{"collection":"scripture-revelation","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_32157/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_32157","id":"gutenberg_32157","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/32157","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Gender & Sexuality Studies","Category: History - European","Category: History - Religious","Catholic Church -- Clergy","Catholic Church -- Controversial literature","Catholic Church -- Doctrines","Celibacy -- Catholic Church","Families","Women and religion"],"text":"Produced by Al Haines\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\nPRIESTS,\n\nWOMEN, AND FAMILIES,\n\n\n\n\nTRANSLATED FROM THE EIGHTH EDITION\n\nOF\n\nLE PRETRE, LA FEMME, ET LA FAMILLE.\n\n\n\nBY\n\nJ. MICHELET.\n\n\n\n\n\nLONDON:\n\nPUBLISHED BY THE PROTESTANT EVANGELICAL MISSION,\n\n5, RACQUET COURT, FLEET STREET, E.C.\n\n1874.\n\n\n\n\nEDITOR'S PREFACE.\n\nWhen it was first proposed to publish an English Translation of this\nadmirable work, its gifted Author wrote to the Translator to the\nfollowing effect: \"This work cannot be without interest to the people\nof England, among whom, at this moment, the Jesuits are so madly\npursuing their work.  Nothing is more strange than their chimerical\nhopes of speedily converting England.\"\n\nIndeed, their intrigues and manoeuvres were thought at that\ntime--1845--to be \"chimerical,\" even by many who were _forced_ to join\nin the Jesuit Crusade.  One of the Bishops, directed by Dr. Wiseman to\nuse the \"Litany for the Conversion of England,\" replied, \"You may as\nwell pray that the blackamoor may be made white.\"  He was ordered to\nRome, and six months' detention there quieted his opposition to the\nJesuit schemes intended to \"bend or break\" his country.\n\nIn presenting a New Issue of \"PRIESTS, WOMEN, AND FAMILIES\", we meet a\nwant--a necessity--of Society.  The CONFESSIONAL UNMASKED, which so\n_faithfully_ portrayed the Romish and Ritualistic Priest, and which was\nso unjustly and _illegally_ suppressed by the violence and intrigues of\nPriests and those whom they \"directed,\" was too plain in its utterances\nfor general reading.  Its _testimony_ as a WITNESS _was_ and _is_ of\nthe highest importance; but we fully concur with the Author of this\n\"work of art\" that it should not be disfigured by the portraits of\nPriests.\n\nThe following _Illustrations_ are a proof that something ought to be\ndone on behalf of the deluded creatures who, under the pretence of\nbecoming the \"Brides of Christ,\" are subjected to \"indignities\" and\ncruelty, not tolerated anywhere else.\n\n\"ARTICLES OF PIETY;\"\n\nOR, INSTRUMENTS OF TORTURE IN ENGLISH CONVENTS.\n\n\n[Illustration: This engraving is copied from a _Photograph_, Published\nby the Society.  For a description of these and other \"Articles of\nPiety,\" see _Oxford and Roman Railway_.  Price 1s.]\n\nInstruments of Torture are _now_ practised upon Nuns in Romish Convents\nin _London_ and in all parts of the country.\n\nThe Romish \"Articles of Piety,\" named on the next page, were bought at\n\"Little's Ecclesiastical Warehouse\", 20, Cranbourne Street, and at the\nConvent of the \"Sisters of the Assumption of the Perpetual Adoration of\nthe Blessed Sacrament,\" London.\n\nSuch Instruments of Torture are fitter for the worshippers of Baal,\nthan for the worshippers of God; and a person using them upon cattle\nwould lay himself open to a prosecution by the \"Society for Prevention\nof Cruelty to Animals.\"  Both the parties who purchased these articles\nare intimately known to Mr. Steele, the Secretary of the Protestant\nEvangelical Mission and Electoral Union.\n\n\n  COPIES OF BILLS GIVEN TO PURCHASERS.\n\n  No. 1.  Jan. 15, 1868.\n\n  Ecclesiastical Warehouse,\n  20, Cranbourne Street.\n\n                                   s.  d.\n  To Hair Shirt .................. 12  6\n  To Discipline ..................  4  0\n  Two Do., had last week .........  3  6\n  To Massive Waist Chain .........  8  6\n  Two Armlets, 3s. 6d. & 1s. 6d.    5  0\n  One Hair Band ..................  5  0\n\n                                L1 18  6\n\n  Rec. C. Cuddon. for F. A. LITTLE\n\n\n  No. 2.  Convent of the Assumption,\n          24, Kensington Sq.\n\n                                   s.  d.\n  One Iron Discipline ...........   7  0\n  One Nut .......................   2  6\n\n              Total .............   9  6\n\n  Rec. Sr. M. Bernardine, May 1, 1869.\n\n\n  No. 3.  Convent of the Assumption,\n          24, Kensington Sq.\n\n                                   s.  d.\n  Iron Discipline ...............   5  6\n  Two Bracelets .................   1  6\n  One Nut .......................   2  6\n\n                                    9  6\n\n  Paid S--: Sep. --, 1869.\n\n  No. 4.  Little's Ecclesiastical\n    Warehouse, 20, Cranbourne Street.\n\n                                   s.  d.\n  To Discipline (9 tails) .......   6  6\n  \"  Ditto (7 tails) ............   2  3\n  \"  Chain Band .................   6  6\n  Ditto Smaller .................   4  6\n\n                                   19  9\n\n  Received with thanks, Sep. --, 1869.\n\n\nChristian Reader,--It is your duty to testify, on God's behalf, against\nthe _Blasphemy_ and _Cruelty_ of Romanism.  The _Maker_ and _Preserver_\nof man is the loving _Father_ who gave His only begotten Son to die for\nus; and thus make atonement for our sin.  \"By Him all that believe are\njustified from all things.\"--Acts xiii. 38, 39; Micah vi. 6-8; John\niii. 16; Rom. iii. 20-26; Heb. ix. 22.\n\n\nIRON DISCIPLINES OF \"THE CHURCH.\"\n\nSaint Liguori, the Doctor of the Romish Church, commends the use of\n_Disciplines_ to the \"True Spouse of Christ\" thus:--\n\n\"_Disciplines_, or _Flagellations_, are a species of mortification,\nstrongly recommended by St. Francis de Sales, and universally adopted\nin Religious Communities of both sexes.  All the modern Saints, without\na single exception, have continually practised this sort of penance.\nIt is related of St. Lewis Gonzaga, that he often scourged himself into\nblood three times a-day.  And at the point of death, not having\nsufficient strength to use the lash, he besought the Provincial to have\nhim disciplined from head to foot.\"\n\n[Illustration: Instruments of Discipline or Flagellation]\n\nA.  This is a band for going round the body to \"mortify the flesh.\"  It\nis made of _Iron wire_, and the _ends_ of each link form Spikes which\nrange in length from the sixteenth of an inch to half an inch.\n\nB.  This is a _Flagellum_, made of strong iron wire.  It has _five_\ntails to represent the \"Five wounds;\" and at the end of each tail there\nis a _Spike_, about an inch long, to _pierce_ the flesh.  It will be\nseen that the lowermost joints are the heaviest, so as to increase the\nseverity of the blows.\n\nC.  This is a _Cross_ resting upon an \"I. H. S.\"--Jesus the Saviour of\nMan.  It is for wearing on the breast, and is made of _iron_, as,\nindeed, all the other articles represented in the engraving are.  It is\ncovered over with _spikes_ on the side next the body.\n\nD.  This is another _Flagellum_, commemorative of the \"Five wounds.\"\nAt the end of each tail there is a kind of _Rowel_ with sharp points.\nIt is impossible to use this without cutting the flesh.\n\nE.  This _Belt_ is similar to A, but of stronger material.  This _belt_\nsometimes becomes _imbedded_ in the flesh of the devoted _victim_ of\n\"the Church.\"\n\nF.  This _Flagellum_ has _Nine_ tails, to represent the nine months\nduring which \"The Word was made flesh.\"  The \"Cat-and-nine-tails\" and\nthe \"Incarnation\"!!\n\nG.  This _Flagellum_ is a modification of B, D, and L.\n\nH, J, P.  These are _Bands_ for the _limbs_, and, like A and E, are\ncovered with _spikes_.\n\nI.  This is a _Cross_ similar to that resting upon the \"I. H. S.\" above.\n\nK.  This is a _Cross_ and _Heart_ to be worn over the seat of the\naffections, to show that all \"natural affection\" is to be crucified.\nThis was painfully illustrated in the case of a young lady who had left\nher home and entered one of these Conventual Establishments to the\ngreat grief of her parents.  Her father called at the convent to see\nher.  She was brought to him, and on his expostulating with her, and\nsoliciting her return home, he observed that she pressed her hands\nagainst her breast, and seemed to suffer excruciating pain.  After a\nlittle, blood oozed through her dress, and she was then withdrawn by\nthe \"Sisters.\"\n\nL.  This _Flagellum_ may be called the Mother Superior's \"_Wild Cat_.\"\n\nM.  This _Flagellum_ has Seven tails, to represent the \"Seven Dolours\"\nof the Virgin; and a doleful tale they tell.\n\nN.  These two _Nets_ of Iron wire, covered over with _spikes_, are for\nthe most cruel and immodest purposes.  We dare not describe them.\n\nO.  Each of these two hemispheres, together forming a _Nut_, has _five\nbrass spikes_, which are used for imprinting the _Stigmata_ or \"Five\nwounds\" of Christ upon the _Religious_.\n\n\nWere such cruelties perpetrated upon the _Heathen_, all our _Christian_\nChurches would resound with appeals to the sympathy of the people to\ncome to the help of the sufferers, whether _Fanatics_ or _Victims_.\nThis would be commendable.  Why, then, is the same course not adopted\non behalf of Nuns, who, as Rev. Pierce Connelly says, \"are not only\nslaves, but who are, _de facto_, by a Satanic consecration, secret\nprisoners for life, and may any day be put an end to, or much worse,\nwith less risk of vengeance here in England than in Italy or\nSpain!\"--Extracted from the Annual Report of the Protestant Evangelical\nMission and Electoral Union, January, 1873.\n\n\n\n\nPREFACE.\n\nThe following pages--intended to restore _Domestic Life_ to French\nSociety--formed the Preface to the Third Edition of _Priests, Women,\nand Families_, by M. Michelet, of which celebrated work, \"THE\nPROTESTANT EVANGELICAL MISSION\" have published an Edition in English.\n\nThis book has produced upon our adversaries an effect we had not\nanticipated.  It has made them lose every sense of propriety and\nself-respect:--nay, more, even that respect for the sanctuary which it\nwas their duty to teach us.  From the pulpits of their crowded churches\nthey preach against a living man, calling him by his name, and invoking\nupon the author and his book the hatred of those who know not how to\nread, and who will never read this work.  The heads of the clergy must,\nindeed, have felt themselves touched to the quick, to let loose these\nfurious preachers upon us.\n\nWe have hit the mark too fairly, it should seem.  Woman!--this was the\npoint on which they were sensitive.  Direction, the spiritual guidance\nof women, is the vital part of ecclesiastical authority; and they will\nfight for it to the death.  Strike, if you will, elsewhere, but not\nhere.  Attack the dogma--all well and good; they may, perhaps, make a\nshow of violence, or perpetrate some empty declamation; but if you\nshould happen to meddle with this particular point, the thing becomes\nserious, and they no longer contain themselves.  It is a sad sight to\nsee pontiffs, elders of the people, gesticulating, stamping, foaming at\nthe mouth, and gnashing their teeth.[1] Young men, do not look;\nepileptic convulsions have occasionally a contagious effect upon the\nspectators.  Let us leave them and depart; we must resume our studies\nwithout loss of time: \"Art is long, life is short.\"\n\nI remember having read in the correspondence of Saint Charles Borromeo,\nthat one of his friends, a person of authority and importance, having\ncensured some Jesuit or other who was too fond of confessing nuns, the\nlatter came in a fury to insult him.  The Jesuit knew his strength:\nbeing a preacher then in vogue, well off at court, and still better at\nthe court of Rome, he thought he need not stand upon ceremony.  He went\nto the greatest extremes, was violent, insolent, as much as he pleased:\nhis grave censor remained cool.  The Jesuit could no longer keep within\nthe bounds of decency, and made use of the vilest expressions.  The\nother, calm and firm, answered nothing; he let him continue his\ndeclamation, threats, and violent gestures; he only looked at his feet.\n\"Why were you always looking at his feet?\" inquired an eye-witness, as\nsoon as the Jesuit, was gone.  \"Because,\" replied the noble man calmly,\n\"I fancied I saw the cloven hoof peeping out every now and then; and\nthis man, who seemed possessed with a devil, might be the tempter\nhimself, disguised as a Jesuit.\"\n\nOne prelate predicts in sorrow that we are sending the priests to\nmartyrdom.\n\nAlas, this martyrdom is what they themselves demand, either aloud or in\nsecret, namely--marriage.\n\nWe think, without enumerating the too well known inconveniences of\ntheir present state, that if the priest is to advise the family, it is\ngood for him to know what a family is; that as a married man, of a\nmature age and experience, one who has loved and suffered, and whom\ndomestic affections have enlightened upon the mysteries of moral life,\nwhich are not to be learned by guessing, he would possess at the same\ntime more affection and more wisdom.\n\nIt is true the defenders of the clergy have lately drawn such a picture\nof marriage, that many persons perhaps will henceforth dread the\nengagement.  They have far exceeded the very worst things that\nnovelists and modern socialists have ever said against the _legal\nunion_.  Marriage, which lovers imprudently seek as a confirmation of\nlove, is, according to them, but a warfare: we marry in order to fight.\nIt is impossible to degrade lower the virtue of matrimony.  The\nsacrament of union, according to these doctors, is useless, and can do\nnothing unless a third party be always present between the\npartners--_i.e._, the combatants--to separate them.\n\nIt had been generally believed that two persons were sufficient for\nmatrimony: but this is all altered; and we have the new system, as set\nforth by themselves, composed of three elements: 1st, _man_, the\nstrong, the violent; 2ndly, _woman_, a being naturally weak; 3rdly, the\n_priest_, born a man, and strong, but who is kind enough to become weak\nand resemble woman; and who, participating thus in both natures, may\ninterpose between them.\n\nInterpose! interfere between two persons who were to be henceforth but\none!  This changes wonderfully the idea which, from the beginning of\nthe world, has been entertained of marriage.\n\nBut this is not all; they avow that they do not pretend to make an\nimpartial interference that might favour each of the parties, according\nto reason.  No, they address themselves exclusively to the wife: she it\nis whom they undertake to protect against her natural protector.  They\noffer to league with her in order to transform the husband.  If it were\nonce firmly established that marriage, instead of being unity in two\npersons, is a league of one of them with a stranger, it would become\nexceedingly scarce.  Two to one! the game would seem too desperate; few\npeople would be bold enough to face the peril.  There would be no\nmarriages but for money; and these are already too numerous.  People in\ndifficulties would doubtless not fail to marry; for instance, a\nmerchant placed by his pitiless creditor between marriage and a warrant.\n\nTo be transformed, re-made, remodelled, and changed in nature!  A grand\nand difficult change!  But there would be no merit in it, if it was not\nof one's free will, and only brought about by a sort of domestic\npersecution, or household warfare.\n\nFirst of all, we must know whether transformation means amelioration,\nwhether it be intended by transformation to ascend higher and higher in\nmoral life, and become more virtuous and wise.  To ascend would be well\nand good; but if it should be to fall lower?\n\nAnd first of all, the wisdom they offer us does not imply knowledge.\n\"What is the use of knowledge and literature?  They are mere toys of\nluxury, vain and dangerous ornaments of the mind, both strangers to the\nsoul.\"  Let us not contest the matter, but pass over this empty\ndistinction that opposes the mind to the soul, as if ignorance was\ninnocence, and as if they could have the gifts of the soul and heart\nwith a poor, insipid, idiotic literature!\n\nBut where is their heart?  Let us catch a glimpse of it.  How is it\nthat those who undertake to develope it in others dispense with giving\nany proof of it in themselves?  But this living fountain of the heart\nis impossible to be hidden, if we really have it within us.  It springs\nout in spite of everything; if you were to stop it on one side, it\nwould run out by the other.  It is more difficult to be confined than\nthe flowing of great rivers:--try to shut up the sources of the Rhone\nor Rhine!  These are vain metaphors, and very ill-placed, I allow: to\nwhat deserts of Arabia must I not resort to find more suitable ones?\n\nWe are in a church: see the crowd, the dense mass of people who after\nhaving wandered far, enter here weary and athirst, hoping to find some\nrefreshment; they wait with open mouths.  Will there even be one small\ndrop of dew?\n\nNo; a decent, proper, blunt-looking man ascends the pulpit: he will not\naffect them; he confines himself to proofs.  He makes a grand display\nof reasoning, with high logical pretensions and much solemnity in his\npremises.  Then come sudden, sharp conclusions; but for middle term\nthere is none: \"These things require no proof.\"  Why, then, miserable\nreasoner, did you make so much noise about your proofs?\n\nWell! do not prove! only love! and we will let you off everything else.\nSay only one word from the heart to comfort this crowd.  All that\nvariegated mass of living heads, that you see so closely assembled\naround your pulpit are not blocks of stone, but so many living souls.\nThose yonder are young men, the rising generation, our future society.\nThey are of happy dispositions, full of spirit, fresh and entire, such\nas God made them, and untamed; they rush forward incautiously even to\nthe very brink of precipices.  What! youth, danger, futurity, and hopes\nclouded with fear--does not all this move you?  Will nothing open your\nfatherly heart?\n\nMark, too, that brilliant crowd of women and flowers: in all that\nsplendour so delightful to the eye there is much suffering.  I pray you\nto speak one word of comfort to them.  You know they are your\ndaughters, who come every evening so forlorn to weep at your feet.\nThey confide in you, and tell you everything; you know their wounds.\nTry to find some consoling word--surely that cannot be so difficult.\nWhat man is there who, in seeing the heart of a woman bleeding before\nhim, would not feel his own heart inspired with words to heal it?  A\ndumb man, for want of words, would find what is worth more, a flood of\ntears!\n\nWhat shall we say of those who, in presence of so many desponding,\nsickly, and confiding persons, give them, as their only remedy, the\nspirit of an academy, glittering commonplaces, old paradoxes,\nBonaparteism, socialism, and what not?  There is in all this, we must\nconfess, a sad dryness and a great want of feeling.\n\nAh! you _are_ dry and harsh!  I felt this the other day (it was in\nDecember last), when I read on the walls, as I was passing by, an order\nfrom the archbishop.  It was a case of suicide; a poor wretch had\nkilled himself in the church of Saint-Gervais.  Was it misery, passion,\nmadness, spleen, or moral weakness in this melancholy season?  No cause\nwas mentioned; the body alone was there with the blood on the marble\nslabs; but no explanation.  By what gradation of griefs,\ndisappointments, and anguish had he been induced to commit this\nunnatural act?  What steps of moral purgatory had he descended before\nhe reached the bottom of the abyss?  Who could say?  No one.  But any\nman with a gleam of imagination in his heart, sees in this solemn\nmystery something to make him weep and pray.  That man is not Mr.\nAffre: read the mandate.  There is compassion for the blood-stained\nchurch, and pity for the polluted stones; but for the dead only a\nmalediction.  But, whether a Christian or not, guilty or not, is he not\nstill a man, my lord bishop?  Could you not, whilst you were condemning\nsuicide, let fall one word of pity by the way?  No, no sentiment of\nhumanity, nothing for the poor soul, which, besides its misfortune\n(which must have been terrible, indeed, since it could not support it),\ndeparts all alone and accursed, to attempt that perilous flight of the\nother life and judgment.\n\nAnother very different fact had given me some time before a similar\nimpression.  I had gone on business to the house of the venerable\nSister * * *.\n\nShe was absent; and two persons, a lady and an aged priest, were\nwaiting, like myself, in the small parlour.  The lady seemed actuated\nby some motive of beneficence: the priest, as they are lords and\nmasters in every Religious house, seemed to be quite at home, and, to\nbeguile the time, was writing letters at the sister's bureau.  At the\nconclusion of every note, he listened to the lady for a moment.  The\nlatter, whose gentle face bore traces of grief, impressed one at once\nwith the goodness of her disposition: perhaps she would not have\nattracted my attention, but there was something in her that interested\nme.  Was it passion or grief?  I overheard without listening--she had\nlost her son.\n\nAn only son, full of affection, spirits, and courage; a young hero,\nwho, leaving the Polytechnic school, had abandoned everything, riches,\nhigh life, pleasure, happiness, and such a mother!  And regardless\nalike of safety and danger, had rushed to Marseilles, thence to\nAlgiers, to the enemy, and to death.\n\nThe poor woman, wholly occupied with this idea, snatched, from time to\ntime, a little moment to put in a word; she wanted to speak to him, and\nappeal to his compassion.  The scene was infinitely touching and\nnatural, without any theatrical effect.  Her moderate grief and sighs,\nwithout tears, affected me the more.\n\nShe was evidently wasting her breath.  The thoughts of the priest were\nelsewhere.  It was not possible for him not to listen; he was forced to\nsay something or other (the lady was rich, and her carriage was waiting\nat the door); but he got off as cheap as he could: \"Yes, Madam,\nProvidence tries us.  It strikes us for our good.  These are very\npainful trials,\" &c., &c.  Such vague and cold words did not discourage\nthe lady; she drew her chair nearer, thinking he would hear her better:\n\"Ah!  Sir, how shall I tell you?  Ah! how can you understand so heavy a\ncalamity?\"  She would have made a dead man weep.\n\nDid you ever see the heart-rending sight of the poor pointer, that has\nbeen wounded by a shot, writhing at his master's feet, and licking his\nhands, as if praying to him to help him?  The comparison will appear,\nperhaps, strange to those who have not seen the reality.  However, at\nthat moment, I felt it in my heart.  That woman, mortally wounded, yet\nso gentle in her grief, seemed to be writhing at the feet of the\npriest, and to entreat his compassion.\n\nI looked at that priest: he was vulgar and unfeeling, such as we see so\noften, neither wicked nor good; there was nothing to indicate a heart\nof iron, but he was as if made of wood.  I saw plainly that no one word\nof all which his ear had received had entered his soul.  One sense was\nwanting.  But why torment a blind man by speaking to him of colours?\nHe answers vaguely; occasionally he may guess pretty nearly; but how\ncan it be helped? he cannot see.\n\nAnd do not think that the feelings of the heart can be guessed at more\neasily.  A man without wife or child might study the mysterious working\nof a family in books and the world for ten thousand years, without ever\nknowing one word about them.  Look at these men; it is neither time,\nopportunity, nor facility that they lack to acquire knowledge; they\npass their lives with women who tell them more than they tell their\nhusbands; they know and yet they are ignorant: they know all a woman's\nacts and thoughts, but they are ignorant precisely of what is the best\nand most intimate part of her character, and the very essence of her\nbeing.  They hardly understand her as a lover (of God or man), still\nless as a wife, and not at all as a mother.  Nothing is more painful\nthan to see them sitting down awkwardly by the side of a woman to\ncaress her child: their manner towards it is that of flatterers or\ncourtiers--anything but that of a father.\n\nWhat I pity most in the man condemned to celibacy is not only the\nprivation of the sweetest joys of the heart, but that a thousand\nobjects of the natural and moral world are, and ever will be, a dead\nletter to him.  Many have thought, by living apart, to dedicate their\nlives to science; but the reverse is the case: in such a morose and\ncrippled life science is never fathomed; it may be varied and\nsuperficially immense; but it escapes, for it will not reside there.\nCelibacy gives a restless activity to researches, intrigues, and\nbusiness, a sort of huntsman's eagerness, a sharpness in the subtleties\nof school-divinity and disputation; this is at least the effect it had\nin its prime.  If it makes the senses keen and liable to temptation,\ncertainly it does not soften the heart.  Our terrorists in the\nfifteenth and sixteenth centuries were monks.[2]  Monastic prisons were\nalways the most cruel.[3]  A life systematically negative, a life\nwithout its functions, developes in man instincts that are hostile to\nlife; he who suffers, is willing to make others suffer.  The harmonious\nand fertile parts of our nature, which on the one hand incline to\ngoodness, and on the other to genius and high invention, can hardly\never withstand this partial suicide.\n\nTwo classes of persons necessarily contract much\ninsensibility--surgeons and priests.  By constantly witnessing\nsufferings and death, we become by degrees dead in our sympathetic\nfaculties.  Let us, however, remark this difference, that the\ninsensibility of the surgeon is not without its utility: if he was\naffected by his operation he might tremble.  The business of the\npriest, on the contrary, requires that he should be affected; sympathy\nwould be generally the most efficacious remedy to cure the soul.  But\nindependently of what we have just said about the natural harshness of\nthis profitless life, we must observe that the priest, in contradiction\nwith a society, the whole of whose progress he condemns, becomes less\nand less benevolent for the sinner and the rebel.  The physician who\ndoes not like his patient is less likely than another to cure him.\n\nIt is a sad reflection to think that these men, who have so little\nsympathy, and who are, moreover, soured by contention, should happen to\nhave in their hands the most gentle portion of mankind; that which has\npreserved the most affection, and ever remained the most faithful to\nnature, and which, in the very corruption of morals, is still the least\ncorrupted by interest and hateful passions.\n\nThat is to say, that the least loving govern those who love the most.\n\nIn order to know well what use they make of this empire over women,\nwhich they claim as their own privilege, we must not confine ourselves\nto their flattering and wheedling ways with fashionable ladies, but\ninquire of the poor women whom they are able to treat unceremoniously,\nthose especially, who, being in convents, are at the mercy of the\necclesiastical superiors, and whom they keep under lock and key, and\nundertake to protect alone.\n\nWe are not quite satisfied with this protection.  For a long time we\nthought all was right; we were even simple enough to say to ourselves\nthat the law could see nothing amiss in this kingdom of grace.  But\nhark! from those gentle asylums, those images of paradise, we hear sobs\nand sighs.\n\nI shall not speak here of the convents that have become real houses of\ncorrection, nor of the events at Sens, Avignon, and Poictiers, nor of\nthe suicides that have taken place, alas! much nearer home.\n\nNo, I shall speak only of the most honourable houses and the most holy\nnuns.  How are they protected by ecclesiastical authority?\n\nFirst, _as to the Soul_, or conscience, that dearest possession, on\naccount of which they sacrifice all the pleasures of this world; is it\ntrue that the sisters of the hospitals who passed for Jansenists have\nbeen latterly persecuted, to make them denounce their supposed secret\ndirectors; and that they have obtained a truce only through the\nthreatening mediation of a magistrate, who is a celebrated orator and a\nfirm Gallican?\n\nAgain, _as to the Body_, or personal liberty, which the slave gains as\nsoon as ever he does but touch the sacred soil of France--does\necclesiastical authority secure this to the nuns?  Is it true that a\nCarmelite nun, within sixty leagues of Paris, was kept _chained_ for\nseveral months in her convent, and afterwards shut up for _nine years\nin a madhouse_?\n\nIs it true that a Benedictine nun was put into a sort of _in pace_, and\nafterwards into a room full of mad women, where nothing was heard but\nthe horrible cries, howlings, and impure language of ruined women, who,\nfrom one excess to another, have become raving mad?[4]\n\nThis woman, whose only crime was good sense and a taste for writing and\ndrawing flowers, served her establishment a long time as housekeeper\nand governess: she had taught most of the sisters to read.  What does\nshe ask for?  The punishment of her enemies?  No: only the consolation\nof confessing, and taking the sacrament; spiritual food for her old age.\n\nPeople may say, \"Perhaps the bishop did not know?\"  The bishop knew\nall: \"he was much moved\"--but he did nothing.  The chaplain of the\nhouse knew they were going to put a nun _in pace_.  \"He sighed \"--but\ndid nothing.  The _Vicaire-General_ did not sigh, but sided with the\nparty against the nun: his _ultimatum_ was that she should die of\nhunger, or return to her dungeon.\n\nWho showed himself the real bishop in this business?--The Magistrate.\nWho was the real priest?  The Advocate, a studious young man, whom\nscience had withdrawn from the bar, but who, seeing this unfortunate\nwoman devoid of all succour, for whom no one durst either print or\nplead (under the ridiculous system of terror), took up the affair,\nspoke, wrote, and acted; taking every necessary step, making journeys\nin the depth of winter, and sacrificing both his money and his\ntime--six months of his life.  May God pay him back with interest!\n\nWhich is the good Samaritan in this case?  Who proved himself the\nneighbour of the wretched woman?  Who picked up the bleeding victim\nfrom the road, before whom the Pharisees had passed?  Who is the real\npriest, the true father?\n\nA witty writer of the day uses the term _my fathers_, in speaking of\nthe magistrates who interpose in the affairs of the Church.  He speaks\nderidingly, but they deserve the name.  Who bestows it upon them?  The\nafflicted who are the members of Christ, and who, as such, are also the\nChurch, I should think.  Yes, they call them _fathers_ on account of\ntheir paternal equity.  Their helpful interposition had too long been\nrepelled from the threshold of the convents by these crafty words:\n\"_What are you going to do_?  Should you enter here, you would disturb\nthe peace of these quiet asylums, and startle these timid virgins!\"\nWhy! they themselves call for our assistance: we hear their shrieks\nfrom the streets!\n\nAll of us laymen, of whatever denomination, whether magistrates,\npoliticians, authors, or solitary thinkers, ought to take up the cause\nof women more seriously than we have hitherto done.\n\nWe cannot leave them where they now are, in hands so harsh and\nunfeeling, and which are, moreover, unsafe in more than one respect.\n\nNothing can be more important or more worthy of uniting us together.\n\nLet us, I pray you, come to an understanding about it; it is the most\nholy of all causes: let there be then a cessation from religious\nstrife.  We can recommence our disputes afterwards as much as we please.\n\nAnd first let us frankly confess the truth to one another.  The evil\nwhen confessed and known has a better chance of being remedied.  Whom\nought we to accuse in the present state of things?\n\nLet us not accuse the Jesuits, who carry on their Jesuitical trade, nor\nthe priests, who are dangerous, restless, and violent, only because\nthey are unhappy.  No; we ought rather to accuse ourselves.\n\nIf dead men return in broad daylight, if these Gothic phantoms haunt\nour streets at noon-day, it is because the living have let the spirit\nof life grow weak within them.  How is it that these men re-appear\namong us, after having been buried by history with all funeral rites,\nand laid by the side of other ancient orders?  The very sight of them\nis a solemn token and a serious warning.\n\nThis has been allowed to take place, O ye men of the present day, to\nbring you to your senses, and to remind you of what you ought to be.\nIf the future that is within you were revealed in its full light, who\nwould turn his eyes towards the departing shadows of darkness and\nnight?  It is for you to find, and for you to make, the future.  This\nis not a thing that you must expect to find ready made.  If the future\nis already in you as a bud, transmitted from the most distant ages, let\nit grow there as the desire for progress and amelioration, a paternal\nwish for the happiness of those who are to follow you.  Love in\nanticipation your unknown son, for he will be born.  Men call him \"The\ntime to come.\"  Then work for him.\n\nThe day when fellow-mortals will perceive in you the man of future and\na magnanimous mind, families will be rallied.  Woman will follow you\neverywhere, if she can say to herself, \"I am the wife of a strong man.\"\n\nModern strength appears in the powerful liberty with which you go on\ndisengaging the reality from the forms, and the spirit from the dead\nletter.  But why do you not reveal yourself to the companion of your\nlife, in that which is for you your life itself?  She passes away days\nand years by your side, without seeing or knowing the grandeur that is\nwithin you.  If she saw you walk free, strong, and prosperous in action\nand in science, she would not remain chained down to material idolatry,\nand bound to the sterile letter; she would rise to a faith far more\nfree and pure, and you would be as one in faith.  She would preserve\nfor you this common treasure of religious life, where you might seek\nfor comfort when your mind is languid; and when your various toils,\nstudies, and business have weakened the vital unity within you, she\nwould bring back your thoughts and life to God, the true, the only\nunity.\n\nI shall not attempt to crowd a large volume into a small Preface.  I\nshall only add one word, which at once expresses and completes my\nthought.\n\nMan ought to nourish woman.  He ought to feed spiritually (and\nmaterially if he can) her who nourishes him with her love, her milk,\nand her very life.  Our adversaries give women bad food; but we give\nthem none at all.\n\nTo the women of the richer class, those brilliant ones whom people\nsuppose so happy, to these we give no spiritual food.\n\nAnd to the women of the poorer class, solitary, industrious, and\ndestitute, who try hard to gain their bread, we do not even give our\nassistance to help them to find their material food.\n\nThese women, who are or will be mothers, are left by us to fast (either\nin soul or in body), and we are punished especially by the generation\nthat issues from them, for our neglecting to give them the staff of\nlife.\n\nI like to believe that good-will, generally, is not wanting--only time\nand attention.  People live in a hurry, and can hardly be said to live:\nthey follow with a huntsman's eagerness this or that petty object, and\nneglect what is important.\n\nYou man of business or study, who are so energetic and indefatigable,\nyou have no time, say you, to associate your wife with your daily\nprogress; you leave her to her _ennui_, idle conversations, empty\nsermons, and silly books; so that, falling below herself, less than\nwoman, even less than a child, she will have neither moral action,\ninfluence, or maternal authority over her own offspring.  Well! you\nwill have the time, as old age advances, to try in vain to do all over\nagain what is not done twice, to follow in the steps of a son, who,\nfrom college to the schools, and from thence into the world, hardly\nknows his family; and who, if he travels a little, and meets you on his\nreturn, will ask you your name.  The mother alone could have made you a\nson; but to do so you ought to have made her what a woman ought to be,\nstrengthened her with your sentiments and ideas, and nourished her with\nyour life.\n\nIf I look beyond the family and domestic affections, I find our\nnegligence towards women resembles hard-heartedness; the cruel effects\nwhich result from it recoil upon ourselves.\n\nYou think yourself good and kind-hearted; you are not insensible to the\nfate of poor women; an old one reminds you of your mother, a young one\nof your daughter.  But you have not the time either to see or know that\nthe old one and the young one are both literally dying with hunger.\n\nTwo machines are constantly working to exterminate them:--the convent,\nthat immense _Workshop_, that works for little or nothing, not relying\non its labour for subsistence.  Then the large shop, with sleeping\npartners, that buys of the convent, and destroys by degrees the smaller\nshops which employed the workwomen.  The latter has but two chances\nleft--the Seine, or to find at night some heartless wretch who takes\nadvantage of her hunger--suicide or dishonour.\n\nMen receive about as much as women from public charity: this is unjust.\nThey have infinitely more resources.  They are stronger, have a greater\nvariety of work, more _initiative_, a more active impulse, more\nlocomotion, if I may so express myself, to go and hunt out work.  They\ntravel, emigrate, and find engagements.  Not to mention countries where\nmanual labour is very dear, I know of provinces in France, where it is\nvery difficult to find either journeymen or man-servants.  Man can\nwander to and fro.  Woman remains at home and dies.\n\nLet this workwoman, whom the opposition of the convent has crushed,\ncrawl to the gate of the convent--can she find an asylum there?  She\nwould want, in default of dowry, the active protection of an\ninfluential priest, a protection reserved for devout persons, such as\nhave had the time to follow the \"_Mois de Marie_\"--Devotions to the\nVirgin--the _Catechisms of Perseverance_, &c., &c., and who have been,\nfor a long time past, under ecclesiastical authority.  This protection\nis often very dearly purchased; and for what?  To get permission to\npass one's life shut up within walls, to be obliged to counterfeit a\ndevotion one has not!  Death cannot be worse.\n\nThey die then, quietly, decently, and alone.  They will never be seen\ncoming down from their garrets into the street to walk about with the\nmotto, \"_To live working or die fighting_.\"  They will make no\ndisturbances; we have nothing to fear from them.  It is for this very\nreason, that we are the more bound to assist them.  Shall we then feel\nour hearts affected only for those of whom we are afraid?\n\nMen of money, if I must speak to you in your own money language, I will\ntell you, that as soon as we shall have an economical government, it\nwill not hesitate to lay out its money for women, to help them to\nmaintain themselves by their industry.\n\nNot only do these sickly women crowd our hospitals, and leave them only\nto return, but the offspring of these poor exhausted creatures, if they\ndo not die in the Foundling, will be, like their mothers, the habitual\ninmates of those hospitals.  A miserably poor woman is a whole family\nof sick persons in perspective.\n\nWhether we be philosophers, physiologists, political economists, or\nstatesmen, we all know that the excellency of the race, the strength of\nthe people, come especially from the woman.  Does not the nine months'\nsupport of the mother establish this?  Strong mothers have strong\nchildren.\n\nWe all are, and ever shall be, the debtors of women.  They are mothers;\nthis says everything.  He who would bargain about the work of those who\nare the joy of the present and the destiny of the future, must needs\nhave been born in misery and damnation.  Their manual labour is a very\nsecondary consideration; that is especially our part.  What do they\nmake?--Man: this is a superior work.  To be loved, to bring forth both\nphysically and morally, to educate man (our barbarous age does not\nquite understand this yet), this is the business of woman.\n\n\"_Fons omnium viventium_!\" What can ever be added to this sublime\nsaying?\n\nWhilst writing all this, I have had in my mind a woman, whose strong\nand serious mind would not have failed to support me in these\ncontentions: I lost her thirty years ago (I was a child then);\nnevertheless, ever living in my memory, she follows me from age to age.\n\nShe suffered with me in my poverty, and was not allowed to share my\nbetter fortune.  When young I made her sad, and now I cannot console\nher.  I know not even where her bones are: I was too poor then to buy\nearth to bury her!\n\nAnd yet I owe her much.  I feel deeply that I am the son of woman.\nEvery instant in my ideas and words (not to mention my features and\ngestures), I find again my mother in myself.  It is my mother's blood\nwhich gives me the sympathy I feel for by-gone ages, and the tender\nremembrance of all those who are now no more.\n\nWhat return then could I, who am myself advancing towards old age, make\nher for the many things I owe her?  One, for which she would have\nthanked me--this protest in favour of women and mothers: and I place it\nat the head of a book believed by some to be a work of controversy.\nThey are wrong.\n\nThe longer it lives, if it should live, the plainer will it be seen,\nthat, in spite of polemical emotion, it was a work of history, a work\nof faith, of truth, and of sincerity:--on what, then, could I have set\nmy heart more?\n\n\n\n[1] This will not appear exaggerated to those who have read the furious\nlibel of the Bishop of Chartres.  A newspaper asks me why I did not\nprosecute him for defamation.  This mad violence is much less guilty\nthan the treacherous insinuations they make in their books and\nnewspapers, in the saloons, &c.  Now they attribute to me whatever has\nbeen done by other Michelets, to whom I am not even related (for\ninstance, Michelet of Languedoc, a poet and soldier under the\nRestoration); now they pretend to believe, though I had told them the\ncontrary at the end of my preface, that this book is my lecture of\n1844.  Then, again, they get up a little petition from Marseilles, to\npray for the dismissal of the professor.  So far from wishing to stifle\nthe voice of my adversaries, I have claimed for their writings the same\nliberty I asked for my own.  _Lesson of the 27th of February_,\n1845:--\"I see among you the greater part of those who had aided me to\nmaintain in this chair the liberty of discussion.  We will respect this\nliberty in our adversaries.  This is not chivalry, it is simply our\nduty.  It is, moreover, essential to the cause of truth, that no\nobjection be suppressed; but that each party may be at liberty to state\ntheir reasons.  You may be sure that truth will prevail and conquer.\nWe pass away; but truth lasts and triumphs.  Yet, as long as her\nadversaries may have any thing to say, her triumph is mingled with\ndoubt.\"\n\n[2] For the fifteenth century, see my History of France, A.D. 1413.\n\n[3] Mabillon on _Monastic Imprisonment_, posthumous works, vol. ii. p.\n327.\n\n[4] We should, perhaps, have reserved these facts for some future\noccasion, if they had not been already divulged by the newspapers and\nreviews.  Besides, several magistrates have expressed their opinions on\nmany analogous facts in the same locality.  A solicitor-general writes\nto the underprefect:--\"I have reason to be as convinced _as you_, that\nMadame * * * was in full possession of her senses.  A longer\nimprisonment would most certainly have made her really mad,\" &c.  A\nletter from the Solicitor-General Sorbier, quoted by Mr. Tilliard, in\nfavour of Marie Lemonnier, p. 65.\n\n\n\n\nMEMOIR.\n\nThe following brief Memoir of the Author of \"Priests, Women, and\nFamilies\" was written for, and embodied in, the \"Dictionary of\nUniversal Biography,\" published by Mackenzie about 1862.\n\nAnother Memoir of this celebrated Historian of France was given in _The\nTimes_, Feb. 12, 1874, two days after his decease.  _The Times_ states\nthat he \"died of heart disease\":--\n\n\"Michelet, Jules, one of the greatest of contemporary French writers,\nwas born at Paris on the 21st of August, 1798.  In the introduction to\nhis little book, 'Le Peuple,' Michelet has told the story of his early\nlife.  He was the son of a small master printer, of Paris, who was\nruined by one of the Emperor Napoleon's arbitrary measures against the\nPress, by which the number of printers in Paris was suddenly reduced.\nFor the benefit of his creditors, the elder Michelet, with no aid but\nthat of his family, printed, folded, bound, and sold some trivial\nlittle works, of which he owned the copyright; and the Historian of\nFrance began his career by 'composing' in the typographical, not the\nliterary, sense of the word.  At twelve he had picked up a little Latin\nfrom a friendly old bookseller who had been a village schoolmaster; and\nhis brave parents, in spite of their penury, decided that he should go\nto college.  He entered the Lycee Charlemagne, where he distinguished\nhimself, and his exercises attracted the notice of Villemain.  He\nsupported himself by private teaching until, in 1821, he obtained, by\ncompetition, a professorship in his college.  His first publications\nwere two chronological summaries of modern history, 1825-26.  In 1827\nhe essayed a higher flight by the publication, not only of his 'Precis\nde l'Histoire Moderne,' but by that of his volume on the Scienza Nuova\nof Vico ('Principes de la Philosophie d'Histoire'), the then\nlittle-known father of the so-called philosophy of history, whose work\nwas thus first introduced to the French public, and, indeed, to that of\nEngland.  These two works procured him a professorship at the ecole\nnormale.  After the Revolution of the Three Days, the now distinguished\nprofessor was placed at the head of the historical section of the\nFrench archives, a welcome position, which gave him the command of new\nand unexplored material for the History of France.  The first work in\nwhich he displayed his peculiar historical genius, was his 'Histoire\nRomaine,' 1831, embracing only the History of the Roman Republic.  From\n1833, dates the appearance of his great 'History of France,' of which\nstill uncompleted work, twelve volumes had appeared in 1860.  In 1834,\nGruizot made the dawning Historian of France his _suppleant_, or\nsubstitute, in the Chair of History connected with the Faculty of\nLetters; and in 1838 he was appointed Professor of History in the\nCollege de France.  Meanwhile, besides instalments of his 'History of\nFrance,' he had published several works, among them (1835) his\nexcellent and interesting 'Memoires de Luther,' in which, by extracts\nfrom Luther's Table-talk and Letters, the great reformer was made to\ntell himself the history of his life; the 'OEuvres Choises de Vico;'\nand the philosophical and poetical 'Origines du Droit Francais.'  In\nthe education controversy of the later years of Louis Philippe's reign,\nMichelet and his friend Edgar Quinet vehemently opposed the pretensions\nof the clerical party, and carried the war into the enemies' camp by\nthe publication of their joint work, 'Les Jesuites,' 1843, followed, in\n1844, by Michelet's 'Du Pretre, de la Femme, et la Famille,' translated\ninto English as 'Priests, Women, and Families.'  Guizot bowed to the\necclesiastical storm which these works invoked, and suspended the\nlectures of the two anti-clerical professors.  To 1846 belongs\nMichelet's eloquent and touching little book, 'Le Peuple.'  The\nRevolution of February, 1848, restored Michelet to his functions.  He\nwaived, however, the political career which was now opened to him, and\nlaboured at his grandiose 'History of the French Revolution,' of which\nthe first volume had appeared in 1847.  In 1851 he was again\nsuspended--this time by the ministry of the Prince President--from his\nprofessional functions, and on account of his democratic teachings.\nAfter the _coup d'etat_ he refused to take the oaths, and lost all his\npublic employments.  Since then he has been occupied with his 'History\nof France,' and of the French Revolution, and with the production of\nother and some minor works.  It is not among the last that must be\nclassed his two striking volumes, 'L'Oiseau,' 1856, and 'L'Insecte,'\n1857, the result of a retreat from a pressure of a new political system\ninto the realm of nature.  In 'L'Amour,' 1858, and 'La Femme,' 1859,\nthe intrusion of physiology into the domain of thought and feeling was\ntoo much for English tastes.  In 'La Mer,' 1861, Michelet addresses\nhimself to the natural history and the poetry of the sea.\"\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS.\n\n\nPREFACES.\n\nEditor's Preface\n\nAuthor's Preface\n\nMemoir\n\n\n\nPART I.\n\nON DIRECTION IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nReligious Re-action in 1600--Influence of the Jesuits over Women and\nChildren--Savoy; the Vaudois; Violence and Gentleness--St. Francois de\nSales\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nSt. Francois de Sales and Madame de\nChantal--Visitation--Quietism--Results of Religious Direction\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nLoneliness of Woman--Easy Devotion--Worldly Theology of the\nJesuits--Women and Children advantageously made use of--Thirty Years'\nWar, 1618-1648--Gallant Devotion--Religious Novels--Casuists\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nConvents--Convents in Paris--Convents contrasted; the Director--Dispute\nabout the Direction of the Nuns--The Jesuits Triumph through Calumny\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nRe-action of Morality--Arnaud, 1643; Pascal, 1657--The Jesuits lose\nGround--They gain over the King and the Pope--Discouragement of the\nJesuits; their Corruption--They Protect the Quietists--Desmarets--Morin\nburnt, 1663--Immorality of Quietism\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nContinuation of Moral Re-action--_Tartuffe_, 1664--Real Tartuffes--Why\nTartuffe is not a Quietist\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nApparition of Molinos, 1675--His Success at Rome--French\nQuietists--Madame Guyon and her Director--\"The Torrents\"--Mystic\nDeath--Do we return from it?