They did not fear to build up still higher this falling Tower of Babel; they increased it by two stories: first, they a.s.serted the infallibility of the pope _in matters of faith_. Secondly, when the danger had become imminent, they took a bold and foolish step; but it secured to them the friendship of Rome; they made the pope do in his decrepitude what he had never dared to do in his power--declare himself infallible _in matters of fact_.
And this at the very moment that Rome was obliged to confess that she was wrong about the greatest facts of nature and history. Not to speak of the New World, which she was obliged to admit, after having denied it, she condemns Galileo, and then she submits to his system, adopts and teaches it: the penance that she imposed on him for one day has, since Galileo, been inflicted upon herself for two hundred years.
Here is another fact, still graver in one sense:--
The fundamental right of popes, the t.i.tle of their power, those famous Decrees which they quoted and defended, as long as criticism, unaided by the art of printing, failed to enlighten mankind;--well! the pope is obliged to confess that these very Decrees are a tissue of lies and imposture.[1]
What? when popery has disclaimed its own word, and given itself the lie on the fundamental fact, upon which its own right depends, is it then that the Jesuits claim for her infallibility in matters of fact?
The Jesuits have been the tempters and corrupters of popes as well as of kings. They caught kings by their _concupiscence_, and popes by their _pride_.
It is a laughable, but touching sight to see this poor little Jansenist party, then so great in genius and heart, resolute in making an appeal to the justice of Rome, and remaining on their knees before this mercenary judge!
The Jesuits were not so blind but that they saw that popery, foolishly propped up by them in theology, was miserably losing ground in the political world. In the beginning of the 17th century the pope was still powerful; he whipped Henry IV. in the person of the Cardinal d"Ossat. But in the middle of that century, after all the great efforts of the Thirty Years" War, the pope was not even consulted in the Treaty of Westphalia; and in that of the Pyrenees, between Catholic Spain and very-Christian France, they forgot that he existed.
The Jesuits had undertaken what was perfectly impossible; and the princ.i.p.al engine they employed for it--the monopoly of the rising generation--was not less impossible. Their greatest effort had been directed to this point; they had succeeded in getting into their hands the greater part of the children of the n.o.bility and of people of fortune; they had contrived, by means of education, a machine to narrow the mind and crush the intellect. But such was the vigour of modern invention, that in spite of the most ingenious machinery to annihilate invention, the first generation produced Descartes, the second the author of Tartuffe, and the third Voltaire.
The worst of it is, by the light of this great modern flambeau which they had been unable to extinguish, they saw their own deformity. They knew what they were, and began to despise themselves. No one is so hardened in lying as to deceive himself entirely. They were obliged tacitly to confess that their _probabilism_, or doctrine of probability, was at bottom but doubt, and the absence of all principle.
They could not help discovering that they, the most Christian of all societies, and the champions of the faith, were only sceptics.
Of faith?--what faith? It was not, at any rate, Christian faith: all their theology had no other tendency than to ruin the base on which Christianity is founded--grace and salvation by the blood of Jesus Christ.
Champions of a principle? No; but agents of a plot, occupied with one project, and this an impossible one--the restoration of popery.
Some few Jesuits resolved to seek a remedy in themselves for their fallen condition. They avowed frankly the urgent need that the Society had of reform. Their chief, a German, dared to attempt this reform; but it went hard with him: the great majority of the Jesuits wished to maintain the abuses, and they deprived him of all power.
These good workmen, who had been so successful in justifying the enjoyments of others, wanted to enjoy themselves in their turn. They chose for their general a man after their own heart, amiable, gentle, and kind, the epicure Oliva. Rome, recently governed by Madame Olympia, was in a season of indulgence; Oliva, retiring to his delightful villa, said, "Business to-morrow," and left the Society to govern itself after its own fashion.
