by Voltaire
‘Have you not often read wicked books?’ asked the confessor. ‘What do you mean by wicked books?’ asked the other. ‘I don’t mean books which are simply tedious,’ said the confessor, ‘like the Roman History by Fathers Catrou and Rouillé, and your college tragedies, and your collections of “great literature”, and Lemoine’s Louisiade,4 and Ducerceau’s verses about salad dressing,5 and his noble stanzas on the messenger from Le Mans, and his expression of thanks for pátés to the duc du Maine, and your books of Reflections,6 and all your fine flowers of the monastic spirit. But what I do mean is those fantasies by Father Bougeant,7 condemned by the Parlement and the Archbishop of Paris; I mean those sweet nothings by Father Berruyer, who has reduced the Old and the New Testament to a kind of gutter romance in the style of Clélie, so justly scorned both in Rome and in France;8 mean the theology of Brother Busenbaum and Brother Lacroix,9 who have gone to further extremes than anything penned by Brothers Guignard, Guéret,10 Garnet, Oldcorn,11 and all the others; I mean Brother Jouvency,12 who with such discrimination compares President de Harlay13 to Pontius Pilate, the Parliament to the Jews, and Brother Guignard to Jesus Christ, all because an over-angry citizen, but one suffused with righteous anger against an advocate of parricide, took it into his head to spit in the face of Brother Guignard, assassin of Henri IV, when that impenitent monster refused to demand pardon of the King and the judiciary; finally I mean that interminable crowd of casuists, towards whom Pascal's eloquence was too merciful,14 and above all your Sanchez, who in his volume De Matrimonio has made a collection of all those things that Aretino and the Carthusian Porter would never have dared to say.15 In so far as you have read any works of this kind, your eternal salvation is in danger.’
‘I would make a distinction,’ said Berthier. ‘No distinctions!’ repeated the confessor. ‘Have you read all these books, yes or no?’ –‘Sir,’ said Berthier, ‘I have a right to read what I choose, given my eminent position in the Society.’ – ‘And what might that great position be?’ asked the confessor. ‘Well, since you must know, it is I who am the editor of the Journal de Trévoux.’
‘What! You the editor of this work which sends so many to their damnation?’ – ‘But my good sir, my work damns nobody; what sin could it possibly cause the reader?’ – ‘Ah, Brother!’ said the confessor, ‘do you not know that whoever calls his brother Raca is in danger of hell fire?16 And it is your misfortune to bring whoever reads you into the immediate temptation of calling you Raca: how many honest people have I seen who, after reading just two or three pages of your periodical, throw it on the fire in a transport of rage! "What impertinence!" they say. “What an ignoramus, a boor, a pedant, a donkey!” They could not stop: the spirit of charity was completely extinguished in them, and their eternal salvation clearly imperilled. Judge for yourself how many evils you have caused! There are perhaps nearly fifty people who read you, fifty souls which you place in peril each month. What excites anger above all in the faithful is the confidence with which you rule on all matters which surpass your understanding. This vice clearly derives from two mortal sins: pride and avarice. Is it not the case that you write your periodical for money, and that you are drunk with arrogance when you so inopportunely criticize Abbé Velly,17 and Abbé Coyer,18 and Abbé d’Olivet,19 and all our good authors? I cannot give you absolution, without the firm promise that you will not write for the Journal de Trévoux for the rest of your days.’
Father Berthier did not know what to say; his head was not clear, and he was furiously attached to his two favourite sins. ‘And yet you hesitate!’ his confessor continued; ‘Consider that in a few hours it will all be over for you: can one still harbour passions when they must be given up for ever? Will you be asked on Judgement Day whether you did or did not write for the Journal de Trévoux? Was it for this that you were born? Was it so as to bore us to death that you took vows of chastity, humility and obedience? You desiccated tree, you shrivelled tree which will be burnt to a cinder – make the most of your remaining moments; bear yet some of the fruits of penitence; renounce above all the spirit of calumny which has possessed you until now; try to have as much religion as those you accuse of having none. Know this, Brother Berthier, that piety and virtue do not consist in believing that your Francis Xavier,* after dropping his crucifix in the sea, had it humbly retrieved for him by a crab.20 One can be an honest man, and doubt that the same St Francis can have been in two places at one time;21 your books may say so, but we are permitted to believe not a word of what is in your books dear Brother.
