of extremes ["juste mesure"], and searching after pleasure ["volupte"]." From these precepts is derived that "bon sens" so necessary for the good life which Moliere counseled in his plays. Having made an analysis of the plays which he thought derived from this view, Nitze's final verdict is that although this attitude is not Christian, it is not "libertin" either, in the brutal, debauched sense of the word, but is preeminently a moralist view. Probably we have confused things unnecessarily by assuming that Moliere's attitude toward life is a philosophy rather than a morality; and certainly by assuming that a "libertin" is necessarily a debauchee. Moreover, we think we can define free-thinking more accurately than people who are living it. Nitze at least suggests at the end of his article that more is to be gained if Moliere is looked at in the moral perspective. This is precisely what Professor P. Benichou has done in his Morales du grand siecle, where he warns that comedy, by its very nature concrete and very close to life, has to lead to practical conclusions which are necessarily vague, general, and open to multiple interpretations, all the more so in classical comedy because of some prejudice against the explicit injection of personal opinion on the part of the author. On the other hand, a comedy presupposes a certain accord between the author and his audience, and in that sense, the author would want to accommodate public opinion grosso tnodo with his play. Benichou assumes that these conditions are responsible for the feeling that the core of Moliere's philosophy is a common sense which is the peculiar mark of the bourgeoisie. Faguet, indeed, never abandoned the conviction that any attempt to interpret a Moliere play outside of this bourgeois context is totally erroneous. And yet, as Benichou has stressed, the characters and the manner of life which • 393 ·

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Moliere finds sympathetic correspond to a noble rather than a middleclass view. If the pastorals, the ballets, the intermedes, and all the plays presented as "divertissements" are scanned, they will appear to have nothing to do with middle-class thought: Amphitryon, for example, looked at from Jupiter's viewpoint, proposes a genre of life distinct from common sense, from reality even, a sort of aristocratic assertion of the authenticity of pleasure separated from all concept of social utility. Curiously, "preciosite" in the realm of gallantry is a similar sort of assertion which takes for granted the sovereign hero, far beyond any blame or constraint. A part of Don Juan's integrity is guaranteed by this conception of privilege: he is, as Benichou states, a Seigneur "a qui tout est du, qui exige et prend ce qui lui plait, et ne doit rien en retour." For the bourgeois he would be a "grand Seigneur, mechant homme"; from his own estimate of his integrity he would, on the contrary, be a "grand Seigneur," and consequently the unyielding enemy of all constraint. He is necessarily in conflict with Christianity because he is in opposition to social utility, human conscience, and the laws governing gallantry, family, and society. Benichou insists that far from favoring the "bourgeoisie," Moliere practically always ridicules it. He concludes that Moliere is not a partisan of the "bon sens bourgeois," but of the "bon ton aristocratique," and thus, in his opposition to middle-class manners, he is in accord with the spirit of his time. Even Moliere's "sagesse" was "nee a la cour" and intimately connected with his feminism. Here the dramatist's position is clear. He is definitely on the side of those young people whose future is threatened by some "old" fool, or by the head of the family, or by some idiot lover. There seems no reason to question the sincerity of this point of view, which runs counter to the ideals of the bourgeoisie, but which is stricdy in line with "preciosite." It is significant, therefore, Benichou adds, that Moliere makes no move to protect the integrity of the family, although he accepts the family as a perfecdy normal institution, and urges confidence among the members rather than constraint. If we undertake to see what Moliere seems specifically to approve and what he condemns, we will perhaps grasp more accurately his point of view. We must take some precautions not to overextend this inquiry, however, or else we will have him opposed to many things which he uses for their comic effect rather than for any moral ob• 394 ·

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jection he holds to them. In general we shall assume that if he satirizes something, the satire must express some dissatisfaction with the thing, although any suggestion that satire indicates rejection or a negative attitude would certainly be false. In the Precieuses ridicules, Moliere was attracted to his subject because it was timely, because it was good material for satire, and because it lent itself to comic situations. Above all these professional considerations, however, there was something inherent in "preciosite" which objectively was morally excessive. Moliere, therefore, was amply justified in selecting it as a theme because of its timeliness, because of its dramatic (and comic) possibilities, and finally because it offered him an opportunity for expressing some fundamental views on human nature which he held. From them it results that what he found unacceptable in "preciosite" was its ultra-refinement, its excesses, and its provincial adaptations. He did not, however, fail to recognize those aspects of "preciositi" which express a very desirable attitude toward life. When we turn from the Pricieuses to the ficole des maris, we meet with a "raisonneur" designed explicitly, as we have been led to think, to convey the opinions of the author. Ariste maintains that we should accommodate ourselves to the view of the majority, beware of exaggerations, follow middle-of-the-road attitudes, try not to attract attention by personal idiosyncrasies. One can avoid with difficulty the conclusion that Ariste offers as the desirable qualities of life a gilded, if not golden, mean, a "juste mesure" and an unattractive mediocrity. Critics have consequently insisted that Ariste the "raisonneur" does not speak for Moliere. They urge us to believe rather that Moliere has faith in man, that he believes that society aids man to achieve his happiness: it teaches him how to be free from constraints, how to achieve power by studying in that most advanced of all schools, the school of the world. A. Adam, who offers this interpretation, concludes that in his work Moliere speaks for the young, the modern, those who act spontaneously and resist constraints, even at the expense of a little virtue. L'£cole des femmes is more disturbing still. Chrysalde is a "raisonneur" who develops a morality which is certainly "bouffonne" in its effect and vulgar in its expression. He urges deceived husbands to a resignation which is absurd, and his advice, which tends to minimize the importance of infidelity, is not precisely good common sense. In general, critics agree that Chrysalde does not speak for the • 395 ·

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author any more than Ariste does. If we attempt to extract from the play what Moliere is trying to say, we find there sympathy for youth, faith in life, opposition to all forms of moral pedantry. But there is also a satire of religious morality: the "catechisme" sounds very much like a parody, and Agnes's defense of her freedom certainly is the instinctive exaltation of one who has learned to follow nature, without too much instruction from the school of the world. Her naive pronouncements, presumed to stem from her ignorance and simplicity, have the effect of natural, human reactions. Undoubtedly, Moliere rejected all forms of constraint; he must have detested conformity, pedantry, and asceticism. But did he think that the source of these things lay in the austerity of religion, and was his attack leveled against Christian morality or social morality? The £cole des jemmes apparently raised a storm of protest, but it is difficult to divine in the documents which we have, or even in the Critique de I'ficole des jemmes the answer to our question. Adversaries reproached Moliere for the vulgarity of his jokes, a lack of delicacy, and obscenity. All of that would seem to indicate that the author of L'ficole des jemmes made his attack against social morality. But his critics also denounced the scandalous character of the "sermon" and the "maximes," and they pushed their condemnation of the author to the point of declaring that he had not shown the proper respect for the mysteries of religion. Some even accused him of writing in the "maximes" a parody of the Ten Commandments. We are forced to conclude that in this case it was considered that both social morality and Christian morality were involved, but separately. Tartuffe elicits some curious reactions from the critics, some of whom have a tendency, already noted by Adam (III, 292), to see the play as nothing but a comedy written to amuse, in spite of the fact that the comedies of the Palais Royal were admittedly satires of the times, and a satire is by nature an attack, and notwithstanding Moliere's remark in the first "Placet": "Le devoir de la comedie etant de corriger les hommes en les divertissant..." The "lesson" has been explained by some as justifying "bon sens" (Guicharnaud). This "bon sens" is not quite clear, since what is menaced is a whole family, and what produces the menace is the obstinate infatuation of the head of the family for an impostor who has evil designs. Once these designs have become clear to the head, "bon sens" could be expected • 396 ·

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to take care of the situation. But no, since it has gotten completely out of hand, to solve it requires the force of the King. Hypocrisy as a subject was not original with Moliere, of course. He seems to have taken it from an obscure novel of 1624 by D'Audiguier, and he undoubtedly knew Scarron's Hypocrites. Besides, there were contemporary incidents of the sort in the play which enjoyed public currency. Finally, there were organizations such as the Compagnie du Saint-Sacrement which were thought to be infiltrated by evildoers. Moliere must have undertaken the subject because it was contemporary, because the hypocrite was very open to satire, and because the fundamental sincerity which was the basis of the victim's character made him particularly susceptible to this evil personage. There is some suspicion that Louis XIV encouraged Moliere to write on this subject and that, after the outcry of the affair following L'tcole des femmes, he was very open to the suggestion. Moliere was far from being orthodox in religious matters. His biographers have practically all been concerned with his relationship with Gassendi and his group. Ever since Grimarest, they have discussed whether Moliere was actually Gassendi's pupil, like Cyrano de Bergerac, for example. The consensus of critical opinion has been that Moliere did not study with Gassendi, although Mongredien has stressed that it is not impossible that he could have done so. However that may be, Moliere was intimate with Chapelle, Luillier's son, who did study with Gassendi. Moreover, Moliere was closely related with Bernier, Gassendi's student and secretary and much later the writer of the Abrege. Indeed, Moliere and Bernier collaborated with Boileau in the Arret burlesque. Furthermore, the comic poet was on very intimate terms around this time with D'Assoucy, whose dislike of orthodox religion was not far from fanaticism. Moliere also frequented La Mothe Ie Vayer, knew his son well, and often extracted from the elder Le Vayer ideas which he incorporated in his plays. Adam has pointed out that Moliere was an attendant at the meetings of the Croix-Blanche where a whole group of young people adopted Des Barreaux as their master. There can be no doubt that through his association with these free-thinkers Moliere was also drawn to the party. Guy Patin remarked that Dehenault, one of the Horatian poets of the time, as was Des Barreaux, was now going around with Moliere and Chapelle, "qui ne sont plus charges d'articles de foi que lui." Finally, • 397 ·

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we should recall that Moliere undertook a translation of Lucretius' De rerum naiura, though that manuscript is now lost. All this evidence does not mean that Moliere was opposed to the Catholic religion to the extent that Voltaire later was. It does indicate, though, that his interests in philosophical matters tended toward free-thinking. It is very possible that his remark in the Lettre sur I'imposteur—"Il est certain que la Religion n'est que la perfection de la raison, du moins pour la morale"—represents the limits of his religious thinking, in which case, we must admit that he belongs beyond a doubt in the circle of free-thinkers, and precisely those who gathered around Gassendi. Moliere's satire of the hypocrite is full, but does not necessarily involve Christianity, a difference made clear by the playwright's continual efforts to distinguish, in defense of his play, between his Tartuffe, who is a lay brother, and the Tartuife whom his detractors regarded as a priest. Moliere complicated the situation by the costume he gave Tartuffe, which was very like a priest's. On the other hand, there is nothing in the play which suggests that Tartuffe is anything but a lay brother. It was perfectly reasonable to defend it as a satire against bigotry which took its source in hypocrisy. It was a "tableau de moeurs" justified by the principle that comedy existed to correct morals by satire. Thus Tartuffe was a subject for comedy, for the same reason that a bourgeois pretending to be a nobleman, or a woman pretending to be a scholar, were subjects for satire. But Moliere's defense extended beyond these limits. In the play itself Cleante, the "raisonneur," attempts to show that there are true and false Christians, as there are true and false heroes. This turn in the argument is troublesome because just as it is difficult to discern whether Tartuffe is a priest or a lay brother, it now becomes hard to distinguish whether one is a Christian or not. Moreover, if there are professed ways of defining the Christian according to his beliefs, there are less clear criteria for defining him by his conduct, particularly in a society which is constantly debating between strict moral conduct (Jansenism) and more tolerant rules for conduct (Jesuitism). CIeante's distinction clearly favors the more tolerant rules, which at least indicates, I suppose, that Christianity is not condemned in the play, but a strict kind of Christian conduct is disapproved because it is too dogmatic, too little adjusted to the human. Thus there is injected into the debate between Cleante and Orgon the "sentiments hu• 398 ·

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mains," and dogmatism is combated by free, that is, humanistic thinking. Adam calls this transformation a shift from religion to a philosophy of religion, adding the curious remark that Moliere, though a Christian, is already a philosopher. Adam likens him to Erasmus who had developed a type of Christian humanism far removed from Christian orthodoxy, which is, of course, precisely what the Gassendi free-thinkers had been doing during the whole first part of the seventeenth century. Moliere's relationship with La Mothe Ie Vayer encouraged this point of view. In the case of Dom Juan, it is not so easy to affirm the author's position toward his hero. Adam, in a brilliant analysis of the play, concluded that Moliere considered the protagonist an atheist. It is indubitable that Don Juan, though he recognizes the existence of God, defied Him, thereby bringing upon himself his destruction. But whether Moliere approved of this divine destruction, or whether, like Sganarelle, he was at the same time scandalized by Don Juan's defiance and attracted by his consistency of character, we do not seem able to decide. Nor do we understand entirely why he placed the defense of Christian virtue in the hands of Sganarelle, who was troubled precisely by his hatred for his master's impiety and by a secret admiration for his conduct. There have, indeed, been critics who resented the tactic of placing the defense of Christianity and virtue in the hands of a valet (cf. quotation from Rochemont in A. Adam, III, 333). We are condemned to make our judgments of Dom Juan without knowing precisely how to make them. Moliere's intentions are completely masked to such an extent that if we apply the rule of "castigat ridendo mores," we are without the slightest notion what is being satirized, nor even how it is satirized. Nor do we know what is the core of Don Juan's character—whether he represents the indifference and cynicism of the nobility whose ambitions surpass their achievements or whether, as Doolittle presents the case, the firmness with which he defends his inner authenticity against the attacks of a hypocritical world assures his salvation even in his annihilation. Try as hard as we may, the ambiguities of Dom Juan always face us, and attempted interpretations only serve to increase the ambiguities. If, for instance, as Doolittle proposes, the affirmation of self is the highest form of human expression, it is difficult to see what Moliere is satirizing unless it is the social conditions of those who deny the unbridled • 399 ·

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affirmation of self and predict a dire punishment upon the culprit in the name of Christian morality. If one accepts that in each confrontation (save that of the beggar) what is brought out is the purity of intent in Don Juan and the inner hypocrisy of his interlocutors, it is difficult to understand why, in the last scene with his father, the protagonist assumes and admits the role of a hypocrite. In the scene of the beggar, when Don Juan offers a gold coin to him provided he will blaspheme God, and the latter refuses to the point where Don Juan rewards his perseverance in the name of humanity, it is difficult to understand what this particular consistency of character has to do with Christian virtue and social morality. If he has, as Benichou remarked, taken his origin in the recent divorce of the mentality of the nobility and religion, then it is very hard to understand how the whole presentation is a revenge of the author for the persecution of Tartuffe (Adam, III, 333). Most puzzling is Arnavon's interpretation that the author, "ne reconnaissant Ie vrai qu'au temoignage de sa conscience, rebelle a toute croyance imposee du dehors, ou pratiquee par conformisme et sans conviction, il demeure attache a des principes qui unissent en tous pays les coeurs sinceres et les gens de bien." There is, however, a final interpretation which might conciliate all these ambiguities. Guicharnaud (Moliere, One Aventure thedtrale, 1963, p. 253), following the explanation of Adam, suggests that Moliere "se venge de deux sortes d'hommes: les imbeciles devots, les grand seigneurs mechants hommes." It is not that Moliere takes sides in the debate between the two groups. He merely shows that both are unattractive, but by contrasting the one with the other, he offers each as an extreme human attitude, each totally incompatible with the other. Thus the play is fundamentally the farce of a continuous debate between a "devot" and a "libertin." But the impossibility of accepting this explanation is made evident by Guicharnaud's final remark that the free-thought of Don Juan only masks an absence of thought. Though every effort at interpretation leads inevitably to an impossible ambiguity, it can be said that there is nothing in the play which supports Christian dogma, Christian ethics, or social virtue. There is really nothing which confirms the law of nature as the law of reason. Every effort made by Elvire, Don Louis, and the other interlocutors to persuade Don Juan to subscribe at least to natural law •400 ·

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as a social decency fails. It is true that Don Juan admits to a natural law which places right at the limits of the power to act freely, which in a way reveals in the character of the "grand seigneur" a similarity with the thought of Hobbes, Pascal, and Spinoza—and in this one respect with Locke. But that merely places Moliere in the evolution of a free-thinking tradition between Hobbes-Pascal and SpinozaLocke, and the positive aspects of these resemblances are very small indeed. Besides, there is no evidence that Don Juan attaches any more importance to this attitude than to any other. One would like to conclude that the whole presentation is a farce, a spectacle, what Adam calls "une immense bouffonnerie" situated in a guignolesque world of light and shade, where truth and seeming truth, right and wrong, good and evil have no meaning and where, consequently, the moral, the "lesson" is just another ambivalent absurdity. Racine could move majestically in that world, there is really no reason why it should be denied by Moliere. It resembles more a Black Mass, however, where the Avenger is the Spirit of Silence, than any affirmation of the will to be. The same ambiguity and mystery which surrounds Dom Juan is doubly present in Le Misanthrope. As in Tartuffe and Dom Juan, the thought is masked to the point where it becomes very risky to extract it from any explicit statement made. One of the most baffling techniques is that the apparently "correct" point of view is taken by the wrong person who in some way or other contradicts it by his action. Besides, the author's attitude toward his created characters is as enigmatic in Le Misanthrope as in Dom Juan. We cannot tell, at times, whether Moliere is laughing at Alceste or in sympathy with his tirades. We can tell that we adopt both attitudes simultaneously. The character of Alceste was not an invention of Moliere. In 1661, La Mothe Ie Vayer published Prose chagrine, in which he expressed attitudes similar to Alceste's: he found animals more interesting than men, a really virtuous individual was almost an impossibility. He admitted that his "humeur chagrin" led to all sorts of "bizarreries." He was astonished to note that he disapproved of practically everything in religion, justice, finances. La Mothe, rapidly becoming a misanthrope, ended by criticizing the misanthrope and his "chagrin philosophe" and by counseling resignation, acceptance of one's lot despite discouragement. Moliere adopted the ideas of La Mothe in writing the Amour madecin, which preceded the Misanthrope. In • 401 ·

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all probability, he returned to his old friend and the Prose chagrine when composing the Misanthrope.2 There is another contributing factor which has certainly not been overlooked; indeed, it has, if anything, been exaggerated. That is the role which Moliere played in the composition of his Misanthrope. Many have suggested that the author's own personal life has resemblances with Alceste's dilemma. The injection of an author's personal experience is, of course, unthinkable in a classical play, but Moliere undoubtedly was passing through a critical moment in the years 1664 and 1666, in which, as both Adam and Jasinski have shown, he was burdened with all kinds of worries; under the harassments he had become bitter, discouraged, ill-humored. He could find in his own day-to-day living the wherewithal to cry out his exasperations, as Alceste did, and denounce not only the society of his time, but all possibility of virtue. It is even plausible that he recognized in himself how ridiculous this attitude could be and that, in writing the satire of his time, he silently included the satire of himself. It is striking that his play is filled with all kinds of misanthropes; there were no reasons why he should not have clandestinely included himself. At all events, we cannot avoid the fact that, although Alceste's attack against the lack of sincerity of his contemporaries is all-embracing and total, even assailing those whom he loves, it is not insincere, unjust, or unreasonable. Donneau de Vise remarked upon this in his review, when he said of Alceste that "il dit des choses fort justes." Moreover, Alceste's judgment of the faults of his fellow men, though more absolute, does not differ from that of his associates. If he becomes a comic character, then, it is certainly not because of a lack of common sense, nor is there anything wrong with his standards of morality. As filiante remarked, it would be better if everybody had high regard for truth and sincerity. We must concede, then, that since he is doing what everybody is doing—criticizing his fellow man —since his criticisms agree with those of his associates, and since the motives for them are more intelligent, more judicious, and more idealistic than those of his fellow men, he is really acting according to nature, he is more normal, and, consequently, more human than his friends who criticize him. He is, of course, excitable, excessive in his reactions, and he does not conform to the social pattern. Consequently, he gets into situations where he is judged unreasonable, 2

This explains in part why the word "chagrin" is a key word in the play.

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unrestrained, and unsocial. He is "bizarre," what we would call "virtuous to a fault." But can virtue become a fault? Can the reasonable become so reasonable that it is unreasonable ? Is it possible that one has so high regard for the human that he becomes inhuman ? If the answer is affirmative, then there is no norm to human conduct, satire becomes a useless weapon, and it really is folly to want to correct the world. But that is what comedy is supposed to be doing: "Castigat ridendo mores." We know that Moliere remarked, at least once, upon its futility. Here, however, the exasperation goes much deeper, and the final question concerns the futility of being one's self. Guicharnaud has observed, rightly I think, that what unites all the characters is "amour de soi," but it is what separates them also. And if individualism is a virtue, it is such a tiny virtue in an age which insisted upon the efficacy of the social. Moliere indeed wrote a comedy to end all comedy. With perfect sincerity, he showed the impossibility of ultimate sincerity. It is even possible that he descended into that dark region where all virtue is impossible, because of human incompatibilities. It is curious that in these three plays—Tartuffe, Dom Juan, and the Misanthrope—the question which is put is always that of sincerity: in Tartuffe, it is outside of man; in Dom Juan, it is inside; in the Misanthrope, it is everywhere and nowhere. It is more curious still that this search for sincerity involves so many incompatibilities: the distinction between illusion and reality, truth and falsehood, right and wrong, good and evil, the individual and the social. Most curious of all, we start out with the conviction in each play that man has the means of making these distinctions clear, that the sources of judgment and action— common sense, being true to one's nature, general agreement as to what constitutes the normal, the natural, the good, the beautiful, the useful—can be trusted. We assume that these sources are guaranteed by man's ability to think. Descartes assured us that reason, "bon sens," the ability to distinguish the true and the false, is equally shared by all. We have even been convinced that it can be trusted because it is God-given reason, and God would not deceive. Further, trusting to that reason, we have assumed that our actions can be so regulated that we can make adequate distinctions in our conduct of life. Now we discover that reason has limits and cannot be trusted, that we do not want rules because they are contradictory, and that it is better not to make too many distinctions. • 403 ·

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All this beating about the bush, of course, does not mean that the hypocrite is a necessary evil, or that a "grand Seigneur, mechant homme" has to be tolerated because we do not know how to dispose of him, or that a virtuous person cannot be a bore. It means that this matter of being human requires adjustments, that man, as Montaigne said, is certainly a creature "vain, divers, et ondoyant," and all that Montaigne drew from that discovery must be respected. That is to say, there is no formal way to freeze oneself into existence. To be oneself one has to be free to think oneself into existence. We have ample proof that it can be done, because we do it all the time. Moliere everywhere affirms the possibilities of this free-thinking. LA FONTAINE

If Moliere is typical of the free-thinker, what about La Fontaine? 3 We have always been led to believe that, in spite of his enigmatic character, his distinguishing traits are naivete, simplicity, and, above all, sincerity. There are those, indeed, who have stressed that he has, with childish simplicity, confessed all. Much of his charm comes from these studied confessions. Practically everyone would agree with Maucroix that La Fontaine is a "bon garcon," that is, as Gohin explains, "aimable et sympathique"; but was he also, as Maucroix added, "fort sage et fort modeste" ? Curiously, only on one point is there a general agreement among his critics: La Fontaine would submit to no constraint of any sort, not even self-imposed. Clarac, referring to the author's short stay with the Oratorians, remarks that the strange thing about the episode is not that he abridged it speedily but that he ever consented to inaugurate it. No one would expect a consistent, well-disciplined La Fontaine: his "free" verses are the best portrait of his character. In all respects he is the perfect example of Montaigne's definition of man: "certes c'est un sujet merveilleusement vain, divers, et ondoyant." La Fontaine, in his portrait of himself in Clymhne, noted both his changeability and the impossibility of knowing himself: 8 See A. Adam, Histoire, iv, 7-70; H. Busson et F. Gohin, Discours a Mme de la Sabliere (editions des textes francais), Paris, 1938; F. Gohin, La Fontaine: Etudes et recherches, Paris, 1937; M. L. Petit, La Fontaine et Saint-Evremond, 1953, pp. 187253; P. Clarac, La Fontaine par lui-meme, Paris, 1961, pp. 117H1; H. Busson, in R.H.L., XLii, 1935, 1-32; XLiii, 1936, 257-86; and R. Jasinski, in RH.Ph., 1, 1933, 316-30, and 11, 1934, 218-42.

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Sire, Acanthe est un homme inegal a tel point Que d'un moment a l'autre on ne Ie connait point, Inegal en amour, en plaisir, en affaire; Tantot gai, tantot triste; un jour, il desespere, Un autre jour il croit que la chose ira bien: Pour vous en parler franc, nous n'y connoissons rien. Evidently, the difficulties which he experienced in understanding himself have been encountered by others. Professor Adam judges that the poet, more than anyone, was "divers, secret, et dechire," but in those qualities he really resembled the other great artists of his time, especially Moliere and Racine, and in all probability all three reflected all that was "douloureux" in that age. Some personal peculiarities—nonchalance, laziness, distraction, revery—cannot often be found in La Fontaine's contemporaries, though; they are a part of his "mask," along with a "lovable" disposition, which, he confesses, embraces everything: il n'est rien Qui ne me soit souverain bien, Jusqu'au sombre plaisir d'un cceur melancolique. "Aimable" and charming—no one would begrudge him these epithets. There is no doubt either about his intellectual capacity, or his alertness. Adam has stressed that he was most attentive to political incidents, but just as keen when a philosophical problem was involved, and sharper still when it was a matter of morals. He sincerely liked the pleasures which came from contemplation of the simple things of life—flowers, odors, the peaceful sky, and, above all, the wiles of his animals. It is possible that he was no Buffon in describing their habits. But this simple soul, as Taine has shown, penetrated with unfailing accuracy and an uncompromising irony the resemblances between the animal and human world. Moreover, the classical foundations of his humanism may have been weak; he may have had only a minimum of Greek. Nevertheless, as D'Olivet has testified, he read his Plato and his Plutarch, "la plume a la main." In addition, he was remarkably well-versed in Descartes as well as in Gassendi. He knew all the Epicurean poets from Theophile de Viau to Chaulieu, which I suppose is not surprising, since he seemed to be acquainted with all poets from Homer to himself. He was a • 405 ·

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faithful reader of Rabelais, and equally addicted to Boccaccio, not to mention all the fabulists who flourished from Aesop to his own day: Phaedrus, Nevelet, Haudent, and others. He was a member of the Duchess of Bouillon's salon, where so many of the "libertins" assembled—Mme Deshoulieres, Chaulieu, and La Fare, for example. The Duchess herself was sister of Mme de Mazarin, the close friend of Saint-Evremond during his exile in England. La Fontaine was also sheltered by Mme de la Sabliere, who had a salon in Paris at which her uncle, Dr. Menjot, and Bernier, the former pupil and secretary of Gassendi, were present. Indeed, La Fontaine lived with Bernier, at Mme de la Sabliere's, for a period of time. The outstanding characteristic of the salon was its anti-Cartesianism and its interest in Gassendi. Adam has noted that it was resolutely opposed to Christian stoicism and enthusiastically in favor of epicureanism. AU the members of the group and their affiliates—even, or perhaps one had better say, especially, Ninon de Lenclos and her correspondent Saint-Evremond—believed in a restricted happiness which came from a moderate use of the passions. La Fontaine, apparently, was admirably adjusted to this society. Like Saint-Evremond, he was an ardent admirer of Petronius and Ariosto, and a devotee, like everybody else in the seventeenth century, of Horace. Like Moliere and all the Gassendists, he knew his Lucretius well. The meeting-ground of La Fontaine with all these "libertins" and free thinkers seems to have been centered in the classical writers of Renaissance humanism—Plato, Epicurus, Lucretius, Plutarch, and Horace—but these writers also met, as we know, in that greatest of all libertins, Montaigne. It can be affirmed that the poet appears steeped in the ideas of the sixteenth-century moralist. But, as Gohin has pointed out, it is not easy to establish parallelisms of expression between the two nor, I would add, is it desirable. What is more to our purpose is the correspondence in intellectual portraits which each has left. La Fontaine refers to Montaigne only once, to remark that the author of the Essais passes from subject to subject without "aucun arrangement," a characteristic noted also by Pascal. For La Fontaine, Montaigne's style was as "free" as his own "free" verses. But other important resemblances existed between the two. La Fontaine has the same tendency to confess everything as Montaigne. Sincerity is • 406 ·

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what gives both their charm. In their confessions, they admit to a certain lack of firmness, concede a timidity and a certain reserve which could be misinterpreted. They both exhibit a gay, carefree, nonchalant disposition. They both enjoy conversing with others, despite a common liking for solitude. No one in any literature, not even Cicero, could discourse more brilliantly than these two on friendship. They had both turned to antiquity for their source and they had expressed a similar respect for the philosophers and the moralists. While Montaigne's model was undoubtedly Socrates, La Fontaine adopted Socrates' creator, Plato. Both were immersed in Seneca, Plutarch and Ovid, Lucretius and Horace, and both eventually adopted the epicurean as the satisfactory way of life. Finally, both drew from their knowledge of animals some very serious conclusions for man. Like Rabelais and Moliere, they both eventually concluded that it is best to entrust oneself to nature. They both professed a similar regard for the modest use of the passions, accepting a counsel of moderation, and displaying a genuine desire to savor life while there is yet time. The parallelism in taste, sentiments, and ideas is striking. It does not prove that La Fontaine got them from his illustrious predecessor. It does prove that they were acquired from the rich vein of humanism which both used to the fullest. The importance of their agreements lies precisely in this humanism. In a very fundamental way, Montaigne's work concerns the nature of man. The two points the moralist constantly made is that man believes himself the lord and master of the universe, and he bases this superiority upon the powers of the mind. Montaigne, however, affirms his intention to humble man's pride by showing that animals are more clever than man by the use of their instincts. What is involved in this paradox, of course, is the value of human reason and its utility to human beings. When Montaigne and La Fontaine depreciate astrology, for instance, the result is an attack against man's intellectual powers; when they stress the cleverness of animals to the detriment of man, the result is an attack against human presumption; when, finally, they bring up the errors of the senses, the result is an attack against the validity of human judgment. As we have seen, however, these problems, which Montaigne considered good-humoredly, were contradicted by Descartes, who in the development of his rationalism found an advantage in denying intelligence to animals. In the widespread debate following • 407 ·

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Descartes on 'Tame des betes" much more became involved than a pleasant paradox. Gassendi, as we have already seen, had warned Descartes in his Instantice that there would be those who argued that if animals are pure machines, there is no reason why men are not likewise pure machines. From 1672 until 1682, there had been a number of works treating the subject: G. Pardies, Discours de la connaissance des betes (1672); Du Hamel's De Mente humana (1672), and De corpore animato (1673); Dilly's De I'dme des betes (1676); and finally, Lamy's Discours anatomiques (1675). The center of this discussion,4 however, was Gassendi, whose works had been recast and republished in Bernier's Abrege (1674-78). But he had also been presented in De Launay's public lectures, which had been published in his Introduction a la philosophic and Essais de la physique universelle, two volumes which had found their way into Locke's library. Each author attempted to draw sharp distinctions between man and beast. Pardies, a Jesuit rather inclined to scholasticism, offered a compromise position between Montaigne and Descartes. He granted to beasts a "connaissance sensible" but refused them a "connaissance spirituelle." Du Hamel likewise granted them a "connaissance inconsciente," although he insisted more upon the distinction between perception and thought. Darmanson, as we have already seen, made the logical deduction that what we say about beasts must apply equally to man. Bernier held on to Gassendi's explanation but modified it with a point of view of his own, granting to animals a "connaissance imparfaite et grossiere," and Dr. Menjot spoke of a "connaissance approchante du raisonnement." La Fontaine's first reaction to the Cartesian doctrine, expressed in "Le Chat-huant et les souris," was completely negative, which was, of course, perfectly natural in a fabulist who saw all kinds of analogies between the thoughts and actions of animals and those of humans. As a matter of fact, the very basis of La Fontaine's art lies in the identification of man and animal: what powers of thought, what social qualities, and what traits of character man has, animals likewise have. The whole art of the fable is built upon resemblances between man and beast, and the conclusion—man's traits characterize the beast also—seems perfectly natural and logical. This point 4

See L. C. Rosenfield, From Beast-machine to Man-machine,

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was all the stronger in France—indeed, in Europe—because all fable literature had been built upon it. Moreover, Montaigne had backed it completely in the Apologie. His whole argument against the exceptional powers of reason was based upon a comparison between the cleverness and superiority of animals and the stupidities and limitations of man. The public could well appreciate the paradox, all the more since it had a particularly moral value. Moreover, scholastic thinking granted to the animal a soul which is the principle of life, though mortal and inferior to the human soul. Montaigne's tendency to equate this soul with instinct and man's with intelligence, and the conclusion that the beast can do more and better by instinct than man can do by intelligence, certainly suggested that as the animal was more efficient than the human, there was small justification for assigning permanence to one and not to the other. Indeed, the paradox could be, and was, carried further. Animals had not been guilty of original sin, and their way of knowing had not been perverted by their conduct. From these observations, it was easy to infer that: there was no basis to the belief that man was more intelligent than the beast; there was still less foundation for the notion that reason was superior to instinct even in man; it was manifestly unfair to grant immortality to the human soul and refuse it to the animal soul. These inferences led naturally to two conclusions: man would be better advised to trust his instincts (his feelings, his emotions, his senses) than his reason (his understanding, his ratiocination, his logic, and his will); and, since animals are denied immortality, there is no way of assuming that man has an immortal soul either. These conclusions drawn from inferences based on a paradox are, humanly speaking, true conclusions. The only way of attacking their validity was through the use of the very instrument which had been shown unworthy of trust, or by appealing to faith which the animal as well as man could claim, or finally by distinguishing between the nature of the animal and the human souls. In this way the simple discussion of a moot point lay at the foundation of the problems of knowledge and of the soul's immortality, two of the most important problems of the time, but it involved eventually—even before the end of the century—the whole philosophy of materialism. La Fontaine has summed up his views on animal automatism in • 409 ·

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his "Discours a Mme de la Sabliere" (see F. Gohin, and H. Busson, Discours a Mme de la Sabliere, 1938). The present way of interpreting them is to note that he shifted his position from the conclusion of "Le Chat-huant et les souris" (1675 ?), where he very explicitly stated after having related the incident that "Cet oiseau raisonnait, il faut qu'on Ie confesse." He then defied any Cartesian to show that this event was the sole result of a series of mechanical springs such as one would expect in a timepiece, the comparison being precisely Descartes's metaphor. La Fontaine concludes rather categorically that Si ce n'est pas la raisonner, La raison m'est chose inconnue. He has added, however, a note which is certainly as important as the fable: "Ceci n'est point une Fable, et la chose quoique merveilleuse et presque incroyable, est veritablement arrivee." What this means is that Bernier did not relate the incident to La Fontaine as a fiction, but as a reality. If it were a fiction, all that would be required would be its verisimilitude, and any conclusions would be based upon a likelihood, upon the appearance of things, upon the illusion of truth. But as it is reality, like any scientific experiment, the deductions drawn from the observations must have scientific validity. La Fontaine, however, continues his note: "J'ai peut-etre porte loin la prevoyance de ce hibou; car je ne pretends pas etablir dans les betes un progres de raisonnement tel que celuy-ci." After having offered the real experiment and the scientific validity of the observation, then, the scientist La Fontaine withdraws and leaves the field to the poet La Fontaine, who has no pretensions whatever of insisting upon the details of the scientific conclusion. But there is more still to the note: ". . . mais ces exagerations sont permises a la poesie, surtout dans la maniere d'ecrire dont je me sers." He is telling us, I suppose, that poets have to be liars, even when dealing with a scientific matter, in order to tell the truth. This is a clearcut case of Descartes's own theory that poets can say things much better than philosophers, because of their intuition and the force of their imagination. La Fontaine was merely claiming his right, not modestly bowing out. This is also his position in the "Discours a Mme de la Sabliere." We do not know the exact date of either poem, nor even the relative • 410 ·

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dates of the two, although in the arrangement of Books IX, X, and XI, the "Discours" (in IX) precedes the fable (in XI). This perhaps has some sort of importance as to final statement, particularly as "Le Chat-huant et les souris" is the last fable of Book XI, coming before the epilogue. It is not necessary to push this point, however, because there seems no justification in believing that the conclusions of the two poems differ. The "Discours," immediately after the introductory compliment to the lady, and having made the distinction between "la bagatelle" (poetry) and science, promises the same mixture of poetry and philosophy which appeared in the fable. This time La Fontaine arranges his argument in true philosophical fashion, beginning with a clear exposition of the Cartesian doctrine. Then follows a set of laboratory cases—the deer, the mother partridge, the beavers, and the Polish boubaks—all of them arranged scientifically, with a scientific conclusion. The poet yields the floor now to "Ie rival d'fipicure" (Descartes) and asks what his comment would be in these cases ? The answer is clear: nature performs this act by springs. Memory is corporeal; nothing more is needed. Every image follows the same path of a previous image without any need for thought. We humans, however, are determined by will, not by external objects, nor by instinct. We possess an intelligent principle, distinct from the body, which is the supreme arbiter of all our movements. But, the poet asks, how do bodies react? The instrument obeys the hand, but who guides the hand ? What guides the planets ? Is it some angel ? What is certain is that some spirit lives in us and moves all our springs. The impression is made, but only man has it. But, says La Fontaine, how do you explain this fable? And he relates "Les deux rats, Ie renard, et l'ceuf." The poet is now prepared to give his general conclusion: Qu'on m'aille soutenir apres un tel recit, Que les betes n'ont point d'esprit. He confesses that, were he the master, he would grant animals the same amount of intelligence as children. They think, although they do not know they are thinking. He would give them not an advanced reason, but a reason superior to a set of springs. He would take matter and refine it, and would make it capable—but imperfectly—of feeling and judging. To humans he would give two souls, one like the animal soul and the other a spiritual soul: •411 ·

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Et ce tresor a part cree Suivrait parmi les airs les celestes phalanges, Entreroit dans un poinct sans en etre presse, Ne finiroit jamais quoyqu'ayant commence, Choses reelles quoy qu'etranges. Man's reason, being much stronger, would be more able, he concludes, to pierce the darkness of matter which envelops the other more imperfect soul. La Fontaine lived in a milieu strongly oriented to Gassendi. The "theologal" at Digne had united the libertinage, the skepticism, and the epicureanism of Montaigne with fideism as it had developed from Paduanism. In that way, he and his companions (Naude, La Mothe, Patin, Sorbiere) had continued the free-thinking of the master. But Gassendi had not only introduced skepticism as a method; he had presented epicureanism as a morality and as the atomistic science of nature. His contribution to the movement of ideas consisted in preserving the tenets of religious belief and, at the same time, advancing, by using Epicurus in place of Aristotle, a more human morality and a more experimental science. Consequently, once one's duties as Christian were recognized, one was free to develop one's powers by penetrating nature and history, by thinking freely upon the phenomena of nature and human nature. Gassendi ventured while encouraging freedom of thought to offer Epicurus as a moral guide, and the choice between stoicism and epicureanism became a delicate one. It is difficult to maintain that one won out over the other. It is a fact, though, that stoicism was very widespread in the early sixteen-forties, as Strowski has shown, but with the publication of Gassendi's works on Epicurus in the late forties, the tide turned to epicureanism. It is also a fact that the change was slow, probably because Gassendi's ponderous Latin treatises held no attraction for any but the scholars. In time, though, the ideas he stressed appealed to those who sought a more human way of life, precisely Moliere, La Fontaine, and Saint-Evremond. In the revival of Gassendi around 1670 and the subsequent quarrel between the Cartesians and the Gassendists around 1680, epicureanism consequently became a widespread issue. The fomenters of the new advance were not only the Horatian, Lucretian poets (Chaulieu, La Fare, etc.), but the libertine essayist (Saint-Evremond) and mun• 412 ·

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dane followers of the salons (Mme de Bouillon, Mme de la Sabliere). The director of the movement was Bernier, who in 1674 began the Abrege de la philosophic de Gassendi, which by 1678 had become an eight-volume compendium. Between 1682 and the end of the century, Gassendi's epicureanism offered the French public a clearcut choice. It stressed the necessity of having a philosophy which could be reconciled with the Christian religion and which would insist upon the weaknesses of humans and a morality of striving, since all are affected by original sin. But it believed in the senses, in the physical body, the goodness of nature, happiness, and progress. In its development, it had taken an anti-Cartesian position, and insisted, in the rehabilitation of Epicurus, upon an atomistic nature which possessed a vacuum and a morality of pleasure. La Fontaine adhered publicly to Gassendism. He, too, believes in a nature of atoms; he, too, accepts the vacuum as possible ("Demo­ crite et les Abderitains"). Allusion is likewise made to atoms in L'Horoscope, where the poet talks of "des vides sans fin." He re­ marks upon the infinite plurality of worlds {Democrite). Gassendi regarded his worlds as possessing each its own soul, and each object (sun, moon, earth, precious stones, plants) as being animated; thus, as he explained, it was perfectly correct to talk about the soul of metals, of plants, of stars, even of a universal soul. La Fontaine accepts this view in principle also. In the "Discours," he writes: "Cependant, la plante respire," and in the "Discours a M. Ie Due de la Rochefoucauld," he adds: La nature A mis dans chaque creature Quelque grain d'une masse ού puisent les esprits. Gassendi, however, made a distinction between all these souls and the superior human soul, by his designation of the human soul as 'Tame raisonnable" and all the others as inferior souls provided with differing degrees of desires and feeling, but of corporeal essence and, consequently, perishable. La Fontaine adopts this way of separating corporeal souls from spiritual souls. He even accepts Gassendi's de­ scription of how corporeal souls are formed from rarified atoms. Gassendi conceives of God as dominating all these atoms and souls. •413 ·

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The proof of His existence is drawn from the marvels of nature. La Fontaine gives a specific case, not without humor, in "Le Gland et lacitrouille": Dieu fait bien ce qu'il fait; sans en chercher la preuve En tout cet univers, et Taller parcourant, Dans les citrouilles je la treuve. Having organized an atomistic universe, and put in charge a providential deity, Gassendi explains the nature of man. He adopts the theory of the "tabula rasa," and proclaims that nothing exists in the understanding which is not first in the senses. He admits the objectivity of sensitive qualities, but he nonetheless believes in an immaterial principle which dominates the facts of the senses. La Fontaine, in the "Animal dans la lune" writes: Mon Sme, en toute occasion, Developpe Ie vrai cache sous l'apparence. . . . Mes yeux, moyennant ce secours, Ne me trompent jamais en me mentant toujours. This was his answer to those who said that the senses could not be trusted as a means to truth. In the final analysis it is reason which decides, although it is rather a collaboration between reason and the senses. Gassendi proclaims the right of every man to happiness, but he prudently observes that religious felicity is superior to ordinary enjoyment, and that an absolute happiness is impossible in this world. It behooves us therefore to assure ourselves of all the joys we can achieve. He proscribes a severe morality and urges a "sagesse souriante." La Fontaine's Fables are full of this counsel. In "Le Loup et Ie Chasseur," for instance, he wrote: L'homme, sourd a ma voix comme a celle du sage, Ne dira-t-il jamais: "C'est assez, jouissons"? Hate-toi, mon ami, tu n'as pas tant a vivre. Je te rebats ce mot, car il vaut tout un livre: Jouis.—Je Ie ferai,—Mais quand done?—Des demain. Eh! mon ami, la mort te peut prendre en chemin: Jouis des aujourd'hui. . . . And thus the poet, in the footsteps of Gassendi, became an epicurean libertine. •414·

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If the distinction which Baudin makes in La Philosophic morale des Fables de ha Fontaine (Neuchatel, 1951) is adopted, the poet's libertinism becomes clearer. Baudin suggests that there are in reality two kinds of morality very different in nature. One, which he calls "Fart de vivre heureux," consists in precepts which enable us to acquire wisdom and avoid folly. The other consists in legislating our duties and our virtues. In a way, the first is a morality of happiness—an epicureanism—while the second is fundamentally an ethical code—a stoicism. Precisely, seventeenth-century moral problems concern the best ways of harmonizing the code of virtue with the precepts of happiness—because the seventeenth century found it difficult to believe that virtue is its own reward, and the natural result of that reward is happiness. Pascal understood clearly the dilemma when, remarking that "tout Ie monde tend au bonheur" in the PensSes, he concluded in the Entretien that there is a vast difference between our duties and our powers. Evidently "stoic virtue" and "Epicurean hedonism" experienced some difficulty in merging into the "honnete homme." We can conclude that the general tendency in the century seems to be in the direction of preserving epicurean hedonism at the expense of stoic virtue, although the victory was not at all complete until the third Regency (1715-23). Nonetheless there was a surprising amount of epicureanism in the period of the young King's reign (1660-80) which, in spite of an effort to reinstate the power of stoic virtue (1685-1715), became more dominant as the century wore on. La Fontaine's position in regard to this dilemma is very clear. His preoccupation is specifically with the "art de vivre heureux." In a world of evildoers and crooks where one can easily become the victim or the dupe, wisdom consists in finding ways of avoiding these undesirable consequences. And although the poet sometimes proclaims piously: J'oppose quelquefois par une double image Le vice a la vertu, la sottise au bon sens. . . . what really engages his attention is how to avoid "sottise" by the use of "bon sens," rather than how to achieve virtue and shun vice properly speaking. Thus it is possible to conclude with Baudin (p. 17) that La Fontaine only envisages in his works an art of living, which he constantly sustains by precepts of practical living, warnings •415 ·

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against the dangers of foolhardiness, and counseling the necessary steps to follow in a world where the wicked far surpass the good, and criminals far outnumber "les honnetes gens." This attitude, which is closely connected with the prudence, the "juste mesure," and the moderation of the French temperament, we usually call epicurean. There are in fact traits in it which recall vividly the doctrine of Epicurus: the theme of pleasure as the sovereign good, of freedom as necessary to enjoyment, of repose, of retreat from the world into solitude, of life as a "banquet," which one enjoys to the fullest, perhaps a bit apprehensively, since Plutot soufirir que mourir, C'est la devise des hommes. perhaps also in turning one's eyes away from the inevitable and, since [Et] Ie moins prevoyant est toujours Ie plus sage. but withal prepared to abandon this life Ainsi que d'un banquet, Remerciant son hote. La Fontaine, like his predecessor Montaigne, and all the "libertins erudits" of the first half of the seventeenth century, like Gassendi, whose Syntagma he knew so well, and like Saint-Evremond, his close friend, adopted the epicurean way of life as the "good" life: live to the ultimate limits of one's powers, enjoy all the possible pleasures to the fullest, husband them prudently, avoid as best one can all pain. The essential is, with these directives in mind, to organize one's life and to confide its guidance to reason, to utilitarian reason—that is what wisdom is. This wisdom which is reason must learn how to discipline desires and passions, not suppress them as the stoics would have us do, but direct them so as to squeeze from them all that is useful to pleasurable living. Hence our desires must be moderated, we must work to avoid those three great evils which Voltaire later condemned: "Ie vice, I'ennui et Ie besoin." We must observe the laws of nature; wisdom dictates that we aid our fellow man; "la bienveillance" is useful and a source of pleasure when it is restricted and reasonably applied. Prudence, however, must be our watchword; we must therefore distrust others: the wicked, the liars, cheats, fools, tyrants, nobles, and the importunate. The greatest • 416 ·

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sinners, though, are those who would curtail our freedom. But we must also mistrust ourselves: avoid pride and presumption, ambition; indeed, watch all the passions. Wisdom also dictates that we be natural: we must know ourselves and accept ourselves as we are. We must recognize that every creature has its opposite, that life is a struggle for survival in which everybody lives at the expense of some other body. Finally we must be prepared to accept that in the struggle what dominates is force: La raison du plus fort est toujours la meilleure. La Fontaine rejoins Hobbes, Spinoza, and Pascal in his conviction that justice is founded not on Right, but on Force.

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Malebranche and Tout en Dieu

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dates coincide precisely with those of Louis XIV. His father was one of Louis XIII's secretaries; his mother, distinguished by her piety, had a brother who was a canon of Notre Dame. The young Malebranche was always in bad health, often passing through critical illnesses which were announced prematurely as fatal. In spite of this, he lived to the age of seventyseven, although, as in the case of Voltaire, this longevity was made possible only by a careful husbanding of his limited physical resources. He received his early education from a tutor, later entered the College de la Marche, and from there went to the Sorbonne for a three-year study of theology. His reports present him as apt, industrious, but not much better than mediocre. Having rejected a canonry which his uncle had secured, he entered the Oratory in 1660, and, after preliminary training at Saumur, returned to the Maison de la Rue St.-Honore where he passed a busy, scholarly life. He first undertook the study of ecclesiastical history, but soon turned to critical study of biblical texts under the urging of Richard Simon. Finding both studies distasteful, he abandoned them to become a follower of Descartes, having become acquainted with the philosopher through his Traito de I'homme which, according to his biographer, Pere Andre, was for Malebranche a real Pauline illumination. The following four years he spent in studying Descartes's works. In 1668, Malebranche began to write his Recherche de la verite, of which the first part was published in 1672, the second part two years later. The remainder of his life was devoted to his philosophical treatises: Conversations chretiennes (1677); TraitS de la nature et de la grace (1680); Meditations chretiennes et metaphysiques (1683); Traite de morale (1684); Entretiens sur la metaphysique et sur la religion (1687); Traite" de I'amour de Dieu. In addition, he spent much time defending his ideas against the attacks of the day, particularly from Leibniz. In his determination to demonstrate the falsity of Cartesianism, the German kept up a running commentary on MaIeALEBRANCHE'S

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branche's philosophical productions beginning in 1672, the year they met in Paris. Indeed, each philosopher so closely scrutinized the ideas of the other that the impression is easily gained that in the formation of each man's system, the other played the constant role of devil's advocate. It was, at least, a friendly, respectful advocacy, although it sometimes provoked philosophical observations (as when Leibniz suggested that the Oratorian's occasionalism led to Spinozism) which were not too readily accepted. Other of MaIebranche's critics, however, were much more severe. Bossuet characterized his philosophy as "pulchra, nova, falsa"; while Arnauld attacked it bitterly in his interminable Des Vraies et des fausses idies. The Jesuits, whom Malebranche criticized in his Entretiens d'un philosophe chretien et d'un philosophe chinois sur I'Existence de Dieu for their religious activities in the "Missions etrangeres," replied with a counter charge of Spinozism and atheism. His two most bitter opponents were Pierre Sylvain Regis and Dom Francois Lamy. All of his works, with two or three possible exceptions, were placed upon the Index. Even the Catholic Encyclopedia, whose article is one of the few I know where the Oratorian's ideas are clearly and succincdy presented writes (s.v. "Malebranche"): "There can be little question of the novelty and dangerous character of his publications." Voltaire, in the early part of his career, read him avidly and annotated him freely, and he returned to him in the closing years (1769) of his long life. It would be a mistake, however, to permit this evidence of unorthodoxy to give the impression that Malebranche should be classed among the free-thinkers. He was not at all a revolter like Meslier; on the contrary, he was noted in his day precisely as a great thinker and a scholar of great piety. He led a simple and austere life, unsparing of himself in his search for truth, and unyielding, though affable, in his defense of it. It was characteristic of his time that piety and the search for truth could lead sometimes to the bitterest and the most unorthodox discussion. Malebranche produced his work during a period in which there were two different ways of expressing the relationship of religion and philosophy. The tendency of philosophy to break away from theology (which was evident in Descartes, Hobbes, Gassendi, Pascal, and Spinoza) had been countered by an effort on the part of Malebranche, Arnauld, Bossuet, and Leibniz to reintegrate theology and • 419 ·

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science with philosophy. This integrating process aroused as many difficulties as the opposite, disintegrating, tendency. The danger was always the same: in the separation or union of the two fields, it was inevitable that the position of orthodox theology should seem untenable and would have to be changed. If a philosopher attempted to accommodate the new philosophy to it, or if a theologian attempted to accommodate it to the new philosophy, the effect was necessarily unorthodox from the simple fact that orthodox theology had by its nature and its history to dominate philosophy if it was to remain orthodoxy. Pascal in his famous "pensee" rejecting philosophy makes this fact abundantly clear. Malebranche, who highly appreciated Descartes's metaphysical truths, set out to make of Cartesianism a Christian philosophy. His deep interest in mathematics, in physics, and especially in biology which later Cartesians, particularly Dutch university Cartesians, had successfully developed, was very apparent. The "meditative" relationship between the abstract sciences, the real sciences, and the metaphysical possibilities of truth also appealed greatly to the Oratorian recluse who was by nature a "meditatif." There were, notwithstanding, aspects of Descartes which Malebranche found deficient. In one specific case, and that under the constant hammering of Leibniz, the Oratorian came to reject Descartes's laws of motion, which he attempted to revise. What he considered particularly imperfect was Descartes's approach to the essence of things, to the nature of ideas, to the eternal truths. It became his ambition to fill these lacunae with St. Augustine, convinced that Augustine's doctrine was in perfect accord with the sentiments of Descartes. As he stated the case, Descartes, the doctor of nature, has better known the body, while St. Augustine, the doctor of grace, was more conversant with the soul. Body and spirit, nature and grace—these were the focal points of Malebranche's thought around which he attempted to establish a new explanation of the relationship between ideas and reality: in the preface to the Entretiens sur la metaphysique (Chevalier, Histoire de la pensee, in, 327) he wrote: Je reconnais et je proteste que c'est a Saint Augustin que je dois Ie sentiment que j'ai avance sur la nature des idees. J'avais appris d'ailleurs que les qualites sensibles n'etaient que dans Tame, et que Ton ne voyait point les objets en eux-memes, ni par des images qui leur ressemblent. Mais j'en etais demeure la jusqu'a ce que je tombai heureusement sur quel• 420 ·

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ques endroits de Saint Augustin, qui servirent a m'ouvrir l'esprit sur les idees. En comparant ce qu'il nous enseignait sur cela avec ce que je savais d'ailleurs, je demeurai tellement convaincu que c'est en Dieu que nous voyons toutes choses, que je ne craignis point d'exposer au public ce sentiment, quelque etrange qu'il paraisse a !'imagination, et quelque persuade que je fusse que cela ne me ferait pas d'honneur dans l'esprit de bien des gens. Cette verite me parut si propre a faire comprendre aux esprits attentifs que 1'ame n'est unie directement qu'a Dieu, que lui seul est notre bien et notre lumiere, que toutes les creatures ne sont rien par rapport a nous, ne peuvent rien sur nous, en un mot cette verite me parut de si grande consequence par rapport a la religion et a la morale, que je me crus alors oblige de la publier et que j'ai cru, dans la suite, devoir la soutenir. The Catholic Encyclopedia, as we have said, has given a succinct and rather friendly sketch of Malebranche's ideas. Sensations and imagination, the Oratorian maintains, are not produced by the external objects we perceive, but by God, and they are useful to man for practical purposes only. They cannot reveal the "nature of things," the essence of matter being, as Descartes said, extension, and its only property, motion. Consequently, the real nature of the external world must be found in ideas. Matter cannot act upon mind, nor can mind produce its own ideas, because ideas are spiritual beings, and their creation is even more difficult than the creation of material things. Malebranche concludes that we see things, objects as well as ideas, matter as well as spirit, beings as well as essences, in God. God sees all things in His own perfections. He is closely united with the soul by His presence, so closely that He may be said to be the "place of spirits" as space is the place of bodies. Thus the mind may see in God all the works of God, provided God wills to reveal them. Malebranche concludes that God so wills, seeing that such a hypothesis is more in accord with His economy in nature, where He operates by the simplest methods. Moreover, all particular ideas participate in the general idea of the infinite, and thus the infinite must be prior to the idea of the finite. Consequently, of all the things that we know, only God do we know in Himself. Our own soul is known only by consciousness, that is, by our sensations, and although we know our soul better than our body, our knowledge of it is still imperfect. We can only assume that other men have souls. The results of these pronouncements are sweeping. Our certainty •421 ·

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of the existence of the external world, for one thing, depends upon God's revelation. Moreover, were it not so, there could be no purpose in a material universe, out of all contact with human thought and volition. God is the immediate cause of our sensation; He is the "place of our ideas," and He is our first idea of the infinite. Hence God embraces everything, being the occasion of our knowledge, our thoughts, our actions, our sensations, our senses, our imagination. This was the source of Malebranche's alleged pantheism, and one of the reasons why he was likened to Spinoza. But he was also thought to have minimized man's free will in his desire to unite the soul closely with its creator. There consequently arose the accusation of determinism, which finally ended with attacks against Malebranche for making God responsible for sin. There are aspects of Malebranche's philosophy which are not included in the Catholic Encyclopedia article. In the prefaces and conclusions to the Recherche de la vorite, the multiplicity of Malebranche's intentions in writing the work are very apparent. In the first preface, he announces that he is particularly anxious to trace the relationship of the soul to bodies and to God. He states that the relation of the soul to God is natural, necessary, and absolutely indispensable, whereas the relation of the soul to the body, although seemingly natural to our bodies, is neither necessary nor indispensable. This is, of course, the beginning of the "tout en Dieu" doctrine. It was further extended by Malebranche in the statement that "il est certain... que Dieu a fait les esprits pour Ie connaitre et pour l'aimer [plutot] que pour informer des corps." Malebranche concedes, however, that our union with God dwindles and weakens in proportion as our involvement with external objects increases; but, he adds, "il est impossible que cette union se rompe entierement sans que notre £tre soit d6truit." His fundamental concept is one of enlightenment: the core of his thesis is that union with God is the source of light: "L'Esprit devient plus pur, plus lumineux, plus fort et plus etendu a proportion que s'augmente l'union qu'il a avec Dieu, parce que c'est elle qui fait toute sa perfection." Contrariwise, the human mind is corrupted, weakened, blinded in proportion as it strengthens its union with the body. Judgment by the senses, submission to the passions—these are the sources of error; judgment by "les idees pures de l'esprit," avoidance of the confusion of earthly creatures, listening to our Sovereign Master in the silence of the senses and the passions— these are the sources of truth. •422·

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Malebranche proposes a doctrine of concentration for the acquisition of truth. For him, external things are so confused and pressures are so great that no clearcut means remain to arrive at truth. It must, therefore, be sought in God, who must be questioned. These questions must be addressed to Him after the most careful attention. We may be sure that, if the proper consideration is given to the formulation of the questions, the proper answers will be forthcoming (Recherche, ed. G. Lewis, 1945, I, xii): . . . ce n'est que par attention de l'esprit que toutes les verites se decouvrent, et que toutes les sciences s'apprennent; parce qu'en effet !'attention de l'esprit n'est que son retour et sa conversion vers Dieu, qui est notre seul maitre, et qui seul nous instruit de toute verite. On this basis Malebranche offers his Recherche, where the reader will find demonstrated that our senses, our imagination, and our passions are entirely useless to us as a means to truth and wellbeing. On the contrary, they dazzle us, seduce us, and lead us into error. The position is diametrically opposed to Locke's, whose work was even then being composed. This critique of the causes of human errors is not the passing condemnation of a theologian. Malebranche is not the type of critic, like Pascal, who feels that philosophy is not worth one moment of effort. On the contrary, he has been caught up in the expansion of knowledge: the immense volume of ideas and the tendency to penetrate the phenomena of nature with all the resources of the human mind and body, produce a feeling of awe in him. He sets out not only to detail the errors occasioned by the senses and the imagination, but also to trace the complications of those errors. He hopes to show by an analysis of man's faculties not only the errors into which one falls, but also the infinite number of errors into which one may fall. Hence, he admits, the subject of this enormous Recherche is "l'esprit de l'homme tout entier: On Ie considere en lui-meme; on Ie considere en rapport aux corps et par rapport a Dieu." Malebranche promised to analyze all the mind's faculties, to recount the practices which have enabled others to avoid the pitfalls of error, and to explain "la plupart des choses que l'on a cru etre utiles pour avancer dans la connaissance de l'homme." What is implied is not only a critique of reason, but also a simultaneous analysis of man, and a knowledge of oneself. The age had now become a period in which knowledge meant knowing how, • 423 ·

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but also knowing oneself in. The emphasis was already shifting from the expansion to the deepening of knowledge. What had become important was not so much embracing the universe as seeing the universe in oneself. The self had assumed much significance, and the problem had become how to enrich it with knowledge from without. It was, of course, complicated by the separation of body and spirit. Descartes had left man with no means of bridging the gap between himself and nature (as his time had understood the term) or rather between matter and spirit. The "esprit," i.e., the "mens," had no way of penetrating the outside world of bodies. And yet, science is a reality, the outside world of objects is another, and the inside world of man is a third. How can these three be brought into significant relationship ? In his Recherche, Malebranche attempted a solution to that question. It is this preoccupation which gives unity to his treatise, but it is a unity enlightened by a constant flash of the greatest diversity. When he states, for instance, that the most beautiful of all knowledge is knowledge of ourselves, and that the science of man is the most worthy of the sciences, he seems to have wandered from his purpose. When he declares that the principal causes of our errors arise from the fact that our judgments extend to more things than the clear view of our mind, he seems to be echoing Descartes. His assertions— that we fall into error only because we do not use our freedom of action as we should; that we fail to moderate the urgings of our will to seek the mere appearances of truth; that we are consequently deceived because error consists in the consent of the will which outstrips the understanding of the intellect—unite a theological point of view with a Cartesian one. From the beginning, Malebranche adopts this Cartesian point of view: matter has two properties; it can receive different figures; it can be moved. The mind of man likewise has two faculties: the understanding, which is the capacity to receive ideas, and the will, which is the capacity to receive inclinations. The soul, which to Malebranche seems to be synonymous with the mind, has two kinds of perceptions: "pure" perceptions and those which do not penetrate the soul or modify it noticeably. These latter are pain and pleasure and those perceptions which depend upon the senses: colors, sounds, tastes, odors. It is the understanding which receives the ideas of things: it is the same thing to perceive an object and to receive an •424 ·

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idea which represents it. This assertion was strongly argued against by Arnauld in his Des Vraies et des fausses idoes. The will, on its part, is the natural movement which urges us toward the indeter­ minate good, and freedom is the strength which the mind has to turn this intuition toward objects which please us. This liberty is given us by God so that we may avoid errors and all the evils conse­ quent upon them. We make proper use of this liberty by refusing to act until we are forced to do so by the internal reproaches of our reason. To submit to the false appearances of truth is to be a slave con­ trary to the will of God, but to obey the voice of eternal truth, that is, to submit to the secret reproaches of our reason, is to be free. From this construct, Malebranche draws two rules which are indis­ pensable for the advancement of science and the establishment of morality (pp. 11-12): On ne doit jamais donner de consentement entier qu'aux propositions qui paraissent si evidemment vraies, qu'on ne puisse Ie leur refuser sans sentir une peine interieure et des reproches secrets de la raison. On ne doit jamais aimer absolument un bien si Ton peut sans remords ne Ie point aimer. Malebranche assumes that the way in which the two rules may be correctly practiced is by applying the first rule to the area of science, the second to the study of man. They can be reduced to a common denominator: submit only to unimpeachable evidence in the study of nature and the study of man. There is therefore a third rule of procedure: the rule for the investigation of truth. Malebranche ex­ presses it thus: . . . en ne cessant jamais d'appliquer 1'esprit, et de lui commander qu'il examine jusqu'a ce qu'il ait eclairci, et developpe tout ce qu'il a a examiner. In this general examination of scientific and moral phenomena, there is a fourth rule to follow in matters concerning religion (p. 16): Il faut done distinguer les mysteres de la foi des choses de la nature. Il faut se soumettre egalement a la foi et a Γ evidence; mais dans les choses de la foi, il ne faut point chercher l'evidence. . . . En un mot, pour etre fidele, il faut croire aveuglement, mais pour etre philosophe, il faut voir evidemment. There are even, adds Malebranche, some truths in the human sphere where it would be unreasonable to require irrefutable demonstration, • 425 ·

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such as the facts of history, and those things which depend upon man's will. Indeed, and here Malebranche gives the case away for the unity of truth, there are in reality two kinds of truth: what might be called necessary truths and contingent truths. Necessary truths have been decreed by the will of God; they are to be found in mathematics, in metaphysics, and in a large part of physics and morality. Contingent truths are to be found in history, grammar, private law or customs, and several other subjects "qui dependent de la volonte changeante des hommes." The qualification is eloquent. One should, by observing these rules, avoid the misfortune of falling into error. Such, however, is not the case, to some extent because of the complications of the instrument for knowing. The soul can perceive things in one of three ways: by the pure understanding, by the imagination, and by the senses. It perceives by the pure understanding spiritual things, universal things, common notions, the idea of perfection, the Being of God, and, in general, all its thoughts. It perceives also with the pure understanding material things, particularly the objects of mathematics. It perceives through the imagination material things when the objects are no longer present; it does so by forming their images in the mind. The soul perceives by the senses only sensible objects when, being present, they make an impression on the organs of the body. Perceptions are thus of three kinds: pure intellections, imaginations, and sentiments. These three manners of perceiving act strongly upon us; but there are two other faculties which act just as strongly: our inclinations and our passions. These five ways of perceiving give the five principal types of error and the division of the Recherche de la verite: the errors i. of the senses; 2. of the imagination; 3. of the pure understanding; 4. of inclinations; and 5. of the passions. Malebranche promises to follow his full analysis of these kinds of error with a general method for the search for truth. It must not be thought, however, that he condemns out of hand these five kinds of error. For instance, he writes "nos sens ne sont done pas si corrompus qu'on s'imagine," and he inserted in the same passage, "tout ce que nous rapportent nos sens est tres vrai en toute maniere, et l'erreur ne se trouve que dans les faux jugements qui les suivent." The only rule to follow is never to judge by the senses what things are in themselves, but only what the relationship is which •426 ·

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they have with our bodies. We must remember that the senses have been given us only for the preservation of our body. Nevertheless, it is an error to feel that our senses produce sensations of external things, and that these sensations are in the objects which become therefore the cause of the sensation in us. Malebranche concludes the first book in counseling that we doubt prudently and reasonably of the things produced by our senses. It is not the doubt characterized "par emportement et par brutalite, par aveuglement et par malice, et enfin par fantaisie, et parce que Ton veut douter." Malebranche condemns this doubt of the Academicians and atheists as unworthy. He recommends, on the contrary, the doubt "par prudence et par defiance, par sagesse et par penetration de l'esprit," since it is that of the real philosophers. Malebranche makes a sharp distinction between these two kinds of doubt. He notes that it is not enough, for instance, to state that our nature is weak, that our intellect is blind, that we must be careful to divest ourselves of our prejudices, that our mind is subject to error. It is necessary to reveal to the human mind in what its errors consist. His attitude here is strikingly like that of the eiehtecnthcentury "philosophe," particularly in the way in which he identifies the errors of man with the prejudices of men. In a preface to his second volume, of which the second edition was published in 1678, Malebranche undertook to defend himself against the critics of his Recherche. In the course of the defense, he asserted the underlying aim of his work: "Je reponds que pour chercher la verite, il faut deux choses: il faut etre delivre des prejuges de 1'enfance ou des erreurs communes, et avoir une bonne methode." It did not seem sufficient to him, however, to condemn prejudices without some analysis of the way in which they originate. Custom and the opinions of childhood naturally have a role in their formation. But there is a positive side also; the only way to combat prejudices is by constant examination, and the only way intelligently to examine received ideas is to apply one's reason. Malebranche, much like other "rationaux" of his time, disapproves of those who accept ideas without examination. "Il est assez difficile de comprendre," he wrote, "comment il se peut faire que des gens qui ont de l'esprit aiment mieux se servir de l'esprit des autres dans la recherche de la verite, que de celui que Dieu leur a donne." Hence the confidence we express in the opinions of the ancients. He suggests many reasons • 427 ·

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for this attitude: the general laziness of man; our inability to meditate, having been badly trained in the use of meditation when we were young and flexible; our dislike for abstract ideas, which are the basis of all that can be known here below; the satisfaction which we experience in reviewing the appearances of things; even our great desire to be reputed scholarly rather than wise—added to a foolish belief that the ancients have been more enlightened than we are, and that there is nothing in which they have not surpassed us. Moreover, we have been trained to have more respect for those things which are old, or which come from afar or from unknown lands, and even for those books which are the most obscure: "On estime davantage les opinions les plus vieilles, parce qu'elles sont les plus eloignees de nous." Also there is a feeling that esteem for a contemporary increases the importance of the contemporary and lessens our own. Moreover, we have been trained to regard novelty as very suspect. Malebranche gives an example which is astounding (p. 150): . . . la verite et la nouveaute ne peuvent pas se trouver ensemble dans les choses de la foi; car les hommes ne voulant pas faire de discernement entre les verites qui dependent de la raison et celles qui dependent de la tradition, [ne considerent pas] qu'on doit les apprendre dune maniere toute diiferente: ils confondent la nouveaute avec I'erreur et l'antiquite avec la verite. Luther, Calvin, et les autres ont innove, et ils ont erre. Done Galilee, Harvey, Descartes se trompent dans ce qu'ils disent de nouveau. L'impanation de Luther est nouvelle, et elle est fausse: done la circulation d' Harvey est fausse, puisqu'elle est nouvelle. C'est pour cela aussi qu'ils appellent indifferemment du nom odieux de novateurs les heretiques et les nouveaux philosophes. Les idees et les mots de veriti et d'antiquite", de jaussete et de nouveaute, ont ete lies les uns avec les autres; e'en est fait, Ie commun des hommes ne les separe plus, et les gens d'esprit sentent meme quelque peine a les bien separer. We are also carried away by contemporary vogue which in MaIebranche's day, according to him, still paid great respect to the opinions of the ancients. And finally, we are subservient to the opinions of the ancients, because it is in our interest if we wish to succeed in our careers. These false reasons for supporting tradition could have been alleged without a single change by Voltaire and any other eighteenth-century "philosophe." To the question why scholars fall so consistently into error, Malebranche answers that they suffer from too strong an imagination. • 428 ·

