{"collection":"philosophy-ethics","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_46759/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_46759","id":"gutenberg_46759","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46759","summary":null,"tags":["Category: Essays, Letters & Speeches","Category: French Literature","Category: Philosophy & Ethics","French essays -- Translations into English","Philosophy"],"text":"Philosophic Nights\n\nIn Paris\n\nBY REMY DE GOURMONT\n\nBEING SELECTIONS\n\nFROM\n\nPROMENADES PHILOSOPHIQUES\n\nTranslated by\n\nISAAC GOLDBERG\n\n\nJOHN W. LUCE AND COMPANY\n\nBOSTON  MCMXX\n\n\n\n\nIntroduction\n\n\nHelv\u00e9tius and the Philosophy of Happiness\nThe Player's Illusion\nThe Beyond\nThe Question of Free Will\nThe Insurrection of the Vertebrates\nThe Pessimism of Leopardi\nThe Colors of Life\nThe Art of Seeing\nThe Rivers of France\nThe Fall of Days\nInsinuations\nFootprints on the Sand\n\n\n\n\nINTRODUCTION\n\n\nThe importance of Remy de Gourmont to the universal world of thought\nis now beginning to be recognized among thinkers of every continent.\nDuring his own life he was a figure apart and aloof even from his\nconfr\u00e8res; his reputation was a matter more of intensity than of\nextensive acclaim, although subtly it made its way, as did that of\nthe Symbolist school in general, to many nations. Now, however, he is\nbeginning to receive that wider recognition which during his life he\nactually shunned. He belongs with the notable few who have devised and\nlived a philosophy of continuous adaptation to the new knowledge that\nthe new day brings forth; he is a daring, independent, unostentatious,\nextremely personal neo-Epicurean, too individualistic to have been\nheld long within the circle of a school, too sensitive not to have\nresponded to the multifarious influences of a complex age. Yet just as\nhis individualism was not the ignorant self-proclamation of blatant\nmediocrity, so was his response to the contemporary world far more than\nan aimless dashing about hither and thither in a snobbish attempt to\nbe ahead of the times. The man's essentially dynamic personality has\na genuine strain of the classic in it; he possesses a rare repose,\nan intellectual poise, that serves as a most admirable complement to\nhis vibrant ideas. Few writers have ever so well combined matter and\nmanner, which to Gourmont were but two aspects of one and the same\nthing,--the original thought. He is not, and never will be, a writer\nfor the crowd; he was, by heredity and by choice, an aristocratic\nspirit, yet as he lived grew to recognize and to admit the importance\nof true democracy.\n\nHis chief importance, historically, was as the recognized interpreter\nof the Symbolistic movement in French poetry; but behind that\nmovement lay a genealogy of ideas which ramified into such seemingly\ndivergent directions as the pre-Raphaelites in England, the Hegelian\nidealists in Germany, and thus formed a modern manifestation of\nprimary significance. De Gourmont, like more than one of the\nSymbolists, outgrew the movement, which from the first was composed of\npersonalities too strong to form a mere school. He was, in the words\nof one of his commentators, \"among the first, if not the first, to\nrealize the insufficiency of Symbolism, in all that did not confine\nitself amidst the proud ivory walls of an uncompromising lyricism. If\nhe did not combat it, because he had too complaisantly exalted it, he\nnone the less abandoned it more and more, to surrender himself,--with\nno other discipline than his personal taste and his keen sense of the\nFrench genius,--to the fecundity of his nature, retaining of the\nold verbal magic only that which might contribute to his personal\nexpansion,--notably that precious gift of image and analogies which\nimparts such poetry, such flexibility, variety and charm to his style.\nBut henceforth the idea (i.e., rather than the word) assumed in him a\npreponderant importance, and now he was to play with ideas.... as he\nhad previously played with words and images.\"\n\n\nII\n\n\nGourmont's literary career was particularly identified with the\nnotable French Review, the _Mercure de France_. How he came to join\nthe staff of that organ is interestingly recounted by Louis Dumur, in\nthe same obituary note from which the above quotation was translated.\nIncidentally we obtain a glimpse of the young man just as he was\nemerging into note.\n\n\"The great writer whom we have just lost,\" wrote M. Dumur, \"was to us\nmore than a friend, better than a master: he seemed to us the most\ncomplete representative, the very expression,--in all its aspects and\nin all its complexity,--of our literary generation.\n\n\"When, in the autumn of 1889, the small group which proposed to found\nthe _Mercure de France_ thought first of adding several collaborators\nto its number,\" while one went off in search of Jules Renard, another\ninvited Julien Leclercq and a third promised the assistance of\nAlbert Samain,--the late lamented Louis Denise, who was at that time\ncataloguer of the Biblioth\u00e8que Nationale, said to us:\n\n\"There is at the Library an extraordinary man who knows everything. He\nhas already published ten volumes and a hundred articles upon every\nconceivable subject.\"\n\n\"We don't need a scholar, nor a polygraph, but rather a writer who'll\nbe one of us.\"\n\n\"'All he asks is to be one of us,'\" declared Denise. \"'He is filled with\nadmiration for Mallarm\u00e9 and swears only by Villiers de l'Isle Adam. At\nthe present moment he's writing a novel that will be a revelation.'\n\n\"'Bring along your prodigy.'\n\n\"That prodigy was Remy de Gourmont.\n\n\"We did not know him, not even by name, despite his vast literary\nlabors. He lived in seclusion. He did not frequent any of our literary\nrendezvous. He was never seen at the Fran\u00e7ois Ier, nor at the Vachette,\nnor at the Voltaire, nor at the Chat-Noir, nor at the Nouvelle-Ath\u00e8nes.\nHe had not written for any of our little reviews, of which he was later\nto become the well-informed historian. His signature had not appeared\nin the columns of _Lut\u00e8ce, la Vogue_, the _Decadent_, the _Symboliste_,\nthe _Scapin_, the _Ecrits pour l'Art_, nor in la _Pl\u00e9iade_.\n\n\"But if we did not know him, he knew us all, together with the\nAcadiens, the Lapons, the Italian verists, the English novelists, the\nAmerican humorists, the Jesuits, balloons, volcanos, the thousand\nsubjects upon which his learning and his curiosity had exercised\nthemselves. In publishing houses whose existence we did not suspect or\nin papers we were hardly familiar with, we, too, in conjunction with\nthe still obscure and mysterious esthetic movement which we aspired\nto represent, formed the object of his labors and his meditations.\nThis newcomer knew more about our interests than we did ourselves. He\nhad read our most insignificant essays. He shared our enthusiasms,\nour antipathies, participated in our intellectual research, discerned\nour tendencies, penetrated into our intentions, which already he\nwas arranging to formulate, and to formulate for us with as keen a\nperspicuity and clarity as were permitted by the concerted imprecision\nof our thought and the hazy, delicately shaded, sublimated art that we\nhad just established.\n\n\"From his very first pages in the _Mercure de France_,--those _Proses\nmoroses_ which were so perfect in form, so rare in expression and of\nsuch singular subtlety,\"--he revealed himself as an expert artist\nin the new coloring, and produced exquisite models of the refined\ngenre which charmed us. In that same year, 1890, he published through\nthe firm of Savine the novel that Denise had spoken about to us,\"\nthat _Sixtine_ which at once consecrated him as a coming master in\nthe exacting eyes of our cenacles. 'A novel of cerebral life,'--a\nprecious subtitle,--and one could find nothing better to suggest the\nfull significance of this book, which is of disturbing originality.\nNothing took place in it which the regular public calls by the name\nof 'action'; everything in it, was, indeed, 'cerebral.' It was filled\nwith a minute, probing analysis. The hero did not love so much as\nhe observed himself in the process of loving. It was charming,\ncomplicated, and marvellously written.\n\n\"At the times of its appearance the reaction against naturalism and\nthe so-called 'psychological' school of Bourget was at its height....\nSymbolism had been born,--musical, suggestive, indirect. But if\nsymbolism had produced its work, it had not yet found its formulas.\nThere was interminable and indefatigable discussion as to just what\nsymbolism was. And it was Remy de Gourmont who undertook to define it.\nHe himself brought to it perfect and delicate products. Among these, in\npoetry and prose, were _les Litanies de la Rose, Lilith, le Fant\u00f4me,\nFleurs de Jadis, Hieroglyphes_ and the dramatic poem _Th\u00e9odat_, which\nwas given at the Th\u00e9\u00e2tre d'Art at the same time as Maeterlinck's les\nAveugles, Laforgue's _le Concile f\u00e9erique_ and that _Cantique des\nCantiques_ by Renaird, which was accompanied by a luminous, fragrant\nmusical score so that, by an appropriate harmony of sounds, voices,\ncolors and perfumes, all the senses might be conjointly struck by the\nsame symbol.\"\n\nOf Gourmont's services to the movement into which he was thus\nintroduced Camille Mauclair, one of Mallarm\u00e9's intimate friends, has\nwritten:\n\n\"The theories of the Symbolists were presented and condensed in\nexcellent fashion in the numerous books and critical articles by Remy\nde Gourmont, who was not only a most original novelist and a perfect\nartist in prose, but also one of the most remarkable essayists of\nthe nineteenth century, characterized by an astonishing wealth of\nideas, a rare erudition, and an intellectual flexibility that assured\nhim philosophical as well as esthetic culture. Moralist, logician,\npoet, intuitive as well as deductive, passionate lover of ideas, Remy\nde Gourmont possessed also the merit of being a voluntary recluse,\nexceedingly proud, clinging tenaciously to his liberty, disdaining all\nfame, living as a solitary spirit and as a man truly above all social\nprejudices. His irony, which excluded neither emotion nor faith, was\nbut the effect of a deep scorn of mediocracy.... His whole life was\na model of independence.... Remy de Gourmont, better than any other,\nformulated the idealism which was at the bottom of the Symbolist\ndoctrine.\"\n\nAmong these services to the new movement were Gourmont's penetrating\nstudies of such figures as Mallarm\u00e9 and Verlaine, Huysmans and the\nde Goncourts, Rimbaud, Corbi\u00e8re, Villiers de l'Isle Adam, Barbey\nd'Aurevilly, Stendhal, Baudelaire, Maurice de Guerin, Gerard de Nerval,\nAloysius Bertrand. Were it not for Gourmont, some of these would\nperhaps never have been known, and it does little credit to our own\npoetic advancement that some of them are still but names to American\nreaders. His two _Livres des Masques_ are regarded as the beginnings\nof a history of the Symbolist period, which he never found time to\ncomplete. Although many of the writers were, at the time Gourmont\nconsidered them here, at the beginning of their careers, he seized\nupon their distinguishing traits with a rare insight, and revealed\nsuch coming celebrities as Maeterlinck, Verhaeren, R\u00e9gnier, Samain,\nViel\u00e9-Griffin, Tailhade, Paul Adam, Gide, Laforgue, Mor\u00e9as, Merril,\nRachilde, Kahn, Jammes, Paul Fort, Mauclair, Claudel, Bataille, Ghil.\nHe had a discerning eye for the painters, too, and revealed as well as\ndefended Whistler, Van Gogh, Gauguin, and others.\n\nDespite their modest titles, the _Promenades philosophiques_ and the\n_Promenades litt\u00e9raires_ have been called \"without doubt the most\nimportant critical works of our epoch.\" It is from the former that\nthe essays contained in this book are taken; they reveal, in striking\ndegree, the thought and the attitude of their famous author, and may\nsuggest, \"though within the limits that all translation connotes,\nparticularly when dealing with so remarkable a stylist,\" the charm, the\nsimplicity, and the clarity of his writing.\n\n\nIII\n\n\nDespite the fact that his funeral services occurred during the height\nof the war--he was born on April 4, 1858 and died on September 27,\n1915--they were attended by a numerous gathering of mourners who,\nin their very cosmopolitan nature seemed to symbolize the universal\ninfluence of the departed genius. Tributes were paid by M. Henri de\nR\u00e9gnier, of the French Academy, who spoke for the _Mercure de France_,\nby M. Georges Lecomte, President of the Soci\u00e9t\u00e9 des Gens de Lettres,\nwho spoke in the name of that society, by M. Maurice Ajam, for the\nnewspaper La France, by M. Fernand Mazade, in the name of la _Dep\u00eache\nde Toulouse_, to which Remy de Gourmont was a contributor, by Xavier\nCarvalho, in the name of the Portuguese and Brazilian press, and by M.\nJuliot Piquet, in the name of the great Buenos Aires daily _La Naci\u00f3n_\nfor which Gourmont wrote.\n\nR\u00e9gnier paid particular attention to the critical labors of the\ndeceased. Gourmont, he said, \"was an incomparable critic, in turn\na scholar untainted by pedantry, deep without obscurity, ingenious\nto the point of paradox, sincere to the point of contradiction, but\never mindful of the truth,--a critic in the manner of Montaigne, of\ninexhaustible variety of means, of the most candid independence,--a\ncritic who is polemist, dilettante, imaginative spirit and poet, and\nabove all, a man, exceedingly human in his alternations of skepticism\nand faith.\" Lecomte pointed out the nobility of the man's origin, and\nthe significance of his ancestral connection with Fran\u00e7ois Malherbe,\nthe great stylist of a former age. Ajam, like most who have commented\non the man at all, was struck with his paradoxical nature. \"A democrat\nof aristocratic cast, an atheist filled with devotion, an anarchist\ncharacterized by order, an agitated spirit infused with calm, he was a\nhuman and a divine paradox.