\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nFenelon as Director--His Quietism--\"Maxims of Saints,\" 1697--Fenelon\nand Madame de la Maisonfort\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nBossuet as Director--Bossuet and Sister Cornuau--Bossuet's\nImprudence--He is a Quietist in Practice--Devout Direction inclines to\nQuietism--Moral Paralysis\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nMolinos' \"Guide\"--Part Played in it by the Director; Hypocritical\nAusterity--Immoral Doctrine; Approved by Rome, 1675--Molinos Condemned\nat Rome, 1687--His Morals--His Morals Conformable to his\nDoctrine--Spanish Molinosists--Mother Agueda\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nNo more Systems: an Emblem--The Heart--Sex--The Immaculate--The Sacred\nHeart--Mario Alacoque--The Seventeenth Century is the Age of\nEquivocation--Chimerical Politics of the Jesuits--Father\nColombiere--England--Papist Conspiracy--First Altar of the Sacred\nHeart--The Ruin of the Galileans, Quietists, and Port-Royal--Theology\nannihilated in the Eighteenth Century--Materiality of the Sacred\nHeart--Jesuitical Art\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nON DIRECTION IN GENERAL, AND ESPECIALLY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nResemblances and Differences between the seventeenth and nineteenth\nCenturies--Christian Art--It is we who have restored the Church--What\nthe Church adds to the Power of the Priest--The Confessional\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nConfession--Present Education of the Young Confessor--The Priest in the\nMiddle Ages--1st, believed--2ndly, was mortified--3rdly, knew--4thly,\ninterrogated less--The Dangers of the Young Confessor--How he\nStrengthens his Tottering Position\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nConfession--The Confessor and the Husband--How they Detach the\nWife--The Director--Directors in Concert--Ecclesiastical Policy\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nHabit--Power of Habit--Its Insensible Beginning; its Progress--Second\nNature; often fatal--A Man taking Advantage of his Power--Can we get\nclear of it?\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nOn Convents--Omnipotence of the Director--Condition of the Nuns,\nForlorn and Wretched--Convents made Bridewells and\nBedlams--Captation--Barbarous Discipline; Struggle between the Superior\nNun and the Director; Change of Directors--The Magistrate\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nAbsorption of the Will--Government of Acts, Thoughts, and\nWills--_Assimilation_ of the Soul--_Transhumanation_--To become the God\nof another--Pride and Desire\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nDesire.  Terrors of the other World--The Physician and his\nPatient--Alternatives; Postponements--Effects of Fear in Love--To be\nAll-powerful and Abstain--Struggles between the Spirit and the\nFlesh--Moral Death more Potent than Physical Life--It will not revive\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nSchism in Families--The Daughter; by whom Educated--Importance of\nEducation--The Advantage of the First Instructor--Influence of Priests\nupon Marriage--Which they Retain after that Ceremony\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nWoman--The Husband does not Associate with the Wife--He seldom knows\nhow to Initiate her into his Thoughts--What Mutual Initiation would\nbe--The Wife Consoles Herself with her Son--He is taken from her; her\nLoneliness and _Ennui_--A pious young Man--The _Spiritual_ and the\n_Worldly_ Man--Who is now the Mortified Man\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nThe Mother--Alone for a Long Time, she can bring up her\nChild--Intellectual Nourishment--Gestation, Incubation, Education--The\nChild Guarantees the Mother, and she the Child--She protects his\nOriginality, which Public Education must Limit--The Father even Limits\nit, the Mother Defends it--Her Weakness; she wishes her Son to be a\nHero--Her Heroic Disinterestedness\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nLove--Love wishes to _raise_ and not absorb--False Theory of our\nAdversaries; Dangerous Practice--Love wishes to form an Equal who may\nlove freely--Love in the World, in the Civil World--And in Families,\nnot understood by the Middle Ages--Family Religion\n\n\nONE WORD TO THE PRIESTS:--We do not Attack Priests, but their Unhappy\nand Dangerous Position--Not Rome but France is the Pope--Our Sympathy\nfor Priests, Victims of the Laws--Priests and Soldiers--_Priest_ means\n_Old Man_\n\n\n\n\nPRIESTS, WOMEN, AND FAMILIES.\n\n\nPART I.\n\nON DIRECTION IN THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nRELIGIOUS REACTION IN 1600.--INFLUENCE OF THE JESUITS OVER WOMEN AND\nCHILDREN.--SAVOY; THE VAUDOIS; VIOLENCE AND MILDNESS.--ST. FRANCOIS DE\nSALES.\n\n\nEverybody has seen in the Louvre Guide's graceful picture representing\nthe Annunciation.  The drawing is incorrect, the colouring false, and\nyet the effect is seducing.  Do not expect to find in it the\nconscientiousness and austerity of the old schools; you would look also\nin vain for the vigorous and bold touch of the masters of the\n_Renaissance_.  The sixteenth century has passed away, and everything\nassumes a softer character.  The figure with which the painter has\nevidently taken the most pleasure is the angel, who, according to the\nrefinement of that surfeited period, is a pretty-looking singing boy--a\ncherub of the Sacristy.  He appears to be sixteen, and the Virgin from\neighteen to twenty years of age.  This Virgin--by no means ideal, but\nreal, and the reality slightly adulterated--is no other than a young\nItalian maiden whom Guido copied at her own house, in her snug oratory,\nand at her convenient praying-desk (prie-Dieu), such as were then used\nby ladies.\n\nIf the painter was inspired by anything else, it was not by the Gospel,\nbut rather by the devout novels of that period, or the fashionable\nsermons uttered by the Jesuits in their coquettish-looking churches.\nThe Angelic Salutation, the Visitation, the Annunciation, were the\ndarling subjects upon which they had, for a long time past, exhausted\nevery imagination of seraphic gallantry.  On beholding this picture by\nGuide, we fancy we are reading the Bernardino.  The angel speaks Latin\nlike a young learned clerk; the Virgin, like a boarding-school young\nlady, responds in soft Italian, \"O alto signore,\" &c.\n\nThis pretty picture is important as a work characteristic of an already\ncorrupt age; being an agreeable and delicate work, we are the more\neasily led to perceive its suspicious graces and equivocal charms.\n\nLet us call to mind the softened forms which the devout reaction of\nthis age--that of Henry IV.--then assumed.  We are lost in astonishment\nwhen we hear, as it were on the morrow of the sixteenth century, after\nwars and massacres, the lisping of this still small voice.  The\nterrible preachers of the Sixteen,--the monks who went armed with\nmuskets in the processions of the League--are suddenly humanised, and\nbecome gentle.  The reason is, they must lull to sleep those whom they\nhave not been able to kill.  The task, however, was not very difficult.\nEverybody was worn out by the excessive fatigue of religious warfare,\nand exhausted by a struggle that afforded no result, and from which no\none came off victorious.  Every one knew too well his party and his\nfriends.  In the evening of so long a march there was nobody, however\ngood a walker he might be, who did not desire to rest: the\nindefatigable Henry of Beam, seeking repose like the rest, or wishing\nto lull them into tranquillity, afforded them the example, and gave\nhimself up with a good grace into the hands of Father Cotton and\nGabrielle.\n\nHenry IV. was the grandfather of Louis XIV., and Cotton the great uncle\nof Father La Chaise--two royalties, two dynasties; one of kings, the\nother of Jesuit confessors.  The history of the latter would be very\ninteresting.  These amiable fathers ruled throughout the whole of the\ncentury, by dint of absolving, pardoning, shutting their eyes, and\nremaining ignorant.  They effected great results by the most trifling\nmeans, such as little capitulations, secret transactions, back-doors,\nand hidden staircases.\n\nThe Jesuits could plead that, being the constrained restorers of Papal\nauthority, that is to say, physicians to a dead body, the means were\nnot left to their choice.  Dead beat in the world of ideas, where could\nthey hope to resume their warfare, save in the field of intrigue,\npassion, and human weaknesses?\n\nThere, nobody could serve them more actively than Women.  Even when\nthey did not act with the Jesuits and for them, they were not less\nuseful in an indirect manner, as instruments and means,--as objects of\nbusiness and daily compromise between the penitent and the confessor.\n\nThe tactics of the confessor did not differ much from those of the\nmistress.  His address, like hers, was to refuse sometimes, to put off,\nto cause to languish, to be severe, but with moderation, then at length\nto be overcome by pure goodness of heart.  These little manoeuvres,\ninfallible in their effects upon a gallant and devout king, who was\nmoreover obliged to receive the sacrament on appointed days, often put\nthe whole State into the Confessional.  The king being caught and held\nfast, was obliged to give satisfaction in some way or other.  He paid\nfor his human weaknesses with political ones; such an amour cost him a\nstate-secret, such a bastard a royal ordinance.  Occasionally, they did\nnot let him off without bail.  In order to preserve a certain mistress,\nfor instance, he was forced to give up his son.  How much did Father\nCotton forgive Henry IV. to obtain from him the education of the\ndauphin.[1]\n\nIn this great enterprise of kidnapping man everywhere, by using woman\nas a decoy, and by woman getting possession of the child, the Jesuits\nmet with more than one obstacle, but one particularly serious--their\nreputation of Jesuits.  They were already by far too well known.  We\nmay read in the letters of St. Charles Borromeo, who had established\nthem at Milan and {36} singularly favoured them, what sort of character\nhe gives them--intriguing, quarrelsome, and insolent under a cringing\nexterior.  Even their penitents, who found them very convenient, were\nnevertheless at times disgusted with them.  The most simple saw plainly\nenough that these people, who found every opinion probable, had none\nthemselves.  These famous champions of the faith were sceptics in\nmorals: even less than sceptics, for speculative scepticism might leave\nsome sentiment of honour; but a doubter in practice, who says Yes on\nsuch and such an act, and Yes on the contrary one, must sink lower and\nlower in morality, and lose not only every principle, but in time every\naffection of the heart!\n\nTheir very appearance was a satire against them.  These people, so\ncunning in disguising themselves, were made up of lying; it was\neverywhere around them, palpable and visible.  Like brass badly gilt,\nlike the holy toys in their gaudy churches, they appeared false at the\ndistance of a hundred paces: false in expression, accent, gesture, and\nattitude; affected, exaggerated, and often excessively fickle.  This\ninconstancy was amusing, but it also put people on their guard.  They\ncould well learn an attitude or a deportment; but studied graces, and a\nbending, undulating, and serpentine gait are anything but satisfactory.\nThey worked hard to appear a simple, humble, insignificant, good sort\nof people.  Their grimace betrayed them.\n\nThese equivocal-looking individuals had, however, in the eyes of the\nwomen a redeeming quality: they were passionately fond of children.  No\nmother, grandmother, or nurse could caress them more, or could find\nbetter some endearing word to make them smile.  In the churches of the\nJesuits the good saints of the order, St. Xavier or St. Ignatius, are\noften painted as grotesque nurses, holding the divine darling (poupon)\nin their arms, fondling and kissing it.  They began also to make on\ntheir altars and in their fantastically-ornamented chapels those little\nparadises in glass cases, where women are delighted to see the wax\nchild among flowers.  The Jesuits loved children so much, that they\nwould have liked to educate them all.\n\nNot one of them, however learned he might be, disdained to be a tutor,\nto give the principles of grammar, and teach the declensions.\n\nThere were, however, many people among their own friends and penitents,\neven those who trusted their souls to their keeping, who, nevertheless,\nhesitated to confide their sons to them.  They would have succeeded far\nless with women and children, if their good fortune had not given them\nfor ally a tall lad, shrewd and discreet, who possessed precisely what\nthey had lacked to inspire confidence,--a charming simplicity.\n\nThis friend of the Jesuits, who served them so much the better as he\ndid not become one of them, invented, in an artless manner, for the\nprofit of these intriguers, the manner, tone, and true style of easy\ndevotion, which they would have ever sought for in vain.  Falsehood\nwould never assume the shadow of reality as it can do, if it was always\nand entirely unconnected with truth.\n\nBefore speaking of Francois de Sales, I must say one word about the\nstage on which he performs his part.\n\nThe great effort of the Ultramontane reaction about the year 1600 was\nat the Alps, in Switzerland and Savoy.  The work was going on bravely\non each side of the mountains, only the means were far from being the\nsame: they showed on either side a totally different countenance--here\nthe face of an angel, there the look of a wild beast; the latter\nphysiognomy was against the poor Vaudois in Piedmont.\n\nIn Savoy, and towards Geneva, they put on the angelic expression, not\nbeing able to employ any other than gentle means against populations\nsheltered by treaties, and who would have been protected against\nviolence by the lances of Switzerland.\n\nThe agent of Rome in this quarter was the celebrated Jesuit, Antonio\nPossevino[2], a professor, scholar, and diplomatist, as {38} well as\nthe confessor of the kings of the North.  He himself organised the\npersecutions against the Vaudois of Piedmont; and he formed and\ndirected his pupil, Francois de Sales, to gain by his address the\nProtestants of Savoy.\n\nOught I to speak of this terrible history of the Vaudois, or pass it\nover in silence?  Speak of it!  It is far too cruel--no one will relate\nit without his pen hesitating, and his words being blotted by his\ntears.[3]  If, however, I did not speak of it, we should never behold\nthe most odious part of the system, that artful policy which employed\nthe very opposite means in precisely the same cases; here ferocity,\nthere an unnatural mildness.  One word, and I leave the sad story.  The\nmost implacable butchers were women, the penitents of the Jesuits of\nTurin.  The victims were children!  They destroyed them in the\nsixteenth century: there were four hundred children burnt at one time\nin a cavern.  In the seventeenth century they kidnapped them.  The\nedict of pacification, granted to the Vaudois in 1655, promises, as a\nsingular favour, that their children under twelve years of age shall no\nlonger be stolen from them; above that age it is still lawful to seize\nthem.\n\nThis new sort of persecution, more cruel than massacres, characterises\nthe period when the Jesuits undertook to make themselves universally\nmasters of the education of children.  These pitiless plagiarists[4],\nwho dragged them away from their mothers, wanted only to bring them up\nin their fashion, make them abjure their faith, hate their family, and\narm them against their brethren.\n\nIt was, as I have said, a Jesuit professor, Possevino, who renewed the\npersecution about the time at which we are now arrived.  The same,\nwhile teaching at Padua, had for his pupil young Francois de Sales, who\nhad already passed a year in Paris, at the college of Clermont.  He\nbelonged to one of those families of Savoy, as much distinguished by\ntheir devotion as by their valour, who carried on wars long against\nGeneva.  He was endowed with all the qualities requisite for the war of\nseduction, which they then desired to commence--a gentle and sincere\ndevotion, a lively and earnest speech, and a singular charm of\ngoodness, beauty, and gentleness.  Who has not remarked this charm in\nthe smile of the children of Savoy, who are so natural, yet so\ncircumspect?\n\nEvery favour of Heaven must, we certainly believe, have been showered\nupon him, since in this bad age, bad taste, and bad party, among the\ncunning and false people who made him their tool, he remained, however,\nSt. Francois de Sales.  Everything he has said or written, without\nbeing free from blemishes, is charming, full of affection, of an\noriginal gentleness and genius, which, though it may excite a smile, is\nnevertheless very affecting.  Everywhere we find, as it were, living\nfountains springing up, flowers after flowers, and rivulets meandering\nas in a lovely spring morning after a shower.  It might be said,\nperhaps, that he amuses himself so much with flowerets, that his\nnosegay is no longer such as shepherdesses gather, but such as would\nsuit a flower-girl, as his Philothea would say: he takes them all, and\ntakes too many; there are some colours among them badly matched, and\nhave a strange effect.  It is the taste of that age, we must confess;\nthe Savoyard taste in particular does not fear ugliness; and a Jesuit\neducation does not lead to the detestation of falsehood.\n\nBut even if he had not been so charming a writer, his bewitching\npersonal qualities would still have had the same effect.  His fair mild\ncountenance, with rather a childish expression, pleased at first sight.\nLittle children, in their nurses' arms, as soon as they saw him, could\nnot take their eyes off him.  He was equally delighted with them, and\nwould exclaim, as he fondly caressed them, \"Here is my little family.\"\nThe children ran after him, and the mothers followed their children.\n\nLittle family? or little intrigue?  The words (_menage manege_) are\nsomewhat similar; and though a child in appearance, the good man was at\nbottom very deep.  If he permitted the nuns a few trifling\nfalsehoods[5], ought we to believe he never granted the same indulgence\nto himself?  However it may be, actual falsehood appeared less in his\nwords than in his position; he was made a bishop in order to give the\nexample of sacrificing the rights of the bishops to the Pope.  For the\nlove of peace, and to hide the division of the Catholics by an\nappearance of union, he did the Jesuits the important service of saving\ntheir Molina accused at Rome; and he managed to induce the Pope to\nimpose silence on the friends, as well as the enemies, of Grace.\n\nThis sweet-tempered man did not, however, confine himself to the means\nof mildness and persuasion.  In his zeal as a converter, he invoked the\nassistance of less honourable means--interest, money, places; lastly,\nauthority and terror.  He made the Duke of Savoy travel from village to\nvillage, and advised him at last to drive away the remaining few who\nstill refused to abjure their faith.[6]  Money, very powerful in this\npoor country, seemed to him a means at once so natural and\nirresistible, that he went even into Geneva, to buy up old Theodore de\nBeze, and offered him, on the part of the Pope, a pension of four\nthousand crowns.\n\nIt was an odd sight to behold this man, the bishop and titular prince\nof Geneva, beating about the bush to circumvent his native city, and\norganising a war of seduction against it by France and Savoy.  Money\nand intrigue did not suffice; it was necessary to employ a softer charm\nto thaw and liquify the inattackable iceberg of logic and criticism.\nConvents for females were founded, to attract and receive the\nnewly-converted, and to offer them a powerful bait composed of love and\nmysticism.  These convents have been made famous by the names of Madame\nde Chantal and Madame Guyon.  The former established in them the mild\ndevotion of the Visitation; and it was there that the latter wrote her\nlittle book of _Torrents_, which seems inspired, like Rousseau's\n_Julie_ (by the bye, a far less dangerous composition), by the\nCharmettes, Meillerie, and Clarens.\n\n\n\n[1] The masterpiece of the Jesuit was to get the shepherd-poet Des\nYveteaux, the most empty-headed man in France, named tutor, reserving\nto himself the moral and religious part of education.\n\n[2] See his Life, by Dorigny, p. 505.; Bonneville, Life of St.\nFrancois, p. 19, &c.\n\n[3] Read the three great Vaudois historians, Gilles, Leger, and Arnaud.\n\n[4] Plagiarius, in its proper sense, means, as is well known, a\nman-stealer.\n\n[5] Little lies, little deceits, little prevarications.  See, for\ninstance, OEuvres, vol. viii. pp. 196, 223, 342.\n\n[6] Nouvelles Lettres Inedites, published by Mr. Datta, 1835, vol. i.\np. 247.  See also, for the intolerance of St. Francois, pp. 130, 131,\n136, 141, and vol. ix. of the OEuvres, p. 335, the bounden duty of\nkings to put to the sword all the enemies of the Pope.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nST. FRANCOIS DE SALES AND MADAME DE\nCHANTAL.--VISITATION.--QUIETISM.--RESULTS OF RELIGIOUS DIRECTION.\n\n\nSaint Francois de Sales was very popular in France, and especially in\nthe provinces of Burgundy, where a fermentation of religious passions\nhad continued in full force ever since the days of the League.  The\nparliament of Dijon entreated him to come and preach there.  He was\nreceived by his friend Andre Fremiot, who from being a counsellor in\nParliament had become Archbishop of Bourges.  He was the son of a\npresident much esteemed at Dijon, and the brother of Madame de Chantal,\nconsequently the great-uncle of Madame de Sevigne, who was the\ngrand-daughter of the latter.\n\nThe biographers of St. Francois and Madame de Chantal, in order to give\ntheir first meeting an air of the romantic and marvellous, suppose, but\nwith little probability on their side, that they were unacquainted;\nthat one had scarcely heard the other spoken of; that they had seen\neach other only in their dreams or visions.  In Lent, when the Saint\npreached at Dijon, he distinguished her among the crowd of ladies, and,\non descending from the pulpit, exclaimed, \"Who is then this young\nwidow, who listened so attentively to the Word of God?\"  \"My sister,\"\nreplied the Archbishop, \"the Baroness de Chantal.\"\n\nShe was then (1604) thirty-two years of age, and St. Francis\nthirty-seven; consequently, she was born in 1572, the year of St.\nBartholomew.  From her very infancy she was somewhat austere,\npassionate, and violent.  When only six years old, a Protestant\ngentleman happening to give her some sugar-plums, she threw them into\nthe fire, saying, \"Sir, see how the heretics will burn in hell, for not\nbelieving what our Lord has said.  If you gave the lie to the king, my\npapa would have you hung; what must the punishment be then for having\nso often contradicted our Lord!\"\n\nWith all her devotion and passion, she had an eye to real advantages.\nShe had very ably conducted the household and fortune of her husband,\nand those of her father and father-in-law were managed by her with the\nsame prudence.  She took up her abode with the latter, who, otherwise,\nhad not left his wealth to her young children.\n\nWe read with a sort of enchantment the lively and charming letters by\nwhich the correspondence begins between St. Francois de Sales, and her\nwhom he calls \"his dear sister and daughter.\"  Nothing can be more pure\nand chaste, but at the same time, why should we not say so, nothing\nmore ardent.  It is curious to observe the innocent art, the caresses,\nthe tender and ingenious flattery with which he envelopes these two\nfamilies, the Fremiots and the Chantals.  First, the father, the good\nold president Fremiot, who in his library begins to study religious\nbooks and dreams of salvation; next, the brother, the ex-chancellor,\nthe Archbishop of Bourges; he writes expressly for him a little\ntreatise on the manner of preaching.  He by no means neglects the\nfather-in-law, the rough old Baron de Chantal, an ancient relic of the\nwars of the League, the object of the daughter-in-law's particular\nadoration.  But he succeeds especially in captivating the young\nchildren; he shows his tenderness in a thousand ways, by a thousand\npious caresses, such as the heart of a woman, and that woman a mother,\nhad scarcely been able to suggest.  He prays for them, and desires\nthese infants to remember him in their prayers.\n\nOnly one person in this household was difficult to be tamed, and this\nwas Madame de Chantal's confessor.  It is here, in this struggle\nbetween the Director and the Confessor, that we learn what address,\nwhat skilful manoeuvres and stratagems, are to be found in the\nresources of an ardent will.  This confessor was a devout personage,\nbut of confined and shallow intellect, and small means.  The Saint\ndesires to become his friend,--he submits to his superior wisdom the\nadvice he is about to give.  He skilfully comforts Madame de Chantal,\nwho entertained some misgiving about her spiritual infidelity, and who,\nfinding herself moving on an agreeable sloping path, was fearful she\nhad left the rough road to salvation.  He carefully entertains this\nscruple in order the better to do away with it; to her inquiry whether\nshe ought to impart it to her confessor, he adroitly gives her to\nunderstand that it may be dispensed with.\n\nHe declares then as a conqueror, who has nothing to fear, that far from\nbeing, like the other, uneasy, jealous, and peevish, who required\nimplicit obedience, he on the contrary imposes no obligations, but\nleaves her entirely free--no obligation, save that of Christian\nfriendship, whose tie is called by St. Paul \"the bond of perfectness:\"\nall other ties are temporal, even that of obedience; but that of\ncharity increases with time: it is free from the scythe of\ndeath,--\"Love is strong as death,\" saith the Song of Solomon.  He says\nto her, on another occasion, with much ingenuousness and dignity: \"I do\nnot add one grain to the truth; I speak before God, who knows my heart\nand yours; every affection has a character that distinguishes it from\nthe others; that which I feel for you has a peculiar character, that\ngives me infinite consolation, and to tell you all, is extremely\nprofitable to me.  I did not wish to say so much, but one word produces\nanother, and then I know you will be careful.\"  (Oct. 14, 1604.)\n\nFrom this moment, having her constantly before his eyes, he associates\nher not only with his religious thoughts, but, what astonishes us more,\nwith his very acts as a priest.  It is generally before or after mass\nthat he writes to her; it is of her, of her children, that he is\nthinking, says he, \"_at the moment of the communion_.\"  They do penance\nthe same days, take the communion at the same moment, though separate.\n\"_He offers her to God, when he offers Him His Son!_\" (Nov. 1, 1605.)\n\nThis singular man, whose serenity was never for a moment affected by\nsuch a union, was able very soon to perceive that the mind of Madame de\nChantal was far from being as tranquil as his own.  Her character was\nstrong, and she felt deeply.  The middle class of people, the citizens\nand lawyers, from whom she was descended, were endowed from their birth\nwith a keener mind, and a greater spirit of sincerity and truth, than\nthe elegant, noble, but enfeebled families of the sixteenth century.\nThe last comers were fresh; you find them everywhere ardent and serious\nin literature, warfare, and religion; they impart to the seventeenth\ncentury the gravity and holiness of its character.  Thus this woman,\nthough a saint, had nevertheless depths of unknown passion.\n\nThey had hardly been separated two months when she wrote to him that\nshe wanted to see him again.  And indeed they met half-way in\nFranche-Comte, in the celebrated pilgrimage of St. Claude.  There she\nwas happy; there she poured out all her heart, and confessed to him for\nthe first time; making him the sweet engagement of entrusting to his\nbeloved hand the vow of obedience.\n\nSix weeks had not passed away before she wrote to him that she wanted\nto see him again.  Now she is bewildered by passions and temptations;\nall around her is darkness and doubts; she doubts even of her faith;\nshe has no longer the strength of exercising her will; she would wish\nto fly--alas! she has no wings; and in the midst of these great but sad\nfeelings, this serious person seems rather childish; she would like him\nto call her no longer \"madam,\" but his sister, his daughter, as he did\nbefore.\n\nShe uses in another place this sad expression,--\"There is something\nwithin me that has never been satisfied.\"--(Nov. 21, 1604.)\n\nThe conduct of St. Francois deserves our attention.  This man, so\nshrewd at other times, will now understand but half.  Far from inducing\nMadame de Chantal to adopt a religious life, which would have put her\ninto his power, he tries to strengthen her in her duties of mother and\ndaughter towards her children and the two old men who required also her\nmaternal care.  He discourses with her of her duties, business, and\nobligations.  As to her doubts, she must neither reflect nor reason\nabout them.  She must occasionally read good books; and he points out\nto her, as such, some paltry mystic treatises.  If the _she-ass_ should\nkick (it is thus he designates the flesh and sensuality), he must quiet\nher by some blows of discipline.\n\nHe appears at this time to have been very sensible that an intimacy\nbetween two persons so united by affection was not without\ninconvenience.  He answers with prudence to the entreaties of Madame de\nChantal: \"I am bound here hand and foot; and as for you, my dear\nsister, does not the inconvenience of the last journey alarm you?\"\n\nThis was written in October on the eve of a season rude enough among\nthe Alps and at Jura: \"We shall see between this and Easter.\"\n\nShe went at this period to see him at the house of his mother; then,\nfinding herself all alone at Dijon, she fell very ill.  Occupied with\nthe controversy of this time, he seemed to be neglecting her.  He wrote\nto her less and less; feeling, doubtless, the necessity of making all\nhaste in this rapid journey.  All this year (1605) was passed, on her\npart, in a violent struggle between temptations and doubts; at last she\nscarcely knew how to make up her mind, whether to bury herself with the\nCarmelites, or marry again.\n\nA great religious movement was then taking place in France: this\nmovement, far from being spontaneous, was well devised, very\nartificial, but, nevertheless, immense in its results.  The rich and\npowerful families of the Bar had, by their zeal and vanity, impelled it\nforward.  At the side of the oratory founded by Cardinal de Berulle,\nMadame Acarie, a woman singularly active and zealous, a saint engaged\nin all the devout intrigues (known also as the blessed Mary of the\nincarnation), established the Carmelites in France, and the Ursulines\nin Paris.  The impassioned austerity of Madame de Chantal urged her\ntowards the Carmelites; she consulted occasionally one of their\nsuperiors, a doctor of the Sorbonne.[1]  St. Francois de Sales\nperceived the danger, and he no longer endeavoured to contend against\nher.  He accepted Madame de Chantal from that very moment.  In a\ncharming letter he gives her, in the name of his mother, his young\nsister to educate.\n\nIt seems that as long as she had this tender pledge she was in some\ndegree calmer; but it was soon taken from her.  This child, so\ncherished and so well taken care of, died in her arms at her own house.\nShe cannot disguise from the Saint, in the excess of her grief, that\nshe had asked God to let her rather die herself; she went so far as to\npray that she might rather lose one of her own children!\n\nThis took place in November (1607).  It is three months after that we\nfind in the letters of the Saint the first idea of getting nearer to\nhim a person so well tried, and who seemed to him, moreover, to be an\ninstrument of the designs of God.\n\nThe extreme vivacity, I was almost saying the violence, with which\nMadame de Chantal broke every tie in order to follow an impulse given\nwith so much reserve, proves too plainly all the passion of her ardent\nnature.  It was not an easy thing to leave there those two old men, her\nfather, her father-in-law, and her own son, who, they say, stretched\nhimself out on the threshold to prevent her passing.  Good old Fremiot\nwas gained over less by his daughter than by the letters of the Saint,\nwhich she used as auxiliaries.  We have still the letter of\nresignation, all blotted over with his tears, in which he gives his\nconsent: this resignation, moreover, seems not to have lasted long.  He\ndied the following year.\n\nShe has now passed over the body of her son and that of her father; she\narrives at Annecy.  What would have happened if the Saint had not found\nfuel for this powerful flame that he had raised too high--higher than\nhe desired himself?\n\nThe day after the Pentecost, he calls her to him after mass: \"Well, my\ndaughter,\" says he, \"I have determined what I shall do with you.\"  \"And\nI am resolved to obey,\" cried she, falling on her knees before him.\n\"You must enter St. Clair's.\"  \"I am quite ready,\" replied she.  \"No,\nyou are not strong enough; you must be a sister in the Hospital of\nBeaune.\"  \"Whatever you please.\"  \"This is not quite what I\nwant--become a Carmelite.\"  He tried her thus in several ways, and\nfound her ever obedient.  \"Well,\" said he, \"nothing of the sort--God\ncalls you to the Visitation.\"\n\nThe Visitation had nothing of the austerity of the ancient orders.  The\nfounder himself said it was \"almost no religion at all.\"  No\ntroublesome customs, no watchings, no fastings, but little duty, short\nprayers, no seclusions (in the beginning); the sisters, while they\nwaited for the coming of the divine Bridegroom, went to visit Him in\nthe person of His poor and His sick, who are His living members.\nNothing was better calculated to calm the stormy passions within, than\nthis variety of active charity.  Madame de Chantal, who had formerly\nbeen a good mother, a prudent housekeeper, was happy in finding even in\nmystic life employment for her economical and positive faculties in\ndevoting herself to the laborious detail of the establishment of a\ngreat order, in travelling, according to the orders of her beloved\ndirector, from one establishment to another.  It was a twofold proof of\nwisdom in the Saint: he made her useful, and kept her away.\n\nWith all this prudence, we must say that the happiness of working\ntogether for the same end, of founding, and creating together,\nstrengthened still more the tie that was already so strong.  It is\ncurious to see how they tighten the band in wishing to untie it.  This\ncontradiction is affecting.  At the very time he is prescribing to her\nto detach herself from him who had been her nurse, he protests that\nthis nurse shall never fail her.  The very day he lost his mother he\nwrites in these strong terms: \"To you I speak, to you, I say, to whom I\nhave allotted my mother's place in my memorial of the mass, without\ndepriving you of the one you had, for I have not been able to do it, so\nfast do you retain what you have in my heart; and so it is, _you\npossess it first and last_.\"\n\nI do not think a stronger expression ever escaped the heart on a more\nsolemn day.  How burning must it have entered her heart, already\nlacerated with passion!  How can he be surprised after that, that she\nshould write to him, \"Pray to God, that I survive you not!\"  Does he\nnot see, that at every instant he wounds, and heals only to renew the\npain?\n\nThe nuns of the Visitation, who published some of the letters of their\nfoundress, have prudently suppressed several, which, as they say\nthemselves, \"are only fit to be kept under the lock and key of\ncharity.\"  Those which are extant are, however, quite sufficient to\nshow the deep wound she bore with her to the grave.\n\nThe Visitation being supported neither by active charity, which was\nsoon prohibited, nor by the cultivation of the intellect, which had\ngiven life to the Paraclet and other convents of the middle ages, had\nno other choice, it would seem, than to adopt mystic asceticism.  But\nthe moderation of the founder, in conformity with the lukewarmness of\nthe times, had excluded from his new institution the austerity of the\nancient orders--those cruel practices that annihilated the senses in\ndestroying the body itself; consequently, there was no activity, nor\nstudy, nor austerity.  In this vacuum two things were evident from the\nvery outset: on one side, narrow-mindedness, a taste for trivial\nobservances, and a fantastical system of devotion (Madame de Chantal\ntatooed her bosom with the name of Jesus); on the other side, an\nunreasonable and boundless attachment to the _Director_.\n\nIn everything relating to St. Francois de Sales the saint shows herself\nvery weak.  After his death she raves, and allows herself to be guided\nby dreams and visions.  She fancies that she perceives his dear\npresence, in the churches, amid celestial perfumes, perceptible to her\nalone.  She lays upon his tomb a little book composed of all he had\nwritten or said upon the Visitation, praying \"that if there was\nanything in it contrary to his intentions, he would have the goodness\nto efface it.\"\n\nIn 1631, ten years after the death of St. Francois de Sales, his tomb\nwas solemnly opened, and his body was found entire.  \"It was placed in\nthe sacristy of the monastery, where, about nine o'clock at night,\nafter the crowd had withdrawn, she led her community, and began praying\nby the side of the body, 'in an ecstasy of love and humility.'  As they\nwere forbidden to touch it, she did a signal act of obedience in\nabstaining from kissing his hand.  The following morning, having\nobtained permission, she stooped down in order to place the saint's\nhand upon her head; when, as if he had been alive, he drew her towards\nhim, and held her in a paternal and tender caress: she felt very\nplainly this supernatural movement....  They still keep, as a double\nrelic, the veil she then wore.\"\n\nLet others be at a loss to find out the real name of this worthy\nsentiment, or let a false reserve prevent them; let them term it filial\npiety, or fraternal affection; we, for our part, call it simply by a\nname that we believe holy--we shall call it love.  We are bound to\nbelieve the saint himself, when he assures us that this sentiment\ncontributed powerfully to his spiritual progress.  However, this is not\nsufficient; we must see what effect it had upon Madame de Chantal.\n\nAll the doctrine to be found in the writings of St. Francois, among\nmuch excellent practical advice, might be summed up in these words--to\n_love_ and to _wait_.\n\n_To wait_ for the visitation of the divine Bridegroom.  Far from\nadvising action, or the desire of acting, he is so afraid of motion,\nthat he proscribes the word _union_ with God, which might imply a\ntendency to unite; and desires that the word _unity_ may be used\ninstead, for it is necessary to remain in a loving indifference.  \"I\nwish for very little,\" said he, \"and that little I desire very little;\nI have almost no desires; but if I were to be born again, I would have\nnone at all.  If God came to me, I would go to Him also; but _if He\nwould not come to me, I would remain there, and not go to Him_.\"\n\nThis absence of every desire excluded even that of virtue.  It is the\nhighest point which the saint seems to have reached a short time before\nhis death.  He writes on the 10th of August, 1619, \"Say you renounce\nevery virtue, desiring them only as you receive them gradually from\nGod, nor wishing to take any care for acquiring them, excepting in\nproportion as His bounty shall employ you to do so, for His own good\npleasure.\"  If self-will disappear at this point, what will take its\nplace?  The will of God apparently....  Only, let us not forget that if\nthis miracle take place, it will have for its result a state of\nunalterable peace and immutable strength.  By this token, and by no\nother, are we bound to recognise it.\n\nMadame de Chantal herself tells us that it had just the contrary\neffect.  Though they have skilfully arranged her life, and mutilated\nher letters, there are still enough of them to show in what a tempest\nof passion she passed her days.  Her whole life, which was long, and\ntaken up with real cares, in founding and managing religious\nestablishments, contributes in no way to calm her; time wears her out\nand destroys her, without effecting any change in her inward martyrdom.\nShe finishes by this confession in her latter days: \"All that I have\nsuffered during the whole course of my life are not to be compared to\nthe torments I now feel; I am reduced to such a degree that nothing can\nsatisfy me, nor give me any relief, except one word--Death!\"\n\nI did not need this sad testimony; I could have found it out without\nher assistance.  This exclusive cultivation of sensibility, whatever be\nthe virtues that ennoble it, ends infallibly in tormenting the soul,\nand reducing it to a state of excruciating suffering.  We cannot, with\nimpunity, allow our will, the very essence of our strength and reason,\nthe guardian of our tranquillity, to be absorbed by an all-devouring\nlove.\n\nI have spoken elsewhere of the few but splendid examples exhibited\nthroughout the middle ages in the persons of learned nuns, who combined\nscience with piety.  Their instructors seem to have entertained no\napprehension in developing both their reason and their will.  But\nscience, it is said, fills the soul with uneasiness and curiosity, and\nremoves us from God.  As if there were any science without Him; as if\nthe divine effulgence, reflected in science, had not a serene virtue, a\npower diffusing tranquillity in the human heart, and imparting that\npeace of eternal truths and imperishable laws, which will exist in all\ntheir purity when worlds will be no more.\n\nWhom do I blame in all this?  Man?  God forbid!  I only censure the\nmethod.\n\nThis method, which was termed Quietism when once it was reduced to a\nsystem, and which, as we shall see presently, is, generally speaking,\nthat of the _devout direction_, is nothing else than the development of\nour passiveness, our instinct of indolence; the result of which, in\ncourse of time, is the paralysis of our will, the annihilation of the\nessence of man's constitution.\n\nSt. Francois de Sales, was, it would seem, one of the most likely\npersons to impart animation to this lifeless system.  Nevertheless it\nwas he, the loyal and the pure, who introduced the system at this\nperiod; it was he who in the seventeenth century pointed out the road\nto _passiveness_.\n\nWe are, as yet, in the earliest dawn of the century, in all its morning\nfreshness, and invigorated by the breeze from the Alps.  Yet see,\nMadame de Chantal sickens and breathes with difficulty....  How will it\nbe towards evening?\n\nThe worthy saint, in a delightful letter, describes himself as being\none day on the lake of Geneva, \"on a small raft,\" guided by Providence,\nand perfectly obedient \"to the pilot, who forbids him to stir, and very\nglad at having only a board three fingers thick to support him.\"  The\ncentury is embarked with him, and, with this amiable guide, he sails\namong breakers.  These deep waters, as you will find out afterwards,\nare the depths of Quietism; and if your sight is keen enough, you may\nalready perceive Molinos through this transparent abyss.\n\n\n\n[1] See St. Francois, OEuvres, viii. 336, April, 1606; and Tabaraud,\nLife of Berulle, pp., 57, 58, 95, 141.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nLONELINESS OF WOMAN.--EASY DEVOTION.--WORLDLY THEOLOGY OF THE JESUITS\nAND HOME.--WOMEN AND CHILDREN ADVANTAGEOUSLY MADE USE OF.--WAR OF\nTHIRTY YEARS, 1618-1648.--GALLANT DEVOTION.--DEVOUT NOVELS.--CASUISTS.\n\n\nHitherto we have spoken of a rare exception--the life of a woman full\nof action, and doubly employed; as a saint and foundress, but\nespecially as a wife, the mother of a family, and prudent housewife.\nThe biographers of Madame de Chantal remark, as a singular thing, that\nin both conditions, as wife and as widow, she conducted her own\nhousehold herself, directed her dependents, and administered the\nproperty of her husband, her father, and her children.\n\nThis indeed was becoming rare.  The taste for household and domestic\ncares which we find everywhere in the sixteenth century, but especially\namong citizens and the families of the Bar, grows much weaker in the\nseventeenth, when every one desires to live in great style.\n\nThe absence of occupation is a taste of the period, proceeding also\nfrom the state of things.  All society is ever idle on the morrow of\nreligious wars, each local action has ceased, and central life, that is\nto say, court life, has hardly begun.  The nobility have finished their\nadventures, and hung up their swords; the citizens have nothing further\nto do, being no longer engaged in plots, seditions, or armed\nprocessions.  The _ennui_ of this want of occupation falls particularly\nheavy upon woman; she is about to become at once unoccupied and lonely.\nIn the sixteenth century she was kept in communication with man by the\nvital questions that were debated, even in her family, by common\ndangers, fears, and hopes.  But there was nothing of the sort in the\nseventeenth century.\n\nAdd to this a more serious circumstance which is likely to increase in\nthe following ages; namely, that in every profession the spirit of\nspeciality and detail, which gradually absorbs man, has the effect of\ninsulating him in his family, and of making him, as it were, a mute\nbeing for his wife and kindred.  He no longer communicates to them his\ndaily thoughts; and they can understand nothing of the minute\nintricacies and petty technical problems which occupy his mind.\n\nBut, at least, woman has still her children to console her?  No; at the\ntime we are now speaking of, the mansion, silent and empty, is no\nlonger kept alive by the noise of children; instruction at home is now\nan exception, and gives way daily to the fashion of collective\neducation.  The son is brought up among the Jesuits, the daughter by\nthe Ursulines, or other nuns; the mother is left alone.\n\nThe mother and the son are henceforth separated!  An immense evil, the\nbud of a thousand misfortunes for families and society!  I shall return\nto this subject later.\n\nNot only separated, but, by the effect of a totally opposite life, they\nwill be more and more opposed in mind, and less and less able to\nunderstand each other.  The son a little pedant in _us_, _i.e._ Latin,\nthe mother ignorant and worldly, have no longer a common language\nbetween them.\n\nA family thus disunited will be much more open to influence from\nwithout.  The mother and the child, once separated, are more easily\ncaught; though different means are employed.  The child is tamed, and\nbroken in by an overwhelming mass of studies; he must write and write,\ncopy and copy again, at best translate and imitate.  But the mother is\nentrapped by means of her excessive loneliness and _ennui_.  The lady\nof the mansion is alone in her residence; her husband is hunting, or at\nthe court.  The president's lady is alone in her hotel; the gentleman\nstarts every morning for the palace, and returns in the evening: a sad\nabode is this hotel in the Marais or City, some overgrown grey house in\na dismal little street.\n\nThe lady in the sixteenth century beguiled her leisure hours by\nsinging, and often by poetry.  In the seventeenth they forbad her all\nworldly songs; as to religious songs, she abstains from them much more\neasily.  Sing a psalm!  It would be to declare herself a Protestant!\nWhat then remains for her?  Gallant devotion--the conversation of the\ndirector or the lover.\n\nThe sixteenth century, with its strong morality and fluctuation of\nideas, took, as it were, by fits and starts, flying leaps from\ngallantry to devotion, then from God to the devil: it made sudden and\nalternate changes from pleasure to penitence.  But in the seventeenth\ncentury people were more ingenious.  Thanks to the progress of\nequivocation, they are enabled to do both at once, and, by mingling the\nlanguage of love with that of devotion, speak of both at the same time.\nIf, without being seen, you could listen to the conversation in a\ncoquettish neighbourhood, you would not always be able to say whether\nit is the lover or the director who is speaking.\n\nTo explain to one's self the singular success of the latter, we must\nnot forget the moral situation of the time, the uneasy and bewildered\nstate of every one's conscience on the morrow of a period of religious\nwars, harassed by passions.  In the dull tranquillity that succeeded,\nin the nullity of the present, the past would rise up in glowing\ncolours, and the remembrance of it become the more importunate.  Then\nwas awakened in many minds, especially among weak and impassioned\nwomen, the terrible question of eternal bliss or woe.\n\nThe whole fortune of the Jesuits, and the confidence placed in them by\nthe nobles and fine ladies, arose from the clever answer they gave to\nthis question.  It is, therefore, indispensable to say a few words\nabout it.\n\nWho can save us?  The theologian on the one hand, and the jurist or\nphilosopher on the other, give diametrically opposite answers.