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Those most easily led astray are the visionaries, not of the senses (like the insane), but of the imagination: "Ces esprits sont excessifs en toutes rencontres: ils relevent les choses basses, ils agrandissent les petites, ils approchent les eloignees. Rien ne leur parait tel qu'il est." In addition, they follow certain procedures which exaggerate their effects. One of these is to praise excessively some important ancient, Aristotle, for instance. Or they insist beyond measure on Aristotle's opinion of the immortality of the soul. Malebranche takes the position that it is not very important to know what Aristotle's opinion on the soul is, although the problem of the immortality of the soul is very important. While he has very little respect for the commentator who over-praises his author, he expresses less respect still for those who treat outstanding men contemptuously. Those people particularly are to be avoided who are constantly devising new systems. They are all the more extraordinary since there is nothing rarer than philosophers who are really capable of making new systems. Those who claim to be expert in doing so, however, are not rare at all. He confesses that the most dangerous kind of error into which scholars may fall is to claim that nothing can be known: that they have read many ancients and moderns without discovering any truth, and have had many beautiful thoughts only to find that they were all false. They consequently conclude that all men resemble themselves, and that if they have been unable to discover truth, others who make such a claim must be mistaken. And thus they end by condemning all ideas without any attempt at examination. Malebranche has summed up all the different kinds of scholars who have fallen into error (p. 166): Il y a done de trois sortes de personnes qui s'appliquent a 1'etude. Les uns s'entetent mal a propos de quelque auteur ou de quelque science inutile ou fausse. Les autres se preoccupent de leurs propres fantaisies. Enfin les derniers qui viennent d'ordinaire des deux autres, sont ceux qui s'imaginent connaitre tout ce qui peut etre connu, et qui, persuades qu'ils ne savent rien avec certitude, concluent generalement qu'on ne peut rien savoir avec evidence, et regardent toutes les choses qu'on leur dit comme de simples opinions. He points out that all three groups have a common defect: they depend upon their imagination, their prejudices block their mind, • 429 ·

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thereby preventing them from seeing other things than those with which they are preoccupied. Strong imaginations are very contagious, because of our habit of imitating others, as well as to our tendency to compete in grandeur and prestige with our fellow men. Moreover, persons of weak imagination are always impressed by those who have a strong one. Consequently, the latter enjoy "I'avantage de plaire, de toucher et de persuader, a cause qu'ils forment des images tres vives et tres sensibles de leurs pensees." Malebranche mentions two things which augment the imagination in others: an air of piety and an air of libertinage. Of the two, naturally, the latter is the more pernicious (p. 187): "Ces petits esprits ont d'ordinaire beaucoup de feu, et un certain air libre et fier qui domine et qui dispose les imaginations faibles a se rendre a des paroles vives et specieuses, mais qui ne signifient rien a des esprits attentifs." The power of the imagination, he says, is particularly visible in Tertullian, Seneca, and Montaigne. Their words possess a charm and such brilliance that they dazzle the mind of their readers. Their words, though dead, he adds, have more vigor than the reasons of others: "Elles entrent, elles penetrent, elles dominent dans l'ame d'une maniere si imperieuse, qu'elles se font obeir sans se faire entendre, et qu'on se rend a leurs ordres sans les savoir." Of the three, Montaigne is admirably presented. Malebranche confesses that he appreciates the Gascon very little; it is evident, nevertheless, that the Oratorian has himself undergone the effects of Montaigne's tremendous imagination. His conclusion, of which we quote only the last paragraph, is a splendid piece of criticism (p. 205): Mais il faut faire justice a tout Ie monde, et dire de bonne foi quel etait Ie caractere de l'esprit de Montaigne. Il avait peu de memoire, encore moins de jugement, il est vrai; mais ces deux qualites ne font point ensemble ce que Ton appelle ordinairement dans Ie monde beaute d'esprit. C'est la beaute, la vivacite et 1'etendue de !'imagination, qui font passer pour bel esprit. Le commun des hommes estime Ie brillant, et non pas Ie solide; parce que Ton aime davantage ce qui touche les sens, que ce qui instruit la raison. Ainsi en prenant beaute d'imagination pour beaute d'esprit, on peut dire que Montaigne avait l'esprit beau et meme extraordinaire. Ses idees sont fausses, mais belles; ses expressions irregulieres ou hardies, mais agreables, ses discours mal raisonnes, mais bien imagines. On voit dans tout •430 ·

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son livre un caractere d'original qui plait infiniment; tout copiste qu'il est, il ne sent point son copiste; et son imagination forte et hardie donne toujours Ie tour d'original aux choses qu'il copie. Il a enfin ce qu'il est necessaire d'avoir pour plaire et pour imposer; et je pense avoir montre suffisamment que ce n'est point en convainquant la raison qu'il se fait admirer de tant de gens, mais en leur tournant l'esprit a son avantage par la vivacite toujours victorieuse de son imagination dominante. Malebranche's third book of the Recherche, which Voltaire called a masterpiece of its kind, undertook to bring together the threads of the two previous books and at the same time to give some kind of focus to the whole argument. Though ostensibly concerning himself in this book with the errors into which the pure understanding may fall—"On y examine l'esprit considere en lui-meme et sans aucun rapport au corps, afin de reconnaitre les faiblesses qui lui sont propres et les erreurs qu'il ne tient que de lui-meme"—MaIebranche was greatly preoccupied with the larger issues of the extent of our knowledge, the ways in which we know, and the source of our ideas. That is why he hastens to give an explanation of the mind's errors different from the one he offers for errors of the senses and of the imagination, which spring from the nature and constitution of the body and the dependence of the soul upon the body. Errors of the understanding come from elsewhere. They can be discovered only by examining the nature of the mind itself and the ideas which are essential to it. Malebranche defines the understanding as the faculty which the mind has of knowing external objects, without forming corporeal images in the brain to represent the objects. The essence of the mind, he says, following Descartes, is thought. Thought, however, does not mean this or that thought, but rather that which is capable of all sorts of modifications or of particular thoughts. Malebranche gives a clearer definition with the remark that it is impossible to conceive of a mind which does not think. Thought, consequently, is what the mind does. However, the first thing to note is that man's thought is very limited: the soul cannot know the infinite, nor can the soul know distinctly several things at the same time. There often results an incomprehensibility fertile in errors. For instance, there are people who cannot comprehend the infinite divisibility of matter and who, consequently, deny it. The most dangerous consequence • 431 ·

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of this ignorance which prevents the human mind from understanding the infinite is heresy, which, said Malebranche, was peculiarly acute in his day (p. 221): Il se trouve, ce me semble, en ce temps-ci, plus qu'en aucun autre [i.e., 1671-73], un fort grand nombre de gens qui se font une theologie particuliere qui n'est fondee que sur leur propre esprit et sur la faiblesse naturelle de la raison, parce que dans les sujets memes qui ne sont point soumis a la raison ils ne veulent croire que ce qu'ils comprennent. Malebranche cites the Socinians, who cannot understand the mystery of the Trinity or of the Incarnation, and the Calvinists, who cannot understand Transubstantiation. He adds, however, that heretics are not the only ones who give insufficient attention to the weakness of the human mind and who accord it too great a freedom to judge things which should not be submitted to it. Almost anybody, he adds, has this failing, especially some recent theologians (p. 222): Car on pourrait peut-etre dire que quelques-uns d'eux emploient si souvent des raisonnements humains pour prouver ou pour expliquer des mysteres qui sont au-dessus de la raison, quoiqu'ils Ie fassent avec bonne intention et pour defendre la religion contre les heretiques, qu'ils donnent souvent occasion a ces memes heretiques de demeurer obstinement attaches a leurs erreurs et de traiter les mysteres de la foi comme des opinions humaines. Indeed, human reason can never make us understand that there are three persons in God, that the Eucharist is the body of Christ, and that man is free although God has known from all eternity what man will do. Malebranche adds that it is not always fitting to use reasons in confronting those truths which can be explained by reason as well as by tradition—the immortality of the soul, original sin, the need for grace, the disorder of nature—for fear, he adds shrewdly, that becoming accustomed to using their minds in these matters, men do not presume to use them in other matters which can be proved only by tradition. The human mind is not only incapable of dealing with matters concerning the infinite; it is subject also to error in complicated problems. Scholars who devote themselves to too many sciences at one time often make this mistake. But a greater cause for error is the inconstancy of the mind itself, the lack of firmness in its action, and its inability to fix its attention upon a subject and examine it • 432 ·

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fully. This lack of concentration Malebranche considers very serious and he labors it greatly. To remedy this defect, he lays down a rule which is fully characteristic of the eighteenth century even to the language (p. 230): Cependant il est constant que toutes les connaissances ne consistent que dans une vue claire des rapports que les choses ont les unes avec les autres. Quand done il arrive, comme dans les questions difficiles, que l'esprit doit voir tout d'une vue un fort grand nombre de rapports que deux ou plusieurs choses ont entre elles, il est clair que s'il n'a pas considere ces choses-la avec beaucoup d'attention, et s'il ne les connait que confusement, il ne lui sera pas possible d'apercevoir distinctement leurs rapports, et par consequent d'en former un jugement solide. Malebranche resembles Pascal in the reasons he gives for our failure to concentrate, even to the "bourdonnement d'une mouche," the supremacy of the passions over the reason, and the search for pleasure. He deplores these distractions and insists that with serious application the sciences would be greatly enriched. His model for what might be achieved is Descartes, of whom he says that "il parait comme impossible qu'un homme seul ait trouve la verite dans des choses aussi cachees que sont celles de la nature." The Oratorian praises Descartes's way of life, the means he employed in his studies to achieve the greatest intellectual concentration possible, the clarity of the ideas upon which he established his philosophy, and the vast superiority he held over the ancients by his new discoveries. However, Malebranche does not, on the other hand, counsel a blind acceptance of Descartes (p. 233): Il ne faut done point Ie croire sur sa parole, mais Ie lire, comme il nous en avertit lui-meme, avec precaution, en examinant s'il ne s'est point trompe, et ne croyant rien de ce qu'il dit que ce que l'evidence et les reproches secrets de notre raison nous obligeront de croire; car en un mot l'esprit ne sait veritablement que ce qu'il voit avec evidence. The second part of the third book of the Recherche contains MaIebranche's two central doctrines concerning the nature of ideas and their origin. In accepting the Cartesian explanation of the universe, an explanation which creates two separate substances—matter distinguished by extension, spirit distinguished by thought—we confront a situation where it is difficult to unite matter with spirit. Malebranche had to deal with this problem just as did all the fol• 433 ·

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lowers of Descartes, and eventually he offered occasionalism as his solution. But even before undertaking the larger problem, Malebranche was forced to give his attention to the relationship of objects anc} mind, rather than to their union. He maintains that we do not perceive external objects in themselves, it being unthinkable that the mind would leave the body to contemplate all these objects. Accordingly, Malebranche proposes that the connecting link between objects and the mind is the idea, which he defines as "ce qui est l'objet immediat, ou Ie plus proche de l'esprit quand il aper§oit quelque objet"; that is, it is that which touches and modifies the mind at its perception of an object. Malebranche explains that all the things the soul perceives are of two sorts. Those things which are in the soul are its own thoughts —thought, manner of thinking, modification of the soul. These are the things of which the soul is conscious through its own inner feeling. They are its sensations, its imaginations, its pure intellections, or even its conceptions, its passions, and its natural inclinations. These things the mind perceives without any need of ideas. But those objects which are outside of the soul must needs be united with the spirit by ideas. At all events, this is true for material objects, and it may be true for other external objects. It must be added that although we can communicate with ourselves, we do so very imperfectly; as for the direct communication of one mind with another, it is impossible, while the communication of an object with the mind is achieved only by ideas. The problem which arises is the origin of these ideas. Malebranche suggests four possibilities: either they come from the objects which we do not perceive by themselves; or our soul has the power to produce them; or God in creating the soul has produced the ideas with it or produces them all the time the soul thinks of these objects; or the soul either has all the perfections necessary which it perceived in these bodies or it is united with an all-perfect Being which does have these perfections. The first solution—that the ideas arise in the objects perceived—although accepted by the Peripaticians, Malebranche rejects for reasons connected with the impenetrability of bodies. The second solution—that the soul has the power to produce the ideas from itself—Malebranche rejects also on the ground that this explanation assumes the participation of man in God's power to create anything from nothing, and to change the creation at • 434 ·

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any moment. The third solution—that the ideas are innate, being created in the soul—he considers very unlikely because there are, properly speaking, an infinite number of ideas. For instance, the height of a triangle can be raised or lowered infinitely upon a stationary base, giving an infinite number of triangles which would require separate ideas. The very complication of the infinite number of possibilities would exclude the likelihood of this solution. As for the fourth solution—that the mind has no need of anything but itself in order to perceive objects, and that it can, by considering itself and its own perfections, discover all the things which are outside of itself—Malebranche judges it very daring and totally unjustified (p. 247): Mais il me semble que c'est etre bien hardi que de vouloir soutenir cette pensee. C'est, si je ne me trompe, la vanite naturelle, l'amour de !'independence et Ie desir de ressembler a celui qui comprend en soi tous les etres, qui nous brouille l'esprit et qui nous porte a nous imaginer que nous possedons ce que nous n'avons point. Ne dites pas que vous soyez a vousmemes voire lumiere, dit Saint Augustin, car il n'y a que Dieu qui soit a lui-meme sa lumiere et qui puisse en se considerant voir tout ce qu'H a produit et qu'Il peut produire. It is this final statement which gives the clue to the solution. Apparently just as man can see within himself and without ideas all the sensations and all the passions with which he is occupied, so God can naturally see within Himself all the possibilities of His creation without ideas (p. 247): Dieu voit done au dedans de lui-meme tous les etres, en considerant ses propres perfections qui les lui representent. Il connait encore parfaitement leur existence, parce que, dependant tous de sa volonte pour exister, et ne pouvant ignorer ses propres volontes, il s'ensuit qu'il ne peut ignorer leur existence; et par consequent Dieu voit en lui-meme non seulement l'essence des choses, mais aussi leur existence. This is the solution that Malebranche adopts. Since God is conscious of all His creation, since He is closely united to our soul by His presence, He is the place of spirits, just as space is the place of bodies. Hence the spirit can see in God the works of God, provided that God wishes to reveal His works. We see all things in God. This solution is not only in conformity with reason, it is in conformity with our concept of the Deity, who never does anything in a com•435 ·

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plicated way when it can be done in a simple way. Still another reason for adopting this view is that the creation of God then remains entirely dependent upon the will of God (p. 255): Demeurons done dans ce sentiment, que Dieu est Ie monde intelligible ou Ie lieu des esprits, de meme que Ie monde materiel est Ie lieu des corps; que e'est de sa puissance qu'ils recpivent toutes leurs modifications; que e'est dans sa sagesse qu'ils trouvent toutes leurs idees, et que e'est par son amour qu'ils sont agites de tous leurs mouvements regies; et parce que sa puissance et son amour ne sont que lui, croyons avec Saint Paul qu'il n'est pas loin de chacun de nous, et que e'est en lui que nous avons la vie, Ie mouvement et l'etre: Non longe est ab etc. There now remains one final problem: how does the mind function in order to know? According to Malebranche, there are four ways in which the mind may know things: it may know them in themselves; it may know them by their ideas, that is, through something which is different from them; it may know them by "conscience," or by some interior feeling; or, finally, it may know them by conjecture. The means varies in accordance with what is known. We know God in Himself, we perceive Him in a view which is both immediate and direct. All the objects and their properties which we perceive, we see through ideas which we perceive in God. As for the soul, we perceive it through "conscience"; that is the reason why the knowledge we have of it is imperfect. However, we know enough to prove that it is immortal, spiritual, and free. Finally, we know the souls of others only by conjecture. Leibniz and Universal Harmony When Leibniz prepared his journey to France, England, and Holland in 1671, Europe was in the throes of an intellectual revolution.1 The outstanding political event was the movement from the Fronde to the Leviathan State, best exemplified in France, but although that state was moving from individualism to absolutism, and although the general tendency of all Europe was certainly toward unity, it should not be forgotten that Germany had not only emerged from the Thirty Years' War a totally devastated country, but was, far from being a unity, an agglomeration of 255 sovereign enclaves. Leibniz was acutely aware of the difficulties of his times. In 1670, the year 1 See R. W . Meyer, Leibniz 1952.

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of Pascal's Pensees and Spinoza's Tractatus theologico-politicus, he detailed in a memorandum the critical situations of the moment (Meyer, p. 3 ) : These consist in a badly established trade and manufacture; in an entirely debased currency; in the uncertainty of law and in the delay of all legal actions; in the worthless education and premature travels of our youth; in an increase of atheism; in our morals, which are as it were in­ fected by a foreign plague; in the bitter strife of religions; all of which taken together may indeed slowly weaken us, and, if we do not oppose it in good time, may in the end completely ruin us; yet we hope, will not bring us down all at once. But what can destroy our Republic with one stroke is an intestine or external war. The conditions examined by Leibniz in 1670 centered either around irreligion or a death struggle between religions, along with a corresponding weakening of morality. At that time, they could seem to him the fruits of a senseless war. Still in 1703, writing in the Manifeste contenant les droits de Charles III, he still complained of their continuance (Meyer, p. 55): Mais Ie pis de tout est que l'atheisme marche deja en France tete levee, que les pretendus esprits forts y sont a la mode et que la piete y est tournee en ridicule. . . . Partout ού ce genie met Ie pied et se rend superieur, il porte . . . ce venin . . . avec lui. . . . Nous Ie voyons maintenant en France meme, ού sous un Roi devot, severe et absolu, Ie desordre et Pirreligion sont alles au-dela de tout ce qu'on a jamais vu dans Ie monde chretien. Leibniz seems to have been haunted by this fear of atheism. In an­ other place, he speaks of those who spread dogmas "which are con­ trary to the providence of a perfectly wise, just, and good God" (Hobbes and his followers) and those who express views "contrary to that immortality of the soul which renders it susceptible of the effects of His justice" (Locke and his followers). It is not so much the leaders, he said, who are persons of an excellent disposition and character whom these opinions will never cause to do anything unworthy of themselves. But their disciples are capable, Leibniz thought, of setting fire to the four corners of the universe, for the sake of their pleasure or advancement. They "dispose all things to­ wards the general revolution with which Europe is threatened." The revolution predicted by Leibniz was occasioned by simultane­ ous crises in religion, politics, and morality, resulting from religious • 437 ·

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quarrels, a dual system of government, and a readjustment in the ideals of moral man. A change was thus effected in the concept of law, of the state, and of the Christian tradition. The time was characterized by an intense intellectual activity; the philosophical systems of Descartes, Pascal, Spinoza, Hobbes, and Malebranche were formed; mathematics was developed by Fermat, Wallis, Newton, and Leibniz himself; two scientific academies—the Royal Society and the Academie des Sciences—were established, not to mention a very strong intellectual center at Amsterdam. The various sciences were advanced: astronomy by Newton and Halley; mechanics by Newton and Huyghens; acoustics by Mersenne and Rohault; chemistry by Boyle, Stahl, and Boerhaave. These intellectual activities tended to form a European culture; as they developed, though, in their feverish way, they must have seemed to threaten the very stability of life itself. Leibniz' responses to the crises of his age were full. He claimed, for instance, absolute autonomy for the mind, and he approached the problems as a European rather than as a German merely. He posed two questions: How is true culture possible? How can individual man become an educated, cultured being? His solutions were of a practical nature: the reinstatement of mathematics in German humanism, the establishment of a national language, the creation of a "characteristica universalis," a language accessible to all the nations of the world. He insisted that the study of poetry, logic, and scholastic philosophy should be united with history, mathematics, geography, physics, morality, and civic studies. Always the drive was toward a coherent unity, the assembling of knowledge along encyclopedic lines, and its establishment in the world's academies. A critical examination of first principles was forced upon him by the contemporary situation. The security of tradition having failed, man was no longer firmly fixed in the order of the past. Gone were the concept of divine justice, Christian doctrine, the scholastic image of reality, Aristotelian culture; in fact, traditional ontology had been swept away. He understood that in its place was to be constituted a new concept of justice more in accord with the nature of man; nature was to be redefined in mechanistic terms within a causally determined conception of reality; this mechanistic concept of reality was to be centered in a mathematical concept of God, which in turn was to illustrate the consciousness of man. But as a means of pro• 438 ·

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ceeding from chaos to some semblance of order new principles were required. Hence were necessary the principles of sufficient reason, of contradiction, and of continuity, because the world now seemed pre-logical, full of contradictions, and discontinuous. These are Leibniz' rules of prudence. More important is his identification of all activity with force: only that is real which is active. The one quality of his philosophic thinking is dynamism, his constant preoccupation is with some form of movement which is energy. The single term characteristic of his thinking is literally "vis viva." To the Princesse Louise, he wrote, November, 1705: "Repose is just one step closer to stupidity. We must always discover things to do: think, plan, become engaged, both for the individual, and for the group, in such a way that we rejoice when we succeed without becoming too downcast when we fail." And in the Securitas publica, he wrote: "The human can not rest; to be motionless, that is, without movement toward further perception, is torment to the mind." At the University of Leipzig his training by Thomasius had been largely scholastic,2 but his readings in his father's library had been among the ancients. He confessed that when he came in contact with Bacon, Kepler, Galileo, and Descartes, he felt before him the ancients. At Jena, he undertook the serious study of mathematics as a means of penetrating Galileo and Descartes further, but he acknowledged to Foucher in 1675 that he was not sufficiently "geometre" to comprehend them readily and that he was handicapped by their manner of writing, which demanded great concentration. As late as 1679, he wrote to Malebranche that he knew Descartes only at second hand, and he congratulated himself upon having developed his own thought independently (to Malebranche, June 22, 1679): "Comme j'ai commence a mediter lors que je n'etais pas encore imbu des opinions cartesiennes, cela m'a fait entrer dans l'interieur des choses par une autre porte et decouvrir des nouveaux pays." Actually, he studied more closely and with keener pleasure the writings of Hobbes and Gassendi, which were derived from the atomists such as Democritus and the physics of Epicurus. By previous training he was better equipped to follow what he thought was the traditional line from the ancients through the scholastics to Hobbes and Gassendi, rather than plunge wholeheartedly into the scientific and philosophical revolution inaugurated by Galileo and Descartes. What 2

See J. Moreau, L'Univers Leibnizien, 1956.

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disturbed him was the tendency of these two, and of the mechanists in general, to eliminate the concept of the deity from the phenomena of nature. It was this preoccupation which can be seen in one of his earliest treatises: Confessio naturae contra atheistas (1668) where the central point is: "pour rendre raison des phenomenes corporels, on ne saurait se passer d'un principe incorporel; a savoir, Dieu." Leibniz saw in the mechanistic explanation of the universe the same flaw which Pascal criticized in Descartes. He did not reject scientific mechanism, but undertook to point out that mechanist physics cannot lead to the final reasons of things. Mechanist physics must subordinate itself to a metaphysic of the mind which is alone capable of justifying its principles. Only thus can we be sure that it will not end in materialism and naturalism. Leibniz devoted his whole career to the elaboration of a system which is climaxed by a finalist metaphysic or at least interprets mechanical laws in terms of a dynamic spiritualism. We can perhaps better understand his position if we compare him with Descartes. Descartes withdraws from society into solitude, examines carefully the conditions of knowing, defines the method he finds acceptable, and traces the plan of his scientific building. Leibniz, on the other hand, undertakes to convince men; as the obstacles to their beliefs rise from the mechanist tendencies of modern science, he must constantly enter into a discussion concerning their worth. He has no time for a theory of knowledge, for the conditions of certainty, or for critical reflection on the operations of the mind. Instead of advancing in depth, he has to proceed in breadth, oriented to an encyclopedic construction into which enter all the activities of the human mind; religion, morals, politics, economics. Instead of stressing analysis, he must work toward synthesis. His philosophy puts its emphasis upon organic unity rather than upon the key to knowledge. His intervention into the scientific development of his time was by no means an attempt to disprove the movement's validity. He felt, rather, that what was needed was not denunciation so much as clearer control. The situation demanded new methods, new instruments of analysis, new kinds of logic. His achievements—the theory of "force vive," infinitesimal calculus, his theories of demonstration, and his idea of a universal characteristic—are the results of his search. Only with these new approaches to knowledge is he now prepared • 440 ·

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to elaborate his metaphysical system, a dynamic spiritualism which is at the basis of the mechanist physics. In many ways, his philosophy is Cartesianism turned completely around. The years 1672 to 1676, the years in Paris, were decisive in his intellectual life. Through Huyghens, he entered profoundly into modern mathematics; from Cartesian mechanism he elaborated his own dynamics; from Pascal's scientific treatises he developed his calculus. He even undertook to improve Pascal's arithmetic machine. Through Tschirnhaus in Paris, he heard of Spinoza, and he frequented MaIebranche. These two philosophers aided Leibniz to take account of his own originality. We should keep in mind that Leibniz is a traditionalist who is ever seeking the new, a syncretist who always wants to unite rather than separate. He strives to bring together in harmony those things which his contemporary philosophers are inclined to disjoin: reason and faith, soul and body, history and mechanics, material science and spirituality. This tendency is what gives the impression that he is forever finding flaws in the philosophical works of his contemporaries. Though he approaches them with an avid desire to know them, this first acquaintance is inevitably followed by a summary of what he finds unsatisfactory. This adverse criticism leads, however, to Leibniz' seeking the right philosophical explanation of the phenomena. One would say that he is unable to pursue his own thoughts unless he is stimulated by the errors of others, that he can never create except by a destructive criticism, and that he is never content until he has modified in his way the thoughts of others. It is characteristic of him that he questioned with great meticulousness the philosophies of every one of his contemporaries. The impression left by his approach is curiously compounded of eclecticism, idealism, and pragmatism. Leibniz seems capable of thinking abstractly and concretely simultaneously and without difficulty. He is equally at home in everyday reality and in the totality of things. By nature, he is encyclopedic: he possesses an inordinate thirst to understand all the forms of science, of art, and of human activity. By temperament, he must consider first the totality of things before entering upon the particular. He is literally haunted by the ensemble, by harmony, by order. It is this trait which filled his life with a search for a combinatory art, a universal characteristica, a pre-established harmony, and which led him to give a large part of •441 ·

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it to history, to experimental science, and to arts and trades. His thought is thus singularly broad in scope. For him, as for his contemporary philosophers, thought exists for the common good: "Le pays ou cela ira Ie mieux sera celui qui me sera Ie plus cher, puisque tout Ie genre humain en profitera toujours, et ses tresors en seront augmentes." The result is this tremendous attempt to harmonize everything. Leibnizianism is undoubtedly the system which brings together, as in a symphony, all the principal themes wrought by other thinkers. Foucher de Careil wrote {(Euvres, VII, 502-503): "Ce systeme parait allier Platon avec Democrite, Aristote avec Descartes, les scholastiques avec les modernes, la theologie et la morale avec la raison." Curiously, this syncretism seems to be inordinately tolerant, but in reality, since Leibniz is opposed to every idea which directly affects the bases of morality and established religion, it is fundamentally intolerant. There springs from it a sense of continual struggle. Leibniz gives the impression of a great fighter always championing a cause. He himself said: "Je lis les livres non pour les censurer mais pour en profiter." Inevitably, though, his readings led to discussions, condemnations, subterfuges, and new approaches, and thus the history of his thought was compounded of his reactions to the philosophers his contemporaries. That is why Leibniz was particularly curious about the reigning philosophies of his day. In his analysis of the crisis which developed during the period from 1640 to 1670, the initiators were not necessarily the anonymous libertines and the "esprits forts"; the real instigators were the philosophers, particularly Hobbes, Descartes, Spinoza. His objection to Hobbes was raised early, since Hobbes was the first of the contemporary philosophers to attract his attention. Leibniz' position concerning Hobbes nevertheless was best expressed in the rather late Meditations sur la notion commune de la justice. Hobbes, said Leibniz, takes the stand that God has the right to do anything, since He is all-powerful. That, insisted the German philosopher, is a singular confusion between right and fact, because power is one thing, duty is another. Further, Hobbes asserts using the same reasoning, the true religion is the religion of the state. That, commented Leibniz, is false because equivalent to saying that there is no true religion, and all religion is only a human invention, just as it is false to say, as does Hobbes, that what pleases the most power• 442 ·

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ful is the most just. That only means that there is no definite principle of justice which forbids one to do what one wishes and can do with impunity, no matter how wicked it may be (see Meyer, p. 138). Hobbes' presentation is unacceptable to Leibniz, who set out to discover the attributes and meaning of justice. He concluded that those who make their concept of justice depend upon power arrive at this mistaken notion through confusing justice with the law. Justice, he maintained, can not be unjust, but a law can be. If the power that enforces a law is lacking in wisdom and good will, it is bound to introduce and uphold bad laws. Justice, on the other hand, aims at the "summum bonum," and is the fundamental harmony of wisdom and power. For Leibniz there are absolute virtues which are good in themselves, and though power is not one of them, justice is. Power only becomes a certain good when it is at one with wisdom and goodness. Leibniz' initiation in Descartes's philosophy3 began around 1663; until then, his acquaintance was undoubtedly limited to the elements of Cartesianism taught by his professors. As Leibniz interested himself in 1663 with the various aspects of philosophy, however, he acquainted himself more carefully with Descartes's contributions. Thus when the German philosopher was busily engaged with his De Arte combinatoria (1663 if.), he disclosed more than a passing interest in the Discours; as he turned his attention to the composition of the Demonstrationes catholicae (1667-70), the relationship of metaphysics with theology in Descartes engaged his attention. The following year, when he undertook the Hypothesis physica nova (1670-71), Descartes's physics assumed great importance. Though Leibniz now declared that the French philosopher was among those who had most developed algebra since Viete, he did not hesitate to reject his criterion for evidence. He had accepted Cartesian mechanism from the beginning with the intention of reconciling it with the finalism of Aristotle. All of this shows some desire to know Descartes, but only a mild enthusiasm for his ideas. Under no circumstance could he be thought a confirmed Cartesian. His concern at the time was motivated rather by a wish to preserve the Christian religion. Hence his criticisms seem mostly negative: Descartes has committed paralogisms in the 3

See Y. Belaval, Leibnitz, critique de Descartes, 1960.

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proofs of the existence of God; he contradicts Transubstantiation; he does not succeed in showing the proper relationship between physics and metaphysics; he applies imperfectly his own method in his Traite des lumieres; the Cartesians are really sterile. These opinions show interest but nevertheless display immaturity, and even some parochialism. In 1670 and 1671, however, Leibniz began a serious study of Descartes. He procured a manuscript of the Regulae, an additional manuscript of thirty-three pages of the mathematics, and some extracts. In 1671 he purchased an edition of the complete works, while giving closer attention to Cartesians and pseudo-Cartesians: Arnauld, Spinoza, Rohault, Cordemoy, and others. At the same time, he continued his running commentary upon the master, expressing surprise that Descartes reduces sin to a simple privation, that he stresses so little the immortality of the soul, that he abandons humanity, in common with the stoics, to a hopeless patience, that he excludes final causes in spite of Plato, that he fails to give a definition of "cogitare," and that the insufficiency of the body-soul distinction weakens his ontological argument. Now busily engaged in writing the Hypothesis physica nova, Leibniz naturally turned to the Principia and drew up a commentary on the first part: the essence of bodies does not consist in extent; movement cannot be defined as simply a change in place, it requires an action other than repose; cohesion cannot be explained by repose; the immutability of God does not prove the conservation of energy; finally, many of Descartes's propositions are false, including the laws of impact. "On voit que Leibniz," writes Belaval (p. 11), "vers la fin de ses annees d'apprentissage, avait forge les themes principaux de sa critique." After Leibniz' arrival in Paris, he reviewed, corrected, and sharpened his knowledge of the ideas of Descartes by a thorough reading of the works. In addition, he secured copies of a number of Descartes's unpublished extracts—the Recherche de la verite, the Cogitationes privatae, and the Livre du monde, among others—while he was permitted by Clerselier to make some copies of Descartes's papers. Leibniz was now prepared to see the full expression of Descartes's philosophy and to formulate his own views in a very succinct manner. His criticism, which throughout his life fluctuates from the detailed objections of the years 1670 and 1671 to a more general re• 444 ·

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action after 1672, centers around Descartes's physics, metaphysics, and attitude toward history. Leibniz has more esteem for Cartesian physics than for any other aspect of Descartes's work. Nevertheless, he differs from his predecessor on the question of conservation of energy, and he finds Descartes's rules of impact of bodies false and contrary to the principle of continuity. He criticizes, as everyone did, the "tourbillon" theory. The explanation of the tides, the treatment of the rainbow, the presentations of the magnet (which were taken from Gilbert, De magnete), these three things he approved. Otherwise, he scores imaginary hypotheses, visions, dearth of experiments, impractical new theories! He ultimately calls this physics a "beau roman de physique" —the same judgment which Voltaire later passed upon it. Errors are everywhere: why talk about a "premier element" and "globules"? Why divide matter into equal particles spinning around their center ? How can particles be "indefinitely" small ? Hardness is derived from movement, not from rest; light is not instantaneous. Descartes has taken his laws of refraction from Snell, and he does not utilize the pressure of the air. He is ignorant of chemistry. In the biological sciences he does not distinguish between living machines and inanimate mechanical objects; he excludes all finalism in human beings; he reasons too much about the invisible and not enough about the visible; he does not sufficiently describe the structure or genesis of living animals while he talks interminably about imaginary animals. And he is dead wrong to deny feeling to animals. (See Belaval, p. 530, where references are given to Leibniz, Gebhardt ed., Vol. IV.) In the realm of metaphysics, the charges which Leibniz brings against Descartes are more serious still. By insisting upon intuition, Descartes has discredited the method of analysis and thereby has made knowledge uncertain, multiplied paralogisms, and distorted the task of laying a solid foundation. This defect shows up in the separation of the "cogito" from the "cogitata," a separation which brings about the neglect of those thoughts which are, so to speak, unconscious thoughts. Descartes thus has confused perception and apperception, the soul and the mind, and has introduced an impossible dualism of mind and spirit without any possibility of unifying man. His ontological proofs of the existence of God were defective: he excluded the possibility of will and understanding being determinants in the Deity, and with his creation of the "verites eter•445 ·

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nelles," he ruined all concept of providence in the world. He portrayed the soul as mortal, or at least he accorded it an immortality without memory. His treatment of substance was likewise defective. He limited matter to the quality of extension, when he should have pushed it to force, and founded the force on dynamism. His concept of matter is close to the "fatum spinosanum" and to the materialism of Hobbes. Leibniz condemned Descartes as deficient in those ideas which he, using Descartes, had developed himself. The French philosopher has exposed the Christian religion to grave risks: his God has neither will nor understanding; He is not the God of the Christians, but rather a God of the philosophers, a deist God. Descartes has left no room for providence. The reduction of matter to extension has rendered impossible the mystery of the Eucharist; his immortality without memory leaves us with a morality without future, a stoic resignation without hope. It is remarkable to what extent these criticisms resemble Voltaire's around 1756 against Leibniz himself. In this latter case there was, to be sure, an element of injustice. The German philosopher had exercised all his logical ingenuity to establish precisely the right relationship between philosophy and theology which, he thought, had been disrupted by his contemporary philosophers. He wrote: Mes remarques sur M. Gassendi, Ie P. Malebranche, M. des Cartes, M. Lock servent a preparer les esprits. Je ne puis pas toujours expliquer amplement, mais je tache toujours de parler juste. Je commence en philosophe, mais je finis en theologien. But the difference goes deeper. Reason, for Descartes, is the totality of intuitions which are bound together by an uninterrupted movement of thought. It would be thoroughly subjective if it were not guaranteed by the veracity of God. For Leibniz, on the other hand, reason is the inviolable chain of truths, necessary or contingent. This chain of truths is forged from without, by a judgment superimposed upon the idea, but it is the internal development of the activity of judging governed by a "logique increee" and by an intelligible world which our world realizes. This chain, consequently, has deeply imbedded within itself an objective value. An important difference between Descartes and Leibniz lies in the attitude of each of them toward history. Descartes took the position • 446 ·

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that he had no need for books in order to seek the truth; he had only to consult his reason and experience. Certainly this attitude was justified from the experience of Montaigne, who had discovered in the works of the ancients ample reasons for skepticism. To avoid this pitfall, Descartes devoted himself to the abstract deduction of the geometrician, to a system which reduces the creative life to mechanics and ignores individuals. At least that is the way Descartes's defect was looked at by Bayle, who also opposed to the Cartesian evidence of reason the historical fact. Thus there is a tendency in Descartes to liberate philosophy from the authority of the ancients. Philosophical tradition, in fact, will be as carefully separated from philosophy as erudition will be from science. Leibniz, whose preparation in philosophy was made by way of jurisprudence, who was moreover the heir of a Protestant humanism strongly oriented to secularism, brought to his philosophy precisely a sense of history. Meinecke {Shaftesbury und die Wurzeln des Historismus, Berlin, 1934, p. 4) asserts that Leibniz' philosophy is constantly preoccupied with the individual, and that it unites Cartesian rationalism, which Leibniz judges too abstract, with the empiricism of the English, which he deems too concrete to discern the reasons behind the facts. He thereby produces, in the development of the species and the progress of societies, the rational expression of God's transcendence. Lenoble (Essai sur la notion d'experience, 1943, p. 13) has likewise remarked that Leibniz is not content to reduce history to an erudite kind of documentation, but insists that from the analysis of this documentation there should be derived a certain philosophical logic. To Kuno Fischer, Leibniz appears essentially a philosopher of history, while F. Olgiati states that "Ie sens qu'il avait de revolution et de l'histoire est Ie centre et la source qui nous donnent !'explication de tout." As a matter of fact, Leibniz' origins are more closely connected with the tradition of sixteenth-century erudition. To Huet, in 1673, he complained that "les hommes qui se piquent de philosophic et de raisonnement ont coutume de mepriser les recherches de l'antiquite, et les antiquaires a leur tour se moquent de ce qu'ils appellent les reveries des philosophes." Leibniz not only held the Cartesians responsible for this state of affairs, he proposed to justify the study of history against their allegations. To Huet he defines the erudit: Celui qui tient en son savoir les phenomenes admirables du Ciel et de la terre, l'histoire de la Nature et de la Technique, les migrations des peu. 447 .

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pies, les changements des langues et des empires, l'etat present du monde, bref tout ce que Ton n'a pas a decouvrir par genie, mais que Ton apprend des choses et des hommes: et ainsi, la philosophie differe de l'erudition comme ce qui est de raison, c'est-a-dire de droit, diiiere de ce qui est de fait. Leibniz' definition is the Baconian interpretation of history: it combines the history of nature and human history. The latter, as seen by Leibniz, embraces universal history, geography, research in antiquities (medals, inscriptions, manuscripts), philology, literary history, arts and sciences, history of customs and of laws, and history of religions. Encyclopedic in its scope, it has already become the modern concept of the history of civilization. Leibniz agrees that history will never have the certainty of a rational, mathematical science, but he insists that, pursued with the proper method, the result will always lead to truth. It is incorrect to affirm that this result produces only skepticism, because when the human mind destroys some thesis, it always adopts the opposite thesis, or when it rejects both, it is then on its way to some very important thought. There will always be discussion as to the degree of certainty in probability, but a good historical method, what Leibniz calls a good critique des documents, will free history from the falsehood of rhetoric and from the deception of fables. Leibniz carefully defines this good critique: a severe textual interpretation, a criticism of the witnesses, a recourse to linguistics, especially to etymology, and to geography. Handled with this care, history is no longer a sterile probability; it instructs and stimulates the imagination. Leibniz tirelessly details the advice he would give a young man seeking to know history and peoples: observe the commodities of food, drink, buildings, clothing, agriculture, machines. Get to know the important people, those who stand out in their times. Seek out the memorable events, either in nature or in technique. Address oneself to comparative history where we will better understand jurisprudence, Roman history in order to understand civil laws, ecclesiastical history in order to evaluate canonical law, mediaeval history in order to grasp feudal law, modern history in order to penetrate the mysteries of public law. The jurist Leibniz waxes eloquent when the problems of jurisprudence are raised, but there is in him a deeper comprehension of history as the science of man than in the other philosophers of his day: it has a real human value: it serves religion • 448 ·

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and theology, arouses interest in public affairs, and instructs. Even its continuity offers a rational content to the student, and it would offer more if we could but see its broad motion. It is this vision of the sweep of history which led Leibniz to some affirmation concerning the progress of the world. The affirmation was somewhat halting, but the doctrine was clearly stated. One may doubt, he said (to the Electress Sophie, September 3, 1694): Si Ie monde avance toujours en perfection, ou s'il avance et recule par periodes, ou s'il ne se maintient pas plutot dans la meme perfection a l'egard du tout, quoiqu'il semble que les parties font un echange entre elles, et que tantot les unes, tantot les autres, sont plus ou moins parfaites. On peut done mettre en question si toutes les creatures avancent toujours au moins au but de leurs periodes, ou s'il y en a qui perdent et qui reorient toujours, ou s'il y en a enfin qui font toujours des periodes au bout desquelles elles trouvent de n'avoir point gagne ni perdu: de meme qu'il y a des lignes qui avancent en meme temps comme la spirale, d'autres enfin qui reculent apres avoir avance, ou avancent apres avoir recule, comme les ovales. Although the form progress takes is unknown, there is nonetheless visible a movement, a gradual evolution of laws and manners. True, the history of wisdom is counterbalanced by the history of folly (Leibniz noted the sad fact before Bayle and Voltaire), but it is precisely the purpose of the "bonne critique" to distinguish between the two histories. The result may not be what we always expect; since we cannot embrace the whole, there will always appear disorder joined with confusion. "U y a sans doute mille dereglements, mille desordres dans Ie particulier," he wrote (to Remond, February 11, 1715): "Mais il n'est pas possible qu'il y en ait dans Ie total, meme de chaque monade. . . . Il n'est pas possible que l'univers entier ne soit pas bien regie. . . ." Progress in knowledge is always possible. Leibniz thus opposes the encyclopedic method of history to the Cartesian method of science. To perceive the unity and continuity of history, he counsels collecting, ordering, evaluating the phenomena of man. This method can be in no sense of the word deductive; it is based more rationally upon the concept of the "morale provisoire." To the a priori of natural science which Descartes stressed, Leibniz opposed the order of history which stressed observations, the acquired truths, the "enchainement des demonstrations": "L'ordre scientifique parfait est celui ou les propositions sont rangees suivant •449 ·

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leurs demonstrations les plus simples, et de maniere qu'elles naissent les unes des autres, mais cet ordre n'est pas connu d'abord, et il se decouvre de plus en plus a mesure que la science se perfectionne." But there is another consideration. Science, in Descartes's view, awaits the arrival of the genius; one scientist can overthrow the whole past. For Leibniz, on the contrary, history exists not for one savant, but for all humanity; it is the matter of all spirits, past, present, and future. Hence the opposition in the two methods. Descartes's is the method of free will which begins in absolute fashion; Leibniz' is the method of moral freedom subjected to the world of ideas, that is, the historical world which is its temporal expression. It does not want to overthrow, it wishes to perfect. The consequences of the two methods are far-reaching. Descartes, through his vision of the world, establishes even by his ahistorical attitude the history of philosophy. And Leibniz, who through his insistence upon history drew from the scientific method of Descartes the "esprit philosophique" which is at the same time the "esprit encyclopedique," established with his method the philosophy of history. Leibniz was stimulated by Locke's Essay concerning Human Understanding to compose his own Nouveaux essais stir I'entendement humain (1704). While proclaiming that the Locke Essay "is one of the most beautiful and esteemed works of the time," Leibniz remarked that he often differs with its author. "In fact," he wrote, "although the author of the Essay says a thousand fine things of which I approve, our systems differ very much." These differences Leibniz traced to the distinctions between Aristotle, whom Locke seemed to follow, and Plato, who was at the origin of his own thought. "Our differences," added Leibniz, "are on subjects of some importance." The first question concerned the state of the soul at birth: whether it is in itself entirely empty; whether it is like the tablet on which nothing has yet been written, as according to Aristotle and Locke; or whether it contains originally certain notions which external objects merely awaken on occasions, as was believed by Plato, and as Leibniz now maintains. The German defended his stand by asserting that it was accepted by the schoolmen, in accordance with the statement of St. Paul who wrote (Rom. 2, 15) that the law of God is written in the heart. Indeed, it was adopted even ear•450 ·

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lier by the Stoics, who referred to these notions as "fundamental assumptions." Mathematicians have called them "common notions." Scaliger called them "semina aeternitatis," or "Zopyra," living fires. These luminous rays are concealed within us, but encounter with the senses makes them appear like sparks struck from steel. These flashes indicate something "divine and eternal, which appears especially in necessary truths." A further question is "whether all truths depend upon experience, that is to say, on induction and examples, or whether there are some which have still another basis." Leibniz, contrary to Locke, takes the second view. For him, our senses, "although necessary for all our actual knowledge, are not sufficient to give to us the whole of it." The senses never give anything but particular or individual truths. Leibniz' system4 is based on a distinction between general and necessary truths. General truths are confirmed by the examples produced by the senses; but it does not matter how numerous these examples may be, they will always be insufficient to establish the universal necessity of this same truth. For it does not follow that what has happened, no matter how many times in the past, will necessarily happen in the future. In contradistinction to the general truths, there must therefore be necessary truths, such as those in mathematics, whose proofs do not depend upon examples and therefore are not derived from the senses, in spite of the obvious fact that were it not for the senses we would never take it into our head to think of them. Leibniz finds that logic together with metaphysics, and ethics, "one of which forms theology and the other jurisprudence, both natural," are full of such truths. Their proof, consequently, can only come from internal principles which are called innate. Leibniz adds that it is precisely in this distinction, between the general truths based on experience and examples and the necessary truths which are innate in the human mind, that one distinguishes between brutes and men. There is thus a fundamental break between Locke and Leibniz over innate ideas. Locke's position is frequently given in the stoic assertion that "nihil est in intellectu, quod non prius fuerit in sensu," to which Leibniz is reputed to have added, "nisi intellectus ipse." There is involved in the discussion, however, more than a mere quip. Leibniz' position resembles very closely Descartes's initial stand in 4

J. G. Hibben, The Philosophy of the Enlightenment, New York, 1910.

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the Olympica when he discussed the difference between the philosopher and the poet. Indeed, Leibniz uses the same word, "semina" although he attributes it to Scaliger, not to Descartes; and he employs the same metaphor of ideas being struck from the mind as sparks are struck from stone. Leibniz does not reject, though, the knowledge of experience; he accepts with Locke and the whole English empirical school that experience and, in the case of scientific truths, experiment are both essential, but solely for the establishment of laws, that is, common notions. They produce the dynamics, so to speak, of knowledge; they are not the essence, which lies in the necessary truths of reason; thus the mind is a source of knowledge as well as the senses, and this formal knowledge is more profound, more intuitive, more fundamental, more divine, than that established upon the senses. The system of Leibniz thus consists in saying that there are two ways to knowledge: one derived from the observations of the senses and the other based upon necessary truths which are innate in the mind. These innate truths are awakened, as it were, by the particular truths which are discovered by the senses. On the other hand, the particular truths often come to us in an indefinite or obscure way. It is the role of reason to clarify, to organize, and to give meaning to the truths of the senses. This procedure of giving rational meaning to empirical facts is effected by the use of reflection, which "is nothing less than attention to what is in us, and the senses do not give us that which we already carry with us." There is, therefore, much in us which is innate: being, substance, unity, duration, change, action, perception, pleasure, and "a thousand other objects of our intellectual ideas." This activity of the mind is constant. To Locke's assertion that the mind does not always think Leibniz replies that a substance cannot be without activity, nor is there ever a body without motion. The implication follows that there is never a mind without thought. The problem is to distinguish between perception and apperception. There are at every moment innumerable perceptions in us, but without apperception and without reflection. Changes in the soul are always occurring, but we are not conscious of them, because the impressions are either too slight, or there are too many conflicting impressions. These minute perceptions exercise a greater influence than is •452 ·

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usually believed. They form taste, the images of sensible qualities which are clear in bulk but confused in details. They bring to us the impressions which surrounding bodies make upon us. They indicate and constitute the identity of the individual, "who is characterized by the traces or expressions which they preserve of the preceding states of this individual." Thus they are the flow of thought from past to present to future—what Taine will call in his De !'intelligence "Ie fil des evenements." Finally, it is through them that the pre-established harmony of the soul is explained. Leibniz undertook to explain these things in a letter to Queen Charlotte of Prussia (1702) on the suprasensible element in knowledge, and on the immaterial in nature. Already, in a fragment written in 1697 on the ultimate origin of things, he had postulated that in addition to the world of finite things, there is some dominating entity, somewhat analogous to the soul in the body or the ego, but infinitely more powerful and wise. This entity not only rules the world but creates and fashions it; it is extramundane, and is thus "the ultimate reason of things." He concludes that, even supposing the eternity of the world, this extramundane reason of things, or God, cannot be denied. Moreover, we must grant that in order to exist things must depend upon a metaphysical, not a physical, necessity. The superior reason of all this is also God, the unity of all essences and existences: Leibniz explains this relationship in a famous sentence: ". . . neither these essences nor the so-called eternal truths regarding them are fictions, but they exist in a certain region of ideas, if I may thus speak, that is in God himself, the source of all essences and of the existence of all else" (Wiener, p. 349). Leibniz argues that the reason for the existences cannot be found in itself, and must be sought in metaphysical necessities or eternal truths. Since what exists must come from what exists, these eternal truths can derive only from a subject absolutely and metaphysically necessary, that is, God. He thus concludes that "everything takes place in the world according to the laws, not only geometrical but also metaphysical, of eternal truths." In the extract on the ultimate origins of things, the conclusion is reached that since God is the supreme unity and the supreme power who guarantees the existence and hence the essence of things, this world is, both metaphysically and morally, the best of all possible worlds. In spite of seeming evil, Leibniz argues, as he did later in the •453 ·

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Theodicie, that we see only a small portion of eternity and can therefore not judge of the whole; moreover, if we examine closely the presence of evil which afflicts the good, this evil produces in the general scheme of things (it cannot do otherwise) a greater good. These eternal truths, guaranteed by the essence and existence of God, are implanted in the souls of men. This is the starting-point of the letter to Queen Charlotte. To her question, which had been occasioned by Locke's Essay, as to whether there is something in nature which is not material, the German philosopher makes answer that he is not of the opinion of the author of the Essay. Leibniz accepts that sensible qualities are in reality occult qualities and that there must be others more manifest which can render them more explicable. Indeed, he suggests, far from understanding only sensible qualities, we understand them precisely the least. Leibniz remarks that the notions of sensible qualities are clear because they serve in their identification, but they are not distinct, because we cannot distinguish that which they include. He proposes that these notions furnished by the senses unite with an internal sense which he tentatively calls the imagination. This internal sense receives the notions of the particular senses, which are clear and confused, and unites them with the notions of the common sense, which are clear and distinct. From this point he concludes that there are, in addition to objects which are sensible and imageable, others which are purely intelligible, and the objects of the understanding alone: "Such is the object of my thought when I think of myself." From this argument, Leibniz explains that there are three types of notions: the sensible, which are the objects appropriate to each sense in particular; the sensible and at the same time intelligible, which pertain to the senses and similarly to the common sense; and the intelligible, which belong to the understanding. The sensible and the sensible-intelligible are imageable; the intelligible are above the imagination. The sensible are confused, albeit recognizable; the sensible-intelligible and the intelligible are clear and distinct. Thus being and truth are not known wholly through the senses. Indeed, it could be argued that what is disclosed about being and truth by the senses is mere appearance, and that real being and truth are perceived in the soul, or rather are found in the ego and in the understanding. It is thus in the understanding that we find what it •454 ·

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is to affirm, to deny, to doubt, to will, to act. The most important result of this is "the force of the consequences of reasoning, which are a part of what is called the natural light." Leibniz defines this natural light as the ability to understand the truth of abstract notions, or to comprehend the axioms of mathematics, or to construct the demonstrative sciences. But the greatest service rendered by the natural light is that only through it do we apprehend necessary truths. The experiences of the senses cannot under any circumstances be their source. Leibniz concludes that there is no doubt that there is a light born within us (Wiener, p. 363). This does not mean, however, that the senses are not necessary to us for thinking. They do furnish us the matter for reasoning, and we never have thoughts, no matter how abstract they may be, in which the senses have no part. While the point of meeting between Leibniz, Hobbes, Pascal, Descartes, and Locke offers much interest, Leibniz' association with Spinoza5 is more intriguing still. In 1669, when Leibniz first mentions Spinoza in a letter to his former teacher Thomasius, Spinoza had published only the commentary on Descartes's Pnncipia, and Leibniz could not have learned anything important about Spinoza's philosophical point of view from perusing this work. Indeed, Leibniz did no more at this time than hurriedly scan the Pnncipia. His references to Spinoza in the letter to Thomasius merely indicate that the disciples of Descartes—and he includes Spinoza in the group—have added nothing to the master's discoveries. With the publication of the Tractatus theologico-politicus, however, Leibniz showed not only renewed interest but genuine concern for the rights of free-thinking discussed in the treatise. His reaction to the work was one of scandalized horror, and he sent to Thomasius his compliments for having treated it as it deserved, calling it "ce livre d'une hardiesse intolerable sur la liberte de philosopher." Leibniz noted that "l'auteur parait suivre non seulement la politique mais aussi la doctrine religieuse de Hobbes, telle que celui-ci l'a amplement exposee dans son Loviathan, cet ouvrage dont Ie titre deja est monstrueux. Car cette critique si aimable que notre audacieux exerce contre l'Ecriture Sainte, Hobbes en a jete les semences dans un chapitre en tier de son 5

G. Friedmann, Leibniz et Spinoza, 1946, has given a very detailed study of these two philosophers.

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Laviathan." The following year, 1671, the tone of his condemnation has changed somewhat, although it is still rather severe (Friedmann, P- 54): J'ai Iu Ie livre de Spinoza. Je deplore qu'un homme dont la culture est manifeste soit tombe aussi bas. La critique qu'il exerce contre les livres sacres a ses fondements dans Ie Leviathan de Hobbes, mais il n'est pas difficile de montrer qu'elle boite souvent. Les ecrits de ce genre tendent a renverser la Religion Chretienne, dont l'edifice a ete consolide par Ie sang precieux, la sueur et les veilles prodigues par les martyrs. Some days later, he wrote a letter to Spinoza, "Illustris et amplissime Vir," which concerned a problem in optics, but in which he offered to send Spinoza his completed Hypothesis physica nova, and assured him of his profound respect. Spinoza replied with equal courtesy, and offered for his part to send Leibniz the Tractatus. In the letter of December 16, 1671, to Arnauld, Leibniz stresses that the moderns in philosophy insist upon philosophizing according to their own genius and admit only what they conceive clearly and distinctly. Those whom he incorporated in this group are Hobbes, Bacon, and the author of that book "d'une hardiesse intolerable" recently published on freedom of thought. Leibniz remarks that advanced thinkers are often encouraged by Descartes's philosophy "accueillie par eux avec tant de faveur parce qu'elle leur parait exacte, mais aussi par ce qu'elle semble inconciliable avec l'e'glise catholique romaine." Leibniz' stay in Paris was a landmark in his career, since it was on that trip, and the subsequent journey to England and to Holland, that he opened intellectual relations destined to be of supreme importance to his thought. In Paris, he met Van den Ende, Spinoza's former teacher, and Christian Huyghens, the distinguished scientist who had lived at the Hague in the vicinity of Spinoza between 1664 and 1666. Huyghens, interested in Spinoza's optics, was personally acquainted with him, and possessed a copy of the Tractatus. He was probably an intermediary between Leibniz and Spinoza, but a more important one was Tschirnhaus, a Dutch nobleman who had studied mathematics at Leyden. He had met Spinoza in 1674 and entered into correspondence with him. Tschirnhaus gave Leibniz a letter of introduction to Spinoza, and also undertook to outline for him the general development of the Ethics. In a memorandum, Leib•456 ·

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niz wrote that "M. Tschirnhaus m'a conte beaucoup de choses du livre manuscrit de Spinoza." The rest of the memorandum, purporting to be a summary of Spinoza's thought, seems remarkably accurate in some respects and inaccurate in others. On the whole, though, and in spite of Friedmann's reservations (p. 62), it is evident that Tschirnhaus had understood the scope of Spinoza's philosophy, if not its refinements, and that Leibniz, attracted by its profundity and evidently anxious to see it, nevertheless expressed active opposition to some of its ideas. Spinoza, for his part, seemed distrustful of Leibniz. When Schuller presented Leibniz' request to have access to the Ethics, Spinoza manifested some reluctance and even some suspicion, and carefully questioned his friend concerning Leibniz' mission in France. This was the state of affairs, when in October, 1676, after a short stay in London, Leibniz journeyed to Holland. He spent much of his time with the circle of Spinozists at Amsterdam: Schuller, his sponsor, and the burgomaster Hudde. He made copies of several important Spinoza letters (to L. Meyer and three to Oldenburg). He journeyed to the Hague and interviewed L. Meyer, Bouwmeester, and Jarigh Jelles, all enthusiastic followers of Spinoza. Finally, he succeeded in meeting the philosopher, as he said "plusieurs fois et fort longuement." He was not specific about these interviews, however. He referred to Spinoza's distress at the death of De Witt, claimed to have pointed out the flaws in Descartes's laws of movement, which Spinoza understood imperfectly, and recorded having shown Spinoza the note "Quod ens perfectissimum existet," which the latter had judged solid. Ultimately, he recalled only having met Spinoza along with others and having heard some anecdotes "sur les affaires de ce temps." There was, however, a distinct gain in the confrontation of the two philosophers. Leibniz' note on the "ens perfectissimum" (since 1672, he had been preoccupied with proving the compatibility of all perfections), clarified his own position concerning the ontological proofs of God's existence. More important still, by harmonizing in God all the perfections, he strengthened his position regarding moral and spiritual optimism. But to incorporate into the ontological proof itself the compatibility of all perfections, and to stress the creation of a unique universe amidst all the possible universes and the union of metaphysical mechanism with moral optimism, gave a coherence •457 ·

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to his philosophy which until then was lacking. Most of all, he justified God's ways at a moment when the libertines were putting them to question. Thus was completed a philosophy which he deemed the very opposite of Spinoza's and Descartes's. Leibniz continually reproached both with having undermined Christianity and Christian morality by conceiving of a deity who creates everything indifferently, good as well as bad, who has neither understanding nor will, and who is nothing but a name given to blind chance. For the moment, his opposition to Spinoza was expressed by a running commentary upon the three letters to Oldenburg, which resulted from an inquiry Spinoza made of his English friend, concerning the major objections to the doctrine of the Tractatus. Oldenburg had named three; the confusing of God with nature; the suspicion cast on the miracles; and a tendency to cast doubt on the divinity of Christ. To the first objection, Spinoza replied: "Je crois que Dieu est de toutes choses cause immanente comme on dit, et non cause transitive. J'afnrme dis-je, avec Paul . . . que toutes choses sont et se meuvent en Dieu." Leibniz comments: "On peut dire, en tout cas, que toutes choses n'en forment qu'une, toutes choses sont en Dieu comme l'eff et est contenu dans sa cause pleine." This, though it seems to confirm Spinoza, is the very opposite of his notion. As regards the idea that he was fatalistic, Spinoza wrote: "Je ne soumets Dieu a aucun Fatum, mais je co^ois toutes choses comme suivant avec une necessite ineluctable de la nature de Dieu." Leibniz comments : "Ces paroles doivent s'expliquer ainsi: a savoir que Ie monde n'a pu etre produit autrement parce que Dieu ne peut pas ne pas agir avec une souveraine perfection, fitant Ie plus sage, il choisit Ie meilleur." This, of course, is not at all Spinoza's meaning. When he states that we are in the power of God as the clay in the hand of the potter, and that no man whatever can assure himself a strong soul capable of dominating his passions, Leibniz seems to acquiesce, but in reality he stresses that the sanction is nevertheless legitimate. As for the Incarnation, Spinoza wrote that he did not believe it necessary to know Christ according to the flesh. Leibniz naturally protests, citing the necessity of uniting the soul and the body. Similarly, the two are poles apart as regards miracles. Spinoza desired above all to clear his doctrine of all anthropomorphism. Leibniz, on the contrary, was anxious to preserve the general welfare of the human world and, above all, Christianity. • 458 ·

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Leibniz nevertheless retained a professional respect for the Amsterdam philosopher. A few weeks after Spinoza's death, he wrote: "Spinoza etait un homme d'une profonde meditation et qui avait Ie talent de s'expliquer nettement." He hastened to add that in the forthcoming posthumous works, he would not be surprised if among "plusieurs pensees excellentes" there were to be found "un grand nombre d'assertions peu recevables." Otherwise, he commends Spinoza for having treated Descartes with great independence. Still, in a letter to Galloys, he mentions Spinoza's strange paradoxical metaphysics which confuses the world and God in the same substance, whose creatures are nothing but modes and accidents. There, was, however, much fluctuation in his opinion: to Jean-Frederic, he wrote: "What Spinoza says of the certainty of philosophy and of demonstrations is good and incontestable." On the other hand, he refuted first one point and then another made by Spinoza. To the latter's stand on miracles, Leibniz replied that we do not understand all the governments of the universe by God, and consequently He may have reasons unknown to us for applying other than natural laws. To Spinoza's tendency to reduce metaphysics ultimately to morality, Leibniz replied that this should not be done. It is more important to know whether there is a superior power, endowed with will and understanding who is interested in human affairs. Leibniz, differing from Spinoza, recognized His intervention in the affairs of the world. It was in this atmosphere that Leibniz received, in February, 1678, the (Euvres posthumes. As was his custom when he studied an important work, Leibniz made an extract of the Ethics. Its first part was particularly detailed and disclosed that the German philosopher had made a serious study of Spinoza's concept of substance. His initial reaction was rather favorable. To H. Justel he wrote: "Les (Euvres posthumes de feu M. Spinoza ont ete enfin publiees. La plus considerable partie est Ethica, composee de cinq trait.es J'y trouve quantite de belles pensees conformes aux miennes, comme savent quelques-uns de mes amis qui l'ont ete aussi de Spinoza." He added, however, that Spinoza's ideas concerning the passions are not at all proved and mentioned that there are many paradoxes. Altogether, he judged that the book would appear dangerous to those who examined it with care. Those aspects which he found undesirable were detailed in his letter to Placcius (Friedmann, p. 89); he rejected •459 ·

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that substance is unique and that it is God; that creatures are modes of God; that God has neither will nor intelligence and does not act with a particular end in view; that all things are subjected to a "fatal" necessity; that the soul, in eternity, is deprived of perceptions, memory, and will. He stressed that Spinoza denies both providence and immortality of the soul, that no one can persuade man to duty. Finally, he remarked that happiness, for Spinoza, is merely the patient acceptance of the inevitable. In short, the opinions of Leibniz are still founded upon his defense of Christianity; and his condemnation derives from his dislike of all those ideas of Spinoza which run counter to Christianity. As time went on, Leibniz more and more included in his general condemnation both Descartes and Spinoza. As Friedmann (p. 96) sees it, he had never been profoundly Cartesian, even in 1671, at the time of his letter to Arnauld, he regarded with distrust Descartes's theory of matter. More serious were Descartes's religious and moral views, or rather Leibniz's suspicions concerning those views. After 1675, with his invention of the calculus, Leibniz became more firmly opposed to Descartes, possibly because he felt that having surpassed Descartes in mathematics, he could afford a more severe criticism of his method, his treatment of the sciences, theology, and morality. He brought back from his trip to France and Holland numerous copies of Descartes's papers which had been furnished him by Clerselier. Obviously the study of these papers aroused more antipathy to Descartes. As usual, he begins with protestations of esteem. In January, 1680, he wrote to Rabel: "J'estime M. des Cartes presqu'autant qu'on peut estimer un homme et quoiqu'il y ait parmi ses sentiments quelques-uns qui me paraissent faux et meme dangereux, je ne laisse pas de dire que nous devons presque autant a Galilei et a lui en matiere de philosophic qu'a toute l'antiquite." This praise does not prevent his objecting to Descartes's metaphysics, physics, and mathematics. To another correspondent at the time, he complained that the peripatetics mistook him for a Cartesian, while the Cartesians accused him of being a peripatetic. Here and there, he now adds a note of severity: Descartes has a rather narrow mind; his meditations are either too abstract or too imaginary, as are his explanations of natural phenomena; he teaches us a patience without hope, far different from Epictetus's stoical philosophy, and an immortality of the soul "qui ne sert de rien et ne nous saurait consoler, en aucune facon." Leibniz qualifies Descartes's ignorance in chemis•460 ·

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try as pitiful, and refers to his physics as a "beau roman." To these irritated condemnations, he adds comments about Descartes's character, accusing him of concealing his borrowings from Viete, suggesting that he was given to posing, and finally, in 1697 in a letter to Nicaise, demanding that his philosophy be purged of all the errors which have been mingled with the truth. His chief objection to the French philosopher is the conviction that Cartesianism has an ill effect upon Christian morality and religion—the same charge he had brought against Spinoza. Leibniz' tendency of uniting Spinoza with Descartes, of finding a general similarity between the two authors, and especially of condemning one because he resembles the other, grew stronger with time. In the letter of 1680 to Philipp, he insisted that if one knows how to read between the lines in Descartes, Cartesianism contains ideas very close to those of the Ethics. Take, for instance, the Cartesian remark: "Materia formas omnes quarum est capax successive assumit." If this is well understood, said Leibniz, nothing is impossible nor too absurd to happen some day. That is also the opinion of Spinoza, who states clearly that justice, beauty, order are things which refer only to ourselves. Around 1684, which was one of the critical moments of the century, he recognized the loud protest which had accompanied the publication of Spinoza's work, but he understood also that the circle of Spinozists was at best restricted. On the other hand, he judged that the strength of Cartesianism was actually increasing. Bayle's success confirmed Leibniz' opinion of the power of Cartesianism. His tactics therefore changed somewhat. If Cartesianism is the enemy of Christianity, Spinozism is its ally and harmful to the common good. In a letter to Hessen-Rheinfels (Friedmann, p. 107), Leibniz summed up what must have been his final condemnation of Spinozism: A propos de Spinoza que Mons. Arnaud appelle Ie plus impie et Ie plus dangereux homme de ce siecle, il etait veritablement Athee, c'est-adire qu'il n'admettait point de Providence dispensatrice des biens et des maux suivant la justice et en croyait avoir demonstration; Ie Dieu dont il fait parade n'est pas comme Ie notre, il n'a pas d'entendement ni volonte. The charges are succinctly combined: atheism, denial of a rewarding and punishing providence, denial of immortality of the soul, an insufficient knowledge of mathematics, and a deficiency in the art of •461 ·

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proving theorems. Leibniz, interested in his Caracteristica univer­ salis, engaged in practical moves for the public good, and involved in establishing political and religious harmony in a world torn tc shreds, was now prepared in his Discours de metaphysique to offer the elements of a new philosophy to oppose to the flaws of Descartes and Spinoza: the demonstration of God by the possibility of His motion, the individuality of substances, and pre-established harmony. The system is built around the concept of force: dynamism which recognizes a principle of activity at the center of things, the no­ tion of an independent substance which establishes individual existence, and the moral responsibility of spirit are once for all united. Once formed, the tactic of Leibniz is clear. He must persuade his contemporaries that "Descartes pense tout bas ce que Spinoza dit toul haut." Spinozism is nothing more than an extension of Cartesianism, It is essential—for the general welfare, for Christian truth, for human order and organization—that the Leibnizian doctrine of universal harmony triumph over Cartesian philosophy. Of all the relationships which Leibniz had with his philosopher contemporaries, that with Malebranche6 was certainly the most di­ rect and the most durable. For more than forty years, from the German philosopher's famous trip to Paris in 1672 until MaIebranche's death in 1715, the two shared their philosophical views, frankly expressed their objections to various philosophical positions, or corresponded with mutual friends about each other's ideas. Al­ though they were united by the same desire to defend the values of a culture, a politics, a religion, and a philosophy which was solidly Christian in its inspiration, they were unable to see eye-to-eye the problems of life in their time. There were some contemporaries— Bayle and Arnauld, for instance—who could not distinguish between Malebranche's occasionalism and Leibniz' pre-established harmony. Nevertheless, neither of the two philosophers could find any validity in the system of his friend. Of the two, Leibniz was the more aggressive in pushing their relationship. Malebranche was more reserved, more circumspect, certainly more discreet. When the two met in 1672, each was in full possession of his fundamental ideas. What united them was not simiβ

See A. Robinet, Malebranche et Leibniz—Relations personnelles, 1955.