\"\n\nThe tributes by Carvalho and Piquet are of particular significance.\nAt a rime when even Spain, the mother country, was indifferent to and\nignorant of the literary accomplishments of its American colonies, Remy\nde Gourmont had lent himself to the interpretation and the revelation\nof the new literary world across the seas. He translated, criticised\nand supported an almost unknown continental literature. He even went so\nfar as to invent the term neo-espagnol (neo-Spanish) for the modified\nSpanish spoken in the various republics of the New World,--a proceeding\nwhich though philologists may consider it rash, may yet be considered\npremature rather than totally mistaken. And in any event it shows the\nman's ready response to new currents in speech and thought, whether\nnative or foreign. \"By his precious writings for the reviews and the\ngreat dailies of Argentina and Brazil,\" said Carvalho, \"he rendered\nlasting service to the neo-Latin literatures.\" M. Piquet's speech was\nshort, yet pithy in its evidence of an entire continent's appreciation.\n\n\"I should not venture to approach this tomb if I did not possess in\nthis solemn moment the impersonality of a symbol.\n\n\"A few words will suffice for me to fulfil in its formal character the\ndolorous and too burdensome task that accident has imposed upon me.\nI come, in the name of the journal _La Naci\u00f3n_ of Buenos Ayres, to\npay the last respects to its former contributor Remy de Gourmont, the\nwriter, the thinker who, for many years, helped in powerful measure to\nmaintain, on the distant shores of the La Plata, admiration and love\nfor the land of clarity and moderation, justice and liberty, of which\nhe was one of the purest glories.\"\n\n\nIV\n\n\nThe complete works of Remy de Gourmont cover almost every form of\nintellectual activity. He seems equally at home in criticism, in\ncreative effort, \"novel, play, poem,\" philosophy (Nietzsche owes\nmuch to him for his intellectual acclimatization in France), in the\ntransvaluation of moral values, in social criticism, in certain\naspects of science, in philology, in the renovation of rhetoric. \"In\nhis divers attitudes and in his varied researches,\" says Dumur, \"he\nwas the expression of our instable epoch.... When the most distant\nposterity shall wish to form an idea of what we were between the years\nof yesterday's estheticism and tomorrow's neo-classic realism, of what\nour immense literary production was, of what the generation was which\nbridged the conflict of 1870 and the great war which began in 1914, the\npage it will have to read will be signed Remy de Gourmont.\"\n\nThe importance of this writer, however, cannot be limited to France; by\ntoken of his broad, tolerant humanism and his dynamic method he belongs\nto the literature that abolishes boundaries and epochs.\n\n\n\n\nHELV\u00c9TIUS AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF HAPPINESS\n\n\n\"M. Helv\u00e9tius, in his youth,\" says Chamfort, \"was as handsome as love\nitself. One evening, as he was seated very peacefully before an open\nfire, at the side of Mile. Gaussin, a renowned financier came and\nwhispered into this actress's ear, loud enough for Helv\u00e9tius to hear:\n'Mademoiselle, would it be agreeable to you to accept six hundred louis\nin exchange for a few favors?'--'Monsieur,' she replied, loud enough to\nbe heard by Helv\u00e9tius, and pointing to him at the same time, 'I'll give\nyou two hundred of them if you will kindly call on me tomorrow morning\nwith that fellow over there.'\"\n\nHelv\u00e9tius was not content with being very handsome. He was also\nexceedingly wise, very rich, and very happy. No mortal, perhaps,\nreceived so many gifts from the gods, the rarest of which was Mme.\nHelv\u00e9tius, one of the most charming and gifted women of the eighteenth\ncentury. Like her husband, she was very beautiful,--so beautiful that\npersons paused, struck with admiration, to look at her. There is, in\nthis connection,--quoting again from Chamfort, a very pretty anecdote:\n\n\"M. de Fontenelle, aged ninety-seven, having just uttered to Mme.\nHelv\u00e9tius, young, beautiful and newly wed, a thousand amiable and\ngallant remarks, passed by her to take his place at table, without\nraising his eyes to her. 'You can see,' said Mme. Helv\u00e9tius, 'how much\nstock I may take in your compliments; you pass me by without so much as\nlooking at me.' 'Madame,' replied the old man, 'if I had looked at you,\nI would not have passed by.'\"\n\nHappiness is often egotistical. It is even a question whether a\ncertain egotism is not necessary to the acquirement of a certain\nhappiness. Helv\u00e9tius gave a peremptory denial to these sorry notions.\nHappy himself, he had but one passion: the happiness of humanity. He\nnoticed, in his observation of mankind, that the natural desire to\nbe happy, which each of us bears within, is opposed by a thousand\nprejudices, the most terrible of which are the religious prejudices,\nand he determined to combat them with all his strength. M. Albert Keim,\nwho knows Helv\u00e9tius better than any other man in France, has just\nrepublished certain notes written in the philosopher's hand; the first\nof which runs thus:\n\n\"Prejudices. They are to the mind what ministers are to monarchs. The\nlatter prevent their rivals from approaching the king, and in the same\nway prejudices prevent truths from reaching the mind, for fear of\nlosing the power they usurp over it.\"\n\nOne of the most widespread prejudices is that which considers\nit impossible to attain happiness; as that does not prevent us\nfrom desiring it, such an idea corrupts life and often renders it\nunbearable. Priests have believed that they could remedy this by\ninventing a second life, where the person who has consented to be\nquite unhappy in the first will find at last a sort of equivocal\nhappiness, little calculated to tempt one of intelligence. The\npeople, nevertheless, snap at this bait and accept, in view of future\nrecompense, the direst tribulations of the present life. Thus a\nfrightful slavery is perpetuated, for it is very evident that all\nthis is nothing but a hoax and an imposition. Whoever wishes to taste\nhappiness, if this word stands for anything more than a dream, should\nset about it in this life, since the other one is but a chimera,\nlucrative for the clergy alone. But how be happy? Through virtue? Very\nwell, what is virtue?\n\n\"Virtue,\" replies Helv\u00e9tius, \"is only the wisdom which harmonizes\npassion with reason and pleasure with duty.\"\n\nHe assigns a large place in life to pleasures and passions; but he\ndoes not consider them only as elements of happiness; he makes of them\nsources of activity. Man instinctively seeks pleasure. When he has\nexperienced it, and later loses it, he will work with all his might\nto win it anew. All forms of pleasure, then, are easily reconcilable\nto virtue. Who knows whether pleasure taken in wise moderation is not\nvirtue itself? And he dares to write this maxim, which will perhaps\nfrighten some: _One is never guilty when one is happy._ Helv\u00e9tius, who\nwas a very gentle and kind person, is often, in his writings, rashly\nbold. His intimate notes are violent, impassioned, even brutal. He\nspeaks in them of love with magnificent frankness, and one readily\ndivines that it is chiefly in the exercise of this amiable virtue that\nhe found happiness.\n\nI am not at all writing here a study of Helv\u00e9tius, one of the most\nskilful demolishers of the ancient regime; I am running through a\nportfolio of private notes, printed at first in a few copies, and the\nreading of which will reveal at once an ingenious philosopher and the\nmost spirited of poets. He is, on the subject of love, inexhaustible;\nhe is in turn tender, subtle, passionate, raving. His delirious attacks\nare of a beautiful candor; the majority of his thoughts are charming\nand most seductive: \"Each moment of pleasure is a gift of the gods.\"\n\nThis verse, which would be greatly admired and celebrated if it had\nbeen found in Andr\u00e9 Chenier,--does it truly come from the pen of\nHelv\u00e9tius? This is what M. Albert Keim asks himself. That is a query\nto propound to the erudite spirits of _l'Interm\u00e9diaire_, who have read\nall the old authors; in the meantime I consider it as being highly\ncharacteristic of the philosophy and the poetry of the author of\n_Bonheur_ (Happiness). One can imagine nothing more pagan, more gently\nanti-Christian. And anti-Christianism is the real basis of Helv\u00e9tius'\nphilosophy. He oversteps the bounds a trifle when he adds: \"Pleasure\nis the sole occupation of life.\" The ardor of this young man is\nexcessive. He himself will soon learn and declare that life has other\nemployments, such, for example, as composing a philosophy.\n\nHis second motto will be: \"Minerva and Venus in turn,\" which is\nwisdom itself; he will devote himself to plucking at once \"the fruits\nof reason and the fruits of pleasure.\" He is forever recurring to\nvoluptuousness, whose images pursue him: \"Who takes all pleasures takes\nvery few of them.\" Love to him is the most noble of passions because it\nis the fecund passion and mother of life. This is what makes him say:\n\"It is not, moreover, without a certain secret melancholy,\" for, he\navers, \"The flower that one plucks is ready to wither.\"\n\nDo you wish to see him in his r\u00f4le of a serious philosopher? He will\nsay, as if he foresaw the war against science, in which, in our own\ndays, we have seen the Veuillots and the Bruneti\u00e8res distinguish\nthemselves: \"There are things over which the veil of skepticism should\nbe spread; but, in the matter of science, it would be necessary, in\norder to win the right of skepticism, to know all that the human mind\nmay learn: then one might permit himself to declare that science is\nnothing.\" Like the modern positivists, like Renan, remarks M. Keim,\nHelv\u00e9tius had the greatest confidence in science. He is forever\ncelebrating the triumphs of human intelligence. He believes in\nprogress, in the transformation of society by the scientific mind. Thus\nhe launched a powerful attack against Rousseau's thesis upon the ills\nof civilization. Yet at times one notes in him a little discouragement,\nand he will confess: \"Almost all philosophical views are worthless. Not\nthat they are not excellent, but because there are too few persons who\ncan understand them.\"\n\nThe number of persons who can understand Helv\u00e9tius has greatly\nincreased, and besides, it is not so difficult as he believed; all one\nneeds is a little common sense. It is a good sign of our intellectual\nhealth that Helv\u00e9tius is coming back into fashion. Tomorrow it will\nbe d'Holbach, d'Alembert, Tracy, the master of Stendhal,--all those\neighteenth-century philosophers who are so clear, so simple, so human.\nThe absurd German metaphysics has annihilated them for sixty years,\nbut it seems that the day of their revenge has come. The dry notion of\nabstract duty according to Kant has outlived its day. It is beginning\nto be understood that man's first duty is to be happy. Otherwise, what\nis the use of living?\n\n\n\n\nTHE PLAYER'S ILLUSION\n\n\nThe player at games of skill is always tempted to attribute to himself\na capacity superior to his real power. Such is the theorem advanced\nin a curious study, half psychological and half algebraic, by an\nAlgerian engineer, Monsieur V. Cornetz. The player's desire to win,\nthe recollection of his past successes, his confidence in himself,\nnecessarily cause him, at a given moment, to think himself stronger\nthan he really is. So that, if he wins, he is not surprised; but if he\nloses, he will tell himself: \"I could have done better; I didn't do\nmy best, I didn't concentrate all my attention.\" For such an estimate\nof himself to be just, it would be necessary for the player to base\nthe idea of his strength not only upon the average of his previous\nvictories, but also of his defeats. Self-conceit, however, prevents\nunsuccessful contests from coming to his mind to counterbalance the\nremembrance of his winnings. It comes about, then, that the player\nconstantly overrates himself, and in all good faith. Whatever be\nhis character, he is never tempted to attribute to himself a value\nless than his real worth. The modesty of certain players is all upon\nthe surface and the mistrust of themselves, which they proclaim, is\ntransformed into excessive confidence as soon as the game has begun.\nA player is a man who always compares himself to other men. He judges\nhimself, not as an individual independent of his surroundings, but\nunder the pressure of a vanity that is ever egged on by the presence of\nrival vanities. The moment two such vanities clash, each of necessity\nseeks victory, and begins by attributing to itself, without the least\nregard for reality, the strength necessary for success. To accept the\ncombat is in itself, is it not, to believe that one is the stronger?\n\nMonsieur Cornetz deals particularly with the chess-player, but his\nobservations, as he himself says in his preface, are applicable to\nall games that are not purely games of chance, and even to athletic\ncontests, fencing matches, and one might add, military operations,\neven of the most serious nature. To wage battle is to play a game.\nThis psychology of the player is also that of the general. How many\nbattles have been lost because the general overestimated himself. How\nmany governments even have fallen because they were abandoned to the\nillusions of their self-conceit! Does not Napoleon III gayly setting\nout for the frontier provide the spectacle par excellence of the player\nwho overrates himself? There is no such thing as a disinterested\ncontest; the dullest game of cards excites in the opponents a certain\ndesire to win. The very persons who boasted of their entire detachment\nare often the most eager to win once the game has started; they enter\ninto it excitedly and when worsted keep watching for a favorable\nopening. Those players who believe that they play the game for the sole\ninterest of its combinations, its emotions, are then, admitting their\ngood faith, the victims of an illusion: they judge themselves to be\nother than they are. This is a rather common attitude in life. We all\nof us believe ourselves more or less to be other than we really are;\nso much so that an ingenious philosopher, M. Jules de Gaultier, has\ncreated a special term by which to denominate this universal penchant.