Some became merchants, bankers, and cloth-makers for the profit of their establishments. Others following more closely the example of the pope, worked for their nephews, and transacted the business of their families. The idle wits frequented the public walks, coquetted, and made madrigals. Others again found amus.e.m.e.nt in chatting to the nuns, in the little secrets of women, and in sensual inquisitiveness. Their rulers, lastly, who found themselves excluded from the society of women, became too often the Thyrsis and Corydons of the Colleges; the consequence was in Germany a formidable investigation; when a great number of the proud and austere German houses were found to be criminal.
The Jesuits, who had fallen so low both in theory and practice, increased their party at the risk of the strangest auxiliaries.
Whoever declared himself an enemy of the Jansenists became their friend. Hence arose the immoral inconsistency of the Society--its perfect indifference to systems. These people, who for more than half a century had been fighting for free will, formed a sudden alliance, without any intervening period of transition, with the mystics who confounded all their liberty in G.o.d. Just before they had been reproached with following the principles of pagan philosophers and jurisconsults, who attribute everything to justice and nothing to grace or love; now they receive quietism at its birth with open arms, and the preacher of love, the visionary Desmarets de St. Sorlin.
Desmarets had, it is true, done them some essential service. He had succeeded in dismembering Port-Royal, by gaining over some of the nuns.
He a.s.sisted them powerfully in destroying poor Morin, another visionary more original and more innocent, who fancied himself to be the Holy Ghost. He tells us himself how, being encouraged by Father Canard (Annat) the king"s confessor, he gained the confidence of this unfortunate man, made him believe he was his disciple, and drew from him written doc.u.ments, by means of which he caused him to be burnt (1663).
The protection of this all-powerful confessor gained for the most extravagant books of Desmarets the approbation of the Archbishop of Paris. He declared in them that he was a prophet, and undertook to raise for the king and the pope an army of a hundred and forty-four thousand _devots_, as knights of papal infallibility, to exterminate, in concert with Spain, the Turks and the Jansenists.
These _devots_, or victims of love, were self-sacrificed people, who affected a sort of inward annihilation, and who lived henceforth only in G.o.d. Hence they could do no harm. The soul, said this prophet, having become a nonent.i.ty, cannot consent; so that whatever it may do, inasmuch as it has not consented, it has not sinned. It no longer thinks at all, either of what it has done, or of what it has not done; for it has done nothing at all. G.o.d being all in us, does all, and suffers all; the devil can no longer find the creature, either in itself or in its acts, for it acts no longer. By an entire dissolution of ourselves, the virtue of the Holy Ghost flows into us, and we become wholly G.o.d, by a miraculous _deiformity_. If there be still anything jarring in the grosser part, the purer part knows nothing of it; but both these parts, being subtilised and rarefied, change at last into G.o.d; "_G.o.d then abides with the emotions of sensuality, all of which are sanctified_."[2]
Desmarets did not confine himself to printing this doctrine with the privilege of the king and the approbation of the archbishop. Strongly supported by the Jesuits, he ran from convent to convent preaching to the nuns. Layman as he was, he had made himself a director of female youth. He related to them his dreams of devout gallantry, and inquired about their carnal temptations. It seemed that a man so perfectly self-annihilated might write fearlessly the strangest things--the following letter for instance:--"I embrace you, my very dear love, in your nonent.i.ty, being a perfect nullity myself, each of us being all in our All, by our amiable Jesus," &c.
What progress is here made in a few years, since the "Provincial Letters!" What has become of the casuists? Those simple people who took and effaced transgressions one by one, giving themselves immense trouble. They are all scattered to the winds.
Casuistry was an art that had its masters, doctors, and cunning men.
But now, what need of doctors? Every _spiritual_ man, every devout person, every Jesuit in a short robe can speak as well as he in the long one the soft language of pious tenderness. The Jesuits have fallen, but _Jesuitism_ has gained ground. It is no longer requisite to direct the _attention_ every day, for every distinct case, by special equivocations. Love that mingles and confounds everything is the sovereign, most gentle, and powerful equivocation. Lull the _will_ to sleep and there is no longer any intention, "The soul, losing its nonent.i.ty in its infinity," will be gently annihilated in the bosom of love.