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larity of method, or of origins, but respect for the truth. Indeed, their philosophical ancestry was most diverse: Malebranche went from Cartesianism to Augustinianism via the Oratory, while Leibniz went from scholasticism to Cartesianism to Aristotelianism. This training gave to the thought of each a style, a language, and concepts which were totally different. They were also two distinct personalities: Leibniz is distinctly a man of action, and his thought tends always toward political, social, and technical activity; Malebranche is more the man of contemplation. In spite of these divergences, however, Malebranche saw in Leibniz a mathematician of genius, a rather heavy physicist, an unattractive philosopher, and, above all, a soul to convert to the true Church. Leibniz, on the contrary, perceived in Malebranche an intuitive metaphysician lacking in logic, a purist in style, a polemicist who wastes his time arguing, without definitions or method, a mystic with an interesting philosophy. There were, in the relations of the two, other factors which distorted their positions. Spinoza's shadow hovers over the philosophy of each. Having converted Malebranche to his law of motion, Leibniz apparently expected to turn the French philosopher from occasionalism to his own doctrine of pre-established harmony. But Malebranche, seeing in the theory a monism which logically led to Spinozism, would not accept the doctrine of pre-established harmony. On the other hand, Leibniz would not accept occasionalism, because he sensed in that theory a philosophy without substance which led to the affirmation of a unique universal spirit—also a type of Spinozism. This tendency on the part of all philosophers of the time to avoid being thought Spinozist has led to some bizarre accusations, against Leibniz at any rate. There were even some among his contemporaries who felt that he exhibited bad faith in his relations and secretly sought to destroy Malebranche's thought by calling it Spinozistic. This judgment is certainly wrong. It is true that Leibniz often reveals unstable attitudes, even at times contradictory ideas. But in his criticism, he appears eminently sincere; he states frankly to Malebranche himself the points on which he disagrees. His criticism is clear, his reasons are presented concretely, and they are directed to the proper source. Never does he attack Malebranche openly, or attempt to render him ridiculous in public. The relationship takes on added importance for anyone concerned with the origins of eighteenth-century thought. We must not • 463 ·

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forget that Malebranche is the dominant philosopher during the last quarter of the seventeenth century in France. More than any other thinker of the time, he clung to the fundamentals of Cartesianism and offered a corrective to the impossible dualism which had developed in that thought. Even in the first quarter of the following century, Voltaire confessed to having annotated the work of the Oratorian. Moreover, Malebranche made every effort to integrate Descartes's metaphysics with the tenets of Christianity. Leibniz was equally important during that last quarter of the century in Europe as a whole, and his importance was destined to increase in the first quarter of the succeeding century. In fact, during that period when there was a violent struggle between a revived Cartesianism and a dominant Newtonianism, it was Leibniz who challenged the authority of the Newtonians in the name of metaphysics and spiritualism. Leibniz' meeting with Malebranche was followed by an exchange of letters which became very cordial. The first letter was not much more than a memorandum of the subjects discussed during their meeting: the problem of the vacuum, and the definition of matter by extension and of reality by the clear idea. Leibniz opposes the vacuum, but otherwise the tendency is anti-Cartesian. After a purely logical development, he closes his letter with a protestation of sincerity: J'espere que vous jugerez par ce que je viens de dire, que j'ay tache de debarrasser la chose, que j'ay ecrit cecy pour l'amour de la verite, et que je ne suis peut-estre pas tout a fait indigne d'instruction" (Robinet, p. 43). Malebranche's reply is a simple restatement of the opposite point of view, ending with a simple courtesy. During Leibniz' stay in Paris, Malebranche published La Recherche de la verite, which Foucher reviewed in the Critique de la recherche de la verite (1674). Leibniz hastened to procure a copy of Foucher's criticism and wrote copious remarks in it. One can gather from them that he read the discussion of Foucher with care. He does not always support the critic, however. When Foucher, for example, questions the value of mathematical truths, Leibniz agrees with Malebranche, finding that these truths have a value for the mind, for action, and for the demonstrations of the existence of God. As for the Cartesian thesis of matter-equals-extension, and the further thesis of thought being considered the sense of the soul, which Foucher also challenged, Leibniz this time sides with Foucher. •464 ·

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Having returned to his native land and installed himself at Hanover, Leibniz undertook to keep up his relationships with his Parisian friends. Malebranche had been particularly active. In 1676, he brought out in Paris the Conversations chretiennes; two years later came the third edition of the Recherche de la verite with the Eclaircissements, and the same year, 1678, the Meditations sur la metaphysique. Leibniz followed these publications with the greatest care. His general reaction to them was contained in letters to mutual friends. To Hessen-Rheinfels he wrote, on March 4, 1685, regarding the Conversations: ". . . pour moy, j'y trouve plusieurs tres belles pensees, mais il y en a pourtant quelques-unes qui ont plus d'eclat que de solidite." In his letter of January 13, 1679, to Malebranche, Leibniz reiterates that there are many things "tres ingenieuses et fort solides." He commends Malebranche's assertion that God acts in the most perfect manner possible, and praises his tendency toward finalism, in spite of Descartes's rejection. He confesses that he finds Malebranche's stand much clearer in the Conversations than in the Recherche. He agrees entirely that we see all things in God. Otherwise, he protests that Malebranche should not have written his Conversations for Cartesians alone, as he had admitted: "Car il me semble que tout nom de secte doit estre odieux a un amateur de la verite." Leibniz concedes that Descartes has said some fine things, his was a mind exceedingly penetrating and judicious. Then comes a final estimate of the French father of modern philosophy, which is undoubtedly characteristic of the opinion concerning Descartes around 1680 (Robinet, p. 103): Mais comme il n'est pas possible de tout faire a la fois, il n'a fait que donner de belles ouvertures, sans estre arrive au fond des choses: et il me semble qu'il est encor bien eloigne de la veritable analyse et de l'art d'inventer en general. Car je suis persuade que sa mecanique est pleine d'erreurs, que sa physique va trop viste, que sa Geometrie est trop bornee, et enfin que sa metaphysique est tout cela ensemble. To this philippic, Malebranche replied that the author of the Conversations (he attributed them to the Abbe Catelan) had not destined them for Cartesians only, and politely asked his correspondent what specific objections he had to Descartes, adding that he himself was far from sharing the anti-Cartesianism of his friend. Malebranche's query called forth two long letters from Leibniz, • 465 ·

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both explicidy detailing the objections which he now held against Descartes. After modestly asserting that he distrusts his own opinion as much as he values his interlocutor's judgment, Leibniz challenges the Oratorian to prove to him that matter and extension are the same thing, that the mind can subsist without being united with a body, that Descartes's reasons for the existence of God are solid, that all truth depends upon the will of God, that Descartes's explanation of refraction is valid, that the same amount of movement is always preserved in bodies. Besides, he says, Descartes's hypothesis of the universe is questionable, and his explanation of the rainbow has been challenged by Newton. The most skillful physiologists believe the function he ascribes to the pineal gland improper, and that the movement which he gives to the heart and muscles is an error. Experiments now made with quicksilver have disproved his theory of meteors. Moreover, adds Leibniz, the test of true science is the usefulness to which discoveries can be put. No Cartesian has ever been able to deduce any useful invention from the discoveries of the master, while many useful things have followed the inventions of Galileo. In general, Cartesians are merely commentators. Leibniz continues that he would like to see some Cartesian expand Descartes's physics as much as Malebranche has enlarged his metaphysics. Even if his physics were properly coordinated, it would be of scant utility. It would take a book as large as the world to explain what relationship a sensitive body could have with the first elements, always supposing there were such relationships. Take, for instance, one drop of water: it contains up to 800,000 little animals, and they are as far removed from the first elements as we are. Leibniz was tremendously impressed, just as Pascal before him, and Malebranche himself, with the intense swarming of life revealed by the microscope. In spite of these strictures, Leibniz affirms that he holds Descartes in great esteem, and that he has deep respect for the greatness of his mind. Of all those who have preceded him, only Archimedes and Galileo are worthy to be compared with him. Even Galileo is a lesser genius than Descartes, though he has a greater sense of utility. And although Descartes produced a system which is often uncertain and sterile, it could nevertheless serve as a model for the true system (Robinet, p. i n ) : • 466 ·

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. . . Galilei excelle dans l'art de reduire les mecaniques en sciences; Des Cartes est admirable pour expliquer par des belles conjectures, les raisons des effets de la nature et il eust este a souhaiter qu'il eut pu s'appliquer d'avantage a la medecine, qui est toute conjecturale, et neantmoins necessaire. Mais Archimede si nous devons croire aux histoires avoit un talent qui manque a ces deux. C'est qu'il avoit 1'esprit merveilleux pour inventer des machines utiles a la vie. Leibniz confesses that what he likes least in Descartes is his geometry. He admits that he could have the greatest respect for Descartes's metaphysics if it were well demonstrated. He thereupon adds an idea which has a very modern ring: Les hommes sont partages ordinairement: ceux qui aiment les belles lettres, la jurisprudence, les histoires ou affaires, ne sauraient presque souffrir qu'on leur parle des sciences reelles; un Physicien ou Machiniste se moque des subtilites des Geometres; et les Geometres ordinairement tiennent que les abstractions ne sont que des reveries. Finally, Descartes's metaphysics is deficient in definitions, and his proofs of the existence of God are imperfect. The quarrel over true and false ideas became important to Leibniz. Stimulated by Arnauld's discussion with Malebranche, the German philosopher was driven to make a careful reading of the Recherche de la virite (1685), and to inaugurate with Arnauld a correspondence which effectively brought together his fundamental elements in the Discours de me'taphysique. It was thus a crucial moment in the making of Leibniz' philosophy. His first move was to acquaint himself with the nature of the problem, using Jurieu's Esprit de M. Arnauld (1684). His second move was to return to the Recherche de la veritS, which he now analyzed with great care (at least the first two parts). He gave his approval to Malebranche's rehabilitation of the eternal verities and the doctrine of final causes, and to his insistence on the impossibility of interaction of soul and body. Leibniz pointed out the flaws in the treatment of the other major points: the union of the soul and God is not hypostatic; there is no pure idea, every representation includes an affirmation, there is no way of radically separating the understanding from the will; we have no clear concept of the soul, because of the little confused perceptions; and the notion of matter-extension •467·

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is not clarified. Leibniz now considered himself fully informed concerning Malebranche's position. He was clearly favorable to both Arnauld and Malebranche, being attracted by the logic of the former and the intellectualism of the latter. He sided with Arnauld, in criticizing the Oratorian's treatment of clear ideas, and in protesting his rhetorical method of expression. On the other hand, he agreed with Malebranche on the question of God's intervention through general laws; he adopted his definition of wisdom as the relationship of simplicity with fecundity, and accepted but modified the thesis that we do not have a clear concept of the soul. As always, he went further than a discussion of the two philosophers' ideas and formulated his own point of view. Against Arnauld, he presented his own classification of ideas, asserted that he was dissatisfied with the doctrine of efficient causes, and judged that the idea-representation is surpassed by the concept of vision in God. Going farther than Malebranche, he integrated miracles in the general order of nature and enlarged the concept of wisdom. He declared that Malebranche had no conception of substance in his philosophy, criticized his ideas on transformism, and wondered whether he admitted the existence of real bodies; finally, he repeated his conviction that the Oratorian is deficient in his explanation of clear ideas. The core of Leibniz' doctrine was finally found in the correspondence with Arnauld. In the problem of body and soul, he wrote, there is a principle of extreme importance (Robinet, p. 229): Car il s'ensuit que toute ame est comme un monde a part, independant de toute autre chose hors de Dieu; qu'elle n'est pas seulement immortelle et pour ainsi dire impassible, mais qu'elle garde dans sa substance des traces de tout ce qui luy arrive. Il s'ensuit aussi en quoy consiste Ie commerce des substances, et particulierement 1'union de l'ame et du corps. Ce commerce ne se fait pas suivant 1'hypothese ordinaire de !'influence physique de l'une sur l'autre, car tout estat present d'une substance luy arrive spontanement et n'est qu'une suite de son estat precedent. Il ne se fait pas aussi suivant 1'hypothese des causes occasionnelles, comme si Dieu s'en meloit autrement pour l'ordinaire, qu'en conservant chaque substance dans son train . . . Mais il se fait suivant 1'hypothese de la concommitance qui me paroist demonstrative. C'est-a-dire chaque substance exprime toute la suite de l'univers, selon la vue ou rapport qui luy est propre. • 468 ·

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This is the doctrine of pre-established harmony, and the soul is defined in terms of the monad. Leibniz had been led to his discovery by his dissatisfaction with the occasionalism of Malebranche. He wrote in his letter of July 4, 1686, that the hypothesis of "causes occasionnelles" cannot satisfy a philosopher because it introduces a continual miracle, as if God at every moment changed the laws of matter, on the occasion of thoughts, or changed the regular course of thoughts of the soul, on the occasion of the movement of the body. This difficulty, he wrote, is obviated by the theory of the concomitance of substances among themselves, which is more in accord with the theory of free will of reasonable creatures than is Malebranche's occasionalism. Once launched, Leibniz extends this theory. In a letter to Arnauld, he speaks of an opinion which seems to him essential and which is entirely different from Malebranche's (Robinet, p. 233): Je tiens que ce qu'il y a de reel dans l'estat qu'on appelle Ie mouvement, procede aussi bien de la substance corporelle, que la pensee et la volonte procedent de l'esprit. Tout arrive dans chaque substance en consequence du premier estat que Dieu luy a donne en la creant, et Ie concours extraordinaire mis a part, son concours ordinaire ne consiste que dans la conservation de la substance meme, conformement a son estat precedent et aux changements qu'il porte. With this final remark, the whole system has been discovered. The quarrel between true and false ideas was followed in 1686 and 1687 by a discussion between the two philosophers concerning true and false physics. The subject was the Cartesian laws of motion. Malebranche had already, in the Recherche de la verite, rejected three of these laws. Pushed by Leibniz, he now stated that the others were not "tout a fait bonnes." Leibniz, explaining to Arnauld Malebranche's new attitude toward Descartes's laws of movement, added: "C'est un defaut des raisonnements de M. des Cartes et des siens, de n'avoir pas considere que tout ce qu'on dit du mouvement, de l'inegalite et du ressort, se doit verifier aussi, quand on suppose ces choses infiniment petites, ou infinies." Leibniz took the position that Malebranche's new stand, though perfectly correct, was adopted for the wrong reason. It was not because of hardness in matter that the laws are in error, it was rather the lack of knowledge on the part of MaIe• 469 ·

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branche and the Cartesians of a general principle. The principle ("lorsque les cas s'approchent continuellement et se perdent enfin l'un dans l'autre, il faut que les suites ou evenemens Ie fassent aussi") is Leibniz' principle of continuity, here presented for the first time. Leibniz displays in his demonstration how important this principle is not only in physics but also in morality, in religion, and in metaphysics, by affirming that it is God who is the final reason of things, and the knowledge of God is no less the principle of science, than His essence and His will are the principle of being. Leibniz concludes that "bien loin d'exclure les causes finales et la consideration d'un estre agissant avec Sagesse, c'est de la qu'il faut tout deduire en physique." The importance of this discussion lies in the insistence that what concerns mathematics and physics involves also metaphysics, morality, and religion. Leibniz, indeed, seems more interested in the metaphysical and religious consequences of the laws of movement than in establishing the true nature of the laws. In effect, he was assembling a body of axioms which, with the demonstrations he had already given to nullify the Cartesian rules of movement, would confute Cartesian physics. Nature never acts by leaps. The laws of movement cannot be derived from the principle of extension, because extension means only a repetition or continued multiplicity of that which is expanded —"une pluralite, continuite, et coexistence des parties"—and consequently, it does not suffice to explain the nature of the substance extended or expanded or repeated. Matter has something which is more than extension. Leibniz suggests that it must be force, and that according to the principle of continuity, this force must be the essence of bodies. It is the starting-point, Leibniz explained, of a new science, called dynamics, based on the principle that there is the same quantity of force and, not as the Cartesians say, of movement, which is preserved. Thus, dynamics not only rectifies the laws of movement, but it gives a means of explaining the ancients. To Bossuet (May, 1694) he wrote explaining how useful the concepts of the new dynamics can be in theology, since it not only makes clear the operation of creatures, and the relationship of soul and body, but it clarifies more than has been done by Descartes the nature of material substance, and what must be recognized as superior to extension. With the concept of force the difficulties which were encountered in Transubstantiation vanish. This liaison between physics, mathematics, • 470 ·

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metaphysics, and theology now becomes Leibniz' chief interest. For him, the important thing was to explain the wisdom of God even in physics. He pursued this way with considerable vigor, appealing beyond Malebranche to the Academy of Sciences. Between 1692 and 1698 Leibniz criticized more and more severely Malebranche's metaphysics, particularly his occasionalism. He opened his campaign in the Journal des savants (1695) with his "Systeme nouveau de la nature et de la communication des substances, aussi bien que de l'union qu'il y a entre l'ame et Ie corps." Taking his start from the recent discoveries of Swammerdam and Leuwenhoeck, who proposed that animals, and all other organized substances, have a generation which is a development and an augmentation, so to speak, the German philosopher suggested that the system which maintains that God produces changes in one substance on the occasion of another substance is no longer necessary. Moreover, such an explanation makes of the Deity a "Deus ex machina" who intervenes on all occasions and creates a whole series of miracles. Leibniz conceded that there is not any real influence of one substance upon another. Rigorously speaking, all things and their realities are continually produced by virtue of God. When, however, one has recourse to this virtue, always without referring to secondary causes, one has to fall back on miracles. Leibniz conceded that in theology this procedure is acceptable, but "en philosophic, il faut tacher de rendre raison, en faisant connoistre de quelle facon les choses s'executent par la sagesse divine, conformement a la notion du sujet dont il s'agit." This statement is more important in the history of thought than it seems at first glance. As long as it was possible to fall back upon miracles in explanation of unrecognized phenomena, there was not much difficulty in explaining the universe. When, however, Leibniz laid down the rule that in science matters should be explained scientifically, things changed (Robinet, p. 313): Il me paroist aussi plus digne de Dieu et plus convenable a la philosophic de tout expedier conformement aux loix naturelles que Dieu a donnees d'abord aux choses, que d'estre oblige de Pemployer toujours ex machina, pour rendre raison de ce qui se passe ordinairement, comme font les auteurs du systeme des causes occasionnelles. This principle, which became very important to Leibniz' thought, had been the weapon with which the free-thinkers had always at• 471 ·

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tacked miracles. Now it was adopted by all scientists as the fundamental axiom of their investigations. For the time being, though, it was less useful than it was later to become, because Leibniz protected it by the admissions that God did originally intervene in the creation of His world; that all things do occur in God; and that God is the end (and means) of all things. This discussion of occasionalism was so widespread between 1695 and 1715 that it is impossible to exaggerate its importance. For instance, Foucher (September, 1695) complained to Leibniz that MaIebranche insists that ideas are outside the soul. When the question is raised as to how one perceives them, he replies that he has no notion how it happens, and he does not think it will ever be understood, thereby leading straight to pyrrhonism, added Foucher. Leibniz replied that in the sense that ideas are the immediate external objects of our thought, it is true that they can be seen only in God, since only God can act upon us directly. He added, however, that when dealing with secondary causes, it should suffice to show how we find within ourselves the objects of our thought. To L'Hospital, Leibniz (May 13, 1695) wrote that he intended to put in writing his views on the communication of substances and the union of the soul with the body. He explained that he differed with Malebranche's explanation of the latter problem, because he regarded substances in a different light. Leibniz presented this view in a letter of July 12, 1695 (Robinet, p. 318-19): Je suis fort du sentiment du R. P. Malebranche, en ce qu'il croit qu'il n'y a que Dieu qui agisse immediatement sur les substances par une influence reelle, mais mettant a part la dependance ou nous sommes a son egard, qui fait que nous sommes conserves par une creation continuelle, mettant, dis-je cela a part, pour ne parler que des causes secondes, ou du cours ordinaire de la nature; je tiens que sans avoir besoin de nouvelles operations de Dieu, on peut se contenter pour expliquer les choses, de ce que Dieu leur a donne d'abord. Ainsi, selon moy, toute substance se produit a elle-meme par ordre, tout ce qui luy arrivera interieurement a jamais. Leibniz' view has much in common with that of the deists who, having granted that God created and set in motion the universe, held that He left it thereafter to work out its future. It would be incorrect, however, to suggest that his explanation is deistic. He acknowledged that his doctrine of pre-established harmony is merely a philo•472 ·

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sophical development of Malebranche's occasionalism: "On peut dire que ce n'est pas tant un renversement qu'un avancement de sa doctrine et que c'est a luy que je suis redevable de mes fondemens sur ce sujet." Despite his affirmations, Leibniz remained profoundly opposed to the Oratorian's explanations. When Bayle intervened in the discussion in the article "Rorarius," he, like Arnauld, at first defended occasionalism, since he did not consider God's action irregular, seeing that it was executed in accordance with the general law. Leibniz replied that the generality of the law did not exclude the possibility of a miracle in its execution, because if that law were not founded in the nature of things, it would take a constant flow of miracles to execute it. Leibniz gave as an example the order which God might have given a planet to turn around the sun without having given the planet something to force it to execute the command. The planet could never do so, without the constant intervention of the Deity. Hence it is not enough to order the body to obey the soul, and the soul to have perception of what is going on in the body: God must give them the means to do it. This is what is meant by pre-established harmony. There are three possible explanations, Leibniz continued, of the relationship between the body and the soul: the influence of one upon the other as accepted by the scholastics (Leibniz agrees with the Cartesians that this is impossible); or the presence of an attendant who would keep in accord two inharmonious objects, like a man commissioned to readjust continuously two ill-running clocks (Leibniz calls this occasionalism); or the natural conformity of two objects such as two clocks adjusted to run in accord (pre-established harmony). These comments mark the end of a long development which led to the confrontation of two systems of philosophy. In this evolution, Malebranche had been forced to renounce his confidence in the Cartesian laws of movement. His physics became more and more obsolete by the advance in mathematics from Cartesian analytics to Leibniz' calculus. Since he found the new mathematics beyond his competence, he first appealed to L'Hospital to act as intermediary between himself and Leibniz. Leibniz, for his part, wanted to destroy Malebranche's confidence in the Cartesian laws of movement. Having become, in Malebranche's eyes, the mathematician, he wanted Malebranche to transfer his confidence in Descartes's • 473 ·

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physics to Leibniz' physics. His ultimate goal, however, was far more ambitious. With the destruction of Cartesian physics, Leibniz wanted a revision in Malebranche's metaphysics. That is to say, while Malebranche had been striving all along to develop a Cartesian Christianity, Leibniz had been endeavoring to build, through a new kind of mathematics, a new kind of physics, and through this new kind of physics a new kind of metaphysics, which would lead to a renewed Christianity. The goal of each was the same, and was usually expressed as the "search for truth." Malebranche found this truth in the philosophy of Descartes and the theology of Christianity. Leibniz, for his part, found it in a search which attempted to coordinate the truths of mathematics with the truths of physics, of metaphysics, of Christianity. Hence, when the two philosophers had reached the year 1700, Malebranche was struggling to preserve a system which had been organized in 1672 while Leibniz had organized a system distinguished by its novelty. It was Bayle, however, who intervened, with his article "Rorarius," in which he inserted some remarks concerning Leibniz' pre-established harmony and Malebranche's occasionalism. At first the Rotterdam philosopher seemed more attracted to Malebranche, but a supplementary explanation turned him rather toward Leibniz' doctrine. What impressed him was undoubtedly Leibniz' argument that if those who supported the doctrine of occasionalism did not take care, they would fall into the doctrine of a single substance which is God and thereby lend confirmation to Spinoza's position (Robinet, p. 363). Bayle, whose one antipathy was directed at this doctrine of Spinoza, hastened to reply that Malebranche certainly could not be accused of creating this difficulty, but he nonetheless modified his "Rorarius." The intricacies of this discussion have to be penetrated to understand the state of affairs at the turn of the century. Both the philosophies of Malebranche and Leibniz gave an interpretation for the union of soul and body, but in doing so, they both raised questions which had been solved by the theological doctrine of original sin. Lami, whose Traite de la connaissance de soi-meme had been provoked by Malebranche's Traite de Vamour de Dieu, had been shrewd in seeing that Malebranche's position threatened this doctrine. He had been equally shrewd in seeing that Leibniz' position, on the other hand, threatened the theological explanation of free will. Thus, •474 ·

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while Leibniz maintained that Malebranche ran the risk of falling into Spinozism, the supporters of Malebranche insisted that Leibniz was very close to Socinianism. Leibniz was quick to deny this accusation. He explained to Bayle that he would be more inclined toward the Origenist rather than the Manichaean point of view. Leibniz thus found himself under attack from the followers of Malebranche, and scrutinized with some care by Bayle. But the main assault was mounted by Lami who, in the Traite de la connoissance de soi-meme, devoted his fifth "Reflexion" of Part II to a full analysis of Leibniz' position. Admitting that at first sight the doctrine is very attractive, Lami ultimately concluded that it presented difficulties and even impossibilities. Leibniz took up Lami's criticism point by point. His defense of his doctrine against Lami brought out the most characteristic aspects of his philosophy: the insistence upon dynamism; the assertion that man has an inner energy and spontaneity of his own; the admission that the body and the soul are corrupt; the firm statement that the Deity has the power to create automata whose cleverness surpasses anything man can do with his reason; the belief that if we do not of our own accord act, we cannot be charged with sinning; precision in defining the miraculous, and its exclusion from scientific matters. The clearest statement of his position was not made in the reply to Lami, however, but in an article published in the Journal des savants in 1705 (Robinet, p. 380): Ainsi, selon mon systeme, les Ames et les Principes de Vie ne changent rien dans Ie cours ordinaire des corps, et ne donnent pas meme a Dieu occasion de Ie faire. Les Ames suivent leurs loix, qui consistent dans un certain developpement des perceptions selon les biens et les maux; et les corps suivent aussi les leurs, qui consistent dans les regies du mouvement: et cependant ces deux Estres d'un genre tout a fait different, se rencontrent ensemble et se repondent comme deux pendules parfaitement bien reglees sur Ie meme pied, quoyque peut estre d'une construction toute differente. Et c'est ce que j'appelle L'Harmonie Preetablie, qui ecarte toute notion de miracle des actions purement naturelles et fait aller les choses leur train regie d'une maniere intelligible, au lieu que Ie systeme commun recourt a des influences absolument inexplicables et que dans celuy des causes occasionnelles, Dieu, par une espece de loy generale, et comme par un pacte, s'est oblige de changer a tout moment Ie train naturel des pensees et l'ame pour les accommoder aux impressions des corps. •475 ·

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It was the appearance of a miracle which Malebranche and the Cartesians gave in their interpretations which exercised Leibniz the most. In his opinion a miraculous cause attributed to a natural phenomenon is very unsuitable in philosophy, "qui doit expliquer Ie cours ordinaire de la nature." To Queen Sophie-Charlotte of Prussia he wrote that the modern philosophers have tried to cut the gordian knot with Alexander's sword and have had recourse to miracle in a purely natural affair "comme les divinites de theatre pour un denouement d'opera." We come now to the organic unity of Leibniz' philosophy. Since it was organized as a result of stimulation from many of his contemporary philosophers, and since Leibniz developed it bit by bit from his constant discussions with his fellow scholars, we should make some effort to bring it all together—though Leibniz himself never did.7 It is rather difficult to know where to start in explaining it, though, since his work, which is superabundant, is also extraordinarily fragmentary. To the Cirey group he was first of all the propagator of a series of principles: of sufficient reason, of identity, of contradiction, and of continuity; the inventor of a theory of monads, of the doctrine of pre-established harmony; and the author of a theodicy. Those works which contained the bulk of his system were Nouveaux Essais sur Ventendement humain (1704); Essais de thSodicee, sur la bonU de Dieu, la liberie de I'homme, et Vorigine du mal (1710); La Monadologie (1714), and Les Principes de la nature et de la grace (1714). While it is true that they contain his leading ideas in some organized way, they present only aspects of his thought, like the fragmentary works. The Monadologie contains his doctrine of substance, the Nouveaux Essais proposes his new psychology, the Theodicee is an apology for the goodness of God and the presence of evil in a world where free will is possible. This last work is practically always cited as a justification of the ways of God to man, but in reality it is a new theology. This manner of presenting the system of Leibniz fails to take into 7

My guide in this attempt at coordination will be G. Boas, Dominant Themes of Modern Philosophy, New York, 1957. For the discussion of the monad, I have used the Monadology and J. G. Hibben, The Philosophy oj the Enlightenment, New York, 1910. Wiener's Selections were also very helpful.

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account one important fact: Leibniz' thought is, as we have already said, constantly stimulated by the philosophical presentations of others. One is always tempted to designate his way of proceeding as eclectic, but that is perhaps not quite the right designation. Like Bayle, who was almost his exact contemporary, he had and used the dual qualities of erudition and an intensely critical mind; he was inclined to take as his starting-point the organized ideas of others, with the result that a tremendous amount of the fragmentary production was written against some other philosopher as well as for his own system. He thus consumed an inordinate amount of energy discussing what was incorrect, unacceptable, or erroneous in the philosophy of others. Lengthy treatises have been written on his opposition to Descartes (Belaval), Spinoza (Friedmann), Malebranche (Robinet); just after his death, Desmaizeaux published Leibniz' discussions with Clarke concerning the philosophy of Newton. Indeed, the Desmaizeaux compilation of Dissertations melees was a summary not only of Leibniz' opposition to other philosophers, but a neat presentation in abridged form of his own system of thought. With his tremendous intellectual energy, Leibniz did much to introduce philosophical confusion into the thought of his time while attempting sincerely to harmonize that thought—because the outstanding quality of all of his thought is this desire always to harmonize contradictions, even his own contradictions. At the core of his thought is the principle of sufficient reason. It plays the same role in philosophy which the doctrine of final causes plays in theology. The assumption behind this principle is that all phenomena are best explained by seeking the divine purpose which they fulfil. Since this undertaking is not always possible for finite creatures seeking the inscrutable purpose of the infinite, we have to content ourselves often with the efficient causes, or at least with deducing their occurrence from some logical premiss in which their happening was implicit. The bare statement of the principle is that nothing happens without a reason. Leibniz endeavored to give a very precise meaning to this principle (see F. Wiener, Leibniz Selections, 1951, pp. 93 ff.), which he called the "apex of rationality in motion." It is applicable to ideas as well as phenomena, and it embraces efficient as well as final causes. That means that every proposition which is not known per se has an a priori proof, or that a reason can be given for every truth, or that, as is commonly said, nothing happens •477 ·

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without a cause. This principle of sufficient reason applies to contingent things as the principle of contradiction applies to necessary things. As Leibniz explains: "All contingent propositions have reasons for being as they are rather than otherwise, or [what is the same thing] they have a prion proofs of their truth, which render them certain." Thus the principle of sufficient reason becomes, for Leibniz, the principle of contingency, which means that we cannot always divine the finality of a phenomenon, seeing that it may be a long-range purpose of the Deity and consequently not apparent to humans. For Leibniz, however, there is no such thing as a chance event in the sense of an event without assignable cause or purpose. The first truth of the universe concerns the existence and nature of God. In the mind of Leibniz, the conception of God most common and most full of meaning is contained in the statement: "God is an absolutely perfect being." We do not always consider the implications of this statement. There are, for instance, different kinds of perfection, all possessed by God. We should also know what perfection is. For example, numbers and figures do not participate in perfection, since they imply contradictions, but power and knowledge do: "Whence it follows that God, who possesses supreme and infinite wisdom, acts in the most perfect manner not only metaphysically, but also from the moral standpoint." And the more we are enlightened and informed in regard to God's works, the more we will be inclined to find them excellent. Leibniz rejects the notion of those who state that there are no principles of goodness or perfection in the nature of things. He rejects also the view of those (Spinoza) "who hold that the beauty of the universe and the goodness which we attribute to the works of God are the chimeras of human beings, who think of God in human terms." He stresses that the acts of God do not derive from His arbitrary will, but from His understanding, which does not depend upon His will any more than His essence does. He further objects to the opinion of those (Bayle) who think that God might have made things better than He did. Besides the fact that such a view is contradicted by Scripture, it also shows that we have "too slight an acquaintance with the general harmony of the universe and with the hidden reasons for God's conduct." Leibniz interprets love of God not only as resignation to, but as complete satisfaction with and acquiescence in, what He has done. •478 ·

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He states that "those who are not satisfied with what God does seem to me like dissatisfied subjects whose attitude is not very different from that of rebels." Hence he advises not only patience, but actual acquiescence with regard to the things of the past. But he is not counseling quietism. On the contrary, he urges action according to the presumptive will of God, "trying with all our might to contribute to the general welfare and particularly to the ornamentation and the perfection of that which touches us, or of that which is nigh and so to speak at our hand." It is nevertheless impossible for finite creatures to know the infinite mind of God. It can be assumed that providence acts like a perfect geometer, a perfect architect, a perfect householder who leaves nothing uncultivated or sterile, a clever machinist who makes his production with the least possible expenditure of effort, and an intelligent artist who encloses the most of reality in the least possible compass. Its purpose is to create the maximum felicity of souls, insofar as the general harmony will permit. God's action, though simple, produces the greatest variety, richness, and abundance. In addition, everything He does is orderly; what passes for extraordinary is so only with regard to a particular order established among created things; it is even impossible to conceive of anything which occurs in this world which is absolutely irregular. Even miracles conform to the regular order. Leibniz explains that it must be assumed that everything which occurs is in accord with God's most general intentions, but that He may on occasion have particular intentions which go against the order of natural operations. But the universal laws of God which rule the whole course of the universe, is without exception. It is nevertheless possible that God may decree an action which will initially have an ill effect, but which will subsequently produce a greater good. In that case, we can say that He has permitted the evil, not that He has desired it. All this can become clear only when we have gained some notion of what is meant by substance. The first statement which can be made about an individual substance is that "the content of the subject must always include that of the predicate in such a way that if one understands perfectly the concept of the subject, he will know that the predicate appertains to it also." If it is understood that each substance contains within itself an in-ness or a this-ness, then we should understand that every individual substance expresses the • 479 ·

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whole universe in its own manner, and included in its full concept are all its experiences together with all the attendant circumstances and the whole sequence of exterior events. It is, as Leibniz says, "like an entire world and like a mirror of God." It bears in some way "the character of God's infinite wisdom and omnipotence." It expresses, although confusedly, everything that happens in the universe, past, present, and future. And since every other substance expresses also its universe as well as the universe of the other substances, we can say that any one of them exerts its power (but indirectly) upon all the others in imitation of the omnipotence of the Creator. In principle, Leibniz returns to the substantial forms of the scholastics, admitting that while important in metaphysics, they are not reasonable any longer in physics. Still, even in physics, he finds that the concept of the extension of a body is in a way imaginary and does not constitute the substance of the body. In the substance must be incorporated something which corresponds to soul. The souls and the substance-forms of other bodies are entirely different from intelligent souls, which alone know their actions. The body plus its substantial form include once for all everything which can ever happen to it, which does not mean that human liberty is proscribed, and that an absolute fatality will rule. It means, rather, that though foreseen, the events are merely contingent, but not necessary. While it is conceivable that they may not happen, it is certain, since they have been foreseen in the mind of God, that they will take place (Wiener, p. 308). This leads to the assumption that God produces different substances according to the different views which He has of the world, so that what happens to one substance corresponds with what happens to another. In short, all substances do not affect each other directly, though they are nonetheless harmonized. The simple truth is that nothing happens to a particular substance except what is the consequence of its complete idea. In reality, nothing can happen to us except thoughts and perceptions, and all our thoughts and perceptions are but the consequence, contingent it is true, of our precedent thoughts and perceptions. What happens to substances occurs as a consequence of their natures. With human beings, however, there are other considerations. Man has both a nature and an essence. Our essence includes everything that we express and which expresses our union with God. What is limited in us is our nature or our power. God may intervene • 480 ·

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in our nature, and His intervention may be considered miraculous. To the Cartesian assertion that God always preserves the same amount of motion in the universe, Leibniz replies that in effect God preserves not the same amount of motion, but the same amount of force. The distinction is important in that it shows that we must have recourse to metaphysical considerations in addition to discussions of extension if we wish to explain the phenomena of matter. We have to return to the concept of final causes also. For it is better to say that the eyes were made to see than that we see because we find ourselves having eyes. In such cases the effect should correspond to its cause. Otherwise, one is likely to fall into a kind of habit of explaining everything by necessity or by chance. It is much better to introduce into action a sovereign intelligence ordering things. Or better still, it would be more desirable to reconcile explanations from final causes with those drawn from efficient causes. In that way, one can purge from mechanical philosophy the impiety that is imputed to it. It is not always easy to differentiate in the thought of Leibniz between soul, substance, the ego, monad, and entelechy. Substance cannot be identified, as Descartes maintained, merely by extension; it must, according to Leibniz, have some essential unity in itself. That quality, he suggests, is force or energy. He is convinced that the human mind is "the living mirror of the universe." Thus the necessities of thought reflect as well as determine the nature of things. The ideal substance is the self, the ego, which underlies all its mental states. Therefore the general concept of substance will be formed after the analogy of the soul, or self-substance. It is continually active, and energy is generated from within. For this reason, Leibniz designates it as an entelechy because it possesses a sufficiency which makes it the source of its internal activities; it is, like thought, self-contained: it has within itself the potential of whatever manifestation it may ever exhibit. It contains, as we say, its own individuality. These individualities are elements of the world, of the soul, of substance. These elements, which are self-sufficient and self-determined, Leibniz designates monads. The monad is the unit of substance, and it is unique in that it is differentiated from every other monad. Each is a little world unto itself. It preserves its unity in the ever-continuous flow of phenomena and throughout the constant phases of its own activity. In its own •481 ·

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way, and analogous to the essential features of the logical concept, it expresses this unity in the midst of variety, and identity in difference. It contains within itself the potency of its own development, is self-sufficient, and carries within itself its past, its present, and its future. Each monad, with a particular body, makes a living substance. Thus life is swarming everywhere. Each monad differs from all other monads, and each one may not be affected by the external world or by another monad. And yet, they all seem to follow a pattern since each monad is subjected to God, the supreme monad. Since they have no parts, they are the true atoms of nature, and the elements of all things. Since they are simple substances, composite substances must be an aggregate of monads. Since they have no extension, no divisibility, they cannot begin naturally, nor can they perish naturally. Therefore, they can only begin all at once and end all at once, that is to say, in creation or in annihilation. Nor can they be changed or altered in inner being by any other creature. They have, as Leibniz said, no windows through which anything can enter or depart. These monads do, however, have qualities, which serve to distinguish one from the other. Hence, there are no two alike, since there are never in nature two beings which exactly resemble each other. They are constantly changing, and these natural changes proceed from an internal principle. They are, so to speak, specifications and variety of the simple substances. They must take place (since Leibniz did not admit that anything in nature could change by a sudden break) in such a way that something changes and something remains. Consequently there must be in the simple substance a plurality of affections and of relations, although it has no parts. The monad is thus in a constantly passing state, which is nothing else than what is called perception. Perception must be distinguished from apperception which is consciousness. The action of the internal principle, which causes the change or the passage from perception to another, may be called appetition or desire. Although the monad represents the entire universe, Leibniz states that it represents more distinctly the body which is particularly attached to it. This body is the entelechy, or soul. Together with the monad, it constitutes what we call a living being. The living being is a kind of divine machine or natural automaton, which infinitely •482 ·

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surpasses all artificial automata. Whence we understand that the world is full of creatures, of living beings, of animals, of entelechies, of souls, in the smallest particle of matter. Leibniz concludes that there is nothing fallow, nothing sterile, nothing dead in the universe, no chaos, no confusion except in appearance. Loc\e and the Power of Ideas John Locke (1632-1704) became a force in the French Enlightenment both because of the circumstances of his birth and his education, and also because of the situation of his country, which at a critical moment of his career involved all of Europe. In addition, he was the Englishman who most profited from the European philosophical movement which had spanned the whole seventeenth century. He made his contribution to the Enlightenment late in life, but it was all the more effective. The Epistola de Tolerantia ad Clarissimtim Virum was printed at Gouda in 1689; it was translated by William Popple as a Letter concerning Toleration in the same year. The Essay concerning Human Understanding appeared the following year (1690), along with the Two Treatises on Government, and a second Letter concerning Toleration. In 1692, Locke brought out the third Letter concerning Toleration, and one year later Some Thoughts concerning Education. In 1695, he published the Reasonableness of Christianity, as delivered in the Scriptures. In a short span of six years practically the whole body of his works appeared. In 1689, he was already fifty-seven. Son of a small Puritan landowner who had fought on the side of Parliament in the civil wars, he was on excellent terms with his father; indeed, it is thought that many of the son's ideas on education came from the father. At all events, the Puritan outlook, the struggle for political liberty, and a respect for the practice of tolerance, which were his basic qualities, all fostered in his youth by his family, were consistently developed by his more formal education. In 1646, he entered Westminster School; six years later, he entered Christ Church, Oxford, under John Owen, the Puritan dean and vice-chancellor. The general spirit at Oxford was one of independence and religious toleration; there was, however, a rising intolerance among the Presbyterians, and some fanaticism among the Independents, all of which was witnessed with distaste by Locke. His experience was not all politically or religiously oriented, how• 483 ·

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ever. If one may judge by his later Thoughts on Education, he reacted rather irritably to the study by rote which prevailed, and even proposed a more direct and less grammatical method for studying languages. The study of philosophy seems to have disgusted him; scholasticism, still taught at Oxford, held no attraction whatever. Nevertheless, we find him, in 1660, serving as tutor at Christ Church and instructing in Greek, rhetoric, and philosophy. An acquaintance with Descartes's works during his student days at Christ Church turned him to philosophy in the same way a similar experience had attracted Malebranche. At a later time, in 1706, Lady Masham wrote to Jean Leclerc: Comme Mr. Locke me l'a dit lui-meme, les premiers livres qui lui donnerent Ie gout de la philosophic furent ceux de Descartes. Il prit un vif plaisir a les lire car, tout en differant tres souvent d'avis avec l'auteur, il n'en trouvait pas moins tout ce qu'il disait tres intelligible; cela l'encouragea a croire que sa propre impuissance a comprendre d'autres auteurs pouvait ne pas etre causee chez lui par un defaut d'entendement. This seems to have been the lasting impression left by Descartes upon him. In 1697, m a letter to Stillingfleet, Locke declared that he was under great obligation to Descartes for having freed him from the unintelligible way of philosophizing then prevalent in the schools. His intellectual interests at the time were very diverse. In 1663, he was busily engaged in the study of chemistry and meteorology, and he likewise showed an interest in theology. He seemed more and more inclined, however, to the study of medicine, collaborating with Sydenham in writing an Anatomica (1668), and a De arte medica (1669). In 1668 he was elected a member of the Royal Society, and in the same year he became the confidential secretary to Lord Ashley, later the Earl of Shaftesbury. Indeed, his closest associates were now Sydenham, Boyle, and Shaftesbury, and he seemed equally interested in science and contemporary political problems. In the winter of 1670-71, he became involved in a subject to which he gave twenty years of study. According to the story of his friend, James Tyrrell, in a discussion group attended by Locke it was agreed that the principles of morality and religion could not be solidly established until first we recognize what objects can be known and what others are beyond our comprehension. Locke proposed to • 484 ·

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undertake a study of the "limits of human understanding" and fancied that "one sheet of paper might suffice." The result of this discussion led to the publication, in 1690, of the Essay concerning Human Understanding. In 1671, however, he brought out his De intellectu humano, where the reduction of all our ideas to simple ideas is presented, and in 1688, he published in Leclerc's Bibliotheque universelle a preliminary French sketch of his Essay. In the course of those two decades which separated the inauguration of the study and the publication of the Essay, Locke spent two lengthy periods on the Continent, one of several years in France, and a longer period still in Holland. The widespread influence which he had in the Enlightenment owes much to these two experiences. In 1675, he went to France, and spent fifteen months at Montpellier, where he attempted to reestablish his health, and about two more years at Paris. This experience at a moment when Paris was the intellectual center of the western world was highly beneficial to him and lasted until 1689. Once established at Montpellier,8 Locke set to work to acquaint himself with the region, the manners and customs of the inhabitants, the activities of the medical school, and the work of the outstanding local scholars, particularly Pierre-Sylvain Regis, the Cartesian. Locke's notation that it was forbidden to teach the new philosophy in the universities, schools, and academies presumably came from Regis. More important than his personal associations with the scholars of Montpellier, however, was his industry in collecting and studying the works which interested him. A certain number of these works were guides, particularly of Nimes and Aries. Certain others concerned the study of medicine, while others were literary. Among the latter were La Rochefoucauld's Memoires, Boileau's Satires, two plays of Moliere, Pascal's Penstes, Bussy-Rabutin's Histoire amoureuse, and Bouhours's Entretiens d'Ariste et Eugene. A rather large group of books dealt with the situation between Protestants and Catholics, a fair number being attacks against the Jesuits. A second 8

For Locke's intellectual relations with France see G. Bonno, Les Relations intellectuelles de Locke avec la Trance, Berkeley, 1955. Professor Bonno has studied with great care the Locke papers which have, during the last generation, been made available by the Bodleian. From his study of the notebooks, the Journal, the correspondence, and the works themselves, Professor Bonno has put together Locke's widespread interests, the readings, the particular objects of his investigations, and his opinions and reactions.

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sizable group comprised accounts of travelers who had journeyed to strange lands and who endeavored to give a picture of the civilizations of the countries they had visited. Fran£ois Bernier, whom he read assiduously at this time, is typical of the group. Two philosophical works attracted his attention: the Pensees and the Recherche de la verite and he procured a copy of each. A remark in the notebooks indicates that Locke had set himself to study the philosophy of Pascal and Malebranche. Even before his visit, he knew of Pascal's experiments in physics, being acquainted with them through the works of his friend Boyle. It is not certain that Locke knew the Lettres provinciates or that he read the Recherche at this time, but he did read with care the Pensees along with the Discours of Filleau de la Chaise. In the Journal (February 8, 1677), he composed an essay of thirteen pages upon the limits of the human mind, wherein he developed the idea that although the human intelligence can furnish us with pragmatic knowledge, useful to our needs, it cannot attain a perfect understanding of things. Locke explained this limitation by presenting Pascal's picture of the position of man, infinitely small in a universe infinitely large. Further, Locke utilized two other passages of Pascal in very striking fashion: in the Journal (July 29, 1676), he undertook to persuade the reader that in all aspects of life save religion we are content to elect that which is most probable, whereas in religion we often demand that things be proved certain. Thereupon, he made two remarks—"Reason . . . always follows the more probable side," and "Tis to be suspected that there is some secret and strong bias that inclines [the unbeliever] the other way."—which represent the point of view of Pascal in two of his Pensees. But Locke adds a second argument against the unbeliever which resembles closely the famous "pari": And after all this if anyone should soe far be prevaild on by prejudice or corruption as to phansy he found in the wild inconsistent thoughts of Atheisme lesse contrariety to reason and experience than in the beliefe of the deity, which I thinke is impossible, yet even then the great venture he runs in that way will always stick with a considerate man. For suppose the seeming probability lay on the Atheists side yet when annihilation or which is noething better eternall Insensibility the best estate the Atheist can hope for if he be in the right shall be put in the balance with everlasting happynesse the reward of the religious if his persuasion deceive him not and on the other side annihilation (which is the worst can hap•486 ·

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pen to the believer if he be mistaken) be compared with infinite misery which will certainly overtake the Atheist if his opinion should happen to prove false, it would make a man very wary how he imbraces an opinion where there is such unequall ods and where the consequences are of such moment and soe infinitely different. The Paris experience, though in many respects a repetition of the Montpellier sojourn, was more important because of both the intense intellectual activity and the quality of the men with whom he associated. Locke was fortunate to make the acquaintance of Henri Justel, a Protestant, secretary of the King, possessor of a magnificent library and collection of medals, interested in erudition, and connected with Oldenburg, secretary of the Royal Society. Justel gathered a number of the outstanding scholars of the time, particularly foreign scholars—Pufendorf and Leibniz, for instance. Through Justel Locke met Thoynard, a specialist in biblical chronology, the traveler Thevenot, and Bernier, now about to publish the Abrege de la philosophic de Gassendi. In fact, Locke met a broad range of scholars: doctors, astronomers, professors, erudite historians, biblical critics, and sometimes a philosopher. He seems, however, not to have known personally Malebranche, Nicole, Arnauld, or Bossuet. Locke's interests were broader now than they had been at Montpellier. He inquired into the condition of the Protestants in France and noted in his Journal on April 25, 1679, that in the previous twenty years, around three hundred Protestant churches had been destroyed, fifteen of them in the last two months. He followed the discussions of Pastor Claude and Nicole. On the other hand, his interest in the Jansenist-Jesuit controversy seems to have been limited, although he showed much curiosity about the activities of the Jesuits. He was very alert to the new inventions of the time, and delved into the French culinary art, even to the point of collecting some five works on that subject. He procured the Parfait marechal, a work which Voltaire also found interesting (Moland XXXII, 491). Thoynard wrote Locke of "une machine d'une nouvelle invention pour voler en Fair," and the latter inquired into the new machine for pumping water, and the uses of the "mecometre," a gadget for measuring all kinds of lengths. At the same time, he broadened his acquaintance with the general movement in French humanism. He profited greatly from his asso•487 ·

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ciation with Huet, who was at the time one of the preceptors of the Dauphin and a general editor of classic authors. Locke procured a number of volumes in his series: Terence, Virgil, Salluste, Livy, Tacitus, and Ammianus Marcellinus. To these he added Appian's Roman History, Lucian, the works of Thucydides, H. Estienne's Herodotus, and R. Estienne's thirteen volumes of Plutarch. His interest in French literature increased to include Moliere and the two Corneilles, a complete Boileau, Satires, Epitres, Art poetique, and Lutrin, Pascal's Lettres provinciales, Montaigne's Essais, La Rochefoucauld's Maximes, Flechier's Oraison funebre de Turenne, and bits of Guez de Balzac, Voiture, Scarron, and Menage. He also bought in French translation a Don Quixote, a Lazarillo de Tormes, Guevara's Epistolas jamiliares, Il Corteggiano, and Las Casas' Galatea. In the field of science, he was particularly active. He scanned the Journal des savants, consulted with Auzout, Father Cherubin, and Hubin, procured Rohault's Traite de physique, and noted the work of Lemery in chemistry. He showed interest likewise in botany and astronomy, particularly in the work of Cassini, Picard, and Romer. He consulted with these three astronomers and visited the Observatory on several occasions. In the field of medicine, he continued his relation with Bernier, and interviewed other doctors. He likewise purchased a large number of medical works which he noted assiduously. At the same time, he devoured travel literature, as he had done in England. He made arrangements to meet both Tavernier and Chardin, those immensely popular writers of this genre, whose works he had in his library. He read Thevenot's Relation d'un voyage fait au Levant, and knew well his uncle, Melchisedec Thevenot, who had just published a large compilation of two folio volumes of travel reports in Europe and the Orient. He showed also some interest in biblical studies, perhaps stimulated by his friend Thoynard, who was then composing a concordance of the Bible. He had, however, early been predisposed to studies of this sort. He now read the works of Lightfoot, Ferrand's Reflexions sur la religion chretienne, Arnauld's Historia et Concordia Evangelica, Arnauld d'Andilly's translation of Josephus, and Olearius' De Stylo Novi Testamenti. But the primary stimulation came from the works of Richard Simon and his Critique de VAncien Testament, which had attracted so much attention. Locke knew both • 488 ·

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Simon and his work, and to judge from the correspondence with Thoynard, followed closely the controversy which arose. Locke's preoccupation at Paris was more and more with the field of philosophy, however. He now included the Jansenists and the libertines in his scrutiny, and above all the Cartesians. His attention was drawn to all works on logic: L'Essay de logique (Mariotte), Logica, vetus et nova, vel novantiqua (Clauberg), and especially La Logique, ou Vart de penser (Arnauld et Nicole) of Port-Royal. He also read further in the moralists of the time. He had already become acquainted with Pascal, Nicole, and La Rochefoucauld. He now procured the Faussetes des vertus humaines of Jacques Esprit, and the Caracteres des passions of Cureau de la Chambre. He carefully studied the Demonstratio evangelica of Huet, particularly that section dealing with the limits of the human mind. He was in the midst of the controversy of "betes machines" which had assumed much importance in France from 1675 to 1680 with a renaissance of Descartes and Gassendi. The extent of Locke's interest in Gassendi has never been solved in any satisfactory way. It is certain, though, that he knew Gassendi's work, that he possessed Bernier's Abrege, and that he was on intimate terms with that author. The significant point, however, is that Locke not only knew Gassendi, but that he became acquainted with the line of free-thinkers extending from Montaigne, Charron, Naude, and Gassendi, to Moliere. Notwithstanding this fact, during his stay in Paris Locke directed his major attention to a study of Descartes. He had had some acquaintance with the French philosopher's work while at Oxford, and had expressed his admiration for the clarity of his expression, and the lucidity of his presentation. Presumably, the Englishman should have sought out Malebranche, upon whom Descartes's mantle had fallen, and whose Recherche de la verite Locke first knew at Montpellier. He does not seem, however, to have had any relation with the Oratorian, nor indeed with any of the Cartesians save Pierre Sylvain Regis. At that time, he made a list of Descartes's available works, noting the most recent editions, and he apparently insisted upon collecting a complete set. In addition, he now turned to the Methode pour bien etudier la doctrine. The Methode not only gave a list of the defenders of Cartesianism and those who attacked the doctrine, but made a systematic analysis • 489 ·

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of Descartes's philosophy, dividing it into the formal constituent parts (logic, metaphysics, physics, physiology, and ethics) with lists of those who had contributed significant commentaries upon each part. This topical bibliography of Cartesianism contained some forty titles, in French, German, Dutch, and Latin. Of the full list Locke procured about one quarter, chiefly from among the French titles: Rohault's treatise, the Logique de Port-Royal, De mente humana of Du Hamet, Traitte de I'esprit de I'homme of La Forge, Six discours sur la distinction de I'union du corps et de I'ame by Cordemoy, h'Art de vivre heureux selon les maximes de Descartes by Claude Ameline, and Pere Le Bossu's work, Parallele de la philosophic de Descartes et d'Aristote. This list comprised the principal Cartesian commentators in French then available to Locke, and he proceeded in his study of them with thoroughness and good judgment. In addition, his notes during the time indicate that he was busily pursuing his investigations. A note of August 11, 1677, proposed to check whether Descartes's notions on vortices were imitated from Giordano Bruno, and whether there were ancient sources (Heraclitus, Empedocles) for his ideas on subtle matter. On January 20, 1678, he wrote in his Journal a lengthy note on Descartes's treatment of space. Here, he disagreed with the French philosopher: for Descartes, as Locke understands him, there is no difference between the idea of body and the notion of space; for Locke, they represent two distinct ideas. Moreover, for Descartes, space is extension; for the Englishman, space is a measurement between the two extremes of a body. Finally, for Descartes, because space is identical with body (extension), there can be no vacuum, while for Locke there is no contradiction in supposing a space in the universe which is devoid of body. Where Descartes presented infinite space as positive, and finite space as negative, the English empiricist protested against the tendency of making positive what is beyond comprehension and negative what is discernible. As Aaron has shown, these notions inscribed in Locke's notebooks eventually turned up in Book II, Chapter XIII, of the Essay. Thus Locke's study of Cartesianism and Cartesian commentators during his stay in Paris generated cautious criticism of some of Descartes's ideas. It is perhaps not too consequential where he stood in this critique, although the fact that the difference involved such matters as space, the vacuum, and the concept of the infinite is certainly • 490 ·

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not without importance. What matters more, Locke appears to be consolidating his own views by investigating the views of the one philosopher whom he found clear. Locke benefited immensely from his lengthy sojourn in France. His activities in making acquaintances, his attempts to know those who were achieving things in the field of learning, and his efforts to acquire books, particularly recent publications of interest, are all important. Of far greater importance is the fact that he made his journey at a time when he was forced to decide how he intended to organize his intellectual career over the succeeding years. He was already rather advanced in age for an individual just entering upon a career. The four years represent, then, a period of orientation for a philosopher who matured slowly and had not yet given the measure of his genius. It is this fact which accounts for Locke's exhibiting a rather extensive curiosity in intellectual matters: a curiosity which extended to interests in present-day political and religious events, to voyage literature, to technical inventions, to discoveries in natural science, to philosophy, and literature. He thus broadened in a humanistic way his earlier training at Oxford. This French humanism was a special brand which differed from English humanism in the sense that the latter was more scientific than moral, while the former was still more moral than scientific, and aimed, above all, at developing taste rather than judgment. It was fortunate that Locke could be exposed to this humanism which was so rich and diverse, and that he could coordinate all this richness and diversity with his philosophical preoccupations. France seems to have matured Locke in the same terms that England later matured Voltaire. A summary glance at the best in Locke's readings—Montaigne, Descartes, Pascal, Gassendi, Malebranche—immediately underlines the significance of the trip. Like Leibniz, Locke reached Paris when French philosophy was prepared to consolidate European philosophy. Since he and Leibniz were essential to that consolidation, it was essential that he understand French culture in order to temper his contribution to it so that a real European culture became possible. Locke continued his French interests after 1679 through correspondence with his friends Justel and Thoynard. In the exchange between the two French "erudits" and the Englishman, there are discussions about the scientific activities going on in London and Paris, and references to voyage literature appearing in the two coun• 491 ·

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tries. In addition, they all had a good deal of interest in biblical studies, especially Thoynard. However, there was a dearth of material concerning philosophy. As a matter of fact, Justel's group seemed curiously unaware of Locke's interest in philosophy until 1688, when the English philosopher sent Thoynard a copy of Leclerc's translation of the Abrege de I'Essai. There is thus every reason to believe that though on intimate terms with his French friends, Locke had never divulged to them his primary interest. They had taken for granted that he was an "erudit" committed to scientific discoveries, or a "libertin" interested in the relativity of manners or customs. The other side of the picture is important also. Having decided to launch his major work, Locke used Leclerc's journal to publish (in French) a trial condensation of it. Once he had brought out the summary, he not only sent a copy to Thoynard for himself, but a half-dozen copies to be distributed to others. He was evidently concerned to know the reaction of the French public to his efforts. Indeed, in 1698, eight years after the appearance of the Essay itself, Locke wrote to Thoynard expressing the desire that his work be translated into French and his assumption that it would fit into the perspective of "les deux partis" in France, an allusion which Professor Bonno interprets as reference to the quarrel between the Cartesians and the Gassendistes (cf. letter of March 25, 1698). Locke's years in Holland also had a bearing upon his French relationships. Holland had now become the center of Cartesianism, and Spinoza had carried out his life's work there. It had had a glorious part in the intellectual development of Europe since the Renaissance: Erasmus and Grotius had been two outstanding sons. As a result of the Revocation of 1685, it had become the stronghold of tolerance (Bayle had established himself there) and the focal point of European philosophy, not to mention that it now played the role of liaison between France and England, especially in the publication of many works which were forbidden in France, and sometimes elsewhere. One of the significant aspects of this role was the publication of the fourth edition of the Essay concerning Human Understanding and its French translation by Coste (1700). Now busily engaged in completing the final draft of his Essay, Locke had definitely turned to philosophy as his major preoccupation. His library contained the Acta eruditorum (1682-1704), which was one of the important outlets for Leibniz' works. In addition, • 492 ·

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he had the first part of the Nouvelles de la republique des lettres (1682-86), edited by Pierre Bayle, and the complete set of Leclerc's Bibliotheque universelle et historique (1686-93). Finally, he possessed parts of the Journal des savants (28 vols., all published from 1665 to 1704), Memoires de Trevoux (perhaps only a small part), and Leclerc's Bibliotheque choisie (4 vols., for 1703). These volumes undoubtedly served to unite the preoccupations of Locke with the scholarly and philosophical world of Europe, where Leibniz, Descartes, Bayle, Malebranche, and Leclerc figured particularly. Locke now seemed to turn his undivided attention to these philosophers. Holland was the intellectual center of Cartesianism, and he took every advantage of it. On December 29, 1686, he extracted from the Acta eruditorum a bibliographical note on a work by Wittichius which endeavored to harmonize the Scriptures with Descartes's philosophy. He bought and annotated the third volume of Descartes's correspondence in 1683. He copied a portion of an article from the Nouvelles de la republique des lettres outlining Henry More's objections to Descartes's metaphysics. He entered into his notebooks numerous references to the Cartesian theory of the beast-machine. In 1679, Poiret had published his Cogitationum rationalium de Deo, anima et malo libri quatuor, which Locke purchased in 1684. He now (1684) read the Recherche de la verite and made a number of notes in his diary, manifesting special interest in the section of MaIebranche's book where the author treated the "communication contagieuse des imaginations fortes." Locke was particularly interested in the controversies between Malebranche and Arnauld occasioned by the Traite de la nature et de la grace of the Oratorian and Des Vrayes et des fausses idees of the Jansenist. He owned a copy of each work, and in his notebook he inscribed the remark of Arnauld concerning the ambiguity of the word "idea." When, in the following year, the controversy concerning pleasure arose, Locke also followed it with care, procuring the works involved after having become aware of the discussion through the articles of Bayle. Locke's attitude toward Descartes and other French philosophers holds the key to one of the conditions which produced the Enlightenment. This is not easy, however, to come by, because of the fragmentary character of the evidence which we possess. We have already referred to Lady Masham's statement and to Locke's confession to Stillingfleet. It seems perfectly reasonable to conclude that the • 493 ·

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example of Descartes encouraged Locke to a type of analysis which was clear, consistent, and divorced from the speculations character­ istic of scholastic thinking. There remains the additional fact that Locke, from his days at Oxford, exhibited a keen interest in the French philosopher. While Descartes was by no means the only philosopher who interested him, Locke did exhibit more concern and more respect for him, and more penetration, than he demonstrated in studying any other Continental or even British philosopher. Moreover, with his in­ ordinate curiosity, and the opportunity which was accorded him by his two periods of exile from England, Locke not only understood surprisingly well the development of Cartesianism since Descartes's time, but also the general intellectual development which grew out of Cartesianism. From the way in which he arranged his readings and his notes, one concludes that he recognized that Cartesianism was an integral part of the whole intellectual development of philoso­ phy since 1650 and that he would have to understand its role in that evolution if he wished to make his contribution to philosophy. The relationship9 between the two philosophers has been often treated but never very fully. Throughout his mature life, Locke in­ scribed in his notebooks comments concerning Descartes's ideas. Be­ ginning around 1660, he copied some thirty-six definitions from Descartes's works, and busied himself collecting the judgments of others about Descartes: "vir acutissimus" (J. Glanvill); "that most ingenious gentleman . . . justly famous" (R. Boyle); "one of the greatest oculists and dioptrical writers that the world ever saw" (H. Power). There are interspersed in these early notes remarks which dis­ close Locke's position. He finds objections to Descartes's theories of the essence of bodies, the nature of space, and the existence of the vacuum. In the two early drafts of the Essay, written in 1671, Locke 9 A list of articles on the influence of Descartes upon Locke is given by Bonno, op. cit., p. 228η.: S. P. Lamprecht, " T h e Role of Descartes in Sevenieenth-Century England." Studies in the History of Ideas 1935, π, 181-240; J. Laird, "L'influence de Descartes sur la philosophic anglaise du XVII e siecle." Revue philosophique 1937, 226-56; L. Roth, Descartes's Discourse on Method, Oxford, 1937, pp. 116-30; C. S. Ware, " T h e Influence of Descartes on John Locke." Revue Internationale de philoso­ phic iv, 210-30. Also J. Gibson, Locke's Theory of Knowledge and Its Historical Re­ lations, Cambridge, 1917, pp. 205-32.

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adheres to the undisputed character of certainty founded upon the "cogito," but he again expresses his disagreement with Descartes on the question of the vacuum, and he declares against innateness. During the period he spent in France, he wrote into the notebooks a number of items criticizing the position of Descartes: he rejects that extent is the essence of matter, objects to Descartes's definition of space, criticizes the Cartesian attitude toward the vacuum, and objects to Descartes's idea of infinity. These opinions give only a partial picture of the intellectual relationship between the two philosophers, since a philosopher is naturally inclined to point up his objections to another philosopher rather than his accord. On the contrary, historians of philosophy are led to stress certain general positions as characteristic of opposition or accord. Thus any number of historians of philosophy will immediately draw the conclusion that Descartes is a rationalist and Locke is an empiricist. Since this is generally true, the conclusion is readily reached that the two are poles apart. However, as L. Roth, following a whole line of nineteenth-century critics, has pointed out, Locke is also a rationalist, and that coupled with a general tendency of the twentieth century to make of Descartes an empiricist, has served to bring the two philosophers closer together. In these circumstances, those who now examine the question usually attempt to classify the relations of the two under the headings of Locke's criticisms of Descartes; Locke's use of Cartesian theses in his own philosophy; and Locke's modification of the general tendencies of Cartesianism. Locke rejects the plenum (see Bonno, p. 230), and offers a long demonstration to prove the existence of the vacuum. He declares that vortices have never existed. He denies that extension is the essence of matter or that thought is the essence of the soul. He feels, rather, that matter has solidity in addition to extension. He doubts that the essence of mind is pure thought and refuses to accept that animals are machines. In his opinion animals have ideas but cannot compare them as human beings can. Contrary to Descartes, he insists upon the severance of physics from mathematics. Finally, he criticizes the distinction of matter and mind made by Descartes, asserting that it is possible that mind may have extension, and that matter may be given the faculty of thought. The ontological argument of the French philosopher found no favor with him; he felt • 495 ·

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that the proofs of God could be established in the recognition of the self or be drawn from the observation of nature. He was naturally opposed to the Cartesian notion of the infinite. Locke, contrary to Descartes, thought that the possibility of a science of nature is doubtful. On the other hand, he asserts that a science of morality is as possible as the science of mathematics, while Descartes hesitates to adhere to a theory of a rational ethics. Locke's position here is more rationalist than even Descartes dared to be. He literally demands a mathematical approach to morality, asserting that "the truths of mathematics are certain whether men make true mathematical figures or suit their actions to the rules of morality or no." He affirms that the three angles of a triangle equal two right angles whether there is such a thing in the world as a triangle or no, and that it is every man's duty to be just whether there is a just man in the world or no. An important difference between the two, however, is their attitude to innateness. This disagreement has been stressed by Locke himself, since he devoted the first book of his Essay to banishing innateness from the realm of psychology. Further, Locke speaks with some disfavor of the "barely speculative systems," while casting a slur upon "rational experiments and observations" by stating that they merely become a gentleman. Finally, the most important difference between them is the way in which each treats ideas. For Descartes, ideas are something which start within the mind; for Locke, they start within objects. For Descartes, they are of three kinds: innate, adventitious, and fictitious; for Locke, they are simple or complex, and all of them are adventitious. Locke's negations of Descartes seem so full that one readily assumes that there is but little upon which they can agree. This assumption is, however, false. As L. Roth has pointed out, the fundamental aspects of Descartes's and Locke's philosophies are similar. Locke, for instance, insisted upon clear and distinct ideas as the criterion for truth. He adopted the rules of the Discours. He believed, as did Descartes, that the highest form of knowledge was intuition, and that it required at the end a "demonstration." Ware, who has stressed this point of agreement, has noted that Locke took his concept of intuition from Descartes's Regulae, section VIII: "Intuition is the undoubting conception of an unclouded and attentive mind and springs from the light of reason alone." • 496 ·

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In reality, Locke did not make a serious study of Descartes until after the two early drafts of the Essay in 1671. It was in these drafts that he attempted to start out from the problems of ethics and religion, but he saw that the problem of certainty in these subjects cannot be grasped satisfactorily unless an attempt is made to grapple with the nature of certainty itself. Thus Locke was necessarily drawn to a theory of knowledge which he learned from Descartes. It was in this way that Descartes became a positive influence in the formation of the Essay, and, as Roth has shown, this is proved by the fact that until Locke's serious study of Descartes the Essay was not the Essay we know. But, as Roth has also shown, the Descartes who influenced Locke was not the physicist or the metaphysician, but the logician. Roth concludes: "Descartes's Essays left Locke cold; his Meditations, actively hostile; what affected Locke permanently was the Discours." Professors Ware and Laird have broadened the investigation into the problem of Locke's indebtedness to Descartes by combing the Essay itself for evidence. In the Essays second book (i, 10), Locke rejects the idea which he attributes formally to the Cartesians that the soul thinks all the time on the ground that there is no proof that such is the case. Later in that book (xi, 11), Locke contradicts the notion that animals are pure machines. He contends that they have reason and he even infers that they have feeling, but he judges that they differ from humans not by the fact that they cannot express their ideas, but that they do not possess the power of abstraction. Later still (II, xiii, 21), Locke takes up the notion that no vacuum exists. He maintains that since annihilation proves that space can exist without body, just as movement which always requires further extension is another proof, it is evident that a vacuum exists. Shortly afterwards (II, xiii, 27), he insists that matter and space are not equivalent since "we have an idea as clear of space, distinct from solidity, as we have of solidity, distinct from movement, as we have of movement, distinct from space." It was because of this reasoning that Locke rejected the proposition that space, extension, and movement are the same thing, and that space is the essence of matter. Of more consequence still is the argument (II, xvii, 14-17), where he contradicts the Cartesian assertion that it is possible to have a clear notion of infinity either in time or space. While at first sight the argument seems both pedantic and to no purpose, it is very important, since the two positions concern • 497 ·

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the limits of the human mind. Descartes deduces therefrom that the powers of the mind are for practical purposes limitless, while Locke concludes that they are relatively restricted. In the next book (iv, 9), Locke tries to distinguish between the definition of a thing and the translation. In this connection he finds that the definition of movement given by the Cartesians as "!'application successive des parties de la surface d'un corps aux parties d'un autre corps" is no definition at all. Locke continues his attack (III, x, 6) against the obscurity of meaning in the terms where he pleads that words be given a clear definition rather than an obscure one, and especially that the obscurity of meaning be not approved as subtlety. In Book IV (iii, 6), he undertook to show that not only is our knowledge far beneath the reality of things, it does not even correspond to the extent of our own ideas. However, with British caution, he adds that if each man would employ himself sincerely and with entire freedom of mind to perfect himself, progress could be made, although there would still be limits. In mathematics, for instance, we have clearly expressed ideas of a square, a circle, and equality. But we have no clear idea of a circle which is equal to a square. We have ideas of matter and thought, but we will perhaps never know whether a purely material thing thinks or not. Obviously, what Locke objects to in all these cases is the a priori speculation. He also seems to have the perfectly sincere feeling that Descartes's pronouncements were too general. Finally, his criticism tends to indicate that in his opinion Descartes did not attain the ideal he proposed, especially in the sciences. This was perhaps Locke's meaning when he wrote in Some Thoughts concerning Education ( # 193): "I think he should be read more to know the hypotheses, and to understand the terms and ways of talking of the several sects, than with the hope of acquiring thereby a comprehensive and satisfactory knowledge of the works of nature." This opinion does not, however, represent the full attitude of Locke toward the French philosopher. In Book II (xxix), the whole argument is in favor of Cartesian clarity as a criterion of truth. And in Book IV (xii, 7), he expresses his conviction that the use of mathematical thinking has proved a very satisfactory method in arriving at truth, and urges its use in other fields of thought. His ideas on error, while more explicitly stated, are founded upon the Cartesian conviction that error is fundamentally caused by a judgment or a • 498 ·

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reasoning which has been distorted by a lack of method. Finally, Locke supported (IV, ii, 7) fully Descartes's belief that demonstration is inferior to intuition in arriving at truth. As for the doctrine of intuition, one should compare the whole of Book IV (ii), with the third of the Regulae of Descartes entitled significantly: "Sur les objets proposes a notre etude il faut chercher, non ce que d'autres ont pense ou ce que nous-memes nous conjecturons, mais ce dont nous pouvons avoir l'intuition claire et evidente ou ce que nous pouvons deduire avec certitude; car ce n'est pas autrement que la science s'acquiert." Where there was disagreement between Locke and Descartes, the same disagreement had already existed between Descartes and Gassendi. The way in which Locke's objections to Descartes seemed to coincide with Gassendi's was noted in Leibniz' Nouveaux Essais (I, 1): "Il ecrit evidemment dans l'esprit de Gassendi et il semble dispose a approuver la plupart des objections que Gassendi a faites a Descartes." Locke apparently held Gassendi in high esteem, probably on the recommendation of his friend R. Boyle. He made selections from Boyle's Physiological Essays praising the Frenchman as "excellent philosophe," "savant Gassendi," and made notes from the De Vita N. C. Peireskji and the first volume of the Syntagma. He possessed the AbrSgi, which had been published by his friend Bernier. Gassendi, as well as Locke, had made objections to Descartes in his analysis of the Meditations: attack against innateness, refusal to accept that thought is the essence of the soul, objections to the theory of "betes-machines," rejection of the possibility of conceiving of the infinite without negating the finite. Moreover, Locke's division of ideas into simple and complex rather than innate, adventitious, and fictitious apparendy came from Gassendi's Syntagma. Even his organization of knowledge from simple to complex ideas bears resemblances with Gassendi's account. Both philosophers start with empiricism for simple ideas and proceed to compounded ideas through "composition" or "relationship." Besides, in both, there is a similarity of treatment of the concept of space, and the existence of the vacuum. Indeed, as Bonno has shown, the resemblance of the chapter in the Essay where the problem of the vacuum is taken up (II, xiii, 21-23) and chapters in the Physica (Sect. I, Book II, chaps, iii, iv, v) is striking. There is a similar parallel between Locke's treatment of good and evil (II, xxvii) and Gassendi's first book of • 499 ·

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the Ethica. Both affirm that true wisdom is in that human conduct in which the seeking after happiness is closely united with the practice of virtue. Both show how good and evil are related to pleasure and pain and lead to rewards and punishments. Finally, like Gassendi, Locke made freedom depend not upon the will, but upon the intellect, in Book II (xxi). Locke not only studied closely Descartes and Gassendi, he perused with care the works of Pascal and Nicole. We have already remarked that he possessed a copy of Pascal's Pensees at Montpellier, and that in Paris he procured a copy of the Lettres provinciales. Bonno has shown the use he made of two passages—the "grandeur et petitesse" and the "pari"—of the Pensees, where Locke borrowed material to elucidate his views on the limits of human consciousness and to justify his own view on the wisdom of establishing one's belief concerning the existence of God and the immortality of the soul upon the mathematical laws of probability. Like Pascal, he demonstrated a distrust in the effectiveness of metaphysics. Finally, again like Pascal, he insisted that the human mind cannot attain to the knowledge of the substance of things. Locke was very favorably impressed by Nicole's Essais de morale, and with reason, since he agreed with Nicole and held that the purpose of all knowledge is not to know all things but that which affords us a chance to live a richer life. "Our business here," he wrote (I, i, 6), "is not to know all things, but those which concern our conduct." And at the end of his treatise (IV, xii, n ) , he concluded: "Morality is the proper business and science of mankind in general." Locke's purpose, however, extended beyond the confines of natural morality, since he believed that natural theology was united with natural morality, that morality and divinity were, as he said, the two principal preoccupations of mankind. This was likewise the position of Nicole in his Essais de morale, three of which ("On the Way of Preserving Peace with Men," "On the Existence of a God and the Immortality of the Soul," "On the Weakness of Men") Locke translated around 1679.10 Locke also wrote in his notebook that Nicole was the author of a proof of the existence of God which was clear and convincing, and he had recourse to it in the Essay (IV, x). Essentially, it was the cosmological proof, but what interested Locke 10 Their importance in the development of Locke's thought has been noted by Von Leyden, Sophia, Padua, January 1948, xvi, 41-55.