\nHe calls it _Bovarysm_, referring to the heroine of Flaubert's novel,\nwho thought herself a _grande amoureuse_ when she was really nothing\nbut a poor little sick woman. The player who pretends that he plays\nwithout any interest in victory is afflicted with _Bovarysm_. But\nperhaps he is also intent upon shielding his self-conceit in case\nof failure. Beaten, he will vow that he had as good a time as if he\nhad won. This is a manner of self-consolation that does not lack a\ncertain elegance. The fox who found the grapes too sour has furnished\nus with a charming example of this disdainful attitude. M. Cornetz\nhas seen, in Algiers, on an old Arabian chess-board, this motto: \"The\nloser always has his excuse.\" The basis of these excuses is this: \"I\nshould have played otherwise. If I had used such and such a pawn, or\nqueen, or card, I would doubtless have won.\" Who has not been present\nat those post mortems where the players forget only this, that they\nknow, at the moment of discussion, things that they did not know while\nthe game was in full swing? The truth is that at a given moment, when\none is seriously playing the game, one is playing as well as he can,\nno more and no less. The loser has an excuse; very well. But it is\nprecisely because he is the loser. The winner needs none. To be winner\nis a fact; to be loser is another. There is in facts a logic, and the\nreason of the strongest is always the best. To believe, when one has\nbeen beaten, that one might not have been, is by that very fact to\nsuppose that one might, at that moment, have been another person, which\nis absurd. But perhaps this illusion is due to inevitable causes. The\nchief point is, as I have already said, that at the moment when we have\nbeen beaten we recall, not our former defeats, but rather our former\nvictories, and the victories only. We attribute to ourselves a general\ncapability, a capability that is a matter of principle, and which may\nnot be shaken by an accidental momentary inferiority. It never occurs\nto us, \"our vanity prevents it,\" that our real worth is probably but\na fairly equitable composite of equally accidental inferiorities and\nsuperiorities. The balance will always incline toward the side of our\nself-conceit.\n\nIt should be recognized that, if this illusion of our self-conceit has\nits great inconveniences, if it vitiates our critical judgment, not\nonly of ourselves but of others, if it betrays us into false estimates,\nit possesses, on the other hand, great advantages. \"The illusion\nthat accompanies man in the course of his life,\" says M. Cometz, \"is\na necessary condition of existence, a precious product of the vital\ninstinct.\" The man who overestimates himself is also he who is capable\nof surpassing himself. It is necessary, in this great game of life, to\nhave confidence in oneself. If one estimated oneself only at his proper\nvalue, one would not estimate himself sufficiently. If we did not grant\nto ourselves a power superior to our real power, we would never dare to\nundertake the impossible; now it is perhaps only the impossible that is\nworthy of being undertaken. From the purely practical point of view,\nif the end to be attained were not embellished by illusion, would we\never set about the task? It is well for a man, after a game of chess,\nto be able to say in all simplicity: \"I could have played otherwise.\"\nThat is not true, of course, but it may create in the future a great\ntruth. Error is a great generator of truths. The truth of today has\nits root in the error of yesterday. Illusions have often created real\npowers. \"You could do better,\" says the teacher to his pupil. He thus\nimplants in the child's mind a belief, an idea which will at once\nengender a hope, and in the future, a force. Then let us not scoff too\ngayly at the player who has such firm confidence in himself. Doubtless\nthis selfsame confidence will lead him to accept unequal battles in\nwhich he will be worsted; but it will happen also that he will emerge\nvictor from struggles into which he would not have dared to venture\nhad not beneficent illusion considerably magnified in his eyes his\nreal capacity. And finally, it happens in many cases that the real\nworth of a person coincides with the estimate placed upon him by his\nself-conceit. One need not trust to it too much; it's only a matter of\na game. On the other hand one need not on that account fear to repeat\nthe old proverb: \"Nothing venture, nothing have.\" All languages of\nthe world have similar proverbs. This helps to show that all peoples\nhave recognized that certain efforts are impossible without certain\nillusions, and that, of all principles of action, the most powerful and\nthe most fruitful is still self-confidence.\n\n\n\n\nTHE BEYOND\n\n\nMuch is being said of the beyond in these days, perhaps because people\nno longer believe in it. Then there is Eusapia Palladino, whose\nperformances, it seems, favor mysterious beliefs. Tables dance and\ntilt, violins play by themselves, and this puts perspicacious folk on\nthe road to the beyond. Huysmans was converted in just this way. It is\nfar easier to confuse the human reason than the laws of gravity.\n\nNevertheless, what is the beyond? I believe only in that country which\nI can locate. Where do you place it? The spirits locate it about\nus. Do you wish to speak with Mme. de Montespan? Here she is. With\nNapoleon? He hastens to respond. Would you consult Saint Anthony in\nregard to some lost object? Nothing more easy. The inhabitants of die\nbeyond are at our disposal. They come as soon as they are bidden and\nreply most gently. And in order to prove that the two realms bear a\nstrong resemblance to each other, they are even glad to talk plenty of\nnonsense: their intelligence never rises above the level of those who\nsummon them.\n\nThis benevolent and familiar beyond does not, however, win universal\napproval. The immense majority of believers need a truly mysterious\nbeyond, one that shall be inaccessible and unfathomable. Where is this\nbeyond? Yonder, yonder, very far away.--But just where?--Far, far off,\nI tell you; farther than you could ever calculate.--And how are you\nassured of its reality?--By reason itself. It is impossible that man\nshould die totally. This is proved by his very desire for immortality.\n\nThe early Christians were not in the least embarrassed in the matter\nof placing heaven. They beheld it on high, beyond the clouds, in a\nbrilliant, serene region. Christ, by his ascension, had shown them the\nway. The expression has gone into the language: to rise to heaven.\nIt no longer means anything since it has become known that the earth\nrotates on its own axis and that, consequently, there is for us in\nspace neither above nor below. In order to rise to heaven at midnight\none would have to take the same direction by which, at noon, he would\ndescend. Heaven, then, cannot be situated on high. As to hell, which\nwas formerly placed in the interior of the earth, let us not speak.\nThe theologians of today make many reservations as to hell; they have\nlearned that the prospect of cooking eternally in a huge caldron is\nnot of a nature to excite much religious enthusiasm in the crowds. The\nbeyond to which we are invited is a benign place. It is not quite the\nparadise of Mahomet; it is that of F\u00e9n\u00e9lon,--a perfumed landscape\nwhere the streams are of milk, the pebbles of candy, the soil of\nchocolate. It still remains to locate this celestial confectionery in\nspace.\n\nSome have thought of the planets. But suppose they are really\ninhabited, as M. Flammarion hopes, and as is moreover fairly probable?\nThen let us seek farther, farther still. Let us question the uttermost\nstars,--those which our naked eye cannot see,--even those that the\ntelescopes will never discover.\n\nTheir answer is known. They reply that they are worlds, suns,\nsurrounded by earths, some living like ours, others dead like the moon.\nAnalogy permits us to believe that what we do not see resembles greatly\nwhat we do see. If we were transported to the regions where simple\nfolk place the beyond, we would turn back to our own earth and say,\ndoubtless: The beyond is situated yonder.\n\nThere is no reasonably conceivable beyond. The entire universe is\nbuilt upon the same plan and its component parts are limited by\nnothing. An immensity in which grains of sand whirl about at the mercy\nof the wind of infinity.\n\nBeyond--Beyond what? One must know what he is talking about. We are\ncreatures habituated to precision. When a man of the fourteenth-century\nthought of future life, his notion was very simple, but fairly clear.\nHe beheld the blessed ranged upon the steps of a vast stage. In the\nbackground was an organ, played by an angel, and the music was so sweet\nthat the whole audience was spell-bound: and this was to continue for\nall eternity! Today we would with difficulty accept such a paradise\nfashioned in the manner familiar to the devotees of large concerts. A\nlittle variety would be welcome. The taste for extended travel, for\nexample, has gradually influenced the notion that certain persons\nform of the blessed life. Whereupon it becomes a paradise for Cook's\ntourists. Excursions are made to the rings of Saturn, just as, in their\nearthly life, they journeyed to the White Nile or to Japan. Somewhat\nfarther than the first, but of the same genre.\n\nThe most ardent travelers rise, in their imaginations, from sun to\nsun, thrilled with the idea of a never-ending exploration filled with\never-renewed wonders.\n\nThese perpetual vacations seem a bit boresome to me. What will be\nproposed to me next? Here are the modern religions and philosophies,\nthe Christians and the spiritualists, who offer me the contemplation of\nGod. Very well. But God is no more admirable in the rings of Saturn or\nin Sirius than in the wings of a butterfly or in the eyes of a woman.\nWhat next? Wait. You speak of a woman,--doubtless of her whom you love?\nHere is the paradise of Mahomet, with its white, buxom houris, their\nhands ever perfumed, their caresses ever new.\n\nYes, that is more tempting. It is human, at least. But do the women,\ntoo, find lovers to their taste there? This paradise bears too much\nresemblance to a conquered town, where the victors disport themselves\nwith the women captives. And it resembles altogether too much something\nless honest. At the end of an hour I should feel like leaving.\n\nWell, suppose we remain upon earth, after all? Suppose we bravely\naccept the death of our dreams at the same time as the death of our\nbodies? This beyond is decidedly uncertain, quite vague and mobile. I\ndo not believe that it exists everywhere; I believe that it is nowhere\nexcept in our infantile imaginations. Born with us, it will end at the\nsame moment that we do, to be born anew in our posterity.\n\nThe beyond is the earthly tomorrow, as we bequeath it to our heirs and\nas they modify it by their efforts and in accordance with their tastes.\n\n\n\n\nTHE QUESTION OF FREE WILL\n\n\nThose physicians were wise who, at a recent congress, voted to refuse\nmaking any statement upon the problems of responsibility propounded to\nthem by the courts. What does responsibility mean? Where does it begin?\nWhat are its boundaries? One finds himself here not in the presence\nof a question of simple legal medicine; to speak of responsibility\nis to speak of free will, and to speak of free will is to be plunged\ninto the fundamental mysteries of human philosophy. These mysteries,\nto tell the truth, are mysteries only because it is to man's interest\nthat things should be so. We are accustomed to consider human acts\nas free acts, voluntarily consented to; the adoption of a contrary\nview would so interfere with our habits that social life would become\nexceedingly difficult. Our teachers or experience have taught us that\nour body is capable of two kinds of movement,--the one involuntary and\nnecessary, such as respiration, or the circulation of the blood, and\nthe other voluntary, accomplished at will,--the movement of our limbs,\nour tongue, our lips. But a closer examination would soon show us that\nthis division is very arbitrary. It is impossible for us to make our\nheart stop beating; but is it really possible to stop our finger from\nmoving, and if it is, for how long? We can cease eating: but for how\nlong? We can even stop breathing; for how long? In reality, the freedom\nof our bodily movements, if it exists, is a limited freedom, a freedom\nexercised within a very narrow circle,--the freedom of a prisoner\nwho can pace back and forth in his cell. Similarly, the exercise of\nour external activity is subjected to rather strict conditions: we\ncan speak, walk, work in a thousand different ways, but during a\ncertain time only. At the end of this time we feel that our freedom\nis exhausted we are at the end of our chain. There is nothing more to\ndo: we must obey. In whatever direction we may turn we behold looming\nforth the obstacle that will certainly bar our way. Sometimes there\nis annexed to the prison a little courtyard where we may walk about a\nlittle, but this courtyard is itself only a prison: the boundary has\nbeen set back a few paces, that is all.\n\nIf we now pass to the examination of the most delicate organs of our\nbody,--the brain and the nervous system,--we see that the motions\nexecuted within these organs are likewise limited in their evolutions.\nI employ these simple terms expressly, that I may be better understood.