[1] By two cardinals and librarians of the Vatican, Bellarmin and Baronius, one of whom was the confessor of the pope.
[2] Desmarets de St. Sorlin"s Delight of the Spirit, 29th _journee_, p.
170.
CHAPTER VI.
CONTINUATION OF MORAL REACTION.--TARTUFFE, 1664-1669.--REAL TARTUFFES.--WHY TARTUFFE IS NOT YET A QUIETIST.
The devotee caught in the fact by the man of the world, the churchman excommunicated by the comedian--this is the meaning and aim of the _Tartuffe_.
Plato, in his Athenian Tartuffe (the Euthyphron), put this grand moral question, "Can there be _sanct.i.ty_ without _justice_?" This question, so clear in itself but so skilfully obscured by casuists, was again put forward in open daylight. The _Theatre_ re-established religious morality which had been so endangered in the _Churches_.
The author of the _Tartuffe_ chose his subject, not in society in general, but in a more limited s.p.a.ce, in the family circle, the fireside, the holy of holies of modern life. This dramatist, this impious being was, of all men in the world, the one who had most at heart the religion of the family, though he had no family himself. He was both tender and melancholy, and sometimes, in speaking of himself and his domestic griefs, he would utter this grave but characteristic sentence: "I ought to have foreseen that one thing made me unfit for family society; which is my austerity."
The _Tartuffe_, that grand and sublime picture, is very simple in its outline. Had it been more complicated it had been less popular.
_Mental restriction_ and the _direction of intention_, which everybody had laughed at since the "Provincial Letters," were sufficient matter for Moliere. He did not venture to bring the new doctrine of mysticism on the stage, being as yet too little known or too dangerous.
Had he employed the jargon of Desmarets and the earlier quietists, and put into the mouth of Tartuffe their mystic tendernesses, the result would have been the same as that of his ridiculous sonnet in the _Misanthrope_--the pit would have wondered what it meant.
The evening before the first representation of Tartuffe, Moliere read the piece to Ninon; "and to pay him back in his own coin, she related to him a similar adventure she had had with a wretch of that species, whose portrait she drew in such lively and natural colours, that if the piece had not been composed, he said he never would have undertaken it."
What, then, could be wanting to this master-piece, this drama of such profound conception and powerful execution? Nothing, certainly, but what was excluded by the state of religion at that time, and by the customs of our theatre.
Still one thing was wanting, which was impossible to be shown in so short a drama (though, in fact, it const.i.tutes the real essence of the characters), I mean the preparatory management, the long windings by which he makes his approaches, his patience in stratagems, and his gradual fascination.
Everything is strongly told, but rather abruptly. This man, received into the house out of charity--this low rogue, this glutton who eats as much as six, this red-eared villain--how did he grow bold so suddenly and aspire so high? A declaration of love from such a man to such a lady, from an intended son-in-law to his future mother-in-law, still astonishes when we read it. On the stage, perhaps, we countenance it more easily.
Elmira, when the holy man makes this surprising avowal to her face is by no means prepared to listen to him. A real Tartuffe would have acted in a very different manner: he would have quietly sat down, humble and patient, and waited for the favourable moment. If, for instance, Elmira had experienced the indiscretions and fickleness of those worldly lovers whom Tartuffe mentions, then, indeed, when she was worn out by these trials, and become weak, weary, and dispirited, he might have accosted her; then perhaps she would have allowed him to say, in the smooth quietist jargon, many things that she cannot listen to at the moment when Moliere presents her before us.
Mademoiselle Bourignon, in her curious _Life_, which well deserves another edition, relates what danger she was in through a saint of this species. I shall let her speak for herself. But first you must know that the pious damsel, who had just become an heiress, was thinking about laying out her wealth in endowing convents, and in other similar acts of piety.