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was Nicole's refutation of the three arguments concerning the eternity of matter, the inherent power of matter to form itself, and the impossibility of conceiving of the creation, which currently had been injected into the discussion of the cosmological proof. Like Nicole, Locke argued that non-being cannot produce being. But being exists, because man knows with certainty that he is himself. Hence it is evident that something has existed from all eternity, since that which is not from all eternity has a beginning, and what has a beginning must have been produced by some other thing. Locke concludes that his Eternal Being is all-powerful, all-wise, all-good. He concludes that it is as impossible to conceive that non-thinking matter can ever produce an intelligent, thinking being as it is to conceive that nothingness can produce matter. In his view, it is impossible to say that matter has existed of itself from all eternity, because matter would never have had the power to give itself movement. It is therefore necessary to have a First Being to produce the initial movement in matter. Moreover, matter could never have drawn from itself sentiment, perception, and knowledge. Locke finishes his demonstration with the statement that the origin of the world can only be explained through the creative action of an eternal being who is intelligent. He admits, however, that the creation is inconceivable to human creatures, but he argues that because we cannot conceive of it is no proof of its impossibility. It is precisely for the purpose of marking our intellectual limitations that Locke produced his arguments (see Bonno, p. 248), drawn from Nicole's Essais, and broadened by the ideas of the Cambridge PIatonists, especially by the demonstration of Cudworth. It is an excellent example of English idealism in combination with French rationalism. Locke's interest in Pascal and Nicole seems to have led him to Arnauld and the Jansenists. He was familiar with La Logique de Port-Royal. Indeed, it was through the Logique that he discovered the importance of Descartes's Regulae. It is also likely that he was directed to Arnauld through the Logique. At all events, he was acquainted with Arnauld's Concordia, which he had in his library, and he also knew Des Vrayes et des jausses idees et ce qu'enseigne Vauteur de la Recherche de la verite (Cologne, 1683), having inscribed in his Journal several notes taken from the Jansenist's work. The title of Arnauld's work became the title of a long chapter in Book II of Locke's Essay (xxxii, 306-15), but the whole of Book II • 501 ·

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is concerned in one way or another with the problems discussed by Arnauld. This material involved Malebranche's work as well, as can be seen from the full title: De la Recherche de la verite, ou Von traite de la nature de I'esprit de I'homme et de I'usage qu'il en doit faire pour eviter Verreur dans les sciences. Finally, one of Locke's notes concerns a passage in Arnauld's treatise which reproaches MaIebranche for using terms so ambiguous that human intelligence cannot attach to them any clear and precise meaning. Arnauld not only protested against this method of defining terms, he actually adopted a forthright method of definition which became Locke's model in his Essay (xxxviii, 198-200): I call soul or spirit the substance which thinks. To think, to know, to perceive are the same thing. I consider the same thing, the Idea of an object and the perception of an object. I do not consider whether there are other things to which may be given the name Ideas. I say that a thing is present to our mind, when our mind perceives it and knows it. I maintain that a thing is objectively in my mind, when I conceive it, etc. It is apparent that in the debate between Arnauld and MaIebranche, the Englishman supported Arnauld's criticism of the Recherche de la verite. Indeed, this support explains Locke's curious silence about the Recherche. Although it was among the first works he procured upon arriving at Montpellier, he made no mention of it at the time. Eventually, in 1685, he extracted some notes from it, but no trace of it appears in the early editions of the Essay. On composing the third edition, however, he proposed to insert a chapter, which never appeared, criticizing Malebranche's "vision en Dieu." Locke did write a lengthy essay entitled "An Examination of P. Malebranche's Opinion of Seeing all Things in God," where he accuses Malebranche of acting as if we understood "what ideas in the understanding of God are, better than when they are in our own understanding." The whole of his treatise is directed against the ambiguous, poetic language of the Oratorian. Locke confesses over and over that he does not understand Malebranche's statements. He attributes this inability to his ignorance, but it is clear that the real reason for his misunderstanding is Malebranche's obscurity. To the complicated, metaphysical (which Locke calls abstract) presentations of Malebranche, Locke opposes the simple statement that God has given to man the capacity of knowing, but not of knowing either • 502 ·

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the essence or the ideas of God. His statement is very modest: "It is possible God has made our souls so, and so united them to our bodies that, upon certain motions made in our bodies by external objects, the soul should have such or such perceptions or ideas, though in a way inconceivable to us." A real difference between the two philosophers concerns the nature of ideas: for Malebranche, ideas are spiritual things; for Locke, that expression is meaningless. Malebranche explains they are real beings; Locke insists that such a remark "instructs not at all as to their nature." And when Malebranche remarks that "material things are in God after a spiritual manner," Locke adds "here, therefore, he and I are alike ignorant of these good w o r d s . . . [they] signify nothing to either of us." Malebranche spoke of "God being the place of spirits, as space is the place of bodies." Locke finds that this remark can be interpreted in several ways and adds: "When I am told in which of these senses he is to be understood, I shall be able to see how far it helps us to understand the nature of ideas." Locke adds that it is certain that he has ideas, but he would like to know what they are. He objects to the designation of ideas as "beings, representative beings," as Arnauld did in the Des Vrayes et des fausses idoes. For Locke, it seems sufficient to state that "ideas are in our minds when God pleases to produce them there, by such motions as he has appointed to do it." His prime assertion is that it is useless to hazard statements concerning the action of God. While admitting that He is a simple being that by His wisdom knows all things, and by His power can do all things, Locke affirms that how He does it is totally incomprehensible to mortals. MaIebranche's four ways of knowing were contradicted by the Englishman on the ground that he does not understand figurative language, and that he does not have clear notions concerning sentiments. Locke rejects all tendency to make God the source of man's reason, except as giving man the capacity to reason. But to say that God reasons is false, since He views everything in a grand intuition. Man's reason, on the other hand, "is a laborious and gradual progress in the knowledge of things, by comparing one idea with a second, and second with a third, etc," not to mention that these ideas must be compared, and that we are not always successful in finding truth even after this way "so painful, uncertain, and limited." Locke adds, notwithstanding, that God has given man an understanding of his own. • 503 ·

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Locke expressly stated at the beginning of the Essay concerning Human Understanding11 that he wished to solve the problem of the nature and extent of human knowledge. In pursuing his investigation, he consciously applied the empirical method and inaugurated the inquiry into the genesis of our thought. This was not his purpose, however. He was preoccupied with the problem of knowledge, which he defined not as a series of intellectual experiences and judgments, nor demonstrations even, but rather as certainty. "With me," he stated, "to know and to be certain is the same thing." Knowledge, however, should have, in addition to certainty, two other features: it must be "instructive," by which he understood that it must have some significant content, and it must be "real," that is to say, it must refer to a reality which is independent of the knowing mind and of the ideas by which it is known. This knowledge, in fact, is concerned only with universal propositions, and it can never be justified by a process of empirical generalization. For Locke, as for all philosophers of his century, the ideal type of knowledge is in the mathematical sciences, particularly geometry. Locke's ultimate goal was to be able to apply this type of knowledge to the field of morality and natural theology. The success of this pursuit would serve the highest interests of mankind, since that knowledge is of greatest importance for man which relates to his duty and to the existence of a divine being. "Morality and Divinity are those parts of knowledge that men are most concerned to be clear in," he wrote in the "Epistle to the Reader." It can be relied upon, since God has furnished men with faculties sufficient to direct them in the way they should take. For although imperfect and limited, men have "light enough to lead them to the knowledge of their Maker, and the sight of their own duties" (I, i, 5). What Locke will claim to have done is to have detected by a process of analysis the essential nature of knowledge and to have shown in what regions of human thought the requirements of knowledge can be satisfied. In short, he wishes to distinguish between strict certainty of knowing and such minor forms of knowing as opinion, belief, and probability. This investigation he regards as an essential preliminary to any attempt to determine the nature of reality and utility. This latter is very important because if knowledge is cer11

See J. Gibson, Locke's Theory of Knowledge bridge, 1917.

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tainty, then a strict relationship can be established among knowing, being, and doing. Although he excludes from his discussion the physical aspects of the mind, or the problem of what its essence consists in, there is implied in this very exclusion that the mind is a substance, with its own essence, constitution, properties, and operations. Further, it possesses an independent existence, which is set against the other substances of the world possessing also their essence and their existence. What brings these separate existences together is ideas. In Locke's theory of knowledge ideas assume a supreme importance. It is therefore essential to understand what he understands by them and how they are related to the mind on the one hand and the world of reality on the other. Locke defined "idea" as "whatever it is which the mind can be employed about in thinking," that is, it is the immediate object of thought or mental perception. Locke's definition profited by a discussion which had been going on since Descartes, who had recognized that an idea possessed a "formal reality," in that it presented a temporal event in the evolution of the individual's consciousness, and an "objective reality," that is, it represented a logical content or the qualities of the object cognized. The important thing is that an idea is representative, a symbol of something else. Malebranche maintained that ideas were "real beings" possessing an existence distinct alike from the knowing mind and the realities they represented. Arnauld maintained that ideas have no being apart from the activity by which they are cognized. Perception and idea, he insisted, signify the same thing. Locke, like Arnauld, asserted the identity of ideas and perceptions: "Our ideas being nothing but actual perceptions in the mind, which cease to be anything where there is no perception of them . . . " (II, x, 2). Clearly an idea is only an "object" of the mind when it is perceived and distinguished from all other ideas. Hence one idea cannot be confused with another, nor is an idea capable of change. In a sense, ideas, though not always in the mind, are eternal. Locke, however, assumes the existence of ideas may be taken for granted, and their function in knowledge can be analyzed, without entering into the problem of their nature as elements of reality, or even their relation to the mind as a substance. He ultimately concludes that assertions concerning the "reality of ideas," or ideas as modifications of the soul, or ideas as specific • 505 ·

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"representations" cannot be accepted in experience. All we can reassert is the presence of the idea. The one fundamental contribution which Locke made to the general theory of knowledge stems from his rejection of innate ideas. They had occupied a prominent place in Descartes's system, while the Cambridge Platonists and Lord Herbert of Cherbury freely proclaimed innate principles in thought and conduct. In a general way, Locke's repudiation of innateness is often regarded as the one distinction between his thought and Cartesian thought. The impression is thus given that Descartes accepted innateness as fundamental to his system, along with Herbert of Cherbury and the Cambridge Platonists. But innateness for Descartes—and the others—never meant that innate knowledge is explicitly possessed from the earliest dawn of consciousness. He thought that it consisted in a predisposition to the formation of ideas which he compared to an inherited tendency to a disease. Locke, himself, is not far removed from Descartes's notion when he wrote (II, xxxii, 6) that "mind's natural tendency" was "towards knowledge." Locke's distinction is consequently so sharp, so subde, and at the same time so important that some effort is necessary to grasp it. His objections to the theory of innate ideas are directed to the assumption made by his opponents that truth and certainty are derived from it. He also protested that in this theory "knowledge is not ascribed to the use of our natural faculties," but to the direct action of nature or of God. He repudiates the notion that this knowledge is stamped upon the intellect in contrast to that other knowledge with which the mind is occupied. Seen in this light, Locke's opposition to the doctrine of innate ideas is not motivated by his conviction that they are necessarily non-existent, but that they are beyond the scope of his inquiry. Moreover, Locke actually, like many of his contemporaries, accepted that there were two kinds of innateness, the "naive" and the "dispositional." It was the naive which he opposed. Even in others of his writings (in the commentary on MaIebranche, for instance) he conceded that God can give to man any ideas He wishes and when He wishes. Besides, as he was quick to point out, he was speaking of innate ideas, not of innate powers, which he grants. But he condemned innate ideas and principles, because the expression either signifies that certain ideas and principles are explicitly present from the first instant of consciousness, or • 506 ·

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it asserts only the existence of a general capacity to knowledge. In the first case, it is admittedly false; in the second, it is contrary to the theory of certainty as developed syllogistically. The denial of innate ideas merely made more acute the problem of the origin and formation of ideas. It is important to recall that ideas cannot constitute knowledge; they are the "materials of knowledge." Hence the necessity for taking into account their different varieties and special contents. Though Locke is here engaged in an objective analysis of ideas in abstraction from the knowledge into which they enter, he cannot clearly distinguish at times between ideas conceived as "perceptions of the mind" (a psychical experience) and as "objects of understanding" (a content of thought). He was not at all concerned with tracing the history of consciousness from its earlier to later stages, nor did he think the human mind capable of determining the causes of ideas which are not themselves ideas. He felt that their origin could only be understood in connection with the logical determination of their content. This attitude was in line with his contemporary way of thinking. Locke begins his search for the "original," "primary," or "simple" ideas which form the "material of which all others are composed." He thus starts with an analysis, "with pain and assiduity," of complex ideas in order to get at the ultimate cognitive data and to show how these data come to be apprehended by the mind. Having accomplished this purpose, all that remains is to show how by their combinations the complex idea of which they are the elements arises. In this way one gets at the logical content of our ideas as a means of determining its value for knowledge. Hence Locke will continually have to ask at the same time what an idea is and how the mind comes by it. Locke defines a simple idea as one which "being in itself uncompounded, contains in it nothing but one uniform appearance or conception in the mind, and is not distinguishable into different ideas" (II, ii, i ) . It is thus an "appearance" unanalyzable in content, although it may consist of parts. Furthermore, we cannot make any simple idea for ourselves: our simple ideas are all apprehended in the first instance as contents of actual experience. The experience from which they originate is either of sensation or reflection, that is ideas of external things, as they are presented to our senses, and ideas of the operations of our mind. It is therefore incorrect to generalize Locke's notion into the formula that all our ideas come from • 507 ·

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data of sensation. It should also be added that these "appearances" are not to be thought of as subjective modifications (they do not cause pain or pleasure, for instance); they are regarded as revelations to the mind of real existences. Ideas of sensations are ideas of the qualities of material things; ideas of reflection are ideas of operations of our own mind. Having accepted the Cartesian distinction between consciousness and the external world, he maintains that we must also accept from experience the conclusion that there is a connection between the two, though we cannot presume to understand it. In the article on Malebranche he wrote: Impressions made on the retina by rays of light, I think I understand; and motions from thence continued to the brain may be conceived; and that these produce ideas in our minds I am persuaded, but in a manner to me incomprehensible. This I can resolve only into the good pleasure of God, whose ways are past finding out. Bodily affection is important, but not all-important. For Locke "sensation" is not only a physical condition, it is also a "mode of thinking" (II, xix, i ) ; the reception of the idea in the understanding requires that it be "noticed" or "perceived." Ideas serve as signs, since the things which they represent cannot be present to the understanding (IV, xxi, 4). But the mind is present to itself, and consequently we have an intuitive, and not a representational, knowledge of the self. As a consequence (II, i, 19), "thinking consists in being conscious that one thinks." This is the nature of reflection, a special attention paid to the ideas of specific operations (II, i, 7). Locke identified it with voluntary action, but he refrains from seeing in it a necessary reaction. The full statement was given in his essay on Malebranche: "While ideas are to be regarded as only passions of the mind when produced in it, whether we will or no, by external objects," they must be looked upon as "a mixture of action and passion when the mind attends to them, or revives them in the memory." Thus attention becomes for Locke an important element in the operation of the mind, and thereby unites the will with action. But the will, so far as simple ideas are concerned, cannot create them nor refuse to receive them. While the mind is passive in its relation to the reception of simple ideas, it is free to form complex ideas, not of course that this formation runs counter to experience. We cannot say, however, that a • 508 ·

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complex idea has an existing counterpart in the real world. However that may be, the function of the understanding is taken to be the "compounding" of simple into complex ideas. Indeed, "compounding" and "decompounding" represent the extent of our mental activity. However, Locke proceeds to mark out "comparing" and "abstracting." Comparing consists in setting one idea alongside another "so as to take a view of them at once, without uniting them into one" (II, xii, i ) . There are thus ideas of relation as well as simple and complex ideas, and general ideas are something more than the result of "decompounding," which leads to the conclusion that Locke thought of simple ideas as "primary" and "original"; complex, relational, and abstract ideas are derivative or secondary. Complex ideas are divided, according to the nature of the content apprehended, into ideas of modes, substances, and relations. Ideas of modes he defined as "complex ideas which, however compounded, contain not in them the supposition of subsisting by themselves, but are considered as dependencies on, or affections of substances" (II, xii, 4). On the other hand, "the ideas of substances are such combinations of simple ideas as are taken to represent distinct particular things subsisting by themselves, in which the supposed or confused idea of substance, such as it is, is always the first and chief" (II, xii, 6). Thus it is impossible for us to obtain the notion of the innermost nature of either matter or mind. This principle naturally contradicts the Cartesian dualism of finite substances, although it represents Pascal's position, and was to be adopted by Voltaire in the Traite de metaphysique. The consequence is much more serious, however. Since we cannot know the substratum of either matter or mind, and are unaware of what lies beneath or beyond experience, we naturally cannot determine whether the substance which thinks in us is material or immaterial (IV, iii, 6). Consequently, we must abandon all idea of proving the immortality of the soul because of its immateriality. Locke stresses that thinking is always accompanied by consciousness, or by a reflex act through which we perceive that we are aware of our thinking as our thinking: "When we see, hear, smell, taste, feel, meditate, or will anything, we know that we do so." It is by virtue of the recognition of our thoughts as ours that "everyone is to himself that which he calls self." This self has a reality not only • 509 ·

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in the present, but in the past as well. There is thus a "continued consciousness upon which identity of self and identity of person depend" (II, xxvii, 10). The difference between person and self is this: a self is a person realized from within, a person is a self regarded from without. It should be noted that this view differs from the orthodox one which consists in regarding the identity of self as identity of spiritual substance. We come now to the general nature of knowledge which is the main problem of the Essay. Since ideas are but the "materials" or "instruments" of knowledge, it is necessary first to discover its general characteristics. Foremost among them is its certainty: "What I know, that I am certain of; and what I am certain of, that I know." The simplest element of knowledge is a judgment, or an act of thought by which an affirmation or denial is made. Judgments are expressed in propositions and are of two kinds: the absolutely certain judgments in which we not only think that the connection affirmed or denied holds good, but perceive that it does obtain, and those other judgments, which fail to constitute knowledge and are, in fact, the region of opinion or probability. The distinction between the two kinds of judgment, between knowledge and opinion, Locke regards as one of kind, not of degree. The second kind of judgment may carry as much weight, as far as demanding our assent, as knowledge does by demonstration (IV, xvii, 16). Though it is only probable, the evidence "naturally determines the judgment, and leaves us little liberty to believe or disbelieve, as a demonstration does, whether we will know or be ignorant" (IV, xvi, 9). This literally means that faith or belief may carry our consent as firmly as demonstrated proof, the only difference being that in the matter of belief, our assent "excludes not the possibility that it may be otherwise." Knowledge then consists in "the perception of the connection and agreement, or disagreement or repugnancy of any of our ideas" (IV, i, 2). The ability to perceive these agreements and disagreements is a fundamental power of our intellectual nature. Where this perception is, there is knowledge. Otherwise, we only "believe," "presume," or "suppose." The agreement or disagreement of ideas is immediately perceived by the mind, in which case we call it "intuitive knowledge." In other cases, the mind only perceives the agreement or disagreement of ideas through the intervention of another idea. • 510 ·

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The first kind of perception is the purest form of knowledge: "This part of knowledge is irresistible, and like bright sunshine forces itself immediate to be perceived . . . " (IV, ii, i ) . Moreover, demonstration is always dependent upon this fundamental power of intellectual intuition. There is a second requirement for true knowledge, however. It is not enough that we should perceive the agreement or disagreement of ideas, but we should have some sort of guarantee that the ideas in question correspond to the reality of things. For Locke, ideas are understood to represent a world of reality; even purely imaginary ideas correspond in a way with reality. On the other hand, we assume that the world of real things, though distinct from our ideas, is present in experience. The reality of simple ideas is guaranteed by their simplicity; we can be certain that they correspond to some element or characteristic of the real world. This guarantees at least that the elementary materials of our knowledge are something more than figments of our imagination. Thus knowledge has the two qualities of certainty and correspondence with reality. There are, however, judgments of opinion, which contrast with those of knowledge. They may be erroneous, since they possess neither the certainty nor the reality of pure judgments of knowledge. This distinction is crucial with Locke (IV, xv, 3): Herein lies the difference between probability and certainty, faith and knowledge, that in all parts of knowledge there is intuition; each intermediate idea, each step has its visible and certain connection: in belief, not so. That which makes me believe is something extraneous to the thing I believe; something not evidently joined on both sides to, and so not manifestly showing the agreement or disagreement of those ideas that are under consideration. Therein the cause of error, as Locke explains in Book IV, Chapter xx, is derived from the influence exerted upon the mind by preconceived opinions and hypotheses, deference to authority, and "predominant passions." Therein, in short, lies the definition of the "prejuge." Locke's Essay is primarily concerned with the area of epistemology,12 the study of man's procedures of gaining knowledge. Locke confessed in the introduction that he was particularly interested in 12

See J. W. Yolton, John Loc\e and the Way of Ideas, Oxford, 1956.

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the kinds of knowledge, its limits, and the distinction between knowledge and belief. In studying these problems, though, he was led to consider some ontological questions of importance: the existence and nature of God, the nature of the objects of knowledge, and their relation to our knowledge, and the different kinds of objects which man can be said to know. He was also forced to consider certain subsidiary items: the nature of causation, the definition of substance, and the concepts of power, freedom, and necessity. In that way, beginning with the epistemological problem, Locke expanded his investigations to ontological and metaphysical matters. He especially wanted to reach some definite decisions as to the limits of the human understanding. But this apparently simple aim involved an assumption that we easily overlook: that there is a definite relationship between knowing and being, between knowing and acting, and between knowing, being, acting, and being a "self." Awareness of the limits of knowledge is consequently an empirical way of being aware of human possibilities. Epistemology is really a means of coordinating certainty, reality, and utility, that is to say, it is the introductory science to morality, political and social institutions, and religion. Hence, the primary problem connected with Locke's writings concerns the organic unity of his works. The temptation is ever present to treat the Essay concerning Human Understanding as the core of his thought, to the neglect of the Treatises on Government, or conversely, the Treatises to the neglect of the Essay. The immediate result of either tendency is to put into question the coherence of his philosophy, or even its existence. The continual charge against his thought is practically always that he is ambiguous or incoherent. To combat these impressions, Polin endeavors to establish that Locke's philosophy is both universal and coherent, and not merely circumstantial. To be sure, insofar as his work was designed to oppose the views of Hobbes and Filmer, it could be considered circumstantial. But Locke drew universal, coherent ways of treating moral and political problems from his rejection of Hobbes and Filmer. Fundamental to his approach is his concept of man's nature and the relationships between men. Morality and politics constitute two distinct, though inseparable, domains and both are equally united with religion. Indeed, Locke's religion constitutes the center of all his philosophi• 512 ·

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cal thought. He carefully draws a distinction between the domain of faith, of revelation, and that of reason, which is the proper sphere of philosophy. In the only work in which he attempted to bring the two concepts together, he emphasizes the reasonableness of Christianity. Locke cannot conceive of anything truly religious being contrary to or incompatible with reason. He is not, for all that, irreligious. He continually has recourse to God, placing all the coherence of his philosophy upon the existence of God, which is the one certainty he admits without demonstration or proof. His concept of God is, however, that of the order of the universe and the guarantee of that order which man, frail though he be, can deduce from his discoveries of the universe. The world reveals itself full of meaning to man endowed with reason and freedom. Insofar as he understands the sense of his experience, man knows God. There is much here which resembles Spinoza's "Deus sive natura," except that the absolute knowledge of Spinoza is replaced by faith—faith in the necessary causality of a moral reason. God is the guarantee of a moral order revealed through reason. The problem Locke undertakes to solve is not the metaphysical nature of this moral order. It is the more pragmatic question of integrating the human, the natural, and the divine orders of things. Only to the extent in which this integration is achieved is happiness possible. Locke assumed that man has the reason and the freedom to structure and organize in a sensible way the outlines of his existence. Each individual is the sole interpreter of good and evil, of his obligations and his rights, and of the role which he believes himself obliged to play. Locke, however, concedes that although men are born capable of reason and freedom, they are not necessarily reasonable and they can employ their freedom for evil as well as for good. He rather agrees with Bayle that men are often a prey to their passions and are easily corrupted; they can be wicked and evil. In the state of nature, even under these adverse conditions it would be possible to exercise moral decisions which would insure peace and the happiness of the individual. In an organized community, the situation is far more complex, hence "la morale" is no longer efficacious in determining the relationships between individuals, the community, and other communities. Locke concedes that a community tends to order itself in accordance with the law of human nature. Nevertheless it imposes its laws upon the wicked as well as the • 513 ·

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good, and it often has recourse to force, which can be reasonable and in conformity with the law of nature, with obedience to one's duty, and with a reciprocal agreement to live in accordance with legal rules. But a second current appeals to force and action beyond the realm of law, against all freedom and in a certain sense against all reason. Political society thus conforms to the moral order of men and at the same time is forced to establish a political order which runs counter to that moral order. In this sense, politics is distinct from "la morale," but not opposed to it. It can, like morality, degenerate into evil and corruption. For Locke, the political problem, like the moral problem, is a matter of proportion: how to establish the right balance between the separate elements which compose the community and the individual. Locke holds that the philosopher cannot impose any fixed and formal rule upon either the individual or the community. He can only persuade each individual, by a concerted education, to develop all the reason and the freedom of which he is capable. This view makes politics, morality, and religion an integral part of philosophy, and renders acute a definite stand concerning the nature of man, and Locke posed the problem at the very outset. Polin has stated (p. n ) : "Toute sa philosophic n'a eu que I'homme pour objet " Indeed, Polin assures us that Locke's whole life had no other objective than to make available to everyone the opportunity to manifest the most human qualities and to carry the human to the highest degree of attainment. Locke's definition of the nature of man is based upon the conviction that we can never know his essence, but only his nominal essence. Even then, we have no way to pass from the external traits to the internal; nor can we determine clearly the frontiers between human nature and animal nature. Though it is impossible to define man at the level of nature, Locke was nonetheless certain that he can be defined at the level of moral man. Here Locke was led to adopt the old stoic idea: all men seek happiness. "It's a man's proper business," he wrote, "to seek happiness and to avoid misery." This happiness, as Locke understands it, is entirely temporal, and thoroughly human. But it is far from perfect happiness, which Locke defines as "the enjoyment of pleasure without any manner of uneasiness." The happiness which man seeks and for which he believes himself created does not guarantee that he will necessarily be happy. Indeed, • 514 ·

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he is as much a creature of unhappiness as of happiness; he wavers constandy between the two in a situation defined by Locke as uneasiness, which is the source of his actions. In Some Thoughts concerning Education, Locke presented in brief form the general characteristics of his ideal man. The goal of training, he says, is the acquisition of gracefulness, "which always pleases," and which he defines as a "natural coherence" between the thing done and the temper of mind. It pleases because "we cannot but be pleased with an humane, friendly, civil temper." The superior mind is one which is "free, master of itself, and all its actions." Actions flow naturally from such a well-ordered mind and, "being natural emanations from the spirit and disposition within," are both easy and unconstrained. There is a close relationship between the quality of action, and the freedom of action and the development of civility and respect which become so easy and refined that they seem "naturally to follow from a sweetness of mind and a well-trained disposition." The portrait of the "gentleman" is placed opposite the man of affectation, the false man, "low and narrow, haughty and insolent," the man who seeks "to make show of dispositions of mind" which he has not. His mind is not free, or master of itself; his actions are not unconstrained; the basis of his motions is imitation; being unnatural, he is offensive. We should remember that pleasure is man's goal, that misfortune is possible, and that the play between pleasure and misfortune is the source of uneasiness, which immediately determines the will to every voluntary action. "The greatest positive good determines not the will," Locke wrote, "but present uneasiness alone." No great uneasiness is ever neglected, therefore; the drive to action is always desire, which is an expression of a passion, or of one passion opposed or complemented by the desire of other passions: "Wherever there is uneasiness, there is desire." Wherever there is desire, there is a seeking after happiness. Wherever there is a seeking after happiness, there is voluntary action. It follows therefore that there is no absolute standard of good and evil, though man can make for himself a standard. Indeed, the whole purpose of Locke's Chapter XXI, in Book II of the Essay, is to examine in what sense knowledge is power, and in what sense freedom is power to act. Locke is therefore arbitrary in making a distinction between happiness which is effectively and actually desired by every man and • 515 ·

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true happiness which is the eternal beatitude which God will assign to every man according to his works and is conceived by Locke as being united with a general happiness. The search for true social happiness is predicated upon the assumption that the "intelligent man" in search of his happiness can be expected to suspend his personal desires in favor of the happiness of the group. This suspension is a mark of the highest intelligence and the expression of human freedom. The essence of liberty is thus the ability to break with personal pleasures and to devote oneself to the acquisition of higher social pleasure. The power of suspending any of our private desires, which is the power of freedom, obliges us to be free at the time that it permits us to be free. The foundation of freedom thus lies in a moral fact. Besides, the existence of moral freedom entails the existence of a second power, that of judging and reasoning. It is underlined by Locke as the thing which distinguishes the human from the animal: it is what makes man a "free and intelligent agent" (II, xxi, 73). Locke concludes that "reason must be our last judge and guide in everything." Reason possesses a further function: it can transmit to law the power which it receives from the human obligation to happiness. This concept, difficult to grasp, consists in saying that man, in his obligation to be happy, must submit to the law of reason. This law of reason is identified with the law of nature which constrains man to live in society {Second Treatise, VII, par. 77): "God having made man such a creature that in His own judgment it was not good for him to be alone, put him under strong obligations of necessity, convenience and inclination to drive him to society as well as fitted him with language and understanding to continue and enjoy it." Man, therefore, should not be separated from the society of men in which he lives; both the law to which he is committed and the happiness to which he is obliged make this move imperative. We may not conclude, therefrom, that man is a good creature entering into a providential plan for his preservation and his progress. Locke does not believe that life in society follows directly from a natural sociability. Man is endowed with powers and he may use them to seek the higher happiness; he may possess freedom to act, a will to direct, an uneasiness to move, a judgment to weigh and compare, and a reason to guide. Despite these advantages he blunders into error at every • 516 ·

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instant. Being by nature neither good nor wicked, he is capable of virtue or of vice, and being frail, is "apt to run into corruption and misery" because of false judgment which comes from ignorance. Far more important is the neglect of the knowledge which we possess. One of the most dangerous factors in false judgments is, to be sure, the unrestrained passions. Their evil effects result from the weakness of the human mind and the neglect of its obligations. The most dangerous of the passions is the love of self; above all, it threatens the social edifice and is therefore the most harmful of human activities. If such is the nature of man, one might legitimately inquire what is the nature of morality. Locke, like Diderot, was deeply interested in the problem. Again like Diderot, he never wrote a full treatise on morality, and when, toward the end of his life, his friend Molyneux suggested that he would be well-advised to address himself to the subject, he replied that he was unfit for the undertaking. Notwithstanding his disclaimer, throughout the Essay Locke makes numerous assertions concerning morality's nature. Fundamental with him is the conviction that morality, the proper study of mankind, is as demonstrable as mathematics. In Book IV (iii, 18), he offers the outline of this demonstration. If we take the idea of the Supreme Being, "infinite in power, goodness and wisdom," and the idea of ourselves, as "understanding, rational creatures," these two ideas, which are clear to us, duly considered and pursued, could be the foundation of our duties and our rules of action. Taken together they could afford a science of morality capable of demonstration, and from them could be derived self-evident propositions, "as incontestable as those in mathematics." The fullest analysis of morality occurs in the second book (xxviii, 4-15), where Locke undertakes the analysis of the ideas of relation. There is, he notes, a kind of relation which embraces all moral phenomena, defined as "the conformity or disagreement men's voluntary actions have to a rule to which they are referred, and by which they are judged." These are called moral relations, because they dominate our moral activities. Locke affirms that they constitute man's most interesting relations. They are the source of our moral laws, which are the rules governing our ideas and our actions and which lead to good or evil, pleasure or pain. Therefore, "moral good and evil is the conformity or disagreement of our voluntary actions to some law, whereby good and evil is drawn upon us, from • 517 ·

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the will and power of the lawmaker." Our observance or breach of the law is attended by what we call rewards and punishment. Locke argues that it would be idle for one intelligent being to set a rule for the actions of another, if he did not possess the power to reward obedience to, and to punish deviation from the rule. There are three kinds of these moral laws to which men refer their actions: the divine law, the civil law, and the philosophical law (called later the law of opinion or reputation). Actions which are referred to the divine law make clear to the actors whether they are sins or duties; those related to the civil law indicate whether the actor is criminal or innocent; while those actions referred to the law of opinion are the test for virtue or vice. Morality, for Locke, is thus concerned not only with good and evil, pleasure and pain, but also with sins and duties, guilt and innocence, and vice and virtue. In this manner, Locke has broadened considerably the concept of morality. By insisting that it always represents a relationship (between man and God, man and nature, and man and his fellowman), he has transformed a religious concept into a truly ethical one. By insisting that in each moral action there is a conformity or a disagreement with a rule, and that conformity carries with itself a reward and disagreement a punishment, he has established a rational, pragmatic basis for moral action. Finally, by insisting that the relations are concerned with God, the state, the individual conscience, nature, and society, and inferring that these relations can be reduced to self-evident propositions as demonstrable as mathematics, Locke has established in one move that the human sciences (i.e., ethics in its largest sense) are the proper, fitting business of man. He conceded that although the philosophical law, or the law of virtue and vice is discussed more fully than either the divine or the civil law, it is still uncertain "how it comes to be established with such authority as it has." It is likewise unclear how it measures the actions of men. Locke explains that although in a society men have relinquished all their force, they have still retained the power of thinking ill or well of their fellowmen, of approving or disapproving their actions. Therefore virtue and vice, or right and wrong, have come to be considered that which receives the praise or blame of the community, and actions which do not conform to this idea of virtue are punished by disgrace. Locke noted an immense variability in this third rule of law. What is thought virtuous by the community is ap• 518 ·

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proved or praised, what is thought vicious is disapproved or blamed. Hence what is judged vice and virtue varies greatly according to the community (II, xxviii, n ) : . . . though that passes for vice in one country which is counted a virtue or at least not a vice, in another, yet everywhere virtue and vice, in a great measure, correspond with the unchangeable rule of right and wrong, which the law of God hath established; there being nothing that so directly and visibly secures and advances the general good of mankind in this world, as obedience to the laws He has set them, and nothing breeds such mischiefs and confusion, as the neglect of them. There is thus a law of God, a law of the state, and a law of custom to which (to one, at least) all men must conform, if they would judge of their moral rectitude. Since there is a certain amount of relativity in the concept of the civil law and the law of opinion, the whole effect of the "libertin" idea of custom has been given full play by Locke. Involved in his solution, however, is the conviction that there is an absolute quality in the law of custom which he inclined to identify as the divine law at times and as natural law at other times. Locke has given two sources of moral ideas. One is what he calls the "common moral opinion" that is "the common consent of the country and those men whose language we use." Locke understands by common consent the body of moral ideas received by the community and transmitted through the medium of language. For such concepts as justice, temperance, theft, vice, virtue, there are interminable disputes as to their moral meaning. But these moral ideas are eventually placed in relationship with laws accompanied by obligations and sanctions, whether it is a matter of laws of opinion or civil laws. They are first made, says Locke, "by a voluntary collection of ideas, put together in the mind, independent from any original pattern in nature." There is another morality whose rules are not of our making and which consequently depend upon something without us, and so are not made by us but for us. These are the rules given by the Lawgiver to all mankind, by a being capable of giving laws to all humanity and of punishing our disobedience. This Lawgiver is God, this law is the law of nature, and it is made known to man either by "the light of nature," or by revelation. • 519 ·

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Locke concedes that the law of opinion and the civil law have their common origin in the divine law. That does not mean, however, that moral laws do not derive from the reality of divine existence, and from a good and evil founded upon reason and freedom. Locke does not reject either the reality or the validity of divine or civil law; he questions, however, that either is innate in human thought: God does not furnish us with the notions of moral goodness more than with the notions of simple ideas. Instead of receiving morality passively, man has to make it actively. To be sure, God is its creator, but man by his works must discover and adopt it. Hence the mind must create its moral concepts before it establishes these concepts in the divine law. All notions of morality, therefore, have a positive content made of simple ideas, compounded by the human mind into mixed modes (III, v, 1-6) which thereby gain a "moral rectitude" measured according to their agreement or disagreement with some rule—civil or of custom, but ultimately divine. The link which assures the right moral relationship between man and the three types of law (custom, civil, divine) is the law of nature, which is at the roots of man's moral, political, and religious activities. In proportion as it identifies itself with each of these activities, it becomes known as natural law, natural morality, and natural religion. Locke uses the concept in all three areas.13 Locke clearly indicates that the law of nature is not known through "inscription" or "tradition," but is known by reason through sense 13 See J. W. Gough, John Locke's Political Philosophy, Oxford, 1956; L. Strauss, Natural Right and History, Chicago, 1953; Von Leyden, Locke's Essays on the Law of Nature, Oxford, 1954; J. Yolton, "Locke on the Law of Nature." Philosophical Review 1958, LXVII, 477-98; and R. Polin, La Politique morale de John Locke, Paris, i960, pp. 95-127. Professor Yolton has endeavored to appraise these views in his article. Von Leyden's he respects but promises to complement, that of Leo Strauss he combats vigorously, first because Strauss sees Locke in the general theory of esoterism, which briefly stated is the art of saying one thing and meaning another, and therefore Strauss attributes to him a greater clandestinity than Yolton feels is warranted. Strauss justifies his position by citing Locke's remark on "prudence" in the Reasonableness of Christianity that "cautious speech is legitimate when unqualified frankness would hinder a noble work one is trying to achieve, or expose one to persecution or endanger the public peace." Strauss suggests that this is a general technique of Locke. Both Yolton and Polin protest this view. Yet Polin, who in the Politique morale de John Locke also sums up all the views (p. 115), constantly notes a cautious attitude on Locke's part which is certainly more than British prudence whenever Locke felt that he had laid himself open to attack from the orthodox, and Yolton, in his Loc\e and the Way of Ideas, is even more specific than Polin when it comes to particular, careful procedures on Locke's part.

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experience. Man has to make proper use of "reason and the inborn faculties with which nature has equipped him" to attain to the knowledge of this law without any teacher instructing him in his duties. Though reason with its inborn faculties is credited with the ability to make inferences from the law of nature, it is more like an intuition than a demonstration. That there is a moral law, there is no doubt. That there is an identification between this moral law and the law of reason, there is also no doubt. Instead of a demonstrable proof of its certainty, however, its sole authority rests upon faith in the reasonableness of God, and the presence of reason in man. The state of nature and the law of nature cannot be arrived at by experience, nor are they abstractions from experience. It is "knowable by the light of nature." In his Essay on the Law of Nature, which Von Leyden has published (1954), Locke collected his thoughts on the subject. The work was planned to consist in twelve little essays, each attempting to elucidate a question concerning the law of nature; not all of them were written, and for a few, only the title is given. The problems are usually presented in the form of a question, and the answer is generally given before the elucidation. In the first essay, Locke asks, "Is there a rule of Morals, or Law of Nature ?" and he answers "Yes." He immediately undertakes a demonstration of the existence of God, from the argument of design. His conclusion is that were there no God there would be no natural law, and were there no natural law, there would be neither vice nor virtue nor reward and punishment, leaving only purely hedonistic or utilitarian principles for action. The second essay concerns whether the law of nature can be known by the light of nature, and the answer is also "Yes." It is in this second essay that Locke gives the three possible sources of knowledge: "Inscriptio," "traditio," and "sensus." He concludes that sense perception is the only means by which knowledge of natural law is obtained. The third essay returns to the question whether natural law can be known to us by tradition and Locke's answer is "No," with no discussion of the question. The fourth essay takes up the innateness of natural law and rejects it. The fifth essay brings up the question whether reason comes to know the law of nature, through sense perception, and answers "Yes." In this essay Locke attempts to explain that the light of nature is a combination of the independent faculties of sense perception and reason. • 521 ·

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Locke's treatment of the law of nature has been variously interpreted. Some maintain that he has given to the individual an unbridled liberty, while others tend to make him the founder of the totalitarian state. Locke characterized the state of nature as "a state of perfect freedom to order their actions and dispose of their possessions and persons as they think fit, within the bounds of the state of nature, without asking leave, or depending upon the will of any other man . . . " and a state of equality, since, as he said, "nothing is more evident than that creatures of the same species and rank, promiscuously born to all the same advantages of nature, and the use of the same faculties, should also be equal one amongst another without subordination" (Treatise II, 195-96). Man in this natural state was ruled by the same law as Adam, the law of reason, which maintained for him his freedom and his equality. Hence the law of nature, like civil law, is not so much a limitation as the direction of a free and intelligent agent to his proper interest. "The end of law," says Locke, "is not to abolish or restrain, but to preserve and enlarge freedom." To be sure, it should be understood that "freedom is not, as we are told, a liberty for every man to do what he lists," but to be free from the restraint and violence of others. Liberty is "not to be subject to arbitrary will of another" but to freely follow one's own. Men in the state of nature are thus free, equal, and independent. But they have seen fit, "for their comfortable, safe, and peaceable living one amongst another," to unite into a political society. When they do so, they divest themselves of their natural liberty and take on the bonds of civil society, by agreement with other men expressed in a compact drawn up with the consent of those who thus incorporate themselves into a society. Only this compact can give beginning to a lawful government. To the question of how much of his liberty the individual renounces in entering upon this compact, Locke replies merely that he gives up all the power "necessary to the ends for which [he unites] into society." Anyone who has consented to leave the state of nature and enter into society, however, cannot be exempted from its laws, "for if any man may do what he thinks fit, and there be no appeal on earth for redress or security against any harm he shall do, I ask, whether he be not perfectly still in the state of nature?" (Treatise II, 278-79) The obligations of natural law are not abrogated by the establishment of civil law; they are on the contrary clarified, intensified, and confirmed. In a final • 522 ·

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passage, Locke proclaimed the fact that civil law is but the amplification of natural law and must always be in conformity with it (II, 315): The obligations of the law of nature cease not in society, but only in many cases are drawn closer, and have by human laws known penalties annexed to them, to inforce their observation. Thus the law of nature stands as an eternal rule to all men, legislators as well as others. The rules that they make for other men's actions must, as well as their own and other men's actions, be conformable to the law of nature, i.e., to the will of God, of which that is a declaration, and the fundamental law of nature being the preservation of mankind, no human sanction can be good, or valid against it. To understand the relationship between the individual and the community, we must establish the definition which Locke gave to these two entities. In spite of some vagueness, what characterizes for Locke a man insofar as he is an individual and makes him distinct and independent of all others is his natural liberty. He disposes of himself and is independent of the will of any other individual (Treatise II, art. 6). Each person has this imprescriptible right, which in fact constitutes the right to the freedom of his person and to the ownership of his goods. These rights which he possesses over his life, his freedom, and his property (or, as we say, to "life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness") are those which precisely make him a man. Man's right and his obligation are held in conjunction with those of other men. Locke, like Voltaire later, believes that man is naturally and fundamentally a social being. God has made him sociable, but He has also given him freedom to effect or not to effect his individuality. Sociability, for Locke, is an obligation; indeed, he cannot conceive of a human existence, even in the state of nature, which is not socially oriented. He maintains that man belongs to a community which he forms naturally with other men. In the state of nature, in fact, all men participate in this society and are bound by a common bond, reason. The state of society which Locke envisages can only exist where there are men perfectly and freely reasonable, such as existed in Adam's day before the Fall. Things having changed, man has fallen into a state of uneasiness, in which his passions produce evil as well as good actions, and human frailty has vitiated the human com•523 ·

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munity. There has thus ensued the formation of small political societies in place of universal human society which existed formerly. Hence, these political societies are constituted not by transforming a state of dispersal into a state of civil organization, but by breaking up the preexistent universal society into smaller political entities. Each political group, exactly like each individual, becomes individualized by its unique existence: it is rationally ordered and unified in its aim. The end in view is the common good, that is to say, the security of the individuals, the preservation of peace, happiness, and prosperity. Wherever the common good is established, the community becomes, as Locke says, one body politic, which acts like a body only because each individual is incorporated into it. In this way it constitutes a power, expressing the joint power of every member. It employs the force of the community to act as a whole, and is thus animated by a single will, one will (Treatise II, X, art. 98, and XIX, art. 211). It affirms the will to assure the execution of the law of nature, its task being to express and to guarantee it. For Locke, the common good is peace and security, in the interest of establishing freedom and protecting the property of each individual. Thus, in theory, man's right is recognized against arbitrary power, but he has no force to assure that right. The sovereignty of the Lockean state is not a Utopia; it is a society in which the governors are human beings, and therefore subject to passions and error like everybody else. The main protection which the individual has comes from having well chosen as governors his representatives. Indeed, when the individual enters society "he authorizes the society, or the legislative branch, to make laws for him." Once that authorization is given, he must hitherto accede to the majority, which disposes entirely of the power of the community. In reality, the individual no longer possesses any political power. This does not hold, however, for the people. The supreme power of the community is obliged to act with a view to the peace, safety and public good of the people (^Treatise II, IX, art. 131). Locke here makes three points of immense importance. The first is that the people are not a pack of inferior creatures; they are a group of reasonable individuals, endowed with common sense, capable of judgment, intention, will, and action. Moreover, they transmit the supreme power into the hands of the governors and reserve as a right the choice of their representatives. From these rules it follows that laws • 524 ·

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can have no other aim than the good of the people. Taxes can have no validity without their consent, nor can the commonwealth be founded without their approval. That means, as Locke says, that "the people has a right to act as supreme."" Any general presentation of the nature of government involves the problem of power. Locke does not think of it in a mechanist sense. It is not, for him, reducible to relations between movements, or even between forces. He does, however, connect it with the con­ cept of effort which was characteristic of Leibniz' thinking also. He defines power as the capacity, the possibility, which one idea has to be changed into another or to change another. Locke stressed that the power abided in the objects; the power, for instance, which exists in fire to melt wax, or that in wax to absorb fire, are, we say, quali­ ties or relations; the ideas derived therefrom contain these powers. That is why all complex ideas of substance are formed of powers (see Draft A., art. 14 and Essay, II, xxi, art. 1, 2, 4, 72). Thus it is characteristic of a power to produce something very different from the power itself or from the object which possesses it. There is thus built into Locke's concept of power a notion of action derived from ideas. This power is ever-changing in its possibilities. Powers are active or passive. Passive powers represent the aptitude of a substance, endowed with certain qualities, to acquire different qualities under the impact of another thing. All sensitive beings are endowed with this passive power. On the contrary, active powers consist in the par­ ticular strength which a substance possesses to transform the quali­ ties of another substance into other qualities {Essay, I, iii, 9) and to produce in ourselves the corresponding transformations in the ideas which we have of them. This concept of active power is very important in understanding 14 Locke's doctrine of the sovereignty of the people accords with Jurieu's view as it was expressed in his Lettres pastorales: "Le peuple fait les souverains et donne la souverainete. Done Ie peuple possede la souverainete et la possede dans un degre plus eminent car celui qui communique doit posseder ce qu'il communique d'une maniere plus parfaite. . . . Le peuple est la source de Pautorite des souverains. Le peuple est Ie premier sujet οϋ reside la souverainete." ( i 7 e Lettre).

"La souverainete appartient radicalement et originalement au peuple. . . . Mais Ie peuple se reserve si bien ses droits sur la souverainete qu'ils lui reviennent aussitot si la personne ou la famille a qui il l'avait donnee vient a manquer. Ce n'est done, a proprement parler, qu'un engagement a la souverainete." ( i 8 e Lettre). "C'est . . . la souverainete du peuple qui est exercee par Ie souverain." From Polin, op. at., p. 160.

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what Locke means by will and freedom, since the power of freedom is by no means identical with that of the will. It is not the will which has the power of freedom. Freedom is a power of the person, considered as an active agent, while will is another kind of freedom; it is the faculty of determining our actions by our thoughts; what can prevent us from acting is the absence of this determination. Freedom is the capacity to act effectively according to the will's decision. What can prevent us from doing so is constraint. Clearly, there is a distinction between liberty and will; it is only when constraint prevents him from acting that man is not free. That is to say, our liberty extends to the confines of our ability to act according to our choice, but ceases whenever an obstacle intervenes. These obstacles are of all sorts: they may come from within, that is, they are our desires; but they may come from without man and depend upon necessity (even if a man think what he wishes, he is not free not to think), or they may depend upon the will of others. Locke has attempted to show the relationship between power and right in the state of nature and what that means for the political state. In the original state every man disposes of all the powers that nature has granted him. For that reason, all men are in a state of perfect liberty and equality and can dispose of their person as well as of their property as each sees fit. Freedom is, consequendy, the ability to act according as one chooses, according to his own will. Since the greatest perfection of man lies in being endowed with a reason which seeks his happiness as his sovereign good, it is this search which establishes the foundation necessary to our freedom. The moral law recognizes that from the instant a man acts, he has the power to do everything he deems necessary for the preservation of his person—which includes his life, his body, his health, his property, his freedom. But this power exists as function of each man's power to do likewise. Therefore the power of freedom, essential to every man, develops into the right of nature which defines it. Freedom thereby becomes a right, and right becomes an obligation. The law of nature obliges everyone; every one is bound to preserve himself; no one ought to harm another. And Locke, who wrote against maxims, wrote one more maxim of great consequence: "We are born free as we are born natural." The state of nature is thus an ideal. In reality it is composed of people who apply more or less reasonably the law of nature. It is • 526 ·

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neither a state of general peace nor a state of general war; on the contrary, it is a state of sporadic peace and war. Insofar as every man uses his reason, he recognizes that he is the equal of all other men and ought not to constrain another in his life, his health, his freedom, and his property. The state of war is therefore the state in which force without right reigns and is the manifestation of an arbitrary, absolute power which Locke condemns. It is precisely in this concept that Locke differs from Hobbes; whereas the latter sees equality as the capability of the weakest creature to slay the most powerful, Locke defines equality as the obligation of each to all. Those are equal who have equal rights, and they have equal rights who have mutual obligations. In order to move from the state of nature to the political state, the factor which plays the greatest role is the natural sociability of man which is a gift of God. This sociability stems from a series of obligations: the obligation of necessity which springs from need and misery; the obligation of convenience founded on the accord between the powers and faculties of men and the forms of social life, and between the aims of human life and the aims of social life; and finally the obligation of inclination, derived from man's sociability. Locke has summed up his thought (^Treatise II, III, art. 7): men are made for comfortable, safe, and peaceable living. This is precisely the natural law which has the triple goal of public good, safety, and peace. To preserve these aims in passing from the state of nature to the political state, it is necessary to have positive laws specifically in accord with the aims of the state of nature, an impartial judge with sufficient authority to reconcile all differences, a legislative body to formulate the laws, magistrates to interpret and judge their violators, and an executive who applies them and punishes disobedience. Locke's formulation of his problem, his methodical exploitation of all of its aspects, and his constant emphasis upon what he could and could not know achieved for him a reputation which few philosophers in the seventeenth century enjoyed. While it is not quite correct to speak of the widespread popularity of a philosophical treatise which is so obviously compact in its expression, it remains true that the Essay aroused an unusual amount of interest and discussion. His friend, James Tyrrell, wrote in 1690: "Mr. Locke's new book admits of no indifferent censure, for 'tis either extremely commended, •527 ·

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or much deny'd but has ten enemies for one friend; metaphysics being too serious a subject for this age" (Tyrrell to Locke, January 27, 1690). Tyrrell also reported to Locke that the work was well approved in Oxford—"with much greater applause than I find it is at London. . . ." Still, even in Oxford, someone had had the temerity to suggest that the author had taken all that was good in it from "divers moderne french authours" (Tyrrell to Locke, March 18, 1690), which remark showed some perspicacity. Some of the comment was very enthusiastic. Samuel Bold wrote that it is "the most worthy, most noble, and best book I ever read, excepting those which were writ by persons divinely inspired." Wotton classed it with the works of Descartes and Malebranche. Leclerc dedicated his Ontologia to Locke, noting that he had used the Essay for many doctrines, and Molyneux gave him unstinted praise in the Dioptrica nova (p. 4): But to none do we owe more for a greater advancement in this part of philosophy, than to the incomparable Mr. Locke, who, in his Essay concerning Human Understanding, has rectified more received mistakes, and delivered more profound truths, established on experience and observation, for the direction of man's mind in the prosecution of knowledge (which I think may be properly term'd Logick) than are to be met with in all the volume of the ancients. Despite these eulogistic commendations, Locke's doctrine had a disturbing effect upon the traditional moral and religious beliefs of his day. His ideas were identified with the new science, the naturalistic tendency in religion, deism, and the empirical method of approaching social, political, and moral problems. Locke was consequently often considered not only a very important, but also a very dangerous, writer and thinker. As a result, others were less enthusiastic. James Lowde in his Discourse concerning the Nature of Man (1694), Leibniz in a set of comments sent to Thomas Burnet, John Sergeant in Solid Philosophy Asserted (1697), and, finally, Stillingfleet all found reasons for denouncing dangerous aspects of the Essay. It was deemed deleterious to religion, to morality, and said to be allied with the doctrines of Socinians. Some, including Stillingfleet, accused the philosopher of denying the Trinity. William Carroll charged Locke with having a doctrine similar to that of Spinoza's on substance; Burnet, who was personally friendly to Locke, thought that the latter had gone too far • 528 ·

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in rejecting innate ideas and in dissociating the law of nature from the principles of thought inherent in every man. Stillingfleet thought that the Essay would encourage skepticism which would lead to the overthrow of Christian faith, and Norris also noted this skeptical tendency. Indeed, the charge of favoring skepticism occurred not only in Stillingfleet and Norris, but was repeated by King, Lee {Antiscepticism, 1702), and Sergeant. Locke's Essay stirred up a rather strong opposition from those who defended some kind of innateness either as necessary for proving the existence of God or for strengthening the foundations of morality. According to them, either innate principles or relativity of morals must be accepted. Even worse, Locke's position seemed to his opponents to destroy the efficacy of conscience. But the deeper question was always whether Locke's new way of ideas, particularly his views on innateness, was correct. Practically all the criticism of the time dealt with this problem. For example, Norris, in his Cursory Reflections, called Locke's views on innateness both inconsequential and inconsistent. Norris pointed out that although Locke rejected that a proposition can have universal consent, he later insists that there are self-evident propositions which must receive universal consent. Many of Locke's critics objected also to his empirical method, maintaining that it could not account for all our knowledge—mathematics, for instance, or our idea of God. This attack upon Locke's empiricism was founded upon the conviction that experience cannot be the source of all our ideas. It was argued that it was difficult to establish empirically the reality of knowledge, more difficult still to discover the meaning and function of ideas, and most difficult of all to justify the idealism entailed in the definition of knowledge given by Locke. Some, including Leibniz, pointed out that Locke failed to derive knowledge from general principles. Leibniz also inquired whether knowledge can be derived from ideas of sensation and reflection without any appeal to rational postulates. These critics concluded by accusing Locke of failing to stress the role of reason in acquiring knowledge. Locke was, of course, particularly careful to separate epistemology from metaphysics and thus laid himself open to these charges. These critics also attacked Locke's interpretation of the place of ideas. They understood him to derive them from material objects • 529 ·

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and therefore consider them as material also, since a material object cannot send forth from itself anything but something material. If this was not the case, then Locke would have to assume that ideas have a place only in the mind and thus have no connection with material objects. It seemed to these opponents therefore that Locke was caught between two interpretations, one of which drove him to idealism and the second of which drove him to epistemological skepticism. It was perfecdy natural that with the establishment of this discrepancy in his theory of knowledge, the skepticism characteristic of his epistemology was also considered characteristic of his religious doctrine. Among the critics of the Essay, the most vocal were members of the clergy, Stillingfleet being the most important because of his letter. They could not at all tolerate Locke's stand on innateness, nor could they find any comfort in what they judged his epistemological skepticism. They seemed sincerely convinced that the author of the Essay was maliciously undermining the dogma of religion in favor of deism. Specifically, they found the Essay particularly objectionable because it reduced knowledge to ideas, it asserted that substance was unknowable, and it affirmed that God could annex to matter the power of thinking. The acceptance of any of these points would encourage skepticism and disbelief. It was particularly felt by the clergy that insistence upon clear and distinct ideas as the criterion of truth was inadequate for religious knowledge. His doctrine of substance also invited a sharp criticism. Locke had ridiculed (Essay, II, xiii, 18-20) the scholastic doctrine of substance in terms which could have led less sensitive men than the clergy to suspect that he was making an attack upon tradition. On the more positive side, he had taken the stand that at best we can only have an obscure and indefinite conception of substance. Stillingfleet objected that although we cannot have a clear idea of substance, it is possible to have a more definite conception than Locke grants. One of the questions which were brought up by the controversy between the two was how, if we cannot know the nature of substance except in a vague way, we can know the existence of the Trinity. It was not the only Christian dogma involved in the discussion. Bayle argued that from the point of view of religion, Locke's interpretation of our inability to know substances except in a vague way could work against Transubstantiation. Locke thus became more and more associated in • 530 ·

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the minds of his critics with the more radical sects. Carroll did not hesitate to align him with Spinoza's pantheism: "This atheistical shopkeeper [Spinoza] is the first that ever reduced atheism into a system, and Mr. Locke is the second; with this difference, that the latter has only copied the former as to the main ..." (Remarks upon Mr. Clarke's Sermons, 1705, p. 5). The third point of attack was Locke's assertion on thinking matter. Present-day critics always note that the statement was a digression on Locke's part and really unimportant to his main argument. That may well be, but it was a major point to Stillingfleet and to some of his colleagues. Coste has noted that Stillingfleet objected violently to Locke's remark. As a result, added Coste, Locke was very careful in the last work which he addressed to Stillingfleet to develop his thought concerning the problem of thinking matter. Coste undertook to reassemble everything Locke has said in a note to this passage. Locke agrees that it is inconceivable that matter can think. But to restrict the power of God just because the human mind is incapable of going beyond certain limits is totally unjustified. Locke cites several cases—attraction, weight, feeling in animals, and voluntary movement in man—which are incomprehensible to the human mind, but they occur nonetheless. Locke demanded whether one can conceive how his soul can think, or how any substance can think. Further, there may be in both material and immaterial substances things which we do not recognize: gravitation is perhaps one of those things. The consequence is that God can endow both material and immaterial substances with whatever qualities He desires, although they are totally beyond our comprehension, without in any way modifying the essence of the substance. Finally, Locke concedes that the admission that the soul is not necessarily immaterial can lead to serious consequence. It is therefore important that his opponents find good proofs of the soul's immateriality, all the more so since they affirm that nothing assures more the aims of religion and morality than the proofs of the immortality of the soul. It is superfluous to note that Locke's digression involves the relationship not only of matter to thought, but also of immateriality to immortality. Others who succeeded him will certainly use the discussions for irreligious ends. Locke, however, seems sincere in his protest that "all the great ends of morality and religion are well •531 ·

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enough secured without philosophical proofs of the soul's immateriality." He seems never to have been inclined to attach any great importance to the problem, believing it beyond the confines of human understanding. His contemporaries, however, did not agree as to its unimportance. Bendey connected the doctrine of immateriality of the soul and thinking matter with materialism and atheism, and asserted that "this is the opinion of every atheist, and counterfeit Deist of these times, that believes there is no substance but matter." Peter Browne explained that "Mr. Lock's notion of the soul is only that of a thinking substance without any regard either to the materiality or immateriality of it." He ventured to suggest, notwithstanding, that Locke inclined to the former. Henry Lee, in the Anti-scepticism, compared Locke's notion to Hobbes. Locke himself recognized that his epistemology was only an initiation into the more interesting problems of religion, morality, and politics. He insisted upon a close connection between all his works, especially between the Essay, the Two Treatises and the Reasonableness of Christianity. That is to say, given the limits of human understanding, the way of ideas in the functioning of the mind, and the proper distinctions between knowledge and belief, it is perfecdy natural that our moral notions, our social theories, our political thought, and our religious beliefs should be so affected by the way of ideas that a whole new approach to life becomes possible. Thus in his methodical, dispassionate way, he had brought about the possibility of a total change in the relationship between knowing and acting, between knowledge and doing, or between the possibilities of the mind and the potentiality of life. There is still the same amount of intellectual ambiguity in Locke's case as in Bayle, and even in Spinoza. Characteristically in each, their philosophy has been proposed for its inner veracity, but in each case, it has become the foundation of a new morality and a new politics. Newton and Nature's Laws Newton's bibliography is enormous, and I make no pretense to having controlled it. I have therefore limited myself to indicating a few works15 which have succinctly delineated what Newton con15

H . Butterfield, The Origins of Modem Science, 1300-1800, London, 1949; C. Gillispie, The Edge of Objectivity, Princeton, i960; A. E. Bell, The Newtonian Universe, London, 1961; P. Brunet, Newton en France, Paris, 1914.