\n\nThe theologian, if he be really such, attributes the greatest share to\nChristianity, and answers, \"It is the grace of Christ, which serves us\nas a substitute for justice[1], and saves whomsoever it will.  A few\nare predestined to be saved, the greater number to be damned.\"\n\nThe jurist answers, on the contrary, that we are punished or rewarded\naccording to the good or bad use that we freely make of our will; that\nwe are paid according to our works, according to justice.  This is the\neternal debate between the jurist and the theologian, between justice\nand predestination.[1]\n\nIn order to have a clearer idea of the opposition of these two\nprinciples, let us imagine a mountain with two declivities, its summit\nterminating in a very narrow ridge, with the edge as sharp as a razor.\nOn one side is predestination that damns, on the other, justice that\nstrikes--two terrible monsters.  Man is on the top, with one foot on\none slope and one on the other, ever on the point of slipping.\n\nAnd when was the fear of sliding stronger than after those great crimes\nof the sixteenth century, when Man was top-heavy, and lost his balance?\nWe know the religious horror of Charles IX. after the massacre of Saint\nBartholomew: he died for want of a Jesuit confessor.  John III., King\nof Sweden, who killed his brother, did not die of remorse: his wife\ntook care to send for the good Father Possevino, who purified him and\nmade him a Catholic.\n\nThe means employed by the Jesuits to calm consciences fill us, at first\nsight, with surprise.  They adopted both skilfully and carefully; still\nthey did adopt the principle of the jurists, namely, that man is saved\nor lost by his works, by the use he makes of his free will.\n\nA liberal doctrine, yet severe, it would seem: you are free,\nconsequently responsible, and punishable.  You sin, and you expiate.\n\nThe jurisconsult, who is in earnest, requires here a serious\nexpiation--the personal chastisement of the guilty party.  \"He must\nforfeit his head,\" says he: \"the law will cure him of his malady of\niniquity by the sword.\"\n\nWe should fare better by going to the Jesuit, and get off much cheaper.\nThe expiation he requires is not so terrible.  He will often prove that\nthere is no necessity for any expiation.  The fault, properly\ninterpreted, will turn out, perhaps, to be a merit.  At the worst, if\nfound to be a fault, it may be washed out by good works; now, the very\nbest work of all is to devote one's self to the Jesuits, and espouse\nthe Ultramontane interest.\n\nDo you perceive all the skill of the Jesuits in this manoeuvre of\ntheirs?  On the one hand, the doctrine of liberty and justice, with\nwhich the middle ages had reproached the jurisconsults as pagan and\nirreconcilable with Christianity, is now adopted by the Jesuits, who\nshow themselves to the world as the friends and champions of free will.\nOn the other hand, as this free will brings on the sinner\nresponsibility and justice according to his works, he finds himself\nvery much embarrassed with it.  The Jesuit comes very seasonably to his\nrelief; he takes upon himself the task of _directing_ this inconvenient\nliberty, and reduces works to the capital one of serving Rome.  So that\nmoral liberty, professed in theory, will turn practically to the profit\nof authority.\n\nA double lie.  These people who give themselves the title of Jesuits,\nor men of Jesus, teach that man is saved less by Jesus than by himself,\nby his free will.  Are, then, these men philosophers, and friends of\nliberty?  Quite the contrary; they are at once the most cruel enemies\nof philosophy and liberty.\n\nThat is to say, with the word free will they juggle away Jesus; and\nonly retain the word Jesus to cheat us of the liberty which they set\nbefore us.\n\nThe thing being thus simplified on both sides, a sort of tacit bargain\nwas made between Rome, the Jesuits, and the world.\n\nRome gave up _Christianity_, the principle which forms its basis\n(salvation by Christ).  Having been called upon to choose between this\ndoctrine and the contrary one, she durst not decide.\n\nThe Jesuits gave up _morality_ after religion; reducing the moral\nmerits by which man may earn his salvation to only one, the _Political_\nmerit of which we have spoken, that of serving Rome.\n\nWhat must the world give up in its turn?\n\nThe world (by far the most worldly part of the world, woman) will have\nto give up her best possessions, her family and her domestic hearth.\nEve once more betrays Adam.  Woman deceives man in her husband and son.\n\nThus every one sold his God.  Rome bartered away religion, and woman\ndomestic piety.\n\nThe weak minds of women after the great corruption of the sixteenth\ncentury, spoiled beyond all remedy, full of passion, fear, and wicked\ndesires mingled with remorse, seized greedily the means of sinning\nconscientiously, of expiating without either amendment, amelioration,\nor return towards God.  They thought themselves happy to receive at the\nConfessional, by way of penance, some little political commission, or\nthe management of some intrigue.  They transferred to this singular\nmanner of expiating their faults the very violence of the guilty\npassions, for which the atonement was to be made; and in order to\nremain sinful, they were often obliged to commit crimes.[2]\n\nThe passion of woman, inconstant in everything else, was in this case\nsustained by the vigorous obstinacy of the mysterious and invisible\nhand that urged her forward.  Under this impulse, at once gentle and\nstrong, ardent and persevering, firm as iron and as dissolving as fire,\ncharacters and even interests at length gave way.\n\nSome examples will help us to understand it the better.  In France, old\nLesdiguieres was politically, much interested in remaining a\nProtestant; as such, he was the head man of the party.  The king rather\nthan the governor of Dauphine, he assisted the Swiss, and protected the\npopulations of Vaud and Romand against the house of Savoy.  But the old\nman's daughter was gained over by Father Cotton.  She set to work upon\nher father with patience and address, and succeeded in inducing him to\nquit his high position for an empty title, and change his religion for\nthe title of Constable.\n\nIn Germany the character of Ferdinand I., his interest, and the part he\nhad to play, would have induced him to remain moderate, and not become\nthe vassal of his nephew, Philip II.  With violence and fanaticism he\nhad no choice but to accept a secondary place.  The emperor's\ndaughters, however, intrigued so well that the house of Austria became\nunited by marriage to the houses of Lorraine and Bavaria.  The children\nof these families being educated by the Jesuits, the latter repaired in\nGermany the broken thread of the destinies of the Guises, and had even\nbetter fortune than the Guises themselves; for they made for their own\nuse certain blind instruments, agents in diplomacy and tactics--skilful\nworkmen certainly, but still mere workmen.  I speak of that hardy and\ndevout generation, of Ferdinand II. of Austria, of Tilly, and\nMaximilian of Bavaria, those conscientious executors of the great works\nof Rome, who, under the direction of their teachers, carried on for so\nlong a time, throughout Europe, a warfare which was at once barbarous\nand skilful, merciless and methodical.  The Jesuits launched them into\nit, and then carefully watched over them; and whenever Tilly on his\ncharger was seen dashing over the smoking ruins of cities, or the\nbattle-field covered with the slain, the Jesuit, trotting on his mule,\nwas not far off.\n\nThis vile war, the most loathsome in history, appears the more\nhorrible, by the almost total absence of free inspiration and\nspontaneous impulse.  It was, from its very beginning, both artificial\nand mechanical[3]--like a war of machines or phantoms.  These strange\nbeings, created only to fight, march with a look as void of martial\nardour, as their heart is of affection.  How could they be reasoned\nwith?  What language could be used towards them?  What pity could be\nexpected from them?  In our wars of religion, in those of the\nRevolution they were men who fought; each died for the sake of his\nidea, and, when he fell on the battle-field, he shrouded himself in his\nfaith.  Whereas the partisans of the Thirty Years' War have no\nindividual life--no idea of their own; their very breath is but the\ninspiration of the evil genius who urges them on.  These automatons,\nwho grow blinder every day, are not the less obstinate and bloody.  No\nhistory would lead us to understand this abominable phenomenon, if\nthere did not remain some delineation of them in the hellish pictures\nof that diabolical, _damned_ Salvator Rosa.[4]\n\nBehold, then, this fruit of mildness, benignity, and paternity; see\nhow, after having by indulgence and connivance exterminated morality,\nseized on the family by surprise, fascinated the mother and conquered\nthe child, and by the devil's own art raised the _man-machine_, they\nare found to have created a monster, whose whole idea, life, and action\nwas _murder_, nothing more.\n\nWise politicians, amiable men, good fathers, who with so much mildness\nhave skilfully arranged from afar the Thirty Years' War, seducing\nAquaviva, you learned Canisius, and you good Possevino, the friend of\nSt. Francois de Sales, who will not admire the flexibility of your\ngenius?  At the very time you were organising the terrible intrigue of\nthis second and prolonged St. Bartholomew, you were mildly discussing\nwith the good saint the difference that ought to be observed between\n\"those who died in love, and those who died for love.\"\n\nWhat by-path led from these mild theories to such atrocious results?\nHow did it happen that souls enervated by gallant devotion and devout\ngallantry, and spoiled by the daily facilities of an obliging and\naccommodating casuistry, allowed themselves to be taken asleep in the\nmeshes of political intrigue?  It would be a long story.  In order to\nset about it one must wade through their nauseous literature; but one\nsickens at the sight of their filthy trash.\n\nOne word, however, for it is important.  Prepared as the world was,\nboth by bad morals and bad taste, for the miserable productions with\nwhich the Jesuits inundated it, all this insipid flood would have\nsubsided without leaving any traces behind, had they not mingled with\nit a part of the pure original stream, which had already delighted the\nhuman heart.  The charm of St. Francois de Sales, his sublime spiritual\nunion with Madame de Chantal, the holy and mild seducing influence\nwhich he had exercised over women and children, served indirectly, but\nvery efficaciously, the purpose of this great religious intrigue.\n\nWith small morality and cheap absolution, the Jesuits could very easily\ncorrupt consciences, but not tranquillise them.  They could play, with\nmore or less skill, upon that rich instrument Falsehood, which their\ninstitution gave them, airs of science, art, literature, and theology.\nBut could they, with all this false fingering, produce one true\nnote?--Not one!\n\nBut this true and gentle note was precisely that which was sounded for\nthem by St. Francois.  They had only to play after his method to make\nthe false appear a little less discordant.  The amiable qualities of\nhis writings, nay, their pleasing errors, were skilfully made the most\nof.  His taste for the minute and humble, which made him bestow a\npartial regard upon the lesser beings of the creation, such as little\nchildren, lambs, birds, and bees, became a precedent among the Jesuits\nfor whatever is finical and narrow-minded, for a meanness of style and\nlittleness of heart.  The bold but innocent language of an angel, pure\nas light itself, who incessantly points out God in his sweetest\nrevelation, woman suckling, and the divine mysteries of love,\nemboldened his imitators to make the most perilous equivocations, and\nwas the occasion of their carrying their ambiguous terms to such a\npitch, that the line of demarcation between gallantry and devotion, the\nlover and the spiritual father, became at length invisible.\n\nThe friend of St. Francois de Sales, good bishop Camus, with all his\nlittle romances, contributed much to this.  There was nothing now but\npious sheep-folds, devout Astreas, and ecclesiastical Amyntases.\nConversion sanctifies everything in these novels; I am aware of it.\nThe lovers at the end of the story enter a convent or seminary, but\nthey arrive there by a long roundabout road, which enables them to\ndream by the way.\n\nA taste for the romantic and insipid, the benignant and paternal style,\nthus gained ground rapidly.  The event showed that the innocent had\nworked for the benefit of the cunning.  A St. Francois and a Camus\nprepared the way for Father Douillet.\n\nThe essential point for the Jesuits was to reduce and to lessen, to\nmake minds weak and false, to make the little very little, and turn the\nsimple into idiots: a mind nourished with trifles and amused with toys\nmust be easy to govern.  Emblems, rebuses, and puns, the delight of the\nJesuits, were very fit for that purpose.  Among the class of silly\nemblems, few books can vie with the _Imago primi Soeculi Societatis\nJesu_.\n\nAll this paltry nonsense succeeded admirably with women who had no sort\nof occupation, and whose minds had been for a long time corrupted by an\nunintellectual gallantry.  It has been proved by experience, in every\nage, that to please the sex only two things are requisite; first, to\namuse them, to participate in their taste for everything that is\ntrifling, romantic, and false; secondly, to flatter them, and spoil\nthem in their weaknesses, by making one's self weaker, more effeminate,\nand womanish than they.\n\nThis was the line of conduct laid down for all.--How is it that the\nlover gets an advantage over the husband?  Generally speaking, it is\nless by his passion, than by his assiduity and complaisance, and by\nflattering woman's fancy.  The director will make use of the very same\nmeans; he will flatter, and so much the more successfully, as some\ndegree of austerity at least was expected from his character and\nprofession.  But what is to prevent another from flattering still more?\nWe have just now seen an instance (a respectable one, it is true) of\nthese spiritual infidelities.\n\nIn changing continually one confessor for another, merely on account of\nhis being more gentle and indulgent than the former, we run the risk of\nfalling very low in morality.  To get the upper hand over so many\naccommodating directors, an entirely new standard of effeminacy and\nbaseness is required.  The new comer must entirely change the\ncharacters; and instead of being the judge, as formerly, at the bar of\npenitence, he must be a suppliant; justice will be obliged to plead\nbefore the sinner, and the divine man becomes the penitent!\n\nThe Jesuits, who by these means supplanted so many directors, bear\nwitness, that in this sort of opposition they had no one to fear.  They\nknew well enough, that no other would be found better qualified than a\nJesuit for easy indulgence, disguised connivance, and subtilty to\noverreach the Deity.  Father Cotton was so little afraid of his\npenitents leaving him, that, on the contrary, he used occasionally to\nadvise them to go to the other confessors: \"Go,\" said he, \"go and try\nthem; you will return to me!\"\n\nOnly imagine this general emulation among confessors, directors, and\nconsulting casuists, to justify everything, to find every day some\nadroit means of carrying indulgence still further, of declaring\ninnocent some new case, that had hitherto been supposed guilty.  The\nresult of this manner of waging war against sin, emulously carried by\nso many learned men, was its gradual and universal disappearance from\nthe common life of man; sin could no longer find a haven of refuge, and\none might reasonably suppose that in a few years it would cease to\nexist in the world.\n\nThe great book of \"Provinciales,\" with all the artifice of method,\nomits one thing, which we regret.  In showing us the unanimity of the\ncasuists, the author presents them, as it were, on the same line, and\nas contemporaries.  It would have been more instructive to have dated\nthem, and given to each his appointed period; and thus, according to\nhis merits in the progressive development of casuistry, to show how\nthey severally advanced towards perfection, outbidding, surpassing, and\neclipsing one another.\n\nIn so great a rivalry, it was necessary to make every effort, and set\nall their wits to work.  The penitent having the option, might become\ndifficult.  He wanted his absolution at a cheaper rate every day; and\nthey who would not lower their price lost their customers.  It was\nbusiness that required a clever man to find out, in so great a\nrelaxation, by what means further indulgence might be given.  A fine,\nelastic, and indulgent science, that, instead of imposing rules,\nadapted itself to proportions, narrowing or widening, and taking\nmeasurement, as the case might be.  Every progress of this kind, being\ncarefully noted down served as a starting-post to go further.  In\ncountries that have once become aguish, fever produces fever; the sick\ninhabitant neglecting the precaution for preserving health, filth\naccumulates on filth, the waters form marshes, and the miasma grows\nstronger; a close, heavy, and noxious atmosphere oppresses the country.\nThe people crawl or lie down.  Do not speak to them of attempting any\nremedy; they are accustomed to the fever; they have had it on and off\never since their birth, and their forefathers had it.  Why try\nremedies?  The country has been in the same state from time immemorial;\nit would be almost a pity, according to these authorities, to make a\nchange.\n\n\n\n[1] The Apostle puts the matter thus:--Therefore by the deeds of the\nlaw there shall no flesh be justified in His sight: for by the law is\nthe knowledge of sin.  But now the righteousness of God without the law\nis manifested, being witnessed by the law and the prophets; even the\nrighteousness of God which is by faith of Jesus Christ unto all and\nupon all them that believe: for there is no difference: for all have\nsinned, and come short of the glory of God: being justified freely by\nHis grace through the redemption that is in Christ Jesus: whom God hath\nset forth to be a propitiation through faith in His blood, to declare\nHis righteousness for the remission of sins that are past, through the\nforbearance of God; to declare, I say, at this time His righteousness:\nthat He might be just, and the justifier of him which believeth in\nJesus.--Rom. iii. 20-26.\n\n[2] See in Leger, the vast system of espionage, intrigue, and secret\npersecution, that the first ladies of Piedmont and France had\norganised, under the direction of the Jesuits.\n\n[3] Excepting the electrical moment of Gustavus-Adolphus.\n\n[4] The term is a harsh one, and I am sorry for it.  If this great\nartist paints war so cruelly, it is doubtless because he had more\nfeeling than any of his contemporaries, and appreciates more keenly the\nhorror of this terrible epoch.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nCONVENTS.--NEIGHBOURHOOD OF CONVENTS.--CONVENTS IN THE SEVENTEENTH\nCENTURY.--CONTRAST WITH THE MIDDLE AGE.--THE DIRECTOR.--DISPUTE ABOUT\nTHE DIRECTION OF THE NUNS.--THE JESUITS TRIUMPH THROUGH CALUMNY.\n\n\nAn ingenuous and intellectual German lady told me one day that, when\nshe came with her husband to Paris for the first time, they had\nwandered about in a grand but very dull quarter of the town, where they\nmade an infinite number of turns and windings without being able to\nfind their way.  They had entered by a public garden, and found at last\nanother public garden that brought them out again at the quay.  I saw\nthat she meant the learned and pious neighbourhood which contains so\nmany convents and colleges, and reaches from the Luxembourg to the\n\"Jardin des Plantes.\"\n\n\"I saw,\" said this lady, \"whole streets with gardens, surrounded with\nhigh walls, that reminded me of the deserted districts of Rome, where\nthe _malaria_ prevails, with this difference, that these were not\ndeserted, but, as it were, mysteriously inhabited, shut up,\nmistrustful, and inhospitable.  Other streets, exceedingly dark, were\nin a manner buried between two rows of lofty grey houses with no front\naspect, and which showed, as it were in derision, their walled-up\nwindows, or their rivetted lattices, turned upside down, by which one\nmay see--nothing.  We asked our way several times, and it was often\npointed out to us; but somehow or other, after having gone up and down\nand up again, we ever found ourselves at the same point.  Our _ennui_\nand fatigue increased.  We invincibly and fatally met with the same\ndull streets, and the same dismal houses sullenly shut, which seemed to\nlook at us with an evil eye.  Exhausted at last, and seeing no end to\nthe puzzle, oppressed more and more by a certain dispiriting influence\nthat seemed to ooze from these walls, I sat down upon a stone and began\nto weep.\"\n\nA dispiriting lassitude does indeed seize and oppress our hearts at the\nvery sight of these disagreeable-looking houses; the most cheerful are\nthe hospitals.  Having been for the most part built or rebuilt in those\ntimes of solemn dulness, the reigns of Louis XIII. and Louis XIV.,\nthere is nothing about them to remind us of the lovely art of the\n_renaissance_.  The latest memento of that art is the Florentine front\nof the Luxembourg Palace.  All those houses that were built at a later\nperiod, even those which affect a certain severe luxury (the Sorbonne,\nfor example), are occasionally great, but never grand.  With their\nlofty pointed roofs, and stiff straight lines, they have always a dry,\ndull, and monotonous appearance, a _priestly_ or _old-maidenish_ look.\nIn this they scarcely belie themselves, the greater part of them having\nbeen built to accommodate the numberless females belonging to the\nnobility and upper class of citizens, who, in order to enrich a son,\ncondemned their unfortunate daughters to a sad, but decent death.\n\nThe monuments of the middle ages have a melancholy, but not a\ndispiriting look; we feel, on looking at them, the vigour and sincerity\nof the sentiment that inspired their builders.  They are not, generally\nspeaking, official monuments, but living works of the people, the\noffspring of their faith.  But these, on the contrary, are nothing else\nthan the creation of a class,--that class of newly-created nobles that\nswarmed into life in the seventeenth century by subserviency, the\nante-chamber, and ministerial offices.  They are hospitals opened for\nthe daughters of these families.  Their great number might almost\ndeceive us as to the strength and extent of the religious re-action of\nthat time.  Look at them well, and tell me, I pray you, whether you can\ndiscern the least trace about them of the ascetic character--are they\nreligious houses, hospitals, barracks, or colleges?  There is nothing\nto prove what they are.  They would be perfectly fit for any civil\npurpose.  They have but one character, but it is a very decided one:\nserious uniformity, decent mediocrity, and _ennui_.--It is _ennui_\nitself, personified in an architectural form--a palpable, tangible, and\nvisible _ennui_.\n\nThe reason of these houses being indefinitely multiplied is, that the\nausterity of the ancient rules having been then much modified, parents\nhad less hesitation in making their daughters take the veil; for it was\nno longer burying them alive.  The parlours were saloons frequented by\ncrowds, under the pretext of being edified.  Fine ladies came there to\nconfide their secrets, filling the minds of the nuns with intrigues and\nvexations, and troubling them with useless regrets.\n\nThese worldly cares caused the interior of the convents to appear to\nthem still more dismal; for there they had nothing but trifling insipid\nceremonies, a sort of modified austerity, and an idle and empty routine\nof monotonous life.\n\nMonastic life was quite a different thing in the middle ages; it was\nmuch more serious.  There were then in the convents both more training\nfor death, and a more active life.  The system was, generally speaking,\nbased upon two principles, which were sincerely and strictly adhered\nto: the destruction of the body, and the vivification of the soul.  To\nwar against the body they employed an exterminating fasting, excessive\nvigils, and frequent bleeding.  For the development of the soul, the\nmonks and nuns were made to read, transcribe, and sing.  Up to the\neleventh century they understood what they sang, as there was but\nlittle difference between Latin and the vulgar tongues of that period.\nThe service had then a dramatic character, which sustained and\nconstantly captivated the attention.  Many things that have been\nreduced to simple words, were then expressed in gestures and\npantomimes; what is now spoken was then _acted_.  When they inflicted\nupon worship that serious, sober, and wearisome character that it still\nwears, the nuns were still allowed, as an indemnification, pious\nreading, legends, the lives of saints, and other books that had been\ntranslated.  All these consolations were taken from them in the\nsixteenth century; the discovery was made, that it was dangerous to\ngive them too great a taste for reading.  In the seventeenth, even\nsinging appeared to be an object of suspicion to many confessors; they\nwere afraid the nuns might grow tender in singing the praises of God.[1]\n\nBut what did they give them as a substitute?  What did they get in\nreturn for all those services which they no longer understood, for\ntheir reading and singing that were now denied them, and for so many\nother comforts, of which they were successively deprived?\n\nWas it an inanimate object?  No, it was a man; let us speak out\nplainly, the _director_.  The director was a novelty, hardly known to\nthe middle ages, contented with the confessor.\n\nYes, a man is to inherit all this vast vacant place: his conversation\nand teaching are to fill up the void.  Prayers, reading, if it be\npermitted, everything, will be done according to his direction and by\nhim.  God, whom they imbibed in their books, or in their sight, even\nGod is henceforward dispensed to them by this man--measured out to them\nday by day according to the standard of his heart.\n\nIdeas come crowding here--but they must wait; we will examine them\nafterwards.  Now they would only interrupt the thread of our historical\ndeduction.\n\nAt the first outbreak of religious re-action, the nuns were generally\ngoverned by the friars of their order.  The Bernardin nuns were\ndirected by the Bernardin friars, the Carmelite nuns by the Carmelite\nfriars, and the nuns of St. Elizabeth by the Picpus friars.  The\nCapuchin nuns were not only confessed by their friars, but were fed at\ntheir expense, and by the produce of their begging.[2]\n\nThe monks did not long preserve this exclusive possession.  For more\nthan a quarter of a century, priests, monks, and friars of every order,\ncarried on a furious war against one another on this question.  This\nmysterious empire of shut-up and dependent women, over whom unlimited\nsway may be held, was, not without reason, the common aim of the\nambition of all.  Such houses, apparently quiet and strangers to the\nworld, nevertheless are always _grand centres of action_.  Here was an\nimmense power for the orders that should get possession of it; and for\nindividuals, whether priests or friars, it was (let them confess it, or\nnot) an affair of passion.\n\nWhat I say here, I say of the purest and most austere, who are often\nthe most tender.  The honourable attachment of Cardinal Berulle for the\nCarmelite nuns, whom he had brought here, was know to everybody.  He\nhad lodged them near his house; he visited them every hour of the day,\nand even in the evening.  The Jesuits said _at night_.  It was to them\nhe went when he was ill, in order to get better.  When Paris was\ninfested by a plague, he said he would not leave it, \"on account of his\nnuns.\"\n\nThe Oratorians and the Jesuits, naturally enemies and adversaries,\njoined together at first in a common cause to remove the Carmelite\nfriars from the direction of these nuns; but no sooner had they\nsucceeded, than they began to dispute with each other.\n\nThe austere order of the Carmelites, which spread but little in France,\nobtained its importance as the _beau ideal_ of penitence, a sort of\nreligious poetry.  The enthusiastic spirit of Saint Theresa still\nanimated them.  There it was that the most violent converts came to\nseek refuge; and there it was, also, that those whose wounds were too\ndeep, and who, like Madame de la Valliere, sought death as their last\nresource, came to die.\n\nBut the two great institutions of this age, those which expressed its\nspirit and had an immense development, were the Visitandines and the\nUrsulines.  The former had, in the reign of Louis XIV., about a hundred\nand fifty monasteries, and the latter from three to four hundred.\n\nThe Visitandines were, as is well known, the most gentle of these\norders: they awaited the coming of their divine Bridegroom in a state\nof inaction; and their sluggish life was well calculated to make them\nvisionaries.  We know the astonishing success of Marie Alocoque, and\nhow it was turned to account by the Jesuits.\n\nThe Ursulines, a more useful body, devoted themselves to education.  In\nthe three hundred and fifty convents which belonged to them in this\ncentury, they educated, at the smallest computation, thirty-five\nthousand young girls.  This vast establishment for education, directed\nby skilful hands, might, indeed, become a political engine of enormous\npower.\n\nThe Ursulines and the Visitandines were governed by bishops, who\nappointed their confessors.  St. Francois de Sales, so excellent a\nfriend to the Jesuits and friars in general, had showed himself\ndistrustful of them in the subject that was dearest to his heart, that\nof the Visitation:--\"My opinion is (says he) that these good girls do\nnot know what they want, if they wish to submit themselves to the\nsuperiority of the friars, who, indeed, are excellent servants of God;\nbut it always goes hard for girls to be governed by the orders, _who\nare accustomed to take from them the holy liberty of the mind_.\"[3]\n\nIt is but too easy to perceive how the orders of women servilely\nreproduced the minds of the men who directed them.  Thus, the devotion\nof those who were governed by monks was characterised by every species\nof caprice, eccentricity, and violence; whilst they who were under the\ndirection of secular priests, such as the Oratorians and the\nDoctrinaires, show some faint traces of reason, together with a sort of\nnarrow-minded, common-place, and unproductive wisdom.\n\nThe nuns, who received from the bishops their ordinary confessors,\nchose for themselves an extraordinary one besides, who, as being\nextraordinary, did not fail to supplant and annul the former: the\nlatter was, in most cases, a Jesuit.  Thus the new orders of the\nUrsulines and Visitandines, created by priests, who had endeavoured to\nkeep friars out of them, fell, nevertheless, under the influence of the\nlatter: the priests sowed, but the Jesuits reaped the harvest.\n\nNothing did greater service to the cause of the Jesuits than their\nconstantly repeating that their austere founder had expressly forbidden\nthem ever to govern the convents of women.  This was true, as applied\nto convents generally, but false as regarded nuns in particular, and\ntheir special direction.  They did not, indeed, govern them\n_collectively_, but they directed them _individually_.\n\nThe Jesuit was not pestered with the daily detail of spiritual\nmanagement, or the small fry of trifling faults.  He did not fatigue;\nhe only interfered at the right time; he was particularly useful in\ndispensing the nuns from telling the confessor what they wished to\nconceal.  The latter became, by degrees, a sort of husband, whom they\nmight disregard.\n\nIf he happened, indeed, to have any firmness in his composition, or to\nbe able to exercise any influence, the others worked hard to get rid of\nhim by force of calumny.  We may form an opinion of the audacity of the\nJesuits in this particular, since they did not fear to attack the\nCardinal de Berulle himself, notwithstanding his power.[4]  One of his\nrelatives, living with the Carmelites, having become pregnant, they\nboldly accused him of the crime, though he had never set his foot\nwithin the convent.  Finding no one to believe them, and seeing they\nwould gain nothing by attacking him on the score of morality, they\njoined in a general outcry against his books.  \"They contained the\nhidden poison of a dangerous mysticism: the cardinal was too tender,\ntoo indulgent, and too weak, both as a theologian and _a director_.\"\nAstounding impudence! when everybody knew and saw what sort of\ndirectors they were themselves!\n\nThis, however, had, in time, the desired effect, if not against\nBerulle, at least against the Oratory, who became disgusted with, and\nafraid of, the direction of the nuns, and at last abandoned it.\n\nThis is a remarkable example of the all-powerful effects of _Calumny_,\nwhen organised on a grand scale by a numerous body, vented by them, and\ncontinually sung in chorus.  A band of thirty thousand men repeating\nthe same thing every day throughout the Christian world!  Who could\nresist that?  This is the very essence of Jesuitical art, in which they\nare unrivalled.  At the very creation of their order, a sentence was\napplied to them, similar to those well-known verses in which Virgil\nspeaks of the Romans:--\n\n  \"Excudent alii spirantia mollius aera,\" &c., &c.\n\nOthers shall animate brass, or give life to marble; the Romans shall\nexcel in other arts.  \"Remember, Jesuit, thy art is calumny.\"\n\n\n\n[1] Chateaubriand, Vie de Rance, pp. 227-229.\n\n[2] See Heliot; and, for Paris especially, Felibien.\n\n[3] OEuvres, vol. xi. p. 120 (ed. 3318.)\n\n[4] Tabaraud, Life of Berulle, vol. i. passim.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nREACTION OF MORALITY.--ARNAUD, 1643.--PASCAL, 1657.--BASENESS OF THE\nJESUITS.--HOW THEY GET HOLD OF THE KING AND THE POPE, AND IMPOSE\nSILENCE UPON THEIR ENEMIES.--DISCOURAGEMENT OF THE JESUITS.--THEIR\nCORRUPTION.--THEY PROTECT THE FIRST QUIETISTS.--IMMORALITY OF\nQUIETISM.--DESMARETS DE SAINT SORLIN.--MORIN BURNT, 1663.\n\n\nMorality was weakened, but not quite extinct.  Though undermined by the\ncasuists, Jesuitism, and by the intrigues of the clergy, it was saved\nby the laity.  The age presents us this contrast.  The priests, even\nthe best of them, the Cardinal de Berulle for instance, rush into the\nworld, and into politics; while illustrious persons among the laity,\nsuch as Descartes and Poussin, retire to seek solitude.  The\nphilosophers turn monks, and the saints become men of business.\n\nEach set of people will acquire what it desires in this century.  One\nparty will have power; they will succeed in obtaining the banishment of\nthe Protestants, the proscription of the Jansenists, and the submission\nof the Galileans to the pope.  Others will have science; Descartes and\nGalileo give the movements; Leibnitz and Newton furnish the harmony.\nThat is to say, the Church will triumph in temporal affairs, and the\nlaity will obtain the spiritual power.\n\nFrom the desert where our great lay-monks then took refuge a purer\nbreeze begins to blow.  We feel that a new age now commences, modern\nage, the age of work, following that of disputes.  No more dreams, no\nmore school-divinity.  We must now begin to work in earnest, early and\nbefore daylight.  It is rather cold, but no matter; it is the\nrefreshing coolness of the dawn, as after those beautiful nights in the\nNorth, where a young queen of twenty goes to visit Descartes, at four\nin the morning, to learn the application of algebra to geometry.\n\nThis serious and exalted spirit, which revived philosophy and modified\nliterature, had necessarily some influence on theology.  It found a\nresting point, though a very minute and still imperceptible one, in the\nassembly of the friends of Port-Royal; it added grandeur to their\nausterity, morality asserted its own claims, and religion awoke to a\nsense of her danger.\n\nEverything was going on prosperously for the Jesuits; as confessors of\nkings, grandees, and fine ladies, they saw their morality everywhere in\nfull bloom; when in this serene atmosphere, the lightning flashes and\nthe thunderbolt falls.  I speak of Arnaud's book, entitled \"Frequent\nCommunion\" (1643), so unexpected and so overwhelming.\n\nNot only the Jesuits and Jesuitism were struck by the blow, but, in\ngeneral, all that portion of Christendom, which was enervated by an\neasy indulgence.  Christianity appeared again austere and grave; the\nworld again saw with awe the pale face of its crucified Saviour.  He\ncame to say again, in the name of grace, what natural reason equally\nasserts, \"There is no real expiation without repentance.\"  What became\nof all their petty arts of evasion in presence of this severe truth?\nWhat became of their worldly devotions and romantic piety, together\nwith all the Philotheas, Erotheas, and their imitations?  The contrast\nappeared odious.\n\nOther writers have said, and will say, all this much better.  I am not\nwriting here the history of Jansenism.  The theological question is now\nbecome obsolete.  The moral question still survives, and history owes\nit one word, for it cannot remain indifferent between the honest and\nthe dishonest.  Whether the Jansenist did or did not exaggerate the\ndoctrine of grace, we must still call this party, as it deserves to be,\nin this grand struggle, the party of virtue.\n\nArnaud and Pascal are so far from having gone too far against their\nadversaries, that one might easily show they stopped short of the mark,\nof their own accord, that they did not wish to make use of all their\narms, and were afraid (in attacking, on certain delicate points, the\nJesuitical direction) of doing harm to direction in general, and to\nconfession.\n\nFerrier, the Jesuit, avows that, after the terrible blow inflicted by\nthe _Lettres Provinciales_, the Jesuits were crushed, and that they\nfell into derision and contempt.  A multitude of bishops condemned\nthem, and not one stood up in their defence.\n\nOne of the means they employed to mend their case was, to say boldly\nthat the opinions with which they were reproached were not those of the\nSociety, but of a few individuals.  They were answered that, as all\ntheir books were examined by the chief, they belonged thus to the whole\nbody.  No matter: to amuse the simple, they got a few of their order to\nwrite against their own doctrine.  A Spanish Jesuit wrote against\nUltramontanism.  Another, the Father Gonzales, wrote a book against the\ncasuists: he was very useful to them.  When, in course of time, Rome\nwas at last ashamed of their doctrine, and disavowed them, they put\nGonzales forward, printed his book, and made him their general.  Even\nin our own time, it is this book and this name that they oppose to us.\nThus they have an answer for everything.  Should you like _indulgence_,\ntake Escobar; should you prefer _severity_, take Gonzales.\n\nLet us now see what was the result of this general contempt into which\nthey fell after the _Provinciales_.  Public conscience having received\nsuch good warning, every one apparently will hasten to shun them.\nTheir confession will be avoided and their colleges deserted.  You\nthink so?  Then you are much mistaken.\n\nThey are too necessary to the corruption of the age.  How could the\nking, with his two-fold adultery posted up in the face of all Europe,\nmake his devotions without them?  Fathers Ferrier, Canard, and La\nChaise, will remain with him till the end, like pieces of furniture\nthat are too convenient to be dispensed with.\n\nBut does not Rome perceive how much she is compromised by such allies?\nIt is not incumbent on her to separate from them?\n\nFeeble attempts were not wanting.  A pope condemned the apology of the\ncasuists that the Jesuits had risked.  The energy of Rome went no\nfurther: if any remained, it was employed against the enemies of the\nJesuits.  The latter got the upper hand; they had succeeded, in the\nbeginning of the century, in getting the head of the Church to impose\nsilence on the doctrine of grace, as defended by the Dominicans; and\nthey silenced it again, in the middle of the century, when it\nrecommenced speaking by the mouth of the Jansenists.\n\nThe Jesuits showed their gratitude to Rome, for imposing this silence a\nsecond time, by stretching still farther the infallibility of the pope.\nThey did not fear to build up still higher this falling Tower of Babel;\nthey increased it by two stories: first, they asserted the\ninfallibility of the pope _in matters of faith_.  Secondly, when the\ndanger had become imminent, they took a bold and foolish step; but it\nsecured to them the friendship of Rome; they made the pope do in his\ndecrepitude what he had never dared to do in his power--declare himself\ninfallible _in matters of fact_.\n\nAnd this at the very moment that Rome was obliged to confess that she\nwas wrong about the greatest facts of nature and history.  Not to speak\nof the New World, which she was obliged to admit, after having denied\nit, she condemns Galileo, and then she submits to his system, adopts\nand teaches it: the penance that she imposed on him for one day has,\nsince Galileo, been inflicted upon herself for two hundred years.\n\nHere is another fact, still graver in one sense:--\n\nThe fundamental right of popes, the title of their power, those famous\nDecrees which they quoted and defended, as long as criticism, unaided\nby the art of printing, failed to enlighten mankind;--well! the pope is\nobliged to confess that these very Decrees are a tissue of lies and\nimposture.[1]\n\nWhat? when popery has disclaimed its own word, and given itself the lie\non the fundamental fact, upon which its own right depends, is it then\nthat the Jesuits claim for her infallibility in matters of fact?\n\nThe Jesuits have been the tempters and corrupters of popes as well as\nof kings.  They caught kings by their _concupiscence_, and popes by\ntheir _pride_.\n\nIt is a laughable, but touching sight to see this poor little Jansenist\nparty, then so great in genius and heart, resolute in making an appeal\nto the justice of Rome, and remaining on their knees before this\nmercenary judge!\n\nThe Jesuits were not so blind but that they saw that popery, foolishly\npropped up by them in theology, was miserably losing ground in the\npolitical world.  In the beginning of the 17th century the pope was\nstill powerful; he whipped Henry IV. in the person of the Cardinal\nd'Ossat.  But in the middle of that century, after all the great\nefforts of the Thirty Years' War, the pope was not even consulted in\nthe Treaty of Westphalia; and in that of the Pyrenees, between Catholic\nSpain and very-Christian France, they forgot that he existed.\n\nThe Jesuits had undertaken what was perfectly impossible; and the\nprincipal engine they employed for it--the monopoly of the rising\ngeneration--was not less impossible.  Their greatest effort had been\ndirected to this point; they had succeeded in getting into their hands\nthe greater part of the children of the nobility and of people of\nfortune; they had contrived, by means of education, a machine to narrow\nthe mind and crush the intellect.  But such was the vigour of modern\ninvention, that in spite of the most ingenious machinery to annihilate\ninvention, the first generation produced Descartes, the second the\nauthor of Tartuffe, and the third Voltaire.\n\nThe worst of it is, by the light of this great modern flambeau which\nthey had been unable to extinguish, they saw their own deformity.  They\nknew what they were, and began to despise themselves.  No one is so\nhardened in lying as to deceive himself entirely.  They were obliged\ntacitly to confess that their _probabilism_, or doctrine of\nprobability, was at bottom but doubt, and the absence of all principle.\nThey could not help discovering that they, the most Christian of all\nsocieties, and the champions of the faith, were only sceptics.\n\nOf faith?--what faith?  It was not, at any rate, Christian faith: all\ntheir theology had no other tendency than to ruin the base on which\nChristianity is founded--grace and salvation by the blood of Jesus\nChrist.\n\nChampions of a principle?  No; but agents of a plot, occupied with one\nproject, and this an impossible one--the restoration of popery.\n\nSome few Jesuits resolved to seek a remedy in themselves for their\nfallen condition.  They avowed frankly the urgent need that the Society\nhad of reform.  Their chief, a German, dared to attempt this reform;\nbut it went hard with him: the great majority of the Jesuits wished to\nmaintain the abuses, and they deprived him of all power.\n\nThese good workmen, who had been so successful in justifying the\nenjoyments of others, wanted to enjoy themselves in their turn.  They\nchose for their general a man after their own heart, amiable, gentle,\nand kind, the epicure Oliva.  Rome, recently governed by Madame\nOlympia, was in a season of indulgence; Oliva, retiring to his\ndelightful villa, said, \"Business to-morrow,\" and left the Society to\ngovern itself after its own fashion.\n\nSome became merchants, bankers, and cloth-makers for the profit of\ntheir establishments.  Others following more closely the example of the\npope, worked for their nephews, and transacted the business of their\nfamilies.  The idle wits frequented the public walks, coquetted, and\nmade madrigals.  Others again found amusement in chatting to the nuns,\nin the little secrets of women, and in sensual inquisitiveness.  Their\nrulers, lastly, who found themselves excluded from the society of\nwomen, became too often the Thyrsis and Corydons of the Colleges; the\nconsequence was in Germany a formidable investigation; when a great\nnumber of the proud and austere German houses were found to be criminal.\n\nThe Jesuits, who had fallen so low both in theory and practice,\nincreased their party at the risk of the strangest auxiliaries.\nWhoever declared himself an enemy of the Jansenists became their\nfriend.  Hence arose the immoral inconsistency of the Society--its\nperfect indifference to systems.  These people, who for more than half\na century had been fighting for free will, formed a sudden alliance,\nwithout any intervening period of transition, with the mystics who\nconfounded all their liberty in God.  Just before they had been\nreproached with following the principles of pagan philosophers and\njurisconsults, who attribute everything to justice and nothing to grace\nor love; now they receive quietism at its birth with open arms, and the\npreacher of love, the visionary Desmarets de St. Sorlin.\n\nDesmarets had, it is true, done them some essential service.  He had\nsucceeded in dismembering Port-Royal, by gaining over some of the nuns.\nHe assisted them powerfully in destroying poor Morin, another visionary\nmore original and more innocent, who fancied himself to be the Holy\nGhost.  He tells us himself how, being encouraged by Father Canard\n(Annat) the king's confessor, he gained the confidence of this\nunfortunate man, made him believe he was his disciple, and drew from\nhim written documents, by means of which he caused him to be burnt\n(1663).\n\nThe protection of this all-powerful confessor gained for the most\nextravagant books of Desmarets the approbation of the Archbishop of\nParis.  He declared in them that he was a prophet, and undertook to\nraise for the king and the pope an army of a hundred and forty-four\nthousand _devots_, as knights of papal infallibility, to exterminate,\nin concert with Spain, the Turks and the Jansenists.\n\nThese _devots_, or victims of love, were self-sacrificed people, who\naffected a sort of inward annihilation, and who lived henceforth only\nin God.  Hence they could do no harm.  The soul, said this prophet,\nhaving become a nonentity, cannot consent; so that whatever it may do,\ninasmuch as it has not consented, it has not sinned.  It no longer\nthinks at all, either of what it has done, or of what it has not done;\nfor it has done nothing at all.  God being all in us, does all, and\nsuffers all; the devil can no longer find the creature, either in\nitself or in its acts, for it acts no longer.  By an entire dissolution\nof ourselves, the virtue of the Holy Ghost flows into us, and we become\nwholly God, by a miraculous _deiformity_.  If there be still anything\njarring in the grosser part, the purer part knows nothing of it; but\nboth these parts, being subtilised and rarefied, change at last into\nGod; \"_God then abides with the emotions of sensuality, all of which\nare sanctified_.\"[2]\n\nDesmarets did not confine himself to printing this doctrine with the\nprivilege of the king and the approbation of the archbishop.  Strongly\nsupported by the Jesuits, he ran from convent to convent preaching to\nthe nuns.  Layman as he was, he had made himself a director of female\nyouth.  He related to them his dreams of devout gallantry, and inquired\nabout their carnal temptations.  It seemed that a man so perfectly\nself-annihilated might write fearlessly the strangest things--the\nfollowing letter for instance:--\"I embrace you, my very dear love, in\nyour nonentity, being a perfect nullity myself, each of us being all in\nour All, by our amiable Jesus,\" &c.\n\nWhat progress is here made in a few years, since the \"Provincial\nLetters!\"  What has become of the casuists?  Those simple people who\ntook and effaced transgressions one by one, giving themselves immense\ntrouble.  They are all scattered to the winds.\n\nCasuistry was an art that had its masters, doctors, and cunning men.\nBut now, what need of doctors?  Every _spiritual_ man, every devout\nperson, every Jesuit in a short robe can speak as well as he in the\nlong one the soft language of pious tenderness.  The Jesuits have\nfallen, but _Jesuitism_ has gained ground.  It is no longer requisite\nto direct the _attention_ every day, for every distinct case, by\nspecial equivocations.  Love that mingles and confounds everything is\nthe sovereign, most gentle, and powerful equivocation.  