\nWe perceive these motions in the form of sensations or thoughts. Are we\nfree to be hot or cold, to be hungry or thirsty? Are we independent\nof the ideas that come to us, the images that are formed in our mind,\nthat is to say, our brain? No, most assuredly. At least, then, we are\nfree to receive them or reject them, to show them the door or smilingly\ninvite them in? Here we reach the crux of the question, for it is at\nthis point that the will intervenes. What, indeed, is the will? The\nwill is nothing more than the realization, effected by our mind, that\nof two motives one is more powerful than the other. The will is perhaps\nthe least voluntary and the least free element in our make-up. Before\nit declares itself, we are often in a state that gives us the illusion\nof liberty. We are still in ignorance as to whether we shall go to\nright or to left. These moments of vacillation are sometimes agreeable\nand sometimes disagreeable. Most often they pass unperceived, and we\nfind ourselves started on one of the two paths, totally unawares. Our\nwill has acted mechanically. Our mind has worked like an automatic\nscale.\n\nWhatever we do, there is a cause, and this cause itself depends upon\nanother, and so on to infinity. If I am at this moment smoking a cigar,\nit is because Christopher Columbus discovered America. The search for\ncauses leads to authentications of this order. But our acts have only\na single direct cause. Several influences have combined and weighed\nupon the lever. Often, when we reflect upon the motives for our acts,\nwe imagine that we have found them, yet the most important motive\nhas escaped us. To enter into examples of this would be to enter the\nabsurd; Pascal has given one which has become famous,--his epigram\nabout Cleopatra's nose. It is saying little to aver that effects and\ncauses are united like the links of a chain. I see effects and causes\nrather in the guise of an extremely complicated fabric, of which every\nthread depends upon the others. But such a representation may not be\nmade materially. Let it suffice for us to understand and to admit that\nnone of our actions is the beginning of a series. There is only a\nsingle series, which does not seem to have had a beginning and whose\nend it is impossible to foresee.\n\nNotwithstanding, we have the sentiment of liberty, and consequently, of\nresponsibility. These are very curious illusions and very mysterious,\nbut illusions none the less. Among those of which our life is composed,\nthey are perhaps the most useful; they are even more,--they are\nnecessary. We are not free, yet we cannot act except by believing\nourselves free. If for a moment we actually ceased to believe in\nfree will, we should at once cease to act altogether. In his book on\n_Duplicisme Humain_, M. Camille Sabatier has written: \"Liberty is as\ninexplicable as it is certain.\" It is, in my opinion, the illusion\nof liberty that is as inexplicable as it is certain, and, I add,\nnecessary. Where I agree fully with him is when he asserts that the\nmatter presents \"a mystery of our nature.\" He has attempted a most\ningenious explanation, but which, I believe, leaves still standing\nthe determinist objections, of which I have summarized several of the\nfeatures. It is the eternal opposition of feeling and, not reason but\nreasoning. But it matters little whether they teach and adopt one or\nthe other theory; that could have no influence upon the conduct of\nmen or upon their judgments. Nor would it have any influence upon our\nmanner of looking upon crime and the various infractions of the law\nand moral conventions. If men are free and consequently responsible,\nthere need be no change in our judicial institutions. If men are not\nfree, if they are irresponsible, there need still be no change, for a\ncrime is a crime just the same,--always an anti-social act against the\nrepetition of which it is necessary to protect ourselves. It even seems\nthat the determinists, to whom I belong, would be inclined rather to\na very severe repression. A philosophic doctrine is not necessarily a\nsocial doctrine. A determinist, doubtless, could not admit the idea\nof punishment, but he will readily admit that of repression. And it\nall comes to the same thing. We must live. Societies have no choice.\nBut it is easy to understand why the physicians, who are almost all\ndeterminists, should have resolved not to take a stand upon questions\nof responsibility. That is not within the province of medicine, which\nshould limit itself to declaring whether the subject is healthy or ill,\nand to caring for him if he is entrusted into its hands.\n\nOne may, moreover, in agreement with Dr. Grasset, and also with the\nfacts and common sense, admit that there are mentally sick persons, and\nthat these persons vary as to the degree to which they are affected,\nthat is to say, they are more or less conscious, more or less able\nto resist their impulses. The hypothesis of determinism cannot make\nus forget all the visible shades of difference between the normal\nindividual and the typical madman. The normal man receives varied\nimpressions, external and internal; some impel him to action, others\nhold him back: he establishes an equilibrium. Normal life is nothing\nbut that,--a state of equilibrium, a static condition. The man who is\ntermed abnormal is, on the contrary, more or less constantly out of\nbalance. He is impelled by one force that is not counterbalanced by\nanother: he falls. When the wind blows always from the same direction\nupon a row of pines, it bends them all in the same direction. If the\nwind, though violent, blows alternately from opposite directions, the\ntrees remain erect. These rows of pines will provide us, not with the\nimage, but with the schema of the normal and the abnormal man. Neither\none nor the other,--and the man as little as the tree,--is responsible\neither for the origin, or the power, or the direction of the wind\nwhich bends them and straightens them in turn or, on the contrary,\nbreaks them forever as if they were mere reeds; there remains however,\nthe fact, that while the one kept itself erect in a healthy posture,\ndespite occasionally rude shocks, the other, subjected to a constant\npressure, bent over from day to day with its head nearer to the ground,\nor even, as the result of a more than usually violent tempest, broke\naltogether.\n\nIt is a fact, and one must keep it in mind when he passes judgment upon\ntrees or upon men. It is a fact, and that is all. Nevertheless, if the\ntree has been uprooted by a violent tempest, there is nothing left but\nto call the wood-cutters, who are the judges of trees. If they inquire\ninto the cause of the disaster, it will be through pure curiosity;\ntheir business does not lie there; they know their duty and will\nperform it.\n\nWhen we shall have exhausted all the arguments for and against all\nthe degrees of responsibility that may be discovered in a healthy or\na sick person, we shall find ourselves in agreement with the social\nwood-cutters, with the magistrates, on the necessity of removing\nand forever ridding society of him. Then, having once more become\nphilosophers, we shall try to reach agreement upon this point: that\nit is a matter not of administering punishment but of preserving\nourselves; our interest should be centered not upon the author, but\nthe purpose of the crime. Let us not even speak of crime; let us speak\nof danger. Ah! How simple it all would be, or at least more simple\nthan at present, if the notion of criminal act was superseded by that\nof dangerous act. The idea of crime is a metaphysical idea; the idea\nof danger is a social idea. The opinions of MM. Baudin, Faguet and de\nFleury, which frighten M. Grasset, are in principle highly acceptable.\nOn the occasion of each new crime society cannot institute a new\nphilosophical debate nor set about resolving questions which, ever\nsince there have been men who think, have troubled human thought. For\nsome time they have not been asking the jury for their opinion upon\nthe materiality of a fact; they subject them to an examination in\nphilosophy. It's ridiculous.\n\nThere are on one side the assassins and on the other the assassinated.\nWhat difference does it make to me whether the fellow who'll split my\nhead be an _apache_ or a lunatic? What does matter to me, is to live.\nI feel intense compassion for the sick, but I am very anxious that\npersons suffering with madness be shut in.\n\nAll men are ill, said Hippocrates. We all need care; so I see nothing\nwrong about criminals attracting special attention from the medical\ncorps. There are so many interesting cases among them!\n\n\n\n\nTHE INSURRECTION OF THE VERTEBRATES\n\n\nIt is well known how the spiritualists tried to capture Pasteur,\nbecause his theories, denying spontaneous generation, seemed to them\nhis consecration of the old dogma of a Creator. Pasteur never professed\nsuch ideas; he limited himself to pursuing brilliantly his profession\nas a scientist. It was not without a feeling of sadness that, pestered\nby the admiration of a too pious gentry, he wrote to Sainte-Beuve,\nI believe: \"Let us continue our labors, without giving heed to the\nphilosophic or religious deductions that may be drawn from them.\"\n\nWell, here is that same gentry trying, very maladroitly moreover, to\nturn to their profit the results of a new scientific theory which is\nbeginning to make a stir in the world,--the law of vital constancy.\nM. Dastre expounded it the other day at the solemn session of the\nInstitute and demonstrated its supreme importance. If one is eager\nto keep abreast of intellectual novelties, one should possess some\nnotion of this recent scientific theory; just as one would blush not\nto possess any notion of Darwin's labors and the theory of evolution,\nwhich has now become a part of general culture.\n\nMan is the product of an evolution the origin of which is\ncontemporaneous with the very origins of the world. He has as ancestors\nnot only men, but reckons in his genealogy all manner of animal\nspecies. His descent from the monkey through the medium of a semi-human\nform that is still little known, is today authenticated. The monkey,\nlike all other mammals and also the marsupials (kangaroo, opossum) is\na transformation of a reptile; the reptiles, to continue, were born\nof fishes, who are the first vertebrates to appear, and the fishes in\nturn descend from the annelides, humble little marine animals. But let\nus not go any farther back than the fishes, for, in this species we\npossess a certainty that may be daily demonstrated. At a certain stage\nof its development the human embryo has the chief characteristics of a\nfish. All of us were, at a certain moment of our unborn life, fishes;\nthis is as certain as the most easily verified scientific fact. From\nthis piece of evidence, and a hundred others, it has been possible to\ndraw up this aphorism, which unites the evolution of the individual to\ngeneral evolution: \"Every individual, in his embryonic development,\ngoes through the same phases through which the evolution of his species\nhas gone in traversing the ages.\"\n\nThis monumental discovery of the transformation of species is, as\nwe know, due almost entirely to Darwin. It is he who propounded\nand demonstrated the principle of evolution. But if, in his so\nabundant books, he explained the _how_, he did not discover the _why_.\nHe registered facts, but did not show why these facts should have\nbeen absolutely necessary. It is this gap which the theories of M.\nQuinton now fill, at the same time confirming in a brilliant manner\nthe selfsame principles of Darwinism, evolutionism and transform-ism.\nBefore M. Quinton, one might, strictly speaking, with a semblance\nof good faith, contest _Darwin's conclusions: henceforth, it is\nimpossible_: the facts are interconnected; we know their necessary,\nimplacable cause. Thanks to M. Quinton, evolutionism should rather be\ntermed _revolutionism_.\n\nThere are in this theory, two things to consider: life itself, and\nthe environment amid which it develops. Life is a fixed phenomenon.\nIt began in a marine milieu, at the very beginnings of the world, and\nit tends constantly to preserve, through all the transformations of a\nterrestrial milieu, the original conditions of its appearance. As a\nconsequence, the most highly developed animals, the superior animals,\namong which man takes first place, are those which have been able to\npreserve in the interior of their bodies, in the form of blood, a\nvital milieu almost identical with the original marine milieu,--the\nenvironment in which life was born: in fact, the degree of saltness in\nour blood represents the saltness of the sea at the moment life made\nits appearance, and, moreover, our internal temperature represents the\nmean temperature of the globe at the moment our species was born.\n\nThe terrestrial milieu is unstable. Its heat has constantly diminished.\nFormerly, in the most remote epochs, the vicinity of the poles, now an\nice-covered and inaccessible extent, had a climate hotter than that\nof the tropics. Life was born amid this tropical environment, at the\nbottom of an ocean that had a far higher temperature than the Caribbean\nsea or the sea of Java. Nevertheless the poles grew colder and all\nthe other parts of the world as well. Then animal life found itself\nfaced with this alternative: either to accept the new conditions of the\nmilieu, or to rebel against these conditions,--struggle and maintain\ninternally despite the external temperature, the high temperature of\nits origin.\n\nThat is a solemn moment in the drama of the world. What is to happen?\nIf the new conditions are accepted, it spells fatal decline. If they\nare repulsed, it means a magnificent future development. Almost all\nanimal life submitted: it is today represented by the lowest class of\nliving creatures: the invertebrates. A single representative of the\nanimal world revolted, made a prodigious effort, entered into strife\nwith the hostile milieu and dominated it: the vertebrate. Thus life, in\nits superior aspects, affirmed itself from the very earliest times as\nan insurrection.