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tributed to modern science. I have already attempted to trace the way in which he entered into the French Enlightenment around 1730. It is perhaps worthwhile to recall here that Newton was thrilled at Cambridge by the reading of Descartes's Geometric French critics are inclined to point out that he drew his scientific attitude from Descartes, or at any rate that there is no great divergence between the two as far as the fundamental approach to science is concerned. A. Rivaud (Histoire de la philosophic, 1950, III, 554) actually states: "Newton est parti de la Geometrie, de la Dioptrique, et des Principia de Descartes et c'est surtout dans ces ouvrages qu'il s'est initie a la science moderne." On the other hand, there persists that story that Newton, having begun the reading of Descartes, began to write beside so many passages "error" that, having accumulated a goodly number in a short time, he laid the book aside and never returned to it. Like Descartes, he condemned "substantial forms," and "occult qualities"; he, too, was a partisan of "la mecanique"; and he wanted to be identified with the modern philosophers as against Aristode. These similarities, however, do not make him a Cartesian in any sense of the word. Indeed, to realize just how far apart the two are, one need only recall that the initial Newtonian intuition was derived from the suspicion that there ought to exist some sort of relationship between Kepler's laws and Galileo's laws. Descartes never entertained any such suspicion: even if he had, he would never have proceeded to verify it by Newton's painstaking analysis. Descartes's difficulty, indeed, arose from the disaccord between his hypotheses and the known facts. Never did his explanation of the universe agree with all of Kepler's laws. Newton's great advantage over his predecessor was thus obtained by beginning with Kepler's and Galileo's laws. His results were achieved by methods which Descartes would have scorned: methodical observation and constant measurement of the phenomena, never attempting to explain its workings by intuition, never resorting to hypotheses, a constant refusal to draw ultimate conclusions. Newton abided by his determination never to go beyond the observed fact and the exact measurement. What he gave as principles were only simple declaratory definitions geometrically arranged. What he presented as conclusions in his system of the universe were still descriptions of observed facts, exact measurement, mathematical laws, followed by corollaries: simplicity of nature which is always consonant with • 533 ·

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itself, identity of causes of analogous facts, existence of common properties observable in all bodies. And yet, from this patient endeavor executed with deadening precision, there developed a magnificent universe remarkable for its coherence, consistency, and continuity. Above all, it was distinguished by its simplicity, its conformity to law, its inevitable orderliness. It is true that we never know just what purpose this simple, conforming, orderly universe serves, nor actually what its substance is, that is, what lies beneath the phenomena and the measurement. Indeed, we are cautioned against the temerity of wanting to know these things. Newton accepts the principle of limitation in the physical world as resignedly as Locke in the metaphysical world. What we know is what we have observed, what we can identify is what we have learned how to measure. These things are normally forces, they are not ends, or purposes, or meanings. Newton, however, completed his scientific measurements with a faith which is as starding to us as his discoveries in natural science. His views on religion are as mystical and as intuitive as any intuition of Descartes or Pascal or Spinoza. His explanation of the prophecy of Daniel and his interpretation of the Apocalypse seem completely separated from his scientific method. And yet, in a curious way, the whole of his scientific discovery is under the aegis of an all-pervading power. The extraordinary continuity of phenomena attests the unity of things. Though everything in the universe obeys mechanical laws, everything depends upon a cause which is not at all mechanical. A spirit of life permeates all bodies; Newton suspected that it took its origin in comets. Moreover, he saw signs everywhere of divine activity, analogous to Addison's beautiful hymn. God is present everywhere in space and time. His action is His presence, and thus He has constituted absolute space and absolute time, which are the physical means of His omnipresence. Hence everything is in God, whose infinite being, unity, science, and goodness are everywhere reflected in the universe. Newton's mystical interpretation of the universe recalls vividly Spinoza's, and even some aspects of Malebranche and Leibniz. It was best presented by his close friend, the theologian Samuel Clarke, and viciously attacked by Leibniz. There were two incidents which grew out of Newton's discoveries: one was a Newton-Descartes quarrel which extended over the whole period from 1687 to 1734. It was only resolved by Maupertuis with • 534 ·

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his Discours sur les differentes figures des astres (1732), Clairaut, Voltaire's three letters in the Lettres philosophiques (1734), and his Elements de la philosophic de Newton (1738). It is certain that Newton, however much he depended for his initiations into physics and astronomy upon Descartes's works, felt that there were two serious flaws in that work: the a priori method was not as conducive to good results as the experimental method, since it led to conclusions which often did not conform to the observed facts; moreover, Descartes's seeming impatience with details and his confidence in intuition as a way of coming to conclusions were questionable. The net effect of this difference in attitude was that Descartes's pronouncements were judged entirely too dogmatic; they were, moreover, as Newton pointed out in his preface to the Principia, based only upon algebra, when arithmetic and geometry play the main role in mathematics and mechanics. But the main difficulty stemmed from the fact that Descartes imagined, as explanations for phenomena, mechanisms which do not exist: subtle matter and vortices. Hence his system is a beautiful novel, a fiction. Newton's criticism of Descartes, which Voltaire copies so punctiliously in the Elements, was all present in the preface to the first edition of the Principia. In the second (Le., the Cotes edition), Newton made modifications in Book III which became a veritable attack against Descartes. "The hypothesis of vortices," he wrote, "is press'd with many difficulties." And he was very specific about these difficulties. Voltaire, in his inimitable way, only gave them a simple clarification and a popular urgency which Newton would certainly have scorned. His more scientific way of presenting the difference between himself and Descartes was best explained by his friend Cotes, a mathematician at Cambridge who wrote the preface to the second edition of the Principia. Cotes' preface carries much weight because he was not only a serious mathematician (he had, indeed, been trained by Newton), but he had seen the second edition of the Principia through the press. There is a very interesting correspondence between Newton and Cotes concerning the edition, the Trinity College teacher having proposed many emendations in Newton's work while overseeing its printing. Having reached the end of the enterprise he suggested that a preface was needed because "the book has been received abroad with some disadvantage." The editor suspected the source of this unfavorable comment was Leibniz. He proposed that Sir Isaac and •535 ·

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Bentley prepare the preface, or, if he, Cotes, was elected to do so, that Sir Isaac prepare some notes. Bentley replied that the editor should write the preface, whereupon Cotes wrote to Newton that it would be proper, besides the account of the book and its improvements, to add something more particularly concerning the manner of philosophizing made use of and wherein it differs from that of Descartes and others, I mean in first demonstrating the principle it employs. This I would not only assert but make evident by a short deduction of the Principle of Gravity from the phenomena of Nature in a popular way that it may be understood by ordinary readers and may serve at the same time as a Specimen to them of the method of the whole book. . . . After this specimen I think it will be proper to add some things by which your book may be cleared from some prejudices which have been industriously advanced against it. As that it deserts mechanical causes, is built on miracles, and recurrs to Occult Qualitys. Newton not only consented to this move, but in two subsequent letters, in one of which he gave his clearest definition of what he understood a hypothesis to be, he endeavored to direct the general argument of Cotes' preface. In his introduction, Cotes remarks that those who have treated physics fall into three classes. The first class consists of those who have given to every particular species of objects occult qualities, upon which they have made the observed phenomena depend in a still more occult way. This is the basis of Aristotle and the scholastics, who have invented a sort of philosophical jargon, but no real philosophy. The second class consists of those who have renounced this jargon, and who have established as a fundamental principle that all matter is homogeneous in nature, and that all the variety which we note can be traced to very simple causes. Thus one proceeds from the simple to the complex, always careful not to attribute to these primitive properties other than what nature has prescribed. These philosophers, however, have imagined all sorts of movements, all sorts of secrets in nature, and thus have fallen into imaginings as ridiculous as those of the ancients. Their failure has been to refuse to examine the real constitution of nature. They are the Cartesians. Those who acknowledge no other rule but experience form the third class. They insist upon making the effect depend upon the • 536 ·

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simplest cause and admit no principle which is not confirmed by continual observation. They employ only the two methods of analysis and synthesis. With analysis and some carefully chosen phenomena, they deduce the forces of nature and the simplest of the laws which derive from these forces. They thereafter present in order the other laws which depend immediately upon the first. They are the Newtonians. By this method of proceeding, Newton demonstrates that weight is a property common to all objects, and goes on to explain the system of the world which is deduced so easily from the theory of gravitation. Cotes concedes that there are illustrious personages who have rejected this new principle, perhaps because of prejudices. He announces that he does not intend to attack their reputation, but proposes rather to present the arguments in favor of Newton's theory, so that the reader may judge for himself. Thereupon, he will present the main points of Newton's discoveries and their admissibility. Everyone, for instance, agrees that all terrestrial bodies gravitate toward the earth. Since this is the case, the earth must reciprocally gravitate toward these bodies. This gravitation is thus equal and reciprocal. Attraction of bodies at equal distance is proportional to the mass of each body. Thus the weight of bodies depends upon attraction, since this gravitational force varies as the mass increases or decreases. Cotes next explains briefly the law of inertia and Kepler's laws, and concludes by establishing for the planets the law of attraction. Cotes then explains the rule of analogy and terminates this part of the description with the statement that weight is a common property of matter. It would be a mistake to think that Newton's attack against Cartesianism and the further attack of Cotes settled once for all the matter of attraction. As Cotes had noted, there were criticisms of Newton's system of the world, too. Newton had admitted that he could not explain gravity and he had left the impression that in his opinion it was not a mechanical phenomenon of nature. He even suggested that in all likelihood, we would never know what gravity is. Nonetheless, he stressed that it is sufficient for him that it exists. There were others who were not content with this situation: Huyghens, for instance, who insisted that gravitation was an occult quality; and Bernouilly, who hesitated to accept the demonstration for similar reasons. It was the common criticism of all the Cartesians. •537 ·

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Leibniz, however, added other objections. He believed that the gravitation of sensible bodies toward the center of the earth must be produced by the movement of some fluid, and insisted that a body is never moved naturally except by another body which impels it by touching it. He had, however, deeper objections which were more disturbing. In a letter to the Princess of Wales (November, 1715), an extract of which was published in Desmaizeaux's Recueil de pieces (I, 1, 1740), he noted that natural religion had become very weak in England where there was now a general tendency to regard the soul as corporeal, and that some philosophers even thought of God as corporeal. This attitude, he pointed out, could be found partially in Locke, whose followers inclined to material souls, naturally perishable, and in Newton, who regarded space as an organ used by the Deity in feeling external objects. Leibniz argued that if God needs a means of feeling them, He must not have created them at all, and they must not depend upon Him. Leibniz further objected to Newton's view that the Deity has made an imperfect world which is running down and consequently has to be repaired in time "as a watchmaker repairs a watch." In contrast, Leibniz proposed that the same energy in the universe subsists, passing from matter to matter, in accordance with nature's laws and a pre-established harmony. Miracles, therefore, are unnecessary to sustain this order. They occur only as the result of God's grace. These comments of Leibniz inaugurated a lengthy discussion between the German philosopher and Dr. Clarke who, at Newton's request, attempted to defend the latter's views. The whole discussion, published in Desmaizeaux's Recueil, is an excellent example of the psychological impact Newton's theories of the universe could have in other spheres of thought. In his reply to Leibniz' first letter, Dr. Clarke conceded that there are those in England and elsewhere who deny natural religion, or who debase its tenets. He attributed this to the false philosophy of materialists, but insisted that their principles are directly combated by the Principia of Newton. He further granted that there are those who think the soul material and God corporeal, but pointed out that these people are outspokenly opposed to the thought of the Principia, which states explicitly that matter is only the smallest and least important part of the universe. Finally, Dr. Clarke admitted there are • 538 ·

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passages in Locke's Essay which suggest that he doubted the immateriality of the soul, but again he pointed out that this opinion has been followed only by those materialists who are unfavorable to Newton, and even to the rest of Locke. Dr. Clarke then offered two remarks in rebuttal to Leibniz' assertions concerning the Principia. All Newton meant by "sensorium" was the infinite space where God can see all the objects He has created. It was not an organ or a means of divine intervention. As for the imperfect universe, Clarke explains that Newton insists only that nothing occurs in the universe except under the watchful eyes of providence. Clarke accepted that it may be argued that the world is a big machine which runs without any intervention of the Deity, but this idea introduces materialism and fatalism. Moreover, such a view encourages skepticism, because once the control of the Deity has been banished from the world, it is not difficult to assert that, this condition having obtained for all eternity, no creation is possible. Clarke, of course, does not approve these arguments; his effort is directed to show that though they are often proposed, they have no connection with Newton's explanation of the universe. In his second letter, Leibniz accepted Clarke's assertion that after the breakdown in morality, the principles of the materialists are the outstanding cause of the prevalence of impiety. He does not grant, however, that the Principia is opposed to the materialist views, the only difference being that materialists, following Democritus, Epicurus, and Hobbes, limit their remarks to mathematical principles, whereas Christian mathematicians admit immaterial substances also and therefore accept metaphysical principles. These latter should be opposed to the materialist arguments. Leibniz argued that he has done that in the Thoodicee, by establishing the principle of contradiction as the basis of mathematical reasoning and the principle of sufficient reason as the basis for reasoning in physics. Leibniz explained that this latter principle not only proves the existence of God but leads to the firm establishment of natural religion and the defense of all principles in physics independent of mathematics, that is, dynamics and energy. Leibniz next showed that Newton admits the vacuum, which had also been accepted by the ancient materialists. Moreover, Newton interprets this infinite space as God's "sensorium" which by definition means "an organ of the senses." He seems to say that perception • 539 ·

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derives immediately from presence. Leibniz maintained that Newton has given no satisfactory explanation of this operation, which he, Leibniz, has explained. Finally, he protested that the comparison of God with a watchmaker is incorrect because it fails to consider His power and His wisdom, and forgets that His creations are distinguished by a complete pre-established harmony. Dr. Clarke's second reply is more by way of clarification. Newton's Principia proves that the state of things could only be produced by a free, intelligent cause. Dr. Clarke accepts Leibniz' distinction between mathematical and metaphysical principles. He grants that nothing exists without a sufficient reason and declares that it is often only God's absolutely free Will. He grants that ancient Greek philosophers sometimes accepted the vacuum and the doctrine of matter; they did not use mathematics, however, to explain the phenomena of nature. He rejects the contention that "sensorium" means an organ, and insists it is rather a place. He denies that the presence of the soul suffices for perceiving and explains that he merely means that the soul must be present to perceive. God, present everywhere, existing, and intelligent, perceives everything. He grants that God's work is excellent, because God is all-powerful and all-wise. His wisdom consists in foreseeing His whole plan. Reform has no meaning for God. It only has meaning for humans. That does not mean that God's creations are made to last forever: they are made to last as long as He judges proper. He nonetheless supervises things directly. Finally, humans make a distinction between natural and supernatural—for the Deity, the distinction does not exist. Once having established a position in the first two encounters, each of the two debaters set to work to show the dire results which could ensue from the arguments of his antagonist. It is clear that Leibniz wanted to stress that the consequences of Newtonianism led to materialism and to a discredit of natural religion. It is equally true that Dr. Clarke was painfully aware that there was a movement toward materialism, but he could see no connection between it and Newton's philosophy. We cannot overlook the fact that Leibniz seized every opportunity in the debate to push his own philosophy and to point out that it had no relationship with materialism, while Dr. Clarke thought that it evidenced some tendencies toward fatalism. A more serious charge brought by Dr. Clarke against Leibniz' thought was that his philosophy was wrong because it had no relationship with • 540 ·

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reality. He pointed out the same defects in Leibniz' reasoning which Newton had stressed in his opposition to Descartes's reasoning: it was a priori; it was not in accord with observed phenomena; it was confused in its definitions, abstract in its presentation, and contradictory; it led to fatalism and even subjected the Deity to the iron rule of necessity. Ultimately, therefore, the public seemed forced to choose between a philosophy which depended upon an occult interpretation of attraction, which led to materialism, or one which depended upon an unreal interpretation of non-existent phenomena, which led to fatalism. In a curious way Descartes's philosophy became involved, and Leibnizianism was made to accept responsibility for its errors. Leibniz, of course, was unwilling to do this, but in his attack against the materialism of Newtonianism he had compared it with the ancient philosophies of Democritus and Epicurus and declared his own belief in the plenum and in vortices, and had further insisted that movement could only be caused by impulsion or the force of liquid impact. That sufficed to bring about his identification with Cartesianism. No amount of denial on his part could free him from Dr. Clarke's attack, so that when, some fifteen years later, Voltaire studied the debate, he was thoroughly convinced that Leibnizianism was characterized by fatalism, so convinced, in fact, that it became his main point in his attack against Leibnizian optimism at the time of Candide. At the time of the debate, though, Leibniz felt that the materialism in Newtonianism sprang from points of view which had previously been the concern of theology. His way of bringing out what was involved in the discussion was to ask a set of direct questions: Does God act in the most regular and perfect way? If His universe is a machine capable of falling into disorders, can He be said to have created a perfect universe ? If He intervenes in repairing the machine, has a miracle been performed ? Is the will of God capable of acting without reason? Is space an absolute being? Is time an absolute being? What is a miracle? Properly speaking, these questions involved the nature, power, and wisdom of the Deity. They were theological questions to which Leibniz was trying to elicit philosophical (or scientific) answers. Clarke, a theologian, was by nature inclined to furnish theological answers. He replied that God always acts in a most regular and perfect way; that there is no disorder in His work, since He has the • 541 ·

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right to make a world destined to last only a certain time; that God's will is perfectly free to act without motive; and that space and time do not depend upon any consecutive or successive order but are, properly speaking, properties of the Deity. The debate thus ultimately concerns the nature of God, grace, and free will. Leibniz attempts to solve this problem in his fifth letter (quoted from Desmaizeaux, p. 87): Car Dieu, porte par la supreme raison a choisir, entre plusieurs sortes des choses ou des mondes possibles celui ou les creatures libres prendraient telles ou telles resolutions, quoique non sans son concours, a rendu par la tout evenement certain et determine une fois pour toutes, sans deroger par la a la liberte de ces creatures; ce simple decret du choix ne changeant point, mais actualisant seulement leurs natures libres qu'il y voyoit dans ses idees.

This is tantamount to an admission on Leibniz' part that there is a Christian "fatum," imposed by providence and God's foresight, and that Christians submit to this because it is for the better. Clarke refused to accept this definition of free will (Desmaizeaux, p. 160): "Mais la veritable et seule question philosophique touchant la liberte, consiste a savoir, si la cause ou Ie principe immediat et physique de Taction est reellement dans celui que nous appelons Tagent ou si c'est quelqu'autre raison suffisante, qui est la veritable cause de Taction, en agissant sur Tagent, et en faisant qu'il ne soit pas un veritable agent, mais un simple patient." Pierre Bayle and the History of Ideas Probably no modern philosopher has received as extensive an interpretation as Pierre Bayle. During his lifetime, he aroused antagonisms which recall the violent condemnations of Spinoza. Many contemporaries place him among the very unorthodox. Castel pushed his objection to the Rotterdam philosopher to the point of declaring that Bayle, more than any other philosopher, had spread incredulity in the public. Jurieu spent a whole decade to prove that his colleague at the ficole Illustre in Rotterdam was one of the most pernicious influences imaginable in the Dutch community, finally convincing the authorities of the town that he ought to be dismissed from his post of professor of philosophy. Jacquelot, another of his bitter antagonists, thought him no less dangerous to orthodoxy. Indeed, so •542 ·

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consistent was the condemnation during Bayle's time, that we have all but forgotten those who, like Desmaizeaux, raised a voice in his defense, as well as those of the scholarly world who treated him with unquestioned respect. Modern criticism has had a tendency to confirm the unfavorable opinion. While Sainte-Beuve did accord him more than ordinary praise in his "Genie Critique de Bayle," and even Brunetiere expressed some admiration for his fair-mindedness, criticism has been wont to see in Bayle the enigmatic unbeliever who more than anyone is responsible for the undermining of orthodox thought. It has consequently been the custom during the past century to trace the whole movement of the Enlightenment back to Pierre Bayle. In the past decade, however, a more subtle interpretation has crept into criticism of Bayle and his position in the history of ideas. As much as twenty-five years ago, the late Professor Schinz remarked that in many respects Bayle reminded one of Pascal. There has been, in the past generation, a tendency in Enlightenment criticism to weigh more carefully the shades of his orthodoxy and unorthodoxy. It is naturally difficult to place any eighteenth-century figure arbitrarily in a particular camp because of the tremendous intellectual mobility of the period. As a consequence, we have somewhat altered our practice of seeing everything as either white or black, and Bayle criticism has changed with others. It has been noted that he was an accepted member of the Protestant community in Rotterdam, and that Jurieu's efforts to have him excommunicated did not succeed. In addition, critics have been inclined to stress more passages in his Dictionary which have the ring of both unquestioned orthodoxy and sincerity. There has been a notable effort to explain the meaning of some of his ideas by appealing to irony. Finally, whereas in the past there had been a tendency to question the sincerity of his fideism, some now believe that it is genuine and devoid of any "arriere-pensee" whatever. While one has no reason to feel other than satisfaction that the picture of a sly, over-shrewd, and scheming Bayle, presented by Faguet and rather generally accepted by later critics, has been discredited, we have to be a little cautious or we shall have him a thorough apologist for Christianity. A picture of Bayle as completely orthodox will be difficult. It is uncertain at times just what his intentions were, and in these cases, the critic certainly has the right to interpret his statements as best • 543 ·

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he can. There are nonetheless other statements which are explicit enough and which can be interpreted in only one way. When he writes, for instance, "a l'exception des mysteres, toute verite, pour etfe admise, doit avoir ete homologuee, enregistree, et verinee au Parlement de la raison," it is obvious that he means that with the exception of religion, everything else must be subjected to the dictates of reason. When he says "les choses naturelles ne sont pas proportionnees aux surnaturelles... la nacelle de Jesus Christ n'est pas faite pour voguer sur cette mer orageuse," it is evident he means that any attempt to prove rationally the certainty of the Christian doctrine is doomed to failure and, what is more, should not be attempted. When he states that "la raison est plus propre a demolir q u a batir; elle connait mieux ce que les choses ne sont pas que ce qu'elles sont," he undoubtedly means that the negative, destructive aspect of the human mind is more effective than the positive, constructive side. If he finds man's intellect of dubious efficacy in structuring his actions, he naturally expresses much hesitation concerning the validity of morality. He affirms consequently, that "la morale est plus incertaine que la physique." The difficulty lies, of course, in the discrepancy between the thoughts of man and his actions. "Qu'on fasse," he wrote, "ce qu'on voudra, qu'on batisse des systemes meilleurs que la Republique de Platon, que I'Utopie de Morus, que la Republique du soleil de Campanella, toutes ces belles idees se trouveraient courtes et defectueuses des qu'on les voudrait mettre en pratique." As a consequence, it is not surprising that Bayle can offer no firm ground for moral action. He goes further, however. Not only is reason untrustworthy, and "la morale" uncertain, but truth is difficult of attainment: "La verite n'est guere moins Ie desespoir de 1'histoire que celui de la philosophic, a cause de la malignite de l'homme et de sa preoccupation." It is immediately obvious that these statements, which are clear, are not particularly reassuring. If reason is our only instrument for penetrating reality; if it cannot be utilized in the one area where our apprehension is most necessary; if when it is used in other areas of living it can only destroy, being unable to construct; if all our ideals are uncertain, and our morality is doubtful; if our scientific knowledge is questionable; and if both history and philosophy have no assured way of attaining truth—then it is certainly understandable that "la philosophic se confond elle-meme, car tout ce qui resulte de ses principes, c'est qu'il est certain que nous n'avons aucune certi• 544 ·

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tude." Having reached the ultimate position of Sextus Empiricus, Bayle had two possible choices: he could have renounced philosophy for theology, thereby denying the whole philosophical movement of the seventeenth century, or he could have fallen into suspended indecision, as the skeptics sometimes advised. Which of these two courses he followed is now the subject of much discussion. We have been led to believe by Robinson's Bayle the Skeptic (1931) that he adopted the position of the skeptics and remained in suspended indecision. In general, Robinson's interpretation does not differ to any great extent from that of Professor Popkin in his article "Pierre Bayle's Place in Seventeenth-Century Scepticism." Delvolve, in his Religion, critique, et philosophic positive chez Pierre Bayle (1906), had already attempted to explain Bayle's position by insisting that it was first and foremost a philosophical position. To Bayle, Delvolve states, the history of philosophy has been characterized by the struggle between two implacable, mutually hostile, philosophical parties: the dogmatists, who have made every effort to push outward the domain of reason in their desire to establish a rational interpretation of the world, and the skeptics, who strive to destroy the results of these efforts, who maintain that it is impossible to establish an absolute, metaphysical knowledge of the world, and who counsel the acceptance of a doctrine which stresses only the appearance of things, and submission to practical experience. In this struggle between the dogmatists and the skeptics, Bayle agrees with Pascal that the pyrrhonists are right. This had already been the position of all the libertines—Charron, La Mothe Ie Vayer, et al.—not to mention the orthodox Huet, Bishop of Avranches. It was an aspect of the attack against dogmatic rationalism in which theologians and libertines could combine. Bayle, however, goes further in his analysis of the advantages of the pyrrhonist position. He considers it not at all dangerous to science, since physics can very well content itself with the world of appearances, and both history and "la morale" can accommodate themselves to that world even more easily than physics. Bayle labels as phenomena both human activity and that of nature, and in his introduction to the Dictionnaire he asserts that certainty in history can be greater than in other sciences, since the former makes no claim to be established upon anything other than the appearance of things. The physical world and "la morale" are the domain of human intelli• 545 ·

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gence. What human intelligence can not do, however, is know what is outside nature, outside time. Religion, which necessarily deals with these spheres and which also must be founded upon an absolute rather than an apparent certainty, has much to fear from pyrrhonism. Combined with skepticism, it can always defeat the pretensions of dogmatic rationalism, but it cannot thereafter use the principles of dogmatic rationalism to defend its own position. Once allied with skepticism against rationalism, religion must ground itself upon faith alone, upon revealed truth, not subject to any discussion, because it comes from God (see Delvolve, pp. 253-54). Bayle affirms in the "Pyrrhon" that such is his position. But Del­ volve notes that "il entend suivre librement la raison dans tous les detours ού naturellement elle s'egare, scruter tous les systemes et tous les dogmes, les eprouver les uns par les autres, sonder leur base rationnelle." It is this determination on Bayle's part which is at the basis of his "philosophic positive." Since this view of Bayle has been challenged in recent years, we are rather forced to give close attention to the opposing view. Perhaps the best expression of it is contained in R. M. Popkin's article men­ tioned above, published in Pierre Bayle, Ie philosophe de Rotterdam (P. Dibon, ed., Amsterdam, 1959). Popkin concedes that "it is para­ doxical that a man who devoted so much of his energies to arguing that reason was too weak and confused to discover the true, and that therefore, one should turn to faith and Revelation as the guide to, and measure of, truth, has been so easily categorized as a skeptical non-believer who undermined the confidence of his age in orthodox Christianity and unleashed the Age of Reason." Popkin, using mainly the article "Pyrrhon" of the Dictionnaire, endeavors to evaluate this view in the framework of seventeenth-century skepticism. First of all, Bayle was a Protestant, whereas all his predecessors had been Catho­ lics, with the exception of Sorbiere who had become a Catholic through conversion, as Bayle had also done. There does not seem to be too great a difference here. In addition, Popkin notes that Bayle was not a direct-line descendent of Montaigne, and therefore his skepticism is of a different hue from the line represented by Charron, La Mothe, Naude, Patin, Gassendi, Sorbiere, and Huet. It is, says Popkin, less urbane, less sophisticated, and less aristocratic. I doubt that even a superficial reading of the Dictionnaire will justify such an assertion. Bayle certainly evinced in article after article his deep • 546 ·

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interest in every one of the seventeenth-century skeptics, and his defense of them carries not the least lack of sympathy. Further, it is not at all certain that Popkin could justify his distinction between Montaigne's skepticism and Bayle's variety. Montaigne, as Popkin says, stressed the weakness of the senses as a means of discrediting reason, but Bayle is not averse to this tendency either, and he notes their opposition as well as that of the passions to reason. It is, to be sure, very difficult to mark the distinct shade of pyrrhonism in these seventeenth-century skeptics, just as it is difficult to draw lines of distinction between skepticism, rationalism, and fideism. Whatever the nuances, however, Bayle would not be found very dissimilar from his predecessors and contemporaries in his fundamental skepticism. The crux of his position has been thought to be in the remarks "B" and "C" of the "Pyrrhon" article, where he develops the idea that skepticism is not dangerous to natural science and politics, but is a menace to religion and is, consequently, detested in all schools of theology. Scientists are naturally skeptics about their ability to know the secrets of nature and confine themselves to observation of phenomena and the search for probable hypotheses. In politics, since the skeptics have no dogmatic moral views, they act in accord with the customs of the country. In religion, however, the danger is omnipresent, because dogma should be based on certainty, and skepticism dissolves certainty. Fortunately, he adds, the danger is often averted either because of the faith of Christians in their dogma, or the strength of religious education, or even the ignorance which they profess of such matters. The gist of Bayle's attack is, however, not directed at the danger skepticism holds for the dogma of religion. His argument is grounded upon the fact that modern philosophy, like that of Sextus Empiricus, expresses doubts about the reality of secondary qualities. Since colors, sounds, and smells are only modifications of our soul and have no reality in themselves, why should not primary qualities, such as extension or motion, also be so considered ? Bayle here merely adopts MaIebranche's view that there is no demonstration of the existence of physical objects. It was precisely to avoid this dilemma that Descartes had presented the demon theory, whereby God would not deceive us. But Bayle argues that God may deceive those who believe in the reality of colors, so why would He not deceive those who believe in the reality of extension ? The answer hitherto lay in the criterion of • 547·

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truth. For the seventeenth-century philosopher this criterion derived from the evidence. Bayle here injects a second consideration: there are propositions possessing evidence which have to be rejected as false. Since this is so, there is no way of telling a true from a false proposition. Bayle's position rests upon the propositions thought true which now have to be rejected as false. They all concern the conflict between general truths and points of Christian dogma. If one accepts the doctrine of the Trinity, then one has to reject the general proposition that two things not different from a third are not different from each other. If Transubstantiation is accepted, then the obvious proposition that a human body cannot be in several places at the same time must be rejected. If one accepts the truth of the doctrine of Original Sin, one cannot any longer admit that "a creature who does not exist cannot be an accomplice to a bad action." It is worth noting that the "Abbe Pyrrhonien" does not admit the possibility of questioning the validity of the dogma. To a skeptic who demands the evidence of the truth of the dogma, there is as much logical difficulty in maintaining the evidence as there is in supporting the general propositions. This, however, is not Bayle's point. We demand evidence for general propositions; there is no such demand for points of dogma. We must not overlook, however, that in Bayle's argument in "Pyrrhon," remark "B," there are statements which are not altogether in favor of faith. The Abbe Pyrrhonien maintains, for instance, that in his day, Christian theology would afford him unanswerable arguments which Arcesilaus in ancient Greece could not have had. The assumption here is that skepticism is actually more dangerous to religious discussion when Christianity is involved than when paganism is concerned. Then, too, where the Abbe Pyrrhonien rejects the Cartesian argument that God would not deceive in matters of primary qualities when there are millions who are deceived in matters of secondary qualities, Bayle suggests that an argument can be presented which consists in demonstrating that God does not deceive but merely permits man to deceive himself. In both cases, He is not the cause of the error. And Bayle adds: "Such are the advantages which the new philosophers would procure to the Pyrrhonists, but I will not take advantage of them." The implication here is that Pyrrhonism and the new philosophers are even more dangerous to Christianity than skepticism to paganism. Indeed, he proposes immediately that • 548 ·

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to get the better of the skeptic is to prove that truth may be known by some marks. The skeptic, as Bayle has set the scene, will accept the wager. It is he who undertakes to show to the priest several things of the greatest evidence which he rejects as false. At this juncture, he presents the four general truths which have to be rejected if the priest accepts the doctrine of the Trinity, the Incarnation, the Eucharist, Transubstantiation, etc. Needless to say, this argument is valid only to one who accepts the validity of Christian doctrine. Further, it must be noted that this argument is being developed by a Christian abbe; indeed, Bayle in his note 15 remarks: Note, that this is the discourse of an abbe. I am obliged to give the reader notice of this in this second edition, because I know that several persons of the Protestant religion have been offended to see the mysteries of the Trinity and Incarnation, paralleled with the doctrines of the Real Presence and Transubstantiation. That is to say, the argument is presented by one who is first an abbe and second an assumed skeptic. That situation gives an entirely different turn to the debate. What the Abbe is demonstrating is not that skepticism leads to the destruction of evidence as a criterion of truth, but that things once thought evident have been proved false by those who have accepted the veracity of Christian dogma. Bayle's demonstration is also onesided when he offers the Christian attitude to morals. He notes that evil should be prevented when it can, and that it is a sinful thing to permit it when it could have been prevented. And yet, God has permitted it. The conclusion the Abbe draws is that the evident general truth has been proven false by the existence of evil permitted by an all-powerful God. Further, it is evident that what is honest is more to be preferred than what is profitable, and that the more holy a being is the less freedom one has to prefer what is profitable to what is honest. And yet God, having to choose between a perfect, well-regulated world and a world of sin and disorder, preferred the latter to the former. If you (the other abbe) tell them that the duties of the Creator ought not to be measured by yours, you will be caught by your adversaries: their main intent is to prove that the absolute nature of things is unknown to us. The assumed skeptical abbe concludes that if truth were to be known by any mark, it would be by evidence; but evidence is no such mark, because it accords with falsities; therefore, etc. Bayle then gives the •549 ·

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case away and states "the abbe, to whom this long discourse was directed, etc." It is not an argument against the rationalists (that is, the dogmatists), but an argument against Christian theology by a priest assuming the point of view of a skeptic. That this is the situation is finally stressed when the Abbe who has produced all these arguments remarks that "it is needless to dispute with Pyrrhonists, that their sophisms could not be easily eluded by the mere force of reason; that before all things they should be made aware of the weakness of reason, that they may have recourse to a better guide, viz., Faith." Far from being a true statement of a skeptic becoming a fideist, it is that of a true believer who has assumed the role of a skeptic to show another true believer that it is dangerous to argue with them. It is nonetheless true that Bayle, in the main part of his article on Pyrrhon, suggested that Pyrrhonism "may be of use to oblige man out of a sense of his ignorance, to call for the help of God, and to submit to the authority of faith," to which suggestion he has devoted his remark "C." Remark "C," however, hardly elaborates upon the suggestion. Bayle quotes La Mothe Ie Vayer to the effect that skepticism is a way of thought which is very close to Christianity. He exclaims that the subtlety of skepticism can offer but little satisfaction since it leads only to the establishment of some sure rule which can destroy the skeptical system. Or if it does not, one eventually reaches the place whexe he doubts that he doubts. Hence the very reasons for doubting are doubtful. This leads to chaos and to the torment of mind which must convince that the way of reason is to wander. It is then normal to refuse to follow a reason which leads us to such an abyss: "If a man is once convinced, that he can expect no satisfaction from his philosophical inquiries, he will find himself better disposed to pray to God, to ask Him the persuasion of the truths which he ought to believe, than if he should flatter himself with a good success in reasoning and disputing." Knowing the defects of reason invites to faith, as Pascal, Calvin, and others have said. This opinion, however, does not prevent skepticism, as some learned men maintain, from being opposed to religion. And Bayle concludes his remark "C" as he opened it, with a quotation from La Mothe Ie Vayer. As a defense of fideism against skepticism it is, to say the least, weak. In recent Bayle criticism, there have been other attempts to make of the philosopher of Rotterdam an apologist of the Christian re•550 ·

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ligion. The argument always starts with Bayle's renunciation of the force of reason and in general follows the steps laid down by Pascal in the Pensees. Fundamentally, the attitude consists in denouncing reason, affirming the moral weakness and the spiritual wretchedness of man, and urging an acceptance of the mysteries of life on faith. The technique of conversion which this attitude requires was used superbly by Pascal, whose work, incidentally, was well-known to Bayle. Moreover, Bayle's analysis of man's lot does not differ from Pascal's: as he wrote in the article "Helene," there is an opposition between what we do and what we know, and there is no explanation possible for this incongruity. Human life is scarcely anything more than a continual struggle between the passions and conscience in which conscience is practically always overcome. In the article "Manicheens," he noted that "man is wicked and unhappy: everyone knows it by what he feels in himself, and by the intercourse he is obliged to have with his neighbors." The evidence of man's unhappy lot can best be seen in history. Without leaving their studies, scholars can run through all the ages and all the countries of the world. What they find is that history is nothing but a collection of the crimes and misfortunes of mankind. The greatest stumbling-block to the understanding of man is the inevitable presence of evil. Here, Bayle does not follow Pascal, since for him original sin does not seem an explanation for man's dual nature; he seems to be completely baffled by a condition for which he can find no logical excuse. In the same article "Manicheens," he asks, as though paraphrasing the Manichees: if man is the creature of one principle perfectly good, most holy and omnipotent, can he be exposed to diseases, to heat and cold, hunger and thirst, pain and grief? Can he have so many bad inclinations? Would not omnipotence, joined with infinite goodness, furnish his own work plentifully with good things, and secure it from everything that might be offensive or vexatious? Bayle cannot find consolation for these human miseries, as Pascal did, in the doctrine of original sin. But his ultimate stand is nevertheless that of Pascal. The incomprehensibility of all this suffering transcends the power of human reason. This reason is too weak to offer any insight into man's lot: "It is a principle of destruction, and not of edification: it is only fit to start doubts, and to turn itself all • 551 ·

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manner of ways, to perpetuate a dispute." And the Rotterdam philosopher adds in discouragement: "Let us say the same of reason; it can only discover to man his ignorance and weakness, and the necessity of another revelation, which is that of the Scripture." These considerations are at the basis of the present-day move to make of Bayle an orthodox Christian, or at any rate an anti-rational fideist. Popkin has marked out this tendency by studying his skepticism, but he has also noted that there is ambiguity in Bayle's antirationalism, particularly in the late works where the author returns to the position that fideism must be supported by rationalism. The steps marked out by Popkin (p. 12) are so clearly indicated that one can do no better than to copy them verbatim: At first, Bayle seems to hold that the rational world (the world of the philosophers and the Socinians) is "big with contradiction and absurdity," and leads to a complete pyrrhonism, further, that the truths of Christianity indicate that the corner-stone of the rational world, the criterium veritatis, has to be abandoned. And still further, the sceptical despair that ensues is not a possible, or acceptable resolution, in that it, too, is "big with contradiction and absurdity." Then, one throws over one's rationality, and becomes a man of faith. The second side of Bayle seems to require that one preserve a segment of the rational world, so that one can prove, after having travelled "Ie grand chemin au Pyrrhonisme," that one ought to be a man of faith. But this surviving segment of the rational world might then become the measure of the truth or significance of the world of faith, and this for Bayle, is precisely the Socinian heresy, that one makes one's natural light the measure and standard of faith. There are difficulties in adopting this kind of ambiguity. Popkin has conceded that in order to reconcile the two kinds of fideism, what he calls the "pure, blind, fideism" and the "rational fideism," one would have to know what importance Bayle gave to reason as an instrument for the discovery of truth. He grants that any attempt to answer this question leads to the conviction that Bayle actually held two irreconcilable views. That being the case, it is well to remember one or two things. As he said in the explanation which he gave of his attitude in the article "Pyrrhon," Bayle offered his attack against the dogmatists as an attack against the Socinians. If one is to believe his testimony, they represented for him the acme of rationalism, and his onslaught was fashioned to combat not rationalism but rationalized Christianity. • 552 ·

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The arguments would thus be devised not against philosophical rationalism but against rationalized Christianity, which is perfectly in accord with Bayle's conviction that religion cannot any more be rationalized than philosophy can be Christianized. Also we should recall that he is supposed to have said to La Placette: "}'en sais trop pour etre pyrrhonien et j'en sais trop peu pour etre dogmatique." This, I suppose, indicates that just as skepticism pushed to its final conclusion must admit that one can doubt that one doubts, so rationalism pushed to its acme cannot know itself. The best life, therefore, seems to be that in which one has the possibility of being reasonably skeptical and skeptically reasonable. There are, indeed, passages in Bayle's works which explicitly give a priority neither to doubt nor to faith. Two of them should be quoted here from the Commentaire philosophique: "Le tribunal supreme et qui juge en dernier ressort et sans appel de tout ce qui nous est propose est la raison parlant par les axiomes de la lumiere naturelle, ou de la metaphysique." This combination of reason and "lumiere naturelle" even holds sway in matters concerning dogma: "Il faut necessairement en venir la que tout dogme particulier, soit qu'on l'avance comme contenu dans l'Ecriture, soit qu'on Ie propose autrement est faux, lorsqu'il est refute par les notions claires et distinctes de la lumiere naturelle, principalement a l'egard de la morale." Bayle, however, is never happy with exclusions: a faith which is devoid of reason seems as undesirable as reason which is devoid of faith. It is for this reason that I would be inclined to treat with sympathy the attempts of present-day Bayle scholars to make of him a perfectly satisfactory member of the Calvinist community at Rotterdam. It seems correct to assume that his early religious experience was both genuine and sincere. It is true that his change from Protestantism to Catholicism and back to Protestantism within a year indicates more an inquiring mind than a loyal religious devotee; it is even possible to argue that his search was motivated more by desire for rational satisfaction than by a dedication to the faith. There is something disquieting in his diary notation after his conversion: "Changement de religion; Ie lendemain j'ai repris l'etude de la philosophic" That remark, however, does not impugn the genuineness of Bayle's religion; it does indicate that he considered certain things more important. Still, Professor Barber is perfectly correct in his article on "Pierre Bayle, Faith and Reason" in The •553 ·

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French Mind (Oxford, 1952, pp. 109-25) to insist that Bayle's letters to his family disclose a deep feeling for religious experience and a quiet, simple faith. No quarrel can be made with Barber's statement that Bayle's life in Rotterdam was spent in the community of his Calvinist friends and in attendance at the Walloon church. Barring the unpleasantness created by Jurieu, there is no indication whatever that his outward religious life was not normal. Nor can one object to Barber's assertion that not only did Bayle remain a faithful member of the Reformed Church, but that his conception of the nature of man, his conviction that history is the mirror of human passions, and his stress placed upon God as the source of man's illumination and the maker of his conscience are all derived from a training which was Calvinist, provided one does not forget that these ideas are all typical of Pascal.16 We should be grateful to those who, like Paul Dibon and Antoine Adam, have attempted to strike a balance between the private beliefs of the Rotterdam recluse and the extent and variety of his published ideas, which unquestionably reach beyond the confines of, although they often embrace, these private beliefs. We should be grateful likewise to those who have tried to insinuate firmly that Bayle is essentially a seventeenth-century figure, contemporary of Malebranche, Leibniz, Locke, Arnauld, and that he appeared upon the world stage just after Spinoza and within a decade after Pascal's Pensoes. As Chevalier has made abundantly clear in his Histoire de la pensee, the thing which characterizes all these contemporaries is the firmness of their faith in the context of their philosophical preoccupations. Among those who have attempted a rediscovery of Bayle, Professor Paul Dibon is the critic who has applied himself most diligently and intelligently. He finds that Bayle returns often to the fundamental beliefs of his faith which he treats as unquestioned certainties. Dibon pleads, therefore, for more sympathy when Bayle protests his sincerity. Sainte-Beuve, whom he quotes, had already insisted that Bayle was religious to a certain degree, as he had discovered 18

Professor Barber's position had already been advanced by MUe Cornelia Serrurier who, in her Pierre Bayle en Hollande (p. 207), noted that the author of the Dictionnaire was not a philosopher, but a moralist, that his conception of human nature and of history derived from Protestantism. She concluded: "Je ne puis trouver un peu de logique et d'unite dans Ia pensee de Bayle qu'a condition de Ie classer parmi les croyants; a mes yeux, il est un calviniste froid, mais sincere."

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in his correspondence. At times he noted not only a spirit of modesty and moderation, but a submission which he called "un veritable esprit de christianisme." It should be remarked, however, that SainteBeuve also noted that in other places "Fexpression est toute philosophique," and he urged that we do not take sides too quickly since "avec Bayle, pour rester dans Ie vrai . . . il faut laisser coexister a son heure et en son lieu ce qui pour lui ne s'entre-choquait pas." Dibon, on the strength of this counsel, urges that we begin by placing Protestantism, or at least a kind of Protestantism, at the heart of Bayle's inspiration. He concedes that it will develop in time into a kind of liberalism. For the moment, he is historian and journalist, not philosopher of tolerance and of the rights of reason and faith, or the opponent of prejudices. Cast into a society with which he was unfamiliar and whose language he never used, he surrounded himself with a few friends, and contented himself with personal contacts throughout the European scholarly world; his Nouvelles de la republique des lettres, his correspondence, and his Dictionnaire historique et critique are "Ie plus extraordinaire miroir des grandes idees du siecle." His grasp of this world is vast, complete, but above all objective: he studiously avoids becoming partisan—but not because of any inherent skepticism; he was sincerely committed to certain essential ideas. Calvinist by birth, he places his Calvinism in the center of his intellectual activity. He is horrified by idolatry, utterly opposed to materialism. When he is accused of preferring atheism to superstition, he has been terribly misunderstood. Calvinism is likewise at the center of his metaphysical thought. It is exact that metaphysical speculation interests him little (and, indeed, Pascal and Voltaire also), but he is preoccupied with certain problems of transcendence. These problems were derived from the philosophies of Descartes and Malebranche: imperfection of matter, spirituality of the soul, impossibility of bridging the gap between matter and spirit. Thus Bayle became committed to the "new" philosophy, which he judged superior to the ancient. Calvinist also was his espousal of the independence of morality, and his pessimistic view of man's nature. Nonetheless, toward constituted dogma, the Church as institution, traditions and social conventions, he acts with surprising freedom. This, too, is the result of his Cartesianism, but also of his reading of the libertines, where the humanistic tradition was strongest. As a consequence, he could profit by the critical pro•555 ·

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cedures of Richard Simon and Spinoza. Such is the intellectual position of Bayle as seen by Dibon. Dibon's is, as we have said, an attractive presentation, and it does much to effect a necessary balance between the portrait of a Bayle all too given to slyness and irony and to the "apostolic" bow, and that of a Bayle more concerned with his own position as CaIvinist, member of a community deeply committed to its Protestant affiliation, and possessing an unquestioned respect for the perpetuity and Tightness of its faith. The balance thus achieved has much to recommend it, but it should not be permitted to obscure certain characteristics of Bayle which go far beyond a deep personal expression of Calvinist faith. It is very probable that what makes Bayle so similar to Pascal in basic thought is precisely what separates him from Pascal in basic conclusions. It should be remarked that Bayle, like Pascal, has the "happy" quality of identifying himself with the ideas of the person talking. When it is a pyrrhonist abbe who is doing the talking, Bayle effortlessly depersonalizes himself and becomes almost effortlessly a pyrrhonist abbe. If he is to present the Socinian view, he readily becomes a Socinian. There is a side to his positivism which goes beyond the merely factual, and consists in an impersonality and an impassivity which at first glance are deceptive. Bayle's career as an erudite philosopher and journalist has doubtless implanted in him as second nature an inordinate curiosity to grasp ideas, all kinds of ideas, and to treat them as if they had an inner life of their own. His scrupulousness in treating these ideas is something unbelievable; at all events, it is not easy to establish what is Bayle's position, but much easier to see in him a skeptic who was "all things to all men." This viewpoint, however, is also fraught with difficulties, seeing that the Rotterdam philosopher is not only inordinately curious, he is likewise tremendously intelligent and unbelievably tolerant of ideas. He once referred to himself as a "questionneur facheux"—an apt label for what is beyond all doubt his greatest characteristic. I think that Voltaire has best explained what Bayle meant by that expression. Voltaire wrote: "Ses plus grands ennemis sont forces d'avouer qu'il n'y a pas une seule ligne dans ses ouvrages qui soit un blaspheme evident contre la religion chretienne, mais ses plus grands d£fenseurs avouent que, dans les articles de controverse, il n'y a pas une seule page qui ne conduise Ie lecteur au doute, et souvent a l'incredulite." •556 ·

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It is now customary to stress that Bayle advises the renunciation of reason for faith: this attitude, initiated by the Paduan School and so strong with Montaigne, had been assumed over and over by the free-thinkers of the seventeenth century. It would not be surprising that Bayle, considered by everyone to be in the traditional current of free-thinking, should assume the common free-thinking, seventeenth-century fideism. The problem remains, nevertheless, because of the impossibility of deciding whether fideism is a genuine conclusion of the free-thinkers, or whether it is a sort of apostolic bow. In the past, the normal interpretation has stressed the irony of the attitude rather than its genuineness. Present-day criticism has now a tendency to shift to the opposite extreme, stressing the genuineness of the point of view. Thus Mr. Barber, in the article noted above, has concluded that Bayle, typically Calvinist, insisted that religious faith does not derive from a rational processus, but is the result of the mysterious illumination of conscience by God. As Dibon sums up Barber's position toward Bayle (Dibon, p. xiii): "Le fond de sa pensee n'est ni plus ni moins qu'un fideisme." There is indeed no lack of passages in the Dictionnaire which will lend confirmation to this interpretation. In the article "Bunel," for instance, Bayle maintains that philosophy only shows one that he knows nothing. "Whence it must be necessarily concluded," adds Bayle, "that the mind of man has need of some other light to dispel the darkness and its ignorance." Bayle gives this as the opinion of Reginald Pole, adding: "I think that Pole's judgment of philosophy is the very best that can be formed, and I am very glad that such an author furnishes me with something to confirm . . . that our reason serves only to confound and make us doubt everything; that it has no sooner built a system, but it shows you the way to ruin it. . . ." Bayle concludes that "thus the best use that can be made of the study of philosophy is to know that it is the path which leads astray, and that we ought to seek another guide, which is the light of revelation." This latter note is stated more explicitly still in the article "Acosta," where Bayle quotes those who say that philosophizing leads to atheism or deism and gives Acosta as a case in point. He remarks that "it is certain that mankind, even in making use of reason, stands in need of Divine assistance." He does not stop here, however. "Philosophy," he writes, "is proper at first to confute errors, but if she be not stopped there, she attacks truth itself." The reason for this, he • 557 ·

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explains, lies either in the weakness of man's understanding or in the ill use he makes of it. Indeed, Bayle's attitude toward philosophy is certainly not one of unbridled enthusiasm. He presents philosophers as very perplexed before the vicissitudes of fortune when considered in the light of an all-wise, all-powerful providence. This aspect of evil he found completely unfathomable. From consideration of it, he drew the conclusion that doubts aroused by the history of man's activities can not be unraveled by philosophy without the light of revelation. The task of explaining these evil occurrences, therefore, lies with the clergy, not with the philosophers. Bayle returns to this same attitude in the article "Pauliciens," where he wrote: "We must humbly acknowledge that philosophy is here [in discussing the power of God and His role in evil] at a stand and that its weakness ought to lead us to the light of revelation, where we shall find a sure and steadfast anchor." Bayle protests against those who would subject theology to philosophy. They must be shown the absurd consequences of their method and thus brought back to the maxim of Christian humility. We must sternly assert that "metaphysical notions ought not to be the rule by which we are to judge of the conduct of God." In matters of this kind, "we must conform ourselves to the oracles of the Scriptures." Bayle explains elsewhere that he has very much in mind the Socinians, who trust too much to rationalism and not enough to Scriptures. His attitude toward human reasons is definitely uncompromising. In the article "Hipparchia," he writes: "This shows how many different ways human reason may lead us astray. It was given us to direct us in the right way; but it is a desultory, wavering and supple instrument, which turned every way like a weathercock." Bayle here uses scandalous actions of ancient philosophers "to humble and mortify human reason, and convince us of the infinite corruption of the heart of man, and teach us a truth, of which we should be always mindful namely, that man wanted a revealed light to supply the defect of the philosophical." The inherent difficulty in reason lies in its own limitations. "If some dogmas are above reason," he says in the second explanation of the Manichees, "they are out of its reach; if they are out of its reach, it cannot attain to them; if it cannot attain to them, it cannot comprehend them; if it cannot comprehend them, it cannot find any idea or principle that can afford solutions; and consequently its objections will remain unanswered." • 558 ·

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Bayle, however, does not condemn philosophers out of hand. He protests ("Anaxagoras") that they are not impious. Indeed, before the Gospels taught Christians to renounce the world and its riches, philosophers abandoned their worldly goods to attend more freely to the study of wisdom and the search for truth. Bayle gives Anaxagoras as his classic example, and pictures him as a speculative philosopher engaged in political problems, aiding Pericles with advice, careless of his own estate, falling into want in old age, and deciding to starve himself to death, but being rescued by Pericles. Bayle expresses a clear opinion of the philosopher's art, but insists that he should admit that an Intelligence has moved matter and arranged the parts of the universe in order. Once having acknowledged that First Cause, he should not recur to it to explain the reason of each effect of nature: "His business is to explain by the action and reaction of bodies, by the qualities of the elements, by the configuration of the parts of matter, etc., the vegetation of plants, of meteors, light, gravity, opacity, fluidity, etc." ("Anaxagoras"). This definition of philosophers equates them with natural scientists. He really thinks, though, that philosophers are not very good judges of the machine of the world, and therefore declares that Socrates was wrong to expect more solid explanations of the world, although he does not condemn Socrates's unyielding curiosity. Fundamentally, he believes that science was not designed for man. Bayle complains that ancient historians have left the history of philosophers in a wretched state: a thousand contradictions, a thousand inconsistent facts, a thousand false dates. In a petulant moment, he concedes that nothing is so absurd but has been advanced by some philosopher. In antiquity, they were of two kinds: those who reported the strong arguments and hid the weak, and those who represented strong and weak sides of both parties impartially. Bayle adds that the early Christian thinkers did not nearly so well follow the example of this impartiality. Those philosophers who defended paganism, however, were trapped into a defense of all the ridiculous activities of the pagans. Bayle notes that it is a truism that a philosopher submits to no human authority. The idea here is that philosophy is a free-thinking art. He adds, nonetheless, that they are inclined to adopt the religion of prudent men—what he calls eclectic religion. He notes that it is common practice to suspect that philosophers are hostile or at any • 559 ·

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rate indifferent to religion. In the article "Aristote" he remarks that the ancient Church Fathers complained of the Aristotelian sect. In the same passage he points out that "it is almost a general complaint that philosophy does injury to religion," but in his usual impartial way, he adds that "Divinity also wounds philosophy." In the article "Takiddin" he stresses that the Cartesianism and Gassendism of his day are suspected of being irreligious: "Generally speaking, the Cartesians are suspected of irreligion, and their philosophy is thought to be very dangerous to Christianity, so that, according to the opinion of a great many, the same persons, who have removed in our age the darkness which the schoolmen had spread all over Europe, have increased the number of free-thinkers, and made way for atheism, or skepticism, or disbelief in the greatest mysteries of Christianity." Bayle cites as the reason for this accusation the fact that the Cartesians carried their tenets too far in public, in contrast with the ancient philosophers, who had tenets for the vulgar and others for the disciples initiated into their mysteries. He notes that the Cartesians attempted to accommodate Descartes's principles to the doctrine of religion, but this endeavor has been "of great prejudice to his sect" and retards its progress. There has thus grown up, he finds, a situation in which religion has become harmful to philosophy and, conversely, philosophy has become harmful to religion. So opposed are they sometimes, Bayle notes, that since the sixteenth century, there has developed a tendency to ban philosophy from universities ("Hoffman"). There is a corresponding solution to the dilemma in the doctrine also proposed in the sixteenth century that a thing may be true in philosophy and false in theology. Bayle appears not to approve this notion, "for indeed nothing is more proper to introduce skepticism." For if one accepted this idea it would necessarily follow that "we cannot know truth in itself" ("Hoffman"). However, Bayle cannot refrain from recalling that Luther himself maintained ("Luther") that the proposition "The Word was made flesh" is absolutely true in divinity, and absolutely impossible and absurd in philosophy. Bayle excuses Luther's opinion, but he adds in consistent fashion: "It is much more reasonable to own that philosophical light, whose evidence hath seemed to be a sure guide to us in our judgments of things, was fallacious and illusive, and that it must be rectified by the new knowledge communicated to us by revelation." • 560 ·

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Bayle's attitude to the opposition of religion and philosophy is extraordinarily subtle. He concedes that irreligion is not only ascribed to the study of philosophy, but also to philology. He cites examples to prove that "Atheism" never began to discover itself in France till the reign of Francis I, and that the first appearance of it in Italy occurred when philological learning was revived there." He adds that "it is certain, that most of the wits and learned philologers, who shined in Italy, when the belles-lettres began to revive there after the taking of Constantinople, had but little religion." He points out that "the restoration of the learned languages, and polite literature, made way for the Reformation." His conclusion is that though the Catholics may deplore the fatal consequences of the study of good literature, the Protestants can only praise God for it. Thus, by inference, Bayle suggests that philosophy could be less dangerous to Protestantism than to Catholicism. This, however, was not his final conclusion. Returning to his characteristic position, he finds that the source of this opposition lies less in the dichotomy between religion and philosophy than in the inherent ambiguity in human reason. In "Takiddin," he wrote: In a word, so unhappy is the fate of man, that the knowledge which frees him from one evil throws him into another. Drive away ignorance and barbarity, and you put an end to superstition and the foolish credulity of the people, so profitable to their leaders, who afterwards employ their gain only to plunge themselves into idleness and debauchery; but by putting men in a capacity of discovering such disorders, you raise in them a desire for examining everything, and at last they are so much for inquiring and scanning, that they find nothing that will satisfy their miserable reason. It is unfortunate, Bayle adds, that "the same principle, which is sometimes serviceable against error, is prejudicial to truth." He insists nonetheless that it is imprudent to charge philosophers with impiety; it is indeed much better to teach that philosophy is the remedy for impiety. Much of Bayle's thinking on the conflict of philosophy and religion is conditioned by his own personal attitude toward philosophical discussions. It would be naive to overlook the fact that he was a master in the art of disputation; indeed, there are many places in the Dictionnaire where he presents his views upon the subject. In the second explanation on the Manichees, there is a typical presen• 561 ·

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tation of the rules governing disputes. To make any headway whatever in disputes, he wrote, three basic accords must be accepted: there must be an agreement upon definitions, the rules concerning the syllogism must be admitted, and the opponents must recognize the same characteristics of false reasoning. With these basic accords agreed upon, the disputants have only to examine whether a position is consistent with agreed principles, the premises are true, the consequence well-drawn, the syllogism has the necessary four terms, and Cicero's rules are not contradicted. If these points are clearly observed, one demonstrates that another's position is contradictory and his answers absurd. The aim, however, is to clear up obscurities, not to convict the opponent of contradictions and absurdity. But, adds Bayle significantly, biblical mysteries must not be submitted to this method. While it is evident that Bayle adores this type of intellectual exercise, it should be noted that he was not oblivious of its shortcomings. He wrote in the article "Euclid": "A spirit of disputation easily degenerates into a false subtlety," adding, "He who said that, by too much disputing, we lose sight of truth, was no fool." Bayle quotes Montaigne to the effect that it is disturbing to hear both sides of a question: "How many are there who enjoy a profound tranquillity in a firm belief of the doctrine of truth, who would be full of doubts if they were to hear the reasons on both sides of the question." He points out that the "spirit of Euclid" has prevailed in Christian schools since the time of Abelard, but he ventures the opinion that it has not redounded to the glory of religion or philosophy. To his rhetorical question, "What philosophical doctrines have the nominalists and realists, the Thomists and Scotists cleared ?" he answers: "They have by turns made the most contrary opinions triumph: now this is the natural consequence of this method of philosophizing." Further, this "disputing and dialectician" spirit "has passed from the chairs of the philosophers ("Euclid") into the schools of divinity, and has turned the most important points of Christian morality into problems. . . ." There is an element of loss in all controversy, too. Bayle affirms that "disputes of philosophers make both the spectators of the combat and the combatants lose the truth." Strangely enough, in spite of this skeptical attitude toward the disputations of philosophers, Bayle can never resist engaging in their favorite pastime. In the article "Chrysippus," he wrote with some • 562 ·

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warmth of the stoic who, as he said, "composed much, was very proud, and was said to often contradict himself." The philosopher of Rotterdam added that "it is a great misfortune for a sect to have a writer for their apologist, who has a vast, quick, ready, and proud wit, and who does not only aspire to the glory of a fine, but also of a fruitful pen." Still, he draws a careful pen-portrait of this kind of philosopher, and one suspects that Bayle may be talking here more about himself than about the stoic Chrysippus whom he undoubtedly admired. The main and only aim of such a writer, he begins, is to confute any adversary he undertakes to oppose. He labors more for his own reputation than for the interest of the cause. He attends chiefly to the particular thoughts which his imagination suggests to him. He regards but little whether they are agreeable to the principles of his party. He is well enough pleased if they serve to elude an objection, or to tire out his adversaries. Dazzled with his inventions, he does not see the wrong side of them. He is for a present advantage and unconcerned with things to come. He cannot avoid contradicting himself. "By this means," Bayle concludes, "he betrays the interest of his party and runs from one extreme to another." In this delineation of the philosopher, there is certainly a bit of a confession. The inveterate controversialist undoubtedly had his moments when the rigors of controversy appear almost unendurable. Although there have been many attempts to describe the structure of the Dictionnaire historique et critique, it must be admitted that none has been successful. This is understandable if we recall that Bayle used the same rambling structure in preparing his book as he claimed to have used in the conduct of his thought. Moreover, in a dictionary of the proportions of Bayle's, filled with an abundant erudition and dotted with lengthy quotations, often in Greek with Latin translations, interspersed with personal remarks and involved arguments, architectural structure becomes concealed. There has always been a suspicion that this effect was intended by Bayle, who used the confusion as a subterfuge for hiding his intentions, but nowadays this interpretation is discouraged. Even the simple explanation proffered by Bayle that he used the modest text of the articles to present the facts, and the lengthy and involved notes to the text to present his own views, has now been questioned, although without any apparent justification. •563 ·

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Bayle himself threw some light upon his intentions in the preface to the first edition. He states that his original idea was to write a dictionary on the errors he found in other compendia. He admits that he quickly abandoned this original determination because he was convinced that public taste no longer desired such a work. It is now his opinion that the discovery of errors is important neither to the prosperity of the state, nor to the welfare of individuals. In spite of this pious disclaimer, Bayle continues to note regularly the errors of Moreri as well as others, sometimes with painstaking care. He, too, confesses that he has divided his work into two parts: 'Tune purement historique, un narre succinct des faits," and "l'autre un grand commentaire, un melange de preuves et de discussions ού je fais entrer la censure de plusieurs fautes et quelquefois meme une tirade de reflexions philosophiques." I suspect that this is his ex­ planation of the words "historique et critique" in the title. Bayle explains further that he has deliberately written articles on pagan gods and heroes of paganism, of persons mentioned in the Bible, and on ecclesiastical history. These articles, he confesses, he no longer considers important since they are covered in Moreri, or Simon, or Dupin. He has, in addition, written articles on illustrious English­ men, on illustrious Hollanders, on the geography and history of Holland, on affairs of modern history, on modern history covered by Mr. Chappuzeau. These articles seemed to have had for him an unusual importance since he undertook to define their nature: "Ce qui regarde la situation des peuples, leurs moeurs, leur religion, leur gouvernement, et ce qui concerne les maisons royales, et la genealogie des grands Seigneurs," that is articles upon civilization. Finally, he promises articles on the scholars of the sixteenth century now as­ sembled by Teissier from de Thou. From these statements it can be concluded that the Dictionnaire began as a compendium of errors, with articles on paganism, bibli­ cal characters, and Church history. It was continued with the em­ phasis shifted from these subjects to articles on illustrious English­ men and Dutchmen, and on aspects of modern history, especially Dutch history. Finally, Bayle confesses that he has now concentrated upon Renaissance European scholars. Bayle offers this analysis of the articles in his Dictionnaire all the while protesting that he did not add articles which others had ex­ pected because other compilers had already done so. He also excuses • 564 ·

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himself to those who inquire why so many important subjects are lacking, or why there are to be found so many unknown subjects, or so many obscure names, or why there is so much dryness in some places and so much profusion in others. The long quotations, he explains, are necessary because many of his readers will be ill-equipped with library facilities or, being well-supplied, will be too busy or too lazy to avail themselves of them. Thus, he states, "J'ai fait en sorte qu'ils vissent en meme terns les faits historiques et les preuves de ces faits, avec un assortiment de discussions et de circonstances qui ne laissat pas a moitie chemin la curiosite." He hastens to add that he does not believe that his philosophical reflections should be censored, since they are devised merely to convince man that the best use he can make of his reason is to bend his understanding in obedience to faith. Bayle's plan is not particularly explicit. Indeed, in spite of the fact that some of the editions, especially the English translation of 1735, gave very full tables and even undertook to add the area in which each person treated had distinguished himself, there still remains much to be done in justifying his selections. The various editors of the Abreges and the Analyses, however, had to struggle more carefully with Bayle's topical division. Some of them, particularly the editor of the Analyse raisonnee of 1755, did much to reduce the confusion. For instance, the four volumes of this Analyse divided the matter into "Considerations et recherches variees," in which such subjects as history, religion, politics, men of letters, and a number of miscellaneous subjects were treated, and a history of dogmas and of opinions, in which are included the philosophies of Thales, Diogenes, Anaxagoras, Archelaus, Diagoras, Critias, Euclid, Stilton, Democritus, Pythagoras, Bion, Chrysippus, Carneades, Cratippus, Plotinus, Hierocles. These philosophies are interspersed with such ancient systems of philosophy as the system of the formation of the world taken from Ovid, the doctrines of the Cynics, atomism, the system on the origin of the gods, atheism, pyrrhonism and Epicureanism. The four volumes which were added to the Analyse raisonnee in 1770 were devoted to medieval and Renaissance philosophers and theologians, interspersed with articles upon heterodox heresies; a final section dealt with topics of special interest to Bayle. It is evident from the Analyse raisonnoe that the eighteenth-century public saw in the Dictionnaire a source of its own philosophical •565 ·

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preoccupations. It has always been stated by eighteenth-century critics that Bayle's Dictionnaire was the Bible of the eighteenth century, but the impression has been given by that assertion that the eighteenth century pursued its interests in philosophy by constant reference to the way Bayle originated and developed the major ideas of the Enlightenment. Paul Dibon and others have in recent years protested against this tendency on the part of eighteenth-century critics to make of Bayle an Enlightenment "philosophe." It must be admitted that this protest is not without some justification in the sense that treating Bayle as one of the Enlightenment "philosophes" does not bring out sufficiently well the tremendous influence he wielded as the historian of philosophy, or the fact that the Dictionnaire was the storehouse of all previous philosophical positions and attitudes, or, finally, that Bayle was the unbiased commentator of these previous philosophical systems—because the Dictionnaire is really the history of a vast movement in philosophy which reached back to the earliest times in Greek civilization and extended through Roman and Renaissance civilizations down to the magnificent philosophical era which had unfolded itself in the seventeenth century under the name of, as Bayle called it, the "new" philosophy. This aspect of Bayle's Dictionnaire has, to be sure, not been altogether neglected. Delvolve has noted his particular interest in the eleatic and pyrrhonist philosophies. In Delvolve's opinion (p. 253) this interest in skepticism gives the key to the whole philosophical criticism. Important as this insight is, we do not yet seem to have grasped the significance of Bayle's philosophical criticism. The point to stress is not that he has a particular liking for Greek skeptics and delights in setting them in opposition to all other rationalists. That does have a bearing upon the situation, in that Pascal's presentation of the struggle between the dogmatists and the pyrrhonists and his own personal affirmation—that if one is to omit the verity of the Christian religion and choose between these two philosophical systems, "Ie Pyrrhonisme est Ie vrai"—is reflected exactly by Bayle. But Bayle's interest in Greek philosophy far transcends this one conclusion. We have observed already the large number of ancient philosophers who are given a place in the Dictionnaire. Indeed, Bayle refers to them with such consistency that a very satisfactory history of ancient philosophy could be constructed by separating the articles • 566 ·

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on the ancient philosophers and arranging them in some kind of logical or chronological order. It would soon become apparent that Aristode and Plato would not tower above the others in importance. Indeed, if Bayle can be accused of favoring some ancient philosopher over others, it would be the atomists and the skeptics, I suspect, to whom he would be found most sympathetic. In the article "Ovide," for instance, Bayle takes up the problem of the eternity of matter and the derivative problem of the formation of the world. He rejects Ovid's opinion that the void was homogeneous and that it lasted an eternity. He questions whether it is logical to have recourse to the Deity to arrange in orderly fashion this chaos, because it deprives the Deity of the creation of matter, and it brings Him into the picture unnecessarily to arrange this matter when order can be given to the mass by matter itself. Bayle then undertakes to examine the explanation given by the Epicureans. He seems inclined to accept the proposition that matter is composed of infinite atoms of different shapes and endowed with the capacity of movement according to the laws of weight. The meeting of these atoms could form masses of hard bodies, fluid bodies, heat and cold, "tourbillons," etc. But chance could not produce a body such as our world, because there are many things which persist over the ages in their regularity, and many animals which are cleverly arranged machines. Bayle takes up the problem whether the letters which compose the words of the Iliad could, after an infinite number of combinations, come together to form the Iliad by chance. This was the classic example discussed by both the orthodox and the free-thinkers, and taken up by both Fenelon and Meslier. Bayle affirms that a present-day scholastic would agree that if matter always possessed the qualities it possesses now it would have been able to organize itself. He maintains that since the scholastic theologian admits this possibility, the Gassendists and the Cartesians ought to admit that movement, the situation, and the configurations of the parts of matter suffice to bring about all the natural effects. The reference to the modern philosophers leads him to a discussion of Descartes's explanation of the world's formation. Bayle notes that some accuse that philosopher of impiety while others ridicule his explanation. To the former group Bayle replies, in defense of Descartes, that if they were not ignorant they would see that nothing is more appropriate to the wisdom of God than that He should, with a few, simple laws • 567 ·

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and a conservation of movement, have created this world in a short time, while to the latter group—Bayle indicates that the outstanding critic in the group is Newton—he replies that Descartes may very well have erred in details, but that not even Newton would doubt that the creation of this universe is the effect of a small number of mechanical laws established by God. Having completed his digression, he returns to Ovid, and remarks in conclusion that he cannot accept Ovid's explanation of the pacification of the universe, since certainly very little was done to pacify man. It is evident that Bayle was led to Ovid because the problems of the eternity of matter, and of the formation of the world, were two much-discussed problems of Bayle's day. He could thus draw analogies between ancient and modern philosophy, and at the same time compare the various attitudes of some of the modern philosophers to the problems. He recalled two poems by Mme des Houlieres, "Les Moutons," and "Le Ruisseau," which express similar opinions, and concluded that he speaks of the struggle which goes on inside man without complicating it with the incessant discord existing between peoples. This pattern is very common in the articles on the ancient philosophers. Bayle's first intention is always to give an understanding of the philosopher's ideas followed by a critique of these ideas, interspersed with short general observations on the nature of pagan philosophy and a moral conclusion. Thales, for instance, endeavored to reduce all things to the principle of water. Bayle comments that Thales failed to show how water was modified to become all other things. He then mentions an erroneous opinion of Cicero and a strange affirmation of Father Thomassin which attempts to prove that the ancient philosophers, following the ancient poets, took it for granted that God was the first cause but insisted that man should search out the second causes in the interest of developing science. Bayle does not at all approve of this explanation: "Notez que les dogmes des philosophes payens etaient si mal lies, et si mal combines, que de I'hypothese de l'existence de Dieu, il ne suivoit pas que Dieu eut part a !'administration du Monde, et que de I'hypothese de sa Providence, il ne suivoit pas qu'il eut debrouille Ie Cahos, ou forme cet Univers." Antisthenes founded the strange sect of the Cynics, with their opinion that all modesty must be laid aside, and no one should blush • 568 ·

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at any natural action which nature requires. This time Bayle cited a "singuliere" thought of St. Augustine concerning them followed by a personal comment that the Cynics failed to take into account the circumstances of an act and thereby exaggerated their conduct. He concluded with a remark about the feebleness of man's reason: "Ceci soit dit pour montrer a combien d'egarements la Raison humaine peut conduire. ElIe nous a ete donnee pour nous adresser au bon chemin; mais c'est un instrument vague, voltigeant, et souple, qu'on tourne de toutes manieres comme une girouette." Bayle adds that the Christian religion can perhaps best reply to the impudence of the Cynics, although there is nothing in the Bible which seems expressly to forbid these actions. Diogenes, in spite of these views, submitted to the most rigorous practices and austerities. This time Bayle cites the strange idea of Father Garasse, who condemned Diogenes as a drunkard because he dwelt in a tub: "Jamais homme ne merita moins que Diogene d'etre accuse d'ivrognerie." Bayle then examines whether Diogenes was atheistic or no, and gives substantial reasons for believing that he was not. He then makes a general observation which extends far beyond the point under discussion: "En general on ne saurait conclure des bons mots d'un homme, s'il a interieurement quelque religion ou non; car la passion de railler est si puissante, que plutot de perdre un bon mot, tel homme qui croit en Dieu parlera comme un profane, et un profane parlera comme un homme qui croit en Dieu." Leucippus presented his theory of atomism, and this time, as is well known, Bayle is favorable to the theory. He therefore finds the objections of Lactantius foolish and recalls that Gassendi and Descartes have adopted much of the theory. It is true that they have rejected the idea of the eternity of atoms and the concept of their fortuitous unions. Otherwise, they have taken Leucippus' ideas and Democritus' explanations and have made a very beautiful system. Bayle substantiates his own opinions with those of Thomas Burnet, who maintained that the two ancient atomists were "des hommes illustres et recommendables, que leur hypothese, quoique fausse, et batie sur des fondements mauvais, n'a pas laisse d'amener par occasion une methode plus juste et plus exacte de philosopher." Bayle concedes that their ideas concerning the indivisibility of atoms, their eternal movement, their innate urge toward certain places, and their separation in the void are totally unreasonable. He adds, however, •569·

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that these are less unreasonable than many other hypotheses, and particularly not as absurd as Spinozism. He even admits that by supposing an infinite number of atoms, each distinct from all others and all endowed with an active principle, the actions and reactions of the universe can be explained. He then remarks that "en quittant Ie droit chemin, qui est Ie systeme d'un Dieu createur libre du monde, il faut necessairement tomber dans la multipliciti des principes." By granting an active principle to atoms, however, the atomists united thought with an indivisible being, and therefore removed the objection that matter can not think. Bayle adds parenthetically: "Il suffit de remarquer que les anciens fipicuriens, et nos Materialistes modernes, n'y ont jamais repondu d'une maniere raisonnable, et que si Ton pouvoit se tirer de ce mauvais pas, ce seroit en admettant des atomes animes, qui en meme temps fussent indivisibles, comme ceux de Leucippe." Finally, Bayle concludes with a comparison of some ideas of Descartes with the hypotheses of Leucippus. He states that, especially in the theory of "tourbillons" and in Descartes's important principle of mechanics, there is an accord between the French philosopher and Leucippus and Democritus, the influence being exerted upon Descartes through Kepler. Anaxagoras devoted himself entirely to the science of nature. He deemed that the sovereign good, or the principal end of man, consisted in contemplation. To follow this pursuit, he abandoned all his worldly goods, long before it became the custom with Christianity. He taught that there were hills, valleys, and inhabitants on the moon, and other interesting ideas; eyes are not capable of discerning the true colors of objects, the senses deceive, and judgment lies in the reason, not in the senses. He was the first among the Greeks to suppose that an intelligence produced the movement of matter and ordered the void. In spite of his studies, the extent of his genius, and his discoveries, he remained in great uncertainty concerning the nature of things. He thought that the soul was immortal, and that animals had a reasonable soul like man, the only difference being that men can analyze their judgments and animals cannot. Bayle concludes that, although philosophers pretend to understand the workings of nature, they are as incapable of understanding the machine of the world as peasants are of comprehending the workings of a watch: "Hs ignorent Ie plan de l'ouvrier, ses vues, ses fins, et la correspondence relative de toutes les pieces." Archelaus, Anaxagoras' •570 ·