Lull the _will_\nto sleep and there is no longer any intention, \"The soul, losing its\nnonentity in its infinity,\" will be gently annihilated in the bosom of\nlove.\n\n\n\n[1] By two cardinals and librarians of the Vatican, Bellarmin and\nBaronius, one of whom was the confessor of the pope.\n\n[2] Desmarets de St. Sorlin's Delight of the Spirit, 29th _journee_, p.\n170.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nCONTINUATION OF MORAL REACTION.--TARTUFFE, 1664-1669.--REAL\nTARTUFFES.--WHY TARTUFFE IS NOT YET A QUIETIST.\n\n\nThe devotee caught in the fact by the man of the world, the churchman\nexcommunicated by the comedian--this is the meaning and aim of the\n_Tartuffe_.\n\nPlato, in his Athenian Tartuffe (the Euthyphron), put this grand moral\nquestion, \"Can there be _sanctity_ without _justice_?\"  This question,\nso clear in itself but so skilfully obscured by casuists, was again put\nforward in open daylight.  The _Theatre_ re-established religious\nmorality which had been so endangered in the _Churches_.\n\nThe author of the _Tartuffe_ chose his subject, not in society in\ngeneral, but in a more limited space, in the family circle, the\nfireside, the holy of holies of modern life.  This dramatist, this\nimpious being was, of all men in the world, the one who had most at\nheart the religion of the family, though he had no family himself.  He\nwas both tender and melancholy, and sometimes, in speaking of himself\nand his domestic griefs, he would utter this grave but characteristic\nsentence: \"I ought to have foreseen that one thing made me unfit for\nfamily society; which is my austerity.\"\n\nThe _Tartuffe_, that grand and sublime picture, is very simple in its\noutline.  Had it been more complicated it had been less popular.\n_Mental restriction_ and the _direction of intention_, which everybody\nhad laughed at since the \"Provincial Letters,\" were sufficient matter\nfor Moliere.  He did not venture to bring the new doctrine of mysticism\non the stage, being as yet too little known or too dangerous.\n\nHad he employed the jargon of Desmarets and the earlier quietists, and\nput into the mouth of Tartuffe their mystic tendernesses, the result\nwould have been the same as that of his ridiculous sonnet in the\n_Misanthrope_--the pit would have wondered what it meant.\n\nThe evening before the first representation of Tartuffe, Moliere read\nthe piece to Ninon; \"and to pay him back in his own coin, she related\nto him a similar adventure she had had with a wretch of that species,\nwhose portrait she drew in such lively and natural colours, that if the\npiece had not been composed, he said he never would have undertaken it.\"\n\nWhat, then, could be wanting to this master-piece, this drama of such\nprofound conception and powerful execution?  Nothing, certainly, but\nwhat was excluded by the state of religion at that time, and by the\ncustoms of our theatre.\n\nStill one thing was wanting, which was impossible to be shown in so\nshort a drama (though, in fact, it constitutes the real essence of the\ncharacters), I mean the preparatory management, the long windings by\nwhich he makes his approaches, his patience in stratagems, and his\ngradual fascination.\n\nEverything is strongly told, but rather abruptly.  This man, received\ninto the house out of charity--this low rogue, this glutton who eats as\nmuch as six, this red-eared villain--how did he grow bold so suddenly\nand aspire so high?  A declaration of love from such a man to such a\nlady, from an intended son-in-law to his future mother-in-law, still\nastonishes when we read it.  On the stage, perhaps, we countenance it\nmore easily.\n\nElmira, when the holy man makes this surprising avowal to her face is\nby no means prepared to listen to him.  A real Tartuffe would have\nacted in a very different manner: he would have quietly sat down,\nhumble and patient, and waited for the favourable moment.  If, for\ninstance, Elmira had experienced the indiscretions and fickleness of\nthose worldly lovers whom Tartuffe mentions, then, indeed, when she was\nworn out by these trials, and become weak, weary, and dispirited, he\nmight have accosted her; then perhaps she would have allowed him to\nsay, in the smooth quietist jargon, many things that she cannot listen\nto at the moment when Moliere presents her before us.\n\nMademoiselle Bourignon, in her curious _Life_, which well deserves\nanother edition, relates what danger she was in through a saint of this\nspecies.  I shall let her speak for herself.  But first you must know\nthat the pious damsel, who had just become an heiress, was thinking\nabout laying out her wealth in endowing convents, and in other similar\nacts of piety.\n\n\"Being, one day, in the streets of Lille, I met a man whom I did not\nknow, who said to me as he passed, 'You will not do what you wish; you\nwill do what you do not wish.'  Two days after, the same man came to my\nhouse and said, 'What did you think of me?'  'That you were either a\nfool or a prophet,' replied I.  'Neither,' said he; 'I am a poor fellow\nfrom a village near Douai, and my name is Jean de St. Saulieu; I have\nno other thought but that of charity.  I lived first of all with a\nhermit, but now I have my cure, Mr. Roussel, for a director.  I teach\npoor children to read.  The sweetest--the most charitable act you could\ndo would be to collect all the little female orphans; they have become\nso numerous since the wars!  The convents are rich enough.'  He spoke\nfor three hours together with much unction.\n\n\"I inquired about him of the cure, his director, who assured me that he\nwas a person of a truly apostolical zeal.  (We should observe that the\ncure had tried at first to catch this rich heiress for his own nephew;\nthe nephew not succeeding, he employed one of his own creatures.)\nSaint Saulieu frequently repeated his visits, speaking divinely of\nspiritual things.  I could not understand how a man without any\npreparatory study could speak in so sublime a manner of the divine\nmysteries.  I believed him to be really inspired by the Holy Ghost.  He\nsaid himself that he was dead to nature.  He had been a soldier, and\nhad returned from the wars as chaste as a child.  By dint of abstinence\nhe had lost the taste of food, and could no longer distinguish wine\nfrom beer!  He passed the greater part of his time on his knees in the\nchurches.  He was seen to walk in the street with a modest air and\ndowncast eyes, never looking at anything, as if he had been alone in\nthe world.  He visited the poor and sick, giving away all he possessed.\nIn winter time, if he saw a poor man without a garment, he would draw\nhim aside, take off his own coat, and give it him.  My heart overflowed\nwith joy to see that there were still such men in the world.  I thanked\nGod, and thought I had found the counterpart of myself.  Priests and\nother pious persons put the same confidence in him, went to consult\nhim, and receive his good advice.\n\n\"It was quite foreign to my feelings to quit my peaceful retreat, and\nestablish the asylum for children that Saint Saulieu had recommended to\nme.  But he brought me a tradesman who had begun the same thing, and\nwho offered me a house where he had already located a few poor girls.\nI took possession in November, 1653.  I cleaned these children.  They\nwere shockingly dirty, but after a great deal of trouble, I cleaned\nthem myself, having nobody with me who liked the occupation.  But at\nlast I made a rule, and followed it myself, putting every thing in\ncommon, and making every one eat at the same table.  I kept myself as\nretired as I could; but I was obliged to speak to all sorts of persons.\nFriars came, as well as devotees whose conversations did not much\nplease me...  I was frequently sick to death.\n\n\"The house in which Saint Saulieu taught having been destroyed, and\nhimself sent away, he went to live with the tradesman of whom I have\nalready spoken.  They solicited me to make an asylum, like mine, for\nboys.  In order to raise a necessary fund, Saint Saulieu was to take an\noffice in the town on lease, that brought in two thousand francs\na-year, and the revenue was to be applied to this foundation, myself\nbeing security for him.  He received the produce of one year, and then\nsaid it was necessary, before anything was done, to receive for another\nyear, to furnish the house.  This made four thousand franks; and when\nhe had got six thousand, he kept the whole, saying it was the fruit of\nhis labour, and that he had well earned it.\n\n\"I had not waited for this to make me distrustful of the man; I had had\nsome strange inward misgivings on his account.  One day methought I saw\na black wolf sporting with a white lamb.  Another day it was the heart\nof Saint Saulieu, and a little Moorish child with a crown and sceptre\nof gold sitting upon it, as if the devil had been the king of his\nheart.  I did not conceal these visions from him; but he grew angry,\nand said I ought to confess myself, for thinking so badly of my\nneighbour; that he could not be a black wolf; for, on the contrary, the\nmore he approached me, the more pure and chaste he became.\n\n\"One day, however, he told me that we ought to be married, only for\nspiritual love; and that such a union would enable us to do still more\ngood.  To this I answered, that marriage was not requisite for such a\nunion.  He made me, however, little demonstrations of friendship, to\nwhich, at first, I paid no attention.  At last, he suddenly threw off\nthe mask, told me he loved me desperately; that for many years he had\nstudied spiritual books, the better to win me; and that now having so\nmuch access to me, I must be his wife, either by love or force and he\napproached to caress me.  I was very angry, and commanded him to go.\nThen he burst into tears, fell on his knees, and said, 'The devil\ntempted me.'  I was simple enough to believe and to pardon him.\n\n\"This was not the end of the affair: he was always recommencing his\nattack, following me everywhere, and entering my house in spite of my\ngirls.  He went so far as to hold a knife to my throat to force me to\nyield...  At the same time he said everywhere that he had gained his\nsuit, and that I was his promised wife.  I complained in vain to his\nconfessor; I then appealed to justice, who allowed me two men to guard\nmy house, and began an enquiry.  Saint Saulieu soon absconded from\nLille, and went to Ghent, where he found one of my girls, who was a\ngreat devotee and passed for a mirror of perfection: he lived with her,\nand she became _enceinte_.  The way he arranged the Lille affair was\nthis: he had a brother among the Jesuits, and they employed their\nfriends so well, that he got off by paying the costs of justice,\nretracting his calumny, and acknowledging that I was an honest\nwomen.\"[1]\n\nThis took place between 1653 and 1658, consequently only a few years\nbefore the representation of Moliere's _Tartuffe_, who wrote the three\nfirst acts in 1664.  Everything leads us to believe that such\nadventures were not rare at that period.  Tartuffe, Orgon, and all the\nother personages of this truly historical piece, are not abstract\nbeings, pure creations of art, like the heroes of Corneille or Racine;\nthey are real men, caught in the act, and taken from nature.\n\nWhat strikes us in Mademoiselle de Bourignon's Flemish Tartuffe is his\npatience to study and learn mysticism in order to speak its language;\nand, again, his perseverance in associating himself for whole years\nwith the thoughts of the pious maiden.\n\nIf Moliere had not been confined in so narrow a frame, if his\n_Tartuffe_ had had the time to prepare better his advances, if he had\nbeen able (the thing was then, no doubt, too dangerous) to take the\ncloak of Desmarets and Quietism in its birth, he might have advanced\nstill further in his designs without being discovered.  Then he would\nnot in the very beginning have made to the person he wants to seduce\nthe very illogical confession, that he is a cheat.  He would not have\nventured the expression, \"If it be only heaven\" (Act iv. scene 5).\nInstead of unmasking abruptly this ugly corruption, he would have\nvarnished it over, and unveiled it by degrees.  From one ambiguous\nphrase to another, and by a cunning transition, he would have contrived\nto make corruption take the appearance of perfection.  Who knows?  He\nmight perhaps at last have succeeded, like many others, in finding it\nunnecessary to be a hypocrite any longer, and have finished by imposing\non himself, cheating and seducing himself into the belief that he was a\nsaint.  It is then he would have been Tartuffe in the superlative\ndegree, being so not only for the world, but for himself, having\nperfectly confounded within himself every ray of good, and reposing in\nevil with a tranquillity secured by his ignorance, counterfeit at\nfirst, but afterwards become natural.\n\n\n\n[1] The two accounts given by Mademoiselle de Bourignon are abridged\nand united.  See at the end of Vol. I. of her OEuvres (Amsterdam,\n1686), pp. 68-80, and pp. 188-197.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nAPPARITION OF MOLINOS, 1675.--HIS SUCCESS AT HOME.--FRENCH\nQUIETISTS.--MADAME GUYON.--HER DIRECTOR.--THE TORRENTS.--MYSTIC\nDEATH.--DO WE RETURN FROM IT?\n\n\n_The Spiritual Guide_ of Molinos appeared at Rome in 1675.  The way\nhaving been prepared for twenty years by different publications of the\nsame tendency, highly approved of by the inquisitors of Rome and Spain,\nthis book had a success unparalleled in the age; in twelve years it was\ntranslated and reprinted twenty times.\n\nWe must not be surprised that this guide to annihilation, this method\nto die, was received so greedily.  There was then throughout Europe a\ngeneral feeling of wearisomeness.  That century, still far from its\nclose, already panted for repose.  This appears to be the case by its\nown doctrines.  Cartesianism, which gave it an impulse, became inactive\nand contemplative in Mallebranche (1674).  Spinosa, as early as 1670,\nhad declared the immobility of God, man, and the world, in the unity of\nsubstance.  And in 1676, Hobbes gave his theory of political fatalism.\n\nSpinosa, Hobbes, and Molinos--death, everywhere, in metaphysics,\npolitics, and morality!  What a dismal chorus!  They are of one mind\nwithout knowing each other or forming any compact; they seem, however,\nto shout to each other from one extremity of Europe to the other!\n\nPoor human liberty has nothing left but the choice of its suicide;\neither to be hurled by logic in the North into the bottomless pit of\nSpinosa, or to be lulled in the South by the sweet voice of Molinos,\ninto a death-like and eternal slumber.\n\nThe age is, however, as yet in all its brilliancy and triumph.  Some\ntime must pass away before these discouraging and deadly thoughts pass\nfrom theory to practice, and politics become infected with this moral\nlanguor.\n\nIt is a delicate and interesting moment in every existence, that middle\nterm between the period of increasing vigour and that of old age, when,\nretaining its brilliancy, it loses its strength, and decay\nimperceptibly begins.  In the month of August the trees have all their\nleaves, but soon they change colour, many a one grows pale, and in\ntheir splendid summer robe you have a presentiment of their autumnal\ndecline.\n\nFor some time an impure and feverish wind had blown from the South,\nboth from Italy and Spain: Italy was already too lifeless, too deeply\nentombed to be able to produce even a doctrine of death.  It was a\nSpaniard, established at Rome and imbued with Italian languor, who\ninvented this theory and drew it forth into practice.  Still it was\nnecessary for his disciples to oblige him to write and publish.\nMolinos had, for twenty years, been satisfied with sowing his doctrine\nnoiselessly in Rome, and propagating it gently from palace to palace.\nThe theology of Quietism was wonderfully adapted to the city of\ncatacombs, the silent city, where, from that time, scarcely anything\nwas heard but the faint rustling of worms crawling in the sepulchre.\n\nWhen the Spaniard arrived in Rome, it had hardly recovered from the\neffeminate pontificate of Madame Olympia.  The _crucified Jesus_\nreposed in the delicate hands of her general Oliva, among sumptuous\n_vines_, exotic flowers, lilies, and roses.  These torpid Romans, this\nidle nobility, and these lazy fair ones, who pass their time on\ncouches, with half-closed eyes, are the persons to whom Molinos comes\nat a late hour to speak--ought I to say _speak_?  His low whispering\nvoice, sinking into their lethargy, is confounded with their inward\ndream.\n\nQuietism had quite a different character in France.  In a living\ncountry, the theory of death showed some symptoms of life.  An infinite\nmeasure of activity was employed to prove that action was no longer\nnecessary.  This injured their doctrine, for noise and light were\nhurtful to it.  This delicate plant loved darkness and sought to grow\nin the shade.  Not to speak of the chimerical Desmarets, who could but\nrender an opinion ridiculous, Malaval seemed to have an idea that this\nnew doctrine outstepped Christianity.  Concerning the words of Jesus,\n\"_I am the way_,\" he uses an expression surprising for this century:\n\"Since He is the way, let us pass by Him; _but he who is always passing\nnever arrives_.\"\n\nOur French Quietists by their lucid analysis, their rich and fertile\ndevelopments, made known, for the first time, what had scarcely been\ndreamed of in the obscure form which Quietism had prudently preserved\nin other countries.  Many things, that seemed in the bud hardly\ndeveloped, appeared in Madame Guyon in full bloom, as clear as\ndaylight, with the sun in the meridian.  The singular purity of this\nwoman rendered her intrepid in advancing the most dangerous ideas.  She\nwas as pure in her imagination as she was disinterested in her motives.\nShe had no need to figure to herself the object of her pious love,\nunder a material form.  This is what gives her mysticism a sublime\nsuperiority over the coarse and sensual devotion of the _Sacre-Coeur_,\nestablished by the _Visitandine_, Marie Alacoque, about the same\nperiod.  Madame Guyon was far too intellectual to give a form to her\nGod; she truly loved a spirit; hence sprang her confidence and\nunlimited courage.  She attempts bravely, but without suspecting\nherself to be brave, the most perilous paths, now ascending, now\ndescending into regions that others had most avoided; she presses\nboldly forward past the point where every one had stopped through fear,\nlike the luminary which brightens everything and remains unsullied\nitself.  These courageous efforts, though innocent in so pure a woman,\nhad nevertheless a dangerous effect upon the weak-minded.  Her\nconfessor, Father Lacombe, was wrecked in this dangerous gulf, where he\nwas swallowed up and drowned.  The person and the doctrine had equally\nderanged his faculties.  All we know of his intercourse with her\nbetrays a strange weakness, which she, in her sublime aspirations,\nseems hardly to have condescended to notice.  The very first time he\nsaw her, then young, and tending her aged husband, he was so affected\nby the sight that he fainted.  Afterwards, having become her humble\ndisciple, under the name of her director, he followed her everywhere in\nher adventurous life, both in France and Savoy.  He never left her\nside, \"and could not dine without her.\"  He had succeeded in getting\nher portrait taken.  Being arrested at the same time as herself, in\n1687, he was for ten years a prisoner in the fortresses of the\nPyrenees.  In 1698, they took advantage of the weakness of his mind to\nmake him write to Madame Guyon a compromising letter: \"The poor man,\"\nsaid she, laughing, \"is become mad.\"  He certainly was so, and, a few\ndays after, he died at Charenton.\n\nThis madness little surprises me, when I read Madame Guyon's\n_Torrents_, that fantastic, charming, but fearful book.  It must not be\npassed over in silence.\n\nWhen she composed the book, she was at Annecy, in the convent of the\n_newly converted_.  She had bestowed her wealth upon her family, and\nthe small income she reserved for herself was also given away by her to\nthis religious establishment, where she was very ill used.  This\ndelicate woman, who had passed her life in luxury, was forced to work\nwith her hands beyond her strength; her employment was washing and\nsweeping.  Father Lacombe, then in Rome, had recommended her to write\nwhatever came into her mind.  \"It is to obey you,\" says she, \"that I am\nbeginning to write what I do not know myself.\"  She takes a ream of\npaper, and writes down the title of her subject:--_Torrents_.\n\nAs the torrents of the Alps, the rivers, rivulets, and mountain\nstreams, which tumble from their heights, rush with all their force\ntowards the sea, even so our souls, by the effect of their spiritual\ninclination, hasten to return towards God to be blended with Him.  This\ncomparison of living waters is not a simple text that serves her for a\nstarting-point; she follows it up almost throughout the volume with\nrenewed graces.  One would suppose that this pleasing light style would\ntire us at last; but it does not: we feel that it is not mere words and\nlanguage, but that it springs and flows like life-blood from the heart.\nShe is evidently an uninformed woman, who has read only the Imitation,\nthe Philothea of Saint Francois, some few stories, and Don Quixote;\nknows nothing at all, and has not seen much.  Even these _Torrents_,\nwhich she describes, are not seen by her in the Alps, where she then\nis; she sees them within herself; she sees nature in the mirror of her\nheart.\n\nIn reading this book we seem absolutely as if we were on the brink of a\ncascade, pensively listening to the murmuring of the waters.  They fall\nfor ever and ever gently and charmingly, varying their uniformity by a\nthousand changes of sound and colour.  Thence you see the approach of\nwaters of every sort (images of human souls), rivers that flow only to\nreach other broad majestic streams, all loaded with boats, goods, and\npassengers, and that are admired and blessed for the services they\nrender.  These streams are the souls of the saints and great doctors.\nThere are also more rapid and eager waters which are good for nothing,\non which no one dares to float, that rush forward, in headlong\nimpatience, to reach the ocean.  Such waters have terrible falls, and\noccasionally grow impure.  Sometimes they disappear.--Alas! poor\ntorrent, what has become of thee?  It is not lost; it returns to the\nsurface, but only to be lost again; it is yet far from its goal; it\nwill have first to be dashed against rocks, scattered abroad, and, as\nit were, annihilated!\n\nWhen the writer has brought her torrent to this supreme fall, she is at\nfault about the simile of the living waters; she then leaves it, and\nthe torrent becomes a soul again.  No image taken from nature could\nexpress what this soul is about to suffer.  Here begins a strange\ndrama, where it seems no one before had dared to venture--that of\nmystic death.  We certainly find in earlier books a word here and there\nupon this dark subject; but no one yet had reached the same depth in\nthe tomb, that deep pit where the soul is about to be buried.  Madame\nGuyon indulges in a sort of pleasure, or perseverance, I had almost\nsaid eagerness, to grope still lower, to find, beyond all funereal\nideas, a more definite death, a death more decidedly dead.\n\nThere are many things in it, that we should never have expected from a\nwoman's hand: passion in its transports forgets reserve.  This soul,\nthat is destined to perish, must first be divested, by her divine\nlover, of her trappings, the gifts that had ornamented her: he snatches\noff her garments, that is to say, the virtues in which she had been\nenveloped.--O shame!  She sees herself naked, and knows not where to\nhide!  This is not yet enough; her beauty is taken away.  O horror!\nShe sees she is ugly.  Frightened and wandering, she runs and becomes\nloathsome.  The faster she runs towards God, \"the more she is soiled by\nthe dirty paths she must travel in.\"  Poor, naked, ugly, and deformed,\nshe loses a taste for everything, understanding, memory, and will;\nlastly, she loses together with her will a something or other \"that is\nher favourite,\" and would be a substitute for all--the idea that she is\na child of God.  This is properly the death at which she must arrive at\nlast.  Let nobody, neither the director nor any other, attempt to\nrelieve her.  She must die, and be put in the ground; be trodden under\nfoot and walked upon, become foul and rotten, and suffer the stench of\ncorruption, until rottenness becoming dust and ashes, hardly anything\nmay remain to testify that the soul ever existed.\n\nWhat was the soul must, if it still thinks, apparently think that all\nit can now do is, to remain motionless in the bosom of the earth.  Now,\nhowever, it begins to feel something surprising!  Has the sun darted a\nray through a crack in the tomb?  perhaps only for one moment?  No: the\neffect is durable, the dead soul revives, recovers some strength, a\nsort of life.  But this is no longer her own life, it is _life in God_.\nShe has no longer anything of her own, neither will nor desire.  What\nhas she to do to possess what she loves?  Nothing, nothing, eternally\nnothing.  But can she have any defects in this state?  Doubtless she\nhas; she knows them, but does nothing to get rid of them: to be able to\ndo so, she would have to become as before, \"thoughtful about herself.\"\nThese are little mists which she must allow to disappear gradually.\nThe soul has now God for soul; He is now become her principle of life,\n_He is one and identical_ with her.\n\n\"In this state nothing extraordinary happens, no visions, revelations,\necstasies, nor transports.  All such things do not belong to this\nsystem, which is simple, pure, and naked, seeing nothing but in God,\n_as God sees Himself_, and by His eyes.\"\n\nThus, after many immoral and dangerous things, the book ends in a\nsingular purity, which few mystics have even approached.  A gentle new\nbirth, without either visions or ecstasies, and a sight divinely pure\nand serene, is the lot of that soul, which has passed through all the\nvarious shadows of death.\n\nIf we listen to Madame Guyon, our life, after having been crushed,\nsoiled, and destroyed, will revive in God.  He who has passed through\nall the horror of the sepulchre, whose living body has become a corpse,\nwhich has held communion with worms, and from rottenness has become\nashes and clay--even he will resume his life, and again bloom in the\nsun.\n\nWhat can be less credible, or less conformable to nature?  She deceives\nherself and us by equivocal terms.  The life she promises us after this\ndeath is not our own; our personality extinguished, effaced, and\nannihilated, will be succeeded by another, infinite and perfect, I\nallow; but still not ours.\n\nI had not yet read the _Torrents_ when all this was, for the first\ntime, represented to my mind.  I was ascending St. Gothard, and had\nadvanced to meet the violent Reuss that rushes madly down the mountain\nin its headlong course.  My imagination conjured up, in spite of\nmyself, the terrible strugglings with which it labours to force its way\nthrough rocks that would hem it in and bar its progress.  I was\nfrightened at its falls and the efforts it seemed to make, like a poor\nsoul on the rack, to fly from itself, and hide where it might be seen\nno more.  It writhes at the Devil's Bridge, and, in the midst of its\nagony, hurled from an immense height to the bottom of the abyss, it\nceases for a moment to be a river: it becomes a tempest between heaven\nand earth, an icy vapour, a horrible frosty blast, that fills the dark\nvalley with an infernal mist.  Mount higher and higher still.  You\ntraverse a cavern, and pass a hollow rock.  Lo! the uproar ceases; this\ngrand battle of the elements is over.  Peace and silence reign.  And\nlife?--is it renewed?  Do you find a new-birth after this\ndeath-struggle?  The meadow is blighted, the flowers are gone, and the\nvery grass is scarce and poor.  Nothing in nature stirs, not a bird in\nthe air, not an insect on the earth.  You see the sun again, it is\ntrue, but void of rays and heat.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VIII.\n\nFENELON AS DIRECTOR.--HIS QUIETISM.--MAXIMS OF SAINTS, 1697.--FENELON\nAND MADAME DE LA MAISONPORT.\n\n\nMadame Guyon was not apparently the extravagant and chimerical person\nthat her enemies pretend, since, on her arrival at Paris from Savoy,\nshe managed to captivate and secure, at her first onset, the man, of\nall others, the most capable of giving a relish to her doctrines--a man\nof genius, who, moreover, had an infinite fund of sagacity and address,\nand who, independently of all these merits, possessed what had\ndispensed, if necessary, with every other qualification, being, at that\ntime, the director the most in vogue.\n\nThis new Chantal required a St. Francois de Sales; she found one in\nFenelon, who was less serene and innocent, it is true, and less\nrefulgent with boyhood and seraphic grace, but eminently noble and\nshrewd, subtle, eloquent, close, very devout, and very intriguing.\n\nShe laid her hands upon him, seized and carried him by an easy assault.\nThis great genius, whose mind was stored with every variety and every\ncontradiction, would probably have continued to waver, had it not been\nfor this powerful impulse that forced him all on one side.  Till then\nhe had wandered between different opinions, and opposite parties and\ncommunities, so that every one claimed him as his own, and thought to\npossess him.  Though assiduous in courting Bossuet, whose disciple he\nsaid he was, never leaving his side in his retirement at Meaux, he was\nnot less friendly to the Jesuits, and, between the two, he still held\nfast to Saint-Sulpice.  In his theology, at one time inclining towards\nGrace, at another towards Free-will, imbued with the oldest mystics,\nand full of the presentiments of the eighteenth century, he seems to\nhave had, beneath his faith, some obscure corners of scepticism which\nhe was unwilling to fathom.  All these divers elements, without being\nable to combine, were harmonised in his outward actions, under the\ngraceful influence of the most elegant genius that was ever met with.\nBeing both a Grecian and a Christian, he reminds us at the same time of\nthe fathers, philosophers, and romancers of the Alexandrian period; and\nsometimes our sophist turns prophet, and, in his sermon, soars on the\nwings of Isaiah.\n\nEverything inclines us to believe, for all that, that the astonishing\nwriter was the least part of Fenelon--he was superlatively the\n_Director_.  Who can say by what enchantment he bewitched souls, and\nfilled them with transport?  We perceive traces of it in the infinite\ncharms of his correspondence, disfigured and adulterated as it is;[1]\nno other has been more cruelly pruned, purged, and designedly obscured.\nYet in these fragments and scattered remains, seduction is still\nomnipotent: besides a nobleness of manner, and an animated and refined\nturn of thought, in which the man of power is very perceptible under\nthe robe of the apostle, there is also what is particularly his own, a\nfeminine delicacy that by no means excludes strength, and even in his\nsubtilty an indescribable tenderness that touches the heart.  When a\nyouth, and before he was tutor to the Duke of Burgundy, he had, for a\nlong time, directed the _newly converted_.  There he had the\nopportunity of well studying woman's character, and of acquiring that\nperfect knowledge of the female heart, in which he was unrivalled.\n\nThe impassioned interest they took in his fortune, the tears of his\nlittle flock, the Duchesses of Chevreuse, Beauvilliers, and others,\nwhen he missed the archbishopric of Paris, their constant fidelity to\nthis well-beloved guide during his exile at Cambrai, which ended only\nwith his death--all this fills up the void of the lost letters, and\nconveys a strange idea of this all-powerful magician, whose invincible\nmagic defied every attack.\n\nTo introduce spirituality so refined and so exalted, and such a\npretension to supreme perfection into that world of outward propriety\nand ceremonial at Versailles, and this, at the end of a reign in which\neverything seemed rigidly frozen--was, indeed, a rash undertaking.\nThere was no question here of abandoning one's self, like Madame Guyon\nin her retreat among the Alps, to the torrents of divine love.  It was\nnecessary to have the appearance of common sense, and the forms of\nreason even in the madness of love; it was expedient, as the ancient\ncomic writer says \"_to run mad with rule and measure_.\"  This is what\nFenelon attempted to do in the _Maxims of Saints_.  The condemnation of\nMolinos, and the imprisonment of Madame Guyon at Vincennes, were a\nsufficient lesson: he declared himself, but with prudence, and though\nperfectly decided, maintained an outward show of weak indecision.\n\nNevertheless, with all his skill, cunning, and prevarication, if he\ndiffers from the absolute Quietists whom he affects to condemn, it is\nless in any fundamental part of doctrine, than the degree in which he\nadmits that doctrine.  He thinks he goes far enough in saying, that the\nstate of quiet in which the soul loses its activity is not a\n_perpetually_, but an _habitually_ passive state.  But in acknowledging\ninaction to be both superior to action and a state of perfection, does\nhe not make us wish that the inaction might be perpetual?\n\nThe soul _habitually_ passive, according to him, is concentrated above,\nleaving beneath her the inferior part, whose acts are those of an\nentirely _blind_ and involuntary commotion.  _These acts being always\nsupposed to be voluntary_, he avows that the superior part still\nremains responsible for them.  Will they then be governed by it?  By no\nmeans; it is absorbed in its sublime quietude.  What, then, is to\ninterfere in its place?  What is to keep order in this lower sphere,\nwhere the soul no longer descends?  He tells us plainly--_it is the\ndirector_.\n\nHis modification of Molinos in theory is less important than it seems\nto be.  The speculative part, with which Bossuet is so much occupied,\nis not the most essential in a point where practice is so directly\ninterested.  What is really serious is, that Fenelon, as well as\nMolinos, after having traced out a great plan of regulations, has not\nenough of these rules; he has to call in, at every moment, the\nassistance of the director.  He establishes a system; but this system\ncannot work alone; it wants the hand of man.  This inert theory\ncontinually requires the supplement of an especial consultation, and an\nempirical expedient.  The director is a sort of supplementary soul for\nthe soul, who, whilst this last is sleeping in its sublime sphere, is\nleading and regulating every thing for it in this miserable world\nbelow, which is, after all, that of reality.\n\nMan, eternally man! this is what you find at the bottom of their\ndoctrines in sifting and compressing them.  This is the _ultima ratio_\nof their systems.  Such is their theory, and such their life also.\n\nI leave these two illustrious adversaries, Fenelon and Bossuet, to\ndispute about ideas.  I prefer to observe their practice.  There, I see\nthat the doctrine has but a little, and man a very great part.  Whether\nQuietists or Anti-quietists, they do not differ much in their method of\nenveloping the soul, and lulling the will to sleep.\n\nDuring this contention of theories, or rather before it began, there\nwas a personal one, very curious to witness.  The stake in this game,\nif I may use the expression, the spiritual prize that both sides\ndisputed, was a woman, a charming soul, full of transport and youth, of\nan imprudent vivacity, and ingenuous loyalty.  She was a niece of\nMadame Guyon, a young lady whom they called Madame de la Maisonfort,\nfor she was a canoness.  This noble, but poor young lady, ill-treated\nby her father and stepmother, had fallen into the cold political hands\nof Madame de Maintenon.  Either for the vanity of founding, or in order\nto amuse an old king rather difficult to entertain, she was then\nestablishing Saint-Cyr, for the daughters of noble families.  She knew\nthe king was ever _sensible_ to women, and consequently let him see\nonly old ones or children.  The boarders of Saint-Cyr, who in the\ninnocency of their sports gladdened the eyes of the old man, brought to\nhis mind a former age, and offered him a mild and innocent opportunity\nfor paternal gallantry.\n\nMadame de Maintenon, who, as is well known, owed her singular fortune\nto a certain decent harmony of middling qualities, looked out for an\neminently middling person, if one may use the expression, to\nsuperintend this establishment.  She could not do better than to seek\nhim among the Sulpicians and Lazarists.  Godet, the Sulpician, whom she\ntook as director both of Saint-Cyr and herself; was a man of merit,\nthough a downright pedant; at least Saint Simon, his admirer, gives us\nthis sort of definition of him.  Madame de Maintenon saw in him the\nblunt matter-of-fact priest, who might insure her against every sort of\neccentricity.  With such a man as that, one would have nothing to fear:\nhaving to choose between the two men of genius who influenced\nSaint-Cyr, Racine the Jansenist, and Fenelon the Quietist, she\npreferred Godet.\n\nThose who are ignorant of its history would have only to look at the\nmansion of Saint-Cyr, to discern in it at once the real abode of\n_ennui_.  The soul of the foundress, the domineering spirit of the\ngoverness, is everywhere perceptible.  The very look of the place makes\none yawn.  It would be something, if this building had but a sorrowful\ncharacter; even sadness may entertain the soul.  No, it is not sad, yet\nit is not the more cheerful on that account; there is nothing to be\nsaid against it, the character and the style being equally null; there\nis nothing one can even blame.  Of what age is the chapel?  Neither\nGothic nor the _renaissance_, nor is it even the Jesuit style.\nPerhaps, then, there is something of the Jansenist austerity?  It is by\nno means austere.  What is it then?  Nothing.  But this nothing causes\nan overwhelming _ennui_, such as one would never find elsewhere.\n\nAfter this first short half-devout and half-worldly period, that of the\nrepresentations of Athalie and Esther, which the young ladies had\nplayed too well, the school being reformed, became a sort of convent.\nInstead of Racine, it was the Abbe Pellegrin and Madame de Maintenon\nwho wrote pieces for Saint-Cyr; and the governesses were required to be\nnuns.  This was a great change; it displeased Louis XIV. himself, and\nran the risk of compromising the new establishment.  Madame de\nMaintenon seems to have been aware of this, and she looked out for a\n_foundation-stone to her edifice_, a living one--alas! a woman full of\ngrace and life!--It was poor Maisonfort, whom they decided to veil,\nimmure, and seal up for ever in the foundations of Saint-Cyr.\n\nBut she whose will was law in everything, was unable to do this.\nLively and independent as was La Maisonfort, all the kings and queens\nin the world would have been unsuccessful.  The heart alone, skilfully\ntouched, was able to induce her to take the desired step.  Madame de\nMaintenon, who desired it extremely, made such vigorous efforts, that\nthey surprise us when we read her letters.  That very reserved person\nthrows her character aside in this business: she becomes confiding, in\norder to be confided in, and does not fear to avow to the young girl,\nwhom she wishes to make disgusted with this life, that she herself, in\nthe highest station in the world, \"is dying of sadness and _ennui_.\"\n\nWhat proved to be much more efficacious, was their employing against\nher a new director, the seducing, charming, irresistible Abbe de\nFenelon.  He was then on very good terms with Madame de Maintenon;\ndining every Sunday with her in the apartments of the Duchesses de\nBeauvilliers and de Chevreuse, where, all alone, without servants, they\nserved themselves, that they might not be overheard.  The inclination\nLa Maisonfort felt for this singular man was great, and authority\nordered her to follow this inclination: \"See the Abbe de Fenelon,\"\nMadame de Maintenon would write to her, \"and accustom yourself to live\nwith him.\"\n\nKind order! she followed it but too well:--sweet custom!--With such a\nman, who animated everything by his personal charm, who simplified and\nfacilitated the most arduous things, she did not walk, but fly, between\nheaven and earth, into the tepid regions of divine love.  So much\nseduction, sanctity, and liberty at once--it was too much for her poor\nheart!\n\nSt. Simon tells us by what method of espionage and treason Godet proved\nthe presence of Quietism in Saint-Cyr.  There was no need of so much\ncunning.  La Maisonfort was so pure as to be imprudent.  In the\nhappiness of this new spirituality, into which she entered with her\nwhole soul, she said much more than was required of her.\n\nFenelon, suspected as he had then become, was still left with her, till\nshe had made the important step.  They waited till, under his\ninfluence, and in spite of her own protestations and tears, she had\ntaken the veil, and heard the fatal grate shut behind her.\n\nTwo meetings were held at Saint-Cyr, to decide on the destiny of the\nvictim.  Godet, supported by the Lazarists, Thiberge, and Brisacier,\ndecided she should be a nun, and Fenelon, who was a member of this fine\ncouncil, made no opposition.  She herself has informed us, that, during\nthe deliberation, \"she retired before the holy sacrament in a strange\nagony; that she thought she should have died of grief, and that she\npassed the whole of the night in a flood of tears.\"\n\nThe deliberation was merely a matter of form; Madame de Maintenon was\nresolved; and obey they must.  Nobody at that time was more at her\ncommand than Fenelon.  It was then the decisive crisis of Quietism.\nThe question was no less than to know whether its doctor, writer, and\nprophet, unpalatable as he was to the king, who, however, did not yet\nthoroughly know him, would be able to acquire, before his doctrine\nburst forth, that position of a great prelate in the church, to which\nall his supporters were hurrying him.  Hence sprung his unlimited\ndevotedness to Madame de Maintenon, and the sacrifice of poor\nMaisonfort to her omnipotent will.  Fenelon, who knew perfectly well\nhow little she was inclined to this vocation, sacrificed her, certainly\nnot to his personal interests, but for the advancement of his doctrines\nand the aggrandizement of his own party.\n\nAs soon as she had taken the veil, and was immured for ever, he became\nmore and more distant; for she was frankness itself, and by her\nimprudence did harm to his doctrine, which was already sharply\nattacked.  He did not need so compromising an alliance, but what he\nwanted was political support.  In his last extremity he addressed\nhimself to the Jesuits, and took one of them for his confessor; for\nthey had taken the precaution to have some on both sides.\n\nTo fall back from Fenelon to Godet, and undergo his blunt and harsh\ndirection, was more than the new nun could support.  One day, when he\ncame to her with the little decrees and petty regulations which he had\ncomposed with Madame de Maintenon, La Maisonfort could contain herself\nno longer, but spoke out, before him and the all-powerful foundress,\nall the contempt she felt for them.  A short time after, a letter with\nthe king's seal expelled her unfeelingly from Saint-Cyr.\n\nShe had defended herself too successfully against such persons as\nGodet, Brisacier, and others of the hostile party.  Though abandoned by\nFenelon, she endeavoured to remain faithful to his doctrines, and was\ndetermined to keep his books.  They were obliged to invoke the most\npowerful man of the time, Bossuet, in order to bring the rebel to\nreason.  But she would not receive even his advice, till after she had\nasked Fenelon whether she might do so.  He replies to this last mark of\nconfidence, I regret to say, by a dull, disagreeable letter, in which\nare shown but too plainly his jealousy, and the regret he feels in\nseeing one, whom he had abandoned, pass under the control of another.\n\n\n\n[1] A bishop, at that time an inspector of the University, boasted\nbefore me (and several other persons, who will be witnesses if\nnecessary) that he had burned some of Fenelon's letters.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IX.\n\nBOSSUET AS DIRECTOR.--BOSSUET AND SISTER CORNUAU.--HIS LOYALTY AND\nIMPRUDENCE.--HE IS PRACTICALLY A QUIETEST.--DEVOUT DIRECTION INCLINES\nTO QUIETISM.--A MORAL PARALYSIS.\n\n\nNothing throws more light upon the real character of _direction_ than\nthe correspondence of the worthiest and most loyal of directors--I mean\nBossuet.  Experience is decisive; if here, too, the results are bad, we\nmust blame the method and the system, but by no means the man.\n\nThe greatness of his genius, and the nobleness of his character would\nnaturally remove Bossuet far from the petty passions of the vulgar herd\nof directors, their meanness, jealousy, and vexatious tyranny.  We may\nbelieve what one of his own penitents says of him:--\"Without\ndisapproving,\" says she, \"of the directors who interfere even in the\nslightest thoughts and affections, _he did not relish this practice_\ntowards those souls which loved God and had made some progress in\nspiritual life.\"\n\nHis correspondence is praiseworthy, noble, and serious.  You will not\nfind in it the too loving tenderness of Saint Francois de Sales, and\nstill less the refinement and impassioned subtilties of Fenelon.\nBossuet's letters, though less austere, resemble those of Saint-Cyran\nby their seriousness.  They often contain a grandeur of style little\nsuited to the humble and ordinary person to whom they are generally\naddressed, but very advantageous in keeping her at a distance, and\npreventing too close an intimacy even in the most unreserved private\nconversation.\n\nIf this correspondence has reached us in a more complete form than that\nof Fenelon, we are indebted for it (at least for the most curious part\nof it) to the veneration which one of Bossuet's penitents, the good\nWidow Cornuau, entertained for his memory.  That worthy person, in\ntransmitting these letters to us, has religiously left in them a number\nof details, humiliating enough for herself.  She has forgotten her own\nvanity, and thought only of the glory of her spiritual father.  In\nthis, she has been very happily guided by her attachment for him;\nperhaps, indeed, she has done more for him than any panegyrist.  These\nnoble letters written in such profound secrecy, and never intended to\nsee daylight, are worthy of being exhibited to the public.\n\nThis good widow tells us, that when she had the happiness of going to\nsee him in his retirement at Meaux, he received her occasionally \"in a\nsmall, very cold, and smoky room.\"  This is, according to all\nappearances, the small summer-house, which is shown even in our time,\nat the end of the garden, on the old rampart of the city, which forms\nthe terrace of the episcopal palace.  The cabinet is on the\nground-floor, and above it, in a small loft, slept the valet, who awoke\nBossuet early every morning.  A dark narrow alley of yews and holly\nleads to this dull apartment: these are old dwarf stunted trees, which\nhave entwined their knotty branches and their dark prickly leaves.\nDreams of the past dwell for ever here; here you may still find all the\ndifficulties of those grand polemical questions, now so remote from us,\nthe disputes of Jurien and Claude, with the stately history of the\nVariations, and the deadly battle of Quietism, envenomed by betrayed\nfriendship.  The tower of the cathedral, with its mild majestic mien,\nhovers above the French-fashioned, grave-looking garden; but it is\nneither seen from the dark little alley, nor from the dull cabinet; a\nplace confined, cold, and of a disagreeable aspect, which in spite of\nnoble reminiscences, disheartens us by its vulgarity, and reminds us\nthat this fine genius, the best priest of his age, was still a _Priest_.\n\nThere was scarcely any other point by which this domineering spirit\ncould be touched, than docility and obedience.  The good Cornuau\nexercised these qualities in a degree he could hardly have expected.\nShe gives much, and we see that she hides still more, for fear of\ndispleasing him.  She set all her wits to work, to follow, as far as\nher natural mediocrity permitted her, the tastes and ideas of this\ngreat man.  He had a genius for government; and she had it also in\nminiature.  She took upon herself the business of the community with\nwhich she lived, and at the same time transacted that of her own\nfamily.  She waited in this manner fifteen years before she was allowed\nto become a nun.  She at last obtained this favour, and had herself\ncalled the Sister of Saint-_Benigne_, thus assuming, rather boldly\nperhaps, Bossuet's own name.  These real cares, in which the prudent\ndirector kept her a long time, had an excellent effect upon her, in\ndiverting and pruning her imagination.  She was of an impassioned,\nhonest, but rather ordinary disposition; and, unfortunately for her,\nshe had enough good sense to confess to herself what she was.  She\nknows, and she tells herself, that she is only a commoner of the lower\norder; that she has neither birth, wit, grace, nor connection; that she\nhas not even seen Versailles!  What chance would she have of gaining\nhis favour in a struggle against the other spiritual daughters, those\nfine ladies, ever brilliant even in their penitence and voluntary\nabasement?\n\nIt seems that she had hoped at first to have her revenge in some other\nway, and to rise above these worldly ladies by the path of mysticism.\nShe took it into her head one day to have visions: she wrote one, of a\nvery paltry imagination, which Bossuet did not encourage.  What could\nshe do?  Nature had denied her wings; she saw plainly that most\ncertainly she would not be able to fly.  At any rate, she had no pride;\nshe did not try to conceal the sad condition of her heart; and this\nhumiliating confession escapes her; \"I am bursting with jealousy.