\n\nM. Quinton, says: \"The vertebrate stands forth as marked by a\nparticular character, which distinguishes him from the rest of the\nanimal kingdom, giving him a position apart, above. While the balance\nof the animal kingdom accepts, or rather undergoes, in the face of the\nprogressive shrinking of the seas and the cooling of the globe, the\nnew conditions that have come about, and to which it can yield only\nat the cost of intense suffering, the vertebrates give evidence of a\nspecial power; they refuse to accept the conditions and confronted by\nhostile circumstances maintain the sole conditions favorable to their\nexistence.... They are not, then, like the invertebrates, the passive\ntoys of circumstances that dominate them, but, in part, the masters of\nthe fundamental conditions necessary to their welfare. In the midst of\nthe physical world that surrounds him, ignores him and oppresses him,\nman is not the _sole insurgent_, the only animal in revolt against the\nnatural conditions, the only one tending to found, in an instable,\nhostile medium, the fixed elements of a superior life. The simple\nfish, the simple mammal ... hold the essential physical laws in check.\nWhen man attacks the natural forces that surround him, in order to\ndominate the hostile elements in them, he first participates of the\ngenius of the vertebrate.\"\n\nI have purposely underscored the words _sole insurgent_. These words,\nin fact, indicate the orientation of our efforts the moment we attempt\nto apply the biological principles enunciated by M. Quinton to the\nsocial domain. Far from teaching stagnation, resignation, acceptation,\nhe counsels on the contrary, if one understands him, revolt against\nall that bars the progress of life and the maintenance of its highest\nconditions of power and intensity. These ideas are related to the basic\nideas of Nietzsche's philosophy: we must grow or succumb. It is the\nsame with individuals and persons as with the animal species: those who\naccept the conditions provided by their traditional environment, those\nwho do not react, are condemned to decadence: they are invertebrates.\nThe traits of a superior organism, on the contrary, are reaction\nthrough deep, continued evolution, or by a brusk revolution against the\nmediocrity of the milieu which tends to dominate and reduce it.\n\nIn certain places it is freely asserted that the peoples of the future\nare the wise peoples slumbering in the tradition of a political\norder, of a religious order, or a moral order: those peoples, on the\ncontrary, are in their decline. But there is something worse: there are\npolitical--or social groups that dream, not of attaining to the genius\nof the vertebrate, which spells perpetual combat against the hostility\nof the environment, but of becoming once again invertebrates, and of\nfalling asleep gently in the lap of ancient traditions.\n\nThere is, according to the theories of M. Quinton, in the social realm\nas in the biological, a fixed point, and one that must remain fixed\nunless decline is to set in, and that is life; but we must not confuse\nlife with the environment in which it evolves. Life is constant and the\nmilieu is variable. The most diverse political and social institutions\nhave been successively imagined by man to assure, according to the\nneeds of the moment, the development of his life. And as, in the course\nof time, they have appeared to him insufficient, he has rejected them\nto imagine others more in confirmity with his requirements: and thus\nsocial progress appears as a necessity, in the same way that anatomical\nprogress has transformed an ocean worm into a fish and the fish into a\nmammal or a bird. In the two cases there is a certain end sought. It is\nfor man to create for himself the social conditions that will permit\nhis life to maintain its loftiest aims.\n\nWhen the social conditions that the old regime brought about in France\nappeared to men unsuited any longer to the maintenance of their life,\nthey acted like good vertebrates,--they revolted. Civilization is\nnothing but a succession of insurrections, now against the hostility\nof physical forces,--especially against the cold,--now against social\nforces, which, after a period of usefulness, tend almost always to\nevolve in the direction of parasitism.\n\n\n\n\nTHE PESSIMISM OF LEOPARDI\n\n\nLeopardi has never been widely read in France. While Schopenhauer has\nachieved a certain literary popularity, Leopardi has remained, even for\nscholars, in the shade. This is due in large measure to the mediocrity\nof his translators and his commentators....\n\nLeopardi's poetry is difficult to enjoy. M. Turiello says that it is\nobscure even to Italians of the present generation. It is true that\nLeopardi is somewhat addicted to archaism and that, moreover, the\nItalian language has since his day undergone rapid development under\nthe influence of French. His prose, despite its severe form, now too\nconcise and now a trifle oratorical, is more approachable.... But if\ntranslation, is always a difficult task, it is particularly difficult\nto translate Leopardi.\n\nIn prose as in verse he is a pessimist more by nature than as a result\nof reasoning. It is his sensibility rather than his intellect that\nspeaks. He constructed no system; he gathers his impressions, his\nobservations, and attempts, not without arbitrariness, to generalize\nthem. His philosophy is entirely physiological: the world is bad\nbecause his personal life is bad. He conceives the world in most\nterrifying fashion, and supposes that if all men do not judge it as\nhe does, it is because they are mad. Optimism, in fact, is fairly\nwidespread. While there is life there is hope. The fable of Death\nand the Wood-cutter is a fair symbol of humanity's out-look. On the\nother hand it is certain that literatures and philosophies, even those\nwhich aim to produce laughter as well as those which exalt life, are\ngenerally pessimistic. There is a tragic background to Moli\u00e8re's plays\nand a gloomy background to Nietzsche's aphorisms. Absolute, beatific\noptimism is compatible only with a sort of animal insensibility and\nstupidity: only idiots are constantly laughing and are constantly\nhappy to be alive. Absolute pessimism, however, can develop only in\ncertain depressed organisms: its extreme manifestations are plainly\npathological and connected with maladies of the brain.\n\nSchopenhauer affirms that life is evil, yet he loves it and enjoys\nit. Let fame come, and he expands with cheer. His character is by no\nmeans gloomy. He is at the same time a philosopher and a humorous\nwriter. Leopardi never knew these expansions. He affects to despise\neven glory, for which he nevertheless labors. But he, too, is a keen,\nwitty spirit, although ever bitter; and he, too, is a humorist. He\ncertainly takes pleasure in writing. If he does not know life's other\njoys, he knows that of being able to impart a beautiful, puissant form\nto a lucid thought. Nevertheless his existence, much more logical\nthan Schopenhauer's, is in exact accord with his philosophy. Sickly,\nisolated, not understood, Leopardi lacked the strength to react; but if\nhe allowed himself to be swept along by his sadness, it was at least in\nfull knowledge of the fact. He questions his despair and enters into\ndiscussion with it. And this questioning presented us with those fine\ndialogues which, together with a few thoughts, were gathered together\nunder the title _Operette Morali_.\n\nLeopardi died in 1837. His writings seem of this very day. Almost\nall the questions touched upon with unparalleled sagacity in the\nDialogue Between Tristan And A Friend are such as still interest\nphilosophers and critics. \"I understand,\" says Tristan, \"and I embrace\nthe deep philosophy of the newspapers, which, by killing off all other\nliterature and all other studies of too serious and too little amusing\na nature, are the masters and the beacon-light of the modern age.\"\nAlready, in his day, the flatterers of the crowd were saying, like the\nSocialists of today: \"Individuals have disappeared in the face of the\nmasses.\" Already sober stupidity affirmed: \"We live in an epoch of\ntransition,\" as if, resumes Tristan, all epochs and all centuries were\nnot a transition toward the future!\n\nThe theme itself of the dialogues is the idea of the wickedness of life\nand the excellence of death. It recurs time and again and Leopardi\nmanages to avoid monotony only by the ingeniousness of his imagination,\nthe beauty of his style, the keenness of his wit. For example, the\nmagnificent passage in which, after having said that although the\nworld is rejuvenated every spring it is continually growing older,\nhe announces the supreme death of the universe: \"Not a vestige will\nsurvive of the entire world, of the vicissitudes and the infinite\ncalamities of all things created. An empty silence, a supreme calm will\nfill the immensity of space. Thus will dissolve solve and disappear\nthis frightful, prodigious mystery of universal existence, before we\nhave been able to understand or clarify it.\"\n\nWithout a doubt. But in the meantime we must live, or else die. And if\nwe choose to live, it is reasonable to do our best to adapt ourselves\nto life. Pessimism has but the slightest of philosophical value. It\nis not even a philosophy; it is literature, and, too often, rhetoric.\nThis man is a bit ridiculous, tranquilly pursuing his existence, daily\nadding a page to his litany of death's delights. In short, Leopardi,\nlike many another man, humble or exalted, suffers from not being happy;\nhis originality consists less in taking pleasure in his suffering,\nwhich is not very rare, than in finding reasons for this pleasure and\nexpounding them logically and resolutely. His sincerity is absolute.\n\nConsidered in opposition to the base reveries of the promissors of\nhappiness, this literature is useful. But it is good that it should\nbe rare, for if we finally got to take pleasure in it alone, it would\nprove only depressing. Life is nothing and it is everything. It is\nempty and it contains all. But what does the word _life_ mean? It is an\nabstraction. There are as many _lives_ as there are living individuals\nin all the animal species. These lives are developed according to\ncurves and windings of infinite variety. It is the height of folly to\nbring a single judgment to bear upon the multitude of individual lives.\nSome are good, others bad, the majority colorless, according to every\npossible degree. In this order of facts there is no justice, and the\nreign of justice is particularly chimerical in this case, because the\njoys and sorrows of a life are related far less to the events by which\nit is crossed than to the physiological character of the individual.\n\nAbstractions do us much harm by impelling us to the quest of the\nabsolute in all things. Joy does not exist, but there are joys: and\nthese joys may not be fully felt unless they are detached from\nneutral or even painful conditions. The idea of continuity is almost\nself-negating. Nature makes no leaps; but life makes only bounds. It\nis measured by our heart-beats and these may be counted. That there\nshould be, amid the number of deep pulsations that scan the line of our\nexistence, some grievous ones, does not permit the affirmation that\nlife is therefore evil. Moreover, neither a continuous grief nor a\ncontinuous joy would be perceived by consciousness.\n\nWhether we deal with the transcendental theories of Schopenhauer or the\nmelancholy assertions of Leopardi, we arrive at the same conclusion.\nPessimism is not admissible, any more than is optimism. Heraclitus\nand Democritus may be dismissed back to back, while fearlessly and\nwith a moderate but resolute hope, we try to extract from each of our\nlives,--we men,--all the sap it contains, even though it be bitter.\n\nLeopardi was not only the poet and the moralist of despair. At the age\nof seventeen he had already achieved note as a scholar and a Hellenist,\nwith his Essay Upon Popular Errors Of The Ancients (1815). During\nthe two years that followed he produced several dissertations on the\nBatrachomyomachia, on Horace, on Moscus, and Greek odes in the manner\nof Callimachus, the perfection of which was such that it was believed\nsome forgotten manuscript had been brought to light. Niebuhr affirmed\nin 1822 that the Notes On The Chronicle of Eusebus would have done\nhonor to the foremost German philologists. Leopardi had reached this\npoint when in a flash his personal genius was revealed to him, and\nthen there appeared his Poems, followed by his Moral Tracts. He died\nat the age of thirty-nine (1837), leaving a series of labors of which\neach separate division achieves perfection: the scholar, the poet, the\nwriter of prose, the translator, the man of wit are equally admirable\nin Leopardi. Were it not for the lingering illness that accompanied his\ndeeply sensitive career, he would have been one of the most luminous\ngeniuses of humanity. His originality lies in his having been the most\nsombre.\n\n\nII\n\n\n\"The three greatest pessimists who ever existed,\" said Schopenhauer\none day,--\"that is to say, Leopardi, Byron and myself,--were in\nItaly during the same year, 1818-1819, and did not make one another's\nacquaintance!\" One of these \"great pessimists,\" Leopardi, happened\njust at this time to be writing a little dialogue that might well be\nreprinted at the beginning of every year. It would always seem new.\n\nLife is bad, says Leopardi, and here is the proof: nobody has ever\nfound a man who would wish to live his life over again exactly as it\nhappened at first:--who would wish even, at the beginning of a new\nyear, to have it exactly the same as the year just past. What we love\nin life is not life such as it is, but rather life such as it might be,\nsuch as we desire it to be.