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disciple, brought philosophy to Athens. He changed but little the ideas of his master, but, more than his predecessors, added conclusions which concerned morality: "Il soutint que les loix humaines etaient la source du bien et du mal moral." Bayle showed a strong predilection for the Greek atheists, among them Diagoras, who concluded that there is no providence, no God. He was, says Bayle, "Ie plus franc" and "Ie plus determine athee qu'on vit jamais." There was also Critias, disciple of Socrates, author of a frightful system; but Bayle finds that he was "recommendable d'ailleurs par sa noblesse, par son esprit, et par ses talents." It was he who taught that laws had no other origin than a pious fiction. Legislators supposed the existence of a providence disposed to punish all those who do evil. They thus transformed man from following the law of the strongest and established penalties for evil action. Because the penalties did not work, however, some legislator invented the idea of God to repress the actions of men. There is no need to point out that this was one of the fundamental ideas attributed to Spinoza in Bayle's time. Bayle also had a considerable interest in the dialecticians. Euclid, for example, entertained strange ideas of good, which he defined as "unique," and evil, whose existence he denied. Bayle recalls that, in modern schools of philosophy, one maintains that evil is nothing other than the privation of good. He protests against this view: "Mais a qui les Megariens, et leurs semblables, persuaderont-ils que les maladies, les chagrins, les vices, et toutes les autres choses contraires au bien, sont des chimeres qui n'ont aucune existence ?" Euclid also developed a strange method of debating, since he neglected to draw methodical consequences from principles. There is nothing, remarked Bayle, more calculated to embarrass an adversary, but he added there is a drawback, since this dialectical method serves only to inspire doubt and leads to pyrrhonism. The same can be said of "nos dialecticiens modernes," who have done nothing more than multiply doubts. Unfortunately, this manner of reasoning has passed from the chairs of philosophy to the audiences of theology "et il a rendu problematiques les plus grands points de la morale chretienne." The modern casuists have thus upset every moral dogma, so that the only way to regain some certainty is to "s'attacher a la simplicite de l'ficriture." Bayle shows the highest regard for Arcesilas, who was "fort op•571 ·

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pose aux dogmatistes." He affirmed nothing, he doubted everything, he discussed the pros and cons of everything, and constantly suspended his judgment. Bayle asserted that "l'entreprise de combattre toutes les sciences, et de rejetter, non seulement Ie temoignage des sens, mais aussi Ie temoignage de la raison, est la plus hardie qu'on puisse former dans la Republique des Lettres." The great danger in the affirmation of skepticism, though, lies in the injury which it may do to morality. Bayle, however, remarks that in pyrrhonism there was something favorable to virtue, because although skeptics admitted nothing real, they did not fail to teach that in the practice of life one should conform to appearances, that is to say, custom. Moreover, Bayle adds, "Ie vrai principe de nos mceurs est si peu dans les jugements speculatifs que nous formons sur la nature des choses, qu'il n'est rien de plus ordinaire que des Chretiens orthodoxes qui vivent mal, et que des libertins d'esprit qui vivent bien." Another Greek philosopher whom he treated at great length in the Dictionnaire was Xenophanes, founder of the Eleatic sect, who held a view of God which, said Bayle, scarcely differed from Spinoza's. He admitted an intelligence and said that the infinite was God. He also insisted that there is only one God, immutable, eternal, and "Ie vrai Dieu." Eusebius stated that Xenophanes held that God sees and understands everything in general, but not this or that in particular. This, adds Bayle, sounds very much like Spinoza, "car Spinoza soutenait que Dieu, en tant que substance, n'est doue de la pensee qu'en general, et que les connoissances particulieres de chaque objet ne se reunissent pas dans un seul entendement, pour representor toutes choses a la substance universelle." He also believed in the multiplicity of worlds, but the basis of his dogmas was "l'unite et l'immobilite de toutes choses." Bayle adds that it was on the basis of this fundamental thought that the skeptics assured that our senses deceive us. The important part of the doctrine lies in the immutability of the Deity. Bayle asserts that this doctrine of Xenophanes is even more dangerous than Spinoza's, because Spinoza, in the theory of modalities, admits a mutability and a corruptibility which he attributes to the divine nature. This admission is so absurd that the danger of accepting Spinoza's ideas on the unique substance is greatly lessened. But the absolute immutability which Xenophanes attributes to the infinite, eternal Being, is a dogma "de la plus pure Theologie." Bayle confesses here that it is difficult to understand why so many • 572 ·

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philosophers have believed that there is only one unique substance in the universe, but once that principle is accepted, it is logical to insist upon its immutability. Bayle saw in Xenophanes the most perfect pyrrhonist because of his dogma of unity and immutability. He taught that nothing can be made of nothing, that is, as Bayle explained, that a thing which has not always existed can never exist. He concluded therefrom that what is has always been, and what has always been is eternal. What is eternal is infinite, and what is infinite is unique. Therefore this unique, eternal, and infinite being must be immobile and immutable. Bayle comments that orthodox theologians would deny that nothing can have a beginning, but they would grant the rest. They teach that God is subject to no change. As for Xenophanes, his system led inevitably, says Bayle, to the assertion that not only our senses deceive us, but our reason also. This led to anti-dogmatism. Thus the anti-dogmatists came to their system of incomprehensibility not because they knew nothing but through knowing things much better than others knew them. Thereupon Bayle adds a remark which is a bit overwhelming: "Il est a observer que les Chretiens a l'egard des dogmes purement speculatifs de la religion, ne s'eloignent pas du systeme de l'incomprehensibilite, et qu'ils regardent avec horreur quiconque refuse de croire ce qui surpasse la raison humaine." Bayle adds further that even the Socinians, in certain respects, are also acataleptics; they could not sincerely say that a nature which exists of itself is mutable. They therefore conclude that a being which exists necessarily and from eternity is destructible, which is entirely against our ideas. After this involved reasoning, Bayle concludes that "Ie meilleur parti que notre raison puisse prendre, est de dire que tout hormis Dieu a commence." His final remark is that the evidence of Xenophanes' principles provides a clear demonstration against Spinoza. It has been said that Xenophanes thought that the good in nature surpassed the evil. This remark leads Bayle to declare that in spite of Christian repugnance to the doctrine of two principles, Christian theologians have always ascribed a second principle to account for moral evil, and there is thus a struggle going on over men between the forces of good and those of evil: "Or telle est l'infortune des hommes et Ie secret impenetrable des jugements de Dieu, qu'en parcourant I'histoire du monde, nous ne trouvons que peu de triomphes de Jesus-Christ, et nous rencontrons partout les trophees du Demon." • 573 ·

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Zeno is another of the Greeks who attracted the attention of Bayle. He was said to be a great dialectician, even to have invented dialectics. Bayle notes that he made ill use of his invention, "car il ne s'en servoit que pour disputer contre tout venant, et pour renverser toutes sortes d'opinions, sans en adopter aucune." As for his ideas, Bayle states that they were the same as those of Xenophanes and Parmenides concerning unity, incomprehensibility, and the immutability of all things. Bayle details at some length Zeno's arguments against movement, using his famous "time's arrow" and the equally famous argument known as "Achilles." The idea which seemed to attract Bayle's serious attention, however, concerned the non-existence of extension. Bayle presents these arguments in some detail, adding difficulties of his own. He notes that the new philosophers have understood well that sounds, odors, colors, heat, cold, hardness and softness, heaviness and lightness, and tastes are perceptions of our soul and do not exist in the objects of our senses. Why then should extension have a reality? Bayle terminates his own argument, which has by now far outstripped Zeno's, by asserting that there are geometrical reasons for disbelieving in extension, or rather that it exists only in our understanding. At this point, the whole essay seems to have been constructed for the remark: "Il est sur que jusqu'ici on n'a point trouve de definition raisonnable du mouvement. Celle d'Aristote est absurde; celle de M. Descartes est pitoyable." Bayle's final conclusion is worthy of Zeno's: Tout ce qu'ils peuvent dire aboutit done a expliquer Ie mouvement apparent, e'est-a-dire, a expliquer les circonstances qui nous font juger qu'un corps se meut, et qu'un autre ne se meut pas. Cette peine est inutile; chacun est capable de juger des apparences. La question est d'expliquer la nature meme des choses qui sont hors de nous; et puisqu'a cet egard Ie mouvement est inexplicable, autant vaudroit-il dire qu'il n'existe pas hors de notre esprit. More important, however, than Bayle's transposing the problem of Zeno to contemporary Cartesianism, and his ardent defense of Zeno's position even to the point of increasing Zeno's arguments against the concept of extent, is his attitude toward the whole discussion. "Si je jugeois de lui par moi-meme," he wrote, "j'assurerois qu'il croyoit, tout comme les autres, Ie mouvement et l'etendue; car encore que je me sente tres-incapable de resoudre toutes les difficultes qu'on vient •574 ·

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de voir, et qu'il me semble que les Reponses philosophiques qu'on y peut faire sont peu solides, je ne laisse pas de suivre l'opinion com­ mune." This attitude, which recalls Montaigne's in the Apologie as well as Descartes's in the Discours, is defended not because it up­ sets Cartesianism, and certainly not because it reinstates the full force of skepticism, but because of its utility in the field of religion: "Je suis meme persuade que l'exposition de ces arguments peut avoir de grands usages par rapport a la religion, et je dis ici a l'egard des difficultes du mouvement, ce qu'a dit M. Nicolle sur celles de la divisi­ bility a l'infini."" Having shown how difficult it is to prove the existence of move­ ment, Bayle turned to the correlative problem of the existence of the vacuum. This time he does not seek his argument in Zeno, but rather infers what his argument must have been: if there were move­ ment, there would of necessity be a vacuum; but there is no vacuum; therefore there is no movement. Bayle recalls Newton's position that denying the vacuum is to deny an absolutely proven fact. Thereupon Bayle argues that mathematics, having proved the existence of the vacuum, proves something contrary to the most evident notions of the human mind, since extension is the one thing about which we have a clear and distinct idea and which is known by its attributes of divisibility, mobility, and impenetrability. If these ideas are false, deceiving, illusory, says Bayle, every notion must be only a "vain fantome." Try as hard as we can, it is impossible to conceive of an extension which is indivisible, immobile, and penetrable, and yet that would be necessary in order that a vacuum be possible. Bayle adds here, "Ce n'est pas une petite difficulte, que d'etre contraint d'admettre l'existence d'une nature dont on n'a aucune idee, et qui 17

Bayle then quotes from the Art de penser, IV, ι: "L'utilite que Ton peut tirer de ces speculations n'est pas simplement d'acquerir ces connoissances, qui sont d'elles-memes assez steriles: mais c'est d'apprendre a connoitre les bornes de notre esprit et a lui faire avouer, malgre qu'il en est, qu'il y a des choses qui sont, quoiqu'il ne soit pas capable de les comprendre; et c'est pourquoi il est bon de Ie fatiguer a ces subtilitds, afin de dompter sa presomption, et de lui oter la hardiesse d'opposer jamais ses foibles lumieres aux verites que l'Eglise lui propose, sous pretexte qu'il ne les peut pas comprendre; car puisque toute la vigueur de l'esprit des hommes est contrainte de succomber au plus petit atome de la matiere, et d'avouer qu'il voit clairement qu'il est infiniment divisible, sans pouvoir comprendre comment cela se peut faire, n'est-ce pas pecher visiblement contre la raison, que de refuser de croire les effets merveilleux de la toute-puissance de Dieu, qui est d'elle-meme incompre­ hensible, par cette raison que notre esprit ne les peut comprendre."

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repugne aux idees les plus claires que Ton ait." But there are other difficulties. In a vacuum, this immobile, indivisible, penetrable extension, are we confronting a substance, or a mode? If it is a mode, we ought to be able to define it, and that we cannot do. If it is a substance, is it created or uncreated ? It cannot be created, or it can perish, and it is absurd that space distinct from bodies be destroyed and the bodies remain distant from each other. If uncreated, it would have to be God. Bayle wrote: "Le dernier parti est une impiete formelle, l'autre est pour Ie moins une impiete materielle." God would cease being an "etre simple," immutable and infinite; He would become an aggregation of beings. He would become identified with the material world, which in the Cartesian hypothesis has a limitless extension. As for those who maintain that God can be extension without being material or corporeal, they have already been refuted by Arnauld. Nor can one escape by pretending that the vacuum is nothing, since it represents a mere privation. Bayle remarks that Gassendi has been careful not to have recourse to a hypothesis so absurd, and that Locke, realizing he cannot define the vacuum, has none the less stated that it is something positive. M. Hartsoeker has declared that there can be no vacuum in nature because it is absolutely contradictory to conceive of a pure nothing with the properties of something real. Bayle uses all this argumentation not to confound the physicists of his time but to refute those who say that space is nothing else than the immensity of God. He concludes that, at the present time, Zeno would have a field day: "On ne saurait douter," Bayle makes him say, "que si tout est plein, Ie mouvement ne soit impossible." Bayle notes that Locke, after long meditation on the difficulty, finally confessed that he did not know what the vacuum is, and admitted his inability to answer the questions of the Cartesians except by questions which are more obscure still. Once again, we see an ancient philosopher evoked as a parallel to the philosophical problems which were being proposed in Bayle's day. Democritus is utilized for the same purposes. It was he who gave a soul to atoms, thus avoiding the issue of thinking matter; he also furnished to the skeptics the rejection of the senses. He even went so far as to say that the only realities were the atoms and the vacuum. The Cartesians have adopted much of this doctrine, though not the • 576 ·

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vacuum. But most important of all, Democritus gave the name of God to the images which objects imprint upon our soul. We are now in a position to reach a conclusion as to Bayle's treatment of the atomists, the atheists, and the skeptics. The general pattern he follows in these articles consists in more than merely attempting to give a summary of the philosophical system of each. He also ordinarily gives the opinion of some Church Father or some one of his contemporary theologians concerning the solidity of this particular ancient system. He further shows that there are parts of the ancient system which recall one of the contemporary seventeenth-century systems. Through this arrangement, Bayle was able not only to give an apergu of each outstanding Greek philosophy, which is what we would expect the Dictionnaire to do; he was also in a position to discuss in the case of each Greek philosopher the perennial questions of philosophy which he treated. Furthermore, by his tendency to introduce into the presentation of this philosophy the critical attitude of some Church Father or subsequent theologian, Bayle was prepared to suggest that there was an intimate connection and some contradiction between the principles of theology and the ancient principles of philosophy. Finally, when it was possible, Bayle never failed to call attention to an analogy between the philosophical preoccupations of the ancient Greeks and those of the "new" philosophy. In this way, he not only wrote a history of Greek philosophy, but also indirectly provided a critique of this philosophy, at the same time underlining the close relationship between the ancient and the modern, implying that the criticism directed at the ancient had lost none of its validity in connection with the modern. Thus, under guise of offering a commentary of ancient philosophers, he was in a position to record that the problems of philosophy are perennial, that they often run counter to the problems of theology, that philosophers are constantly returning to them to undertake a fresh solution and are constantly raising additional problems, and, finally, that the experience of this constant search for truth through the use of the human mind leads to some very important moral conclusions regarding the nature of man and his relations with all the aspects of his world. It should not be assumed that Bayle limited himself to the atomists and the pyrrhonists, although he found much interest in their philos•577 ·

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ophies. In accord with the traditional thought of his time, he gave much attention to Epicurus and the epicureans. He notes that it was Epicurus who gave the widest circulation to the system of atoms, although he was not the inventor. As he took it from Leucippus, he gave it a different interpretation, not always, said Bayle, for the better. Bayle disapproved his rejection of Democritus' ideas concerning the soul of atoms: "Pretendre qu'un assemblage d'atomes inanimes peut former une ame, et envoyer des images qui nous donnent des pensees, c'est se payer d'une hypothese plus confuse que Ie Cahos d'Hesiode." On second thought Bayle finds that "on conceit sans peine, que leurs divers assemblages forment diverses especes d'etres animes, diverses manieres de sentiments, diverses combinaisons de pensees." Moreover, he adds, it is no more unreasonable to suppose that they are animated than that they move of themselves. Bayle has more sympathy with Epicurus' doctrine of happiness, or the sovereign good, which he calls a very reasonable doctrine, although he notes that it was often badly interpreted and led to evil consequences. Although the Stoics accused Epicurus of destroying the cult of God and of plunging man into debauchery, he replied with moderation: he explained his opinions clearly, composed books of devotion, exhorted man to piety, to sobriety, to temperance, and himself practiced these virtues. In spite of his obvious regard for virtue, there circulated many stories of his debauches. But, says Bayle, if ever man has received justice after having been unjustly accused, it is Epicurus, whose practical and speculative morality has rallied so many illustrious thinkers to his defense. Among the stoutest of these defenders Bayle mentions Gassendi, who has gathered up all the fragments of the Epicurean doctrine: "Son ouvrage est un chefd'oeuvre, et je ne crois pas qu'on puisse faire un recueil, dont l'ordonnance soit plus belle et plus judicieuse." Bayle concedes that, in spite of his views on religion, Epicurus conducted himself with circumspection in the practice of religion. To explain why, with such an excellent morality, the epicureans have always been considered so infamous, Bayle suggests that this was due to the stoics, who practiced the austerity of the present-day "devots." While Epicurus paid the proper respects to the deities, however, his ideas on the nature of God constituted an enormous impiety, says Bayle, who explains that this impiety derives logically from the pagan error of the eternal existence of matter. The result was that those who accepted this first •578 ·

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premiss were highly logical in denying providence. Indeed, adds Bayle, the system of the Scriptures is the only one which has established firmly the doctrine of providence and the perfection of God. Bayle's conclusions are extraordinarily orthodox: Concluons que c'est rendre un service utile a la vraie Religion, que d'exposer dans tout leur jour, les absurdites qu'entraine la doctrine de 1'eternite de la matiere, et de faire voir en particulier qu'elle detruit la Providence divine. On prouve par ce moyen la necessite, la verite, et la certitude de la creation: je suis sur que tous les raisonnements que j'ai etales ci-dessus seroient avoues du P. Mallebranche; car il enseigne dans sa neuvieme Meditation, qu'il n'y auroit point de Providence, si Dieu n'avoit point cree la matiere. Bayle's practice of writing articles on the ancient philosophers is not at all an antiquarian's curiosity, nor is it, in all probability, an attempt on his part to supply to his reading public material which satisfied an intellectual interest. He must have sensed that his audience would have felt toward these Greeks an attraction transcending any mere erudite curiosity. There was, however, a totally different reason which led him to stress their importance. With that inevitable feeling that "nihil novi sub sole" which any erudite scholar is likely to acquire without being aware of his inherent conservatism, Bayle realized that much in the "new" philosophy was not new at all: it was to a very considerable extent present somewhere in Greek philosophy. What was novel about it was the way it had been cast in a "new" setting. Hence all his analogies between Descartes and Democritus, the pyrrhonists and the Cartesians, Spinoza and Straton, etc. It is true that Bayle does not limit these analogies to the Greeks, but finds them also among the Italian thinkers of the Renaissance (Bruno, Pomponazzi, etc.). The conviction is almost unescapable that his ultimate objective is to prove the consistency of philosophy in all epochs. Philosophy's problems (the existence of God, the origin of evil, the souls of animals, the nature of Providence, the nature of evidence) are perennial. The way in which they were treated by the early Greeks is not dissimilar from their treatment in Bayle's day. The Eleatics, who denied the force of experience, and the pyrrhonists, who denied the force of rational truth, resemble Descartes and Gassendi. The world is always divided between the dogmatists and the skeptics, as well as between the mystics and the realists. Bayle's • 579 ·

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identification of the past philosophy is built upon a broader basis, though, than the struggle between the dogmatists and the skeptics. The stoics, enemies of the skeptics, appeared to him to represent the authentic orthodox sect of antiquity. It should be added, in conclusion, that Bayle's articles taken together constitute a history of thought. Seen in this perspective they offer the "history of the human mind" as its powers were developed from antiquity through the Middle Ages to modern times. The desire to relate the history of the human mind became, in time, the primary objective of Voltaire's histories, but it was an avowed purpose of Bayle in his defense of the Dictionnaire. The concept was expressed by Fontenelle as well as by Bayle before it became a literal obsession with Voltaire. In a way, it revealed how the humanism of the Renaissance had evolved into a "new" humanism. Thus modern criticism, having lost sight of this historical evolution of humanism, has experienced some difficulty both in clarifying the structure of Bayle's thought and in interpreting his intentions, with the result that at the moment he is regarded by some as an outstanding eighteenth-century "philosophe," and by others as a defender of the orthodox Christian religion whose position is not so very different from Pascal's, while still others, despairing of ever attaining Bayle's secret opinions, are content to see in him the example of the perfect skeptic. In addition, there are those who endeavor to interpret his diffuseness, his rambling, and his digressions as a diabolical method designed to conceal his real subversive motives, while still others, who grant some plausibility to this subterfuge, try to bring out his intense interest in positivistic facts. At the present moment, according to which works of Bayle are read and how they are read, it is possible to regard the recluse of Rotterdam as an orthodox Protestant CaIvinist, a sly and slippery free-thinker, a skeptical unbeliever, a fideist, a disillusioned rationalist, or the most confirmed rationalist of a long line of rationalists. One of the very disconcerting things about this situation is that, in spite of the fact that many of these opinions are mutually exclusive, Bayle's works in their abundance offer much evidence to justify any of them. Since he has always, with Fontenelle, been regarded as the founder of eighteenth-century Enlightenment, and since, whether he desired it or no, his influence throughout the century, or at least until 1755, was undoubtedly great, it is not comforting to see in him so many chameleon-like tendencies when one is prepared to recognize only one. The impression could easily grow • 580 ·

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that Bayle is lacking in perspective, or that Baylean criticism is lacking in it, or that there is no proper way of dealing with so enigmatic a character. That last impression would never do, of course, since it would be embarrassing if the founder of the Enlightenment turned out to be merely confused. Indeed, it would be more embarrassing still if he turned out not to have been its founder. These two possibilities will not, I dare say, eventuate. Besides, although we have difficulties in coming to a fixed opinion concerning what kind of thinker Bayle was, we have a fair number of eighteenth-century documents which express no such hesitation. A better explanation for the diversity of his thought and the multiple directions of his intentions could perhaps be found in the way free-thought and philosophy were merging. Bayle could thus be characterized as a free-thinking philosopher well on his way toward becoming a "philosophe." It can hardly be affirmed that he went unnoticed or unappreciated in the eighteenth century. De Marsy's statement in the Analyse de Bayle (I, vi): "Le Dictionnaire historique et critique de Bayle est l'ouvrage Ie plus agreable, Ie plus savant, et sans contredit Ie plus celebre de notre siecle. Sa reputation est si solidement etablie, qu'un eloge de plus n'ajouterait rien a sa gloire," could undoubtedly be reechoed many times throughout the century. So could De Marsy's opinion as to the defect of this dictionary (I, x ) : . . . quel desordre ne trouve-t-on dans cette collection? Tous les objets y sont confondus: 1'auteur ne distingue ni les temps, ni les lieux, il mele indifferemment 1'histoire et la fable, les anecdotes sacrees et les evenements prophanes. On rencontre dans la meme page la vie d'un Guerrier et l'eloge d'un savant, un systeme de Religion et une historiette galante, l'article d'un Patriarche et celui d'une courtisanne. Quel melange! Quel chaos! Needless to say, De Marsy was endeavoring to justify his own Analyse, but the fact that there were numerous "abreges" of this sort offers mute testimony to the diffuseness, the disorder, and the confusion of the original, as well as some evidence that, depending upon what one is seeking, he is likely to find it stored in Bayle's Dictionnaire™ 18

VoI. V of De Marsy's Abrege takes up, in the Preface (p. clxxx), Bayle's tendency to present arguments against some of the fundamental dogmas of religion. This item shows that even in the eighteenth century there was some doubt whether Bayle was attacking or defending the Christian Religion. The Preface

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It is, however, stored away, and depending upon whether one is astute enough to organize the material into component parts or totally indifferent to its organization, Bayle will always appear, as he called himself, a "questionneur facheux," a historian, a philosopher, a theologian of sorts, a moralist, etc. This is probably as it should be, but it does not unify Bayle's position of thought, nor does it do much to clarify this intention. It is nonetheless a fascinating game to attempt to put some order in the Dictionnaire. De Marsy thought he could distinguish a category of "considerations et recherches," a second category of "histoire des dogmes et des opinions." The first division does not seem to have any special importance; at best it consists in erudition of a historical nature, which appears anywhere in the articles, and remarks based on Bayle's personal attitudes, also likely to turn up anywhere. It would be very difficult to wring from them other than a quality of the author's mind, not, I think, a direction of his intentions. The second division, on the contrary, seems to have a distinct reality. If pursued with extreme care and allowance for Bayle's well-known tendency to get off the track, it will be seen that he has a proportionate number of articles given to the Greek philosophers {Analyse: I, xxiii: "Hs contiennent l'exposition d'un grand nombre de systemes, en matiere de philosophie et de religion; I'Atomisme, Ie Cynisme, Ie Pyrhonnisme, et tant d'autres dogmes moraux et physiques des anciens philosophes") in which are treated the main subjects of philosophy discussed by the Greeks in the three correlated fields of religion, morality, and physics; some Roman philosophers (Ovid, Cicero, Lucretius, etc.), but mainly in their relations with Greek philosophy; some medieval philosophers (Abelard, etc.), also mainly in their relationship with Greek philosophy; some medieval philosophers who establish a link (Averroes, etc.) between the ancient philosophers and the modern philosophers whom Bayle will call the "new" philosophers; some heterodox religious thinkers of the middle ages and the early Renaissance (Manes, concludes: "Quelles consequences peut-on tirer contre sa Religion, de ce qu'il a rapporte, dans son Dictionnaire, les difficultes qu'on peut faire sur quelques dogmes importants? Les loix de la dispute ne demandoient-elles pas qu'il alleguat fidelement Ie pour et Ie contre? Tandis que les uns l'ont accuse de vouloir detruire ces dogmes, d'autres ont trouve que les raisons qu'il rapporte en leur faveur sont plus fortes que celles qu'il leur oppose, et qu'il raisonne avec beaucoup plus de force et d'evidence, lorsqu'il s'agit d'etablir !'existence de Dieu; que quand il propose les difficultes qu'il a pretees a Simonide contre cette verite. Voila comme les esprits diff&ents jugent diffcremment des plus grands homines."

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Socinus, Marcion, etc.); some Paduan philosophers (Pomponazzi, Bruno, etc.); a whole line of free-thinkers, who derive from and have something in common with the whole of pagan philosophy, or who have some affiliation with the Paduans, but especially Montaigne, Charron, Naude, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Patin, and Cyrano; the whole line of seventeenth-century philosophers, but especially Gassendi and Descartes, Leibniz and Spinoza, Malebranche and Locke, who are frequently compared in their ideas with the pagan philosophers. We have already spoken of turning the articles of the Dictionnaire into a history of philosophy. It would really be more appropriate to turn them into a history of ideas in which would stand out Greek philosophy, medieval Christian philosophy, Renaissance Paduanism, Protestantism, Renaissance and seventeenth-century freethinking, and seventeenth-century philosophy and science. Seen in this perspective, Bayle would be the very first of our modern historians of ideas.19 Since the present way of looking at the origins of the eighteenth century is to go back to the Paduan School, with its emphasis upon rationalism as opposed to revelation, and trace this rationalism, as it was developed by the free-thinkers on the one hand and the philosophers on the other in their clash with the apologists of the Christian religion, down to Bayle and Fontenelle, it would perhaps not be amiss to analyze Bayle's treatment of Pomponazzi, his intellectual ancestor. Bayle begins by remarking that the Italian's treatise De Immortcditate as well as the De Incantationibus were considered dangerous works. He notes that Pomponazzi's interpretation of miraculous effects, which he attributes to the stars, making both laws and religions depend upon them, has always been regarded with suspicion. More shocking, though, is Pomponazzi's statement that cures produced by relics are no surer than those produced by the bones of a dog: that all one needs is confidence that he will be cured, and the result will be the same in both cases. Bayle comments that "cette pensee, qui est d'abord revoltante, pourroit recevoir un assez bon tour suivant 19

Cf. De Marsy: I, xxiii: ". . . et tant d'autres dogmes moraux et physiques des anciens philosophes; avec les Opinions de quelques Modernes, et des particularites tres-intdressantes concernant la vie, Ie caractere, et les moeurs des uns et des autres. Les systemes de Religion suivent immediatement; ils comprennent non-seulement les dogmes de ces hardis legislateurs, qui ont introduit dans Ie monde de nouveaux cultes, ou altere les cultes dominants, tels qu'Arius, Manes, Mahomet, etc., mais une infinite de details sur d'autres sectes moins connues, sur les Religions etrangeres, sur les sentiments heterodoxes, et les visions fantastiques de quelques enthousiastes."

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1'hypothese de certains controversistes de l'Eglise Romaine, qui ne pouvant nier que des reliques supposees n'ayent opere quelquefois des guerisons surprenantes, disent que la bonne intention de ceux qui y recouroient a obtenu de Dieu cette recompense." Irony, on Bayle's part, some will say, but how can we tell ? Bayle states further that Pomponazzi was accused of atheism by one of his disciples, while many Catholics and some Protestants have accused him of irreligion. In addition to his traducers, though, he has his defenders. Bayle, observing that he "fit une fin assez Chretienne," quoted his epitaph, which he judged more skeptical than edifying, and stated that the Cardinal of Ferrera gave him honorable burial. He recalled that his De lmmortalitate and the De lncantationibus were said to have been condemned, but expressed doubt that such was the case. At all events he openly and clearly declared that "si les accusations d'impiete et d'atheisme, dont on a charge Pomponace, n'eurent d'autre fondement que son livre de l'immortalite de l'ame, il n'y eut querelle plus impertinente que celle-ci, ni qui soit une marque plus expresse de l'entetement inique des persecutions des philosophes." Because, said Bayle, in his treatise, he has not expressed any doubt that the soul is immortal; he has rather maintained that it is a very certain dogma, of which he was firmly convinced. He merely asserted that the natural reasons which have been given to support this dogma are neither solid nor convincing, and that Aristotle's in particular lead to the belief that the soul is mortal. Bayle recalled Paul Jove's remark that Pomponazzi, having undertaken to prove that, according to the opinions of Aristotle, the soul of man is not immortal, was responsible for a most pernicious doctrine capable of corrupting the youth and upsetting Christian morality, and was consequently persecuted by the monks. To this judgment, Bayle took violent exception, remarking that the Italian merely took Aristotle's hypothesis concerning the soul, pointed out its strong and weak points, weighed them with care, and concluded that Aristotle gave no true demonstration of the immortality of the soul, nor even of its mortality. He then examined the Bible, found that in the word of God there is ample evidence that there is a future life, and declared that he established his faith upon that word. It is thus unfair, maintained Bayle, to condemn Pomponazzi for establishing his opinion upon faith. If this case is taken as a prece• 584 ·

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dent, one would have to affirm that all the theologians cast doubt upon the Trinity, the Incarnation, Transubstantiation, the Resurrection, and in general all the dogmas which depend upon Revelation for their truth without any suggestion that our natural lights can substantiate them. Can it be, Bayle inquired, that the word of God is not capable of persuading us to believe in the immortality of the soul ? Nor is it certain, he continued, that the denial of immortality leads to the ruin of morals, because if one examines the behavior of Christians, "leurs impudicit.es, leurs fourberies, et tout ce qu'ils font ou pour gagner de l'argent, ou pour obtenir des charges, ou pour supplanter leurs concurrents, on trouvera qu'ils ne sauraient etre plus deregles, quand meme ils ne croiroient point une autre vie." They, like all malefactors, cease their evil deeds only to avoid public infamy or to escape the public hangman; but, said Bayle, this requires another full treatise. Bayle insisted that the accusation against Pomponazzi is very unjust. First of all, to maintain that the principles of Aristotle lead to the belief in the mortality of the soul, is, if incorrect, only a personal injury, not an impiety. Moreover, many others before Pomponazzi said the same thing. No impiety is involved, indeed, in affirming that Aristotle's whole system, "tel qu'il a plu aux Scholastiques de l'expliquer, et tel qu'on l'explique encore dans les Colleges et dans les Academies," is incapable of proving the immortality of the soul. One should also remember that, in Pomponazzi's day, the only philosophical principle recognized was Aristotle's; consequently, rejecting Aristotle's principles was tantamount to saying that one cannot prove by philosophical reasons the immortality of the soul. In fact, stated Bayle, only Cartesianism has laid down solid principles on this matter. Any Cartesian would consequently have the right to say that the principles of the old philosophy were inadequate to prove the immortality of the soul, and without being in the least impious. Then why should one accuse Pomponazzi, who could not know Descartes's system—unless one wishes to accuse him of not having invented Cartesianism? Moreover, even if he had rejected that everything which thinks is distinct from matter, he would be doing what a lot of theologians are now doing who back up this rejection in citing the authority of Scripture. It is here that Bayle made his major point: "Enfin, je remarque • 585 ·

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qu'il n'y a point de conduite plus indigne d'un theologien, que d'accuser d'impiete un Philosophe, qui declare que pour delivrer notre esprit des incertitudes ou la raison naturelle Ie feroit flotter, il faut Ie conduire a la parole de Dieu, et lui donner la Ie fondement veritable et les preuves tres-certaines de l'immortalite de notre ame." Bayle further commended the Cartesians who, although they have philosophical reasons for their belief, nonetheless urge their followers to have recourse to faith, i.e., to rest their case on the authority of God, "Ie veritable remede de nos incertitudes, et Ie supplement infaillible des obscurites de notre raison." The Cartesians are very wise to counsel this move, Bayle asserted, precisely because Gassendi used all his intelligence to undermine Descartes's reasoning on the immortality of the soul and thereby produced many unbelievers in Naples. "C'est une preuve que Ie principe n'est pas evident pour tout Ie monde," Bayle concluded. Besides, non-philosophers, seeing that two very superior philosophers cannot agree upon the matter, would not know which way to turn. What could they do ? Simply, said Bayle, follow the counsel of Descartes, turn to Revelation as Pomponazzi did. Hence, if Cartesians had any criticism to offer against Pomponazzi, it would be as philosophers, not as Christians. They could, as philosophers, regard him as heterodox; as Christians, they would consider him entirely orthodox. In fact, the persuasion which is founded on the lights of nature should be considered as something the possession of which is not disadvantageous, but whose lack is not a great misfortune: C'est un avantage que de pouvoir concilier la foi avec les principes des philosophes; c'est un bien qu'on ne doit point negliger, et que l'on doit faire profiter autant que l'on peut; mais il faut etre toujours tresresigne a Ie perdre sans regret, lorsqu'on ne peut pas l'etendre jusqu'aux doctrines, ou il ne sauroit atteindre, et qui par !'essence du mystere sont au-dessus de la portee de notre raison. That is what real Christians should do, insofar as regards philosophical reasons. If, after having proved some point of dogma by revelation, one finds that the arguments of reason go against that point of dogma, one lets them go and wraps himself in his faith. It would be unjust to pretend that a Christian needs to be reassured by reason that his soul is immortal: "Dans un acte de foi on n'a nul egard aux lumieres de la nature, on les met a part et l'on ne se fonde que sur la veracite de Dieu." • 586 ·

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Bayle recalled that Locke was caught in just about the same position as Pomponazzi in his discussion with Stillingfleet. Bayle gave a summary of Locke's argument, which in substance is his own position. If God promises something, according to Stillingfleet, His promise becomes believable if the human reason can prove that it is true; but if the human reason cannot prove that it is true, it becomes thereby less believable. That means that trust in God is not sufficiently firm and sure for man to depend upon it without the support of reason, and that His promises cannot be given credence unless one can be persuaded by reason of their credibility. Bayle then takes up Le Noble's remarks on Pomponazzi's two apologies of his treatise, in which the latter took the position that the Resurrection of the Saviour proves the resurrection of ourselves, and if we are resurrected, it is certain that our soul is immortal. Bayle, who had not seen the two defenses of the Italian philosopher, did not state what his position is in these supplements. But he maintained that in the treatise itself, he means "qu'un Chretien, qui cherche d'autre appui que l'autorite de Dieu, parce qu'il ne trouve point que la foi, sans Ie secours de la lumiere naturelle, Ie garantisse de l'incertitude, outrage la foi, et se comporte d'une maniere indigne d'un vrai Chretien." In this way Bayle revived the issue whether Pomponazzi deserved the name of heretic and unbeliever. The problem is really whether a Christian needs philosophical reasons to support Revelation. Bayle judged that those who experience this need cannot be true Christians, and that Pomponazzi, if he defended himself in this way, was wrongly censured. Finally, Bayle examined the notion that to accept the mortality of the soul leads men to all sorts of crimes. He believed with Pomponazzi that men naturally want to be happy and avoid misery. To show them that happiness and virtue consist in the practice of good, and misery in the practice of evil, suffices to turn them from evil. Bayle seemed even to approve the thought that criminals should be persuaded that the soul is immortal as a means of repressing their evil tendencies. He conceded, though, that "ce sont de pauvres solutions." One would expect, after this justification of the sixteenth-century Paduan, that Bayle could only conclude that Revelation is the single solid proof of immortality, and that there are no solid philosophical proofs. He could even say that a true Christian does not need philosophical proofs, and if he demands them to support Revelation, he • 587 ·

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is no true Christian. This is certainly the sense of Bayle's argument here. If one adds, however, remark "I" in the article "Perrot d'Ablancourt," the whole argument seems to crumble: Au reste, ii faut convenir d'une chose; c'est qu'on peut se servir avantageusement de l'opinion que notre philosophe a combattue; et en general on doit louer et encourager les philosophes qui s'attachent a fortifier les raisons humaines de l'immortalite de l'ame. L'hypothese attaquee par Pomponace est au fond fort utile a la Religion, et on peut l'employer contre certains libertins qui veulent voir avant que de croire, et qui meprisent les raisons obscures des Theologiens. Il n'y a rien de plus propre a ramener ces gens-la, que de les convaincre de l'immortalite de 1'ame; c'est une entree dans Ie bon chemin; et si une fois on leur fait faire ce pas, on peut esperer d'heureuses suites. Pomponace n'eut point pu les manier par cet endroit-la; il les eut plutot endurcis dans leur erreur; et par-consequent son hypothese est plus nuisible que profitable, dans ce conflit particulier ou l'on se propose la conversion de cette espece de gens; et pour dire la verite, notre philosophe seroit bien plus louable, si au lieu de cet examen penible des raisons peripateticiennes, il eut cherche de meilleures preuves de l'immortalite de l'ame que celles qui lui paroissoient infirmes. This means literally that there are as yet no solid philosophical proofs for immortality, that free-thinkers do not accept any but solid philosophical proofs, and therefore those who wish to convert these free-thinkers to religion will have to seek those solid proofs. While Bayle remained faithful to the creed of the Calvinists insofar as his external practice of religious matters was concerned, and his conduct was not considered exceptional by his co-religionists, it is also true that there are in his work ideas and points of view which ill accord with the dogma and beliefs of the Rotterdam Protestants, and which are more ill-adapted still to the orthodox beliefs of the Catholics. In the Pensees diverses, for instance, his critique of prejudices and superstition is fully grounded upon the conviction that what is not confirmed by reason, what is accepted without examination, what has been granted the authority of veracity because of its traditional character, can no longer be accorded the validity of truth. It can of course be argued that what Bayle is doing is clearing away by the use of reason popular superstitions which are on the fringes of religious belief, and that their removal was indeed weeding out some of the handicaps to true religion. It can also be noted that this •588·

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common-sense approach has always been thought to be a characteristic of Protestantism. Finally, one can refer to Bayle's own insistence that what is rationally applicable in philosophical thinking has no meaning in the realm of religious faith. When all these points have been made, however, and even divested of the old suppositions that with Bayle they were merely verbal subterfuges, it nevertheless remains true that an attack against orthodoxy because of its prejudices and superstitions severely curtails in the field of human conduct the Church as a potent force for moral certainty. Since moral certainty was considered one of the functions of religion, Bayle's attack, though carried on in all innocence, could not avoid upsetting that aspect of religion which deals with morality. Moreover, when he undertakes a consideration of miracles in the same work, he expresses the point of view that in cases of uncertainty about the actual happening, it is better to submit all facts of this order to the criterion of moral utility. This point of view weakens rather than strengthens one of the strongest arguments for the divinity of the Christian religion. A miracle accepted on moral grounds in the face of incessant attacks against its validity on scientific grounds becomes a questionable support of a religion which actually took its origin in a cosmic miracle. Finally, Bayle's tendency in the same work to separate religion from morality in the wellreasoned argument of the possibility of a state of atheists did nothing to preserve the integrity of religion. As Delvolve has summed up the Pensees diverses, Bayle's real objective was not Catholic superstition, but all superstition. It does not help much to suggest that, in considering prejudices, we are naturally led to a discussion of miracles, and that in treating the authenticity of miracles, we become involved also in the problem of the authenticity of morals. When every effort has been made to separate reason from belief, and belief from action, and the world of action from that of science, it is still difficult to maintain either the dominant character of religion in the affairs of men or the integrity of the Christian religion as a universal way of life. We repeat: it may not have been Bayle's intent to bring about these results, but that is what happened, precisely because of people like Bayle. There is, consequently, much justification in Delvolve's remark: "Ce qui est pour lui en jeu, ce n'est pas l'interet des deux religions, et l'avantage que l'on peut prendre sur son adversaire; c'est l'interet de la verite humaine." • 589 ·

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To achieve this end, Bayle is constantly separating one field of human endeavor from another: philosophy from religion, metaphysics from morality, science from beliefs, beliefs from morals. But he also constantly reduces the facts of history to the examination of reason. In a strict sense, this "methode historique" is fundamentally critical and serves to dissolve all prejudices and superstitions. The goal, though, is not to destroy beliefs in order to leave a vacuum. In Bayle, there is always this dominant second tendency to reduce all human problems to moral problems. He thinks of morality as directly bound to the nature of man and dissociated from all beliefs of the mind. There is, to be sure, a paradox in this attitude which borders dangerously upon a contradiction—but it is not a contradiction. The question to resolve is not precisely in what the paradox consists. Rather it is whether the attitude in the Pensoes diverses is orthodox or free-thinking. And here, curiously enough, it can be characterized either way: Bayle's viewpoint on traditional prejudices is similar to that of Descartes, his position concerning miracles is in accord with both Descartes and Malebranche, both of whom took the stand that it was improper to multiply miracles indiscriminately or to see in them a manifestation of a moral truth. Up to this point, Bayle reasons like a seventeenth-century theologian. Only in his notions of the sources of moral action does he seem to deviate from the orthodox norm: the insistence that man's actions are not dependent upon his beliefs would still be considered orthodox enough if examined on the plane of experience rather than upon the plane of moral validity. When he drew the conclusion, however, that atheism does not lead to the corruption of morals, and that, indeed, atheism is not as repugnant as idolatry, few, if any, of the orthodox would concur. La Critique generate de I'histoire du Calvinisme (1682) continues the attack by the Pensoes diverses against authority and tradition in religious matters. In the Pensees Bayle had argued that society can exist without religion under circumstances which could be entirely moral. He had likewise asserted that truth is never obligatory and can only be ascertained in religious matters by its conformity with moral law. His line of argument led to a situation in which a separation between the state and religion became more and more possible, and the rights of the individual to create his own truth more and more advisable. Both of these tendencies brought about changes in thinking. If the Church was to be separated from the state, the • 590 ·

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Church's political power, which historically it had received from the state, would necessarily be curtailed. If the Church no longer could utilize the state's authority to enforce its dogma, it naturally could not effectively dictate to the individual what he should believe. If the traditional belief that society could not exist without religion was contradicted, the importance of the religious aspect of a society could likewise be reduced. The two subtle tendencies, therefore, not only were directed to a modification of the relationships between the two institutions of Church and state, but similarly shifted the control of human conduct from the authority of the Church supported by the authority of the state to the state. Bayle's arguments made for the creation of a state morality rather than the traditional religious morality, but they made for the creation of a more personal morality, too. By the inference clearly drawn in the Critique generate that the erring mind had its rights, too, morality took its validity from the individual conscience governed by reason: looked at collectively, and regarded as a "collective conscience," it furnished the basis of a social contract. Thus, instead of the traditional view where one started with the Divine Word in order to establish the Divine Rule and the theocratic state to arrive at the dogmatic rules of conduct, one could now start (and this was Bayle's innovation) at the level of the individual conscience to establish, through a collective conscience, the new state whose duty it now is to express this collective conscience rather than the dogmatic rules of tradition. It must not be thought, of course, that this revolutionary change in the direction of life occurred immediately. Eighty years separate the Pensees from Rousseau's Contrat social. Nor must we conclude that Bayle created out of nothing a totally new concept of statehood and built upon it a new theory of morality. The preparation for this new concept had been developing during the hundred years before the publication of the Pensoes diverses. The publication of the Pensoes marks the moment in which this thought passed from the long preliminary stage to an active, vital stage. Thought does just that. It is worth remarking that this transition from possibility to actuality of a body of thought required a further support both of a critical (that is to say, destructive) order as well as of a philosophical (that is to say, constructive and, in Bayle's case, historical) order. Bayle furnished this support in his three subsequent works. In the Critique ginerale, he returned to the problem of authority and tradi• 591 ·

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tion in its connection with the problem of the rights of the erring mind, which is precisely where the discussion had left off in the Pensees. Here the argument is conducted with almost geometric precision. AU religion rests upon the fundamental principle of authority. But, says Bayle, authority can be exercised only by that body possessing "absolute" truth. He subtly suggests that there is no "absolute" truth, which is proven by the contradiction in the Church Fathers, contradictions in religions, and contradictions in the religious sects. Therefore, he concludes, each truth being a particular truth, the choice of a religion becomes an individual matter. Every Catholic, Bayle adds, recognizes this situation when he says: "L'figlise a plus de lumiere que moi, done, je dois croire l'figlise." Obviously, a non-Catholic has the same right to choose his Church. Heresy thus becomes the natural state of man, and every man has the right to the free exercise of his conscience. Bayle's argument is deeply rooted in the religious quarrels and the rational defense which had been used for over a hundred years to support the contestants. In the application of reason to prove a point of dogma, it was always possible to subtly gain an argument. But it was easy at the same time to do injury to a cause. Bayle was well aware of the danger. In the article "Nicolle" in the Dictionnaire, he stated: "What he wrote against the Protestants is very subtle; never were the objections against schism nor the difficulties of the method of inquiry urged with greater force: but many wise men are of opinion, that he had better suppressed than published this; for besides that the Romish Church is no gainer by it, since all the arguments of Mr. Nicolle are retorted against her; his works, together with the answers made to them, may unhappily confirm in their evil disposition all those who have a bias towards skepticism." With full cognizance of this danger, Bayle next undertook his discussion with Maimbourg. Seen in its rambling, diffuse presentation, the Critique generate seems to exploit the particular in the interest of a sect. But the author's intention was precisely the opposite; it was not Bayle's desire to pit the dogma of the Calvinists against the dogma of the Catholics. What he set out to attack was a way of thinking which consists in offering an apology for a sect rather than seeking a way to truth. Maimbourg seemed to ignore the right of moral conscience because of a too-faithful devotion to the interests of a religious party. Bayle, • 592 ·

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as we shall see, was fully aware that all religious literature committed to the defense of a group led to injustice and persecution. He proposed to show that the same arguments which justified the feeling of infallibility in the Catholics could be used to justify the same feeling in all sects. Dogmatic truth, he asserts, is like all other facts: it appears in a different light according to the banner under which one serves. This being the case, it is evident that no religious group should endeavor to use force to persuade an opposing group. Bayle was already pondering the parable of the wedding-feast which was to be the subject of his forthcoming treatise. If one applied that parable, the Protestants could be excused for forcing the Catholics to go to the Protestant Sunday service, he suggested. But the literal interpretation of the parable, he maintains, is impossible; indeed, all principles of intolerance are false. Since no institution is infallible, no force is endurable. In his peculiar way, Bayle contrasts the doctrine of infallibility, which he rejects, with the doctrine of tolerance, which he accepts. He unites with Spinoza to insist that not only should each individual have the right to be wrong, but should be respected in his error, and society should enforce this respect. The summation of these views was given in 1685 in the Nouvelles lettres critiques, devoted, as Delvolve has shown, to the organization of the doctrine of tolerance in the light of the doctrine of freedom. Bayle gathered all his objections to the doctrine of infallibility, assembled all his arguments for the right of free examination, and he now urged the civil and moral rights of the erring mind. There is, however, a new approach to truth in religion. Rather, Bayle stresses a new approach: "en matiere de religion, la regie de juger n'est point dans l'entendement, mais dans la conscience, c'est-a-dire qu'il faut embrasser les objets non pas selon les idees claires et distinctes acquises par un examen severe, mais selon que la conscience nous dicte qu'en les embrassant nous ferons ce qui est agreable a Dieu." Thus conscience becomes the arbiter in all disputes of religion, and moral evidence takes the place of rational speculation, which in an earlier period Bayle had been inclined to accept as the foundation of truth, and even of faith. Then came the moment of justification for Bayle. It is customary to present the philosopher as a cold, reasonable, unemotional man, wilfully committed to a rational inquiry into the phenomena of life which surrounded him. Once more, we are not too sure what kind • 593 ·

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of man Bayle really was. The sly, scheming, ironic Bayle has doubtless been overdone, but a simple, uncomplicated, and emotional Bayle would be just as exaggerated. Given the condition of his time, and the persecution which surrounded him, it would not be surprising that the Protestant exiles were sometimes seized with a fierce resentment and bitterly defended their party against the physical and moral attacks of their oppressors. A religion struggling for its inner integrity can commit the same number and kind of crimes as any human institution. Cruelty, hypocrisy, and other forms of depravity were rampant. Bayle himself was finally caught in the whirlwind: his brother Jacob, imprisoned in the Chateau Trompette at Bordeaux, no longer had the strength to resist and succumbed to the harsh persecution. Bayle learned of his death while trying frantically to secure his release. Under the personal suffering, he wrote Ce que c'est que la France toute catholique sous Ie regne de Louis Ie Grand. Delvolve states that his reaction to his sorrow was intellectual rather than emotional, but these psychological judgments in criticism are never very accurate. "C'est Ie penseur, c'est Ie critique qui repondit au coup du sort," says Delvolve. That may well be, but there is an additional note in the remark which Bayle added to his diatribe: Peu s'en faut que dans les transports de mon indignation, a la vue du triste etat ou vous avez reduit la qualite de Chretien, je ne suive l'exemple d'Averroes qui s'ecria: Que mon ame soit celle des philosophes, vu que les Chretiens adorent ce qu'ils mangent; et moi j'y ajoute: vu qu'ils se mangent les uns les autres, comme les loups et les brebis. At all events, it is significant that Bayle's next treatise was entitled Commentaire philosophique—like Averroes, he placed his soul in the company of philosophers. The theme, however, was a verse from the Bible. Returning to the parable of the wedding-feast which he had discussed in the Critique genSrale, he submitted it to a close analysis. In his preface, he announced his resolve to use a philosophical treatise to refute the right to persecute, and declared his intention to deny this right to all religions. Moreover, with the vision of a prophet, he foresaw that all these persecutions could only lead to the triumph of free-thinking: Notre siecle, et je crois que les precedents ne lui en doivent guere, est plein d'esprits forts et de deistes. On s'en etonne, mais pour moi je • 594 ·

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m'etonne qu'il n'y en ait pas davantage, vu les ravages que la religion produit dans Ie monde, et l'extinction qu'elle amene par des consequences presqu'inevitables de toute vertu en autorisant pour sa prosperite temporelle tous les crimes imaginables, l'homicide, Ie brigandage, l'exil, Ie rapt, etc., qui produisent une infinite d'autres abominations, l'hypocrisie, la profanation sacrilege des sacrements. Bayle exploited his biblical text with philosophical alertness, stating that he was creating a different sort of commentary, distinct from all those biblical commentaries which derived from the study of languages, from textual criticism, and from the ordinary commonplaces. He intended to follow one principle: all literal interpretation which carries within itself the obligation to commit human crimes is false. His presentation is thus of a simplicity and of a directness which he had hitherto avoided, but his argument nonetheless carried the points he had been making in his other treatises. Those who persecuted in the name of religion maintained a priori that the literal sense of the parable should be followed; they asserted that kings had both the obligation and the authority to put down rebels, and that he who resisted the religion of the state is a rebel; they stressed the verity of the Catholic religion; and finally they offered past examples in Moses and Augustine. To these assertions, Bayle replied with devastating irony: the literal sense of the parable is false because it is contrary to reason, it is morally unjust, and it is not in accord with the rest of the Scriptures. At this juncture Bayle proposed his principle that all difficulties in religious matters which are presented to the human consciousness can only be resolved by reason: Le tribunal supreme et qui juge en dernier ressort et sans appel de tout ce qui nous est propose est la raison parlant par les axiomes de la lumiere naturelle, ou de la metaphysique. . . . Il faut necessairement en venir la que tout dogme particulier soit qu'on l'avance comme contenu dans l'Ecriture, soit qu'on Ie propose autrement, est faux, lorsqu'il est refute par les notions claires et distinctes de la lumiere naturelle, principalement a l'egard de la morale. In these terms the parable of the wedding-feast in its literal sense was condemned. Intolerance is plainly unreasonable, contrary to all sense of fairness, and in disaccord with the rest of the New Testament. •595 ·

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As for the argument that kings should punish all rebels, Bayle observed that it is absurd for a king who has never opened a book of theology to punish dissidents. He thereupon proposed a principle which resembles the fundamental doctrine of the Tractatus theologico-politicus: "On n'a pas Ie meme droit sur les opinions que sur les actions, car les opinions ne prejudicient point comme les actions a la prosperite, a la force, et a la tranquillite de la Republique." Bayle next takes up the problem of the infallibility of the Church and the verity of religion. To this principle of religious infallibility he replies that every religion which has existed in the world has claimed to be true, and each of them has had faith only in itself. But there is no objective demonstration whereby any religion can lay claim to infallibility; neither by Scripture, nor by the light of reason, nor by experience can one know for sure that a Church is infallible. From this argument he concludes that government should tolerate all religions and force all religions to tolerate each other, which was precisely Spinoza's conclusion in the Tractatus. As for the fourth point, that the action of Moses and Augustine justified the literal sense, Bayle used the whole third part of his treatise to reply. He took the correspondence of Augustine and passage by passage refuted his argument with a lucidity filled with contempt. The argument was well-chosen; Bayle had found it in a publication which had recently appeared under the patronage of the Archbishop of Paris. Augustine was the one Church Father who had been respected by both Calvinists and Catholics. He had, indeed, furnished their fundamental dogma to Calvinists and Jansenists, and Pascal studied to make him the center of his treatment of grace. Bayle with one stroke discredited Augustine as protector of both Catholic and Protestant persecutions. That is why Jurieu, in his Des droits des deux souverains en matiere de religion, la conscience et Ie prince, openly attacked the anonymous, though well-known, author of the Commentaire philosophique. It is possible now to follow the general direction which Bayle's thought took between the PensSes diverses of 1682 and the Commentaire philosophique of 1686, which were approximately the years when he was editor of the Nouvelles de la republique des lettres. It is not easy to ascertain his point of view, and less easy still to assess his sincerity or insincerity. His review in the Nouvelles of Van Dale's history of the oracles, which Fontenelle rewrote in French, •5%·

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gives the measure of these difficulties. Bayle's attitude toward Van Dale seems more that of a reasonable critic than of a religious partisan, but that is the way he is. After noting that Van Dale is very bold to undertake his work, he comments that he should not be condemned if his opinion is well-founded. In a century "philosophe comme celui-ci ou nous vivons," what is required are solid proofs, and if those which are advanced by Christian theologians are not solid they should be exposed: "Ainsi c'est rendre plus de service que Ton ne pense a la religion, que de refuter les faussetes qui semblent la favoriser." Bayle refers to his age as a "siecle plus eclaire" than the era of the Church Fathers, and remarks that it should accept the task of separating the grain from the chaff. Hence, if we remove the argument from his sincerity and his intention to the plane of cause and effect, we can get a clearer perspective of what he achieved. If we reflect upon the function of the Catholic Church in Bayle's day, we will readily see that it claimed to have a moral function, a dogmatic function, and a police function. That is to say, it pretended to tell its followers what to believe, how to act, and asserted its determination to force submission even if persecution had to be used to attain these ends. Bayle opposed to these activities, which the Church claimed to pursue by right, a whole new set of concepts: the doctrine of the erring mind; the role of reason, which he called the "lumiere naturelle," in the establishment of morality; the fallibility, or rather the impossibility of proving the infallibility, of any religious institution; and, capping it all, the insistence on the doctrine of tolerance in all religious matters and in all religions. Certainly the situation had become so oriented that his thought can be called anything but orthodox. It is possible that he was sincerely convinced that a clearing of falsehood in religion would work for a stronger religion. He could have thought that in matters of faith, reason plays no role whatsoever. He certainly believed that skepticism which works against religion can be made to serve its interests, in the sense that Pascal used skepticism to build up a despair which would lead to faith and charity. The son and brother of Calvinist ministers, Bayle undoubtedly had a deep concern with religious matters, but he likewise was drawn just as forcefully by philosophical interests. His desire to keep religion separate from philosophy may have been genuine; it nonetheless remains true that in his day everyone—Malebranche, Arnauld, Nicole, Leibniz, and • 597 ·

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Locke—who would have wished to do likewise or at least would have desired to utilize philosophy as a support for religion was not very successful. Only Pascal counseled the neglect of philosophy, and even natural philosophy, for those more important preoccupations of man and his destiny. Bayle and his contemporaries, on the con­ trary, seem to have turned unyieldingly to philosophy. It seems more accurate, therefore, to see in him an intellectual evolution rather than a consistency of dogmatic thought. The question arises immediately that if Bayle resolutely abandoned religion for philosophy, what kind of philosophy did he espouse, what attention did he give to the magnificent line of philosophers who preceded him and surrounded him, and what was his philos­ ophy? This problem has not escaped the attention of the scholars who have studied Bayle. The very title of Delvolve's book, Religion, critique, et philosophic positive chez Pierre Bayle, suggests that the center of his work revolves upon the problems of the nature of Bayle's religion, the nature of his philosophy, the relation of the one to the other, and the separation of the one from the other. It is even further suggested that the separation from and relationship to the philosophy which he created was effected by some sort of critical method, that is to say that the criticism of Bayle was an effective method of uniting theology with positive philosophy, or possibly dissociating theology from positive philosophy. At all events, DeIvolve is the last and certainly one of the best to stress Bayle's critical method. Bayle was not unaware of this problem. He himself noted that "je ne sais ce que c'est que de mediter regulierement," which at least indicates that he considered his train of thought a "meditation" as undoubtedly Descartes and Malebranche both regarded their ways of philosophizing. It is true that he added, "Je prends Ie change fort aisement," which is precisely what Descartes and Malebranche did not do. To this contradictory action, which discloses rather a lack of method than its existence, he added, "Je saute dans des lieux ού on aurait de la peine a me suivre," which certainly suggests that he had that "esprit primesautier," or at least thought he had it, which char­ acterized Montaigne and the libertines. His definition of his style definitely leaves the impression that his is a free-thinking art ground­ ed in contemporary philosophical thought, and based upon medita•598 ·

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tion. It fails to make clear whether it is distinguished by a formal manner or not. In the opinion of critics there cannot be the slightest doubt on this last point. Ever since Sainte-Beuve's important article on Bayle, there have been constant efforts to define his thought. Sainte-Beuve tried to show that his was the method of the critic, that its distinguishing marks (tolerance, objective impartiality, intense curiosity, preoccupation with facts, even trivial facts, etc.), which readers since SainteBeuve have judged to be his own ideal as well as the practice of Bayle, make of him a seventeenth-century journalist rather than a philosophical epistemologist. Brunetiere, in "La Critique de Bayle" (fitudes critiques) likewise attempted to define this critical approach. In Brunetiere's opinion, Bayle, having moved from Catholicism to Protestantism to Socinianism, to deism, to atheism, "hardipenseur s'il en fut jamais," while Pascal and Bossuet, Malebranche and Arnauld, Leibniz and Fenelon did what they could to bring about the accord of reason and faith, clearly enunciated his conviction that there is no way to establish such an accord. Brunetiere sees in him a late Cartesian expressing what is latently anti-religious in Cartesianism. And Brunetiere states that "son pretendu scepticisme, et sa critique, et son ironie meme ne sont chez lui que des conclusions tres certaines." This method consisted in applying to those regions which had been exempted from rational examination by Descartes, especially religion and morality, the procedures of Le Discours de la mithode. Delvolve is more explicit still. The great originality of Bayle, he wrote, lies in the way his work is constructed, a method which Bayle has never taken the trouble to formulate, but which is evident in his constant application of it. It is based on the notion of the universal value of the knowledge of facts. Bayle deems it possible to attain to the certain knowledge of facts in all domains, history and morality, as well as physics. "C'est la critique," says Delvolve, "qui Ie conduit a cette connaissance, et lui fournit des solutions originales pour des questions qui etaient Ie domaine propre de la dogmatique religieuse et du raisonnement a priori." Bayle applied this critique of knowledge distilled from facts to history, and to questions of religion, metaphysics, and morality. The first result of this application is a destructive criticism, which insists not only on the correction of factual •599 ·

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errors, but also the elimination of "prejuges." From this point of view, Bayle undertakes to criticize any aspect of dogma by opposing to it other systems, until it is clear that reason itself is naturally in contradiction with itself whenever it departs from the simple path of experience. Delvolve concludes it would be useless to seek coherence in the ideas of Bayle, his doctrines, and his hypotheses. Their sole coherence is assured by "l'unite d'une methode originale, tres constamment et tres consciemment employee." One should not forget that, in Delvolve's opinion, this "methode originale" implies subterfuges, reticences, contradictions, and obscurities which render practically impossible, or which have at least up to the present rendered impossible, a coherent understanding of the philosopher. It is this last point which is crucial in any final evaluation of Bayle's methodology. There is in Delvolve's book a short chapter (VI of section III) entitled "Place de Bayle parmi les philosophes et les theologiens," which throws some light upon these difficulties. Delvolve notes that it is easy to establish the relationship of Bayle to the schools of philosophy and the religious sects of his time, but there will always be noticeable in his production an originality which has no counterpart in the works of his contemporaries. Thus it is simple to point out that Bayle naturally joins the skeptical current which flows from Montaigne to La Mothe Ie Vayer and Charron down to himself. Popkin, like Delvolve, has pointed out this continuity, although Popkin detected a skepticism in Bayle which differs from that of the others. In addition, all students of Bayle have conceded almost without cavil that Bayle is a natural descendent of Descartes, especially in the use to which Descartes puts radical doubt. He is just as naturally derived from Gassendi, who also not only had a deep interest in atomism but stressed Cartesianism's lack of empiricism and too little interest in atomism. Delvolve, like Popkin, insists that Bayle's use of the skeptical approach differs from all others (p. 139): "Bayle emploie l'examen sceptique comme moyen universel d'information positive; il se rend maitre, au fur et a mesure qu'il l'applique a la philosophic, a l'histoire, a la religion, de la methode critique, dont il a su apprecier la valeur et la portee dans les travaux des erudits, specialistes, antiquaires, grammairiens, commentateurs de textes profanes ou sacres." To this skeptical tendency, Bayle added the practical quality of his • 600 ·

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thought. Rather than a speculative philosopher, he is a moralist; rather than metaphysician, he is more interested in the problems of individual and social life. This preoccupation with the practical induces him to discuss religious questions in which is expressed the moral and social life of his day. Delvolve sees him as attempting to humanize the religious forms, "en y introduisant les principes de la raison humaine," and likens him to Malebranche, who was not only also imbued with a deep faith in reason and in the profound rationality of dogma, but equally interested in the social aspects of that thought. Bayle, however, with his critical and moral rationalism, seems to steer away from all manifestations of metaphysical rationalism, whether it is that of Malebranche, or that of the Arminians and Socinians with whom Jurieu classed him. Bayle presented a fairly complete picture of ancient philosophy in his Diciionnaire, and even attempted to include a few scholastic and Renaissance philosophers. In addition, he drew analogies between the problems treated by previous philosophers and the "new" philosophers of his time. To what extent did he cultivate these individual philosophies? Did he see in them a manifestation of the unity of seventeenth-century philosophy, that is, did the "new" philosophy as he understood it seem to him coherent ? Or did he show a preference for certain "new" philosophers over others ? Finally, can it be fairly stated that he summed up in the (Euvres diverses and the Dictionnaire historique et critique the philosophical thought of his seventeenth-century predecessors and contemporaries and gave it a new or at least a coherent interpretation for his successors? The answers to these questions will have some significance for those who regard the Rotterdam philosopher as the founder, or at least one of the founders, of Enlightenment thought. One would expect that, since Bayle was by profession a teacher of philosophy, we need only assemble his considered opinions on the ten or twelve seventeenth-century philosophers to find our answers. Bayle's very method, however, precluded a full and coherent examination of each of these philosophers, although, on several occasions he did attempt a full presentation of one or another. As for the others, although Bayle did not assign them independent articles, he did treat them in articles in which each was concerned. Hence, our op• 601 ·

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portunity to achieve some sort of perspective on the way contemporary philosophers appear to Bayle is through his views expressed here and there in his articles. Descartes, having been accorded a full analysis in the (Euvres diverses, receives most attention. Bayle seems to depend for his information concerning Descartes largely on Baillet's biography. It was indeed in Baillet that he found Descartes's admission that Kepler, who had been his first teacher in optics, was the best informed of all those who preceded him. Bayle copied Baillet in drawing up a list of what Kepler and Descartes had in common: both owed to Giordano Bruno their knowledge of celestial vortices; both gave the same explanation for the causes of weight; both had similar views on optics. Bayle's assertion that the theory of the vortices was inaugurated by Leucippus probably originated in Huet. Bayle, however, goes much further: he says that if one examined things carefully, he would find in Leucippus the seeds of the principle of mechanism which Descartes had utilized so effectively in his statement that spinning bodies flee from the earth's center as much as possible. Bayle examines four points of Cartesianism with care: Cartesian doubt; the theory of a deceiving, evil spirit; the formation of the world; and the beast-machine. As for the first point, in his article "Maldonat," Bayle explains that we must examine everything as if we were a "tabula rasa." This does not mean that we really have to doubt everything, and still less that we have to declare that everything we have believed is false. It means rather that we have to keep things in an inactive state, to suspend our judgment, and limit our persuasion in certain matters, particularly concerning the proofs of the existence of God and the arguments of atheists. That attitude, says Bayle, is undoubtedly what Descartes meant when he counseled doubt about everything before coming to an examination of the reasons for certainty. In the article "Nicolle," Bayle returns to the further explanation of the idea; by trying to practice the suspension of judgment, we will understand better Descartes's rule. We will learn how to distrust our natural lights and to have recourse to the spirit of God, since our reason is so imperfect. Thus we will understand how important it is to interest ourselves in the doctrine of grace and how pleasing to the Deity is our humility, since we have consented to mortify our reason by refusing to achieve truths by philosophical examination which we can use in other matters. • 602 ·

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Bayle notes in the article "Rimini" that Descartes established, as the very foundation of human science, that God can neither deceive nor be deceived. However, it was called to his attention that God can advance things which run counter to His thought as when He had His prophet predict the ruin of Nineveh in forty days. Bayle added that Descartes had replied by distinguishing between God's way of speaking accommodated to the ways of man, and His general truths relative to humankind. He had insisted also that a greater distinction still should be made between the "mensonge en paroles," which tends to equivocation, and the internal malice which abides in deceiving, and even went so far as to state that he did not blame those who say that God can have announced through His prophets falsehoods which are exempt from malice and deceit, in the manner of doctors who deceive their patients for their own good. Bayle condemns this explanation, maintaining that Descartes should not concede that God may deceive man for his own good. He should have rather taken the stand that the Scriptures which refer to God's deception should never be taken literally, because the moment we admit that a general statement is subject to a lot of exceptions, our certainty is lost. Bayle added that the Scriptures contain certain facts and expressions which upset the positions of the greatest metaphysicians. This particular example shows how troublesome these contradictions can become. Descartes, Bayle surmised, must have been surprised when Rimini pointed out these exceptions, all the more so since his whole philosophy was founded upon the infallibility of God. Bayle thought Descartes had doubtless counted upon this point to win over the support of the theologians and had felt himself secure against the charge of being irreligious. And yet his very precaution had raised a storm of protest against him, "tant sont vaines les pensees et les esperances des hommes." Bayle, however, expressed surprise that Descartes conceded the point so readily, which showed that he was inexperienced in theological disputes. Had he been better versed in theology, Bayle added significantly, he would have known the numerous explanations and solutions to the alleged scriptural passages, and "il aurait trouve la une methode de disputer qui 1'aurait tire d'affaire." The third point stressed by Bayle was Descartes's theory of the formation of the world. Bayle admits, in the article "Ovide," that there are those who do not accept Descartes's explanation as it is • 603 ·

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given in Principia (III, φ8..). Recalling Daniel's Voyage au monde de Descartes, he mentioned that some of Descartes's critics ridicule this explanation, others claim that it is disrespectful of the Deity, while still others believe it false and»impossible. Bayle, however, does not accept these criticisms: those who make fun of Descartes, as well as those who claim that his explanation does not show the proper respect for God, have missed Descartes's point. Otherwise they would see that nothing gives a more lofty idea of the wisdom of God than to say that, out of totally unformed matter, He could have in a limited period of time, by reducing movement to a small number of simple and general laws, made our world. To those who question the details of Descartes's explanation on the grounds that it is contrary to the laws of mechanics and the contemporary state of astronomical discoveries, Bayle replies that that does not prevent Descartes from being right in his hypothesis as a whole. This hy­ pothesis holds that the effective system of the world can only con­ sist in a small number of mechanical laws established by God. Bayle was willing to wager that even Newton, the chief opponent of Des­ cartes, would not reject this idea, "car des que vous supposez des corps determinez a se mouvoir par des lignes droites, et a tendre ou vers Ie centre ou vers la circonference, toutes les fois qu'ils se trouvent obliges a se mouvoir circulairement a cause de la resistance des autres corps, vous etablissez un principe qui formera necessairement beaucoup de variet.es dans la matiere, et s'il ne forme pas ce systeme, il en formera un autre." This is one of the fairest judgments I know on Descartes's ideas on the formation of the world. Literally, Bayle is saying that the details of the explanation may all be wrong, but the principle (God always proceeds by a small number of general laws in His creation) has to be right. And indeed Newton could not have objected to this way of thinking, since he actually reduced the laws of movement to one simple law. Finally, the fourth point concerns the Cartesian theory of "betes machines." To the allegation that Descartes had found the theory in Pereira, Bayle replied that this was impossible, since Baillet had shown that Descartes had adopted the idea before knowing Pereira. The actual fact, said Bayle, was that Descartes produced this theory when he became aware that any other would ruin his system. Thus both Baillet and Bayle maintain that Descartes was the original cre­ ator of the notion, Bayle even going so far as to deny that any part • 604 ·