"Being, one day, in the streets of Lille, I met a man whom I did not know, who said to me as he pa.s.sed, "You will not do what you wish; you will do what you do not wish." Two days after, the same man came to my house and said, "What did you think of me?" "That you were either a fool or a prophet," replied I. "Neither," said he; "I am a poor fellow from a village near Douai, and my name is Jean de St. Saulieu; I have no other thought but that of charity. I lived first of all with a hermit, but now I have my cure, Mr. Roussel, for a director. I teach poor children to read. The sweetest--the most charitable act you could do would be to collect all the little female orphans; they have become so numerous since the wars! The convents are rich enough." He spoke for three hours together with much unction.
"I inquired about him of the cure, his director, who a.s.sured me that he was a person of a truly apostolical zeal. (We should observe that the cure had tried at first to catch this rich heiress for his own nephew; the nephew not succeeding, he employed one of his own creatures.) Saint Saulieu frequently repeated his visits, speaking divinely of spiritual things. I could not understand how a man without any preparatory study could speak in so sublime a manner of the divine mysteries. I believed him to be really inspired by the Holy Ghost. He said himself that he was dead to nature. He had been a soldier, and had returned from the wars as chaste as a child. By dint of abstinence he had lost the taste of food, and could no longer distinguish wine from beer! He pa.s.sed the greater part of his time on his knees in the churches. He was seen to walk in the street with a modest air and downcast eyes, never looking at anything, as if he had been alone in the world. He visited the poor and sick, giving away all he possessed.
In winter time, if he saw a poor man without a garment, he would draw him aside, take off his own coat, and give it him. My heart overflowed with joy to see that there were still such men in the world. I thanked G.o.d, and thought I had found the counterpart of myself. Priests and other pious persons put the same confidence in him, went to consult him, and receive his good advice.
"It was quite foreign to my feelings to quit my peaceful retreat, and establish the asylum for children that Saint Saulieu had recommended to me. But he brought me a tradesman who had begun the same thing, and who offered me a house where he had already located a few poor girls.
I took possession in November, 1653. I cleaned these children. They were shockingly dirty, but after a great deal of trouble, I cleaned them myself, having n.o.body with me who liked the occupation. But at last I made a rule, and followed it myself, putting every thing in common, and making every one eat at the same table. I kept myself as retired as I could; but I was obliged to speak to all sorts of persons.
Friars came, as well as devotees whose conversations did not much please me... I was frequently sick to death.
"The house in which Saint Saulieu taught having been destroyed, and himself sent away, he went to live with the tradesman of whom I have already spoken. They solicited me to make an asylum, like mine, for boys. In order to raise a necessary fund, Saint Saulieu was to take an office in the town on lease, that brought in two thousand francs a-year, and the revenue was to be applied to this foundation, myself being security for him. He received the produce of one year, and then said it was necessary, before anything was done, to receive for another year, to furnish the house. This made four thousand franks; and when he had got six thousand, he kept the whole, saying it was the fruit of his labour, and that he had well earned it.
"I had not waited for this to make me distrustful of the man; I had had some strange inward misgivings on his account. One day methought I saw a black wolf sporting with a white lamb. Another day it was the heart of Saint Saulieu, and a little Moorish child with a crown and sceptre of gold sitting upon it, as if the devil had been the king of his heart. I did not conceal these visions from him; but he grew angry, and said I ought to confess myself, for thinking so badly of my neighbour; that he could not be a black wolf; for, on the contrary, the more he approached me, the more pure and chaste he became.
"One day, however, he told me that we ought to be married, only for spiritual love; and that such a union would enable us to do still more good. To this I answered, that marriage was not requisite for such a union. He made me, however, little demonstrations of friendship, to which, at first, I paid no attention. At last, he suddenly threw off the mask, told me he loved me desperately; that for many years he had studied spiritual books, the better to win me; and that now having so much access to me, I must be his wife, either by love or force and he approached to caress me. I was very angry, and commanded him to go.