\"\n\nWhat affects us the most is, that after having made the confession,\nthis poor creature, so very gentle, and so very good, sacrificed her\nown feelings, and became nurse to her who was the object of her\njealousy, and then attacked by a dreadful malady.  She accompanied her\nto Paris, shut herself up with her, took care of her, and at last loved\nher; for the very reason, perhaps, which just before had produced quite\nthe contrary effect--because she was loved by Bossuet.\n\nSister Cornuau is evidently mistaken in her jealousy; she herself is\nthe person preferred; we see it now by comparing the different\ncorrespondence.  For her is reserved all his paternal indulgence; for\nher alone he seems at times to be affected, as much as his ordinary\ngravity permits.  This man, so occupied, finds time to write her nearly\ntwo hundred letters; and he is certainly much more firm and austere\nwith the fine lady of whom she is jealous.  He becomes short and almost\nharsh towards the latter, when the business is to answer the rather\ndifficult confidential questions which she perseveres in putting to\nhim.  He postpones his answer to an indefinite period (\"to my entire\nleisure\"); and till that time, he forbids her to write upon such\nsubjects, otherwise \"he will burn her letters without even reading them\n(24th November, 1691).\"  He says, somewhere else, very nobly,\nconcerning these delicate things which may trouble the imagination,\n\"that it was necessary, when one was obliged to speak of, and listen to\nsufferings of this sort, _to be standing with only the point of the\nfoot upon the earth_.\"  This perfect honesty, which would never\nunderstand anything in a bad sense, makes him sometimes forget the\nexistence of evil more than he ought, and renders him rather\nincautious.  Confident also in his age, then very mature, he\noccasionally allows himself outbursts of mystic love, that were\nindiscreet before so impassioned a witness as Sister Cornuau.  In\npresence of this simple, submissive, and in every respect inferior\nperson, he considers himself to be alone; and giving free course to the\nvivacious instinct of poetry that animated him even in his old days, he\ndoes not hesitate to make use of the mysterious language of the Song of\nSolomon.  Sometimes it is in order to calm his penitent, and strengthen\nher chastity, that he employs this ardent language.  I dare not copy\nthe letter (innocent, certainly, but so very imprudent) which he writes\nfrom his country-house at Germigny (July 10, 1692), and in which he\nexplains the meaning of the Bride's words, \"Support me with flowers,\nbecause I languish for love.\"  This potion, which is to cure passion by\na stronger one, is marvellously calculated to double the evil.  What\nsurprises us much more than this imprudence is, that we find frequently\nin the intimate correspondence of this great adversary of Quietism, the\ngreater part of the sentiments and practical maxims for which the\nQuietists were reproached.  He takes pleasure in developing their\nfavourite text, _Expectans, expectavi_.  \"The Bride ought not to hurry;\nshe must wait in expectation of what the Bridegroom will do; if, during\nthe expectation, he caresses the soul, and inclines it to caress him,\nshe must yield her heart.  The means of the union is the union itself.\nAll the correspondence of the Bride consists in letting the Bridegroom\nact.\"\n\n\"Jesus is admirable in the chaste embraces with which He honours His\nBride and makes her fruitful; all the virtues are the fruits of His\nchaste embraces\" (February 28, 1693),--\"A change of life must follow;\n_but without the soul even thinking of changing itself_.\"\n\nThis thoroughly Quietist letter is dated May 30 (1696); and eight days\nafter--sad inconsistency!--he writes these unfeeling words about Madame\nGuyon; \"They appear to me resolved to shut her up far away in some good\ncastle,\" &c.\n\nHow is it he does not perceive that in practical questions, far more\nimportant than theory, he differs in nothing from those whom he treats\nso badly?  The direction, in Bossuet, as in his adversaries, is the\ndevelopment of the inert and passive part of our nature, _expectans,\nexpectavi_.\n\nFor me it is a strange sight to see them all, even in the midst of the\nmiddle age, crying out against the mystics, and then falling into\nmysticism themselves.  The declivity must, indeed, be rapid and\ninsurmountable.\n\nIn the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, the profound Rusbrock and\nthe great Gerson imitate precisely those they blame; and in the\nseventeenth, the Quietists Bona, Fenelon, even Lacombe, Madame Guyon's\ndirector, speak severely and harshly of the absolute Quietists: they\nall point out the abyss, and all fall into it themselves.\n\nNo matter who the person may be, there is a logical fatality.  The man\nwho, by his character and genius is the farthest removed from passive\nmeasures, he who in his writings condemns them the most strongly, even\nBossuet, in practice tends towards them, like the others.\n\nWhat signifies their writing against the theory of Quietism?  Quietism\nis much more a method than a system: a method of drowsiness and\nindolence which we ever meet with, in one, shape or other, in religious\ndirection.  It is useless to recommend activity, like Bossuet, or to\npermit it, like Fenelon, if, preventing every active exercise of the\nsoul, and holding it, as it were, in leading-strings, you deprive it of\nthe habit, taste, and power of acting.\n\nIs it not then an illusion, Bossuet?  if the soul still seems to act,\nwhen this activity is no longer its own, but yours.  You show me a\nperson who moves and walks; but I see well that this appearance of\nmotion proceeds from your influence over that person, you yourself\nbeing, as it were, the principle of action, the cause and reason of\nliving, walking, and moving.\n\nThere is always the same sum of action in the total; only, in this\ndangerous affinity between the director and the person directed, all\nthe action is on the side of the former; he alone remains an active\nforce, a will, a person; he who is directed losing gradually all that\nconstitutes his personality, becomes--what?--a machine.\n\nWhen Pascal, in his proud contempt for reason, engages us _to become\nstupid_, and bend within us what he calls the _automaton_ and\n_machine_, he does not see that it will only be an _exchange_ of\nreason.  Our reason having herself put on the bit and bridle, that of\nanother man will mount, ride, and guide it at his will, as he would a\nhorse.\n\nIf the automaton should still possess some motion, how will they lead\nit?  According to the _probable_ opinion, for the _probablism_ of the\nJesuits reigned in the first half of the century.  Later, when its\nmotion ceased, the paralysed age learned from the Quietists that\nimmobility is perfection itself.\n\nThe decay and impotency which characterised the latter years of Louis\nXIV. are rather veiled by a remnant of literary splendour; they are,\nnevertheless, deeply seated.  This was the natural consequence, not\nonly of great efforts which produce exhaustion, but also of the\ntheories of abnegation, impersonality, and systematic nullity, which\nhad always gained ground in this century.  By dint of continually\nrepeating that one cannot walk well without being supported by another,\na generation arose that no longer walked at all, but boasted of having\nforgotten what motion was, and gloried in it.  Madame Guyon, in\nspeaking of herself, expresses forcibly, in a letter to Bossuet, what\nwas then the general condition: \"You say, Monseigneur, there are only\nfour or five persons who are in this difficulty of acting for\nthemselves; but I tell you there are more than a hundred thousand.\nWhen you told me to ask and desire, I found myself like a paralytic who\nis told to walk because _he has legs_: the efforts he makes for that\npurpose serve only to make him aware of his inability.  We say, in\ncommon parlance, _every man who has legs ought to walk_: I believe it,\nand I know it; however, I have legs, but I feel plainly that I cannot\nmake use of them.\"\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER X.\n\nMOLINOS' GUIDE;--THE PART PLAYED IN IT BY THE DIRECTOR;--HYPOCRITICAL\nAUSTERITY;--IMMORAL DOCTRINE.--MOLINOS APPROVED OF AT ROME,\n1675.--MOLINOS CONDEMNED AT ROME, 1687.--HIS MANNERS CONFORMABLE TO HIS\nDOCTRINE.--SPANISH MOLINOSISTS.--MOTHER AGUEDA.\n\n\nThe greatest danger for the poor paralytic, who can no longer move by\nhimself, is, not that he may remain inactive, but that he may become\nthe sport of the active influence of others.  The theories which speak\nthe most of immobility are not always disinterested.  Be on your guard,\nand take care.\n\nMolinos' book, with its artful and premeditated composition, has a\ncharacter entirely its own, which distinguishes it from the natural and\ninspired writings of the great mystics.  The latter, such as Sta.\nTheresa, often recommend obedience and entire submission to the\ndirector, and dissuade from self-confidence.  They thus give themselves\na guide, but in their enthusiastic efforts they hurry their guide away\nwith them; they think they follow him, but they lead him.  The director\nhas nothing else to do with them but to sanction their inspiration.\n\nThe originality of Molinos' book is quite the contrary.  There,\ninternal activity has actually no longer any existence; no action but\nwhat is occasioned by an exterior impulse.  _The director_ is the pivot\nof the whole book; he appears every moment, and even when he\ndisappears, we perceive he is close at hand.  He is _the guide_, or\nrather the support, without which the powerless soul could not move a\nstep.  He is the ever-present physician, who decides whether the sick\npatient may taste this or that.  Sick?  Yes; and seriously ill; since\nit is necessary that another should, every moment, think, feel, and act\nfor her; in a word, live in her place.\n\nAs for the soul, can we say it lives?  Is this not rather actual death?\nThe great mystics sought for death, and could not find it: the living\nactivity remained even in the sepulchre.  To die, singly, in God, to\ndie with one's own will and energy, this is not dying completely.  But\nslothfully to allow your soul to enter the mad vortex of another soul,\nand suffer, half-asleep, the strange transformation in which your\npersonality is absorbed in his; this is, indeed, real moral death; we\nneed not look for any other.\n\n\"To act, is the deed of the novice; to suffer, is immediate gain; to\ndie, is perfection.  Let us go forward in darkness, and we shall go\nwell; the horse that goes round blind-folded grinds corn so much the\nbetter.  Let us neither think nor read.  A _practical_ master will tell\nus, better than any book, what we must do at the very moment.  It is a\ngreat security to have an experienced guide to govern and direct us,\naccording to his actual intelligence, and prevent our being deceived by\nthe demon or our own senses.\"[1]\n\nMolinos, in leading us gently by this road, seems to me to know very\nwell whither he is conducting us.  I judge so by the infinite\nprecautions he takes to re-assure us; by his crying up everywhere\nhumility, austerity, excessive scrupulousness, and prudence carried to\na ridiculous extreme.  The saints are not so wise.  In a very humble\npreface, he believes that this little book, devoid of ornament and\nstyle, and without a protector, cannot have any success; \"he will, no\ndoubt, be criticised; everybody will find him insipid.\"  In the last\npage, his humility is still greater, he _lays his work prostrate_, and\nsubmits it to the correction of the Holy Roman Church.\n\nHe gives us to understand, that the real director directs without any\ninclination for the task: \"He is a man who would gladly dispense with\nthe care of souls, who sighs and pants for solitude.  He is,\nespecially, very far from wishing to get the direction of women, they\nbeing, generally, too little prepared.  He must take especial care not\nto call his penitent _his daughter_; the word is too tender, and God is\njealous of it.  Self-love united with passion, that hydra-headed\nmonster, sometimes assumes the form of gratitude and filial affection\nfor the confessor.  He must not visit his penitents at their homes, not\neven in cases of sickness, _unless he be called_.\"\n\nThis is, indeed, an astounding severity: these are excessive\nprecautions, unheard of before the days of Molinos!  What holy man have\nwe here?  It is true, if the director ought not to go of his own accord\nto visit the patient, he may, _if she call him_.  And _I_ say, she will\ncall him.  With such a direction, is she not always ill, embarrassed,\nfearful, and too infirm to do anything of herself?  She will wish to\nhave him every hour.  Every impulse that is not from him might possibly\nproceed from the devil; even the pang of remorse, that she occasionally\nfeels within her, may be occasioned by the devil's agency.\n\nAs soon as he is with her, on the contrary, how tranquil she becomes!\nHow he comforts her with one word!  How easily he resolves all her\nscruples!  She is well rewarded for having waited and obeyed, and being\never ready to obey.  She now feels that obedience is better than any\nvirtue.\n\nWell! let her only be discreet, and she will be led still further.\n\"She must not, when she sins, be uneasy about it; for should she be\ngrieved at it, it would be a sign that she still possessed a leaven of\npride.  It is the devil, who, to hinder us in our spiritual path, makes\nus busy with our backslidings.  Would it not be foolish for him who\nruns to stop when he falls, and weep like a child, instead of pursuing\nhis course?  These falls have the excellent effect of preserving us\nfrom pride, which is the greatest fall of all.  God makes virtues of\nour vices, and these very vices, by which the devil thought to cast us\ninto the pit, become a ladder to mount to heaven.\"[2]\n\nThis doctrine was well received.  Molinos had the tact to publish, at\nthe same time, another book, that might serve as a passport to this, a\ntreatise on _Daily Communion_, directed against the Jansenists and\nArnaud's great work.  The _Spiritual Guide_ was examined with all the\nfavour that Rome could show to the enemy of her enemies.  There was\nscarcely any Religious Order that did not approve of it.  The Roman\nInquisition gave it three approbations by three of its members, a\nJesuit, a Carmelite, and the general of the Franciscans.  The Spanish\nInquisition approved of it twice;--first, by the general examiner of\nthe order of the Capuchins; and, secondly, by a Trinitarian, the\nArchbishop of Reggio.  It was prefaced with an enthusiastic and\nextravagant eulogy by the Archbishop of Palermo.\n\nThe Quietists must have been at that time very strong in Rome, since\none of them, Cardinal Bona, was on the point of being made pope.\n\nThe tide turned, contrary to every expectation.  The great Gallic\ntempest of 1682, which, for nearly ten years, interrupted the\nconnection between France and the Holy See, and showed how easily one\nmay dispense with Rome, obliged the pope to raise the moral dignity of\nthe pontificate, by acts of severity.  The lash fell especially upon\nthe Jesuits and their friends.  Innocent XI. pronounced a solemn\ncondemnation upon the casuists, though rather too late, as these people\nhad been crushed twenty years before by Pascal.  But Quietism still\nflourished: the Franciscans and Jesuits had taken it into favour; the\nDominicans were therefore averse to it.  Molinos, in his _Manuel_, had\nconsiderably reduced the merits of St. Dominic, and pretended that _St.\nThomas, when dying, confessed that he had not, up to that time, written\nanything good_.  Accordingly, of all the great Religious Orders, that\nof the Dominicans was the only one which refused its approbation to\nMolinos' _Guide_.\n\nThe book and its author, examined under this new influence, appeared\nhorribly guilty.  The Inquisition of Rome, without taking any notice of\nthe approbations granted twelve years before by their examiners,\ncondemned the _Guide_, together with some propositions not contained in\nit, but which they extracted from the examination of Molinos, or from\nhis teaching.  This one is not the least curious: \"God, to humble us,\npermits, in certain perfect souls (well enlightened and in their lucid\nstate), that the devil should make them commit certain carnal acts.  In\nthis case, and in others, which, without the permission of God, would\nbe guilty, there is no sin, because there is no consent.  It may\nhappen, that those violent movements, which excite to carnal acts, may\ntake place in two persons, a man and a woman, at the same moment.\"[3]\n\nThis case happened to Molinos himself, and much too often.  He\nunderwent a public penance, humbled himself for his morals, and did not\ndefend his doctrine: this saved him.  The inquisitors, who had formerly\napproved of him, must have been themselves much embarrassed about this\ntrial.  He was treated with leniency, and only imprisoned, whilst two\nof his disciples, who had only faithfully applied his doctrine, were\nburned alive without pity.  One was a curate of Dijon, the other a\npriest of Tudela in Navarre.\n\nHow can we be surprised that such a theory should have had such results\nin morals?  It would be much more astonishing if it had not.  Besides,\nthese immoral results do not proceed exclusively from Molinosism, a\ndoctrine at once imprudent and too evident, and which they would take\ngood care not to profess.  They spring naturally from every practical\ndirection that lulls the will, taking from the person this natural\nguardian, and exposing him thus prostrate to the mercy of him who\nwatches over the sick couch.  The tale told more than once by the\nmiddle ages, and which casuists have examined so coldly, the violation\nof the dead, we here meet with again.  The person is left as\ndefenceless by the death of the will, as by physical death.\n\nThe Archbishop of Palermo, in his Pindaric eulogy of the _Spiritual\nGuide_, says that this admirable book is most especially suitable to\nthe _direction of nuns_.  The advice was understood, and turned to\naccount, especially in Spain.  From that saying of Molinos, \"That sins,\nbeing an occasion of humility, serve as a ladder to mount to heaven,\"\nthe Molinosists drew this consequence--the more we sin the higher we\nascend.\n\nThere was among the Carmelites of Lerma a holy woman, Mother Agueda,\nesteemed as a saint.  People went to her from all the neighbouring\nprovinces, to get her to cure the sick.  A convent was founded on the\nspot that had been so fortunate as to give her birth.  There, in the\nchurch, they adored her portrait placed within the choir; and there she\ncured those who were brought to her, by applying to them certain\nmiraculous stones which she brought forth, as they said, with pains\nsimilar to those of childbirth.  This miracle lasted twenty years.  At\nlast the report spread that these confinements were but too true, and\nthat she was really delivered.  The inquisition of Logrogno having made\na visit to the convent, arrested Mother Agueda, and questioned the\nother nuns, among whom was the young niece of the Saint, Donna\nVincenta.  The latter confessed, without any prevarication, the\ncommerce that her aunt, herself, and the others had had with the\nprovincial of the Carmelites, the prior of Lerma, and other friars of\nthe first rank.  The Saint had been confined five times, and her niece\nshowed the place where the children had been killed and buried the\nmoment they were born.  They found the skeletons.\n\nWhat is not less horrible is, that this young nun, only nine years of\nage, a dutiful child, immured by her aunt for this strange life, and\nhaving no other education, firmly believed that this was really the\ndevout life, perfection, and sanctity, and followed this path in full\nconfidence, upon the faith of her confessors.\n\nThe grand doctor of these nuns was the provincial of the Carmelites,\nJean de la Vega.  He had written the life of the Saint, and arranged\nher miracles; and he it was who had the skill to have her glorified,\nand her festival observed, though she was still alive.  He himself was\nconsidered almost a saint by the vulgar.  The monks said everywhere\nthat, since the blessed Jean de la Croix, Spain had not seen a man so\naustere and penitent.  According to their custom of designating\nillustrious doctors by a titular name (such as Angelic, Seraphic, &c.),\nhe was called the Ecstatic.  Being much stronger than the saint, he\nresisted the torture, where as she died in it: he confessed nothing,\nexcept that he had received the money for eleven thousand eight hundred\nmasses that he had not said; and he got off with being banished to the\nconvent of Duruelo.\n\n\n\n[1] Molinos, Guida Spirituale (Venetia, 1685), pp. 86, 161.\n\n[2] \"Scala per salire al cielo,\"--_Guida_, p. 138. lib. ii. ch. 18.\n\n[3] Condemned articles, pp. 41, 42., Lat. transl. (Lipsiae, 1687.)\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER XI.\n\nNO MORE SYSTEMS;--AN EMBLEM.--BLOOD.--SEX.--THE IMMACULATE WOMAN.--THE\nSACRED HEART.--MARIE ALACOQUE.--DOUBLE MEANING OF SACRED HEART.--THE\nSEVENTEENTH CENTURY IS THE AGE OF DOUBLE MEANING.--CHIMERICAL POLICY OF\nTHE JESUITS.--FATHER COLOMBIERE AND MARIE ALACOQUE,\n1675.--ENGLAND;--PAPIST CONSPIRACY.--FIRST ALTAR OF THE SACRED HEART,\n1685.--RUIN OF THE GALLICANS, 1693;--OF THE QUIETISTS, 1698;--OF PORT\nROYAL, 1709.--THEOLOGY ANNIHILATED IN THE EIGHTEENTH\nCENTURY.--MATERIALITY OF THE SACRED HEART.--JESUITICAL ART.\n\n\nQuietism, so accused of being obscure, was but too evident.  It formed\ninto a system, and established frankly, as supreme perfection, that\nstate of immobility and impotency which the soul reaches at last, when\nit surrenders its activity.\n\nWas it not simplicity itself to prescribe in set terms this lethargic\ndoctrine, and give out noisily a theory of sleep?  \"Do not speak so\nloud if you want to make people doze?\"  This is what the theologians,\nmen of business, instinctively perceived; they cared little for\ntheology, and only wanted results.\n\nWe must do the Jesuits the justice to confess that they were\ndisinterested enough in speculative opinions.  We have seen how, since\nPascal, they themselves wrote against their own casuistry.  Since then\nthey had tried Quietism: at one time they let Fenelon believe they\nwould support him.  But as soon as Louis XIV. had declared himself,\n\"they ducked like divers,\" preached against their friend, and\ndiscovered forty errors in the _Maxims of Saints_.\n\nThey had never well succeeded as theologians.  Silence suited them\nbetter than all their systems.  They had got it imposed by the pope\nupon the Dominicans, in the very beginning of the century, and\nafterwards upon the Jansenists.  Since then their affairs went on\nbetter.  It was precisely at the time they ceased writing, that they\nobtained for the sick king the power of disposing of benefices (1687),\nand thus, to the great surprise of the Gallicans, who had thought them\nconquered, they became the kings of the clergy of France.\n\nNow, no more ideas, no more systems; they had grown tired of them.\nLong ago we mentioned the prevailing lassitude.  Besides, there is, we\nmust confess, in the long lives of men, states, and religions; there\nis, I say, a time when, having run from project to project, and from\ndream to dream, every idea is hated.  In these profoundly material\nmoments, everything is rejected that is not tangible.  Do people then\nbecome positive?  No.  But they do not return any more to the poetical\nsymbols which in their youth they had adored.  The old doter, in his\nsecond childhood, makes for himself some idol, some palpable, tangible\ngod, and the coarser it is, the better he succeeds.\n\nThis explains the prodigious success with which the Jesuits in this age\nof lassitude spread, and caused to be accepted, a new object of\nworship, both very carnal and very material--the Heart of Jesus, either\nshown through the wound in His partly opened breast, or as plucked out\nand bloody.\n\nNearly the same thing had happened in the decrepitude of paganism.\nReligion had taken refuge in the sacrifice of bulls, the sanguinary\nMithraic expiation--the worship of blood.\n\nAt the grand festival of the _Sacred Heart_ which the Jesuits gave in\nthe last century, in the Coliseum of Rome, they struck a medal with\nthis motto, worthy of the solemnity, \"He gave Himself to the people to\neat, in the amphitheatre of Titus:\"[1] instead of a system, it was an\nemblem, a dumb sign.  What triumph for the friends of obscurity and\nequivocation! no equivocation of language can equal a material object,\nwhich may be interpreted in a thousand ways, for rendering ideas\nundecided and confused.  The old Christian symbols, so often\ntranslated, and so variously interpreted, present to the mind, at first\nsight, too distinct a meaning.  They are austere symbols of death and\nmortification.  The new one was far more obscure.  This emblem, bloody\nit is true, but carnal and impassioned, speaks much less of death than\nof life.  The heart palpitates, the blood streams, and yet it is a\nliving man who, showing his wound with his own hand, beckons to you to\ncome and fathom his half-opened breast.\n\nThe heart!  That word has always been powerful; the heart, being the\norgan of the affections, expresses them in its own manner, swollen and\nheaving with sighs.  The life of the heart, strong and confused,\ncomprehends and mingles every kind of love.  Such a sentence is\nwonderfully adapted to language of double meaning.\n\nAnd who will understand it best?  Women.  With them the life of the\nheart is everything.  This organ, being the passage of the blood, and\nstrongly influenced by the revolutions of the blood, is not less\npredominant in woman than her very sex.\n\nThe heart has been, now nearly two hundred years, the grand basis of\nmodern devotion; as sex, or a strange question that related to it, had,\nfor two hundred before, occupied the minds of the middle ages.\n\nStrange! in that spiritual period, a long discussion, both public and\nsolemn, took place throughout Europe, both in the schools and in the\nchurches, upon an anatomical subject, of which one would not dare to\nspeak in our days, except in the school of medicine!  What was this\nsubject?  Conception.  Only imagine all these monks, people sworn to\ncelibacy, both Dominicans and Franciscans, boldly attacking the\nquestion, teaching it to all, preaching anatomy to children and little\ngirls, filling their minds with their sex and its most secret mystery.\n\nThe heart, a more noble organ, had the advantage of furnishing a number\nof dubious though decent expressions, a whole language of equivocal\ntenderness which did not cause a blush, and facilitated the intrigue of\ndevout gallantry.\n\nIn the very beginning of the seventeenth century, the directors and\nconfessors find a very convenient text in _The Sacred Heart_.  But\nwomen take it quite differently, and in a serious sense: they grow warm\nand impassioned, and have visions.  The Virgin appears to a country\ngirl of Normandy, and orders her to adore the heart of Mary.  The\nVisitandines called themselves the daughters of the _Heart of Jesus_:\nJesus does not fail to appear to a Visitandine, Mademoiselle Marie\nAlacoque, and shows her His heart and wound.\n\nShe was a strong girl, and of a sanguine temperament, whom they were\nobliged to bleed constantly.  She had entered the convent in her\ntwenty-fourth year, with her passions entire; her infancy had not been\nmiserably nipped in the bud, as it often happens to those who are\nimmured at an early age.  Her devotion was, from the very first, a\nviolent love, that wished to suffer for the object loved.  Having heard\nthat Madame de Chantal had printed the name of Jesus on her breast with\na hot iron, she did the same.  The Lover was not insensible to this,\nand ever after visited her.  It was with the knowledge, and under the\ndirection of a skilful superior, that Marie Alacoque made this intimate\nconnection with the Divine Bridegroom.  She celebrated her espousals\nwith Him; and a regular contract was drawn up by the superior, which\nMarie Alacoque signed with her blood.  One day, when, according to her\nbiographer, she had cleaned with her tongue the lips of a sick person,\nJesus was so satisfied with her, that He permitted her to fix her lips\nto one of His Divine wounds.\n\nThere was nothing in this relating to theology.  It was merely a\nsubject of physiology and medicine.  Mademoiselle Alacoque was a girl\nof an ardent disposition, which was heightened by celibacy.  She was by\nno means a mystic in the proper sense of the word.  Happier far than\nMadame Guyon, who did not see what she loved, she saw and touched the\nbody of the Divine Lover.  The heart He showed her in His unseamed\nbreast was a bloody intestine.  The extremely sanguine plethory from\nwhich she was suffering, and which frequent bleeding could not relieve,\nfilled her imagination with these visions of blood.\n\nThe Jesuits, who were great propagators of the new devotion, took good\ncare not to explain precisely whether homage was to be paid to the\nsymbolical heart and celestial love, or whether the heart of flesh was\nto be the object of adoration.  When pressed to explain themselves,\ntheir answers depended on persons, times, and places.  Their Father\nGaliffet made, at the same time, two contradictory replies: in Rome he\nsaid it was the symbolical heart; and in Paris he said in print that\nthere was no metaphor, that they honoured the flesh itself.\n\nThis equivocation was a source of wealth.  In less than forty years\nfour hundred and twenty-eight brotherhoods of the Sacred Heart were\nformed in France.\n\nI cannot help pausing a moment, to admire how Equivocation triumphed\nthroughout this age.\n\nOn whatever side I turn my eyes, I find it everywhere, both in things\nand persons.  It sits upon the throne in the person of Madame de\nMaintenon.  Is this person a queen who is seated by the king's side,\nand before whom princesses are standing--or is she not?  The equivocal\nis also near the throne in the person of the humble Pere la Chaise, the\nreal king of the clergy of France, who from a garret at Versailles\ndistributes the benefices.  And do our loyal Galileans and the\nscrupulous Jansenists abstain from the equivocal?  Obedient, yet\nrebellious, preparing war though kneeling, they kiss the foot of the\npope, while wishing to tie his hands; they spoil the best reasons by\ntheir _distinguo_ and evasions.  Indeed, when I put in opposition to\nthe sixteenth and eighteenth centuries this Janus of the seventeenth,\nthe two others appear to me as honest centuries, or, at the very least,\nsincere in good and in evil.  But what falsehood and ugliness is\nconcealed under the majestic harmony of the seventeenth!  Everything is\nsoftened and shaded in the form, but the bottom is often the worse for\nit.  Instead of the local inquisitions, you have the police of the\nJesuits, armed with the king's authority.  In place of a Saint\nBartholomew, you have the long, the immense religious revolution,\ncalled the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, that cruel comedy of\nforced conversion; then the unheard-of tragedy of a proscription\norganised by all the bureaucratical and military means of a modern\ngovernment!--Bossuet sings the triumph; and deceit, lying, and misery\nreign everywhere!  Deceit in politics; local life destroyed without\ncreating any central life.  Deceit in morals: this polished court, this\nworld of polite people receives an unexpected lesson from the _chamber\nof poisons_: the king suppresses the trial, fearing to find every one\nguilty!--And can devotion be real with such morals?--If you reproach\nthe sixteenth century with its violent fanaticism, if the eighteenth\nappear to you cynical and devoid of human respect, confess at least\nalso that lying, deceit, and hypocrisy are the predominant features of\nthe seventeenth.  That great historian Moliere has painted the portrait\nof this century, and found its name--Tartuffe.\n\nI return to the Sacred Heart, which, in truth, I have not quitted,\nsince it is during this period the illustrious and predominant example\nof the success of the equivocal.  The Jesuits who, in general, have\ninvented little, did not make the discovery, but they perceived very\nplainly the profit they might derive from it.  We have seen how they\ngradually made themselves masters of the convents of women, though\nprofessing all the time to be strangers to them.  The Visitation,\nespecially, was under their influence.  The superior of Marie Alacoque,\nwho had her confidence, and directed her connection with Jesus Christ,\ngave timely notice to Pere La Chaise.\n\nThe thing happened just in time.  The Jesuits sadly wanted some popular\nmachine to set in motion, for the profit of their policy.  It was the\nmoment when they thought, at least they told the king so, that England,\nsold by Charles II., would, in a short time, be entirely converted.\nIntrigue, money, women, everything was turned to account, to bring it\nabout.  To King Charles they gave mistresses, and to his brother,\nconfessors.  The Jesuits, who, with all their tricks, are often\nchimerical, thought that by gaining over five or six lords, they would\nchange all that Protestant mass, which is Protestant not only by\nbelief, but also by interest, habit, and manner of living; Protestant\nto the core, and with English tenacity.\n\nSee then these famous politicians, gliding as stealthily as wolves, and\nfancying they will carry everything by surprise.  An essential point\nfor them was to place with James, the king's brother, a secret\npreacher, who, in his private chapel, might work silently, and try his\nhand at a few conversions.  To act the part of a converter, they\nrequired a man who was not only captivating, but especially ardent and\nfanatical; such men were scarce.  The latter qualifications were\ndeficient in the young man whom Pere La Chaise had in view.  This was a\nFather La Colombiere, who taught rhetoric in their college at Lyons; he\nwas an agreeable preacher, an elegant writer, much esteemed by Patru,\nmild, docile, and a good sort of man.  The only thing that was wanting\nwas a little madness.  To inoculate him with this, they introduced him\nto Mademoiselle Alacoque: he was sent to Paray-le-Monial, where she\nresided, as confessor extraordinary of the Visitandines (1675).  He was\nin his thirty-fourth year, and she in her twenty-eighth.  Having been\nwell prepared by her superior, she immediately saw in him the great\nservant of God, whom her visions had revealed to her, and the very same\nday she perceived in the ardent heart of Jesus her own heart united to\nthe Jesuit's.\n\nLa Colombiere, being of a mild and feeble nature, was hurried away\nunresistingly into this ardent vortex of passion and fanaticism.  He\nwas kept for a year and a half in this spiritual furnace; he was then\nsnatched away from Paray, and hurled red-hot into England.  They were,\nhowever, still mistrustful of him, fearing he might cool, and sent him,\nfrom time to time, a few ardent and inspired lines: Marie Alacoque\ndictated, and the superior was her amanuensis.\n\nHe remained thus two years with the Duchess of York in London, so well\nconcealed and shut up, that he did not even see the town.  They brought\nto him, mysteriously, a few lords, who thought it advantageous to be\nconverted to the religion of the heir presumptive.  England having at\nlast discovered the Papal conspiracy, La Colombiere was accused,\nbrought before Parliament, and embarked for France, where he arrived\nill; and though his superior sent him to Paray to see whether the nun\ncould revive him, he died there of a fever.\n\nHowever little inclined people may be to believe that great results are\nbrought about by trifling causes, they are obliged, however, to confess\nthat this miserable intrigue had an incalculable effect upon France and\nthe world.  They wanted to gain England, and they presented themselves\nto her, not in the persons of the Gallicans, whom she respected, but in\nthose of the Jesuits, whom she had always abhorred.  At the very moment\nwhen Catholicism ought, in prudence at least, to have discarded the\nidolatries with which the Protestants reproached it, they published a\nnew one, and the most offensive of all, the carnal and sensual devotion\nof the Sacred Heart.  To mingle horror with ridicule, it was in 1685,\nthe sad and lamentable year of the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes,\nthat Marie Alacoque raised the first of those altars which overspread\nthe whole of France.  We know how England, confirmed in her\nProtestantism and horror of Rome by the Jesuits, took to herself a\nDutch king, carried away Holland in her movement, and by this\nconjunction of the two maritime powers obtained the dominion of the\nseas.\n\nThe Jesuits may boast that they have been the means of setting\nProtestantism in England upon a very solid foundation.  All the Father\nMathews in the world will never be able to remove it.\n\nTheir political work, as we have seen, is important: it ended in\nmarrying England to Holland--a marriage nearly fatal to France.\n\nAnd what was their religious work among us in the old days of Louis\nXIV.?  What was the last use made of the omnipotent sway of the La\nChaises and the Telliers?  We well know: the destruction of Port-Royal,\na military expedition to carry off fifteen old women, the dead dragged\nfrom their graves, and sacrilege committed by the hands of authority.\nThis authority expiring in the terrible year 1709, which seemed to\ncarry off at one blow the king and the kingdom, was employed by them,\nin all haste, to destroy their enemies.\n\nPort-Royal came to an end in 1709, Quietism had finished in 1698, and\nGallicanism itself, the great religion of the throne, had been placed\nat the feet of the pope by the king in 1693.  Behold Bossuet laid in\nthe tomb by the side of Fenelon, and the latter next to Arnaud.  The\nconquerors and the conquered repose in a common nullity.\n\nThe emblem prevailing, and being substituted for every system, people\nfelt less and less the need of analysing, explaining, and thinking; and\nthey were glad of it.  The explanation the most favourable to authority\nis still a giving of accounts, that is to say, a homage paid to the\nliberty of the mind.  But in the shadow of an obscure emblem one may\nhenceforth without shaping any theory, or allowing any advantage to be\ntaken, apply indifferently the practice of all the various theories\nthat had been abandoned, and follow them alternately or conjointly,\naccording to the interest of the day.\n\nWise policy, excellent wisdom, with which they cover their nothingness!\nHaving dispensed with reasoning for others, they lose the faculty of\nreasoning altogether, and, in the hour of danger, they find themselves\ndisarmed.  This is what happened to them in the eighteenth century.\nThe terribly learned contest that then took place found them mute.\nVoltaire let fly a hundred thousand arrows against them, without\nawakening them.  Rousseau pressed and crushed them without getting one\nword out of them.\n\nWho then could answer?  Theology was no longer known to the\ntheologians.  The persecutors of the Jansenists mingle in their books\npublished in the name of Marie Alacoque, both Jansenist and Molinist\nopinions, and without being aware of it.  They composed in 1708 the\nmanual which has since become the basis of instruction adopted in our\nseminaries; and this manual contains the entirely new doctrine, that on\nevery Papal decision Jesus Christ _inspires_ the pope to decide, and\nthe bishops to obey: every thing is an oracle and a miracle in this\nclownish system.  Reason is decidedly rooted out of theology.\n\nFrom that time there is very little of a dogmatical character, and\nstill less of sacred history; an instruction which would be void, if\nancient casuistry did not assist in filling up the vacuum with immoral\nsubtilties.\n\nThe only part of mankind to whom they have addressed themselves for a\nlong time, namely, women, is the world of sensibility.  They do not ask\nfor science; they wish for impressions rather than ideas.  The less\nthey are busied about ideas the easier it is to keep them ignorant of\noutward events, and make them strangers to the progress of time.\n\nWhen they maintain that holiness consists in sacrificing the mind, the\nmore material the worship, the more it serves to attain that end; the\nmore the mind is degraded the holier it becomes.  To couple salvation\nwith the exercise of moral virtues, would be to require the exercise of\nreason.  But what do they want with virtue?  Wear this medal: \"_It will\nblot out your iniquities_.\"  Reason would still have a share in\nreligion, if, as reason teaches us, it was necessary for salvation\nabsolutely to love God.  Marie Alacoque has seen that it was sufficient\n_not to hate Him_; and those who are devoted to the Sacred Heart are\nsaved unconditionally.\n\nWhen the Jesuits were suppressed, they had in their hands no other\nreligious means than this paganism, and in it they placed all their\nhope of coming to life again.  They had engravings made, to which they\nadded the motto, \"I will give them the shield of my heart.\"\n\nThe popes, who, at first, were uneasy about the weak point which such a\nmaterialism would offer to the attacks of the philosophers, have found\nout in our time that it is very useful to them, being addressed to a\nclass of people who seldom read the philosophers, and who, though\ndevout, are nevertheless material.  They have therefore preserved the\nprecious equivocation of the ideal and the carnal heart, and forbidden\nany explanation as to whether the words \"_Sacred Heart_\" designated the\nlove of God for man, or some bit of bleeding flesh.  By reducing the\nthing to the idea, the impassioned attraction in which its success\nconsisted would be taken from it.\n\nEven in the last century, some bishops had gone farther, declaring that\n_flesh_ was here the _principal_ object; and they had placed this flesh\nin certain hymns, after the Trinity, as a fourth person.  Priests,\nwomen, and young girls have all since then vied with one another in\nthis devotion.  I have before me a manual, much used in country places,\nin which they teach the persons of their community, who pray for one\nanother, how they join hearts, and how these hearts, once united,\n\"ought to desire to enter into the opening of the heart of Jesus, and\nbe incessantly sinking into that amorous wound.\"\n\nThe brotherhood, in their manuals, have occasionally found it gallant\nto put the heart of Mary above that of Jesus (see that of Nantes,\n1769).  In their engravings she is generally younger than her Son,\nbeing, for instance, about twenty, whereas he is thirty years old, so\nthat, at first sight, He seems to be rather her husband or lover than\nher Son.\n\nThis very year I saw at Rouen, in the Church of St. Ouen, in the Chapel\nof the _Sacred Heart_, a pen-and-ink drawing, by young ladies, having\nthe written approbation of the ecclesiastical authorities, in which\nJesus is represented on His knees before the Virgin, who is also\nkneeling.\n\nThe most violent satire against the Jesuits is what they have made\nthemselves--their art, the pictures and statues they have inspired.\nThey are at once characterised by the severe sentence of Poussin, whose\nChrist did not appear to them pretty enough: \"We cannot imagine a\nChrist with His head on one side, or like Father Donillet's.\"  Yet\nPoussin saw the best days of the Jesuit art: what would he have said if\nhe had seen what followed? all that decrepid coquetry that thinks it\nsmiles whilst it grimaces, those ridiculous glances, dying eyes, and\nsuch like deformities.  The worst is, they who think only of the flesh\nknow no longer how to represent it.  As the thought grows more and more\nmaterial and insipid, the form becomes defaced, degraded from picture\nto picture, ignoble, foppish, affected, heavy, dull--that is to say,\nshapeless.[2]\n\nWe may judge of men by the art they inspire; and I confess it is no\neasy task to augur favourably of the souls of those who inspire this\nart, and recommend these engravings, hanging them up in their churches\nand distributing them by thousands and millions.  Such taste is an\nominous sign.  Many immoral people still possess a sentiment of\nelegance.  But willingly to take to the ignoble and false discovers a\nsad degradation of the soul.\n\nAn undeniable truth is here made manifest; which is, that art is the\nonly thing inaccessible to falsehood.  Being the offspring of the heart\nand natural inspiration, it cannot be allied to what is false, it will\nnot be violated; it protests, and if the false triumphs, it dies.  All\nthe rest may be aped and acted.  They very well managed to make a\ntheology in the sixteenth and a morality in the seventeenth century;\nbut never could they form an art.  They can ape the holy and the just;\nbut how can they mimic the beautiful?--Thou art ugly, poor Tartuffe,\nand ugly shalt thou remain: it is thy token.  What! you reach the\nbeautiful, or ever lay a finger upon it?  This would be impious beyond\nall impiety!--The beautiful is the face of God!\n\n\n\n[1] In 1771.  On Sacred Hearts (by Tabaraud), p. 82.\n\n[2] In 1834, being busy with Christian iconography, I looked over the\ncollections of the portraits of Christ in the Royal Library.  Those\npublished within the last thirty years are the most humiliating I have\never seen, both for art and human nature.  Every man (whether a\nphilosopher or a believer) who retains any sentiment of religion will\nbe disgusted with them.  Every impropriety, every sensuality and low\npassion is there: the childish, dandified seminarist, the licentious\npriest, the fat curate who looks like _Maingrat_, &c.  The engraving is\nas good as the drawing--a skewer and the snuff of a tallow candle.\n\n\n\n\nPART II.\n\nON DIRECTION IN GENERAL, AND ESPECIALLY IN THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nRESEMBLANCES AND DIFFERENCES BETWEEN THE SEVENTEENTH AND NINETEENTH\nCENTURIES.--CHRISTIAN ART.--IT IS WE WHO HAVE RESTORED THE\nCHURCH.--WHAT IT ADDS TO THE POWER OF THE PRIEST.--THE CONFESSIONAL.\n\n\nThere are two objections to be made against all that I have said, and I\nwill state them:--\n\nFirst.  \"The examples are taken from the seventeenth century, at a time\nwhen the direction was influenced by theological questions, which now\nno longer occupy either the world or the Church; for instance, the\nquestion of grace and free-will, and that of Quietism or repose in\nlove.\"  But this I have already answered.  Such questions are obsolete,\ndead, if you will, as theories; but, in the spirit and practical method\nwhich emanate from these theories, they are, and ever will be, living.\nThere are no longer to be found speculative people, simple enough to\ntrace out expressly a doctrine of lethargy and moral annihilation; but\nthere will always be found enough quacks to practice quietly this\nlethargic art.  If this be not clear enough, I will, in a moment, make\nit clearer than some people would desire.\n\nSecondly.  \"Are the examples you have shown from the books and letters\nof the great men of the famous age sufficiently conclusive for our own\ntime?  Might not those profound and subtle men of genius, who dived so\ndeeply into the science of directing souls, have entered into\nrefinements, of which the common herd of confessors and directors\ncannot now conceive any idea?  Can you fear anything of the sort from\nthe poor simple priests whom we have now?  Pray where are our St.\nFrancois de Sales, our Bossuets, and our Fenelons?  Do you not see that\nnot only the clergy no longer possess such men, but that they have\ndegenerated generally, and as a class.  The great majority of the\npriests are of rustic families.  The peasant, even when he is not poor,\nfinds it convenient to lighten the expenses of his family, by placing\nhis son in the seminary.  To nursery education, that which we receive\nfrom our parents before any other, they are total strangers.  The\nseminary by no means repairs this inconvenience of origin and former\ncondition.  If we judge by those who come from the hands of the\nSulpicians, Lazarists, &c., we shall be inclined to believe that there\nhas been a deep plan laid among the upper leaders, to form none but\nindifferent priests, who would be so much the more dependent, and blind\nto the influence exercised over them contrary to their real interests.\nWhat then do you fear?  Is not this intellectual degradation of the\nclergy sufficiently comforting?  How could such men follow, in the\nconfession and direction, the learned tactics of the priests of former\nages?  The dangers you point out are imaginary.\"\n\nTo this it is easy to answer:--\n\nMental distinction and good education are not so necessary, as is\ngenerally thought, for enslaving souls that are willing to be ruled.\nAuthority, character, position, and costume fortify the _Priest_, and\nmake good in him what was wanting in the _Man_.  He gains his\nascendency less by his skill than by time and perseverance.  If his\nmind is but little cultivated, it is also less taken up with a variety\nof new ideas, which incessantly come crowding upon us moderns, amusing\nand fatiguing us.  With fewer ideas, views, and projects, but with an\ninterest, an aim, and ever the same end invariably kept in view--this\nis the way to succeed.\n\nMust we take it for granted, because you are clownish, you are less\ncunning on that account?  Peasants are circumspect, often full of\ncunning, and endued with an indefatigable constancy in following up any\npetty interest.  How many long years, what different means, and often\nindirect ones, will such a one employ, in order to add two feet of land\nto his field.  Do you think that his son, _Monsieur le Cure_, will be\nless patient or less ardent in his endeavours to get possession of a\nsoul, to govern this woman, or to enter that family?\n\nThese peasant families have often much vigour, a certain sap, belonging\nto the blood and constitution, which either gives wit, or supplies the\nplace of it.  