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of it could be found either in Plutarch, St. Augustine, or Cicero. It is in the article "Rorarius" that Bayle presented the dilemma caused by Descartes's theory. He regretted that it is so difficult to uphold and so impossible to accept, because it offers many advantages to true faith. For if animals have intellectual souls and if they perish after a brief time, and if they cannot be thought to have been subject to Original Sin, then God can be said not to love Himself and to be inconsistent, cruel, and unjust. Quoting Darmenson's La Bete transfortnee en machine, Bayle showed that animals perish entirely, whereas God preserves matter eternally; that they suffer miseries, although they have not sinned; and that, though innocent, they are subject to man the criminal. Bayle judged that Descartes's theory, if correct, would have silenced Darmenson's protest. Cartesianism seems not to have represented for Bayle an organic philosophy, although he readily referred to it as the "new" philosophy. He considered it a set of tendencies rather than a homogeneous system. Bayle appeared incapable of discussing the "cogito" or any of the other metaphysical problems of his predecessor. A philosophy for him is not an organic thing; it has interesting points. And yet, while he was unable to see a system of philosophy in its entirety, he does have some ability to see its relations to other aspects of life. He could write that, had Cartesians exercised more prudence in transgressing limits, and if they had known what to say and what not to say, there would not be so much protest against them. Their biggest mistake, said Bayle, lay in wanting to apply the principles of Descartes to the dogmas of religion. Indeed, Wittichius became famous for having introduced Cartesianism into theological schools. His writings turned upon subjects half theological and half philosophical, which acquired for him a certain reputation; though popular with the young, however, he was regarded with suspicion by the magistrates. But there were more active opponents, La Bourignon, for instance, who condemned roundly the doctrine that everything should be examined in the light of reason. She characterized it as the greatest heresy ever formed, and an atheism, in which corrupted reason is substituted for God. Bayle seems thus more competent in his negative criticism of Cartesianism than able to grasp the full meaning of the philosophy. He finds that Cartesian arguments against substantial forms prove too much (see "Sennert"). Descartes's principle for proving the im• 605 ·

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mortality of the soul is, by his own admission, not evident to everybody. Cartesians thus wisely advise their readers to have recourse to faith rather than trust in Cartesian proofs. Their system of automata is fraught with difficulties, especially since their arguments to prove that animals are machines can be applied also to man. Besides, it embarrasses the Cartesians very much to see that animals give signs of friendship, of hate, of joy, jealousy, fear, and pain. In the suspension of judgment which they advise they give much comfort to the skeptics. Finally, Descartes's demonstrations of the existence of God, particularly the proof drawn from the idea we have of a being infinitely perfect, cause Cartesians much trouble. Here and there throughout the (Euvres diverses, Bayle renews his objections to Cartesianism. Descartes is in error concerning the reflection of bodies. One of his principles is against religion. He was mistaken as to the quantity of movement and its laws. His "tourbillons" cannot be accepted in the way he explained them. The comparison he makes to resolve the difficulty between human freedom and God's power is unacceptable. His notion that in man's life there is more good than evil is false. His opinion concerning the essence of bodies is opposed to the dogma of Transubstantiation. Indeed, all attempts which have been made to adapt the principles of Descartes's thought to the dogmas of religion have failed and have even worked against the progress of Cartesianism. Bayle concluded "qu'on ne doit pas s'attacher trop a son systeme." If Bayle took a continual interest in Descartes, it must be acknowledged that he was practically obsessed with Spinoza, to whom he devoted a lengthy article in the Dictionnaire. In spite of its comprehensiveness, though, it fails to represent the extent of Bayle's interest in the subject. Again and again, he made comparisons between ancient, medieval, and Renaissance philosophers and Spinoza. The germs of Spinozism go far back, in Bayle's opinion. The fundamental doctrine can be traced to other dogmas, ancient as well as modern, European as well as oriental. The doctrine of 'Time du monde," which was so common among the ancients, and which was an important tenet of the stoics, is a kind of Spinozism. Spinoza, however, was the first to reduce atheism to a system, establishing a unified doctrine closely organized and structured according to the methods of geometry. Bayle characterized the Tractatus as a pernicious and detestable work wherein the author injected all the seeds of atheism •606 ·

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which became visible in his posthumous works. He recorded that the free-thinkers flocked to him from every direction, and quoted Stoupp, one of Spinoza's many opponents, who in La Religion des Hollandais cited Spinoza's objective to destroy all religion, particularly the Jewish and the Christian, and to introduce in their place atheism, libertinage, and free-thinking on religious matters. Bayle added that Stoupp's opinion was refuted by J. Brun, who in La Veritable religion des Hollandais maintained that the Tractatus, though harmful, was less pernicious than Stoupp's work. Finally, Bayle did not forget Brun's reference to the widespread circulation of the Tractatus: in England, France, Germany, and even Switzerland. Bayle accused Stoupp of not always representing correctly Spinoza's ideas, and as an example, he gives Stoupp's statement that Spinoza thought that religion was invented as a means of turning men to virtue, not to be rewarded or punished in some future existence, but because virtue has its advantages in this life. Bayle denies that Spinoza ever thought of that. As for Bayle, he affirms that all religions turn on the idea that there is a judge who punishes and rewards the actions of men. Spinoza must have thought that it is the principal reason for a religion. Bayle insisted that Spinoza's personal life was above reproach, and remarked that "c'etait un homme qui n'aimait pas la contrainte de la conscience, et grand ennemi de la dissimulation." Moreover, Bayle cited the testimony of Spinoza's neighbors, that he was a person extraordinarily strict in his morals: he never said anything in his conversation which was not edifying; he never swore, nor did he ever take God's name in vain. He attended church services often, and advised others to do likewise. Further, he had no interest in wine, fine living, or money matters: "Il ne songeait qu'a I'etude." Of all philosophers and systems of philosophy, he showed an interest in Descartes only. Indeed, it was in Descartes that Spinoza found his seeds of atheism, said Bayle: "L'abus qu'il fit de quelques maximes de ce philosophe, Ie conduisit au precipice." Even as early as the Tractatus he believed that the soul is only a modification of God's substance. The Tractatus was amply refuted, as is well-known, and Bayle entered zealously into an account of the refuters. Among them, the one who most attracted his attention was Bredenburg, who was re• 607 ·

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sponsible for a quarrel over the Tractatus. Starting out to refute Spi­ noza, Bredenburg was amazed to find that geometrically arranged, Spinoza's system could not be refuted. The paper on which this arrangement was developed having fallen into the hands of others, Bredenburg was accused by Orobio, Aubert de Verse, and especially Cuyper of being an atheist. Against this charge, said Bayle, Breden­ burg defended himself "en faisant valoir la distinction ordinaire de la foi et de la raison." He maintained that like the Catholic and the Protestant who believe the mystery of the Trinity, although the no­ tion is opposed by the natural light of reason, he believed in free­ will, although reason offered him strong proofs that everything hap­ pens through an inevitable necessity and there is consequently no such thing as religion. The refuter Bredenburg does indeed smack of his opponent. Bayle's comment on the incident appears to me important, espe­ cially since he was often in the same dilemma as Bredenburg, i.e., he often believed by faith although reason told him the opposite. Bayle observes that it is not easy to smoke out one who takes this stand. You can shout as much as you wish that he is not sincere, but you cannot prove it. After all, what right have we to decide upon what goes on in the heart of another? Bayle continues: M. Dangeau parle de certaines gens qui ont la religion dans l'esprit, mais non pas dans Ie cceur; ils sont persuadees de sa verite sans que leur conscience soit touchee de l'amour de Dieu. Je crois qu'on peut dire qu'il y a aussi des gens qui ont la religion dans Ie cceur et non pas dans l'esprit. Hs la perdent de vue des qu'ils la cherchent par les voies du raisonnement humain; elle echappe aux subtilites et aux sophismes de leur dialectique, —ils ne savent ού ils en sont pendant qu'ils comparent Ie pour et Ie contre, mais des qu'ils ne disputent plus et qu'ils ne font qu'ecouter les preuves de sentiment, les instincts de la conscience, Ie poids de !'education, etc., ils sont persuadez d'une religion et ils y conforment leur vie autant que l'infinite humaine Ie permet. Bayle gives Cicero and his De natura deorum as typical of this at­ titude, but one wonders whether he himself was not a more perfect example. Bayle calls Spinoza's idea of a single universal substance in nature a most monstrous hypothesis, diametrically opposed to the evident notions of our understanding. The inference from the unity of sub­ stance is that all the bodies in nature are but modifications of this • 608 ·

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substance. God is thus the cause of all that exists, but He does not differ from these things. There is thus only one being and one nature which produces everything we call creatures. Bayle calls this hypothesis more ridiculous than the whole heap of absurd hypotheses which have ever been proposed. Bayle's position is the exact opposite; extension is not a unity, not a combination of thought and extent, not God, and not one substance which embraces everything. It is a composite of parts, and each part is the attribute of a substance. Thus it is futile to maintain that the universe is one substance. Besides, to offer each part of extension as a modification of a unified substance is absurd. According to Bayle, there are always distinctions to be made between things, and Spinoza even admits these distinctions. Incompatible modalities demand distinct subjects. Hence the immutability of God is incompatible with the nature of extension. If God is unchanging, and extension is constantly changing, it is ridiculous to equate immutability with constant change. Furthermore, the whole theory of Spinoza's thought equates God with matter in saying that He is the substance of all the parts of extension. The main force of Bayle's argument is built on the absurdity of a unified substance and of the conception of a God responsible for evil, when He has the power to suppress all evil and create only good. Bayle will have to rethink this latter problem. In the article "Spinoza" he contents himself with a general condemnation of the doctrine of substance, but finds incompatibilities in Spinoza's view on specific points. Bayle insists, for instance, that Spinoza must accept the doctrine of superior intelligences. In normal Christian dogma, it is possible to believe that God drew creatures from nothingness, dependent only upon His will, and without the aid of angels. But when Spinoza supposes that God has not acted freely, it is foolish not to accept the presence of demons. If the one clear thought is that the world is formed necessarily by God's power, we have to presuppose that there is a whole chain of being above and beneath man, and that there is no proportion possible between mass and force. Therefore there must be all sorts of spirits, good as well as evil. Bayle also disputed Spinoza's attitude toward miracles, citing the normal view that God in producing miracles works above nature. Descartes supposed that He suspends the laws operative in nature, making an exception to them in each miraculous case. The Spinozists alleged that God and nature being the same thing, mira• 609 ·

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cles are impossible, which is equivalent to the statement, said Bayle, that God cannot do anything against the laws of nature without doing something against Himself. A blind necessity, not God, has established those laws. Besides, Spinoza called the powers of nature infinite, but maintained that nature cannot resuscitate a dead man. Bayle asserted that Spinoza contradicts himself when he affirms the first and denies the second. Therefore his position is false when he opposes the miracles of the Bible. Bayle, discussing Spinoza's attitude toward the existence of Hell, felt that, had he been consistent, he would have believed in Hell. There are normal hierarchies in this earth. There are "esprit," "raison," "ambition," "haine," "cruaute." Why should not these same things exist in other worlds ? He suggests that there must be plural, inhabited worlds. Although we cannot prove that there are by reason, it appears very probable. Hence, there should be in these worlds other beings who extend their power over us. Bayle concluded that Spinoza raised more difficulties than he settled, and was wrong to be so dogmatic. But his doctrine is not so dangerous as it might have been because it runs counter to the general intellectual principles of all men. Few are suspected of subscribing to his doctrine, he said; few have ever given it serious study; of those who have, few have understood it; and there are fewer still who have not been repelled by the doctrine's abstraction. This particular point is often mentioned by contemporary critics to justify the unimportance of Spinozism in the history of ideas. There are, however, two things which these critics overlook. Bayle gives an astounding list of those who attempted to refute the Amsterdam philosopher. One wonders why there were so many refutations if the doctrine was considered insignificant. There is also in Bayle's article an insistence that these refutations were successful. Bayle exaggerated the degree to which Spinoza was refuted when one has proved the fallacy of his major principle. That may well be, but somehow the article leaves the impression that positive proofs against Spinoza are hard to come by because, in the first place, his ideas are arranged with a geometrical precision which is difficult to master, and, in the second place, one is never quite certain what are the ideas under discussion. Bayle confessed that Spinoza's vocabulary is often ambiguous. When Bayle himself was accused by the Spinozists of misinterpreting the master's thought, he replied humbly that he •610 ·

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did not think that he had, but that he had gone over the whole ground again so there could be no mistake. Spinozism, as he saw it, consisted in three assertions: there is only one substance in the universe; this substance is God; all particular beings—bodily extension, sun, moon, plants, animals, man, their movements, ideas, imagination, and desire—are all modifications of God. He further understands that Spinozists distinguish themselves from Christians in believing that Spinoza has upset the whole system of Christian philosophy, has destroyed the notion of the existence of an immaterial God, and will not accept that God governs all things with a sovereign freedom. All of this Bayle maintains he understands, but, of course, he does not approve. It could be, however, he admits, that he misunderstands the vocabulary: modification, modality, change—these terms he may have failed to grasp. Nonetheless, he makes two additional statements of importance. Although there are but few followers of Spinoza, "on appelle Spinozistes tous ceux qui n'ont guere de religion et qui ne s'en cachent pas beaucoup"—in the same way as in France everyone who is disinclined to believe the Scriptures is called a Socinian, said Bayle. And finally, the system which is most opposed to Spinozism is not Christian philosophy, but atomism, which Bayle favored. In the article "Democrite," he wrote that the system of atoms is not as absurd as Spinozism, because at least the atomists recognize that when it is cold in one country, it is hot in another, while Spinoza can offer no explanation for this. By supposing an infinity of atoms each distinct from the other, and all endowed with an active principle, one can conceive oi action, reaction, and continual change. But when there is only a single principle, as in Spinoza's monism, there cannot be action, reaction, and change. Bayle was fully convinced that Spinoza's philosophy was not new at all in its tendencies, some of which Bayle actually found in Aristotle. Bayle frequently remarked that a main trait of Spinoza's thought was the lack of conformity between his way of thinking and the verities of religion, and added that Campanella had described similar divergences between Aristotle and Christianity. Indeed, Bayle named several Dutch writers who had stressed that the doctrine of Spinoza did not differ markedly from Aristotle. This likening of Spinoza to Aristotle because the two were not in conformity with Christianity, accompanied by an effort to show that opposition to religion was a consistent movement from Aristotle to • 611 ·

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Spinoza, is a peculiar stand with Bayle. In the article "Cesalpin," he promised, for instance, to show the conformity of Spinoza with Aristotle. He remarked that both Cesalpini and Aristotle held similar opinions concerning superior intelligences in the celestial worlds. Cesalpini reduced them to a single substance, angels as well as demons. He stated that the soul of animals and of man were portions of God's substance. There was thus only one soul, one human intelligence. Bayle added that the desire for unity found in the Scotists was analogous to Cesalpini's. All it took was a methodical approach to form from these opinions the system of Spinoza, the assumption being that Spinozism is potentially present in all philosophical thought from Aristotle to the present, particularly anti-Christian thought. Bayle was haunted by the problem of good and evil and injects it into his comparison between Spinozistic and Christian thought. He confesses that in the Christian system, which admits of creation, it is difficult to accept superior intelligences who prefer evil to good. But in a system like Spinozism, which denies creation, an inevitable consequence is that there should be evil as well as good, evil geniuses as well as good. Bayle emphasized that, logically considered, no system can dispense with the concepts of good and evil angels, or with the doctrine of rewards and punishments, or with a belief in a future life, less than Spinozism. Indeed, he promised a dissertation on this subject. These doctrines selected by Bayle as essential to Spinozism form an essential part of Christian doctrine. For this reason Bayle, at the end of his diatribe in the article "Spinoza," finally takes up the possibility of Spinozism being not only a Cartesianism with the question of free will treated more delicately, but actually a more subtle kind of Christianity which suffers from an ill-defined vocabulary. These two views on Spinozism show how confused one could be at the end of the seventeenth century concerning the relation of philosophy and religion. If Spinozism is an extension of Aristotelianism and Aristotle is one of the founders of Christian theology, then Spinozism must be a development along that line. But if Aristotle is no longer a legitimate founder of Christian theology, nor even of the "new" theology, then Spinozism must be a spurious development of Christian theology and the "new" philosophy. Bayle hesitated to choose between the two opposing solutions. • 612 ·

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In the meantime he investigates the opposition of Aristotelianism to Platonism in the article "Plotinus." Among other things, he notes that Plotinus' works are almost exclusively concerned with the most intricate kind of metaphysics, and that, in certain respects, his thought was not very much different from Spinozism. Indeed, Bayle added his usual remark that there has scarcely been an age when the opinions of Spinoza have not been taught. Plotinus, too, wrote works to teach that "l'£tre" who is everywhere is a single and singular thing, just as Spinoza did. In another work, Plotinus investigated whether there are many souls or whether there is only one. Spinoza differed from him only in having reduced these ideas to a methodical system. Bayle continually made these comparisons. Anyone who made any attempt at formal unity was guilty of an incipient Spinozism. Thus the doctrine of the Scotists is a "spinozisme non-developpe." There is a sect ("Abumuslimus") mentioned by Pietro della Valle which is not very different from Spinozism. Diogenes had a system "qui ne differoit presque point de Spinoza" ("Diogene"). So did Anaximenes ("Jupiter"). There is a sect in Japan ("Japon") which teaches things very similar to the views of Spinoza. Xenophanes ("Xenophane") held an opinion concerning the nature of God which was scarcely different from Spinozism. A comparison of Bayle's treatment of Descartes and Spinoza leads to some curious conclusions. Bayle's discussion of Descartes was full, although there was no separate article in the Dictionnaire devoted to him, and Bayle never regarded his philosophy as a whole. The long article devoted to Spinoza, on the contrary, though complete, is written in an entirely different spirit. It is easy to sense that Bayle is willing to discuss separate points in the philosophy of Descartes, while respecting the philosophy as a whole, whereas with Spinoza he wants to reject the whole philosophy as absurd, dangerous, and incomprehensible. In one respect, however, he grants more importance to Spinoza than to Descartes. Cartesianism is a "new" philosophy, Spinozism is a perennial manifestation of the philosophies of the past, practically all of them in their desire for unity have something of his spirit. Only atomism is clearly opposed and, since Bayle favored atomism, he magnified this opposition. In a strange way though, he felt that Spinozism is, after all, a kind of Cartesianism; it can even be a more subtle Christianity; unfortu•613 ·

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nately, it pushes the principles of Cartesianism too far and in this sense it, too, is a "new" philosophy. It is essential to see how much importance Bayle actually gave to the "new" philosophy in his work. Of the ten or so outstanding philosophers of the seventeenth century, Bayle has special articles on four: a small article of no consequence on Francis Bacon; a reasonably long article on Hobbes, which is not without importance; a rather long article on Pascal, which shows more interest in the dialectical and mathematical talent of Pascal than in his philosophical position; and the very long article on Spinoza. It is a little disturbing to note that there is no special article given to Descartes, or to Gassendi, or to Leibniz, Malebranche, Locke, or Newton. To be sure, it is reasonable that special articles should not have been assigned to Leibniz, Malebranche, Locke, and Newton, since all of them were strict contemporaries of Bayle: three of them actually survived him. It is more difficult to explain the discretion concerning Descartes and Gassendi. The omission of Descartes might be excused on the grounds that Bayle had already composed a book on him, and had had published a book of Cartesian essays by others. The omission of Gassendi is less easily explained. Since he was an exponent of ancient atomism one would be prepared to expect a key article on him from Bayle. Though this is not the case, he does occupy a large part of the article "Epicure." Bayle's close contemporaries are treated in the same way: Leibniz, in the article "Rorarius"; Malebranche, in the articles "Epicure" and "Zenon"; Locke, in the articles "Perrot d'Ablancourt" and "Rorarius." One could establish from these facts that the "new" philosophy is contained basically in the articles "Rorarius," "Zenon," "Democrite," and "Epicure," where the new philosophers had their place with the ancient philosophers, and where Bayle discreetly takes time out to discuss their individual philosophical positions. Thus the whole pattern of the Dictionnaire becomes plainer. The work is not only a general storehouse for the analysis of historical ideas, it is also a history of philosophy from earliest times to the present, Bayle's present. What first struck Bayle about Leibniz was his immense erudition and his ability to write French. The central point of Leibniz' philosophy was the doctrine of pre-established harmony. Bayle, of course, could not profit from the debate which Leibniz held with Clarke, •614·

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nor from the Monadology published after his death. In the article "Rorarius," he stated that Leibniz had advanced some ideas concerning the union of body and soul in animals, which ought to be examined carefully. Leibniz had proposed that the animal soul acts independently of the body, that everything comes spontaneously from within, although in conformity with external things. The animal soul's inner perceptions arise from its own original constitution, attributed to it since its creation. This is really what makes it an individual. But its inner perceptions are in accord with God, as two clocks may be accommodated with each other. Bayle devotes a long note to Leibniz' reflections on the nature of the animal soul and its bearing on the doctrine of pre-established harmony. Bayle states that there had been only two hypotheses on the subject: one was the peripatetic theory of the mutual influence of soul and body, the other was the Cartesian theory of "causalite occasionnelle." Leibniz now presents in pre-established harmony a third theory. Bayle explains the initial concept by imagining that a boat totally devoid of feeling and knowledge, and without being directed by any created or uncreated being, can move so perfectly that it always has at its service a favorable wind and no unfavorable currents. This faculty, of course, comes from God: the human machine possesses it. Caesar, for instance, followed, from birth to death, a continual series of changes which corresponded exactly with the changes of a soul unknown to him, and this soul possessed the faculty of impressing upon Caesar these changes. Bayle, however, finds serious difficulties in this theory. The human machine is composed of an almost infinite number of objects which surround it. Bayle admits that this variety of organs and objects is responsible for the changes, but he confesses he cannot understand the function the soul has in this. He was not entirely committed to the doctrine of automatism, anyway. He observed that the whole idea of the power of God and the artistry of His creation does not appeal to any but the Cartesians and they, too, would make reservations if the theory were extended to man as well as to animals. That being the case, Leibniz' explanation becomes much more complicated than Descartes's: "ElIe met une harmonie continuelle entre deux substances qui n'agissent point l'une sur l'autre." Bayle compares this view of a soul as an "automate immaterielle" with an atom of Epicurus. After a number of objec• 615 ·

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tions, he concludes that Leibniz' system is very similar to that of "occasional causes." Each system supposes a decree from God, and each presupposes the existence of laws whereby the soul of man must represent to itself what goes on in man's body in the way it actually happens. They differ in the way in which they explain how these laws are executed: Descartes claims that God executes them, Leibniz credits man's soul. Bayle rejected Leibniz' interpretation, 'Tame n'ayant pas les instruments... pour une semblable execution." Bayle had an actual acquaintance with Locke, although we do not know whether it was a personal acquaintance or whether it was struck up through the intermediary of Shaftesbury. Locke could have known Bayle personally, since both of them seem to have resided in Rotterdam at the same time. The correspondence with Lord Ashley and with Coste, however, leads to the inference that Locke was only slightly known to the French philosopher. In a letter to Minutoli (September 14,1693) Bayle states: "Je l'ai vu ici pendant Ie regne du Roi Jacques." However, there was the incident (Bayle to Coste, May 15, 1702) when Bayle referred to Locke in his Dictionnaire as "Docteur." Instead of writing to Locke and clearing up the matter, Bayle offers amends through Coste. Indeed, he has a way, generally, of paying his respects to Locke through Coste or Lord Ashley. This does not mean that Bayle was ignorant of the Englishman's production or uninterested in his philosophy, or that he was unfamiliar with his merit. To Minutoli he wrote (September 14, 1693) that Locke is a man "de beaucoup d'esprit," and one of the most profound metaphysicians of his time. He followed Jacquelot's attacks against the English philosopher, commenting on Jacquelot's remark that, if one refuses to yield to most evident ideas, on the pretext that God can do the most incomprehensible things, the way is clear to a most radical pyrrhonism. It is obvious that Bayle sided with Locke rather than with Jacquelot whenever the latter asserted that Locke's principles were pernicious. After Locke's death, Bayle wrote (to Coste, April 30, 1705) that he was an extraordinary man who did honor to his century. He was familiar with Locke's works. By 1693 (to Minutoli), he was referring to the Thoughts on Education, the Essay concerning Human Understanding, and a treatise on the origin of civil government. It was apparently the latter treatise which engaged his attention, since he remarked that, in Locke's opinion, sov• 616 ·

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ereignty belongs to the people, that they alone entrust it to those whom they call sovereigns, and that they can withdraw it and place it elsewhere when the good of the commonwealth requires a change. This, said Bayle, is the Protestant "Evangile du jour." He noted (May 13, 1697) that the Reasonableness of Christianity had been translated into French. Two years later, he had read an extract of Locke's letter to the Bishop of Worcester (November 23, 1699) and in a letter to Coste, on October 29, 1704, he makes reference to the Letter on Toleration. He evidently followed the work of the English philosopher with keen attention. He often differed with him. When in the letter to the Bishop of Worcester he read that Locke found incomprehensible the hardness and weight of certain bodies, Bayle immediately concluded that Locke followed Newton's hypotheses concerning the vacuum. Bayle pointed out that with the Cartesian hypothesis of the plenum, he would have found no difficulty in understanding in general both hardness and weight, and he would certainly have refrained from comparing these two qualities of certain parts of matter with thought, which he supposes that God can give to matter. It is obvious that in this dispute, Bayle sided with Locke's adversary: "Je ne crois pas qu'il soit qu'aucun corps, et moins un assemblage de corps, qu'un atome d'Epicure, soit susceptible de la pensee." In a letter to Coste (July 20, 1703), he criticized Locke's ideas on the attribution of extension to matter, holding rather to the Cartesian view. To Coste, on December 27, 1703, he wrote a discussion of Locke's ideas in the Reasonableness of Christianity concerning the conversion of deists, maintaining that the author had said many pertinent things, but that there was hardly a Socinian alive who would not have said the same thing. Further, Bayle criticized Locke for not treating sufficiently the problem of the consubstantiality of the Word in the early days of Christianity. Bayle had already, in a letter of June 24, 1697, remarked that Locke's Reasonableness of Christianity had, by his own admission, been written to convert deists. This time Bayle rather approved the Englishman's view that the spirit of religion does not require that one understand a large amount of incomprehensible dogma which shocks the light of reason. There were differences of more importance still between the two. When, for instance, in the Reponse aux questions d'un provincial, Bayle undertook a discussion of Locke, he selected for comment •617·

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Locke's contention that we do not know either the substance of a body or of a mind, and we consequently should not expect to understand the relation between the two. Locke conceded that extension, divisibility, and movement were properties of matter, but not the essence or the constitutive attribute of the substance of matter. They subsist rather in a subject which we do not know. BayIe took exception to this view, affirming that if it prevailed, we would have to say that extension is only an accident of matter. In fact, he said, that is what the Catholics have to maintain on account of their doctrine of Transubstantiation. It would thus be impossible to say that extension is essential to matter, and that thought is essential to mind. Bayle esteemed that Locke could not deny being ignorant of what matter stripped of extension, or mind deprived of thought, would be, and when one fails to know these two things, it is impossible to say that there is something in matter incompatible with thought, or something in the mind inconsistent with matter. Bayle's objection to this reasoning stemmed from his conviction that it led straight to the conclusion that there is only one kind of substance, which by one of its attributes is united with extension, and by another with thought. Bayle sensed a tendency toward Spinozism in this argument. He used the same argument in the Dictionnaire article "Perrot d'Ablancourt." Locke had been accused of insisting that natural reason cannot prove the immortality of the soul, since it cannot prove its immateriality. Bayle replied that the inability of reason to prove these things does not preclude their truth. Those who demand the proofs of reason do not trust the word of God. They consider God's word credible only when reason supports it. Locke, in his reply to Stillingfleet quoted by Bayle, takes the position that although it cannot be proved that the soul is immaterial, that fact does not minimize the evidence of its immortality if God has revealed it. Bayle notes that Locke is opposed to the notion that animals do not possess reason, believing that the difference between man and animal consists in man's faculty to form general ideas. He argues that if animals can form some ideas, and are not pure machines as some maintain, they must have reason to a certain degree. For Locke it is as certain that they reason as it is that they have feeling, but only in terms of specific ideas, never general ones. Of all the French seventeenth-century philosophers Malebranche appears to have received least attention from Bayle, though it does •618 ·

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not seem to be because of any lack of acquaintance or deficiency of respect on the part of the author of the Dictionnaire. There are several places where the "distinguished" author of La Recherche de la verite, as Bayle was wont to call him, is alluded to and his position briefly stated. There are in the article "Zenon" several lengthy quotations from the Meditations Chretiennes. This very partial treatment, however, should not be surprising, since Malebranche, like Leibniz, survived the publication of the Dictionnaire by almost two decades. Consequently much of their work could not have been considered in the Dictionnaire. Bayle was favorably inclined to Malebranche's theory that we see all things in God, i.e., that all our ideas are outside our understanding. Bayle seemed anxious, however, to show that Malebranche's notion was not new: in the article "Amelius," he undertook to demonstrate that Porphyry had taken the stand that our ideas are outside our understanding and that Malebranche had renewed this doctrine at the end of the century. In the article "Democrite," he goes further and calls Malebranche's notion merely a development of Democritus' dogma. It is here that he refers to Malebranche as one of the sublimest spirits of the age. Democritus taught that the images of objects which surround us, and which are everywhere ready to be presented to our senses, are emanations of God, and are themselves a god, as the idea of our soul is a god. Moving from these remarks of Democritus to the thought that all our ideas are seen in God and that they cannot be a modification of a created spirit does not, for Bayle, represent a very big advance. Bayle asks if one cannot go further than Malebranche and say that our ideas are, in effect, God. Bayle also notes a third analogy between Malebranche and an ancient philosopher in the article "Chrysippe." This latter ancient composed a work on providence in which he examined whether providence, or the nature of things, which created the world and humankind, is responsible for the creation of diseases to which man is subject. Chrysippus' reply was that certainly it was not the design of nature to make man sickly, but sickness was just one of the byproducts in the formation of many great and many useful things. Bayle, fascinated by the problem of evil, remarked that Malebranche had worked out Chrysippus' principle and he, Bayle, had given an analysis of it in the Pensees diverses. In the article "fipicure," there is once again a long extract from • 619 ·

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Malebranche designed to show that not only could there be no providence if God had not created matter, but that God would not know what matter is if it were uncreated. It was here that Malebranche exclaimed that philosophers are stupid, because they cannot imagine that creation is possible since they are unable to conceive how God has the power to create something out of nothing. Bayle draws the conclusion from this lengthy statement of Malebranche that only Christianity has the advantage of establishing the solid foundation of providence and the perfections of God, which was also Malebranche's conclusion. The final point of Malebranche which Bayle discussed at some length, this time in the article "Zenon," concerns the proofs which reason gives us of the existence of matter. These proofs, said Bayle, are not at all sufficiently evident to furnish a solid demonstration of the existence of matter. Malebranche went even further in maintaining that there are reasons to doubt the existence of bodies in the world. Indeed, our only way of knowing the existence of external bodies is to know God, who gives us the notion of it and to know that God would not deceive us. That does not mean, continued Malebranche, that God could not mock us if He wished or that He would not punish our past sins by encouraging us to have false notions. It means merely that our reason cannot demonstrate the existence of bodies. This discussion of true and false ideas which Malebranche had with Arnauld had a lasting interest for Bayle, as did also the problem of the origin of our ideas, which he discussed, it will be remembered, in connection with Locke. It was of course one of the fundamental metaphysical problems of the century. Bayle's treatment of Hobbes is fairly full and rather favorable, the author of the Dictionnaire calling the English philosopher one of the greatest minds of the seventeenth century. Contrary to his usual custom, Bayle gave an account of Hobbes' intellectual career, citing his extraordinary talent for languages, recalling that he had studied Aristotle for five years, and remarking that he turned to the historians, especially Thucydides, whom he translated, "pour faire voir aux Anglais les desordres et les confusions du gouvernement democratique." Bayle added that later in life (after he was forty, in fact) Hobbes applied himself to mathematics to train his mind for thinking according to a certain method. From mathematics, he passed to natural philosophy, being particularly interested in animals. Much •620 ·

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of his life, Bayle stressed, was spent in Paris, where he knew Mersenne and his group, as well as Gassendi, and where, indeed, he composed the De cive and parts of the Leviathan. A third work which Bayle mentions is the De corpore. Bayle spoke respectfully of the Englishman, whose lengthy life (he lived to be 91) was that of a "parfaitement honnete homme." He nevertheless was thought to be an atheist, said Bayle, in spite of the fact that those who knew him insisted that his thought on the nature of God was perfectly orthodox. Bayle concluded that he had meditated much more than he had consulted the writings of others. His presentation of Hobbes' works and ideas was succinct but informative. Though the De cive made Hobbes many enemies, he said, the work gave evidence that no one had ever penetrated so profoundly the foundations of politics. Bayle added that he undoubtedly exaggerated many of his ideas, but this can be expected when one is attacking a group. Hobbes' antipathy to the British Parliament accounts for his extreme position that the authority of kings should not have any limits and that the external practices of religion, which is one of the main causes of civil war, should depend entirely upon the will of the monarch. Bayle records that many maintain that this notion produces a coherent, solid state in theory, while in practice it is full of defects and leads to great confusion, because of the passions of men. Bayle's comment on this attitude is typical of his customary impartiality: while it is undoubtedly true, he said, the opposite theory would also lead to confusion. He concludes that all political systems are defective in practice, because of the passions of men. In this respect they resemble mathematics, which are well and good when they remain theoretical, but difficult when applied to matter. In an aside, Bayle expresses some astonishment that monarchical countries permit and even encourage the reading of Greek and Roman books, which are characterized by the spirit of freedom. On the other hand, Protestant countries encourage the reading of the Code and Digest, which are built around the power of the Emperor. On second thought, though, Bayle remarked that this is not so strange after all, since those works which display a spirit of freedom also demonstrate the inconveniences of factions and the confusion of parties, while those which glorify the Emperor show the defects of absolute monarchy. Hobbes translated Thucydides in order to bring • 621 ·

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out the spirit of freedom which he held responsible for the factions and the confusion. Bayle, however, argues in rebuttal that if the Athenians preferred to live in freedom amid all the disorder of a republic, it is because they remembered with horror all the evils of tyranny. Hobbes, of course, would say that the inconveniences and horror of monarchy derive from conspiracies. Bayle concedes this point, but he argues that conspiracies can be an indication of how great an evil monarchy can be. It is evident that, in this matter of monarchy versus democracy, he disagrees with Hobbes. In other matters, Bayle tempers the ideas of Hobbes but does not seem to oppose them. He quoted Descartes's opinion: "Je Ie trouve beaucoup plus habile en morale qu'en metaphysique, ni en physique, quoique je ne puisse approuver ses principes ni ses maximes qui sont tres mauvaises et tres dangereuses." Descartes remarked also that Hobbes supposed man wicked, defended monarchy with bad maxims, and opposed the Catholic Church. Bayle agreed with Descartes that Hobbes stressed the wickedness of men; as for himself, he is for once inclined to point out that there are those who are motivated in their actions either by ideas of "honnetete" or by a desire for glory. In general, he adds, the majority of men are only "mediocrement mediants." This mediocrity causes misery in human affairs, but things would be much worse, he says, if people did not repress their evil inclinations through fear of dishonor. Bayle tempered Hobbes' idea here, but in the matter of atheism, he excused him entirely, insisting that the English philosopher accepted the idea of a God and believed sincerely in virtue, although he disliked disputes among theologians and was clearly opposed to superstitions. Bayle took this occasion to add a footnote: the reproach of atheism, he remarked, has become exceedingly common, particularly against those who propose sublime metaphysical ideas. The article on Pascal, though fairly long, does not offer a very explicit view of the author of the Pensees. Precisely why it failed is difficult to determine. It is inconceivable that the Rotterdam recluse did not appreciate to the fullest the Port-Royal recluse. Moreover, since the two had many things in common, it would seem more reasonable that Bayle, who always added a good deal of energy when his sympathy was with the subject, would have been particularly eloquent. This time, however, was an exception. Bayle stressed that Pascal distinguished all his life between faith and reason. And • 622 ·

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though he so consistently insisted that this must always be done, he refrained from any personal comment. Further, he remarked upon Pascal's talent in mathematics and related the anecdote of the way Pascal, without any help, composed the first thirty-one theorems of Euclid, which, of course, is not precisely true. He called his piety something miraculous, and noted that after having made much progress and carried out many experiments in the "new" philosophy, he abandoned science and devoted himself to a life of meditation and contemplation. Using the Voyage au monde de Descartes and Baillet's biography, Bayle discussed at some length the relationship between Pascal and Descartes, particularly concerning the Puy de Dome experiment. He failed, however, to come to any definite conclusion as to the one who deserved the credit for the idea, merely leaving the impression that there was a good deal of incompatibility between the two philosophers. Using Mme Perier's account, he expressed admiration at Pascal's patience in his illness and remarked that he treated sternly those who were in rebellion against religion. Bayle concluded that if the facts which have been assembled are correct, we must all agree that Pascal was a "prodigy," an "individu paradoxe de l'espece humaine." He discussed Pascal's works unevenly. The only remark of consequence he makes about the Pensees is that "Ie pari" was taken from Arnobius, but he made absolutely no effort to bring out the profound significance of the whole work. For him, the Pensees were unfinished, unorganized, and, consequently, deserved no discussion. On the other hand, he called the Lettres provinciales, which were also unfinished, a masterpiece and remarked that of all the works published against the Jesuits, there is none which has done them more harm or caused them more misery. He added that in spite of Jesuit attempts to refute the work, the Lettres remain supreme. He went into much detail about the refutation and quoted abundantly the opinions in the periodicals of the time. One error which he attempted to rectify concerned their censure. Noting that it was said that they were never censured, he added that they were officially condemned by the Parlement of Aix. Referring to the rumor that Pascal had actually renounced Jansenism at his death, Bayle recalled that the Jansenists denied the rumor and had explained that when their official point of view had been presented to Pascal, he had accepted it. Bayle was willing to adopt this version of the incident, adding that although Pascal had had time to make • 623 ·

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public his renunciation of Jansenism, he had not done so. He conceded, however, that there had been serious disagreements between Pascal and Port-Royal over signing the Formulary, and that there were ambiguities in the attitude of the Jansenists which Pascal did not like. So far as I know, Bayle made only two remarks about Newton, one of them, to which we have already referred, in connection with Bayle's treatment of Descartes's vortices. In remark "G" of the article "Leucippe," he also discussed the Newtonian hypothesis of a vacuum, which he was inclined to grant since it had become the favorite position of the most famous mathematicians. He reasoned that if it is accepted there will then be two kinds of extension, one which is infinite, divisible, and impenetrable, and another which is motionless, indivisible, and penetrable. This explanation, Bayle suggests, would very much embarrass the followers of Spinoza if they were forced to follow the demonstration. T H E QUARREL OF THE ANCIENTS AND THE MODERNS

Lanson has pointed out that there exists between rationalism and classical aesthetics a latent incompatibility in the sense that rationalism by its nature must always look to the future, while classical aesthetics must ever regard the past. As a consequence, he says, taste, which is formed on the experience of the past, conflicts with thought, which ever seeks new ideas; imitation, which is the very basis of classic art, is in conflict with invention; the ancients are always opposed by the moderns. While this evaluation is undoubtedly accurate, there are other considerations which escaped Lanson's analysis of the relationship between thought and art. Since, as Boileau asserted, the basis of classic art consists in "pensees vraies" and "expressions justes," it would seem that the classicist should always be concerned with the verity of his thoughts as well as the accuracy of his expression in delineating them. What strikes a balance for the classicist is not only the proper adjustment of past and future, but the harmonious accord between thought and expression. Thus if the means of expression became inadequate to the ideas expressed, or even was judged unimportant by the artist, his position became untenable. It was for that reason that the rules were properly considered guidelines rather than precepts, because they were devised to state what it was better to do under trying artistic circumstances. But a • 624 ·

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change in attitude toward rules could bring about misery, too. The truth is that classical art is as potentially unstable as deism in religion. There had been several earlier events, of no great consequence, it is true, which had given some inkling of what could happen. Around 1657, some discussion arose as to whether a Christian epic was possible. Saint-Sorlin had actually written a Clovis in an attempt to present a modern epic, only to see it criticized severely by the arbiters of taste. Boileau had explained that a Christian epic was unthinkable because of the sacred character of the subject and, paradoxically, had pronounced against it just at the time when Milton was producing his Paradise Lost. In 1673 occurred the affair of the Inscriptions, when the question was whether the exploits of Louis XIV should be recorded at the Place des Victoires in French or Latin. Once again, the problem was solved more or less amicably. On January 27,1687, however, when Charles Perrault, during a celebration of the French Academy for the recovery of Louis XIV, read a poem "Le Siecle de Louis-le-Grand," the storm which had been brewing for some time broke. Perrault argued that the writers of the age of Louis XIV were in no way inferior to those of the great ages of antiquity. Implied in that judgment was the thought that contemporary poets were fully capable of creating their own literature without subordination to the poetic procedures of the ancients. That conclusion had been threatening for some time, since the early days of the Pleiade, in fact, when the young poets banded together to defend French literature and language against the Latin and Greek, and at the same time make it illustrious by a superior poetic production. Their procedure, however, was by imitation of the ancients, and was, at the same time, a critical revolt and an imitation. Inevitably, the day would have to come when success meant that no longer did the French need appeal to their ancient models in order to justify their present production. But more than that was involved in the revolt: at issue first of all were the rights of art versus the power of science. Classic art was built upon the notion that "forme" was strictly adjusted to "fond," the content to the expression. Consequently, a modification of scientific content would necessarily entail a readjustment in art form. Since everyone willingly admitted that there had been rapid advances in scientific thinking, the suggestion was now in order that • 625 ·

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to be modern this "new" science would have to enter into classic art. Also at issue was the role now played by man, that is, human nature, and nature in art. It had formerly been agreed that art concerned itself primarily with human nature; it was a moralistic art. But now the suggestion was made that the external world of nature had a bearing upon art as well as the nature of man. A third issue was the role of imitation and the rights of originality in the composition of art. It had been understood that the best art had to be imitative. Now it was felt that imitation could be a restraint and that originality might be preferable. Finally, since imitation implied rules, and originality was inclined to dispense with them, there was a tendency to question the need for rules and a strong demand for freedom from restraints. Curiously, these points of issue became more important for the minor than for the first-rate artists, who are prone to feel the terrible pressures of creative art rather than the petty restrictions of any particular kind of art. Consequently, when the quarrel burst, there were some who turned against the restrictions of classicism, usually artists who, because they were not of a first order of excellence, felt certain that the removal of restraints would leave them freer to be themselves. Others, on the contrary, did not find the application of rules irksome, because they had achieved an art which literally was above them. Paradoxically, it was they who were singled out as being superior to the ancients whom they imitated, while they had no feeling of being restrained in their art by the rules, nor did they seek a broader freedom as artists. They did assert the absolute autonomy of the artist in the work of art, and some of them, Moliere for instance, were intensely modern in their leanings. A final remark on this subject should be made. Professor Adam, in his LittSrature frangaise au XVIF Steele, does not seem to attach any great importance to the quarrel. And, indeed, when the documents are scanned from the "Siecle de Louis-le-Grand" of Perrault (1687) to the "Digression sur les anciens et les modernes" (1688) of Fontenelle, to the ponderous four-volume Paralleles of Perrault (1688-97), only Fontenelle's little essay can justify itself for the quality of its thought and the clarity of its expression. But the moderns are no more boring because of their attack than some of the ancients because of their defense. Boileau's Reflexions sur Longin (1693) are as picayune as anything produced on the side of the moderns. It is true that La Fontaine's "fipitre a Huet" is both a superior poem and an intelligent defense of the ancients, and no one would wish to •626 ·

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depreciate the Caracteres of La Bruyere; but despite their excellence as literature, their importance in the debate would be not much more than minimal. As a whole the quarrel must be characterized as a tempest in a teapot. And yet, because society was so tightly organized in France, and the elite so powerful, and the cultural centers so dynamic, a debate at the Academie Francaise could have consequences in all the manifestations of life. And thus the quarrel, in spite of its triteness, is one of two historical events (the other being the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes) which clearly signaled the end of the classical compromise and the beginning of something else. It can in no way be justified, though, as a sudden break with classicism and a turn toward neo-classicism, or pre-romanticism. It was merely a logical development in what had been occurring since the Renaissance. The leading spirit of the quarrel on the side of the moderns was Fontenelle, who in the succinct "Digression sur les anciens et les modernes" exposed with brevity, clarity, and Cartesian logic the moderns' arguments. Fontenelle argued that if, in antiquity, the Greeks' intellect was superior to that of modern man, then the trees in ancient times would have been taller and more beautiful since they, too, would have profited by the youthful vigor of the world. Since there is no apparent difference between the trees of the past ages and those of the present, Fontenelle concluded that there is no reason for a difference in mental ability. Nature being immutable, men are therefore the same throughout the centuries. Nature, in fact, has a "certaine pate" always the same, which it molds in thousands of ways into men, animals, and plants. If time makes only minor distinctions between men, however, climate can make some difference, but it would require a vast change, and the climates of Italy, Greece, and France are almost similar. Besides, there is a relationship between one culture and a neighboring one. France knows Greek and Latin culture so well that it can be said to be a part of it. Finally, time and experience have always added to the increase of man's knowledge. Humanity, like a man, grows from youth to maturity. Consequently, it seems perfectly reasonable to expect those who come last to have profited by the experiences of those who have gone before, so that far from being inferior to their predecessors, moderns can actually be expected to be superior. Fontenelle, however, was willing to make a distinction between •627·

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the imaginative arts and the experimental sciences. Poetry and eloquence, he said, require only a small number of views, and it is possible that with man's imagination they may be perfected even from the beginning. But physics, medicine, and mathematics, because they are much more complicated, would require infinitely more experience and a longer time for development. It could therefore be expected that these arts of science would be better understood by the moderns than by the ancients. Besides, they flourish during times when there is a superior way of reasoning. That is what Cartesianism has offered to the moderns. As a matter of fact, though, in the arts of imagination, the moderns have not only equaled the ancients, but have actually surpassed them, too. There was a logical difficulty in Fontenelle's arguments, however. If nature has the power to produce men of genius abundantly and at all times, what becomes of them during certain periods, when they are very rare ? Fontenelle blamed this discrepancy on the conditions of the time: wars, prejudices, manners and customs, institutions, and natural cataclysms, such as floods and earthquakes, often prevent men of genius from developing. Attendant circumstances are an important factor in the development or lack of development in the life of a group. Fontenelle concludes that once we understand the natural equality which exists between the ancients and the moderns, it is clear that all the differences which occur can be attributed to these "circonstances etrangeres, telles que sont les terns, les gouvernements, l'etat des affaires generales." Man is therefore modifiable: he can be ruined by his environment or he can progress in it. We can now examine the arguments of the ancients and the moderns with some profit, since they will disclose the new tendencies which were making themselves felt in French thought. The ancients based their arguments20 upon the principle that man is always the same in all periods of time, in all places. They deduced from this fact that the portrait of man so excellently presented in classical literature is as true and perfect now as it was in antiquity. They believed that life was essentially static. The moderns, on the other hand, rejected the absolute in man's nature. Like good Cartesians, they adopted the principle that nature, not man, is the same throughout the centuries. Its laws are immutable. Consequently, what it has pro20 The arguments are concisely given in F. Vial and L. Denise, Idees et doctrines litteraires: XVW et XVIIIe siecles, Paris, n. d., 2 voir

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duced in the past can always be duplicated in the present, and where it fails, explanations for the failure can be found in attendant circumstances. The implications derived from this assertion are astounding. Man's nature can be changed, like that of a tree, by time, space, usage, and all sorts of particular circumstances and conditions. These arguments thus brought about two divergent views of man and history. The classic natural-law theory—what the Germans called the Naturrechtlicher Denkweise—explained that each man resembled, in some absolute way, all men, and hence there was no significant difference between a fifth-century Greek and a seventeenth-century Frenchman. An alternative explanation—later called "historismus"—was in every respect the very opposite: men differ from one another at all times and all places; they are the result of all kinds of modifications; each man is unique and can cultivate his uniqueness as he deems best; each social group is likewise unique and can cultivate the spirit of the race as it deems best. History thus becomes something dynamic. It actually moves, in the sense that experience contributes to an awareness, which in turn leads to a modification both of circumstances and results. Seen in global terms, man can now make himself by his thought. We can see why the ancients were lacking in arguments and why the moderns drew many of their arguments from the attendant circumstances of the time. Perrault was as active as Fontenelle in defense of the modern point of view, but in a different way. Instead of attempting to establish his discussion upon fundamental principles, as Fontenelle wanted to do, he was more inclined to give indiscriminate reasons for the superiority of the moderns. It is true that he took over some of the distinctions proposed by Fontenelle: that between science and art, for instance. He also insisted, as did Fontenelle, that nature's laws are immutable. By and large, however, his reasons are more pedestrian: the moderns are superior because they know better the rules for art, because, coming after the ancient, they have been able to profit by the inventions and improvements of their predecessors. Moreover, they have a psychology more profound and more accurate, a better method, and have profited by technological inventions, such as printing. Despite the silliness of the quarrel, and the puerilities of the arguments, its consequences were extremely important. In literature, where it centered, it undoubtedly broadened the field. No longer is • 629 ·

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there a tendency to attribute superiority to a major over a minor genre, to poetry over prose, to expression over content. In fact, there is a noticeable move in the opposite direction, and in the ensuing quarrel over Homer there was an effort to depreciate the ancient epic, to denigrate poetry, to discourage artistic expression. Moreover, in the subsequent "Geometrie," in which chiefly La Motte and Voltaire were involved, La Motte was inclined to condemn poetry as imprecise and a burden. Little by little, the rigidity of classic doctrine gave way. Literature included all forms of prose writing: the journalistic essay, the prose epistle, fiction, the "conte philosophique," etc. Criticism became more historical, more comparative, more detailed in the search for beauties and defects. Curiously, though, it was not in the field of literature that the quarrel made itself most felt, under the influence of Fontenelle's distinctions. In the first place, it was asserted very quickly that conclusions in the literary field could become applicable to other fields. If, for instance, rules were no longer thought necessary in literature, the question was asked whether they were desirable elsewhere. Perrault actually declared in the Paralleles (I, 92): "L'autorite n'a de force presentement et n'en doit avoir que dans la theologie et la jurisprudence." If tradition could be put in question in literature, could it be equally challenged in theology or politics ? If novelty has a premium in scientific discovery, should it also enjoy respect in theology? These questions appear as irrelevant as the points made in the discussion often do, but they cannot be ignored. The organic unity of classicism having been put in question, each category of life was naturally subjected to careful scrutiny in the same way literature was. The result was a tendency to re-examine the various aspects of life, particularly those which depended upon established institutions. More important still was the conviction that there were no absolute answers to life. Just as every man differed from other men, so the constituent elements of his make-up were relative. There had been much talk about relationships, so that eventually the whole basis of existence became an infinite series of relationships—"rapports," as they were called—and these relationships were, so to speak, the building blocks of reality. The concept of "rapports" became in time the most widespread concept (along with "prejuges") in the Enlightenment, affirming not only the relativity of reality, but a new • 630 ·

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way of organizing that reality. It was quickly understood that any phenomena prevalent in one category were equally important in another category. By a sort of tacit agreement, there was adopted a "law of total effect," which consisted in believing that no change can occur in one sphere without affecting all other spheres. The greatest result, however, was in creating the doctrine of progress. The conviction spread that change is a function of knowledge because of the power of thought to modify life. If this were possible, then reform would be inevitable and it can be undesirable as well as desirable. It is at this point that the search began for origins on the one hand and for direction on the other. The belief was firm that if one could place oneself in history with some awareness of the point of departure and some clear idea of the goals, it would be possible to move through knowledge from one of these points to the other. And so the "Quarrel" eventually confirmed the belief in progress through enlightenment, which would lead to the elimination of prejudices and the establishment of ever-fruitful relationships. Though a pious belief, it was not as nai've as nineteenth-century historians would have us think. It was in fact founded upon a whole set of tenets: the immutability of nature's laws, the solidarity of the sciences, the utility of truth, the perfectibility of man, and the certainty that human nature is molded by institutions. Progress thus becomes a kind of religion which guarantees to bring to every man in this world the happiness which is his due. For the moment, however, all the fruits of progress lie ahead. The Enlightenment will eventually have to justify itself on its ability to change the civilization of man for the good of man. At the time of the quarrel between the ancients and the moderns, the Enlightenment is merely a program which asserts that reform is possible: a progress report, so to speak. T H E BEGINNINGS OF REFORM

By 1678, the year of the Treaty of Nijmegen, the France of Louis XIV had reached the height of power. Henceforward, a gradual and, at first, an almost imperceptible decline set in, destined to continue until Louis's death in 1715. Historians have been rather at a loss to explain the reasons for the change. It is probable that France, having risen to the heights, had exhausted herself in the continual expenditure of intellectual, artistic, and even military energy. VoI•631 ·

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taire explained in his Steele de Louis XlV and its surrounding documentation that France was resting after all these activities. It is also certain that, as often happens in Europe, the sudden success of one power encouraged among lesser powers a coalition of energies in an effort to restrict the domination of that power. This is precisely what happened in the case of France. By 1686, there had been formed in Europe, under the eventual leadership of England, a coalition of German and other states in opposition to France. Two years later, the War of the Augsburg League began, terminating in 1697 with the Treaty of Ryswick. It was between these two treaties of Nijmegen and Rijswijk that the decline of France was apparent. It was evident that the tide had turned: England now began its period of preponderance in Europe which was destined to extend over the following hundred years. The thing to note is that not only a decline in international affairs threatened France. She became aware that, in the key aspects of civilization (arts and science, political and social institutions, manners and customs), England now dominated. France accepted the consequences of this dominance with some unexpected enthusiasm, while England, curiously, made every effort to adopt the fine flower of French civilization as it had been developed by the classical age of Louis XIV. The eventual result was a complete merging of the civilizations of the two countries, despite their mutual political and economic enmity. France was more successful in introducing England on the Continent than England herself, in spite of the fact that France's sponsorship cost her a considerable loss of prestige. In science, philosophy, epistemology, even literature and art, it was evident to all that the leadership had passed to England. There are some clear-cut facts which help to explain France's depression. The lavish expenditures for Versailles and the army had contributed to a disastrous economic situation. Taxation became more and more severe and its burden fell upon the lower estates. Moreover, the lower orders were ill-prepared to meet these obligations, and much suffering occurred. The result was not only a financial depression, but the rise of a class struggle in which peasantry, bourgeoisie, and nobles regarded each other with suspicion and some hatred. By the end of Louis's regime, France was practically bankrupt. The magic which was exercised in the economy of the first period no longer worked, in the first place because Colbert had died in 1683 and there was no longer anyone of his genius to succeed him. •632 ·

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As a matter of fact, all of those, except the King, who had contributed to the political and economic stability of France during the early period, had now disappeared. Practically the same situation obtained in literature. Of the great classicists, only Boileau and Bossuet remained after 1700. A whole new generation had arisen to replace them, but they had neither the genius nor the energy of their ancestors. Curiously, a similar disaster befell the monarchy also between 1711 and the death of Louis in 1715. During that short space of time Louis saw practically all his direct descendents disappear. Moreover, in the merging process with England, France had to reckon with the intellectual union of a Leviathan state with one which, after the revolution of 1688, was committed to a more democratic liberalism. And so, in all the categories which contribute to the making of a civilization, France had suffered a decline. It cannot be said that Louis XIV did not make every effort to meet the crisis, which after the successful early years must have seemed all the more unpalatable. He lacked the political and economic power, though, to stem the tide, and the loss of his immediate assistants plus the rising power in his adversaries were just too much for him. He nevertheless clung more and more to an autocratic rule, which was evident in the new taxation he instituted and in the treatment he accorded his loyal followers who were now questioning his policies—Vauban, for instance. But it was more evident still in the way he handled the religious problem. Beginning around 1680, there had been an increase in the persecution of the Protestants. Locke had recorded it in his notebook, as we have seen. All kinds of cruelty were used in order to force them to abjure their faith; their churches were burned, open-air services were forbidden, they were excluded from public office, and now the Catholic Assemblee du Clerge proposed that they be excluded from such professions as the law, printing, the book trade, and even innkeeping. Troops were quartered with Protestant families, where they committed unspeakably cruel depredations. Reports of mass conversions were sent to the King which he was led to believe, particularly since he felt certain, as Spanheim wrote, that the success of this enterprise was a sure means of obtaining pardon for the irregularities of his past life. He was so convinced of the Tightness of his move that he wrote: "Je ne puis douter que c'est la volonte divine qui se veut servir de moi pour remettre dans ses voies tous ceux qui sont sounds a mes ordres." His accomplice in this activity, • 633 ·

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Mme de Maintenon, was less naive in her judgment of the situation. She stated that certainly all these conversions were far from being sincere. But she added piously that "Dieu se sert de toutes les voies pour ramener a lui les heretiques," and she added cynically that "les enfants seront du moins catholiques, si les peres sont hypocrites." Carried away by all these pressures and convinced, too, that the prince is responsible to God for the spiritual welfare of his people, Louis promulgated, on October 18,1685, the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, demanding the destruction of Protestant churches and the closing of Protestant schools, and ordering that Huguenot children be henceforth raised in the Catholic religion. Protestant ministers who refused to be converted would be banished from the realm. Other Protestants who attempted to leave the country would be condemned to the galleys. The consequence of this act cannot be exaggerated. We have never been able to assess with any degree of accuracy how many Protestants left France. Of the million or so who were there, probably about a fifth emigrated to Geneva, Holland, and England. Some few became preceptors in the German courts, and a very small number went to Russia. The important thing is not so much their number as their rank. By far the large majority belonged to the middle class. Since they had been excluded from the professions, they had turned to the trades, to the manufacturing and business world. Moreover, they were in control of a large amount of the wealth of the country and they were fully productive. The emigration of a compact class of wealthy, productive citizens would have a powerful effect upon the economy, which was already in bad shape. Moreover, a fair number became publishers, publicists, and translators in their new countries, and in the realm of periodicals, they were very important. AU during the eighteenth century they sent back into France the political, economic, and social works of their adopted countries, or their own writings, or accounts of other publications of note. Three of them who had a significant role in this respect were Coste, the translator of Locke's Essay and Newton's Optics, Desmaizeaux, the author of biographies of Saint-Evremond and Bayle, and a two-volume abridgement of Leibniz' thought, and Leclerc, whose journals were important as channels of communication between the countries of Europe. And, of course, there was Bayle, who was worth an army. • 634 ·

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The Protestant countries were outraged by the arbitrary autocracy of Louis. He exercised this religious autocracy in other ways, however. He was so determined to be the King of Catholic France that he set out to suppress the Jansenists as heretics. There was the usual round of persecutions, followed by some exiles, the burning and suppression of Port-Royal, the dispersal of the "Solitaires," and eventually the destruction of the cemetery at Port-Royal. Finally, Louis secured the bull Unigenitus from the Pope and, at the end of his life, was actively engaged in having it accepted by the French Church. In the affair of Quietism, it was perhaps Mme de Maintenon who led the persecution, but it was the bitter dispute between Bossuet and Fenelon which shook the French Catholic Church to its foundations. All these quarrels now reached a peak of exasperation which led to Louis XIVs moves, but the moves themselves discredited the very institution they were designed to defend. Instead of creating, or rather recreating, the one, universal, Catholic religion, they weakened that religion until it was clearly subordinated to the state, leaving the way wide open to the skeptics and the free-thinkers. In fact, as Brunetiere has pointed out, Louis had removed the two organized groups which had been able to combat effectively the libertine movement. The point to make here is that the whole development of the Leviathan state under Louis XIV had really been a reform movement. In very realistic fashion, as Mousnier has suggested, Louis had brought together all the elements capable of combating the disorder of the Fronde. He had thus harmonized a situation which had given every indication of disintegration. Mercantilism and, indeed, all the moves of Colbert in the field of commerce, trade, and fiscal policy were so many reforms calculated to stabilize the situation. Moreover, they had been highly successful for a period of twenty years. But the instability which had now been reintroduced into the life of the decline demanded another set of reform moves in order to readjust the elements. Thus there arose a certain number of those who directly proposed the instituting of reforms.21 Rothkrug cites Jean de Lartigue and his 21

See L. Rothkrug, Opposition to Louis XIV, Princeton, 1965. See also K. Martin, French Liberal Thought in the Eighteenth Century, Boston, 1929; P. Sagnac, and A. de Saint-Leger, Louis XIV, Paris, 1949; and finally, J. Lough, An Introduction to Seventeenth-century France, London, 1966.

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Politique des conquorans as an example of the early impulses to reform; the first part of the book was published in 1661; the second, written in 1664, was never published. Obviously, Lartigue's work could hardly be directed at Colbert's mercantilism at that date. It does, however, deal with the application of French economic policy of the time. Rothkrug notes that Lartigue accepts as a general basis for his views two notions: the validity of natural law in the formation of a political state and the complete interdependence of all things. Politics is thus a possible science of the means to preserve this subordination and dependence among men according to nature's works and operation. Lartigue, like Hobbes, bases the organization of politics upon force, which he contends can be used in the interest of justice. War can consequently be the source of virtue; hence the need for establishing a state which is at the same time strong and self-sufficient, and which can provide for the aid and betterment of man. Lartigue's program appears to me more a program for the Leviathan state than an attack against mercantilism. Still, his declaration of nationalism and patriotism and his belief that money furnishes the sinews of war presents a more ideal view of the body politic than Colbert would allow. Lartigue's views are more in accord with Bodin's "justice harmonique" than with that of the "new" politics. To be sure, he does adopt the position that an equitable monarch should apply humane tax policies and should look after the happiness of his subjects, and also proposes the abolition of venality, payment of royal debts, and repurchase of royal domains. Lartigue's proposals fit more into the general line of political theory from Bodin through Campanella, Grotius, Hobbes, Spinoza, and Locke. The real protest against Colbert developed around 1692 with the essays of Belesbat, Fenelon's Lettre au Rot (1694), Boisguilbert's Detail de la France (1695), and above all Vauban's Projet d'une disme royale (1707). Beginning with Colbert's death in 1683, there had been a general movement for reform based on Christian agrarianism and the development of a theory of utilitarianism, but it does not seem to have accomplished much more than the establishment of certain notions to which many serious-minded citizens adhered. It was fairly evident that the lower orders could no longer endure the taxation to which they were subjected. Hence the making of a • 636 ·

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new fiscal policy was clearly indicated, in which many agreed that the aristocracy and the Church would have to take part. Belesbat attributed France's economic decline to the wars with Holland, and urged a complete reversal of policy. Moreover, a nation's wealth, he said, is not enhanced by capturing or destroying the commerce of another country. It can be secured only by encouraging trade. The Dutch, for instance, built their state upon trade, while the French precisely neglected it. Belesbat proposed that the French exchange their agricultural products for the merchandise the Dutch could furnish. He suggested further that a whole vast network of trade be organized among the European community, unfettered by restrictions. Indeed, he recommended that all obstacles be removed from internal as well as external trade. Confident that freedom and prosperity could occur as the result of far-reaching reforms in government and society, he offered a new set of principles and a system of rewards to be distributed to those who obeyed the rules and maxims of good government. He further insisted that the goal of these rewards should be a universal justice, which he interpreted as the satisfaction of human interests in the manner prescribed by nature. In a crude sort of way, he sought a means of conciliating all human interests into a general interest. He insisted that only what is just can be useful. The King, for instance, should furnish work and pay to all his subjects. He should accept the assistance of the aristocracy; he should establish schools to train his administrators. All ministerial posts should be replaced by executive councils. Finally, the King should redistribute to the poor the properties which the Church had usurped. Fenelon's Lettre au Rot was fully as specific; indeed, he actually castigated the conduct of his King for seeking only his own personal glory rather than the welfare of his subjects. Fenelon condemned the activities of the King's ministers who, he thought, had overthrown all principles in order to enhance the King's power, and impoverished all France in order to create a nefarious luxury at Court. The worst of scourges were the wars they waged. The Archbishop excoriated all war, to which he attributed the starvation, the depopulation, and the devastation of the land. Those who survive, he stated, have lost all confidence in the monarch. Sedition is spreading. Fenelon's specific recommendations to the King included the • 637 ·

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abolishment of war, the establishment of state education, the equitable distribution of land, the equalization of taxation, and the revival of the ancient French constitution. In addition, he and Fleury set to work to train the Duke of Burgundy, whom they expected to succeed to the throne after Louis XIV, in a total program of reform which was detailed on a fictional level in the Telemaque. Fenelon established his proposals on general humanitarian grounds and endeavored to give them a Christian basis. Boisguilbert, for his part, tried to build his proposed reforms upon a general, philosophical, economic theory. Kingsley Martin and others have noted that he may be considered in large measure the forerunner of Adam Smith and even the Physiocrats. The center of his thought is the conviction that economic effects are subject to natural laws. He therefore took some pains to discover these laws and to draw from them considerations for the public benefit. His primary law was derived from the free flow of goods. "Nature," he proclaimed, "establishes an equal need of buying and selling in all kinds of traffic." Consequently the economic process is not one of struggle and attack, but a reasonable regard for the unity of interests of all concerned. If the rich understood their interests, he stated, they would see that it would entail a due regard for the interests of the poor. For this reason, he proposed the exemption of the poor from taxation. But he went much farther in his proposals. Riches consist in supplying wants, and money is only a means of exchange. Consequently, the best exchange is the widest possible. Products thus must be allowed to circulate freely, in the provinces first, and among nations thereafter. Nations should therefore not combat the trade of each other, but should cooperate rather in furthering the interest of all in international trade. Fenelon and Boisguilbert were not the only protestors against the King's policies. On February 14, 1707, there appeared a Projet d'une disme royale, which was almost immediately condemned by the King's Privy Council. Pontchartrain ordered D'Argenson to see that the edition was destroyed and that no bookstore would offer it for sale. Notwithstanding the stringency of this order, the work continued to circulate, and so a new order was drawn on March 14 to discover the editor and all those places where the book could be procured. The author was the Marechal de Vauban, certainly one of Louis XIVs most distinguished generals, who was intensely loyal •638 ·

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to his King. He had been preparing the treatise since 1695, and being very practical-minded had undertaken to interest the authorities in the ideas he proposed therein. Finding that no one heeded his suggestions, he had had the Dime royale printed clandestinely and had now set to work to distribute it among the influential at court. He died a fortnight later. In the course of his many trips up and down France, Vauban had been struck by the widespread misery of the inhabitants. Only ten per cent of the population, he said, were really well-off, thirty per cent were reasonably established, fifty per cent were so poor they could not help others, and ten per cent were utterly wretched. Those who were suffering were the little people who now seemed totally neglected and crushed by the burden of their taxes. Vauban urged that it was in the King's interest to protect these "little folk," whose condition has led to underpopulation, a depreciated agriculture, and widespread discouragement. The cause of this decline he attributed to the constant wars and mismanagement of the fiscal policy. The "taille" he declared arbitrary, since it was not based on the individual's ability to pay, but apportioned village by village. Moreover, it was based upon assessments long out of date, and there were too many exemptions which increased the taxes of others out of all proportion. He also found difficulties in the use of the "vingtieme," the "dixieme," and the "gabelle," all of which not only crushed the peasant but broke the morale of the people. He vigorously criticized the accumulation of taxes, and noted that they were not at all proportional to the wealth of the citizens. Some groups were overtaxed because of the exemptions accorded other groups. Moreover, the cost of collecting was entirely too high. Vauban argued that a sound fiscal policy could obviate all these defects, restore confidence to the peasantry, and bring back prosperity to the land. He noted in passing that France was one of the richest European countries in that she could supply herself easily with all the necessities of life. His scheme consisted in the establishment of a "Dime royale," a single-tax system which could only succeed since it already operated most efficiently in the Catholic Church. He added that its use was widespread in Spain, America, and even in China. It was exactly • 639 ·

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proportional to income, and every citizen was subject to it. Moreover, it could change its ratio according to actual government needs. Vauban recommended that it never rise above ten per cent and that it never drop below five, with the ideal point as close to five per cent as convenient. Vauban concluded that the fundamental law is that each citizen must have the protection of the state, but to do so, he must furnish the state all that is necessary for securing that protection. Consequently all the citizens are forced to contribute to this necessary fund. Further, no special privilege can be accorded to a citizen or a group. Each must pay in proportion to his income and his industry. Vauban maintained that all exceptions are unjust and always lead to increased burdens upon others. Boulainvilliers is in surprising accord with Vauban (see R. Simon, Henri de Boulainviller, historien, politique, philosophe, astrologue, 1658-1722, 1952). The Count, who was widely reputed for his erudition in history and who, after 1710, played an important role in the establishment of critical deism and Spinozism in France, was among those (Fenelon, the Due de Saint-Simon, the Due d'Orleans) assembled in the 1690s around the Due de Bourgogne, then being groomed for his succession to Louis XIV. The whole tone of these assemblies was reform, and it appears that the young Dauphin was sincerely committed to the political and economic changes which his entourage now deemed essential. He had requested the King to circulate among the Intendants of the realm a request that each prepare a "Memoire" on the region for which he was responsible. When collected, these reports constituted forty-two folio volumes. Boulainvilliers was commissioned by the Dauphin to make a manageable digest of them. The result of his task was the ttat de la France which was published only in 1727, though it was evidently made and discussed in the Dauphin's group sometime after 1697. It was an invaluable document for the organization of the Intendants' opinion of the state of the nation. But the Memoires au Re"gent, which gave Boulainvilliers' conclusions on L'fitat de la France, contained the remedies proposed by him. It is still not very clear, despite Mme Simon's full account, whether the Memoires au Regent were first addressed to the Due de Bourgogne and, after his death, revised for the Due d'Orleans. They, too, were not published until 1727. • 640 ·

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The first thing which required a reform according to Boulainvilliers was the office of the Intendants. He found them negligent, ignorant, and incompetent; he attributed to them direcdy much of the misery of the land. Nonetheless, he undertook to reduce their inefficient reports to maxims of government, and to seek in the reality of history experimental truths which could be applied to a discouraging portrait of the nation's morale. He noted that everyone desired to rule and to give orders, and that the nation was corrupted by the yearning for wealth. Boulainvilliers's summary of these reports offers a portrait of conditions throughout France very similar to that drawn by Boisguilbert, Fenelon and Vauban. The little people are dying of hunger. They are exhausted by the war levies, submerged by taxes, and even where the land should furnish an abundance of everything, they are prevented from enjoying its fruits. The bad roads prevent all commerce. Merchants and farmers are sometimes forced to let their products perish because of lack of consumers. The workers are in the same state of exhaustion as the peasants. They are forced to abandon their trades because the ordinary and extraordinary taxes surpass what they can earn. The remedies suggested by Boulainvilliers are stringent. Foremost among them is the insistence that the Estates should be recalled. The measures taken should strengthen the government; they should be neither arbitrary nor contradictory, but they must be firm. Boulainvilliers expresses some apprehension that any display of weakness by the government will encourage revolt rather than remedy the situation. The despotic reign of the late King must be changed. Boulainvilliers blames this despotism for the suffering of the times, when personal interest has become the dominant motive of action. The principal nerve of monarchy is finance, the power of the government derives therefrom, and it is in this area that the greatest effort has to be made. The former reign destroyed abundance by exhausting the citizens and the confidence of the people in the rulers, with a consequent breakdown in morale. The reform in the fiscal policy should stress three points: liberation of the King's revenues, liquidation of his debts, and a free circulation of money. This third recommendation depends, to be sure, upon the confidence of the public. Any alteration in value of money, any disclosure of a critical financial state, will impede this circulation. There should, • 641 ·

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nonetheless, be a complete economic reorganization with a renewed commerce. Boulainvilliers lays great stress upon a central bureau of commerce established at Paris and local chambers of commerce organized throughout the realm. He counsels the suppression of brokers, exchange agencies, and bankers. They are to be replaced by a central treasury in liaison with local treasurers, who will collect taxes as well as control the flow of capital. A program of social security is proposed which will tend to the preservation of the "menu peuple," who are more useful to the state than the rich because they do all the arduous tasks. Boulainvilliers worked out on their behalf a system of social security not unlike modern ones and even included educational benefits as well as hospitalization. Finally, the whole taxation system must be revised. Another who took part in the deliberations surrounding the Due de Bourgogne was the Abbe de Saint-Pierre. In time, he developed a whole body of reform extending from a complete revision in education to the founding of a College of Politics. He was convinced that the two greatest evils in a state were internal and external wars, and that the greatest good is peace. He noted that the first preoccupation of the ruler is the increase in his revenues, which enable him to govern with prudence and justice, and to work for the good of his people. Like Vauban, Saint-Pierre noted the widespread poverty and suggested that monks and nuns (whose numbers he proposed to reduce) should devote themselves to "colleges, petites ecoles, hopitaux, medecine gratuite, travaux publics." He declared further that the rich should be forced by law to pay a "droit des pauvres" for those who are in danger of starvation. He accused Louis XIV, as did Fenelon, of an excessive vanity which drove him to seek a false glory which led, said Saint-Pierre, to the misfortunes of Europe, to the disasters of the King's life, and to the misery of his people. He obviously placed his hopes in the Due de Bourgogne, whom he praised highly. He approved the formation of councils which was so widely discussed in Bourgogne's circle. Indeed, he wrote a treatise upon the plan, La Polysynodie. Finally, the Due de Saint-Simon was also a member of Bourgogne's group. In the Memoires, all the criticisms found in Fenelon reoccur: the vanity of the King, the ruinous wars, the misery of the people, the mismanagement of the government, the lack of a satisfactory fiscal policy. He urged the formation of councils and insisted • 642 ·

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upon the obligations of the King to take the dukes and peers into his confidence. Saint-Simon's program appears more clearly still in the Projets de gouvernement, the Lettre anonyme au Roi, and the Projets de retablissement du Royaume de France. Like Boulainvilliers, he urged that the Estates be recalled and consulted, as a means of allaying the uneasiness of the public. He insisted that the higher nobility should share actively in the policy-making of the Government, condemned the selling of offices, and urged a just peace, a policy of moderation in foreign relations, and reciprocity in foreign trade. He deplored the disaster for France occasioned by the exodus of the Protestants. Finally, he favored the formation of provincial Estates in the twelve French provinces, which were to be charged with apportioning and collecting the taxes.22 22 See P. Sagnac, La Formation de la societe jranqaise moderne, Paris, 1945, 2 vols., and F. R. Bastide, Saint-Simon par lui-meme, Paris, 1953.