\n\nBut since this Dialogue Between The Passer-By And The Almanac-Vendor,\nif it has ever been translated, has remained buried in unreadable\nvolumes, here is a version of this excellent, though somewhat bitter,\npage:\n\n_The Almanac-Vendor_.--Almanacs, new almanacs! New calendars! Will you\nbuy some almanacs, sir?\n\n_The Passer-by_.--Almanacs for the new year?\n\n_Vendor_.--Yes, sir.\n\n_Passer-by._ Do you think it will be a happy one,--this coming year?\n\n_V._--Oh, yes, sir! Certainly!\n\n_P._--As happy as the one just past?\n\n_V._--Oh! Far, far more so!\n\n_P._--As happy as the one before that?\n\n_V._--Far, far more.\n\n_P._--As happy as which other one, then? Wouldn't you be glad to have\nthe coming year the same as any one of the recent years?\n\n_V._--No, sir. No. That would hardly please me.\n\n_P._--How long have you been selling almanacs?\n\n_V._--For twenty years, sir.\n\n_P._--Which of those twenty years would you prefer the new year to\nresemble?\n\n_V._--I? I don't know.\n\n_P._--Can't you recall some year that seemed happy to you?\n\n_V._--Upon my word, no, sir.\n\n_P._--Yet life is a good thing, isn't it?\n\n_V._--Oh, yes indeed!\n\n_P_.--You would be willing to live these twenty years all over again,\nand even all the years since you were born?\n\n_F._--I should say so, my dear sir. And would to God that were possible!\n\n_P._--Even if this life were to be exactly the same that you lived\nbefore,--no more no less,--with the same pleasures and the same\nsorrows?\n\n_F._--Oh, that! Indeed no!\n\n_P._--Then what sort of life would you wish?\n\n_F._--Just a life, that's all,--such as God would grant me, without any\nother conditions.\n\n_P._--A life left to accident, of which nothing would be known in\nadvance,--a life such as the coming year brings?\n\n_F._--Exactly.\n\n_P._--That's what I, too, would desire, if I had my life to live over\nagain,--what I and everybody else would wish for. But that means that\nfate, up to this very day, has treated us badly. And it is rather\neasy to see that the common opinion is, that in the past evil has\ntriumphed greatly over good, since nobody, if he had to go over the\nsame road again, would consent to be reborn. That life which is good\nis not the life we know, but the life we do not know,--the life ahead\nof us. Beginning with the new year, fate is going to deal kindly with\nus,--with you and me and everybody,--and we are going to be happy.\n\n_V._--Let us hope so.\n\n_P._--Well, let me see your handsomest almanac.\n\n_V._--Here you are, sir. It costs thirty cents.\n\n_P._--Here's your money.\n\n_V._--Thanks, sir. See you again. Almanacs! New almanacs! New calendars!\n\nThere is, perhaps, a slight error in Leopardi's reasoning. It is not\nbecause our life has been bad that it would be a burden to begin it\nall over again. Even a happy life lived twice would scarcely possess\nany greater pleasures. The element of curiosity must be taken into\naccount. There is no human being, however resigned to the monotony of\na becalmed existence, who does not in the bottom of his heart hope for\nsome unforeseen event.\n\nBut is it really true that this idea is not contained in Leopardi's\ndialogue? It is there, although hidden, and doubtless I have taken it\nfrom there. Wherever it may come from, it is true, at least if it be\napplied to life as a whole. For everybody cherishes the remembrance\nof hours, and sometimes days, which he would gladly live over again.\nIt is often one of the occupations of men to seek to create in their\nlives circumstances that plunge them for a moment back into the joys of\nthe past, even if they must pay for this momentary resurrection with\nsubsequent pain....\n\nLeopardi, who was a distinguished philologist, an excellent Hellenist,\na great poet and an ingenious philosopher, endowed with eloquence,\nwas unable to discover happiness or even peace in the exercise of\nthese multiple gifts. His health was of the most wretched; his heart,\nleft empty, sounded in his bosom at the slightest shock; he was timid\nand his nerves quivered at every jar, like those harps which were in\nfashion during his youth. He was born four years before Victor Hugo\nand died young, without having tasted fame, while Manzoni, who was\ndestined to fill an entire century, had been for a long time known\nthroughout Europe. Is the source of Leopardi's pessimism to be sought\namong these divers causes? That is hard to believe. The invalid, far\nfrom cursing life, is filled with hope; he is an optimist, and wishes\nto get well; he knows that he will recover. He is not the person with\nwhom to speak of the infinite vanity of all things. It would rouse his\nfury to listen to the condemnation of those boons that are momentarily\nout of his reach but which he is preparing to seize and reconquer.\nScarron was more sickly and more deformed than Leopardi, yet he was\nnone the less a gay, all too gay, fellow. As for not being understood,\nor at least, not being received at one's proper value,--there is\nnothing in that to make a healthy mind pessimistic. The superior man,\nafter all, scorns the opinion of men so long as it remains only an\nopinion,--that is to say, a matter without practical consequences. And\nthis was Leopardi's situation, for he could have lived in independence\nupon his scant, but honorable patrimony.\n\nPessimism is related to character, and character is an expression of\nphysiology. The case with writers, philosophers and poets is exactly\nthe same as with men of other professions. They are gay, sad, witty,\nmorose, avaricious, liberal, ardent, lazy, and their talent assumes the\ncolor of their character.\n\nIf one were to make a study of literature from this point of view,--a\nprocedure which would not lack interest,--one would very probably\ndiscover a great number of pessimists, or, as they were called\nformerly, sad spirits. There are few men of worth who have not at\ntimes found a bitter taste to life, even among those who, like M.\nRenan, professed eternal joviality. There is no great writer without\ngreat sensibility; he is capable of keen joys, and of excessive pain\nas well. Now pain, which is depressive, leaves deeper traces in life\nthan joy. If intelligence does not rule, if it does not intervene to\nestablish a hierarchy, or an equilibrium of sensations, then the sad\nideas triumph because of their superior numbers and power. Renan's\nserenity is perhaps only the apathy of indifference; Goethe's serenity\nrepresents the victory of intellect over sensibility.\n\nPessimism is neither a religious sentiment nor a modern one, although\nit has often assumed religious form and although the most celebrated\npessimists belong to the nineteenth century. The Greeks, who knew\neverything, knew the despair of living: the pessimism of Heraclitus\nhad preceded the optimism of Plato. There are few pages more bitter\nthan those in which the naturalist Pliny summarizes the miseries of\nhuman life. Nature casts man upon the earth; of all animals he is the\nonly one destined to tears; he cries from the moment of birth and\nnever laughs before his fortieth day. And after having enumerated all\nthe evils and the passions which desolate mankind, Pliny concludes by\napproving the ancient Greek epigram: \"It is best not to be born or to\ndie as soon as possible.\"\n\nLeopardi has scarcely done more than paraphrase these elementary ideas,\nbut this he has done with abundance and ingeniousness. So funereal is\nhis spirit that he throws a veil of mourning over the most charming\nthings: \"Enter a garden of plants, herbs and flowers,\" he says, \"even\nin the gentlest season of the year. You cannot turn your glance in\nany direction without discovering traces of misery. All the members\nof this vegetable family are more or less in a 'state of suffering.'\nThere a rose is wounded by the sun that has given it life; it shrivels,\nblanches, and withers away. Further on, behold that lily, whose most\nsensitive, most vital parts are being sucked by a bee.... This tree is\ninfested by a swarm of ants; others, by caterpillars, flies, snails,\nmosquitoes; one is wounded in its bark, tortured by the sun, which\npenetrates into the wound; the other is attacked in the trunk or in its\nroots. You will not find in all this garden a single small plant whose\nhealth is perfect.... Every garden is, in a way, nothing but a vast\nhospital,--a place even more lamentable than a cemetery,--and if such\nbeings are endowed with sensibility, it is certain that non-existence\nwould to them be far preferable to existence.\" Leopardi here commits\nthe error of him who wishes to prove too much. His pessimism abdicates\nreason, and the sentence about nothingness being preferable to life,\nwhich in Pliny was beautiful and philosophic, acquires in the Italian\nphilosopher a somewhat ridiculous sentimentality.\n\nJouffroy, perhaps with this page in mind, has put tender souls on guard\nagainst any belief in the sensibility of plants: let us leave that to\nthe reveries of Pythagoras,--so noble, from other standpoints,--or to\nthe fairy tales, whither we may go of an evening in spring to pluck the\nrose that speaks. But if he had possessed a more intimate knowledge of\nnature, and of the relations between insects and plants, what a picture\nat once admirable and cruel would not Leopardi have been able to draw!\nThose mosquitoes, upon whom he looks as allies of the caterpillars in\nravaging the leaves of some cherry-tree, are ichneumons, and it is the\ncaterpillars themselves that they have come to attack, piercing them\nwith a long, hollow borer which permits the mosquito to lay in the very\nflesh of the caterpillar eggs which, when they become larvae, will gnaw\nthe living flesh like terrible little vultures.\n\nIf Leopardi had known this and many another thing,--if he had known\nthat every living creature is in turn prey and depredator, in turn\neater and eaten, he would have considered with even greater bitterness\nthe arrival of the new year, which hastens from the very first days\nof its springtime, to impart full strength and full passion to the\ninstincts of life and devastation.\n\nLeopardi despairs: he is, therefore, a weakling. His humble\nalmanac-vendor is made of better clay. He hopes; he wishes to live and\nlive happily; he possesses at least a little of that energy without\nwhich other gifts prove only too often to be blemishes and burdens.\n\n\n\n\nTHE COLORS OF LIFE\n\n\nIt was formerly the custom in such provinces as Normandy, for example,\nor Britanny, to consecrate children to the color blue. The vow\nwas limited to a certain number of years,--seven, fourteen, or\ntwenty-one,--probably because of the virtues of the number seven, as\nconsiderable as they are mysterious. Most often the final figure was\ndecided upon,--the age of reason, says the Church, which considers it\nnever too soon to place its hand upon the conscience and the will.\nIt was charming for the little girls, though somewhat monotonous; on\nthe contrary, it was troublesome to the little boys. But it seems the\ncustom was efficacious in warding off the illnesses of childhood, and\nthat it drew to the \"consecrated one\" the protection of the gods--I\nmean, of the Virgin--and of the celestial court. The divine personages,\ninhabiting the sky, which is blue, were in fact seen in blue by the\npopular imagination, and to adopt their color and assume their livery\nwas to put oneself in the shelter of their power and win their good\ngrace.\n\nWomen, through an analogous, though much more complicated and varied\nsymbolism, often select a color and match all the elements of their\ntoilette to it as far as fashion permits. It is exceedingly difficult\nto ascertain the reason for their choice. They themselves are at a loss\nfor explanation. Often they believe that they have chosen the color or\nthe shade that best frames their complexion or that harmonizes best\nwith the color of their hair. But often they go astray. Those who are\nfond of bright blue would look far prettier in very pale green or in\ndeep red, for example. They admit this, but for form's sake only: a\nsecret power holds them to the color that they have desired through\ninstinct,--the color under which they will live, under which they will\nknow love and all the joys and all the tears of life.\n\nNot only women, but men have their color. We seem to do the choosing,\nbut it is nature that imposes it upon us,--it is she that dedicates us\nto the shade that shall be our favorite atmosphere.\n\nOne who will never feel merry amid red hangings will grow cheerful amid\ngreen or yellow. Astrologers say that we are dominated by a planet\nthat controls our destiny. This is not very easy to understand. On the\ncontrary, nobody would deny the r\u00f4le played in our lives by colors.\nWould such and such a woman have evoked the passion which is today her\nhappiness if her gown, on that evening, had been rose and not mauve?\nWho can tell? It requires so little to entrance the eye and so little\nto provoke it. A false note, and the concert that was thrilling us\nfills us with laughter. If Cleopatra's nose, said Pascal, had been\nshorter, the face of the world would have been changed. As for me,\nI believe that Cleopatra rather resembled Dido, who, according to\nScarron's mot, was \"somewhat snub-nosed, in the African style.\" Perhaps\nit was really the happy shade of her tunic, the harmonious hue of her\npeplum that vanquished Antony and brought him to the feet of the queen\nof Egypt. History, which so often gossips beside the point, is mute\nupon this capital question. Nevertheless, were I to write the life of\nCleopatra, I should write it in green,--Nile green, of course,--and\nnobody, I believe, would have the effrontery to contradict me.