Those in the South especially, where the clergy raise\ntheir principal recruits, furnish them with intrepid speakers, who do\nnot need to know anything; and who, by their very ignorance, are,\nperhaps, only in a more direct communication with the simple persons,\nto whom they address themselves.  They speak out loudly, with energy\nand assurance; educated persons would be more reserved, and less proper\nto fascinate the weak; they would not dare to attempt so audaciously a\nclownish _Mesmerism_ in spiritual things.\n\nIn this, I must confess, there is a serious difference between our own\ncentury and the seventeenth, when the clergy of all parties were so\nlearned.  That culture, those vast studies, that great theological and\nliterary activity were, for the priest of that time, the most powerful\ndiversion in the midst of temptations.  Science, or, at the very least,\ncontroversy and disputation, created for him, in a position that was\noften very worldly, a sort of solitude, an _alibi_, as one may say,\nthat effectually preserved him.  But ours, who have nothing of the\nsort, who, moreover, spring from a hardy and material race, and do not\nknow how to employ this embarrassing vigour, must indeed require a fund\nof virtue!\n\nThe great men from whom we have drawn our examples, had a wonderful\ndefence against spiritual and carnal desires; better than a defence,\nthey had wings that raised them from the earth, at the critical moment,\nabove temptation.  By these wings, I mean the love of God, the love of\ngenius for itself, its natural effort to remain on high and ascend, its\nabhorrence of degradation.\n\nBeing chiefs of the clergy of France, the only clergy then flourishing,\nand responsible to the world for whatever subsisted by their faith,\nthey kept their hearts exalted to the level of the great part they had\nto perform.  One thought was the guardian of their lives--a thought\nwhich they repressed, but which did not the less sustain them in\ndelicate trials: it was this, \"In them resided the Church.\"\n\nTheir great experience of the world and domestic life, their tact and\nskilful management of men and things, far from weakening morality, as\none might believe, rather defended it in them, enabling them to\nperceive, and have a presentiment of perils, to see the enemy coming,\nnot to allow him the advantage of unexpected attacks; or, at least, to\nknow how to elude him.\n\nWe have seen how Bossuet stopped the soft confidence of a weak nun at\nthe very first word.  The little we have said of Fenelon's _direction_\nshows sufficiently how the dangerous director evaded the dangers.\n\nThose eminently spiritual persons could keep up for years between\nheaven and earth this tender dialectic of the love of God.  But is it\nthe same in these days with men who have no wings, who crawl and cannot\nfly?  Incapable of those ingenious turnings and windings by which\npassion went on sportively, and eluding itself, do they not run the\nrisk of stumbling at the first step?\n\nI know well that this absence of early education, and vulgarity or\nclownishness, may often put an insurmountable barrier between priests\nand well-bred women.  Many things, however, that would not be tolerated\nin another man are reckoned in them as merits.  Stiffness is austerity,\nand awkwardness is accounted the simplicity of a saint, who has ever\nlived in a desert.  They are measured by a different and more indulgent\nrule than the laity.  The priest takes advantage of everything that is\ncalculated to make him be considered as a man apart, of his dress, his\nposition, his mysterious church, that invests the most vulgar with a\npoetical gleam.\n\nWho gave them this last advantage?  Ourselves.  We, who have\nreinstated, rebuilt, as one may say, those very churches they had\ndisregarded.  The priests were building up their Saint-Sulpices, and\nother heaps of stones, when the laity retrieved Notre-Dame and Saint\nOuen.  We pointed out to them the Christian spirit of these living\nstones,[1] but they did not see it; we taught it them, but they could\nnot understand.  And how long did the misconception last?  Not less\nthan forty years, ever since the appearance of the _Genie de\nChristianisme_.  The priests would not believe us, when we explained to\nthem this sublime edifice; they did not recognise it; but who can\nwonder?  It belongs only to those who understood it.\n\nAt length, however, they have changed their opinion.  They have found\nit to be political and clever to speak as we do, and extol Christian\narchitecture.  They have decked themselves out with their churches,\nagain invested themselves with this glorious cloak, and assumed in them\na triumphant posture.  The crowd comes, looks, and admires.  Truly, if\nwe are to judge of a well-dressed man by his coat, he who is invested\nwith the splendour of a Notre-Dame of Paris, or a Cologne cathedral, is\napparently the giant of the spiritual world.  Alexander, on his\ndeparture from India, wishing to deceive posterity as to the size of\nhis Macedonians, had a camp traced out on the ground in which a space\nof ten feet was allotted to each of his soldiers.  What an immense\nplace is this church, and what an immense host must inhabit this\nwonderful dwelling!  Optical delusion adds still more to the effect.\nEvery proportion changes.  The eye is deceived and deceives itself, at\nthe same time, with these sublime lights and deepening shades, all\ncalculated to increase the illusion.  The man whom in the street you\njudged, by his surly look, to be a village schoolmaster, is here a\nprophet.  He is transformed by this majestic framework; his heaviness\nbecomes strength and majesty; his voice has formidable echoes.  Women\nand children tremble and are afraid.\n\nWhen a woman returns home, she finds everything prosy and paltry.  Had\nshe even Pierre Corneille for a husband, she would think him pitiful,\nif he lived in the dull house they still show us.  Intellectual\ngrandeur in a low apartment does not affect her.  The comparison makes\nher sad, bitterly quiet.  The husband puts up with it, and smiles, or\npretends to do so; \"Her director has turned her brain,\" says he aloud,\nand adds, aside, \"After all, she only sees him at church.\"  But what\nplace, I ask, is more powerful over the imagination, richer in\nillusions, and more fascinating than the church?  It is precisely the\nchurch that ennobles, raises, exaggerates, and sheds a poetical ray\nupon this otherwise vulgar man.\n\nDo you see that solemn figure, adorned with all the gold and purple of\nhis pontifical dress, ascending with the thought, the prayer of a\nmultitude of ten thousand men, the triumphal steps in the choir of St.\nDenis?  Do you see him still, above all that kneeling mass, hovering as\nhigh as the vaulted roofs, his head reaching the capitals, and lost\namong the winged heads of the angels, whence he hurls his thunder?\nWell, it is the same man, this terrible archangel himself, who\npresently descends for her, and now, mild and gentle, goes yonder into\nthat dark chapel, to listen to her in the languid hours of the\nafternoon!  Delightful hour of tumultuous, but tender sensations!  (Why\ndoes the heart palpitate so strongly here?)  How dark the church\nbecomes!  Yet it is not late.  The great rose-window over the portal\nglitters with the setting sun.  But it is quite another thing in the\nchoir; dark shadows envelope it, and beyond is obscurity.  One thing\nastounds and almost frightens us, however far we may be, which is the\nmysterious old painted glass at the farthest end of the church, on\nwhich the design is no longer distinguishable, twinkling in the shade,\nlike an illegible magic scroll of unknown characters.  The chapel is\nnot less dark on that account; you can no longer discern the ornaments\nand delicate moulding entwined in the vaulted roof; the shadow\ndeepening blends and confounds the outlines.  But, as if this chapel\nwere not yet dark enough, it contains, in a retired corner, a narrow\nrecess of dark oak, where that man, all emotion, and that trembling\nwoman, so close to each other, are whispering together about the love\nof God.\n\n\n\n[1] See my History of France (1833), the last chapter of Vol. II., and\nparticularly the last ten pages.  In this same volume I have made a\nserious mistake which I wish to rectify.  In speaking of ecclesiastical\ncelibacy (temp. Gregory VII.), I have said that married men could never\nhave raised those sublime monuments, the spire of Strasbourg, &c.  I\nfind, on the contrary, that the architects of the Gothic churches were\nlaymen, and generally married.  Erwin de Steinbach, who built\nStrasbourg, had a celebrated daughter, Sabina, who was herself an\nartist.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nCONFESSION.--PRESENT EDUCATION OF THE YOUNG CONFESSOR.--THE CONFESSOR\nIN THE MIDDLE AGES:--FIRST, BELIEVED; SECONDLY, MORTIFIED HIMSELF;\nTHIRDLY, WAS SUPERIOR BY CULTURE; FOURTHLY, USED TO INTERROGATE\nLESS.--THE CASUISTS WROTE FOR THEIR TIME.--THE DANGERS OF THE YOUNG\nCONFESSOR.--HOW HE STRENGTHENS HIS TOTTERING POSITION.\n\n\nA worthy parish priest has often told me that the sore part of his\nprofession, that which filled him with despair, and his life with\ntorment, was the _Confessional_.\n\nThe studies, with which they prepare for it in the seminaries, are such\nas entirely ruin the disposition, weaken the body, and enervate and\ndefile the soul.\n\nLay education, without making any pretension to an extraordinary degree\nof purity, and though the pupils it forms will, one day, enjoy public\nlife, takes, however, especial care to keep from the eyes of youth the\nglowing descriptions that excite the passions.\n\nEcclesiastical education, on the contrary, which pretends to form men\nsuperior to man, pure virgin minds, angels, fixes precisely the\nattention of its pupils upon things that are to be for ever forbidden\nthem, and gives them for subjects of study terrible temptations, such\nas would make all the saints run the risk of damnation.  Their printed\nbooks have been quoted, but not so their copy-books, by which they\ncomplete the two last years of seminary education.  These copy-books\ncontain things that the most audacious have never dared to publish.\n\nI dare not quote here what has been revealed to me about this idiotic\neducation by those who have been its martyrs, and narrowly escaped\ndestruction from it.  No one can imagine the condition of a poor young\nman, still a believer, and very sincere, struggling between the terrors\nand temptations with which they surround him, at pleasure, with two\nunknown subjects, either one of which might drive him mad, _Woman!\nHell!_--and yet obliged to look incessantly at the abyss, blinded,\nthrough these impure books, with his sanguine youthful constitution.\n\nThis surprising imprudence proceeded originally from the very\nscholastic supposition, that the body and soul could be perfectly well\nkept apart.  They had imagined they could lead them like two coursers\nof different tempers, the one to the right and the other to the left.\nThey did not reflect that, in this case, man would be in the\npredicament of the chariot sculptured upon the tablet of the Louvre,\nwhich, pulled both ways, must inevitably be dashed to pieces.\n\nHowever different these two substances may be in nature, it is but too\nmanifest that they are mingled in action.  Not a motion of the soul but\nacts upon the body, which re-acts in the same manner.  The most cruel\ndiscipline inflicted upon the body will destroy it rather than prevent\nits action upon the soul.  To believe that a vow, a few prayers, and a\nblack robe, will deliver you from the flesh, and make you a pure\nspirit--is perfect childishness.\n\nThey will refer me to the middle ages, and to the multitudes who have\nlived mortified lives.\n\nFor this I have not one answer, but twenty, which admit of no reply.\nIt is too easy to show that priests in general, and especially the\nconfessor, were then totally different from what they have been for the\ntwo last centuries.\n\nI.  The first answer will seem, perhaps, harsh--_Then the priest\nbelieved_.  \"What! the priest no longer believes?  Do you mean to say\nthat in speaking of his faith with so much energy, he is a hypocrite\nand a liar?\"  No, I will allow him to be sincere.  But there are two\nmanners of believing, there are many degrees in faith.  We are told\nthat Lope de Vega (who, as it is known, was a priest) could not\nofficiate: at the moment of the sacrifice, his fancy pictured the\nPassion too strongly, he would burst into tears and faint.  Compare\nthis with the coquettish pantomine of the Jesuit, who acts mass at\nFribourg, or with the prelate whom I have seen at the altar showing to\nadvantage his delicate small hand.  The priest believed, and _his\npenitent believed_.  Unheard-of terrors, miracles, devils, and hell,\nfilled the church.  The motto, \"God hears you,\" was engraven not only\nin the wood, but in the heart.  It was not a plank that partitioned off\nthe confessional, but the sword of the archangel, the thought of the\nlast judgment.\n\nII.  If the priest spoke in the name of the _spirit_, he was partly\njustified in doing so, having purchased spiritual power by the _suicide\nof the body_.  His long prayers at night would have sufficed to wear\nhim out; but they found more direct means in excessive fasts.  Fasting\nwas the diet of those poor schools of Beggars and Cappets, whose scanty\nmeal was composed of arguments.  Half dead before the age of manhood,\nthey cooled their blood with herbs producing a deadly chill, and\nexhausted it by frequent bleedings.  The number of bleedings, to which\nthe monks had to submit, was provided in their rules.  Their stomachs\nwere soon destroyed, and their strength impaired.  Bernard and Theresa\nwere weakened by continual vomitings, even the sense of taste was lost:\nthe Saint, says his biographer, took blood for butter.  _Mortification_\nwas not then an idle word, it was not a separation of the body and\nsoul, but a genuine and honest suppression of the body.\n\nIII.  The priest believed himself to be, in this sense, the man of the\nspirit, and he really was so, by the _superiority of culture_.  _He_\nknew everything, the layman nothing.  Even when the priest was young,\nhe was truly the father, the other the child.  In our days it is just\nthe contrary; the layman, in cities at least, is generally more learned\nthan the priest.  Even the peasant, if he be a father of a family, with\nbusiness and interests, or has served in the army, has more experience\nthan his cure, and more real knowledge; his speaking more\nungrammatically is of no consequence.  But the contrast is still more\nstriking, when this inexperienced priest, who has known nothing but his\nown seminary, sees at his knees a fashionable, intriguing, impassioned\nwoman, who now, perhaps, at the close of her seventh lustrum, has\npassed through everything sentimental and ideal.  What! _she_ ask his\nadvice? _she_ call him _father_?  Why, every word she utters is a\nrevelation for him--astonishment and fear take possession of his soul.\nIf he is not wise enough to hold his tongue, he will be ridiculous.\nHis penitent, who came to him all trembling, will depart laughing.\n\nIV.  There is another difference which will strike only those who are\nacquainted with the middle ages--_the language was not developed_ as it\nnow is.  No one being then acquainted with our habits of analysing and\ndeveloping, confession was naturally reduced to a simple declaration of\nsin, without any detail of circumstances.  Still less could they deduce\nthe phenomena which accompany passion--the desires, doubts, and fears\nwhich give it the power of illusion, and make it contagious.  There\nwas, if you will, confession; but the woman could not express herself,\nnor could the priest have understood her; she was not able to reveal\nthe depth of her thought, nor could he have reached it if she had done\nso.  Confession on one side, and sentence on the other, nothing more;\nthere was neither dialogue, confidence, nor disclosing of the heart.\n\nIf the priest has not enough imagination and wit to put the questions\nfrom the store of his own mind, he has had in his hands for the last\ntwo centuries ready-made questions, which he may ask in due order, and\nby which he will force his fair penitent to dive into her own thoughts,\nsift her own secrets to deliver them over to him, open her heart's\nfibres, as one may say, thread by thread, and wind off before him the\ncomplete skein, which he henceforth holds in his hands.\n\nThis terrible instrument of inquiry, which in unskilful hands may\ncorrupt the soul by its injudicious probing, must necessarily be\nmodified when morals change.  Morality does not vary, but morals do,\naccording to the lapse of time; yet this very simple truth never once\nentered their heads.  They have adhered to the morals of the period,\nwhen the intellectual movement ceased, as far as they were concerned.\nThe manuals they put into the hands of the young confessor are grounded\nupon the authority of the casuists, whom Pascal annihilated long ago.\nEven if the immorality of their solutions had not been demonstrated,\nremember that Escobar and Sanchez made their questions for a horribly\ncorrupt period, from which, thank God, we are far removed.  Their\ncasuistry was from the first addressed to the corrupt and disordered\nstate of society occasioned by long religious warfare.  You will find\namong them crimes that were perhaps never perpetrated, except by the\nbrutal soldiers of the Duke of Alva, or by the exiled, lawless, and\ngodless band that Wallenstein drew after him, a wandering mass of\niniquity which would have been abhorred by ancient Sodom.\n\nWe know not how to qualify this culpable routine.  These books,\ncomposed for a barbarous age, unparalleled in crimes, are the same that\nyou give to your pupils in our own civilised age.  And this young\npriest, who, according to your instructions, believes that the world is\nstill that dreadful world, who enters the Confessional with all this\nvillanous science, and his imagination full of monstrous cases, you,\nimprudent men! (what shall I call you?) you confront him with a child\nwho has never left her mother's side, who knows nothing, has nothing to\nsay, and whose greatest crime is that she has not learned her catechism\nproperly, or has hurt a butterfly!\n\nI shudder at the interrogatories to which he will subject her, and at\nwhat he will teach her in his _conscientious brutality_.  But he\nquestions her in vain.  She knows nothing, and says nothing.  He scolds\nher, and she weeps.  Her tears will be soon dried, but it will be long\nbefore she ceases to reflect.\n\nA volume might be composed on the first start of the young priest, and\nhis imprudent steps, all fatal either to himself or others.  The\npenitent is occasionally more circumspect than the confessor.  She is\namused at his proceedings, and looks at him coldly when he becomes\nanimated and goes too far.  Sometimes, forgetting himself in his\nimpassioned dream, he is suddenly and roughly awakened by a lesson from\nan intelligent and satirical woman kneeling before him.\n\nThis cruel lesson has given him an icy chill.  Confessors do not suffer\nsuch a repulse, without remaining a long time bitter, sometimes\nspiteful for ever.  The young priest knew well that he was the victim,\nthe disinherited of this world, but it had not been forced home upon\nhim.  Gall drowns his heart.  He prays to God (if he can still pray)\nthat the world may perish!\n\nThen returning to his senses, and seeing himself irremediably limed in\nthat black winding-sheet, that death-robe that he will wear to the\ngrave, he shrouds himself within it as he curses it, and muses how he\nmay make the best of his torment.\n\nThe only thing he can do, is to strengthen his position as a priest.\nHe has two way of succeeding, either by an understanding with the\nJesuits, or by paying a servile court to _Monseigneur_ the bishop.  I\nrecommend him especially to be violent against the philosophers, and to\nbark at _pantheism_.  Let him also blacken his fellow-priests, and he\nwill appear so much the purer himself.  Let him prove himself a\nthorough hater, and they will forgive him his love.\n\nThe Brotherhood will henceforth protect, defend, and cover him.  What\nwould have ruined the solitary priest, becomes sanctity itself when he\nbecomes one of a party.  Before, he would have been suspended, and sent\nperhaps for six months to _La Trappe_--now he is made Vicar-general.\n\nOnly let him be prudent in the delicate business which the fraternity\nwishes to conceal; let him learn the arts of priests--to feign, to\nwait, to know when and how to be satisfied; to advance but slowly,\nopenly, and above ground sometimes, but more often secretly, underneath.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nCONFESSION.--THE CONFESSOR AND THE HUSBAND.--HOW THEY DETACH THE\nWIFE.--THE DIRECTOR.--DIRECTORS ASSOCIATED TOGETHER.--ECCLESIASTICAL\nPOLICY.\n\n\nWhen I reflect on all that is contained in the words _confession_ and\n_direction_, those simple words, that immense power, the most complete\nin the world, and endeavour to analyse their whole meaning, I tremble\nwith fear.  I seem to be descending endless spiral stairs into the\ndepths of a dark mine.  Just now I felt contempt for the priest; now I\nfear him.\n\nBut we must not be afraid; we must look him in the face.  Let us\ncandidly put down in set terms the language of the confessor.\n\n\"_God hears you_, hears you through me; through me God will answer\nyou.\"  Such is the first word; such is the literal copy.  The authority\nis accepted as infinite and absolute, without any bargaining as to\nmeasure.\n\n\"But you tremble, you dare not tell this terrible God your weakness and\nchildishness; well! _tell them to your father_; a father has a right to\nknow the secrets of his child.  He is an indulgent father, who wants to\nknow them only to absolve them.  He is a sinner like yourself: has he\nthen a right to be severe?  Come, then, my child, come and tell\nme--what you have not dared to whisper in your mother's ear; tell it\nme; who will ever know?\"\n\nThen is it, amid sobs and sighs, from the choking heaving breast that\nthe fatal word rises to the lips: it escapes, and she hides her head.\nOh! he who heard that has gained an immense advantage, and will keep\nit.  Would to God that he did not abuse it!  It was heard, remember,\nnot by the wood and the dark oak of the confessional, but by ears of\nflesh and blood.\n\nAnd this man now knows of this woman, what the husband has not known in\nall the long effusion of his heart by day and night, what even her own\nmother does not know, who thinks she knows her entirely, having had her\nso many times a naked infant upon her knees.\n\nThis man knows, and will know--don't be afraid of his forgetting it.\nIf the confession is in good hands, so much the better, for it is for\never.  And she, she knows full well she has a master of her intimate\nthoughts.  Never will she pass by that man without casting down her\neyes.\n\nThe day when this mystery was imparted, he was very near her, she felt\nit.  On a higher seat, he seemed to have an irresistible ascendency\nover her.  A magnetic influence has vanquished her, for she wished not\nto speak, and she spoke in spite of herself.  She felt herself\nfascinated, like the bird by the serpent.\n\nSo far, however, there is no art on the side of the priest.  The force\nof circumstances has done everything, that of religious institution,\nand that of nature.  As a priest, he received her at his knees, and\nlistened to her.  Then, master of her secret, of her thoughts, the\nthoughts of a woman, he became man again, without, perhaps, either\nwishing or knowing it, and laid upon her, weakened and disarmed, the\nheavy hand of man.\n\nAnd her family now? her husband?  Who will dare to assert that his\nposition is the same as before?\n\nEvery reflecting mind knows full well that thought is the most personal\npart of the person.  The master of a person's thoughts is he to whom\nthe person belongs.  The priest has the soul fast, as soon as he has\nreceived the dangerous pledge of the first secrets, and he will hold it\nfaster and faster.  The two husbands now take shares, for now there are\ntwo--one has the soul, the other the body.\n\nTake notice that in this sharing, one of the two really has the whole;\nthe other, if he gets anything, gets it by favour.  Thought by its\nnature is prevailing and absorbing; the master of her thought, in the\nnatural progress of his sway, will ever go on reducing the part that\nseemed to remain in the possession of the other.  The husband may think\nhimself well off, if a widower with respect to the soul, he still\npreserves the involuntary, inert, and lifeless possession.\n\nHow humiliating, to obtain nothing of what was your own, but by\nauthorisation and indulgence;[1] to be seen, and followed into your\nmost private intimacy, by an invisible witness, who governs you and\ngives you your allowance; to meet in the street a man who knows better\nthan yourself your most secret weaknesses, who bows cringingly, turns\nand laughs.  It is nothing to be powerful, if one is not powerful\nalone--alone!  God does not allow shares.\n\nIt is with this reasoning that the priest is sure to comfort himself in\nhis persevering efforts to sever this woman from her family, to weaken\nher kindred ties, and, particularly, to undermine the rival\nauthority--I mean, the husband's.  The husband is a heavy encumbrance\nto the priest.  But if this husband suffers at being so well known,\nspied, and seen, when he is alone, he who sees all suffers still more.\nShe comes now every moment to tell innocently of things that transport\nhim beyond himself.  Often would he stop her, and would willingly say,\n\"Mercy, madam, this is too much!\"  And though these details make him\nsuffer the torment of the damned, he wants still more, and requires her\nto enter further and further into these avowals, both humiliating for\nher, and cruel for him, and to give him the detail of the saddest\ncircumstances.\n\nThe Confessor of a young woman may boldly be termed the jealous secret\nenemy of the husband.  If there be one exception to this rule (and I am\nwilling to believe there may be), he is a hero, a saint, a martyr, a\nman more than man.\n\nThe whole business of the confessor is to insulate this woman, and he\ndoes it conscientiously.  It is the duty of him who leads her in the\nway of salvation to disengage her gradually from all earthly ties.  It\nrequires time, patience, and skill.  The question is not how these\nstrong ties may suddenly be broken; but to discover well, first of all,\nof what threads each tie is composed, and to disentangle, and gnaw them\naway thread by thread.\n\nAnd all this may easily be done by him who, awakening new scruples\nevery day, fills a timid soul with uneasiness, about the lawfulness of\nher most holy affections.  If any one of them be innocent, it is, after\nall, an earthly attachment, a robbery against God: God wants all.  No\nmore relationship or friendship; nothing must remain.  \"A brother?\"\nNo, he is still a man.  \"But at least my sister? my mother?\"  \"No, you\nmust leave all--leave them intentionally, and from your soul; you shall\nalways see them, my child; nothing will appear changed; only, close\nyour heart.\"  A moral solitude is thus established around.  Friends go\naway, offended at her freezing politeness.  \"People are cool in this\nhouse.\"  But why this strange reception?  They cannot guess; she does\nnot always know why herself.  The thing is commanded; is it not enough?\nObedience consists in obeying without reason.\n\n\"People are cold here:\" this is all that can be said.  The husband\nfinds the house larger and more empty.  His wife is become quite\nchanged: though present, her mind is absent; she acts as if unconscious\nof acting; she speaks, but not like herself.  Everything is changed in\ntheir intimate habits, always for a good reason: \"To-day is a fast\nday\"--and to-morrow?  \"Is a holy-day.\"  The husband respects this\nausterity; he would consider it very wrong to trouble this exalted\ndevotion; he is sadly resigned: \"This becomes embarrassing,\" says he:\n\"I had not foreseen it; my wife is turning saint.\"[2]\n\nIn this sad house there are fewer friends, yet there is a new one, and\na very assiduous one: the habitual confessor is now the director;[3] a\ngreat and important change.\n\nAs her confessor he received her at church, at regular hours; but as\ndirector he visits her at his own hour, sees her at her house, and\noccasionally at his own.\n\nAs confessor he was generally passive, listening much, and speaking\nlittle; if he prescribed, it was in a few words; but as director he is\nall activity; he not only prescribes acts, but what is more important,\nby intimate conversation he influences her thoughts.\n\nTo the confessor she tells her sins; she owes him nothing more; but to\nthe director everything must be told: she must speak of herself and her\nrelations, her business and her interests.  When she entrusts to that\nman her highest interest, that of eternal salvation, how can she help\nconfiding to him her little temporal concerns, the marriage of her\nchildren, and the WILL she intends to make? &c., &c.\n\nThe confessor is bound to secrecy, he is silent (or ought to be).  The\ndirector, however, is not so tied down.  He may reveal what he knows,\nespecially to a priest, or to another director.  Let us suppose about\ntwenty priests assembled in a house (or not quite so many, out of\nrespect for the law against meetings), who may be, some of them the\nconfessors, and others directors of the same persons: as directors they\nmay mutually exchange their information, put upon a table a thousand or\ntwo thousand consciences in common, combine their relations, like so\nmany chessmen, regulate beforehand all the movements and interests, and\nallot to one another the different parts they have to play to bring the\nwhole to their purpose.\n\nThe Jesuits alone formerly worked thus in concert; but it is not the\nfault of the leaders of the clergy, in these days, if the whole of this\nbody, with trembling obedience, do not play at this villanous game.  By\ntheir all communicating together, their secret revelations might\nproduce a vast mysterious science, which would arm ecclesiastical\npolicy with a power a hundred times stronger than that of the state can\npossibly be.\n\nWhatever might be wanting in the confession of the master, would easily\nbe supplied by that of his servants and valets.  The association of the\nBlandines of Lyons, imitated in Brittany, Paris, and elsewhere, would\nalone be sufficient to throw a light upon the whole household of every\nfamily.  It is in vain they are known, they are nevertheless employed;\nfor they are gentle and docile, serve their masters very well, and know\nhow to see and listen.\n\nHappy the father of a family who has so virtuous a wife, and such\ngentle, humble, honest, pious servants.  What the ancient sighed for,\nnamely, to live in a glass dwelling, where he might be seen by every\none, this happy man enjoys without even the expression of a wish.  Not\na syllable of his is lost.  He may speak lower and lower, but a fine\near has caught every word.  If he writes down his secret thoughts, not\nwishing to utter them, they are read:--by whom?  No one knows.  What he\ndreams upon his pillow, the next morning, to his great astonishment, he\nhears in the street.\n\n\n\n[1] St. Francois de Sales, the best of them all, takes compassion on\nthe poor husband.  He removes certain scruples of the wife, &c.  Even\nthis kindness is singularly humiliating.  (See ed. 1833, vol. viii. pp.\n254, 312, 347, 348.)  Marriage, though one of the sacraments, appears\nhere as a suppliant on its knees before the _direction_, seems to ask\npardon, and suffer penance.\n\n[2] For the _insulated state_ of a father of a family in Catholic\ncountries, see M. BOUVET'S _Du Catholicisme_, p. 175. (ed. 1840).  An\nEnglish gentleman, whose wife goes to Confession, said to me one day,\n\"I am a lodger in my own house--I come to my meals.\"--ED.\n\n[3] The name is rare in our days, but the thing is common; he who\nconfesses for a length of time becomes director.  Several persons have,\nat the same time, a confessor, an extraordinary confessor, and a\ndirector.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nHABIT.--ITS POWER.--ITS INSENSIBLE BEGINNING.--ITS PROGRESS.--SECOND\nNATURE.--OFTEN FATAL.--A MAN MAKING THE MOST OF THE POWER OF\nHABIT.--CAN WE GET CLEAR OF IT?\n\n\nIf spiritual dominion be really of the spirit, if the empire over\nthought be obtained by thought itself, by a superiority of character\nand mind, we must give way; we have only to be resigned.  Our family\nmay protest, but it will be in vain.\n\nBut, for the most part, this is not the case.  The influence we speak\nof by no means supposes, as an essential condition, the brilliant gifts\nof the mind.  They are doubtless of service to him who has them,\nthough, if we have them in a superior degree, they may possibly do him\nharm.  A brilliant superiority, which ever seems a pretension to\ngovern, puts the minds of others on their guard, warns the less\nprudent, and places an obstacle on the very threshold; which here is\neverything.  People of mediocrity do not alarm us, they gain an\nentrance more easily.  The weaker they are the less they are suspected;\ntherefore are they the stronger in one sense.  Iron clashes against the\nrock, is blunted, and loses its edge and point.  But who would distrust\nwater?  Weak, colourless, insipid as it is, if, however, it always\ncontinues to fall in the same place, it will in time hollow out the\nflinty rock.\n\nStand at this window every day, at a certain hour in the afternoon.\nYou will see a pale man pass down the street, with his eyes cast on the\nground, and always following the same line of pavement next the houses.\nWhere he set his foot yesterday, there he does to-day, and there he\nwill to-morrow; he would wear out the pavement, if it was never\nrenewed.  And by this same street he goes to the same house, ascends to\nthe same story, and in the same cabinet speaks to the same person.  He\nspeaks of the same things, and his manner seems the same.  The person\nwho listens to him sees no difference between yesterday and\nto-day:--gentle uniformity, as serene as an infant's sleep, whose\nbreathing raises its chest at equal intervals with the same soft sound.\n\nYou think that nothing changes in this monotonous equality; that all\nthese days are the same.  You are mistaken; you have _perceived_\nnothing, yet every day there is a change, slight, it is true, and\nimperceptible, which the person, himself changed by little and little,\ndoes not remark.\n\nIt is like a dream in a bark.  What distance have you come, whilst you\nwere dreaming?  Who can tell?  Thus you go on, without seeming to\nmove--still, and yet rapidly.  Once out of the river, or canal, you\nsoon find yourself at sea; the uniform immensity in which you now are\nwill inform you still less of the distance you go.  Time and place are\nequally uncertain; no sure point to occupy attention; and attention\nitself is gone.  The reverie is profound, and becomes more and more\nso:--an ocean of dreams upon the smooth ocean of waters.\n\nA pleasant state, in which everything becomes insensible, even\ngentleness itself.  Is it death, or is it life?  To distinguish, we\nrequire attention, and we should awake from our dream.--No, let it go\non, whatever it may be that carries me along with it, whether it lead\nme to life or death.\n\nAlas! 'tis habit! that gently sloping formidable abyss, into which we\nslide so easily! we may say everything that is bad of it, and, also,\neverything that is good, and it will be always true.\n\nLet us be frank: if the action that we did in the first instance\nknowingly and voluntarily, was never done but with will and attention,\nif it never became habitual and easy, we should act but little and\nslowly, and our life would pass away in endeavours and efforts.  If,\nfor instance, every time we stepped forward we had to reflect upon our\ndirection, and how to keep our balance, we should not walk much better\nthan the child who is trying to go alone.  But walking soon becomes a\nhabit, an action that is performed without any need of invoking the\nconstant and intermediate operation of the will.  It is the same with\nmany other acts which, still less voluntary, become at last mechanical,\nautomatical, foreign, as I may say, to our personality.  As we advance\nin life a considerable portion of our activity escapes our notice,\nremoves from the sphere of liberty to enter that of habit, and becomes\nas it were fated; the remainder, relieved in that respect, and so far\nabsolved from attention and effort, finds itself, by a process of\ncompensation, more free to act elsewhere.\n\nThis is useful, but it is also dangerous.  The fatal part increases\nwithin us, without our interference, and grows in the darkness of our\ninward nature.  What formerly struck our attention, now passes\nunperceived.  What was at first difficult, in time grows easy, too\neasy: at last we can no longer say even that it is easy, for it takes\nplace of its own accord, independently of our will; we suffer, if we do\nnot do it.  These acts being those, of all others, that cost the least\ntrouble, are incessantly renewed.  We must, at last, confess that a\nsecond nature is the result, which, formed at the expense of the\nformer, becomes, in a great measure, its substitute.  We forget the\ndifficulties of our early beginnings, and fancy we have always been so.\nThis favours at least our idleness, and excuses us from making any\nefforts to stop ourselves on the brink.  Besides, the very traces of\nthe change are at length effaced, the road has disappeared; even though\nwe desire to go back, we could not.  It is as though a bridge were\nbroken down behind us; we have passed over it--but for the last time.\n\nWe then resign ourselves to our lot, and say, with a faint attempt to\nsmile, \"_For me it is a second nature_,\" or, better still, \"_It is my\nnature_.\"  So much have we forgotten!  But between this nature and our\nreal primitive nature, which we received at our birth, there is a great\ndifference; which is, that the latter, derived from the bosom of the\nmother, was like the real mother herself, an attentive guardian of\nlife, that warned us of whatever may compromise it, that sought and\nfound in its benevolence a remedy for our ills.  Whereas this second\nnature, habit, under this perfidious name is often nothing else than\nthe high road that leads to death.\n\n\"It is my second nature,\" says the opium drinker in a sad tone, when he\nsees dying by his side one who had taken to the deadly beverage only a\nfew months before himself: \"I have still so many months to live.\"  \"It\nis my second nature,\" says a miserable child, a devoted victim of idle\nand bad habits.  Neither reasoning, chastisement, nor maternal grief,\nis of any avail.  They both go, and will go, to the end, following the\nroad by which people travel but once.\n\nA vulgar proverb (but too true in this case) tells us, \"_Whoever has\nonce drunk, will drink_.\"  We must generalise it, and say, \"_Whoever\nhas acted, will act; whoever has suffered, will suffer_.\"  But this is\nstill more true with respect to passive than active habits.  Accustomed\nto let things take their course, to suffer and to enjoy, we become\nincapable of resuming our activity.  At last we do not even require the\nenticement of pleasure; even when it is no more, and pain usurps its\nplace, inexorable habit pours out still from the same cup: it then no\nlonger takes the trouble to dissemble; we recognise, when too late, how\nugly and invincible this tyrant is, who says coldly, \"You drank the\nhoney first, now you shall drink the gall, and to the last drop.\"\n\nIf this tyrant, habit, is so strong when it acts blindly, when it is\nonly a thing such as opium or gin, what does it become when it has\neyes, a will, _an art_, in a word, when it is a man?  A man full of\ncalculation, who knows how to create and cherish habit for his own\nadvantage, a man who for his first means brings against you your\nbelief; who begins personal fascination in the authority of a respected\ncharacter; who, to exercise it over you and create a habit in you, has\ndaily occasions, days, months, years, time, irresistible time, the\ntamer of all human things, time, that can eat away iron and brass!  Is\nthe heart of woman hard enough to resist it?\n\nA woman? a child! still less, a person _who will be a child_, who\nemploys all the faculties she has acquired since childhood to fall back\ninto childishness, who directs her will to wish no longer, and her\nthoughts no longer to know anything, and gives herself up as if asleep.\n\nSuppose her to awake (it is a very rare case), to awake for a moment\n(surprising the tyrant without his mask, seeing him as he really is),\nand then to wish to escape.  Do you think she can?  To do so, she must\nact; but she no longer knows what it is, not having acted for so long a\ntime; her limbs are stiff; her legs are paralysed and have lost all\nmotion; her heavy hand rises, falls again, and refuses.\n\nThen you may perceive too well what is habit, and how, once bound in\nits thousand imperceptible threads, you remain tied in spite of you to\nwhat you detest.  These threads, though they escape the eye, are,\nnevertheless, tough.  Pliable and supple as they seem to be, you may\nbreak through one, but underneath you find two; it is a double, nay\ntriple, net.  Who can know its thickness?\n\nI read once in an old story what is really touching, and very\nsignificant.  It was about a woman, a wandering princess, who, after\nmany sufferings, found for her asylum a deserted palace, in the midst\nof a forest.  She felt happy in reposing there, and remaining some\ntime: she went to and fro from one large empty room to another, without\nmeeting with any obstacle; she thought herself alone and free.  All the\ndoors were open.  Only at the hall-door, no one having passed through\nsince herself, the spider had woven his web in the sun, a thin, light,\nand almost invisible network; a feeble obstacle which the princess, who\nwishes at last to go out, thinks she can remove without any difficulty.\nShe raises the web; but there is another behind it, which she also\nraises without trouble.  The second concealed a third, that she must\nalso raise:--strange! there are four.--No, five! or rather six--and\nmore beyond.  Alas! how will she get rid of so many?  She is already\ntired.  No matter! she perseveres; by taking breath a little she may\ncontinue.  But the web continues too, and is ever renewed with a\nmalicious obstinacy.  What is she to do?  She is overcome with fatigue\nand perspiration, her arms fall by her sides.  At last, exhausted as\nshe is, she sits down on the ground, on that insurmountable\nthreshold:--she looks mournfully at the aerial obstacle fluttering in\nthe wind, lightly and triumphantly.--Poor princess! poor fly! now you\nare caught!  But why did you stay in that fairy dwelling, and give the\nspider time to spin his web?\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER V.\n\nON CONVENTS--OMNIPOTENCE OF THE DIRECTOR.--CONDITION OF THE NUN FORLORN\nAND WATCHED.--CONVENTS THAT ARE AT THE SAME TIME BRIDEWELLS AND\nBEDLAMS.--INVEIGLING.--BARBAROUS DISCIPLINE.--STRUGGLE BETWEEN THE\nSUPERIOR NUN AND THE DIRECTOR.--CHANGE OF DIRECTORS.--THE MAGISTRATE.\n\n\nFifteen years ago I occupied, in a very solitary part of the town, a\nhouse, the garden of which was adjacent to that of a convent of women.\nThough my windows overlooked the greatest part of their garden, I had\nnever seen my sad neighbours.  In the month of May, on Rogation-day, I\nheard numerous weak, very weak voices, chanting prayers, as the\nprocession passed through the convent garden.  The singing was sad,\ndry, unpleasant, their voices false, as if spoiled by sufferings.  I\nthought for a moment they were chanting prayers for the dead; but,\nlistening more attentively, I distinguished on the contrary, \"_Te\nrogamus, audi nos_,\" the song of hope which invokes the benediction of\nthe God of life upon fruitful nature.  This May-song, chanted by these\nlifeless nuns, offered to me a bitter contrast.  To see these pale\ngirls crawling along on the flowery, verdant turf, these poor girls;\nwho will never bloom again!--The thought of the middle ages that had at\nfirst flashed across my mind soon died away: for then monastic life was\nconnected with a thousand other things; but in our modern harmony what\nis this but a barbarous contradiction, a false, harsh, grating note?\nWhat I then beheld before me was to be defended neither by nature nor\nby history.  I shut my window again, and sadly resumed my book.  This\nsight had been painful to me, as it was not softened or atoned for by\nany poetical sentiment.  It reminded me much less of chastity than of\nsterile widowhood, a state of emptiness, inaction, disgust--of an\nintellectual[1] and moral fast, the state in which these unfortunate\ncreatures are kept by their absolute rulers.\n\nWe were speaking of habit; it is certainly there that it reigns a\ntyrant.  Very little art is required to rule over these poor,\ninsulated, immured, and dependent women; as there is no outward\ninfluence to counterbalance the impression that one person, ever the\nsame person, makes on them daily.  The least skilful priest may easily\nfascinate their natures, already weakened, and brought down to the most\nservile, trembling obedience.  There is little courage or merit in thus\ntrampling over the creature which is already crushed.\n\nTo speak first of the power of habit: nothing of all that we see in the\nworld can give us an idea of the force with which it acts upon this\nlittle immured community.  Family society, doubtless, modifies us, but\nits influence is neutralised by outward events.  The regularity with\nwhich our favourite newspaper comes every morning with uniform\nmonotony, has certainly some influence; but this newspaper has its\nrivals, its opponents.  Another influence which exists less in our\ntime, but is still very powerful over secluded persons, is that of a\nbook, the captivating perusal of which may detain us for months and\nyears.  Diderot confesses that Clarissa was read by him over and over\nagain, and that it was for a long time his very life, his joy, his\ngrief, his summer and winter.  But the finest thing of this class is,\nafter all, but a book, a dumb, inanimate thing, which, though you may\ncall it as animate as you please, does not hear, and cannot answer; it\nhas no words with which it may answer yours, nor eyes to reflect your\nown.\n\nAway, then, with books, those cold paper images!\n\nImagine in a monastery, where nothing else intrudes, the only living\nobject, the only person who has a right to enter, who monopolises all\nthe influences of which we have spoken, who is, in himself, their\nsociety, newspaper, novel, and sermon; a person whose visit is the only\ninterruption to the deadly monotony of a life devoid of employment.\nBefore he comes, and after he has been, is the only division of time in\nthis life of profound monotony.\n\nWe said a person, we ought to have said a man.  Whoever will be candid\nwould confess that a woman would never have this influence; that the\ncircumstance of his being of the opposite sex has much to do with it,\neven with the purest and with those who had never dreamed of sex.\n\nTo be the only one, without either comparison or contradiction, to be\nthe whole world of a soul, to wean it, at pleasure, from every\nreminiscence that might cause any rivalry, and efface from this docile\nheart even the thought of a mother that might still[2] be cherished\nwithin it!  To inherit everything, and remain alone and be master of\nthis heart by the extinction of all natural sentiments!\n\n_The only one_!  But this is the good, the perfect, the amiable, the\nbeloved!  Enumerate every good quality, and they will all be found to\nbe contained in this one term.  A thing even (not to say a person), a\nthing, if it be the only one, will in time captivate our hearts.\nCharlemagne, seeing from his palace always the same sight, a lake with\nits verdant border, at last fell in love with it.\n\nHabit certainly contributes much; but also that great necessity of the\nheart to tell everything to what we are always in the habit of seeing:\nwhether it be man or thing, we must speak.  Even if it were a stone, we\nshould tell it everything, for our thoughts must be told, and our\ngriefs be poured out from an overflowing heart.\n\nDo you believe that this poor nun is tranquil in this life so\nmonotonous?  How many sad, but, alas! too true confessions I could\nrelate here, that have been communicated to me by tender female\nfriends, who had gone and received their tears in their bosom, and\nreturned, pierced to the heart, to weep with me.\n\nWhat we must wish for the prisoner is, that her heart, and almost her\nbody, may die.  If she be not shattered and crushed into a state of\nself-oblivion, she will find in the convent the united sufferings of\nsolitude and of the world.  Alone, without being able to be alone![3]\nForlorn, yet all her actions watched!\n\nForlorn!  This nun still young, yet already old through abstinence and\ngrief, was yesterday a boarder, a novice whom they caressed.  The\nfriendship of the young girls, the maternal flattery of the old, her\nattachment for this nun, or that confessor, everything deceived her,\nand enticed her onward to eternal confinement.  We almost always fancy\nourselves called to God, when we follow an amiable, enchanting person,\none who, with that smiling, captivating devotion, delights in this sort\nof spiritual conquest.  As soon as one is gained, she goes to another;\nbut the poor girl who followed her, in the belief that she was loved,\nis no longer cared for.\n\nAlone, in a solitude without tranquillity of mind, and without repose.\nHow sweet, in comparison with this, would be the solitude of the woods!\nThe trees would still have compassion; they are not so insensible as\nthey seem: they hear and they listen.\n\nA woman's heart, that unconquerable maternal instinct, the basis of a\nwoman's character, tries to deceive itself.  She will soon find out\nsome young friend, some candid companion, a favourite pupil.  Alas! she\nwill be taken from her.  