‘Concerning which, Brother, were you not in communication with Brother Malagrida and his accomplices?22 I had in fact forgotten this little peccadillo: do you think that because the attempt on his life once cost Henri IV a mere tooth, and because today it costs the King of Portugal a mere arm, that you can save yourself through the argument of intentionality?23 You think these are venial sins, and that so long as the Journal de Trévoux keeps being churned out you need care little for the rest.’
‘I would make a distinction, sir,’ said Berthier. ‘More distinctions!’ said the confessor. ‘Well! I make no distinctions, and I shall not give you absolution.’
As he was speaking, Brother Coutu arrived hastily, running, breathless, sweating, panting, stinking; he had made enquiries about the priest who had the honour of confessing the reverend Father. ‘Stop, stop,’ he cried, ‘no sacraments, no sacraments, reverend Father, I beg of you, my dear reverend Father Berthier, die without the sacraments; this fellow is the author of the Nouvelles ecclésiastiques,24 and you’re the fox confessing to the wolf:25 if you’ve told the truth, you’re lost.’
Amazement, shame, pain, anger, rage enlivened, for a moment, the spirit of the sick man. ‘You are the author of the Nouvelles ecclésiastiques!’ he exclaimed. ‘And now you’ve caught a Jesuit!’ – ‘Yes, my friend,’ replied the confessor with a bitter smile. ‘Give me my confession back, scoundrel,’ said Berthier; ‘give me my confession back at once! God’s enemy that you are, the enemy of kings, even of the Jesuits; it’s you who have taken advantage of my condition: you traitor – if only you had an apoplexy, and I were administering you extreme unction! So you think yourself less tedious, less of a fanatic than me? Yes, I’ve written stupid things, I agree; I’ve made myself despicable and hateful, I allow; but you, are you not the lowest, vilest scribbler upon whom lunacy ever bestowed a pen? Admit it: isn’t your History of Convulsions equal to our Lettres édifiantes et curieuses?26 We want to dominate everywhere, I admit; but you want only to sow discord. We would seduce those in authority; you would rather raise sedition against them. The courts have had our books burned, I agree; but have they not burned yours as well? We are all imprisoned in Portugal, I agree; but have you and your accomplices not been pursued by the police a hundred times over? If I have been foolish enough to criticize enlightened men, who until then had disdained to crush me, have you not been equally impertinent? Are we not both, therefore, equally ridiculous? Should we not admit that in this century, the sewer of the ages, we are, the pair of us, the vilest of all the insects buzzing round the mire of this dungheap?’ The force of truth tore these words from Berthier’s mouth. He spoke like one inspired; his eyes, filled with a sombre flame, rolled distractedly; his lips were twisted, covered in spittle, his body tensed, his heart palpitating. Soon these convulsions were succeeded by a general collapse, and in his weakness he tenderly clasped Brother Coutu’s hand. ‘I admit’, he said, ‘that there are many failures in my Journal de Trévoux; but one must excuse human weakness.’ – ‘Ah! Reverend Father, you are a saint,’ said Brother Coutu; ‘you are the first author ever to admit that he is a bore; go now, die in peace; you may mock at the Nouvelles ecclésiastiques; die now, reverend Father, and be sure that you will work miracles.’
So passed Brother Berthier from this life to the next, on 12 October, at half past five in the evening.
Apparition of Brother Berthier to Brother
Garassise, his Successor on the Jou
rnal
de Trévoux
‘On 14 October, I, Brother Ignatius Garassise, grand-nephew of Brother Garasse,27 at two hours after midnight, being awake, had a vision, in which the ghost of Brother Berthier came towards me, the sight of which gave me the longest and most terrible yawning fit I have ever experienced. “Are you dead, then, reverend Father?” I asked. Yawning at me, he nodded to signify “Yes.” – “That is good,” I said to him, “since Your Reverence must doubtless be among the saints; you must hold one of the most important places. What a pleasure to know you are in Heaven with all our Brothers, past, present and to come! It is true, isn’t it, that there are now some four million haloed heads, since the founding of our Society until today? I don’t think there can be as many from the ranks of the Oratorians. Speak to me, reverend Father, stop yawning, and describe your happiness.”