\n\nWriting lives or stories in such and such a color is one of the things\nI have recently tried to do, and the attempt has in some instances\nproved to be a rather delicate affair to manage. There are blue women;\nthere are rose ones, and mauve and red; that is to say, they may be\nscarcely represented except in association with one of these colors\nor shades. Conceiving an old maid who had retained her good looks,\nwho was very pious and yet of very equivocal habits, I could see her\nonly in violet. The story is violet from beginning to end; it was\nimpossible for me to introduce a different hue; I would have felt that\nI was committing a gross offence against harmony. The lady is vowed to\nviolet: to place upon her head a blue or rose hat would have been a\nsort of sacrilege which would have terrified even her. Can this be the\nreason why her narrow life as an old maid found late in life so many\nhappy, if perverse, days? Without a doubt, for violet, which is her\ncolor, is also her logic, and it is always well to have respected the\nlogic of one's destiny.\n\nNow, in thus amusing myself, I have not made any pretensions toward\nreforming esthetics, nor toward revolutionizing the conditions of the\nart of writing. I have simply been playing with a box of pastels,\nloving the colors for themselves, one by one, somewhat in the manner of\nthe great and singular artist Odilon Redon, whose flowers are so real\nthat one is moved to smell them.\n\nWe have our favorite colors. Tastes and colors.... This aphorism is\nnot at all so frivolous as one might believe. Nietzsche, who was by\nno means a superficial spirit, cites it willingly. It is an argument\nthat favors individualistic philosophy and freedom of thought. It is an\nargument, too, and not the least valuable, that supports determinism\nand the philosophy of necessity. For the colors we love are not\ndictated by choice but by a secret sympathy which it is impossible for\nus to reason out. The study of tastes and colors should form part of\npsychology. Perhaps there might even be discovered here the elements\nof a new science. Being fond of red or of green is not a matter to be\ndismissed with indifference.\n\nA preference for red indicates rudeness, and the fondness for green\nreveals tenderness of character. It is known, moreover, that red is\nan excitant, while green induces repose, and meditation. The studios\nof the firm of Lumi\u00e8re, where photographic plates are prepared, were\nat first provided with red panes of glass; but this led to such\neffervescence,--the men and women, after several hours of red gazed at\none another with such sparkling eyes, that it was necessary to have\nrecourse to panes of a soothing color. Men that come from large cities,\noverexcited by the disharmony of sounds and colors, can regain a bit of\ncalm only amid the forests and the prairies or at the sea-shore, which\nis green when it is not blue. Blue is the most soothing of colors, and\nit is doubtless thanks to its blue sky that the South may endure the\nbrilliancy of its springs, the purple of its autumns.\n\nColor has its importance. Before making friends with anyone, before\nundertaking the conquest of a woman, observe what their favorite\ncolors are. Think at the same time of your own, and try to make happy\ncombinations. If you are fond of red, take to yourself a dash of blue,\nthus forming an agreeable lilac; and if it is blue that charms you, do\nnot reject yellow; this combination will give you all the shades of\ngreen and will assure you lifelong peace. How many misfortunes have\nbeen caused by the maladroit mixing of hostile colors! But above all,\nbeware of violet. There is no more perfidious hue; it is, among the\ncolors of life, the least stable and the most hypocritical.\n\n\n\n\nTHE ART OF SEEING\n\n\n                    Mon voyage d\u00e9peint\n              Vous sera d'un plaisir extr\u00eame.\n         Je dirai: J'\u00e9tais l\u00e0; telle chose m'advint:\n              Vous y croirez \u00eatre vous-m\u00eame.\n\n        (The tale of my travels will be extremely pleasant\n        to you, I'll say: \"I was there; such and such things\n        happened to me.\" You'll imagine that you're there\n        yourself.)\n\n\n\"Alas!\" the loving dove would have replied, if he had taken courses\nunder M. Clapar\u00e8de, professor of psychology at the University of\nGeneva. \"Alas! What faith may I have in your testimony? You will tell\nme what will take place in your head and I'll not have the consolation,\nas a reward for your absence, of knowing your real adventures!\" But\nthis was not what La Fontaine had in mind. In his day they believed in\nthe value of testimony offered in good faith. An eye-witness inspired\nfull confidence. People bowed with mute deference before the honest\nman who said: \"I was there; such and such things happened to me.\"\nAnd the custom continues. Nevertheless, in certain places, they are\nbeginning to show a little less confidence. They have been observing\nand reflecting and have arrived at the conclusion that the majority of\nmen report far less what they have seen than what they believed they\nsaw. They repeat much less what they heard than what they believed they\nheard. A dozen persons having witnessed an accident will present a\ndozen different accounts, or, at least, accounts that do not harmonize\nexactly. Still better, among the dozen there will be one, perhaps, who\nwill have seen nothing, and another who will have seen the contrary to\nwhat his companions saw.\n\nI have made many observations in regard to this subject. One of these\nobservations is that, if by accident I have had direct and exact\nknowledge of an event reported by a newspaper, the newspaper report\nwill very often be in contradiction to the facts personally known to\nme. Another observation is, that every time I have read the description\nof a place that is familiar to me, the description, in almost every\ncase, has seemed to me inexact, incomplete,--in short, false. Huysmans\nwas a meticulous observer; more than any one else he possessed the\ngift of seeing things well; his sharp eye pierced and bored into men\nand things. More, he had a passion for exactness, and he would scour\nall Paris to verify the color of a door or the height of a house. He\nwould have considered it a sort of literary crime to describe anything\nhe had not seen with his own eyes. Well! This man with the miraculous\neye said to me one day, speaking of the Bi\u00e8vre, a little stream which\nat that time still flowed in the open, between the fortifications and\nthe Botanical Garden: \"There is where you may see the last poplars of\nParis.\" This old Parisian, who loved the banks of the Seine, had never\nbeheld its poplars, some of which are truly wonderful, as at the Pont\nRoyal,--the poplars which grow almost along its entire distance. A\nyear ago, a group of us, all serious-minded gentlemen of Paris and of\nthe quartier, were discussing the number of arches that comprise the\nbridge of Saints-P\u00e8res. One may walk every day across a bridge without\nknowing the number of its arches, but one of us who confessed that he\nhad looked at this bridge from the barge or from the quay perhaps a\nthousand times in his life, was unable to settle the matter for us. I\nknew a librarian who was exceedingly fond of the Memoirs of Casanova\nand who mangled his name, calling him always, and emphatically,\nCasanova de Seignalt instead of Seingalt, which is the right form. I\nhave been conducting regularly, in the same review, for some twelve\nyears, a chronicle under the title _Epilogues_; one of my friends, a\nfellow staff-member of the same review, has said or written to me at\nleast ten times: \"I have read your latest _Episodes_....\"\n\nThis reminds me of the English historian Froude, with whom Dr. Gustave\nLe Bon recently entertained us, dealing with this very question of\ntestimony. Froude possessed a genius for seeing things exactly opposite\nto what they really were. A curious example of this is given; it\nconcerns the description he gives of the town of Adelaide, Australia.\n\"I saw at our feet,\" he said, \"in the plain cut by a stream, a city of\none hundred and fifty thousand inhabitants, of which not one has ever\nknown or ever will know, the least uncertainty upon the matter of the\nregular return of his three meals per day.\" Now, Adelaide is built upon\na height, and, at the time Froude visited it, its population, half as\nnumerous as he said it was, was a prey to a terrible famine. And this\nis the testimony of a grave personage, with a European reputation,--one\nof the English historians most esteemed by those who have not read him.\n\n\"If Froude had lived several centuries earlier,\" adds M. Le Bon, \"all\nhis affirmations would have been held as precious documents, since\nthey came from an eye-witness whose good faith there was no reason for\nsuspecting. How many very serious histories are written with details as\nlittle trustworthy as this!\"\n\nJules Simon was astounded \"that so many honest persons contradict each\nother when giving accounts of events that they have witnessed. At every\nstep I encounter this frightful spectacle. Man is least sure of his\nown spirit. He is not sure of his eyes: the fact is that his eyes and\nhis memory are in strife with his imagination. He believes that he is\nseeing; he believes that he is remembering, and he is really inventing.\"\n\nThis is what explains those ancient and modern, and even contemporary\ntales of miracles, apparitions and wonderful happenings that are often\nattested by a large number of witnesses. The number of witnesses\nsignifies nothing, nor does their honesty or their good faith. On the\ncontrary, good faith, in the matter of testimony, is an element to\nbe on guard against. It is far better to deal with bad faith, which\nbetrays itself always by some blunder. Saint Paul attests that Christ\nresurrected was beheld by more than five hundred persons; well, it is\na matter of doubt now as to whether there ever existed a person named\nJesus and surnamed the Christ. Thousands upon thousands of persons in\nthe Middle Ages, and even later, saw the Devil, and, adds M. Le Bon, if\nunanimous testimony may be considered as proving anything, one might\nsay that the Devil is the personage whose existence has been best\ndemonstrated. Gregory of Tours, an historian of evident good faith, was\npresent during his life at hundreds of miracles, which he describes\nmost complaisantly. He saw them, controlled them: yet the majority of\nthem are pure extravagances, inadmissible in our day even by the most\nobtuse of pietists. Contemporary history and Judicial reports prove\nto us constantly the worthlessness of evidence. At the time of the\n_Liban_ catastrophe, when the vessel went down in broad daylight as the\nresult of a collision, it was impossible to learn from the surviving\nmembers of the crew whether the captain was or was not on the bridge at\nthe time of the accident. Some had seen him there, while others swore\nthat he was not on the bridge. In a certain criminal trial it becomes\nnecessary to identify a person who has been but glimpsed; they succeed\nin identifying him, but only by influencing the witnesses, placing\nthem on the possible track or upon that which justice desires them to\nfollow. According to M. Clapar\u00e8de's experiments, a person of whom only\na glimpse has been got, if the witnesses are not influenced, is hardly\nrecognized by one person in four, and at that hesitantly.\n\nReally good observers are very rare. Napoleon pretended to recall every\nface he had looked upon once. This has become legendary, but it is not\nquite so. He confused all the names. One day, he sees a certain face in\na deputation and thinks that he recognizes it. It was a scholar who was\nwell known in that day, named Ameilhon. The following dialogue takes\nplace: \"Aren't you Ancillon?\"--\"Yes, sire, Ameilhon.\"--\"Librarian of\nSainte-Genevi\u00e8ve?\"--\"Yes, sire, of the Arsenal.\"--\"Continuator of the\nHistory of the Ottoman Empire\"--\"Yes, sire, of the History of the Low\nEmpire.\" After which Ameilhon, enchanted with the honor, went off,\ndeclaring everywhere most emphatically: \"The emperor is amazing. He\nknows everything.\" And we, in our turn, might say: men are amazing;\nthey imagine that it is enough to have witnessed an event to be sure of\nthat event! The matter is far more complicated. Certainty is difficult\nto acquire.\n\nNothing is more difficult than that which is too easy. Nobody would\nimagine that he could play the violin without having learned how; and\nif he did, the least attempt would at once extinguish his pretense. But\nto see? What more simple than that? All one has to do is open one's\neyes. \"I saw it,\" is the reply of a witness whose story is contested;\n\"Do you take me for a fellow suffering from hallucination?\" Precisely,\nor else for a purblind person, as the case may be. As a matter of fact,\nwhen it comes to seeing, men display two tendencies: they see what they\nwish to see, what is useful to them, what is agreeable. The second is\nthe tendency toward inhibition; they do not see what they do not wish\nto see, what is useless to them, or disagreeable.\n\nThe great rule by which almost everything may be explained, is the rule\nof utility. Certain artisans were visiting the Universal Exposition.\nThey looked about, walked along, and had seen nothing. Farther on they\ncontinued to look about, and this time they stopped; they had caught\nsight of a machine that could be of use to them in their particular\nwork. We do not see that to which we are indifferent. The image glides\nby, fades and dies out before having had time to become fixed, and we\nmake no effort to retain it.\n\nI knew a colonial functionary who had travelled around the globe, and\nwho spent years in our various colonies in Africa, Asia and America.\nOnce in a while I am tempted to question him. But he is at a loss for\nreply. Occupied only with his advancement and with his family affairs,\nhe really saw nothing. Of Singapore, the strange city whence a young\nwriter, M. Cassel, has brought us such dazzling, magic impressions,\nthis fine fellow said to me: \"Pretty place; a few houses in the\nEuropean style.