The jealous ones, to find favour with the\nsuperiors, never fail to accuse the purest attachments.  The devil is\njealous, in the interest of God--he makes his objections for the sake\nof God alone.\n\nWhat wonder, then, if this woman is sad, sadder every day, frequenting\nthe most melancholy-looking avenues, and no longer speaks?  Then her\nsolitude becomes a crime.  Now she is pointed out as suspected: they\nall observe and watch her.  In the day-time?  It is not enough.  The\nspy system lasts all night: they watch her sleeping, listen to her when\nshe dreams, and take down her words.\n\nThe dreadful feeling of being thus watched night and day must strangely\ntrouble all the powers of the soul.  The darkest hallucinations come\nover her, and all those wicked dreams that her poor reason, when on the\npoint of leaving her, can make in broad daylight and wide awake.  You\nknow the visions that Piranesi has engraved: vast subterraneous\nprisons, deep pits without air, staircases that you ascend for ever\nwithout reaching the top, bridges that lead to an abyss, low vaults,\nnarrow passages of catacombs growing closer and closer.  In these\ndreadful prisons, which are punishments, you may perceive, moreover,\ninstruments of torture, wheels, iron collars, whips.\n\nIn what, I should like to know, do convents of our time differ from\nhouses of correction and mad-houses?[4]  Many convents seem to unite\nthe three characters.\n\nI know but one difference between them; whilst the houses of correction\nare inspected by the law, and the mad-houses by the police, both stop\nat the convent doors; the law is afraid, and dares not pass the\nthreshold.\n\nThe inspection of convents, and the precise designation of their\ncharacter, are, however, so much more indispensable in these days, as\nthey differ in a very serious point from the convents of the old\n_regime_.\n\nThose of the last century were properly asylums, where, for a donation\nonce paid, every noble family, whether living as nobles, or rich\ncitizens, placed one or more daughters to make a rich son.  Once shut\nup there, they might live or die as they pleased; they were no longer\ncared for.  But now _nuns inherit_, they become an object to be gained,\na prey for a hundred thousand snares--an easy prey in their state of\ncaptivity and dependence.  A superior, zealous to enrich her community,\nhas infallible means to force the nun to give up her wealth; she can a\nhundred times a-day, under pretence of devotion and penitence, humble,\nvex, and even ill-treat her, till she reduces her to despair.  Who can\nsay where asceticism finishes and captation begins, that \"_compelle\nintrare_\" applied to fortune?  A financial and administrative spirit\nprevails to such a degree in our convents, that this sort of talent is\nwhat they require in a superior before every other.  Many of these\nladies are excellent managers.  One of them is known in Paris by the\nnotaries and lawyers, as able to give them lessons in matters of\ndonations, successions, and wills.  Paris need no longer envy Bologna\nthat learned female jurisconsult, who, occasionally wrapped in a veil,\nprofessed in the chair of her father.\n\nOur modern laws, which date from the Revolution, and which, in their\nequity, have determined that the daughter and younger son should not be\nwithout their inheritance, work powerfully in this respect in favour of\nthe counter-revolution: and that explains the rapid and unheard-of\nincrease of religious houses.\n\nNothing stops the monastic recruiters in their zeal for the salvation\nof rich souls.  You may see them fluttering about heirs and heiresses.\nWhat a premium for the young peasants who people our seminaries is this\nprospect of power!  Once priests, they may direct fortunes as well as\nconsciences![5]\n\nCaptation, so conspicuous in the busy world, is not so in the convents;\nthough it is here still more dangerous, being exercised over persons\nimmured and dependent.  There it reigns unbridled, and is formidable\nwith impunity.  For who can know it?  Who dares enter here?  No one.\nStrange!  There are houses in France that are estranged to France.  The\nstreet is still France; but pass yonder threshold, and you are in a\nforeign country which laughs at your laws.\n\nWhat, then, are their laws?  We are ignorant upon the subject.  But we\nknow for certain (for no pains are taken to disguise it) that the\nbarbarous discipline of the middle ages is preserved in full force.\nCruel contradiction!  This system that speaks so much of the\ndistinction of the soul and the body, and believes it, since it boldly\nexposes the confessor to carnal temptations!  Well! this very same\nsystem teaches us that the body, distinct from the soul, modifies it by\nits suffering; that the soul improves and becomes more pure under the\nlash![6]  It preaches spiritualism to meet valiantly the seduction of\nthe flesh, and materialism when required to annihilate the will!\n\nWhat! when the law forbids to strike even our galley slaves, who are\nthieves, murderers, the most ferocious of men--you men of grace, who\nspeak only of charity, _the good holy Virgin, and the gentle\nJesus_--you strike women!--nay, girls, even children--who, after all,\nare only guilty of some trifling weakness!\n\nHow are these chastisements administered?  This is a question, perhaps,\nstill more serious.  What sort of terms of composition may not be\nextorted by fear?  At what price does authority sell its indulgence?\n\nWho regulates the number of stripes?  Is it you, My Lady Abbess? or\nyou, Father Superior?  What must be the capricious partial decision of\none woman against another, if the latter displeases her; an ugly woman\nagainst a handsome one, or an old one against a young girl?  We shudder\nto think.\n\nA strange struggle often happens between the superior nun and the\ndirector.  The latter, however hardened he may be, is still a man.  It\nis very difficult for him at last not to be affected for the poor girl,\nwho tells him everything, and obeys him implicitly.  Female authority\nperceives it instantly, observes him, and follows him closely.  He sees\nhis penitent but little, very little, but it is always thought too\nmuch.  The confession shall last only so many minutes: they wait for\nhim, watch in hand.  It would last too long, nay, for ever, without\nthis precaution.  To the poor recluse, who received from every one else\nonly insult and ill-treatment, a compassionate confessor is still a\nwelcome refuge.\n\nWe have known superiors demand and obtain several times from their\nbishops a change of confessors, without finding any sufficiently\naustere.  There is ever a wide difference between the harshness of man\nand the cruelty of a woman!  What is, in your opinion, the most\nfaithful incarnation of the devil in this world?  Some inquisitor?\nSome Jesuit or other?  No, a _female Jesuit_,--some great lady, who has\nbeen converted, and believes herself born to rule, who among this flock\nof trembling females acts the Bonaparte, and who, more absolute than\nthe most absolute tyrant, uses the rage of her badly-cured passions to\ntorment her unfortunate defenceless sisters.\n\nFar from being the adversary of the confessor in this case, he has my\nbest wishes.  Whether he be priest, monk, or Jesuit, I am now on his\nside.  I entreat him to interfere, if he can.  In this hell, where the\nlaw cannot penetrate, he is the only person who can say a word of\nhumanity.  I know very well that this interference will create the\nstrongest and most dangerous attachment.  The heart of the poor young\ncreature is wholly given up beforehand to him who defends her.\n\nThe priest will be removed, driven away, and ruined, if it be\nnecessary.  Nothing is easier to an active influential superior.  He\ndares not venture there, is afraid of disturbance, and retires timidly.\nYou will find neither priests nor prelates in these cases mindful of\ntheir power, as confessors and spiritual judges; nor will they refuse\nabsolution to the tyrant of the nuns, as Las Casas did to those of the\nIndians.\n\nThere are, fortunately, other judges.  The law sleeps, but it still\nlives.[7]  Some courageous magistrates have been willing to do their\nduty.[8]  No doubt they will be permitted.  The nights of the guilty\nhave been troubled; they know that every violence which is committed\nthere, every blow given in defiance of the law, is an accusation\nagainst them before heaven and earth.  _Exsurge, Domine, et judica\ncausam tuam!_\n\n\n\n[1] I have already spoken of Sister Mary Lemonnier, persecuted for\nknowing too well how to write and draw flowers, &c.--\"My confessor,\"\nsays she, \"forbade me to gather flowers and to draw.  Unfortunately,\nwalking in the garden with the nuns, there were on the edge of the\ngrass two wild poppies, which, without any intention, I lopped between\nmy fingers in passing.  One of the sisters saw me, and ran to inform\nthe superior nun who was walking in front, and who immediately came\ntowards me, made me open my hand, and, seeing the poppies, told me that\nI had done for myself.  And the confessor having come the same evening,\nshe accused me before him of disobedience in having gathered flowers.\nIt was in vain I told him that it was unintentionally done, and that\nthey were only wild poppies; I could not obtain permission to confess\nmyself.\"--_Note of Sister Marie Lemonnier_, in Mr. Tilliard's Memoire.\nThe newspapers and the reviews in March, 1845, give extracts from it.\n\n[2] It is often from an instinctive tyranny that the superiors delight\nin breaking the ties of kindred.  \"The curate of my parish exhorted me\nto write to my father, who had just lost my mother.  I let Advent go by\n(during which time nuns are not permitted to write letters), and the\nlatter days of the month which are passed in retirement in the\ninstitution to prepare us for the renewing of our vows, which takes\nplace on new-year's day.  But after the holy term I hastened to fulfil\nmy duty towards the best of fathers by addressing to him both my\nprayers and good wishes, and endeavouring to offer him some consolation\nin the afflictions and trials with which it had pleased God to visit\nhim.  I went to the cell of the superior nun to beg her to read over my\nletter, fix the convent seal to it, and send it off; but she was not\nthere.  I therefore put it in my cell upon the table, and went to\nprayers; during which time our reverend mother the superior, who knew\nthat I had written, because she had sent one of the nuns to see what I\nwas about, beckoned to one of the sisters and bid her go and take my\nletter.  She did so every time I wrote, seven times running, so that my\nfather died five months afterwards without ever obtaining a letter from\nme, which he had so much desired, and had even asked me for on his\ndeath-bed, by the curate of his parish.\"--_Note of Sister Lemonnier_ in\nMr. Tilliard's Memoire.  See also the _National_, March, 1845.\n\n[3] The preliminary confession of the nuns to the superior, easily\nacceded to in the first fit of enthusiasm, soon becomes an intolerable\nvexation.  Even in Madame de Chantal's time, it was much complained of.\nSee her letters, and Fichet, 256; also Ribadeneira, Life of St. Theresa.\n\n[4] Sister Marie Lemonnier was shut up with mad girls: here she found a\nCarmelite nun, who had been there nine years.  The third volume of the\n_Wandering Jew_ contains the real history of Mademoiselle B.  All this\nhappened very lately, not in a mad-house, but in a convent.  Since I\nhave this opportunity of saying a word to our admirable novelist, let\nhim permit me to ask him why he thought proper to idealise the Jesuits\nto this extent? who does not know that certain dignitaries of their\norder have become immortal by ridicule?  It is difficult to believe\nstupid writers to be strong minds, or profound machinators.  I look in\nvain for a Rodin, and find only Loriquets.\n\n[5] All these people buy and sell, and become brokers.  Prelates\nspeculate in lands and buildings, the Lazarists turn agents for\nmilitary recruits, &c.  The latter, the successors of St. Vincent de\nPaul, the directors of our Sisters of Charity, have been so blessed by\nGod for their charity, that they have now a capital of twenty millions.\nTheir present chief, Mr. Etienne, then a procurer of the order, was\nlately the Lazarist agent in a distillery company.  The very important\nlaw-suit they have at the present moment will decide whether a society\nengaged by a general, its absolute chief, is freed from every\nengagement by a change of generals.\n\n[6] Did not this horrible art calculate well on the influence of the\nbody? this art that does not awaken man's energy by pain, but enervates\nit by diet and the misery of dungeons!  (See Mabillon's Treatise on\nMonastic Prisons.)  The revelations of the prisoners of Spielberg have\nenlightened us upon this head.\n\n[7] The affairs at Avignon, Sens, Poictiers, though the guilty parties\nhave been but slightly punished, permit us to hope that the law will at\nlength awake.  We read in one of the newspapers of Caen: \"A report was\ncurrent yesterday at the _palais_, that the _procureur-general_ was\ngoing to evoke not only the affair of the sequestration of Sister\nMarie, but also that of Sister Ste-Placide, about whose removal the\n_avocat-general_, Sorbier, wrote to the under-prefect of Bayeux, on the\n13th of August last.  Lastly, that of Madmlle. H----, of Rouen, whom\nthe attorney-general (_procureur du roi_), of Rouen, was obliged to\nremove from the establishment of Bon-Sauveur.\"--_National_ (newspaper),\nMarch 10, 1845.\n\n[8] The inspection of convents ought to be shared between the judiciary\nand municipal magistracy, and the administrations of charity.  The bar\nis too much occupied to be able to undertake it alone.  If these houses\nare necessary as asylums for poor women, who earn too little in a\nsolitary life, at least let them be free asylums like the _beguinages_\nof Flanders; but not under the same direction.  When a woman has ended\nthe task of the wife, she begins that of the mother or grandmother.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VI.\n\nABSORPTION OF THE WILL.--GOVERNMENT OF ACTS, THOUGHTS, AND\nWILLS.--ASSIMILATION.--TRANSHUMANATION.--TO BECOME THE GOD OF\nANOTHER.--PRIDE.--PRIDE AND DESIRE.\n\n\nIf we believe politicians, happiness consists in reigning.  They\nsincerely think so, since they accept in exchange for happiness so much\ntrouble and so many annoyances; a martyrdom often that perhaps the\nsaints would have shrunk from.\n\nBut the reign must be real.  Are we quite sure that it is really to\nreign, to make ordinances that are not executed, to enact with great\neffort, and as a supreme victory, one law more, which is doomed to\nsleep in the bulletin of laws at the side of thirty thousand of the\nsame kin?\n\nIt is of no use to prescribe acts, if we are not first masters of the\nmind; in order to govern the bodily world, we must reign in the\nintellectual world.  This is the opinion of the thinking man, the\nprofound writer; and he believes he reigns.  He is, indeed, a king; at\nleast for the next age.  If he is really original, he outsteps his\ncentury, and is postponed till another time.  But he will reign\nto-morrow, and the day after, and so on for ages, and ever more\nabsolute.  To-day he will be alone; every success costs a friend, but\nhe acquires others; and I am willing to believe both ardent and\nnumerous; those he loses were, no doubt, worth less, but they were\nthose he loved; and he will never see the others.  Work, then,\ndisinterested man, work on; you will have for your reward a little\nnoise and smoke.  Is not that a sufficient reward for you?  King of\nages yet unborn, you will live and die empty-handed.  On the shore of\nthat sea of unknown ages, you, a child, have picked up a shell, which\nyou hold to your ear, to try to catch a faint sound, in which you fancy\nyou hear your own name.\n\nLook on the other hand at that man, that _Priest_, who at the very time\nhe is telling us his kingdom is above, has adroitly secured for himself\nthe reality of the earth beneath.  He lets you go, as you please, in\nsearch of unknown worlds; but he himself seizes on the present one;\nyour own world, poor dreamer! that which you loved, the nest where you\nhoped to come back and be cherished.  Accuse no one but yourself, it is\nyour own fault.  With your eyes turned towards the dawn you forgot\nyourself, whilst you were peeping to catch a glimpse of the first ray\nof the future.  You turn round when it is rather too late; another\npossesses the cherished casket in which you had left your heart.\n\nThe sovereignty of ideas is not that of the will.  We can only get\npossession of the will by the will itself: not general and vague, but\nan especial and personal will, which attaches itself perseveringly to,\nand really commands, the person, because it makes it in its own image.\n\nReally to reign, is to reign over a soul.  What are all the thrones in\ncomparison to this kingly sway?  What is dominion over an unknown\ncrowd?  The really ambitious have been too shrewd to make a mistake!\nThey have not exhausted their efforts in the extension of a vague and\nweak power, which loses by being extended; they have aimed rather at\nits solidity, intensity, and immutable possession.\n\nThe end thus settled, the priest has a great advantage which no one\nelse possesses.  His business is with a soul _which gives itself up of\nits own accord_.  The great obstacle for other powers is, that they do\nnot well know the person acted upon; they see only the outside, but the\npriest looks within.\n\nWhether he be clever, or only of an ordinary stamp, still, by the sole\nvirtue of hopes and fears, by that magic key which opens the world to\ncome, the priest opens also the heart, and that heart wishes to lay\nitself open; all its fear is lest it should conceal anything.  It does\nnot see itself entirely; but whenever it is at a loss, the priest sees\nhis way clearly, and penetrates into it, by the simple method of\nobtaining revelations from servants, friends, and relatives, and\ncomparing them together.  With all this enlightening he forms a mass of\nlight, which, concentrated upon the object, renders it so thoroughly\nluminous, that he knows not only its present existence, but its future\nstate, deciphering, from the very first day, in its instinct and\nsentiment, what will be its thoughts on the morrow.  He, therefore,\ntruly knows this heart, both by sight and foresight.  This rare science\nwould remain inexplicable without a word in explanation.  If it knows\nits subject to this degree, it is because it is its own work.  The\ndirector creates the directed; the latter is his work, and becomes in\ntime one and the same man.  How is it possible the former should not\nknow the ideas and wishes which he himself has inspired, and which are\nhis own?  A transfusion takes place between the two in this incessant\naction, in which the inferior, receiving everything from the other,\ngoes on gradually losing his personality.  Growing weaker and more idle\nevery day, he thinks himself happy in no longer having a will of his\nown, and is glad to see that troublesome will, which has caused too\nmany sufferings, die away and be lost.  Even so a wounded man sees his\nblood, his life-blood flowing away, and feels himself the easier.\n\nBut who is to make good within you, and fill up the void left by this\ndraining away of moral personality, by which you escape from\nyourself?--In two letters--_he_.\n\n_He_, the patient, cunning man, who, day by day, taking from you a\nlittle of yourself, and substituting a little of himself, has gently\nsubtilised the one, and put the other in its place.  The soft and weak\nnature of women, almost as yielding as that of children, is well\nadapted for this transfusion.  The same woman seeing ever the same man,\ntakes without knowing it, his turn of mind, his accent, his language,\nnay more, something of his gait and physiognomy.  She speaks as he\ndoes, and walks in the same manner as he.  In only seeing her pass by,\na person of any penetration would see that _she is he_.\n\nBut this outward similarity is but a weak sign of the profound change\nwithin.  What has been transformed is the intimate, most intimate part.\nA great mystery has been effected, that which Dante calls\n_transhumanation_; when a human person, melting away without knowing\nit, has assumed (substance for substance) another humanity; when the\nsuperior replacing the inferior, the agent the patient, no longer needs\nto direct him, but becomes his being.  _He_ is, the other is not;\nunless we consider him as an accident, a quality of this being, a pure\nphenomenon, an empty shadow, a nothing.\n\nWhy did we just now speak of influence, dominion, and royalty?  This is\na much higher thing than royalty--this is divinity.  It is to be the\ngod of another.\n\nIf there be in this world an occasion on which we may become mad, it is\nthis.  The thought of the man who has reached this point, in whatever\nhumility he may cloak himself, is that of the pagan: \"Deus factus sum!\"\nI was a man, I am God!\n\nMore than God.  He will say to his creature, \"God had created you so,\nand I have made you another person; so that being no longer His, but\nmine, you are myself, my inferior self, who are only to be\ndistinguished from myself by your adoring me.\"\n\nDependent creature, how could you have helped yielding?--God yields to\nmy word when I make Him descend to the altar.  Christ becomes humble\nand docile, and comes down at my hour, at my sign, to take the place of\nthe bread that is no more.[1]\n\nWe are no longer surprised at the furious pride of the priest, who, in\nhis royalty of Rome, has often carried it to greater extremes than all\nthe follies of the emperors, making him despise not only men and\nthings, but his own oath, and the word which he gave as infallible.\nEvery priest being able to make God, can just as well make odd even, or\nthings done things undone, things said things unsaid.  The angel is\nafraid of so much power, and stands back respectfully before this man\nto see him pass.[2]\n\nGo, boast to me now of your privations and mortifications!  I am indeed\nmuch touched by them!--Do you think, then, that through that plain robe\nand meagre body, ay, in that pale heart I do not see the deep,\nexquisite and maddening enjoyment of pride, which composes the very\nbeing of a priest?  What he carries within his robe, and broods over so\njealously, is a treasure of terrific pride.  His hands tremble with it:\na bright ray of delight gleams in his downcast eyes.\n\nOh! with what fervour he hates everything that is an obstacle to him,\neverything that prevents his infinity from being indeed infinite!  How\ndoes he desire with all his infinite heart to annihilate it!  Oh! how\ndiabolical it is to hate in God!\n\nA great suffering is connected with this great enjoyment of being the\ngod of another soul: all that is wanting to complete this divinity\ncauses horrible pangs.  You cannot be surprised if this man pursues\nwith an insatiable ardour the absorption of a soul which he hopes to\nassimilate.  You may easily understand the real and profound cause of\nthis strange avidity, which wants to see and know everything, both the\ntrivial and the important, the principal and the accessory, the\nessential and the indifferent, and which, not satisfied with enveloping\nit outwardly, tries to reach the bottom, and probing lower and lower in\nthe very depth, would attain the essence.  Suppose even this to be\nreached, still it will cry out for--more!  Alas! it may ever acquire\nmore, and again more; but something will ever remain beyond.  Who can\nmeasure a soul?  It preserves in its recesses, unknown to itself (and\nto you also), both space and depth.  That soul which seemed to you\nalready acquired, and which you thought in your entire possession,\nhides behind it, perhaps, a world of liberty which you can never reach.\n\nThis is humiliating, gloomy, nay, almost despair.  Horrible suffering!\nnot to have all, is, for a god, to have nothing.\n\nThen, even then, in their very pride, an ironical voice is heard,\nscoffing at their pride; it is the voice of desire, which it had\nsilenced till now: \"Poor god,\" says she, \"you are no god; it is your\nown fault; I told you so before.  Come, leave off your school-divinity,\nand your _distinguo_ of the corporeal and spiritual natures.  To\npossess, is to have all.  He alone has possession who can both use and\nabuse.  For the soul to be really thine, one thing is still\nwanting--the body.\"\n\n\n\n[1] \"Origen thinks that the priest must be a little God, to do an act\nthat is beyond the power of angels.\"  Father Fichet (a Jesuit), \"Life\nof Madame de Chantal.\"  p. 615.  If you require a more serious Jesuit\nthan Fichet, here is Bourdaloue: \"Though the priest be in this\nsacrifice only the substitute of Jesus Christ, it is nevertheless\ncertain, that Jesus Christ _submits to him_, that He _becomes his\nsubject_, and renders him, every day upon our altars, _the most prompt\nand exact obedience_.  If faith did not teach us these truths, could we\nthink that a man could ever attain to such an elevation, and be\ninvested with a character that enables him, if I may say so, to\n_command_ his sovereign Lord, and make Him descend from heaven?\"\n\n[2] One of the new priests, under the orders of St. Francois de Sales\noften saw his guardian angel.  Having arrived at the church-door, he\nstopped.  They asked him the reason: he answered ingenuously, that \"he\nwas accustomed to see his guardian angel walk before him, and that this\nprince of heaven _had then stopped and stood aside, out of respect for\nhis character, giving him the precedence_.\"--Maupas du Tour, Life of\nSt. Francois de Sales, p. 199.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER VII.\n\nDESIRE.--ABSORPTION AND ASSIMILATION CONTINUED.--TERRORS OF THE OTHER\nWORLD.--THE PHYSICIAN AND THE\nPATIENT.--ALTERNATIVES.--POSTPONEMENTS.--THE EFFECTS OF FEAR IN\nLOVE.--TO BE ALL-POWERFUL AND ABSTAIN.--STRUGGLES BETWEEN THE SPIRIT\nAND THE FLESH.--MORAL DEATH MORE POTENT THAN PHYSICAL LIFE.--IT CANNOT\nREVIVE.\n\n\nLet us a pause a moment at the brink of the abyss that we have just had\na glimpse of, and before we descend into it, let us know well where we\nare.\n\nThe unlimited dominion, of which we spoke just now, could never be\nsufficiently explained by the power of habit, strengthened by all the\narts of seduction and captation; it would be especially impossible to\nunderstand how so many inferior men succeed in obtaining their ends.\nWe must repeat here what we have said elsewhere: _If this power of\ndeath has so much hold upon the soul, the reason is, that it generally\nattacks it in its dying state_; when weakened by worldly passions, and\ncrushing it more and more by the ebb and flow of religious passions, it\nfinds at last that it has neither strength, nor nerve, nor anything\nthat can offer resistance.\n\nWhich of us has not known, in his life, those moments when violent\nactivity having ruffled our hearts, we hate action, liberty, and\nourselves?--when the wave that bore us upon its gentle but treacherous\nbosom retires suddenly and harshly from beneath, leaving us upon the\ndry strand--where we remain like a log?  Never could the soul, thus\nstranded, be set in motion again, if it were not, independently of its\nwill, floated off by the waves of Lethe.  A low voice then says, \"Move\nnot; act no more, do not even wish; die in will.\"--\"Happy release! wish\nfor me!  There, I give up to you that troublesome liberty, the weight\nof which oppressed me so much.  A soft pillow of faith, a childish\nobedience is all I now want.  Now I shall sleep happily!\"\n\nBut such people do not sleep, they only dream.  How can they, nervous\nand trembling with weakness, expect to repose?  They lie still, it is\ntrue; but they are also plunged in dreams.  The soul will not act, but\nthe imagination acts without her; and this involuntary fluctuation is\nbut the more fatiguing.  Then, all the terrors of childhood crowd upon\nthe patient, and more steadfastly than they did upon the child.  The\nphantasmagoria of the middle ages, which we thought forgotten, revives;\nthe dark infernal region of hell, which we had laughed away, exacts a\nheavy interest, and takes a cruel revenge: this poor soul belongs to\nit.  What would become of her, alas! had she not a spiritual physician\nat her bedside to succour and encourage her?  \"Do not leave me, I am\ntoo much afraid!\"--\"Do not fear; you are not responsible for all this:\nGod will pardon you these disordered emotions; they are not yours; the\ndevil stirs thus within us.\"--\"The devil! ah! I felt him; I thought,\nindeed, this violent and strange emotion was foreign to me.  But how\nhorrible to be the sport of the malignant spirit!\"--\"I am here; be not\nafraid; hold me fast; go straight on; the abyss, it is true, is gaping\nwide, on the right and on the left; but, by following the narrow\nbridge, with God's assistance, we shall walk along this razor-edge to\nParadise.\"\n\nGreat, indeed, is the power to be so necessary, ever called and\ndesired! to hold, as it were, the two threads of hope and fear, which\ndrag the soul at pleasure.  When troubled, they calm her; when calm,\nthey agitate her: she grows more and more feeble, and the physician is\nso much the stronger; he perceives it, and he enjoys it.  He, to whom\nevery natural enjoyment is forbidden, feels a gloomy happiness, a\nmawkish sensuality, in exercising this power; making the ebb and the\nflow, afflicting in order to console, wounding, healing, and wounding\nagain.  \"Oh! let her be ill for ever!  I suffer, let her suffer with\nme.  It is at least something to have pain in common.\"\n\nBut they do not gather these sighs, and support the languid head with\nimpunity.  He who wounded, is wounded in his turn.  In these\noutpourings of the heart, the most simple person often says, without\nknowing it, things that inflame the passions.  He draws back, as if\nindignant and angry, before the scorching flame that a gentle hand has\napplied without being aware of it: he endeavours to conceal his emotion\nunder a well-feigned pious anger; he tries to hate sin, but he only\nenvies it.\n\nHow gloomy he seems that day!  See him ascend the pulpit.  What ails\nthis holy man of God?  People see too plainly; it is the zeal of the\nlaw that devours him--he bears all the sins of the people.  What\nthunder and lightning in his discourse! is it the last judgment? every\none flinches.  One woman, however, has received the whole force of the\nthundering denunciation; she grows pale, her knees no longer support\nher; the blow struck home: for he who knows her inmost soul found too\neasily the terrible word, the only word that could strike and touch her\nto the quick.  She alone felt it; she finds herself now alone in the\nchurch (the crowd no longer exists for her), and alone she sees herself\nfalling into the infernal dark abyss.  \"Father, reach me your hand!  I\nfeel I am sinking!\"\n\nNot yet, it is not yet time!  She must struggle and fall still lower,\nthen rise a little to sink lower still.  Now, she comes to him every\nday more grieving, and more pressing.  How she prays and insists!  But\nshe will not yet get the comforting word: \"To-day?  No, on Saturday.\"\nAnd on Saturday he puts her off till Wednesday.[1]  What! three days\nand three whole nights in the same anxiety?  She weeps like a child.\nNo matter; he resists and leaves her, but he is troubled even in\nresisting her.  In thus humbling this _belle madame_, he tastes a\nsecret pleasure of pride; and yet he thinks himself that he has been\ntoo harsh towards her: he loves her, and he has made her weep!\n\nCruel man! do you not see that the poor woman is dying? that she is\nbecoming weaker at every burst of grief?  What is it you want? her\ndownfall?  But in this prostration of strength, in this terror of\ndespair and abandonment of dignity, is there not already a complete\ndownfall?  No; what he wants till now, is, that she may suffer as he\ndoes, resemble him in sufferings, and be his partner in his woes and\nfrenzy.  He is alone; then let her be alone.  He has no family; he\nhates her as a wife and mother; he wants to make her a lover, a lover\nof God: he is deceiving himself in deceiving her.\n\nBut in the midst of all this, and fascinated as she is, she is not,\nhowever, so blind as you might believe.  Women, even children, are\npenetrating when they are afraid; they very soon get a glimpse of what\nmay comfort them.  This woman, whilst she was dragged at his feet as a\nfrightened yet caressing suppliant, did not fail to notice, through her\ntears, the emotion she excited.  They were both in emotion\ntogether--this is to be an accomplice.  They both know (without,\nhowever, knowing it clearly, but confusedly through instinct and\npassion) that they have a hold upon each other, she by desire, and he\nby fear.\n\nFear has much to do with love.  The husband in the middle ages was\nloved by the wife for his very severity.  His humble Griselda\nrecognised in him the right of the paternal rod.  The bride of William\nthe Conqueror, having been beaten by him, knew him by this token for\nher lord and husband.  Who has this right in our age?  The husband has\nnot preserved it--the priest has it and uses it: he ever holds over\nwoman the rod of authority; he beats her submissive and docile with\nspiritual rods.  But he who can punish, can also pardon; the only one\nwho can be severe, he alone has also what with a timid person is\naccounted supreme grace--clemency.  One word of pardon gains for him\ninstantly, in that poor frightened heart, more than the most worthy\nwould obtain after years of perseverance.  Kindness acts just in\nproportion to the severities and terrors that have preceded it.  No\nseduction is comparable to this.\n\nHow can that man be resisted, who, to force one to love him, can entice\nby the offer of Paradise, or frighten by the terrors of hell?  This\nunexpected return of kindness is a very dangerous moment for her, who,\nconquered by fear, with her forehead in the dust, expects only the fury\nof the thunderbolt.  What! that formidable judge, that angel of\njudgment, is suddenly melted!  She, who felt already the cold blade of\nthe sword, feels now the warmth of a kind friendly hand, which raises\nher from the earth.  The transition is too great for her; she had still\nheld up against fear, but this kindness overcomes her.  Worn out by her\nalternate hopes and fears, the feeble person becomes weakness itself.\n\nTo be able to have all, and then abstain, is a slippery situation! who\nwill keep his footing on this declivity?\n\nHere we find again, in the path of desire, the very point at which we\nhad just now arrived by the path of pride.\n\nDesire, despised at first by pride, as brutal and coarse, turns\nsophist, and puts before him the terrible problem at which love,\nmingled with dread, flinches, and turns away his sight.  He sees\nwithout daring to look, he puts up his hand before his eyes, but with\nhis fingers apart, like the _Vergognosa_ of the Campo-Santo.\n\n\"Are you sure you possess the heart entirely, if you have not the body?\nWill not physical possession give up corners of the soul, which\notherwise would remain inaccessible?  Is spiritual dominion complete,\nif it does not comprehend the other?  The great popes seem to have\nsettled the question: they thought popedom implied empire; and the pope\nhimself, besides his sway over consciences, was king in temporal\nmatters.\"\n\nAgainst this sophism of the flesh, the spirit still struggles, and does\nnot fail to answer, \"That spiritual conquest, as soon as it is\ncompleted in this manner, ceases to be spiritual; that this ambitious\nconqueror, the spirit, cannot have all without perishing at the moment\nof victory.\"\n\nThe flesh is not embarrassed; but taking refuge in hypocrisy, makes\nitself of no importance, and becomes humble to regain its advantage:\n\"Is then the body so important that we should trouble our heads about\nit?  A simple dependent of the soul ought to follow wherever she goes.\"\nThe mystics are never behindhand, in this matter, in their insults to\nthe body and the flesh.  The flesh is the brute animal, says one, which\nwe must cudgel.  \"Let her pass,\" says another, \"through any muddy\nbrook: what does it signify to the soul that rides above, sublime and\npure, without deigning to look down?\"\n\nAfterwards comes the vile refinement of the Quietists: \"If the inferior\npart be without sin, the superior grows proud, and pride is the\ngreatest sin: consequently the flesh ought to sin, in order that the\nsoul may remain humble; sin, producing humility, becomes a ladder to\nascend to heaven.\"\n\n\"Sin!--But is it sin? (depraved devotion finds here the ancient\nsophism:) The holy by its essence, being holiness itself, always\nsanctifies.  In the spiritual man, everything is spirit, even what in\nanother is matter.  If, in its superior flight, the holy should meet\nwith any obstacle that might draw it again towards the earth, let the\ninferior part get rid of it; it does a meritorious work, and is\nsanctified for it.\"\n\nDiabolical subtlety! which few avow clearly, but which many brood over,\nand cherish in their most secret thoughts.  Molinos is forgotten, but\nMolinosism still exists.[2]\n\nBesides, false reasonings are hardly necessary in the miserable state\nof dreaming in which a soul lives, when deprived of will and reason.\n\nBeside herself, and out of her senses, having lost all connection with\nreality, ever buried in miracles, intoxicated with God and the devil,\nshe is weakened to death: but the excess of this weakness is yet strong\nenough to give poison and fever in return; terrible contagion--you\nthought that this morally dead person would toil after you, but it is\nyou who will follow her: she will bear away the living.\n\nHere end the subtleties with which desire had been satisfied.  A\nhorrible light breaks upon them, and sophistry finds no longer any\nclouds to darken it.  You see, then, when it is too late, that you have\ndone more than you wanted.  You have destroyed precisely what would\nhave served you; for each of these suppressed powers, the will, the\nmind, and the heart, which now are no more, would have been for you,\nhad they remained alive.  But, alas! they are crushed, faded, and void.\nThe essence of existence once destroyed, no longer feels; it can\nneither attach itself to anything, nor be captivated by anything.  You\nwanted to bind it fast, but you have stifled it.  Now you would wish\nher, whose life is annihilated, to be alive, or at least to revive.\nThat is a miracle beyond your power.  The thing you see, is, and ever\nwill be, a cold shadow, without any life to answer you.  Do what you\nwill, you will find no responsive throbbing.  This will be your\ndespair.  You can feign everything, and say everything, except one\nword, which we defy you to pronounce without grief--the sacred name of\nlove.\n\nLove! why, you have assassinated it!  In order to love, you must have a\nperson; but what was a person you have made a thing.  Proud man! you\nwho every day summon your Creator to descend upon the altar, you have\ninverted the order of creation: you have destroyed a being.\n\nYou, who, out of a GRAIN OF CORN, can make a GOD, tell me, was it not\nalso a god that you held just now in that credulous and docile soul?\nwhat have you done with that interior god of man, that we call liberty?\nYou have put yourself in its place; in the place of that power, by\nwhich man is man, I see nonentity.\n\nWell! that nonentity shall be your torment.  You will probe it in vain;\nhowever low you penetrate, you will find but a void, nothing, neither\n_will_ nor _power_.  There everything that could have loved has\nperished.\n\n\n\n[1] This postponing manoeuvre is admirably calculated to draw from a\nwoman a secret, that does not belong to confession, that she will not\ntell, her husband's secret, her lover's _real name_, &c., &c.  They\nalways get it out of her at last.\n\n[2] This word Molinosism reminds us of an old forgotten system.  In\npractice, it is a thing of all times, an instinct, a blind belief,\nwhich is natural to the weak, and which may be thus expressed:--with\nthe strong, everything is right; a saint cannot sin.  See the patient,\nif he is lucky enough to invite his physician to dinner with him: he\nhas recovered his assurance and boldness, and indulges in every dish\nwithout being afraid.  I believe, moreover, that real Molinosism is\nalways a powerful argument with the simple.  A contemporary writer,\nLlorente, relates (t. iii., ch. 28, article 2, ed. 1817), that when he\nwas secretary to the Inquisition, they brought before that tribunal a\ncapuchin friar, who was director of a community of Beguines, nearly all\nof whom he had seduced, by persuading them that they were not straying\nfrom the road to perfection.  He would say to each of them, at the\nConfessional, that he had received a singular grace from God; \"Our\nLord,\" said he, \"has deigned to appear to me in the consecrated wafer,\nand He has said to me, almost all the souls that you direct here are\npleasant to Me, but especially such a one (_the capuchin named the one\nhe was then speaking to_).  She is already so perfect that she has\novercome every passion, save desire, which is her torment.  For this\nreason, wishing her virtue to be rewarded and that she should serve Me\nwith a quiet mind, I charge you to give her dispensation, but in favour\nof you; she is to speak of it to no confessor; it would be useless,\nsince with such dispensation she cannot sin.\"  Out of seventeen\nBeguines, of which the community was composed, this daring capuchin\ngave dispensation to thirteen, who were discreet for a considerable\ntime; one of them, however, fell ill, expected to die, and revealed\nall, declaring that she had never been able to believe in the\ndispensation, but that she had availed herself of it.  If the accused\nparty had simply confessed, he would have been let off with a very\ntrifling punishment, the Inquisition being, says Llorente, very lenient\ntowards that kind of offence.  But, though he confessed the thing, he\nmaintained that he had acted properly, being empowered by Jesus Christ.\n\"What!\" said they, \"is it likely that our Lord appeared to you, to\nexempt you from a precept of the Decalogue.\"  \"Why, he exempted Abraham\nfrom the fifth commandment, ordering him to kill his son, and the\nHebrews from the seventh, ordering them to rob the Egyptians.\"  \"Yes,\nbut these were mysteries favourable to religion.\"  \"And what then is\nmore favourable to religion than to quiet thirteen virtuous souls, and\nlead them to a perfect union with the divine essence?\"  I recollect,\nsays Llorente, saying to him, \"But, father, is it not surprising that\nthis singular virtue happened to be precisely in the thirteen young and\nhandsome ones, and never in the four others who were ugly or old?\"  He\nreplied coldly, \"The Holy Spirit inspires as it pleases.\"\n\nThe same author, in the same chapter, though reproaching the\nProtestants with having exaggerated the corruption of the confessors,\navows, \"In the sixteenth century, the Inquisition had imposed upon\nwomen the obligation of denouncing guilty confessors, but the\ndenunciations were found to be so numerous, that the penitents were\ndeclared to be relieved from denouncing.\"  Trials of this description\nwere conducted with closed doors, and condemnations were hushed up in\nsecret little _autodafes_.  From the number of trials which Llorente\nextracts from the registers, he compares the morals of the different\nreligious orders, and finds, in figures, a very natural result that\nmight be guessed without the help of arithmetic.  They deceived their\npenitents, just in proportion to the more or less money and liberty\nthey had to seduce others with.  Poor and secluded monks were dangerous\nconfessors; friars, who had more liberty, and secular priests, seldom\nmade use of the hazardous means of the Confessional; because they found\nfavourable opportunities elsewhere.  They who, as directors, see women\n_tete-a-tete_ at home, or in their own houses, have no need to corrupt\nthem at the altar.\n\n\n\n\nPART III.\n\nFAMILIES.\n\n\nCHAPTER I.\n\nSCHISM IN FAMILIES.--THE DAUGHTER;--BY WHOM EDUCATED.--IMPORTANCE OF\nEDUCATION, AND THE ADVANTAGE OF THE FIRST INSTRUCTOR.--INFLUENCE OF\nPRIESTS UPON MARRIAGE, WHICH THEY OFTEN RETAIN AFTER THAT CEREMONY.\n\n\nThe drama which I have endeavoured to sketch does not always, thanks be\nto God, go so far as the annihilation of the will and personality.  One\ncannot well discern where it stops, owing to the dark cloak of reserve,\ndiscretion, and hypocrisy, with which this black community is\nenveloped.  Besides, the clergy have been doubly guarded in their\nconduct during the present contentions.[1]  It is out of the church, in\nhouses, and family circles, that we must seek for what will throw the\nprincipal light upon what the Church conceals.  Look well; there you\nsee a reflection, unfortunately too clear, of what is passing elsewhere.\n\nWe have already said, if you enter a house in the evening, and sit down\nat the family table, one thing will almost always strike you; the\nmother and daughters are together, of one and the same opinion, on one\nside; whilst the father is on the other, and alone.\n\nWhat does this mean?  It means that there is some one more at this\ntable, whom you do not see, to contradict and give the lie to whatever\nthe father may utter.  He returns fatigued with the cares of the day,\nand full of those which are to come; but he finds at home, instead of\nrepose and comfort for the mind, only the struggle with the past.\n\nWe must not be surprised at it.  By whom are our daughters and wives\nbrought up?  We must repeat the expression,--by our enemies, the\nenemies of the Revolution, and of the future.\n\nDo not cry out here, nor quote me this or that sermon you have preached.\n\nWhat do I care for the democratical parade which you make in the\npulpit, if everything beneath us, and behind us, all your little\npamphlets which issue by thousands and millions, your ill-disguised\nsystem of instruction, your confessional, the spirit of which now\ntranspires, show us altogether what you are,--the enemies of liberty?\nYou, subjects of a foreign prince; you, who deny the French church, how\ndare you speak of France?\n\nSix hundred and twenty thousand[2] girls are brought up by nuns under\nthe direction of the priests.  These girls will soon be women and\nmothers, who, in their turn, will hand over to the priests, as far as\nthey are able, both their sons and their daughters.\n\nThe mother has already succeeded as far as concerns the daughter; by\nher persevering importunity, she has, at length, overcome the father's\nrepugnance.  A man who, every evening, after the troubles of business\nand the warfare of the world, finds strife also at home, may certainly\nresist for a time, but he must necessarily give in at last; or he will\nbe allowed neither truce, cessation, rest, nor refuge.  His own house\nbecomes uninhabitable.  His wife having nothing to expect at the\nconfessional but harsh treatment, as long as she does not succeed, will\nwage against him every day and every hour the war they make against\nher; a gentle one, perhaps; politely bitter, implacable, and obstinate.\n\nShe grumbles at the fire-side, is low-spirited at table, and never\nopens her mouth either to speak or eat; then bed-time, the inevitable\nrepetition of the lesson she has learned, even on the pillow.  The same\nsound of the same bell, for ever and ever; who could withstand it? what\nis to be done?  Give in or become mad!\n\nIf the husband were firm, obstinate, and persevering enough to stand\nthis trial, the wife, perhaps, would not resist.  \"How can I see her so\nunhappy, pining, uneasy, and ill?  She is evidently growing thinner.  I\nhad much rather save my wife.\"  Such is the language of the husband.\nIf he be not subdued by his wife, he is by his own heart.  The next day\nthe son leaves his college for the _Christian college_, or the school\nfor the little seminary.  The daughter is led triumphantly by her\nmother to the excellent boarding-school close by, where the good abbe\nconfesses and directs.  In less than a year the boarding-school is\nfound to be not quite good enough, being still too worldly; the little\ngirl is then given over to the nuns, whose superior our abbe happens to\nbe, in some convent of his, that is, under his protection and his lock\nand key.\n\nGood-humoured parent, lie easy and sleep sound.  Your daughter is in\ngood hands: you shall be contradicted till your death.  Your daughter\nis really a girl of good sense; and on every subject, having been\ncarefully armed against you, will take, whatever you may say, the\nopposite side of the question.\n\nWhat is very singular, the father, generally, is aware that they are\nbringing up his child against him.  Man, you surprise me! what do you\nexpect then?  \"Oh! she will forget it; time, marriage, and the world\nwill wear away all that.\"  Yes, for a time, but only to re-appear; at\nthe first disappointment in the world it will all return.  As soon as\nshe grows somewhat in years, she will return to the habits of the\nchild; the master she now has will be her master then, whether for your\ncontradiction, in your old age, good man, or for the despair and daily\ndamnation of her father and husband.  Then will you taste the fruit of\nthis education.\n\nEducation! a mere trifle, a weak power, no doubt, which the father may,\nwithout danger, allow his enemies to take possession of!\n\nTo possess the mind, with all the advantage of the first possessor!  To\nwrite in this book of blank paper whatever they will! and to write what\nwill last for ever!  For, remember well, it will be in vain for you to\nwrite upon it hereafter; what has once been indited, cannot be erased.\nIt is the mystery of her young memory to be as weak in receiving\nimpressions as it is strong in keeping them.  The early tracing that\nseemed to be effaced at twenty re-appears at forty or sixty.  It is the\nlast and the clearest, perhaps, that old age will retain.\n\nWhat! will not reading, and the press, the great overruling power of\nour own days, give a stronger education than the former one?  Do not\nrely on this.  