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CONCLUSION: T H E MAKING OF A SPIRIT constantly of the spirit of an age without much thought as to the meaning we attribute to the expression. This is particularly true when we undertake to define the French Enlightenment, probably because we believe it is not really confined to a definite timespan, although I can readily be persuaded that other epochs would offer similar obstacles to clear definition. Nevertheless, insofar as the Enlightenment is concerned, each of the numerous theories concerning its origin seems to be founded upon the conviction that it cannot be understood unless we know to what it tended and what was its inner spirit. Each scholar seems to have devised his own particular term to designate this spirit: "esprit revolutionnaire" (Taine), "esprit philosophique" (Lanson), "esprit encyclopedique" (Brunetiere), "esprit scientifique" and "esprit classique" (Taine), "esprit critique" (Hazard). In spite of a certain confusion, it is clear that historians accept that this "esprit" is the result of awareness, consciousness of a situation, and action taken as a response to it. It is closely identified with thought, intelligence, the human mind. We evidently believe that conditions offer a challenge to the individual, who grasps it intellectually and, once having analyzed it, makes a response which creates another situation. We assume that the continuum of these circumstances is the expression of a spirit. In a loose way, we regard it as composed of a certain number of characteristics which we can designate. In a more precise way, we tend to believe that phenomena elicit thought which in turn requires action which eventually changes circumstances which necessitate additional thought and the round begins again. We say that what one thinks is what one is and what he is is what he says, and what he says is what he does. That is why we define human activity as "penetrating reality with consciousness," and look upon a movement of history as a series of challenges and responses. More and more we regard the challenge as a crisis, and the response as an intellectual solution to the crisis. In this view, man lives in a perpetual round of crises; his activity is a continual effort to solve the present crisis. His spirit is, so to speak, his way of regarding the crisis and doing something about it. The spirit of his time is the collective way in which everybody faces the crisis. The spirit of the age is what evolves from the solutions proposed to allay it.

W

E TALK

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We would perhaps be wise to tarry a moment in an effort to comprehend what we mean by this term "esprit." Panckoucke, in Le Grand Vocabulaire jrangais (1769), among other considerations, offers the remark that it "se dit des facultes de Tame raisonnable." Those faculties are imagination, reason, and judgment. Obviously, "esprit" in this sense refers to the way one uses his imagination, his reason, and his judgment. But it is also "usages, maniere de penser, de se conduire, d'une societe." In the eighteenth century, it is already felt that the faculties of the human mind working together constitute the "esprit" of a person. To understand him, one has to approach him through the workings of these faculties. Then, and only then, will one comprehend the sense of the individual and the direction of his thought and acts. Littre, though more explicit, has not deviated notably from the eighteenth-century definition: "Il se dit en particulier des facultes intellectuelles, de l'aptitude a comprendre, a saisir, a juger." It is in this sense that we constantly refer to "l'esprit humain," meaning, as Littre says, "l'esprit de l'homme en general." The working of these faculties, however, common to an individual, and leading to a tendency to action, or a coordination of thought and action, may also take place in a group of persons, whence is formed a collective definition of "esprit" as, continues Littre, "Opinions, sentiments communs a un certain nombre de personnes et aux grands corps," which give birth ultimately in the group to "principes, motifs, impulsions, tendances, d'apres lesquels on se dirige." C. Robert, in his Dictionnaire alphabotique et analogique (1954) is more explicit still: "Principe d'action; force avec laquelle agit une idee, un sentiment," and adds that it is also the accumulated body of ideas and sentiments which is entertained by a group of people and which constitutes the "esprit d'une epoque, d'un corps" and, of course, of an individual of the group. Moreover, he suggests that this "esprit" represents the inner sense, the essential of a person, of a work, of a group, of an epoch. The assumptions upon which we have been relying are two: man's thought is subjected to events, which are challenges to previous conditions and which become the groundwork of new events offering a new challenge and demanding other responses. In the continual round of events, conditions, challenge, thought, response, we assume that thought can always lead to action and that the displacement from awareness of thought to wilful action constitutes a movement •645 ·

CONCLUSION

of thought. We presuppose likewise that this movement changes man from what he was into something else, so that we can infer that he thinks himself from the awareness of his situation into what he will become. Hence change is the inevitable consequence of his thinking, and the making of himself and his milieu is the result of his awareness of himself and his surroundings. In this way thinking is an existing process. We judge that it has value in that it creates, enriches, and guarantees existence. This existence is really an essence, something for which we accept responsibility, and if it is carried out in accordance with our wishes, we derive from it personal satisfaction. We feel certain that it opens up for us other possibilities and that their realization can produce other satisfactions which we call progress. We assign great importance to this progress which we regard as a spirit, something which goes beyond our finite nature and becomes not only an expression, but an intention, a creation. And as it happens to one man, so may it befall a group of men living in one community or at one particular moment. And as it becomes the spirit of the group, so it might become that of an age. The spirit of a group or of an age carries within itself the same content of unfulfilled intentions, the same possibilities which when realized can produce immense satisfactions in the group or in the age. We have undertaken here to designate what elements constituted the conditions of the Renaissance: the fall of the Byzantine Empire, the discovery of new lands, the change in the center of learning, new inventions, the rise of humanism, and finally the Reformation— that is, a political event of world-shattering proportions; a geographical event which opened up broad horizons; an intellectual event which transformed the sources and uses of knowledge; a technological event which modified the conditions of living; a moral event which organized the wisdom of the past; and a religious event which upset completely the stability of almost a millennium. These events can be likened to what has been going on at the present moment when an empire has just collapsed, the researches of outer space have pushed the confines of the universe beyond the imagination of man, a new epistemology has been introduced, a new concept of ethics has been proposed, and a new meaning has been proposed for religion. In our jargon we call these phenomena political, scientific, moral, • 646 ·

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and religious. We try to distinguish between an event and the idea which is called forth, but we are not very successful in this kind of enterprise. At best we can only hint at a fusion between history, science, art, and philosophy. In each case a thought, an action, a created something, and a new meaning take place! In reality, though, what actually occurred in the Renaissance was a violent upheaval in man's external world in which a new concept of science was organized, together with a collapse in man's inner world in which a new definition of human wisdom as power was proposed, and a threatened disintegration in God's world in which the concept of the individuum was substituted for that of the spiritual and mystic corpus. These conditions revolutionized the relationships which had hitherto existed between God, nature, and man. Man became a center between God and nature. Responsibility for his being became his, it could be effected only by his ability to penetrate and exploit nature. Science, the knowledge of the external world of nature, became highly important, because therein was to be found the wherewithal to produce the "commodites de la vie." But humanism, the knowledge of the inner world of man, was just as essential, because therein lay the possibilities of building (creating) man's future. Finally religion, the right relationship of God, man, and nature, was no less significant to him, because otherwise there could be no permanent meaning to his existence. The crux of the matter, however, lay in man's ability to deduce from an awareness of this inner and outer world the correct vision of that universe which would preserve the right relationship between himself and the power which created him. The area of that relationship lay in the human mind, which everyone agreed was the point of contact between God and man. In the first place, God had given man this reason for the very purpose of establishing this relationship. Everything depended upon the ability of the human understanding to construct an epistemology which would justify the instrument of thought and guarantee the validity of the mind's operation. Hence there was a feverish effort to know, an almost desperate struggle to ascertain the value of what was known, and, above all, a constant endeavor to be reassured by an intimate acquaintance with the instrument of knowing. We have seen that the result of this shift was a reordering of • 647 ·

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knowledge, in which theology was challenged as the queen of the sciences by philosophy, metaphysics as the supreme subject of philosophy was challenged by natural philosophy, and both metaphysics and the natural sciences were challenged by the human sciences of humanism. The· attempt at classifying wisdom can be seen at a place like Padua, where natural science was developed alongside theology, where psychology and medicine were pursued alongside the mechanism of natural science, and where the humanistic sciences of man and his institutions were studied alongside theology and natural philosophy, while at the same time an effort was made to establish metaphysical principles guaranteeing theology, science, and humanism. Difficulties arose immediately. Faith, which had previously been the ultimate way of knowing the true, the real, and the good, was now partially replaced by reason. Man had to inquire with some anxiety whether it was as satisfactory a way to these ends as the older method. The result was a dislocation between faith and reason, reason and nature, spirit and matter. In due time, the categories became involved, science became renewed, philosophy was transformed; metaphysics, which previously had served the interests of theology, now allied itself more specifically with natural science and endeavored to give a firmer foundation to natural phenomena. Ancient learning, which was brought in as an enrichment, put into question the relative merits of pagan and Christian ethics. The union of the new science and humanism brought about a reform in the institution of religion. The outcome of this move was catastrophic, since the plurality of sects which resulted only served to accentuate the breakdown in the unity of religion and to destroy the dominance which it had enjoyed. Moreover, the delicate balance between religion and the state was upset, particularly in the matter of enforcing individual morals. Eventually the categories of religion, politics, economics, morality, and science existed in a state of imbalance, and their disarray became tragic in the subsequent wars of religion. It was at this juncture that Renaissance man responded to the dreadful challenge by giving an aesthetic rather than a religious interpretation to life, and in the aura of one of the most aesthetic epochs that man has known set to work to give a rational reconstruction of man (Montaigne), the state (Bodin), natural science (Bacon), and eventually philosophy (all the subsequent philosophers). These • 648 ·

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reconstructions were in reality recreations, works of art. One lived one's life as one created a masterpiece, and, as Montaigne showed, there was an absolute correspondence between the life of Montaigne and the Essais. The modification was effected by asking particular questions in religion, metaphysics, physics, morality, and institutions, and by applying the human mind to seeking the answers. The two questions in religion concerned the existence and nature of God and the immortality and nature of the soul. Formerly, the answers to these questions lay in revelation, faith, belief. Now the answers were sought by the human mind. Specifically, the question proposed was: What can the human mind know about the existence and nature of God ? That way of putting the question took it out of the field of religion, which is the area of faith, belief, revelation, opinion, and dogma, and put it into the realm of metaphysics. Then the question proposed was: What rational arguments can be adduced as proof of God's existence and the existence of nature, and what opposing rational statements can be made ? After the arguments for and against had been marshaled and weighed, it was decided that the human mind cannot offer rationally-accepted proofs of the existence of God, or of the nature of God, or of the materiality or the immateriality of the soul. These problems are beyond the reach of the finite human mind, and so they must still be settled by faith, revelation, opinion, or dogma, or abandoned. But the unfortunate implication of all this was that either they must be settled in the old way or left unsettled. Now that these two problems had been declared matters of faith, all problems derived from them likewise partook of the same quality: the workings of providence, for instance; God's prescience and its relationships with man's free will; the nature of the moral law and what constitutes good and evil; finally, whatever relationships exist between matter and soul, thought and extension. AU these questions can be answered by theological dogma, none can be satisfactorily resolved by philosophical speculation. This condition could have arisen at any time since the establishment of the Christian religion and probably did, since there is no reason to suppose that doubt had no role in the Middle Ages. When it arose, however, dogma and revelation were always present to support faith, and there was even an organization for policing it. So that if someone put these questions and arrived at the impossibility • 649 ·

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of solving them rationally, he was urged to renounce this tactic and return to the simpler method of dogmatic fiat. If he persisted in his rational efforts, more forceful persuasions were used, which made the inquiry dangerous and useless. But now conditions had changed. To the obvious assertion that the human mind was incapable of discovering the solutions to ultimate things, there arose the question: "What can the human mind know ?" And to this question, the answer was more encouraging: if it cannot penetrate into God's world, it can make some headway in nature's and man's world. In science and in morality, some knowledge is possible, limited to be sure, and subject to all sorts of errors and miscalculations, but not useless. Rightly organized and carefully pursued, it can be very serviceable so far as this life is concerned. We can find proofs for this limited optimism in our own experience as well as in the experience of the past. Natural science and humanism do not guarantee that we will arrive at ultimate truths, but they offer some possibility of attaining useful goals for our sojourn here. There is unquestioned profit in knowing something about the composition of matter, or about the movement of bodies; we can derive some pragmatic advantage from knowing how human beings react to the phenomena of nature, how physical bodies respond to external physical conditions. Natural science, medicine, psychology, mechanics, though subject to all sorts of pitfalls, chiefly because it is not always possible to distinguish clearly between the reality of things and the seeming appearances, can promote more favorable circumstances. One can get somewhere, or at least have the illusion of getting somewhere. The human mind was deemed fairly successful in solving some of the problems concerning nature's world. The results of science and humanism seemed to justify the intellectual effort. It is true that those who had done most to produce these results were very critical of the mind's powers and constantly urged that we remember that it is a feeble instrument indeed. Despite this counsel of caution, there were those who insisted upon using the human mind in attacking problems concerning God's world. In this way some choice was offered between accenting the dogmatic dictates of faith and applying the human mind to the conditions of this world. It should be stressed that it was neither novel nor clearcut. There was nothing incompatible in a merchant of the Middle Ages looking simultaneously to his everyday interests and to his long-term heavenly rewards, • 650 ·

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and the same thing remains true for seventeenth-century man. But now the situation was much more subtle, because of two events, the rise of modern science and the revival of ancient learning, both of which were a pressure upon the integrity of Christian faith and dogma. Besides, the Reformation had produced two dogmas and thereafter a set of multiple dogmas as Catholics and Protestants split into sects. Hence anyone who held an inclination to do so could justify the feeling (if he was not too vocal) that some things in nature and some things about man and his institutions can be known, some things about the good life here and now can be rationally organized, but beyond that, our future abides in our trust in God's work, nothing else. Since an unfortunate schism offered numerous interpretations of God's work, it was reasonable that some confusion would occur. It was increased when the facts of science and those concerning man found themselves in conflict with the truths of religion, and it was compounded when one set of truths in religion found itself in conflict with another. Since there were two ways of thinking about Original Sin, Transubstantiation, and the Trinity, the ambiguity naturally created some disorder. It did not help at all when someone was killed for thinking about these things in what was deemed an unacceptable way. Servet, for instance, was put to death because he could not find the doctrine of the Trinity anywhere in Scripture. There were two ways of handling this dilemma. One was to reform the Church, reestablish the organization, and restore its former authority. That was attempted, but, in spite of a true religious revival in the first quarter of the seventeenth century, it never achieved either one organic doctrine or a reunion of the Churches. Three events precluded any such result. One was the rise of individualism from the rational reconstruction of man, a second was the rise of political nationalisms from the rational reconstruction of the state, a third was the modification in man's view concerning the nature of the universe which revolutionized his approach to nature. These three changes not only were brought about by the instabilities we have mentioned, they also compounded the uncertainties by interpenetrating each other. An individual, for instance, could find reasons in the new scientific discoveries to justify modifications in the moral reconstruction of man, or in the new discoveries of man's moral nature to justify modification in the structure of the state. In •651 ·

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this way, morality, science, and politics became actively involved by the sheer dynamism of ideas. There were, however, two further difficulties involved in the reconstruction. One could not be sure that ideas represented reality: it was just possible that appearance of truth was true as truth itself. At all events, no criterion existed which could distinguish between appearance and reality. Moreover, it was difficult to distinguish between what one knows, what one thinks, and what one believes. Opinion, belief, and knowledge could not possibly be the same thing. And yet no sure way existed of drawing distinctions. Consequendy, man was led to two moves in his search for a satisfactory criterion for thought and experience. He sought carefully the nature of the instrument which handled ideas, and which he called the "human" understanding. Specifically he wanted to know whether its faculties worked together or whether the reason was well accorded with the imagination, the imagination with the will, the will with the passions, the passions with the senses, the senses with action. On the other hand, he wanted to know whether in case of error it was produced by a discrepancy in the workings of the faculties, and more particularly still how a better adjustment can be effected to avoid these errors. He wanted also to know where ideas originated—whether in God, in nature, in the mind itself—and how they developed. In what order can they be marshaled to produce a greater efficiency of thought and a greater surety of truth? The organization of thought is paramount in importance, since not only we may know many things without really knowing how we came by them, but they may be of no use to us in this world. One of the functions which religion had always served was the exercise of a healthy, judicious control over all the other aspects of life. As a consequence, the modifications which were now taking place in its own inner unity, and which brought into question its integrity and especially its authority, inevitably had repercussions throughout politics, morality, and natural science. Fundamentally, these changes were the effect of a shift from an old, established way of thinking and acting to a whole new set of possibilities of thinking and acting. But the primary fact is that religion had lost its vitality, and with that loss went its prestige as the dominant category of life. Hence not only does it seem threatened in its very existence by a precarious imbalance; the extension of that threat puts in • 652 ·

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jeopardy the normal status of the surrounding fields. Politics, for instance, is menaced with excessive nationalisms, morality is bedeviled by an excessive individualism, and science incurs the risk of being suppressed in its normal development by some excessively arbitrary expression of power. Religion appears a weak but dogmatic category, asserting its authority in unjustified fashion in areas where it no longer possesses competence or power. In some paradoxical way, its weakness, expressed by an excessive affirmation of its strength, constitutes not only a threat to its integrity, but a serious danger to the natural expression of the other aspects of life. As a consequence, it appears the victim of these other aspects, while, in reality, its very decline in power and prestige was the source of its inordinate attempt to victimize and dominate the other categories. Thus it is simultaneously victim and tyrant, and appears in the guise of being threatened with annihilation while exerting every effort to challenge the other categories. Hence arose the problems of the right relationship of Church and state, or the right adjustment of Christian, lay, and individual morality, and the right of science to develop without hindrance from religion in accordance with its own inner logic. In each instance man has to seek what constitutes the correct relationship between each category as well as what confirms the inner integrity of each category. It is primarily a problem of coherence, consistency, and organic unity. The involvement is expressed in each case as a badly-adjusted relationship between religion and the other categories, so much so that instead of having the impression that the categories are working harmoniously together, one gets the very opposite impression of disharmony, disintegration, oppression, and tyranny. As a matter of fact, religion's every action entails a corresponding reaction on the part of the other categories, and this reaction in some way constitutes an additional threat to religion, so that there arises between religion and the others a kind of perpetual struggle for survival rather than a unified effort to coherence. Although the situation appeared most acute in the field of religion because of its former undisputed superiority, there were occasions when it became just as acute in any category (for instance, the Fronde, in the political category around 1646 to 1652). In reality, the focus of the crisis is not in the category, it is rather in the mind living the category; and its formal manifestation is expressed in any one of the • 653 ·

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several possible attitudes toward life which humanity has developed: skeptic, stoic, epicurean. Each move thus gives the additional impression of fostering skepticism, stoicism, epicureanism, or Christian charity, or Machiavellian politics, or scientific positivism, or a morality of experience, or materialism. These attitudes become, in a way, additional causes for confusion, since they not only embrace new ways of affirming reality, but they also recall the ways of antiquity. In the specific case of the early seventeenth century, for instance, religion found not only its authority involved, but its tradition as well. It had based that tradition fundamentally upon Augustinianism, which implied a relationship between God and man calling for the right solution to the problem of grace and free will. Whatever solution was now proposed was opposed by humanism, which also had a tradition to defend, that of the semi-pelagians. The problem centered on the good life. Was it Christian or pagan ? In this way, Augustinianism was opposed by stoicism, epicureanism, skepticism, and naturalism: the pagan virtues. It was a tribute to the continuing strength of Christianity that, around 1640 in France, it was able to absorb stoicism to the point where Christian stoicism became a reality. Religion even made an effort to adapt skepticism to its uses, while Gassendi hoped that epicureanism would firm up its weaknesses, which the prestige of Aristotle had fostered. But in the end the merging of these pagan attitudes with Christianity served only to weaken more the position of orthodoxy. The net result of this move was the introduction of skepticism, stoicism, epicureanism, and naturalism, which became possible because humanism was more vital than orthodox Christianity, since it possessed a tradition (the Graeco-Roman) fully as strong as the Judso-Christian. Moreover, the pa^an attitudes toward life were undoubtedly more flexible to change, more open-ended to the political state, more adjustable to Mediterranean morality, and more receptive to science than the Christian. As it was understood, pagan antiquity was judged a firmer foundation for the good life than medieval Christianity. It was not only more acceptable as a tradition, but was dominantly moral rather than religious, a rational way of life solidly grounded in tradition and endowed with both coherence and consistency. Its neglect of a religious support actually worked in its favor. Nonetheless, its traditional strength eventually became the source of its weakness. Science, which must always be modern to survive, proved its downfall. • 654 ·

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For the moment, however, that danger was nowhere apparent. Pagan rationalism gave a focus to the whole movement, pagan science gave a solid starting-point to modern science, pagan morality and aesthetics gave a firm foundation to contemporary ethics and aesthetics. There was a great advantage, in a troubled, crisis-ridden epoch, in the fact that the condition of man was localized in the mind of man, and that he directed his attitudes and his life by his awareness of the possibilities, which was the pagan, humanistic way. Religion, politics, economics, natural science, aesthetics, morality, and the "moi"; skepticism, stoicism, epicureanism, naturalism—the mere enunciation of the ingredients indicates the extent of the confusion which could enter into the situation. Moreover, the mere fact that the locus of these ingredients was the individual human mind, which was notorious for its diversity and its deviations, was indicative of the possibility of greater disorder still. It was this situation which gave rise to the free-thinker, the "libertin," derived from Italian naturalism, but derived also from that greatest of all free-thinkers, Montaigne. It was a motley crew, composed of those whom we now call the "erudite" free-thinkers (Charron, Naude, Sorbiere, La Mothe Ie Vayer, Guy Patin, and the leader of the group, Gassendi), the Horatian, satiric, epicurean poets (Theophile de Viau, Desbarreaux, Dehenault, Mme Deshoulieres, Blot, Chaulieu, and La Fare), the innumerable writers of travel literature, the Utopian novelists (Rabelais, Cyrano, Vairasse, Foigny, Tyssot de Patot, Gilbert, Fenelon), and the deists (beginning with Rabelais and Montaigne in a mild way, continuing with Gassendi and Sir Herbert of Cherbury, and establishing themselves firmly as an intellectual movement with Spinoza and a whole long line of English pseudo-spinozists and a corresponding line of French followers—Boulainvilliers, Freret, Dumarsais, Mirabaud, Meslier). Throughout the closing years of the sixteenth century, and during the whole of the seventeenth down to the opening years of the eighteenth, there was always one or other of these groups to carry on the free-thinking tradition. The Italian naturalists came first since the whole movement came out of Italy via Padua; but by the end of the sixteenth century it was firmly implanted in the intellectual centers of Europe, especially France. In France, with the aid of Montaigne, they gave way to the erudite free-thinkers who flourished from the early twenties of the seventeenth century until the early seventies. •655 ·

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The travel writers were enormously active from the middle of the sixteenth to the middle of the eighteenth centuries and the satiric Horatian, epicurean poets from the twenties in the seventeenth century to the twenties of the eighteenth. The Utopian novelists, beginning with Rabelais, continued with Cyrano, but they flourished particularly from 1676 until 1715. Contrary to a constant belief among seventeenth- and eighteenth-century critics that free-thinking had run its course by the beginning of Louis XIVs reign and was not revived until the decline of that reign in 1685, it is evident that there was no period between the beginning of the seventeenth century to the beginning of the eighteenth when there was not some group of free-thinkers to carry the burden of free-thought to Bayle and Fontenelle, and further still to Voltaire and Montesquieu, and ultimately to Diderot, Rousseau, and the whole Encyclopedic Freethinking is thus one of the most consistent, coherent, and continuous intellectual movements in Europe we have. Even in the midst of classicism, two and possibly four of the great classicists were freethinkers. Kant was well aware of this force when he defined the Enlightenment. It was to combat their disorder that Descartes organized his philosophy, thereby hoping to reestablish a firm foundation to the problem of living. As a matter of fact, the free-thinkers found themselves combated at every turn by the thinkers, that is to say, the philosophers. Never, in fact, had there been in Europe in a single century a dozen or so eminent philosophers comparable in excellence to the philosophers of that period: Montaigne, Bacon, Hobbes, Descartes, Gassendi, Pascal, Spinoza, Leibniz, Malebranche, Locke, Newton, Bayle, and Fontenelle. Philosophy undertook the solid formation of a metaphysics, a physics, a morality, an aesthetic, and a methodology designed to introduce order, balance, and proportion into the living of the time. But the movement in philosophy, for all its excellence, was not homogeneous. Whatever else can be said about the position of the philosophers in the seventeenth century, it is clear that they take their origin from Montaigne, directly, it appears, in the case of Bacon, Descartes, Pascal, and Gassendi, and probably indirectly through Bacon and Descartes in the case of all the others. There is thus built into the philosophical thought a deep reconstruction of humanism and all that it entails: its preoccupation with the nature of man, its solid • 656 ·

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interest in man's ability to live the good life through the use of reason, a consequent analysis of the human faculties which enter into the composition of this reason, a constant conviction that in the disorder and disharmony of these faculties lie the causes of human error, the belief that with the reestablishment of order and harmony in man's rational faculties the good life becomes once more possible. But humanism's success as a guide depends upon human responses to man's lot: man's attitude is all-important to his salvation, and his institutions are all-important as a guarantee of that salvation. The problems with which the philosophers all had to contend were at the same time psychological, ethical, moral, and epistemological, and they concerned such matters as the distinction between reason and nature, reason and the passions, nature and God, grace and free will. They were practically all focused around the right relationship between man and his inner content, man and God, man and nature, man and his fellow man, man and his institutions—this right relationship, in fact, constituted the ethical problem. But that problem was based upon consciousness, awareness, knowledge; it became less possible to act correctly unless one could know the possibilities. The fundamental assumption was that salvation resided in the way one organized his knowledge. At first, the task attributed to philosophy was to restore the good life—that communion with God and with one's fellow man which had been the hallmark of the Middle Ages. There seems to be no reason to question Montaigne's fideism, or Descartes's sincere desire to reinvigorate religion through the shoring-up of philosophy. As a matter of fact, the sudden growth in the importance of philosophy can be attributed in large part to a desire to bolster the weaknesses now apparent in theology with the findings of philosophical speculation. Things did not work out that way, however, probably because the nature of philosophy had changed radically. Instead of being a subordinate branch of theology, whose position of primacy it was expected to recognize, philosophy had achieved a considerable autonomy of its own. Some of this increased prestige it acquired by admitting its incompetence in theological dogma and turning its attention to other fields of knowledge where it was thought to have a greater competence. It must have caused a great shock when Pomponazzi at Padua declared that the human mind was incompetent to decide on the existence of God, or the immortality of the soul, or • 657·

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the problem of free will, or the doctrine of providence, or even the nature of matter. It was what everyone already knew, it is true, but previously there had been no need to appeal to reason for assistance. Now, however, with the widespread practice of free-thinking and its tacit assumption that only by experience, awareness, and consciousness can one make the proper choices for the good life, and that these things are, as Montaigne said of man himself, "vain, divers, et ondoyant," there came the added shock that the individual human mind, left to its erring ways, was more an instrument for disharmony and disorder than for steadfastness of purpose and unity. The real modification came when philosophy shifted its own emphasis. Instead of accepting that its purpose was to confirm the dogma of theology, it made several moves which altered its own character. First of all, it asserted the integrity of metaphysics beyond the pale of theology. Moreover, it became more and more interested in giving a metaphysical foundation to physical science. Finally, it insisted more and more that the area of ethics was paramount in philosophical importance. What had happened was that philosophy renewed itself by severing its close ties with theology and by affirming a closer solidarity first with natural science, and then with politics, economics, and "la morale," both personal and social. In the relationship God-nature-man there was a perceptible, though of course not total, shift from the theological and the metaphysical to the scientific and the moral. Formal philosophical thinking thus began to adjust itself more and more to the consequences of free-thinking. These transformations can be clearly seen if the attitude of Descartes and his contemporary philosophers are examined. Descartes's first desire was to grasp reality by intuition and the force of the imagination. Realizing, however, that he had a particular aptitude for mathematics, he applied himself to the comprehension of the universe through the language of mathematics. Then came the Galileo affair, and Descartes turned from the pursuit of physics to epistemology. His metaphysics still retained a primary position, though he found physics more interesting. At the end of his life, however, he was breaking into ethics. It is clear that his importance for his time lay in his unified philosophy. But he unquestionably regarded himself as the defender of order and harmony in the face of great disorder and disharmony, while his contemporaries were divided in regarding him as a metaphysician, a natural scientist, or a moralist. • 658 ·

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Descartes's one fundamental idea, which was accepted by every one of the subsequent philosophers, was the autonomy of thought. In a way, it was a declaration of free-thinking. The inference was clear that thought proved existence, which was an assertion of itself, but once it achieved an awareness of itself and its powers, it controlled—or could learn how to control—the operations of life, so that it could seek the expansion of knowledge, could penetrate its reality and its truth, and thus distinguish between truth and error. Further, knowledge once achieved could be organized. A method could be devised which would lead step by step to an increase of knowledge. The human understanding could actually be trained to think more clearly and more distinctly, and to arrive not only at a greater surety but at a greater command of reality. The human mind could actually change its manner of thinking and could wander freely in the realm of nature, man, and God. Knowledge could be encyclopedic in its scope. Moreover, it could be useful to man in developing his self-awareness. Finally, it could be put to the service of man. What one knows can be transformed into what one is. And this existence is enriched by man's actions, which contribute to the full life. Hence the rational life is the life of power, of being, of fullness and ripeness. Thanks to the gift of thought, man can discover himself, make himself, and enrich himself. This "decouverte de l'homme" (see Alquie) was in the truest sense of the word an aesthetic act. What had been unfolding since the Renaissance was the search by the human mind for its own identity. In strict terms, this authenticity comprised the identification of thought with itself, which could be effected only by structuring thought into the self, that is, by moving from the elements of self to the qualities of that self, and from the person who is thereby created to the qualities of that collective self which is humanity. And so the concept of the "collective corpus," which Western man has always accepted as his spiritual goal, his Spirit, was retained by enlightened man, and now the human mind accepted the task of creating through its own power the spiritual corpus of humanity, now conceived in terms of civilization. It must not be thought, however, that my story concerns how seventeenth-century man completed the task. This part of man's history of himself which I present here concerns only how he conceived of its possibility and set to work to turn it into a reality. By • 659 ·

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\

the end of the seventeenth century, he had by no means passed beyond the structuring process; the subsequent story will have to take up how the structure was turned into a coherent form. Consequently, the burden of my study is that all efforts to regard the Enlightenment as a created form of man before the death of Louis XIV are certainly premature, just as all attempts to present it as an instantaneous intuition are certainly exaggerated. On the other hand, all efforts to enter into its development as it structured itself into a continuous, consistent, and coherent something would seem the proper way of identifying its existence with our existence.

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Baudin, E. La Philosophic de Pascal. Neuchatel, 1947, 4 vols. Bayle, P. Dictionnaire historique et critique. Rotterdam, 1720, 4 vols. . Mr. Bayle's Historical and Critical Dictionary. London, 1735, 5 vols. . Giuvres diverses. La Haye, 1737, 4 vols. Belaval, Y. Leibnitz, critique de Descartes. Paris, i960. Bell, A. E. The Newtonian Universe. London, 1961. Benichou, P. Morales du grand siecle. Paris, 1948. Beyer, C. "Du Cartesianisme a la philosophic des lumieres." Romanic Review xxxiv (1943), 18-40. Bloch, C. L'Assistance et I'tLtat en France a la veille de la Revolution. Paris, 1908. Blondel, M. "Le Jansenisme et l'anti-Jansenisme de Pascal." itudes sur Pascal. Paris, 1923. Boas, G. Dominant Themes of Modern Philosophy. New York, 1957. Boase, A. M. The Fortunes of Montaigne. London, 1935. Bonnefon, P. Montaigne et ses amis. Paris, 1898, 2 vols. Bonno, G. La Culture et la civilisation Britanniques devant I'opinion franqaise de la paix d'Utrecht aux Lettres philosophiques (1713-1734). Transactions of the American Philosophical Society, Philadelphia, 1948. . Les Relations intellectuelles de Loc\e avec la France. Berkeley, 1955. Bouillier, F. Histoire de la philosophic cartesienne. Paris, 1854. Brown, H . Scientific Organizations in Seventeenth-century France (16201680). Baltimore, 1934. Brunet, P. Newton en France. Paris, 1914.

• 661 ·

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Brunetiere, F. "Huit Legons sur les Origines de l'Esprit Encyclopedique." Revue hebdomadaire. 1905. . "La Philosophic de Moliere." Etudes critiques. Paris, 1910-1911, vol. iv, 179-242. . "Pierre Bayle." Etudes critiques. Paris, 1910-1911, vol. v, 111-82. Brunschvicg, L. Descartes et Pascal lecteurs de Montaigne. New York, 1946. Burckhardt, J. The Civilization of the Renaissance in Italy. New York, 1958. Busson, H. Les Sources et developpement du rationalisme au XVI6 siecle. Paris, 1922. . La Pensee religieuse de Charron a Pascal. Paris, 1933. . La Religion des classiques. Paris, 1948. . "La Fontaine et Tame des betes." Revue d'histoire litteraire 42 (1935), 1-32, and 43 (1936), 257-86. ., and Gohin, F., Discours a Mme de la Sabliere. Paris, 1938. Butterfield, H. The Origins of Modern Science, 1300-1800. New York, 1951. Cabeen, D. C., ed., A Critical Bibliography of French Literature-, vol. in, Seventeenth Century (1961^ vol. iv, Eighteenth Century (1951); vol. iv, Eighteenth Century, Supplement (1968). Syracuse, N.Y. Cassirer, E. The Philosophy of the Enlightenment. Princeton, 1951. . "Enlightenment." Encyclopedia of the Social Sciences. Chambers, F. M. "Pascal's Montaigne." Publications of the Modern Language Association. Menasha, 1950, 791-804. Charbonnel, J. R. La Pensee italienne au XVI" siecle et le courant libertin. Paris, 1919. Chauvire, R. Bodin's Heptaplomeres. Paris, 1914. Chevalier, }. Descartes (new edition). Paris, 1921. . Histoire de la pensee, vol. in: La Pensee moderne de Descartes ci Kant. Paris, 1961. . "La Methode de connaitre d'apres Pascal." Etudes sur Pascal. Paris, 1923, 181-214. Chinard, G. L'Amerique et le reve exotique au XVII" siecle. Paris, 1913. . Lahontan, Dialogues curieux et Memoires sur I'Amerique septentrionale. Baltimore, 1931. Citoleux, M. Le Vrai Montaigne. Paris, 1937. Clarac, P. La Fontaine par lui-meme. Paris, 1961. Cotes, R. Correspondence of Sir Isaac Newton and Professor Cotes. London, 1850. Cresson, A. Francis Bacon, sa vie, son aeuvre. Paris, 1948. Daumas, M. Histoire de la science. Paris, 1957. Delbos, V. Le Spinozisme. Paris, 1916. Delvolve, J. Religion, critique, et philosophic positive chez Pierre Bayle. Paris, 1906. Derathe, R. J.-J. Rousseau et la science politique de son temps. Paris, 1950. Descartes, R. CEuvres completes (eds. C. Adam et P. Tannery). Paris, 18971913, 13 vols. Desmaizeaux, P. Recueil de diverses pieces. Amsterdam, 1740, 2 vols. • 662 •

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Dibon, P., ed. Descartes et Ie cartesianisme hollandais: Etudes et Documents. Paris, 1950. ., ed. Pierre Bayle, Ie philosophe de Rotterdam: Etudes et documents. Amsterdam, 1959. Dieckmann, H., "Themes and Structure in the Enlightenment." Essays in Comparative Literature (Washington University Studies). St. Louis, 1961. Duby, G., and R. Mandrou, Histoire de la civilisation frangaise. Paris, 1958, 2 vols. Dunner, J. Baruch Spinoza and Western Democracy. New York, 1955. Farrington, B. The Philosophy of Francis Bacon. Liverpool, 1964. Febvre, L. Le Probleme de I'incroyance au XVIe Steele. Paris, 1947. Folkierski, W. Entre Ie classicisme et Ie romantisme. Paris, 1925. Foucher de Careil. Leibnitz, Descartes, et Spinoza. Paris, 1852. Friedmann, G. Leibniz et Spinoza. Paris, 1946. Gadoffre, G. "Le Discours de la methode et I'histoire litteraire." French Studies 2 (Oxford, 1948), 301-14. Gassendi. Actes du congres tricentenaire de Pierre Gassendi, Paris, 1957. Gay, P. The Enlightenment. New York, 1967. Gibson, J. Loc\e's Theory of Knowledge and its Historical Relations. Cam­ bridge, 1917. Gillispie, C. The Edge of Objectivity. Princeton, i960. Gilson, E. Discours, ed. crit. Paris, 1925. . Discours de la methode. Paris, 1935. Gohin, F. La Fontaine: Etudes et recherches. Paris, 1937. Goldmann, L. Le Dieu cachi. Paris, 1955. Gough, J. John Locke's Political Philosophy. Oxford, 1956. Gouhier, H. La Pensie religieuse de Descartes. Paris, 1924. . Essais sur Descartes. Paris, 1957. . Review of Pintard, R. Le Libertinage erudit in Revue de Philosophic francaise et etrangere 134 (1944), 56-60. Grubbs, H . Damien Mitton (1618-1690), bourgeois honnete homme. Prince­ ton, 1933. Guicharnaud, J. Moliere, une aventure thedtrale. Paris, 1963. Guilloton, V. "Autour de la Relation du voyage de Samuel Sorbiere, en Angleterre." Smith Studies XI-XII (Northampton, Mass., 1929-31) 1-29. Harbison, E. H . The Christian Scholar in the Age of the Reformation. New York, 1956. Hazard, P. Crise de la conscience europeenne, i68^-iyi§. Paris, 1935, 3 vols. . La Pensie europeenne au XVIIP Steele. Paris, 1946, 3 vols. Hibben, J. G. The Philosophy of the Enlightenment. New York, 1910. Holm, S. "L'attitude de Hobbes a l'egard de la religion." Archives de philoso­ phic XH (1936), 41-62. Hubert, R. "Le Cartesianisme et Ie mouvement des idees philosophiques au XVII e siecle." Revue d'histoire de la philosophic. N . S. ν (15 avril 1937), I2lff. Jaures, J. Histoire socialiste de la Revolution franqaise. Paris, 1922-24, 8 vols.

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BIBLIOGRAPHY Jasinski, R. "Sur la Philosophic de La Fontaine dans les livres VII a XII des Fables." Revue d'Histoire de la philosophic, ι (1933), 316-30 and u (1934), 218-42.

Kant, E. What is Enlightenment? in Selections (ed. Friedrich). Modern Li­ brary, New York. Koyre, A. Newtonian Studies. Cambridge, Mass., 1965. Labrousse, C. E. Esqutsse du mouvement des prix et des revenus en France au XVlW siecle. Paris, 1936. . La Crise de I'economie francaise. Paris, 1944. . Le XVIII siecle. Paris, 1953. Labrousse, E. Pierre Bayle. La Haye, 1963, 2 vols. Lachevre, F. Le Prince des libertins du XVIV Steele. Paris, 1907. . Thiophile de Viau. Paris, 1909, 2 vols. . Successeurs de Theophile de Viau. Paris, 1911. . Cyrano de Bergerac. Paris, 1921, 2 vols. . Successeurs de Cyrano. Paris, 1922. . Les CEuvres de Jean Dehenault, Parisien. Paris, 1922. . Melanges. Paris, 1920. . Les Chansons libertines de Claude de Chouvigny, baron de Blot I'Eglise. Paris, 1919. Lachieze-Rey, P. Les Origines cartisiennes du Dieu de Spinoza. Paris, 1937. Laird, G. "L'Influence de Descartes sur la Philosophic Anglaise du XVII" siecle." Revue philosophique 1937, 226-56. Lallemand, L. La Revolution et les pauvres. Paris, 1898. Lamprecht, S. P. "The Role of Descartes in Seventeenth-century England." Studies in the History of Ideas 11 (1935), 181-240. Lange, F. A. History of Materialism. New York, 1950, 3 vols. Lanson, G. Histoire de la literature francaise. Paris, 1894. . "Origines et premieres manifestations de l'esprit philosophique dans la litterature fran$aise de 1675 a 1748." Revue des Cours et des conferences, 1907-10.

. "Questions diverses sur l'histoire de l'esprit philosophique en France avant 1750." Revue d'histoire litteraire, 1912. . Les Essais de Montaigne. Paris, 1929. Laporte, J. Le Rationalisme de Descartes. Paris, 1945. . Le Caeur et la raison selon Pascal. Paris, 1950. Lefebvre, G. Quatre-vingt-neuf. Paris, 1939. Lefevre, R. La Vocation de Descartes. Paris, 1956. . L'Humanisme de Descartes. Paris, 1957. . Le Criticisme de Descartes. Paris, 1958. Lenoble, R. Essai sur la notion d'experience. Paris, 1943. . Mersenne, ou la naissance du mecanisme. Paris, 1943. . "Les Sciences au XVIP siecle." Dix-septieme siecle 30 (Janvier, 1956). Lichtenberger, A. Le Socialisme au XVIII6 siecle. Paris, 1895. Lote, G. La Vie et I'ceuvre de Francois Rabelais. Aix-en-Provence, 1938. Lough, J. An Introduction to Eighteenth-century France. London, i960.

• 664 ·

BIBLIOGRAPHY . An Introduction to Seventeenth-century France. London, 1966. McClure, M. T. Bacon Selections. London, 1928. McKee, D. R. Simon Tyssot de Patot and the Seventeenth 5 3 ° . 5 3 2 , 542-624. ^34. 656 Beda, N., 75 Beeckmann, I., 212, 213, 243, 259 Belaval, Y., 443, 445, 477 Mesbat, C„ 636, 637 ®e ' A " E - 532 Belleforest, F. de, 364, 366 Bemchou P., 392, 393, 394, 400 BenUey, R., 532, 536 Bergerac, C. de, 28, 29, 204, 227, 321, g55 374> 375> 376> 3g7) 397> 5„ Bergson, H., 288 Bernard, J., 90 Bernier, F., 37, 52, 88, 89, 198, 226, 227, 2 2 g > 3 g 7 > 3 7 I ) } y 2 , 397, 406, 408, 410, 413, 486, 487, 488, 489, 499 Bernouilly, J., 537 Berr, H., 230 Berulle, Cardinal P., 133, 134, 259, 283 Beurrier, L., 303 Beyer, C., 40, 41, 42, 43, 56 Beze, T . de, 141 Biet, A., 368, 369, 370, 371 Bion, 565 Bloch, C., 5 Blondel, M., 302, 303

• 669 •

F., 90, 91, 92, 94, 95, 118-26, 150, 153, 180, 185, 199, 201, 225, 267, 274, 328, 331, 373, 382, 456, 614, 648, 656 J., 144

INDEX Blot, C., 655 Boas, G., 327, 476 Boase, A. M., 92 Boccaccio, G., 68, 78, 79, 406 Bodin, J., 107-18, 153, 170, 192, 204, 338, 366, 636, 648 Boerhaave, H., 438 Boileau, N., 356, 359, 397, 488, 624, 625, 626, 633 Boisguilbert, P. de, 636, 638, 641 Bold, S., 528 Bonamico, M., 55 Bonnefon, P., 174, 175, 177 Bonno, G., xii, 228, 485, 492, 495, 499, 500, 501 Bossuet, J., xix, 34, 35, 44, 46, 254, 286, 419, 470, 487, 599. 633, 635 Bouchard, J. J., 147 Boucher, P., 370 Bougerel, J., 232, 233 Bouhier, J., 89, 170 Bouhours, D., 485 Bouillier, F., 222 Bouillon, Duchesse de, 406, 413 Boulainvilliers, H . de, 37, 38, 640, 642, 643, 655 Boulliau, I., 212 Bourbon, N., 192 Bourdelot, D „ 226 Bouton, A., 369 Boyer, C., 369 Boyle, R „ 228 229, 438, 486, 494, 499 Boyssonne, T. de, 70 Brahe Tycho, 155. 160 Bredenburg, J., 607, 608 Breughel, P., 83 Brossier, M., 188 Brown, H., 163 Browne, P., 532 Brues, G. de, 137 Bruker, J., 229 Brun, G., 607 Brunet, P., 532 Brunetiere, F., 16, 32, 33, 34, 36, 37, 40, 41, 43, 48, 55, 56, 57, 152, 203, 223, 322, 350, 351, 392, 393, 543, 599, 635, 644 Bruno, G., 65, 66, 120, 150, 159, 161, 169, 180, 191, 226, 374, 490, 579, 583, 602 Brunschvicg, L., 92, 104, 244, 290, 291, 307 Buddeus, J. F., 279 Bude, G., 68, 69 Buffon, G. L., 405 Bunel, P., 70, 95, 137, 557 Burckhardt, C., 67 Burgundy, Duke of, 381, 638, 640, 642

Buridan, J., 156, 159 Burnet, G., 528, 569 Busson, H., xi, xii, 16, 53, 54, 55, 56, 57, 95, 96, 97, 99, 133, 135, 136, 138, 144, 146, 147, 148, 152, 153, 155, 169, 174, 179, 187, 191, 192, 203, 204, 350, 404, 410 Bussy-Rabutin, R. de, 485 Butterfield, H., 155, 158, 159, 532 Cabeen, D „ xi Caesar, J., 615 Calvin, J., 73, 74, 75, 76, 81, 109, n o , 141, 142, 152, 299, 428, 550 Camden, W., 199 Campanella, T . , 150, 180, 192, 212, 215, 276, 373, 374, 382, 544, 611, 636 Camus, A., 62, 63 Cardano, G., 55, 150, 180, 189, 374 Carneades, 106, 565 Carroll, W., 528, 531 Casaubon, I., 113 Cassini, J., 488 Cassirer, E., xi, xiv, xviii, 20, 21, 27 Castel, L . B., 542 Castellion, S., 141 Castiglione, B., 78-79, 127 Catalan, Abbe, 465 Cauche; p s68 Caussin> r., I 5 3 Cavendish, W „ 227, 282 Censorinus, 80 _ , Cervantes, M. de, 78, 95, 246 Cesalp.no, A., 158 Chambers, F. M., 92 Champlain, S., 370 Chanet, P., 144, 174 Chantal, Mme de, 133 Chaise, Filleau de la, 315, 316, 486 Chapelain, J., 147, 197, 198 Chapelle, C., 226, 227, 397 Charbonnel, J . R., 57, 153, 187 Chardin, J., 368, 371, 488 Charleton, W., 228 Charlotte, Queen of Prussia, 453, 454 Charron, P., 28, 88, 92, 112, 135, 141, 184, M 3 > I 4 4 > , 5 3 > I 7 4 . 7 g > jgo, j g j , i87> 226t

lg2>

I97>

20I)

203)

204>

207>

2o8>

243, 244, 293, 393, 545, 546, 583, 600, 655 Chaulieu, G., 37, 205, 229, 405, 406, 412, 655 Chauveton, U., 366 Chauvire, R., 170 Cherubin, Pfcre, 488

• 670 •

INDEX Chevalier, ]., 133, 242, 248, 251, 272, 288, 290, 319, 332, 420, 554 Chinard, G., 362, 374, 381, 384, 386 Christina of Sweden, 170, 197 Chrysippus, 563, 565, 619 Churchill, J., 361 Cicero, 64, 86, 90, 103, 105, 107, 120, 137, 146, 148, 174, 180, 201, 207, 208, 268, 407, 562, 568, 582, 605, 608 Citoleux, M., 99 Clairaut, A., 535 Clarac, P., 404 Clarke, S., 477, 534, 538, 539, 540,

Delvolve, J., 545. 546. 566, 589, 593, 594, 598, 599, 600, 601 De Marsy, F. M., 581, 582 Democritus, 44, 107, 150, 154, 212, 224, 439, 442, 539, 541, 565, 569, 570, 576, 577, 578, 579 Denise, L., 628 Derathe, R., 271 Desbarreaux, J., 28, 397, 655 Descartes, R., xviii, 29, 39, 40, 41, 42, 45, 46, 52, 90, 92, 93, 94, 95, 100, 103, 119, 122, 125, 126, 146, 148, 156, 164, 165, 166, 176, 179, 185, 190, 195, 196,

5 4 i . 542 Clauberg, J., 267, 489 Claude, Pastor I., 487 Claveret, J., 152 Clerselier, C., 221, 267, 444, 460 Colbert, J, B „ 352, 353, 354, 355, 635, 636 Colet, J., 119, 120 Colombo, R., 158 Condillac, E . B. de, 25 Condren, C. de, 134 Cop, N „ 75 Copernicus, N., 66, 157, 158, 159, 162, 210 Coras, J., 147 Cordemoy, G. de, 267, 444, 490 Cordier, M., 75 Corneille, P., 88, 148, 236, 488 Coste, P., 89, 492, 531, 616, 617, 633 Cotes, R., 535, 536 Cotin, C., 152 Couplet, P., 372 Courcelles, E . de, 196 Cratippus, 565 Cremonini, C., 55, 65, 188, 192 Cresson, A., 118 Cretin, G., 81 Critias, 565 Cudworth, R., 228, 501 Cureau de la Chambre, M., 489 Cuyper, G., 608

' 9 7 . 198. 199. 202, 203, 204, 212, 213, 215, 217, 218, 219, 220, 221, 222, 223, 225, 228, 230-67, 268, 269, 270, 271, 276, 280, 281, 282, 286, 287, 288, 289, 290, 291, 295, 296, 297, 299, 300, 301, 304, 305, 308, 315, 320, 323, 324, 326, 328, 329, 330, 331, 345, 357, 359, 375, 387, 403, 405, 407, 408, 410, 411, 418, 419, 420, 421, 424, 428, 431, 433, 434, 438, 439, 440, 442, 443, 444, 445. 446. 447. 449, 450, 451, 452, 455, 457, 458, 459, 460, 461, 462, 465, 466, 467, 469, 47o. 474. 477. 480, 484, 489, 490, 491, 493, 494, 495, 496, 497, 499, 500, 501, 505, 506, 528, 533, 534, 535, 541, 547, 555, 560, 567, 568, 569, 570, 574, 575, 579, 583, 585, 586, 590, 598, 599, 600, 602, 603, 604, 605, 606, 607, 609, 613, 614, 615, 616, 622, 623, 624, 656, 657, 658 Deshoulieres, Mme, 229, 406, 568, 655 Desmaizeaux, P., 477, 538, 542, 543, 634 Des Yveteaux, N., 28 De Witt, C., 457 Diagoras, 565, 571 Dibon, P., 266, 554, 556, 557, 566 Diderot, D., 24, 27, 92, 386, 517, 656 Dieckmann, H., 50 Dilly, A., 408 Diodati, E., 164, 212, 215 Diogenes, 565, 569, 613 Diogenes Laertius, 137, 213, 214 Dolet, E., 70 D'Olivet, P . J., 405 Donneau de Vise, 402 Doolittle, J., 399 Dorat, J., 164 Doumic, R „ 33 Duby, G., 6, 9 Du Halde, J. B., 372 Du Hamel, J., 408, 490 Dumarsais, C., 655 Dumoulin, P., 193

D'Alembert, J., 41, 126 Daniel, Abbe G., 240, 253, 604 D'Audiguier, V., 397 D'Argenson, M. R., 638 Darmanson, J. M., 408, 605 D'Assoucy, C., 174, 227, 397 Daumas, M., 155 David, 312 Decorte, M., 236 Defoe, D., 387 Dehenault, J., 229, 397, 655 De Launay, G., 408 Delbos, v . , 326, 328

• 671 •

INDEX Dunner, J., 324 Duperron, J., 137, 142 Dupin, L . E., 564 Dupuy, C., 164, 166 Dupuy, J., 164, 212 Dupuy, P., 164, 212, 215 Duquesne, A., 370 Dutertre, J. B., 368, 369, 370, 390 Du Vair, G., 147, 148, 204, 293

Friedmann, G., 456, 457, 459, 460, 461, 477

Egeria, 189 Elwes, R. H . M., 324 Emerson, R. W., 106 Empedocles, 490 Epictetus, 147, 148, 289, 296, 297, 298, 301, 312, 460 Epicurus, 149, 196, 212, 213, 214, 224, 228, 229, 253, 376, 406, 412, 413, 416, 439. 539, 541. 578. 615, 617 Episcopius, S., 284 Erasmus, D., 68, 72, 73, 75, 86, 108, n o , i n , 119, 120, 141, 192, 194, 207, 212, 225, 227, 230, 337, 367, 389, 492 Esprit, J., 489 Estienne, H., 138 Euclid, 565, 591 Euripides, 107 Eusebius, 572 Fabriaus, J., 158, 159 Faguet, E., 393, 543 Farrington, B., 119, 120 Faulhaber, J., 232 Febvre, L., xi, 53 Fenelon, F., 35, 46, 374. 37^. 381. 382, 3®3> 567, 599, 635, 636, 637, 638, 640, 641, 642, 655 Fermat, P., 438 Ferrand, L., 488 Ferrera, Cardinal de, 584 Ficino, M., 68 Filmer, R., 512 Fischer, K., 447 Flechier, E., 488 Fleury, A., 638 Florimond de Beaune, 282 Foigny, G. de, 374, 376, 377, 379, 655 Folkierski, W., xii, xiv Fontenelle, B. de, 52, 66, 190, 203, 205, 206, 211, 376, 580, 583, 596, 626, 627, 628, 629, 630, 656 Foucher, S., 439, 464, 472 Foucher de Careil, 327, 442 Foucquet, N., 193, 352 Frederick II, 172 Freret, N., 655

Gadoffre, G „ 246, 247 Gaguin, R., 68 Galen, 157, 158, 159 Galileo, G., 52, 120, 155, 156, 159, 160, 161, 162, 165, 195, 212, 213, 225, 244, 246, 254, 259, 374, 375, 387, 428, 439, 460, 466, 467, 533 Galloys, J., 459 Garasse, F., 143, 144, 153, 176, 569, 658 Garcilaso de la Vega, 390 Gassendi, P., 20, 28, 38, 42, 45, 52, 88, 89, 126, 138, 141, 149, 150, 164, 165, 166, 174, 179, 187, 192, 195, 196, 197, 198, 199, 201, 202, 204, 205, 206, 207-30, 253, 259, 261, 265, 267, 268, 270, 275, 280, 286, 301, 357, 359, 374, 375. 376. 387, 397, 398, 399, 405, 406, 408, 412, 414, 416, 419, 439, 446, 489, 491, 499, 500, 546, 569, 576, 578, 579, 583, 586, 600, 614, 621, 654, 655, 656 Gay, P., 146 Germonides, 323 Gibson, J., 494, 504 Gigeri, 193 Gilbert, C., 374, 376, 383, 445, 655 Gilbert, W . , 160, 201 Gillispie, C„ 155, 532 Gilson, E., 119, 236, 244, 245, 253, 264 Giraud, V., 33 Glanvill, J., 499 Godwin, F., 374 Gohin, F., 404, 406, 410 Gomar, F., 284 Gomara, L. de, 363 Gough, J. W., 520 Gouhier, H., 207, 224, 230, 242 Goulard, S., 149 Goulding, S., xii Gournay, Mile de, 180, 292 Guevara, A. de, 488 Grandier, U., 188 Gravenol, F., 197 Grimarest, J., 397 Groells, M., 182 Grotius, H., 113, 163, 192, 196, 277, 3 2 I > 492, 636 Guicharnaud, J., 392 Guilloton, V., 195 Hakluyt, R., 361 Halley, E., 438 Harbison, E . H., 69

• 672 •

INDEX Harris, J., 361 Hartsoeker, W., 576 Harvey, W., 120, 155, 158, 159, 160, 201, 428 Haudent, G., 406 Havens, G., xiv Hazard, P., xi, xii, xix, xxi, 7, 16, 43,

La Boetie, E. de, 85, n o , i n La Bourignon, A., 605 Labrousse, C. E., 7, 9, n La Bruyere, J. de, 88 Lachevre, F., 28, 53, 173, 182, 374 La Chieze-Rey, P., 326 Lactanuus, 569

44. 45. 46, 47, 48, 49, 5 ° , 52, 54. 56. 57, 152, 350, 351, 367, 644 Heraclitus, 490 Herbert of Cherbury, E., 215, 216, 217, 218, 220, 506, 655 Hervet, G., 142 Hesiod, 578 Hessen-Rheinfels, E., 461, 465 Hibben, J. G., 451, 476 Hierocles, 565 Hippocrates, 80 Hobbes, T . , 29, 126, 164, 165, 166, 180,

Laet, J., 368 La Fare, C., 205, 229, 406, 412, 655 La Fontaine, J. de, 88, 228, 356, 360, 404-17 La Forge, L . de, 490 Lahontan, L . A., 374, 376, 384, 386 Laird, J., 494, 497 Lallemand, L., 5 Lallemant, Pere, 370 Lami, F., 419, 474, 475 La Monnoye, B. de, 172 La Mothe le Vayer, 28, 34, 141, 147, 164,

195. 197. '98, 199. 227, 261, 267-83, 320, 321, 322, 359, 387, 401, 417, 419, 437. 438, 439. 442, 443. 446. 455, 456, 512, 527, 532, 539, 614, 620, 621, 622, 636 Holm, S., 276 Homer, 68, 69, 107, 174, 405, 630 Horace, 20, 174, 211, 406, 407 Hubert, R., 265, 266 Hubin, R., 488 Hudde, Burgomaster of Amsterdam (1676), 457 Huet, P. D., 170, 371, 372, 447, 488, 545, 546, 602 Hume, D., 15, 19 Huyghens, C., 229, 376, 438, 441, 456, 537

174, 179-87, 190, 191, 192, 198, 201, 202, 203, 204, 205, 206, 208, 212, 226, 227, 321, 371, 372, 401, 412, 545, 546, 550, 583, 600, 655 La Motte, H . de, 630 Lamprecht, S. P., 494 Lamy, G., 46, 89, 205, 408 Lange, F . A., 213 Lanson, G., xi, xiii, 16, 28, 30, 32, 36, 37, 38, 39, 40, 41, 43, 45, 48, 55, 56, 57, 99, 152, 173, 203, 223, 285, 290, 351, 624, 644 La Peyrere, I. de, 371 La Placette, J., 552 Laporte, J., 311 La Rochefoucauld, Cardinal de, 134, 485

. , Isaiah, 312

La Rochefoucauld, F., Due de, 88, 413, „„ „ 488, 489

Jacquelot, I., 542, 616 Jansen, C., 284, 285, 302, 304 Jasinski, R., 402, 404 Jaures, J., 5, 11 Jean-Frederic, Prince of Prussia, 459 Jelles, J., 327, 457 Journet, N., 169 Jurieu, P., 467, 525, 542, 543. 554. 596, 601 Justel H „ 459, 487, 491, 492 Juste Lipse, 147, 148, 164, 174 Juvenal, 174, 192

Lartigue, J. de, 635, 636 Las Casas, B. de, 366 Lassay, Marquis de, 203, 205 Le Bossu, Pere R., 490 Le Clerc, J., 484, 485, 492, 493, 528, 634 Lee, H., 529, 532 Lefebvre, G., 12 Lef.yre d.EtapleS) u „

T

Kant, I., 15, 16, 20, 21, 211 Karlstadt, A., 73, 74 Kepler, J., 52, t20, 160, 161, 195, 376, 439, 533, 537, 5 7 ° , 602 King, P., 529 Kovalewsky, M., 9 Koyre, A., 230

. >> St. Sorlin, J. de, 625 St V i n c e m ' de Paul, 2g3 S alluste, 88

374, 392, 393, 406, 407, 655 Racine, J., 88, 356, 401, 405 Ramus, P., 137, 207, 209 Ranke, L „ xiii Reau, L „ 7 Regius (H. le Roy), 42, 261, 265, 266 Regis, P.-S., 267, 282, 419, 484, 489 Renan, E., 62, 73 Renaudet, A., 71 Ricci, M., 372 Rivarol, A. de, 17 Rivaud, A., 124, 533 Rivaudeau, A. de, 147 Roannez, Duc de, 293 Robert, C., 645

Sanchez, F „ 138, 215 Santa Teresa, 133 Sarasin, J. F „ 174, 229 Sartre, J. P., 63 Scaliger, J. C., 112, 164, 451, 452 Scarron, P., 397, 488 Schinz, A., 543 Schuller, G. H., 457 Sebon, R. de, 100, 101, 139 See, H., 9, 10, 11 Semedo, A., 371 Seneca, 75, 85, 86, 94, 101, 103, 146, 147, 148, 174, 180, 192, 201, 207, 430 Sergeant, J., 528, 529 Serrurier, C., 554

St

• 676 •

6

42,

6

43

INDEX Servet, M., 76, 141, 161 Servius, 80 Sextus Empiricus, 86, 138, 140, 141, 142, 146, 180, 183, 197, 201, 202, 544, 547 Shaftesbury, A., 27, 484, 616 Shakespeare, W., 78, 95, 246 Silhon, J. de, 149, 168 Simon, R. (Mme), 640 Simon, Richard, 46, 418, 488, 556, 563 Singlin, M. de, 296 Sloane, Sir Hans, 386 Smith, Adam, 638 Snell, W., 445 Socinus, L., 583 Socrates, 107, 174, 268, 407, 559, 571 Sophie-Charlotte of Prussia, 449, 476 Sophocles, 61 Sorbiere, S., 164, 165, 174, 180, 195-201, 204, 221, 226, 227, 228, 268, 270, 280, 412, 546, 655 Sorel, C., 90, 144 Sortais, G., 150, 212, 213, 214, 222, 270, 273, 276, 279, 280 Spanheim, E., 633 Spink, J. S., 29, 150, 152, 179, 191, 212, 213, 214, 239, 255, 265, 267 Spinoza, B., 27, 29, 37, 39, 41, 42, 45, 66, 150, 240, 266, 276, 277, 278, 280, 284, 322-46, 401, 417, 4 * 9 , 437) 438, 4 4 1 . 442, 455, 456, 458, 459, 460, 461, 462,

Teissier, A., 564 Telesio, B., 150 Temple, Sir W., 45 Terence, 488 Tertullian, 94, 100, 430 Thales, 565, 568 Thevenot, J., 368, 376, 388 Thevenot, M., 368, 376, 390, 487 Thevet, A., 366 Thibaudet, J., 85 Thomas, P. F., 222 Thomasius, C., 455 Thomassin, Pere, 568 Thou, Pres. de, 164, 192, 564 Thoynard, N., 487, 488, 489, 491, 492 Thucydides, 621 Tilley, A., 351 Tocqueville, A. de, 3 Trahard, P., xii Trigault, N., 371 Tschirnhaus, W., 441, 456, 457 Turgot, A. R., 7, 8 Turnebe, A., 112, 164 Tyrrell, J., 484, 527, 528 Tyssot de Patot, 374, 376, 386, 387, 655

463. 477. 492. 513. 528, 532, 534, 542, 554. 556, 571. 572, 573. 579. 583. 593. 595, 606, 607, 608, 609, 610, 611, 612, 613, 614, 624, 636, 655, 656 Stahl, G., 438 Stendhal, H., xxi Srillingfleet, E., 484, 493, 528, 529, 530, 531, 587, 617, 618 Stilton, 565 Stobeus, 86 Stoupp, J. B., 607 Straton, 579 Strauss, L., 520 Strowski, F., 54, 99, 108, 146, 147, 148, 177, 412 Swammerdam, J., 471 Swift, J., 376, 387 Sydenham, T . , 484 Symonds, J. A., 69

Vallee, G „ 169 Van Dale, 205, 596, 597 Van den Ende, 323, 456 Van Helmont, J. B., 150 Vanini, L., 55, 137, 143, 161, 169, 170, 192, 204 Van Robais, 9 Vartanian, A., 262, 265 Vauban, S., 633, 636, 638, 639, 640, 641, 642 Veiras, D., 374, 376, 379, 380, 655 Verneaux, R., 256, 257 Vesalius, A., 158, 159 Vespucci, A., 364 Vial, F., 628 Viau, T . de, 29, 137, 143, 170, 204, 229, 36°. 4 ° 5 . 655 Viete, F., 443, 461 Villey, P., 84, 85, 86, 90, 91, 99, 106, 151 Villiers, Abbe de, 89 Vimercati, F., 204 Vincent de Gournay, 9

Tacitus, 488 Taine, H., 3, 4, 5, 30, 31, 32, 40, 55, 56,

Valery, P., 356 Valla, L., 72, 74, 337 Valiant, M., 316 Valle, Pietro della, 613

152. 356. 4 ° 5 . 453. 644 Talleyrand, C. M., 5 Talon, O., 137 Tavernier, J. B., 368, 371

Virgil, 174, 488 Vitoria, i n Vives, L., 68, 207, 208 Voetius, D., 261, 266

677

INDEX Voiture, V., 488 Voltaire, A. de, 15, 17, 18, 19, 21, 31, 33, 40, 44, 61, 63, 76, 92, 94, 105, 112, 140, 173, 181, 185, 186, 188, 197, 200, 221, 229, 252, 287, 302, 3 1 1 , 344, 350, 360, 367, 368, 369, 375, 376, 387, 398, 416, 418, 428, 445, 446, 449. 464. 487, 491. 509, 523, 535, 541, 555, 556, 580, 630, 656 Von der Muehll, 374 . . . . Von Leyden, 520 Vossius, E . , 3 7 1 , 3 7 9 Vries, S. de, 323 Wallis, J., 438 Ware, C. S., 494, 496, 497 Wencellius, 374

Wickelgren, F., 179, 180, 181 Wiener, P. P., 453, 455, 476, 477, 480 Wiszowaty, A., 196 Wittichius, C., 605 Wolmar, M., 75 Wotton, W . , 528 Xenophanes, 107, 572, 573, 574, 613 . T Yolton, J. W . , 511, 520 Y

°Ung'

Y v e s

de

A

"

4

Pans

' 5 - ' 4 9 , 152

Zeno, 107, 147, 154, 574, 575 Zoroaster, 189 Zwingli, U., 73, 74

• 678 •