‘ “Oh, my son!” said Brother Berthier in a mournful voice, “How wrong you are! Alas! the Paradise Open to Philagie28 is closed to the Fathers!” – “Is it possible?” I exclaimed. – “Yes,” he said, “shun the pernicious vices which have damned us; and above all, when you write for the Journal de Trévoux, do not imitate me; do not calumniate, nor reason falsely, and above all do not be a bore, as I had the misfortune to be, and which is, of all sins, the most unforgivable.”
‘I was gripped with holy terror at Brother Berthier’s dreadful words. “So you’re damned?” I exclaimed. “No,” he replied; “happily, I repented at the last moment. I am in Purgatory for three hundred and thirty-three thousand, three hundred and thirty-three years, three months, three weeks and three days, and I shall not be released unless one of our Brothers can be discovered who is humble, peaceful, has no desire to live at court, will not slander others in front of princes, will not interfere in the affairs of the world; and who, when he writes books, will make nobody yawn, and will transmit all these merits to me.”
"'Ah, Brother,” I said to him, “Purgatory will last a long time for you. Tell me then, I beg you, what is your penance down there?” – “I am obliged”, he replied, “to prepare chocolate for a Jansenist every morning; at dinner I have to read one of the Provincial Letters29 aloud, and for the rest of the time I am kept busy mending the smocks of the nuns at Port-Royal.”30 – “You make me tremble!” I replied. “What has happened in that case to all our Fathers, for whom I had such veneration? Where is the reverend Father Le Tellier,31 the leader, the apostle of the Gallican Church?” – “Damned without mercy,” replied Brother Berthier, “and he deserved it fully: he had deceived his King, lit the flame of discord, forged letters from bishops, and in the most cowardly and intemperate fashion persecuted the worthiest Archbishop ever to have been appointed to the capital of France;32 he has been irrevocably condemned as a forger, calumniator, and disturber of the public peace: above all it is he who betrayed us all, he who doubled our madness, which now sends us to Hell by the hundreds and thousands. We believed, since Brother Le Tellier was respected, that we should all be respected; we imagined, since he had deceived his royal penitent, that we should all deceive ours; we believed, since one of his books had been condemned in Rome,33 that we too must only write books which invited condemnation; and, to make matters even worse, we produced the Journal de Trévoux.”
‘As he spoke to me, I tossed on my left side, then on my right, then I sat up in bed, and cried out: “Oh, dear friend in Purgatory, what must we do to avoid the state you are in? Which sin is the most to be feared?”
‘Berthier opened his mouth, and replied: “As I passed by Hell on my way to Purgatory, I was taken into the cavern of the seven capital sins, which is on the left-hand side of the entrance; first I addressed Lust: she was a great lump of a girl, fresh and appetizing, reclining on a bed of rose-leaves, with Sanchez’ book at her feet and a young abbé at her side. I said to her: ‘Madame, you, it would seem, are the one who damns all us Jesuits?’ – ‘No,’ she replied, ‘I do not have that honour; I have, it is true, a younger brother who corrupted Abbé Desfontaines34 and a few others of his type, while they wore your habits; but for the most part I do not get involved in your affairs; sensual pleasures are not for everyone.’
‘ “Avarice sat in a corner, weighing Paraguay grass35 in one scale against gold in the other. ‘Is it you, Madame, who have the most credit with us?’ – ‘No, reverend Father, I ruin only a very few of your bursars.’ – ‘Might it be you?’ I said to Wrath. ‘No; ask the others; I am a transient, I enter all hearts, but I do not stay; my sisters soon take over.’ Then I turned to Gluttony, who was at table. ‘As for you, Madame, I’m well aware, thanks to our Brother the cook, that it’s not you who have lost us our souls.’ Her mouth was full, so she could not reply; but she made a sign, shaking her head, that we weren’t worthy of her attention.