The influence of the press partly annuls itself; it has\na thousand voices to speak, and a thousand others to answer and destroy\nwhat it has said.  Education does not make so much noise; it does not\ntalk; it reigns.  Look, in that little class, without witness, control,\nor contradiction, a man is speaking; he is master, an absolute master,\ninvested with the most ample power to punish and chastise.  His voice,\nnot his hand, has the power of a rod; the little, trembling, and\nbelieving creature, who has just left her mother's apron, receives his\nweighty words, which enter the soft tablet of her memory, and stick\ninto it, like so many nails of iron.\n\nThis is true in speaking of the school, but how much more so as regards\nthe church! especially in the case of the daughter, who is more docile\nand timid, and certainly retains more faithfully her early impressions.\nWhat she heard the first time in that grand church, under those\nresounding roofs, and the words, pronounced with a solemn voice by that\nman in black, which then frightened her so, being addressed to\n_herself_;--ah! be not afraid of her ever forgetting them.  But even if\nshe could forget them, she would be reminded of them every week: woman\nis all her life at school, finding in the confessional her\nschool-bench, her schoolmaster, the only man she fears, and the only\none, as we have said, who, in the present state of our manners, can\nthreaten a woman.\n\nWhat an advantage has he in being able to take her quite young, in the\nconvent where they have placed her, to be the first to take in hand her\nyoung soul, and to be the first to exercise upon her the earliest\nseverity, and also the earliest indulgence which is so akin to\naffectionate tenderness,[3] to be the father and friend of a child\ntaken so soon from her mother's arms.  The confidant of her first\nthoughts will long be associated with her private reveries.  He has had\nan especial and singular privilege which the husband may envy:\nwhat?--why, the virginity of the soul and the first-fruits of the will.\n\nThis is the man of whom, young bachelors, you must ask the girl in\nmarriage, before you speak to her parents.  Do not deceive yourselves,\nor you will lose all chance.  You shake your heads, proud children of\nthe age; you think you can never be induced to humble yourselves so\nfar.  All I hope then is, that you may be able to live single, and wed\nphilosophy; otherwise, I can see you, even now, in spite of all your\nfine speeches, gliding stealthily, sneaking by twilight into the\nchurch, and kneeling down before the priest.  There they were lying in\nwait for you, and there they catch you.  You had not foreseen it.  Now\nyou are a lover, poor young man, and will do whatever they wish.\n\nI only wish that this girl, bought so dearly, may be really yours.  But\nwhat with that mother and that priest, the same influence, though\ndiminished for a moment, will soon resume its strength.  You will have\na wife, minus heart and soul, and you will understand, when it is too\nlate, that he who now gives her away knows well how to keep her.[4]\n\n\n\n[1] This circumspection would bear carrying a little farther, if we are\nto judge of it by the public adventures of the Abbes C. and N., who,\nby-the-by, will not prosper the less on this account, as two others, of\nhigh rank, and known to everybody, have already shown.\n\n[2] M. Louandre gives the figure six hundred and twenty-two thousand\ngirls, in his conscientious statistics.--_Revue des Deux-Mondes_, 1844.\n\n[3] What is direction generally?--1st, _Love before love_; it\ncultivates in the little girl that power which is now awakening, and it\ncultivates it so well, that on leaving the convent, her parents see the\nnecessity of a speedy marriage to support her, for she is in danger of\nfalling:--2ndly, _Love after love_.  An aged female is, in a layman's\nestimation, an _old_ woman: but according to the priest's, she is a\n_woman_: the priest begins where the world ends.\n\n[4] Let us add to this chapter a fact, which (being compared with what\nwe have said about ecclesiastical discipline) inclines us to think that\nthe clergy do not lose sight of the girls who are brought up in the\nconvents under their direction.  A friend of mine, whose high position\nand character render his testimony very important, lately told me that,\nhaving placed a young relation of his in a convent, he had heard from\nthe nuns _that they sent to Rome_ the names of the pupils who\ndistinguished themselves the most.  The _centralization_ of such\nprivate information, about the daughters of the leading families of the\nCatholic world, must indeed facilitate many combinations, and be of\nespecial service to Ultramontane politics.  The Jesu, if it were so,\nwould be a vast marriage office.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER II.\n\nWOMAN.--THE HUSBAND DOES NOT CONSOCIATE WITH HIS WIFE.--HE SELDOM KNOWS\nHOW TO INITIATE HER INTO HIS THOUGHTS.--WHAT MUTUAL INITIATION WOULD\nBE.--THE WIFE CONSOLES HERSELF WITH HER SON.--HE IS TAKEN FROM\nHER.--HER LONELINESS AND ENNUI.--A PIOUS YOUNG MAN.--THE SPIRITUAL AND\nTHE WORLDLY MAN.--WHICH OF THE TWO IS NOW THE MORTIFIED MAN.\n\n\nMarriage gives the husband a single and momentary opportunity to become\nin reality the master of his wife, to withdraw her from the influence\nof another, and make her his own for ever.  Does he profit by it?  Very\nrarely.  He ought, in the very beginning, when he has much influence\nover her, to let her participate in the activity of his mind, his\nbusiness, and ideas, initiate her in his projects, and create an\nactivity in her by means of his own.\n\nTo wish and think as he does, both acting with him and suffering with\nhim--this is marriage.  The worst that may happen is not that she may\nsuffer, but that she may languish and pine away, living apart, and like\na widow.  How can we wonder, then, if her affection for him be\nlessened?  Ah! if, in the beginning, he made her his own, by making her\nshare his ambition, troubles, and uneasiness:--if they had watched\nwhole nights together, and been troubled with the same thoughts, he\nwould have retained her affections.  Attachment may be strengthened by\ngrief itself; and mutual sufferings may maintain mutual love.\n\nFrenchwomen are superior to those of England or Germany, and, indeed,\nto any other women, in being able not only to assist man, but to become\nhis companion, his friend, his partner, his _alter ego_.  None but the\ncommercial classes, generally speaking, are wise enough to profit by\nthis.  See, in the shop-keeping quarters, in the dark storehouses of\nthe _Rue des Lombards_, or the Rue de la Verrerie, the young wife,\noften born of rich parents, who, nevertheless, remains there, in that\nlittle glazed counting-house, keeping the books, registering whatever\nis brought in or taken out, and directing the clerks and porters.  With\nsuch a partner the house will prosper.  The household is improved by\nit.  The husband and wife, separated by their occupations during the\nday, are the better pleased to unite together in common thought.\n\nWithout being able to participate so directly in the husband's\nactivity, the wife might also, in other professions, be able to\nassociate with him in his business, or, at least, in his ideas.  What\nmakes this difficult (I have not attempted to disguise it) is the\nspirit of specialty which goes on increasing in our different\nprofessions, as well as in our sciences, and driving us into minute\ndetails; whereas woman, being less persevering, and, moreover, less\ncalled upon to apply herself with precision, is confined to a knowledge\nof generalities.  The man who will seriously initiate a woman into his\nown life, can do it safely and completely, if she love him, but he\nwould require to possess both patience and kindness.  They have come\ntogether, as it were, from the two opposite poles, and prepared by a\ntotally different education.  Since it is so, how can you expect that\nyour young wife, intelligent as she is, should understand you at once?\nIf she do not understand you, it is, too frequently, your own fault:\nthis almost always proceeds from the abstract, dry, and scholastic\nforms which you have imbibed from your education.  She, remaining in\nthe sphere of common sense and sentiment, understands nothing of your\nformulas, and seldom, very seldom, indeed, do you know how to translate\nthem into plain language.  This requires address, will, and feeling.\nYou would want, sir, let me tell you, both more sense and more love.\n\nAt the first word she does not understand, the husband loses his\npatience.  \"She is incapable, she is too frivolous.\"  He leaves her,\nand all is over.  But that day he loses much.  If he had persevered, he\nwould gradually have led her along with him; she would have lived his\nlife, and their marriage would have been real.  Ah! what a companion he\nhas lost! how sure a confidant! and how zealous an ally!  In this\nperson, who, when left to herself, seems to him too trifling, he would\nhave found, in moments of difficulty, a ray of inspiration, and often\nuseful advice.\n\nI am here entering upon a large subject, where I should wish to stop.\nBut I cannot.  One word more: the man of modern times, a victim of the\ndivision of work, and often condemned to a narrow speciality, in which\nhe loses the sentiment of general life, and becomes a morbid sort of a\nbeing, would require to have with him a young and serene mind, more\nnicely balanced, and less given to specialty than his own, that might\nlead him from the confined notions of trade, and restore him to the\ncharms of a well-regulated mind.  In this age of eager opposition, when\nthe day is taken up with active business, and we return home worn out\nwith toil or disappointment, it is necessary to have a wife at the\ndomestic fire-side to refresh the burning brain of the husband.  This\nworkman (what are we all but workmen, each in his own particular\nline?), this blacksmith, panting with thirst, after beating the iron,\nwould receive from her the living fountain of the beautiful and good,\nof God and nature; he would drink for a moment of eternal streams.\nThen he would _forget_, take courage, and breathe freely again.  Having\nbeen relieved by her, he would in his turn assist her with his powerful\nhand, lead her into his own world, his own life, his way of progress\nand new ideas--the way of the future!\n\nUnfortunately this is not the way of the world.  I have sought\neverywhere, but in vain, for this fine exchange of thought, which alone\nrealizes marriage.  They certainly try for a moment, in the beginning,\nto communicate together, but they are soon discouraged: the husband\ngrows dumb, his heart, dried up with the arid influence of interest and\nbusiness, can no longer find words.  At first she is astonished and\nuneasy: she questions him.  But questions annoy him; and she no longer\ndares to speak to him.  Let him be easy; the time is coming when his\nwife, sitting thoughtful by the fire-side, absent in her turn, and\nframing her imaginary plans, will leave him in quiet possession of his\ntaciturnity.\n\nFirst of all, she has a son.  It is to him, if he be left to her, that\nshe will devote herself entirely.  Should she go out, she gives him her\nhand, and soon her arm; he is now like a young brother, \"a little\nhusband.\"  How tall he has grown already! how quickly time passes; and\nit is a pity he grows so; for now comes the separation, his Latin and\nhis tears.  Must he not become a learned man?  Must he not enter, as\nsoon as possible, into the world of violence and opposition, where he\nwill acquire the bad passions which are cultivated so carefully in us,\npride, ambition, hatred, and envy?  The mother would like to wait\nlonger: \"What is the hurry? he is so young, and those schools are so\nstrict!  He will learn much better at home, if they will let him remain\nwith her; she will engage masters and superintend his studies herself;\nshe will discontinue going to balls.\"--\"Impossible, madam, impossible!\nyou would make a milksop of him.\"  The fact is, the father, though he\nlikes his son very much, finds, that in a well-regulated house this\nmovement and constant noise and bustle are intolerable.  He is unable\nto support anything of the sort: fatigued, disgusted, and ill-humoured,\nhe wants silence and repose.\n\nWise husbands, who make so little of the resistance of a mother, do you\nnot perceive that it is also by an instinct of virtue that this woman\nwishes to keep her son the pure and irreproachable witness, before whom\nshe would always have remained holy?  If you knew how useful the\npresence of the child is to the house, you yourself would desire to\nkeep him.  As long as that child remained there, the house was blessed.\nIn his presence how difficult it is to loosen the family tie!  What\ncompletes marriage and the family?  The child, the object of their\nhopes.  Who maintains the family?  The child they possess.  He is the\naim and the end, the mediator--I had almost said the whole.\n\nWe cannot repeat it too often, for nothing is more true--woman is\nalone.  She is alone if she has a husband; she is also alone even with\na son.  Once at school, she sees him only by favour, and often at long\nintervals.  When he leaves school, other prisons await the youth, and\nother exiles.\n\nA brilliant evening party is given: enter those well-lighted rooms; you\nsee the women sitting in long rows, well-dressed, and entirely alone.\nGo, about four o'clock, to the Champs-Elysees, and there you will see\nagain the same women, sad and spiritless, on their way to the Bois de\nBoulogne, each in her own carriage, and alone.  These are in a calash,\nthose at the far end of a shop; but all are equally alone.\n\nThere is nothing in the life of women, who have the misfortune to have\nnothing to do, that may not be explained by one single\nword--loneliness, _ennui_.  _Ennui_, which is supposed to be a\nlanguishing and negative disposition of the mind, is, for a nervous\nwoman, a positive evil impossible to support.  It grasps its prey, and\ngnaws it to the core: whoever suspends the torment for a moment is\nconsidered a saviour.\n\n_Ennui_ makes them receive female friends, whom they know to be\ninquisitive, envious, slandering enemies.  _Ennui_ makes them endure\nnovels in newspapers, which are suddenly cut short, at the moment of\nthe greatest interest.  _Ennui_ carries them to concerts, where they\nfind a mixture of every kind of music, and where the diversity of\nstyles is fatigue for the ear.  Ennui drags them to a sermon, which\nthousands listen to, but which not one of them could bear to read.\nNay, even the sickening half-worldly and half-devout productions, with\nwhich the neo-Catholics inundate the Faubourg Saint German, will find\nreaders among these poor women, the martyrs of _ennui_.  Such delicate\nand sickly forms can support a nauseous dose of musk and incense; which\nwould turn the stomach of any one in health.\n\nOne of these young authors explains, in a novel, all the advantage\nthere is in beginning gallantry by gallant devotion.  The proceeding is\nnot new.  All I wish is, that those who borrowed it from Tartuffe would\nnot give it to us, without its fair portion of wit and humour.\n\nBut they have no great need of it.  Women listen to their disguised\ndeclarations and ambiguous endearments, as a matter of conscience to\nearn their salvation.  The woman, who, with the most sober friend,\nwould be offended at the very first word of friendship, suffers\npatiently this double-meaning language of the young Levite.  The\nintelligent woman of experience and the world, who has read and seen\nmuch, shuts her eyes to the mischief.  If he has but little talent, if\nhe is heavy and uninteresting, yet his intentions are so good!  Father\n[Transcriber's note: Rather?] such a one answers for him; he is an\nexcellent young man.\n\nThe fact is, that while he pretends devotion, he speaks of love; this\nis his merit.  Even though it be spoken of in a weak and insipid\nmanner, it is still a merit with her who is no longer young.  The\nhusband, however distinguished he may be, has the fault of being a\n_positive_ man, entirely taken up, as they say, with worldly interests.\nIt is very true he is working for the interest of his family; he\nprovides for the future welfare of his children; he consumes his life\nto support the luxury in which his wife lives, and beyond his fortune.\n\nPerhaps this husband would be justified in saying that all this,\nhowever material may be the result, is also for him a moral interest,\n_an interest of the heart_.  Perhaps he might add, that in being\nengaged with worldly interests in our assemblies and tribunals, besides\na thousand other different positions for the profit of others, we may\nshow ourselves to be more _disinterested_, and consequently more\nspiritualised, than all those _brokers of spirituality_ who turn the\nChurch into an exchange.\n\nLet us here point out a contrast which is not sufficiently noticed.\n\nIn the middle ages the _priest_ was the spiritual and _mortified man_.\nBy the studies to which he alone devoted himself, by nocturnal prayers\nand vigils, by the excess of fasting, and by monastic flagellations, he\nmortified his body.  But in these days very little remains of all that;\nthe Church has softened down everything.  The priests live as others\ndo: if many pass a mean and pitiful life, it is, at least, generally\nunattended with risk.  We see it, moreover, in the freedom of mind with\nwhich they engage the leisure of women with interminable conversations.\n\nWho is the mortified man in the present day, in this time of hard work,\neager efforts, and fiery opposition?  It is the layman, the worldly\nman.  This man of the world, full of cares, works all day and all\nnight, either for his family, or for the State.  Being often engaged in\ndetails of business or studies, too thorny to interest his wife and\nchildren, he cannot communicate to them what fills his own mind.  Even\nat the hour of rest he speaks little, being always pursuing his idea.\nSuccess in business and invention in science are only obtained at a\nhigh price--the price that Newton mentions, _by ever thinking of it_.\nSolitary among his kindred, he runs the risk, making their glory, or\ntheir fortune, to become a stranger to them.\n\nThe Churchman, on the contrary, who, in these days, to judge of him by\nwhat he publishes, studies little, and invents nothing, and who no\nlonger wages against himself that war of mortifications imposed by the\nmiddle ages, coolly and quietly pursue two very different occupations\nat the same time.  By his assiduity and fawning words, he gains over\nthe family of the man of business, at the very moment he hurls down\nupon him from the pulpit the thunders of his eloquence.\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER III.\n\nTHE MOTHER.--ALONE, FOR A LONG TIME, SHE CAN BRING UP HER\nCHILD.--INTELLECTUAL NOURISHMENT.--GESTATION, INCUBATION, AND\nEDUCATION.--THE CHILD GUARANTEES THE MOTHER.--THE MOTHER GUARANTEES THE\nCHILD.--SHE PROTECTS ITS NATURAL ORIGINALITY.--PUBLIC EDUCATION MUST\nLIMIT THIS ORIGINALITY.--EVEN THE FATHER LIMITS IT.--THE MOTHER DEFENDS\nIT.--MATERNAL WEAKNESS.--THE MOTHER WOULD MAKE HER SON A HERO.--THE\nHEROIC DISINTERESTEDNESS OF MATERNAL LOVE.\n\n\nWe have already said, if you wish your family to resist the foreign\ninfluence which dissolves it, _keep the child at home_ as much as\npossible.  Let the _mother_ bring it up under the father's direction,\ntill the moment when it is claimed for public instruction by its great\nmother, its native land.  If the mother bring up the child, the\nconsequence will be, that she will always remain by her husband's side,\nneeding his advice, and anxious to receive from him fresh supplies of\nknowledge.  The real idea of a family will here be realised, which is\nfor the child to be initiated by the mother, and the mother by the\nhusband.\n\nThe mother's instinct is just and true; it deserves to be respected.\nShe wishes to keep her child: forcibly separated from him at the moment\nof birth, she is ever seeking to rejoin that part of herself which a\ncruel violence snatched from her, but which has its root in her heart.\nWhen they take it from her to bring it up at a distance, it is a second\nseparation.  The mother and the child weep in common, but their tears\nare disregarded.  This is not right.  These tears, in which we think we\nsee only weakness, ought not to be disregarded.  They show that the\nchild needs her still.  Nursing is not yet finished.  Intellectual\nnourishment, like physical food, ought in the beginning to be\nadministered to the child under the form, as it were, of milk, fluid,\ntepid, mild, and full of life.  Woman alone can so give it.  Men expect\ntoo much at once of this new-born babe, whose teeth, scarcely formed,\nare painful.  They want to give it bread, and they beat it if it does\nnot bite.  In God's name give him more milk: he will drink willingly.\n\nWho will believe some future day that men have thus undertaken to nurse\nand feed these sucklings?  Ah! leave them alone to women!  A lovely\nsight to see a child rocked in the arms of a man!  Take care, awkward\nidiot!  It is fragile; handling it in your clownish hands you may break\nit.\n\nThis is the dispute between the master and child: man imparts science\nby methods proper to man, in a state of fixed rules by very precise\nclassifications, with angular, and, as it were, crystallised forms.\nWell! these crystal prisms, as luminous as they may be, wound by their\nangles and sharp points.  The child, in a soft and tender state,\ncannot, for a long time, receive anything which has not the fluidity of\nlife.  The master grows angry and impatient at the slowness of the\npupil, and knows not how to succeed with him.  There is but one person\nin the world who has the delicate perception of the careful management\nwhich the child requires, and this one person is she who has borne it,\nand who forms for ever with it an identical whole.  Gestation,\nincubation, and education, are three words which are long synonymous.\n\nMuch longer than people would believe.  The influence of the mother\nover the child, whose faculties are developing, is greater and more\ndecisive than that which she exercised over the suckling infant.  I do\nnot know whether it be indispensable for the mother to feed it from her\nbreast; but I am very sure it is necessary that she should nourish it\nfrom her heart.  Chivalry was perfectly aware that love was the most\npowerful motive for education.  That alone did more in the middle ages\nto advance humanity than all the disputes of school-divinity have been\nable to do to retard it.\n\nWe also have our school-divinity, the spirit of empty abstractions and\nverbal disputes: we shall be able to combat its influence only by\nprolonging that of the mother, associating her with education, and by\ngiving the child a well-beloved teacher.  Love, they say, is a great\nmaster.  This is especially true of the greatest, the deepest, and the\npurest of all affections.\n\nHow blind and imprudent we are!  We take the child from its mother at a\ntime when it was most necessary to her.  We deprive her of the dear\noccupation for which God had formed her; and we are afterwards\nsurprised if this woman, cruelly separated, now languishing and idle,\ngive herself up to vain musings; suffer anew the yoke she formerly\nbore; and, if, as is often the case, fancying herself to remain\nfaithful, she listen to the tempter, who speaks to her in the name of\nGod.\n\nBe prudent, be wise; leave her her son.  Woman must ever be loving.\nLeave her rather the lover whom nature gives her; him whom she would\nhave preferred to all others, whilst you are occupied with your\nbusiness (with your passions perhaps).  Leave on her arm the tall and\nslender youth, and she will be proud and happy.  You fear, lest, having\nbeen kept too long by his mother, he may become effeminate.  But, on\nthe contrary, if you left her her son, she would become masculine.  Try\nher, she will change, and you will be astonished yourself.  Little\nexcursions on foot, and long ones on horseback--no trouble will be too\nmuch for her.  She begins bravely and heartily the exercises of the\nyoung man; she makes herself of his own age, and is born again in this\n_vita nuova_; even you on your return will think, when you see your\nRosalind, that you have two sons.\n\nIt is a general rule to which, at least, I have hardly ever seen any\nexception, that superior men are all the _sons of their mother_.  She\nhas stamped upon them, and they reproduce her moral as well as her\nphysical features.\n\nI am about to surprise you.  I will tell you that without her he will\nnever be a man.  The mother alone is patient enough to develope the\nyoung creature, by taking proper care of his liberty.  We must be on\nour guard, and take especial care not to place the child, still too\nweak and pliable, in the hands of strangers.  People of the best\nintentions, by pressing too much upon him, run the risk of so crushing\nhis faculties, that he will never be able to enjoy the free use of them\nagain.  The world is full of men, who remain bondsmen all their lives,\nfrom having borne a heavy load too soon.  A too solid and too\nprecocious education has injured something within them; their\noriginality, the _genius_ and _ingegno_, which is the prime part of man.\n\nWho respects in these days the original and free ingenuity of\ncharacter, that sacred genius which we receive at our birth?  This is\nalmost always the part which offends and gets blamed; it is the reason\nwhy \"_this boy is not like everybody else_.\"  Hardly does his young\nnature awake, and flourish in its liberty, than they are all\nastonished, and all shake their heads: \"What is this? we never saw the\nlike.\"--Shut him up quickly--stifle this living flower.  Here are the\niron cages.--Ah! you were blooming, and displaying your luxuriant\nfoliage in the sun.  Be wise and prudent, O flower! become dry, and\nshut up your leaves.\n\nBut this poor little flower, against which they are all leagued--what\nis it, I pray you, but the individual, special, and original element by\nwhich this being would have distinguished itself from others, and added\na new feature to the great variety of human characters--a genius,\nperhaps, to the series of great minds.  The sterile spirit is almost\nalways that plant which, having been tied too fast to the dead wood\nwhich serves to support it, has dried upon it, and gradually become\nlike it; there it is, very regular, and well fastened up, you may fear\nnothing eccentric from it; the tree is, however, _dead_, and will never\nbear leaf more.\n\nWhat do I mean? that the support is useless, and that we must leave the\nplant to itself?  Nothing is further from my thoughts.  I believe in\nthe necessity of both educations, that of the family and that of the\ncountry.  Let us distinguish their influence.\n\nThe latter, our public education, which is certainly better in our days\nthan it ever was--what does it require?  What is its end and aim?  It\nwishes to harmonise the child with his native land, and with that great\ncountry the world.  This is what constitutes its legitimacy and\nnecessity.  It purposes especially to give him a fund of ideas common\nto all, to make him a reasonable being, and prevent him from being out\nof tune with what surrounds him; it hinders him from jarring in the\ngreat concert where he is going to take his part, and it checks what\nmay be too irregular in his lively sallies.\n\nSo far for public education.  Family life is liberty.  Yet even here\nthere are obstacles and shackles to his original moral activity.  The\nfather regulates this activity: his uneasy foresight imposes on him the\nduty to bring early this wild young colt to the furrow, where he must\nsoon toil.  It too often happens that the father makes a mistake,\nconsults, first of all, his own conveniences, and seeks the profitable\nand ready traced career, rather than that to which his young and\npowerful colt was called by nature.\n\nThe triumphs of the courser have frequently been lost in the trammels\nof the riding-school.\n\nPoor liberty!  Who then will have eyes to see thee, or a heart to\ncherish thee?  Who will have the patience, the infinite indulgence\nrequired to support thy first wanderings, and encourage occasionally\nwhat fatigues the stranger, the indifferent person, nay, the father\nhimself?  God alone, who has made this creature, and who, having made\nhim, knows him well enough to see and love what is good in him, even in\nwhat is bad, God, I say, and with God the mother: for here it is one\nand the same thing.\n\nWhen we reflect that ordinary life is so short, and that so many die\nvery young, we hesitate to abridge this first, this best period of\nlife, when the child, free under its mother's protection, lives in\nGrace, and not in the Law.  But if it be true, as I think, that this\ntime, which people believe lost, is precisely the only precious and\nirreparable period, in which among childish games sacred _genius_ tries\nits first flight, the season when, becoming fledged, the young eagle\ntries to fly--ah! pray do not shorten it.  Do not banish the youth from\nthe maternal paradise before his time; give him one day more;\nto-morrow, all well and good; God knows it will be soon enough!\nTo-morrow, he will bend to his work and crawl along the furrow.  But\nto-day, leave him there, let him gain full strength and life, and\nbreathe with an open heart the vital air of liberty.  An education\nwhich is too zealous and restless, and which exacts too much, is\ndangerous for children.  We are ever increasing the mass of study and\nscience, and such exterior acquisitions; but the interior suffers for\nit.  The one is nothing but Latin, the next shines in Mathematics; but\nwhere is the _man_, I pray you?  And yet it was the _man_, precisely,\nthat was loved and taken care of by the mother.  It was man she\nrespected in the wanderings of the child.  She seemed to depress her\nown influence, and even her superintendence, in order that he might act\nand be both free and strong; but, at the same time, she ever surrounded\nhim as if with an invisible embrace.\n\nThere is a peril, I am well aware of it, in this education of love.\nWhat love wishes and desires more than all, is to sacrifice itself, and\neverything else--interests, conveniences, habits, and even life, if\nnecessary.  The object of this self-sacrifice may, in his own childish\negotism, receive all the sacrifices as a thing due, allow himself to be\ntreated as an inert, motionless idol, and become the more incapable of\naction, the more they do for him.\n\nThis danger is real, but it is counterbalanced by the ardent ambition\nof the maternal heart, which places, almost always, her best hopes upon\nher child, and burns to realise them.  Every mother of any value, has\none firm belief, which is, that her son is destined to be a hero, in\naction or in science, no matter which.  All that has disappointed her\nexpectations in her sad experience of this world will now be realised\nby this infant.  The miseries of the present are already redeemed by\nthe prospect of this splendid future: everything is miserable now; but\nonly let _him_ grow, and everything will be prosperous!  O poetry!  O\nhope! where are the limits of maternal thought?  \"I am only a woman,\nbut here is a man: I have given a man to the world.\"  Only one thing\nperplexes her: will her child be a Bonaparte, a Voltaire, or a Newton?\n\nIf, in order to be so, he absolutely must leave her--well! let him go,\nlet him depart from her; she consents to it: if she must tear her own\nheart-strings, she will.  Love is capable of doing everything, even of\nsacrificing love itself.  Yes, let him depart, follow his high destiny,\nand accomplish the grand dream she had when she bore him in her bosom,\nor upon her knees.  And then, a miracle: this fearful woman, who just\nbefore durst not see him walk alone, without fearing he might fall, is\nbecome so brave, that she launches him forth in the most dangerous\ncareer, on the ocean, or else to that bloody war in Africa.  She\ntrembles, she is dying of uneasiness, and yet she persists.  What can\nsupport her?  Her belief that her child cannot perish, since he is\ndestined to be a hero.\n\nHe returns.  How much he is changed!  What! is this fierce soldier my\nson?  He departed a child, and he comes back a man: he seeks to be\nmarried.  This is another sacrifice, which is not less serious.  He\nloves another!  And his mother, in whose heart he is, and ever will be\nthe first, will possess the second place in his affections--alas! a\nvery small place in the moments of his passion.  She seeks for, and\nchooses her own rival: she loves her on his account; she adorns her;\nshe becomes her attendant, and leads her to the altar; and all she asks\nfor there is, that the mother may not be forgotten in the wife!\n\n\n\n\nCHAPTER IV.\n\nLOVE.--LOVE WISHES TO RAISE, NOT TO ABSORB.--THE FALSE THEORY OF OUR\nADVERSARIES, AND THEIR DANGEROUS PRACTICE.--LOVE WISHES TO FORM FOR\nITSELF AN EQUAL WHO MAY LOVE FREELY.--LOVE IN THE WORLD, AND IN THE\nCIVIL WORLD.--LOVE IN FAMILIES.--LITTLE UNDERSTOOD BY THE MIDDLE\nAGES.--FAMILY RELIGION.\n\n\nWill it be said that, in the preceding chapter, being seduced by a\nsweeter subject, I have lost sight of the whole subject in dispute\nhitherto pursued in my book?\n\nI think I have, on the contrary, thrown much light upon the question.\nMaternal love (that miracle of God) and maternal education enable us to\nunderstand what every education, direction, or initiation ought to be.\n\nThe singular advantage which the mother has in education is, that,\nbeing more than all others devoted and disinterested, she respects\ninfantine personality in the fragile little thing which is becoming a\nperson.  She is, for the child, the defender of his original\nindividuality.  She wishes, even at the expense of her own feelings,\nthat he should act according to his genius, and that he may grow up and\n_rise_.  What can education and true direction require?  What love\ndesires in its highest and most disinterested idea--that the young\ncreature may _rise_.  Take this word in both its acceptations.  She\nwishes the child may rise above herself, up to the level of him who\nhelps her, and even above him, if he can.  The stronger party, far from\nabsorbing the weaker, wishes to make him strong, and put him on an\nequal footing.  She endeavours to do this by developing in him not only\nwhatever is similar in their natures, but even whatever is\ncharacteristically distinctive between them, by exciting his free\noriginality, provoking activity in this being born for action, and by\nappealing to the person, and what is most personal in the person, his\nwill.  The dearest wish of love is to excite the will, and the moral\nforce of the person loved, to its highest degree, to heroism!\n\nThe ideal of every mother, and it is the true one in education, is to\nmake a hero, a man powerful in actions and fruitful in works, who may\nbe endowed with will, power, and a creative genius.  Let us compare\nwith this ideal that of ecclesiastical education and direction.\n\nThe latter wishes to make a saint, and _not_ a hero; it believes these\ntwo words to be diametrically opposite.  It is mistaken also in its\nidea of sanctity, in making it consist not in being in harmony with\nGod, but in absorption in God.\n\nAll this priestly theology, as soon as we provoke it a little, and do\nnot allow it to remain in inconsistency, falls headlong down the\nirresistible declivity, right into this abyss.  There it ended, as it\nwas obliged to end, in the seventeenth century.  The great directors of\nthat time, who, by being the last, had the advantage of analysing the\nthing, show us perfectly well the bottom of it, which is annihilation,\nthe art of annihilating activity, the will, and personality.\n\"Annihilate?  Yes, but in God.\"  But does God wish it?  His active and\ncreating spirit must wish us to resemble Him, to act and to create.\nYou have a wrong idea of God the Father.\n\nThis false theory is convicted in practice.  By following it closely we\nhave seen that it arrives at quite an opposite goal.  It promises to\nabsorb man in God; and it consoles him for this absorption, by\npromising him that he shall participate in the infinite existence which\nhe is entering.  But, in reality, it does nothing more than absorb man\nin man, in infinite littleness.  The person directed being annihilated\nin the director, of two persons there remains but one; the other, as a\nperson, has perished; and become a thing.\n\nDevout direction, noticed in our first part among the most loyal\ndirectors, and among very pious women, gives me two results, which I\nstate thus:--\n\n1st.  A saint who discourses for a long time with a female saint on the\nlove of God, infallibly converts her to love.\n\n2nd.  If this love remain pure, it is a chance; it is because the man\nis a saint; for the person directed, losing gradually all her own will,\nmust, in course of time, be at his mercy.  We must suppose, also, that\nhe who may do everything will take no advantage of it, and that this\nmiracle of abstinence will be renewed every day.  The priest has always\nthought himself, in his interior strength, to be a great master in\nmatters of love.  Accustomed to control his own passions, to be\ndeceitful, and to beat about the bush, he believes he is the exclusive\npossessor of the real secret how passions are to be managed.  He\nadvances under cover of ambiguous expressions, and he advances in\nsafety; for he is patient, and waits till he has gained a footing in\nhabits and in customs.  He laughs in his sleeve at our impassioned\nvivacity, imprudent frankness, and ungoverned impetuosity, which cause\nus to pass wide of the mark.\n\nIf love was the art of surprising the soul, of subjugating it by\nauthority and insinuation, and of conquering it by fear, in order to\ngain it by indulgence, so that, when wearied and drowsy with exertion,\nit may allow itself to be enveloped and caught in an invisible net; if\nthis were love, then certainly the priest would be its great teacher.\n\nClever masters! learn from ignorant and unskilful men, that with all\nyour little arts, you have never known what is this sacred thing.  It\nrequires a sincere heart, and loyalty in the means, as its first\ncondition; the second is, that generosity which does not wish to\nenslave, but rather to set at liberty and fortify what it loves; to\nlove it in liberty, leaving it free to love or not to love.\n\nCome, my saints! and listen to worldly men on this subject: to\ndramatists, to Moliere, and to Shakspeare.  These have known more about\nit than you.  The lover is asked who is the loved object? of what name?\nof what figure? and of what shape?  \"_Just as high as my heart_.\"\n\nA noble standard, which is that of love, as well as that of education,\nand of every kind of initiation: a sincerely wished-for equality, the\ndesire of raising the other person to one's own height, and of making\nher one's equal, \"Just as high as one's heart.\"  Shakspeare has said\nso; Moliere has done so.  The latter was, in the highest degree, \"the\neducating genius;\" one who wishes to raise and set free, and who loves\nin equality, liberty, and intelligence.  He has denounced as a crime\nthat unworthy love which surprises the soul by keeping it apart in\nignorance, and holding it as a slave and captive.\n\nIn his life, conformable to his works, he gave the noble example of\nthat generous love, which wishes that the person loved should be _his\nequal, and as much as himself_, which strengthens her, and gives her\narms even against himself.  This is love, and this is faith.  It is the\nbelief that sooner or later the emancipated being must return to the\nmost worthy.  And who is the most worthy?  Is it not he who wished to\nbe loved with liberty?\n\nNevertheless, let us well weigh the meaning of this important word _his\nequal_, and all the dangers it may contain.  It is as if this creator\nsaid to the creature, whom he has made and is now emancipating, \"Thou\nart free; the power under which thou hast grown up holds thee no more:\nbeing away from me, and attached to me now only by the heart and\nmemory, thou mayest act and think elsewhere, nay against me if thou\nwilt!\"\n\nThis is what is so sublime in love; and the reason why God pardons it\nso many weaknesses!  It is because in this unlimited disinterestedness,\nwishing to make a free being and to be loved freely by it, it creates\nits own peril.  The saying, \"You may act elsewhere,\" contains also \"to\nlove elsewhere,\" and the chance of losing the object.  That hand, so\nweak before, but now strengthened and made bold by all the cares of\naffection, receives the sword from love: even would she turn it against\nhim, she can; there is nothing to hinder her, for he has reserved\nnothing for himself.\n\nPray let us exalt this idea, and extend it from the love of woman to\nuniversal love, to that which makes the life both of the world and of\ncivil society.\n\nIn the world, it calls incessantly from kingdom to kingdom the\never-quickening life, which receives the flame, and goes on rising.  It\nraises from unknown depths beings which it emancipates, and arms with\nliberty, with the power of acting well or ill, and even of acting\nagainst him, who creates them, and makes them free.\n\nIn the civil world, does love (charity, patriotism, or whatever they\ncall it) do anything but this?  Its work is to call to social life and\npolitical power whatever is yet without life in the city.  It raises up\nthe weak and poor in their rough path, where they crawl on their hands\nand feet against destiny, and bestows upon them equality and liberty.\n\nThe inferior degree of love is a desire to absorb life.  Its superior\ndegree is to wish to exalt life in energy and fruitfulness.  It\nrejoices in raising, augmenting, and creating what it loves.  Its\nhappiness is to see a new creature of God rise under its influence, and\nto contribute its aid to the creation, whether it be for good or for\nill.\n\n\"But is not love, with this disinterestedness, an uncommon miracle?\nOne of those very short instances when the night of our egotism is\nillumined by a ray from God?\"\n\nNo, the miracle is permanent.  You see it, you have it before your\neyes, but you turn away your head.  Uncommon, perhaps, in the lover, it\nis everywhere visible in the mother.  Mortal, you seek God in heaven\nand under the earth, but he is in your own domestic circle.\n\nMan, woman, and child, the unity of the three persons, and their mutual\nmediation--this is the mystery of mysteries.  The divine idea of\nChristianity is thus to have put the family upon the altar.  It placed\nit there, and there it has left it, for fifteen hundred years.  My poor\nmonk, in the middle ages, contemplated it there in vain.  He could\nnever understand the mother as initiation.  He exhausted his energies\nby taking the sterile side; he pursued the Virgin, and left us Our Lady.\n\nMan of modern times! thou shalt do what he could not.  This shall be\nthy work.  Mayest thou only, in the height of thy abstract genius, not\ndisdain women and children, who will teach thee life!  Instruct them in\nscience and the world, and they will speak to thee of God.\n\nLet the family-hearth become firm and strong, then the tottering\nedifice of religion, political religion, will quietly settle down.  Let\nit never be forgotten, that humble stone, in which we see only our good\nold domestic Lares, is the corner-stone of the Temple, and the\nfoundation-stone of the City.\n\n\nONE WORD TO THE PRIESTS.\n\nI have finished, yet my heart has not.  Therefore, one word more.\n\nOne word to the priests.  I handled them gently, yet they have attacked\nme.  Well! even now, it is not them that I attack.  This book is not\nagainst them.\n\nIt attacks their own slavish state, the unnatural position in which\nthey are kept, and the strange conditions which make them at once\nunhappy and dangerous: if it has any effect, it will prepare for them\nthe period of deliverance, personal and mental freedom.\n\nLet them say and do what they please, they will not prevent me from\nbeing interested in their fate.  I impute nothing to them.  They are\nnot free to be just, or to love or to hate, they receive the words they\nare to say, their sentiments and thoughts, from higher powers.  They\nwho set them on against me are the same men who are, at this moment,\npreparing against them the most cruel inquisition.  The more insulated\nand miserable they are made, the greater will be the advantage derived\nfrom their restless activity; let them have neither home, family,\ncountry, nor heart, if it be possible: to serve a dead system, none but\ndead men are wanted--wandering and troubled spirits, without a\nsepulchre and without repose.\n\nBy means of the words _unity_ and _universal Church_, they have made\nthem quit the ways of the Church of France.  They now enjoy the fruits\nof this change!  They well know what Rome is, and what a Jesuitical\nbishop is.  If the universality of mind (which is the only true one)\nwas ever possessed by Rome, she lost it a long time ago; it is to be\nmet with again, in modern times, and it is in France.  For two\ncenturies past, we may say, morally speaking, that France is the pope.\nThe authority is here, under one form or another; it is here by Louis\nXIV., by Montesquieu, Voltaire, and Rousseau, by the _Constituante_,\nthe Code and Napoleon.  Europe has always its centre, every other\nnation is on the outside.\n\nThe world goes on, and flies away, far, very far from the middle ages.\nMost people think of them no more; but I shall not forget them.  The\nshameful parade made of them by any one before my eyes, will not induce\nme to turn my heart from those dark and mournful ages, with which I\nhave been so long acquainted, suffering when they have suffered.  The\nsympathy I retain for that by-gone age, whose ashes I have warmed\nagain, prevents me from being indifferent to its most faithless\nrepresentatives.  I do not hate, but I make comparisons, and am sad.  I\ncannot pass the front of the church-porch without saying to Notre Dame,\nin the words of the ancient, \"O miseram domum, quam dispari dominaris\ndomino!\"  Alas! poor house, thou hast made a sad change of masters!\n\nI have never been insensible either to the humiliation of the Church,\nor to the sufferings of the priest.  I have them all present, both\nbefore my imagination and in my heart.  I have followed this\nunfortunate man in the career of privations, and in the miserable life\ninto which he is dragged by the hand of a hypocritical authority.  And\nin his loneliness, on his cold and melancholy hearth, where he\nsometimes weeps at night, let him remember that a man has often wept\nwith him, and that I am that man.\n\nWho would not pity this victim of social contradictions?  The laws tell\nhim things diametrically opposite to one another, as if to sport with\nhim.  They will and they will not have him obey nature.  The canon law\nsays No, and the civil law says Yes.  If he take the latter to be\nserious, the man of the civil law, the judge, whose protection he\nexpects, acts like a priest, seizes him by the robe, and hands him over\ndegraded to the yoke of the canon law.  Agree together, then, O laws!\nand let us be able to find authority somewhere.  If this be law, and\nthe other one directly contrary be also law, what will he do, who\nbelieves them both to be sacred?\n\nOh how my heart swells for all these unfortunate men!  How many prayers\nhave I made that they may be permitted to abandon a condition, which\ngives so rude a contradiction to nature and to the progress of the\nworld!  Oh! that I might with my hands build up and cheer the domestic\nhearth of the poor priest, give him the first rights of man,\nre-establish him in truth and life, and say to him, \"Come and sit with\nus, leave that deadly shadow, and take thy place, O brother, in the\nsunshine of God!\"\n\nTwo men have always deeply touched my heart, two solitary beings, two\nmonks--the soldier and the priest.  I have seen, often in my thoughts,\nand always with sadness, these two great sterile armies, to whom\nintellectual food is refused, or measured out with so niggardly a hand.\nThey whose hearts have been weaned would require to be nourished with\nthe vivifying food of the mind.\n\nWhat will be the ameliorations and the remedies for these serious\nevils?  We shall not attempt to tell them now.  Either means and\ncontrivances are found out by time, or it manages to do without them.\n\nWhat we may safely say is, that one day or other, these terms _priest_\nand _soldier_ will indicate two ages, rather than two conditions.  The\nword _priest_, in its origin, meant _old man_; a young priest is a\nnonsensical contradiction.\n\nThe soldier is the youth who, after the school of childhood, and that\nof work, comes to be proved in the great national school of the army,\nand to gain strength, before he settles down to the quiet state of\nmatrimony and the family table.  Military life, when the state has made\nit what it ought to be, will be the last education, varied with\nstudies, voyages, and perils, the experience of which will be of\nadvantage to the new family which the man will form on his return.\n\nThe priest, on the contrary, in the highest acceptation of the term,\nought to be an old man, as he was at first, or at least a man of a\nmature age, who, having passed through the cares of this world, and\nbeing well acquainted with family life, has been taught by his\nexperience to understand the sense of the Great Family of the Universe.\nSeated among the old men, like the elders of Israel, he would\ncommunicate to the young the treasures of his experience; he would be\nthe man for all parties; the man who belongs to the poor, the\nconciliating umpire to prevent lawsuits, and the physician of health to\nprevent diseases.  To be all that, something more is required than an\nexcitable, hot-headed young man.  It ought to be a man who has seen,\nlearned, and suffered much, and who has at last found in his own heart\nthe kind words which may comfort us on our way to the world to come.\n\n\n\n\n\nLondon: Printed by Robert Banks, Racquet Court, Fleet Street.","title":"Priests, Women, and Families","tradition":"scripture-revelation","translated_text":null,"word_count":68422}