‘ “Sloth was resting on a couch, half asleep; I did not wish to waken her: I could guess the aversion she would have for people like us who spend our time rushing all over the world.
‘ “Then I noticed Envy in a corner, gnawing at the hearts of three or four poets, a handful of preachers, and a hundred-odd pamphleteers. ‘You look just the one’ – I said to her – ‘to have a hand in our sins.’ – ‘Ah, reverend Father,’ she replied, ‘you are too kind; how could people who have such a high opinion of themselves possibly depend on a poor wretch like me? You should talk to my father.’
‘ “In fact, her father was beside her, seated in an armchair, in a coat trimmed with ermine, his head held high, with a disdainful look, and red, full, hanging cheeks. I knew this to be Pride: I prostrated myself, for he was the only figure present to whom I might pay such tribute. ‘Forgive me, Father,’ I said, ‘that I did not approach you first of all; I have always worn you in my heart of hearts: yes, it is you who rule us all. The most trivial of writers, even the author of the Année littéraire,36 is inspired by you. Most magnificent devil! You reign over mandarin and hawker, over grand lama and capucin, over sultana and city wife; but our Society are your chief favourites: your divinity shines out in us, through the many veils of policy; I have always been the proudest of your disciples, and I cannot but feel that I love you still.’ He replied to my hymn of praise with a protective smile, and I was conveyed at once to Purgatory.” ’
Here ends the vision of Brother Garassise; he resigned from the Journal de Trévoux, and moved to Lisbon, where he had long sessions with Brother Malagrida, and at last went off to Paraguay.
Dialogue between a Savage
and a Graduate
First Dialogue
One day the Governor of Cayenne brought a savage from Guyana, who showed plenty of innate good sense and spoke fairly good French. A graduate of Paris had the honour of engaging him in conversation.
THE GRADUATE: Sir, you have no doubt witnessed many of your fellows pass their entire existence in solitude; for is it not said that such is the true life of man, and that human society is but an artificial deviation?
THE SAVAGE: I have never seen the people you mention. Man seems to me to be born for society, like many species of animal; each species follows its instinct; where we come from everyone lives in society.
THE GRADUATE: What! In society? So you have beautiful walled cities, kings and courtiers, entertainments, monasteries, universities, libraries, taverns?
THE SAVAGE: No; but have I not heard it said that on your continent there are Arabs, Scythians, peoples who have never had any of these things, and who are nevertheless sizeable nations? Well, we live like them. Neighbouring families lend each other help; we inhabit a hot country, where we have few needs; we procure food with ease; we marry, make children, raise them, and die. Just like you, give or take a few ceremonies.
THE GRADUATE: But, my dear Sir, you are therefore not a savage after all?
THE SAVAGE: I do not know what you mean by that word.
THE GRADUATE: In truth, neither do I. I must be dreaming. We call ‘savage’ a man of ill temper who flees company.
THE SAVAGE: I have already told you that we live
together amidst our families.
THE GRADUATE: We also call ‘savage’ those animals which are not tame, and which disappear into the forests; from whence we have given the name savage to men who live in the woods.
THE SAVAGE: I frequent the woods, as you do, when you hunt.
THE GRADUATE: Do you have thoughts from time to time?
THE SAVAGE: One cannot avoid having some ideas.
THE GRADUATE: I should be curious to know about yours; what do you think of man?
THE SAVAGE: I think that he is a two-footed animal who has the faculties of reason, speech and laughter, and who uses his hands a lot more skilfully than monkeys. I have seen several species of man, whites like you, redskins like me, blacks like those to be found at the Governor of Guyana’s. You have a beard, we have none; negroes have woolly heads, we have hair. It is said that in your North everyone has blond hair; in our Americas everyone is dark; that is all I know.
THE GRADUATE: But your soul, sir, what of your soul? What notion do you entertain of it? Where does it come from? What is it? What does it do? How does it act and where does it go to?