\" I have asked many a question in my life, but never\nhave I received so stupid an answer. But I understand that questions\nare always indiscreet. To ask anybody what he has seen is to subject\nhim to torture. He sinks a fishing-line into his memory and brings up\nnothing. Then he tries to invent, and the result is wretched. Hence,\nfor tourists, the great usefulness of the guide-books. Without these\nbooks they would have seen nothing, and without them they would recall\nnothing. \"What did I see at Rome?\" They open to the marked page. \"Rome,\nRome?\" said a hosier whom his wife had dragged off to Italy. \"Ah! I\nremember! That's the place where I purchased this miserable flannel\nwaistcoat.\"\n\nIn company of those who see nothing or almost nothing are those who\nsee crooked or inversely altogether,--those who allow themselves\nto be guided far less by their eyes than by their sensibility, who\nbelieve that a thing exists because it seems to them that they have\nreceived such an impression. Whoever has a department under him, said\na telegraph inspector, has been able to prove how inexact the reports\nhe receives often are, and how necessary it is to verify the assertions\nof agents as to events in which they have been actors or spectators.\nThe account of an event that has just taken place is founded upon the\nimpressions received rather than upon direct observation. At the end\nof several days the imagination has come into play and it adds the\nfinishing touch to the crystallization of one's conviction. At this\nmoment, if there was an initial error, it has become ineradicable.\nThis explains all those disputes between the public and administrative\nagents. Each one is actuated by good faith, but each has beheld the\nevent in a different light,--that of his own particular interest,--the\none intent upon upholding respect for law or rule, the other eager only\nto violate it or circumvent it. If the case is taken to court, the\njudge, whose authoritarian tendency is very marked, almost always finds\nthe agent of the law in the right. It is nevertheless quite certain\nthat the agent is not to be believed more than once out of two times on\nthe average. Even this proportion is perhaps highly exaggerated.\n\nIt so happens that according to special plans there is, at the\nUniversity of Geneva, a large window opening upon an interior corridor,\nwhich is to the left as the students enter opposite the janitor's\nlodge. One day, M. Clapar\u00e8de questioned fifty-four students as to\nthe existence of this window, which they passed by every day. Do you\nknow how many asserted categorically that the window did not exist?\nForty-four! Astounded, M. Clapar\u00e8de declares that such a collective\ntestimony is disconcerting and discouraging. And who would not agree\nwith him? Who does not think with horror, after this experiment, of\nall those criminal trials where a verdict is rendered on the strength\nof witnesses? testimony? M. Clapar\u00e8de comes to the conclusion that\na single witness may be right despite many opposing witnesses whose\nstories agree. Unanimity itself should be severely controlled, and\nhe adds, quite in accord with my own notions upon the matter: \"One\nis led to ask whether it is not the rule to disregard those objects\nabout us which are without interest to us, and if it is not only by\naccident, and exceptionally, that such objects leave an imprint upon\nthe sensitive plate of our memory?\" Accident, of a surety, or else a\nparticularly sensitive plate. If indeed our eye functions mechanically\nsomewhat in the manner of a photograph lens, we are compelled, in order\nnot to clutter the storehouse of our memory, to make a choice of the\nimages which we classify therein. In this an instinct guides us, though\nnot always infallibly, and calls to our attention those images useful\nto the conservation or the defense of our life.\n\nWithout education, without civilized habits, which constantly increase\nthe number of our requirements of every kind, we should, like animals,\nhave need to retain but a small number of images.\n\nThe life of animals moves in a rather restricted circle, and there is\nnot one of their acts that is not dictated by utility. Men, too, obey\nthe rule of utility, but their imagination magnifies this field of the\nuseful in a singular manner, and they find themselves obliged, for\nthe purpose of mere existence, to open their memory to a considerable\nnumber of images to which animals are absolutely indifferent. We behold\non a table, in a single glance, the plates, the food, the flowers, the\nglasses and all the rest; the dog sees only the food; the flowers that\ngive us pleasure, the general arrangement that charms us, leave him\nutterly insensible to their attraction. There are also things to the\nsight of which we are ourselves insensible: those which are neither\nbeautiful nor ugly, nor useful, nor harmful, neither good nor bad,--\neverything that is not worth the trouble of being qualified, everything\nthat is neutral to our senses as to our imagination. If, then, we are\nasked to give testimony regarding the existence of these objects,\nregarding the reality of those things that cause us neither pain nor\npleasure, and which, therefore, we have neglected to retain in our\nmemory, we should be greatly embarrassed.\n\nIn general, when we are questioned we have a tendency to affirm that\nwhich we believe probable and to deny the case that seems to us\nimprobable. Thus, in the case of the window, this window, opening upon\nan interior corridor, seemed to the students who were questioned quite\nimprobable, since the thing was useless, even absurd.\n\nIn the second place, and this is very important, we hold in our minds\na series of types of fact to which invariably we relate the new events\nthat we happen to witness. If, for example, we are in principle assured\nthat every automobile accident is due to the drivers of these vehicles,\nit is with difficulty that we admit, even if we have seen it with our\nown eyes, that the accident was the fault of the victim. The case\nwill be just the contrary with the chauffeur: to him, the victim is\nalways in the wrong. But if, for us, the chauffeur is always wrong,\nour attitude is equally unreasonable. In either case, the images\nwill be distorted and if we are questioned, we will reply with lies\nuttered in all good faith: \"This is so because it ought to be so.\" M.\nClapar\u00e8de even goes so far as to admit that the evidence of various\nindividuals may be erroneous, even if they all agree. I am of his\nopinion, because it is quite normal that the same interest or the same\nabsence of interest unconsciously guides witnesses of diverse origin\nand condition. All the ancient explorers of the Kerguelen Isles saw\nthere only sterile and uninhabitable lands. Yet in recent days a colony\ncomposed of men from Havre and Norwegians has established itself there\nand finds the country rough, but healthful and well suited not only to\nfishing but also to pasturage.\n\nIt appears, from all this, that our eyes are uncertain. Two persons\nlook at the same clock and there is a difference of two or three\nminutes in their reading of the time. One has a tendency to put back\nthe hands, the other to advance them. Let us not too confidently try\nto play the part of the third person who wishes to set the first two\naright; it may well happen that we are mistaken in turn. Besides,\nin our daily life, we have less need of certainty than of a certain\napproximation to certainty. Let us learn how to see, but without\nlooking too closely at things and men: they look better from a\ndistance.\n\n\n\n\nTHE RIVERS OF FRANCE\n\n\nA river is a beautiful thing. It runs along, its sings, it laughs, it\nglints in the sunlight and becomes darker beneath the trees. Sometimes\none may see the bottom, where there are stones and grasses, while at\ntimes it is a sombre abyss that fills one with shudders. The river\ncomes from afar and goes no one knows whither. True, people say that\nit has a beginning and that its source lies yonder, in the mountains,\nbut that is not at all so certain. What is a source? When you see a\nriver, it is already a river and it never occurs to you that it may\never have been only a tiny ribbon of water trickling down from a rock.\nIn olden days, when the world was happy, things were far different.\nRivers flowed from a marble pitcher which was held in the hands of\nan eternally youthful, drooping maiden. But the wicked god of the\nChristians, who is not fond of maidens? beauty, broke those marble\npitchers; the mothers of rivers died of grief and now the rivers are\nborn by accident, as best they may be. If we are not so well informed\nabout their birth, we know their life and their death. Their life is\nto bound along or to flow nonchalantly on, to prattle over the pebbles\nand dream amid the rushes. Often, when traversing the blooming meadows\nthey love to spread across the grass. If dikes or tree-trunks bar the\nway they are provoked and even wax furious. But if it is a mill that\nrises before them, they turn its wheels with docile promptness, and\ncontinue on their way unperturbed. The river is the mother of men and\ntrees, of beasts and plants. Without the river there are no fish; there\nare no birds. There are no crops, no flowers, no wine, no cattle, and\nman flees, parched by the sun. After having given life, the river has\ntwo ways of dying; either it expands into the bosom of a larger river\nor flows directly to mingle with the sea; the sea is the vast cemetery\nof all the rivers,--of the smallest as well as the greatest. But the\nriver that dies is nevertheless just as eternal as the ocean that\nreceives it into its depths. The clouds are born of the sea, and the\nwind wafts them toward the forests, where they make rain and swell the\nstreams. There is in the world a circulation of water as in our bodies\nthere is a circulation of blood. All this is well regulated. The sea\nloves the river. It comes to meet the stream and sends it as greeting\nthe salt tang of its waves. The river fears this infinitude. For a long\ntime it resists. At last, the sweet waters yield and melt under the\npowerful kisses of the brine: the swell of the waves lulls the wedded\nwaters to rest.\n\nThe river is a person. It has a name. This name is very ancient,\nbecause the river, although perpetually young, is very old. It existed\nbefore men and before birds. Ever since men were born they loved the\nrivers, and as soon as they learned how to speak they gave them names.\nEven when we no longer understand them, the names of the rivers are\nthe most beautiful in the world. There is the Gironde and the Adour;\nthe Loire and the Vienne, the Rh\u00f4ne and the Ari\u00e8ge. But perhaps it is\npossible to understand these names. Let us try, by having recourse\nto the studies of a geographical scholar, M. Raoul de F\u00e9lice. Our\nrivers have received their names from the various races that anciently\noccupied Gaul: The Iberians, an unknown people, the Ligurians, the\nCelts. At the moment of the Roman conquest, almost all the streams of\nFrance possess a name. So that modern names are very rare. The Iberians\nwere probably Basques, if not in race at least in language. Even if\nthis is contested, that would not prevent us from tracing the word\nAdour back to the Basque word _iturria_, which means spring, source.\nIt is to the Iberians that we likewise owe names such as the Aude,\nthe Orbieu, the Urugne. Here probably came a people yet unknown, but\nof Indo-European language, which was perhaps the godfather to many of\nour rivers. To this people it may be we owe the names Somme, S\u00e8vre,\nHerault,--names that are derived from various roots signifying water,\nliquid, source. According to the same theory, Durance, Dr\u00f4ne, Drot,\nDrac might be translated by \"the running water,\" and the same idea\nwould be found in the name Rh\u00f4ne, while the Loire would be \"the stream\nthat waters;\" the Meurthe, \"she who moistens.\" As to the Garonne, that\nwould be, \"the rapid one\"; but the matter is still under discussion:\nthe Garonne has not given up its secret, any more than the Gironde. We\nmay note, in passing, that there are in France three other Garonnes,\nwithout taking into account a Garon, a Garonnette, and a Garonnelle;\nthere are seven or eight Girondes, of which two are in the environs\nof Paris, tributaries of the Orge and the Marne. The Oise and the\nIsdre stand for the same thing, namely, \"the rapid one,\" which seems\nrather hazardous to me in the case of the Oise. Certain rivers flow\nin a deep-cut bed; thus they have received a name which would signify\nsomething like case, vase or sheath: these are the Couse, the Cousin,\nthe Cusom, the Cousanne, the Couzeau, and the names Couzon.\n\nWe now come to the part played by the Ligurians. In their language\nthey called the alder-tree that grows along the banks of so many\nrivers, _alisos, alsia_ or _alison_. They gave this name to a number of\nstreams; Alzon, Alzou, Alzau, Auzon, Auzonne, Auzonnet, Arzon, Auze,\nAuzenne, Auzelle, Auzotte, Auzette, Auzigue, Auzolle, Auzone,--all of\nwhich would signify the rivers of the alder-trees. There would also\nbe left to be explained the origin of names ending in _enque_, such\nas Allarenque, Laurenque, Durenque, Virenque, but it is not known\nwhat they mean. Finally, one could not deny to the Ligurians the name\nLigoure, which seems to be the name of the people itself. The Aude and\nthe Orb probably owe their designation to the Phoenician settlers;\nthe second of these is perhaps Greek. With the Celtic period the\netymologies become a trifle less uncertain. The Celtic word for water,\n_dour_, is clearly found in the Dourbie, the Dourdene and the Dourd\u00e8ze,\nthe Dourdon, the Dore and the Doire. Another Celtic name for water,\n_esca_ is seen in the Ouche, the Essonne. They called a river _avar_;\nhence, the Abron, the Jabron, the Aveyron, the Arveiron, the Auron;\nhence probably also the Eure, the Auterne, the Authre, the Automne,\nthe Autruche. _Aven_ means river in the present Breton dialect; now,\nwe find rivers called: Av\u00e8ne, Avon, Av\u00e8gne, Avignon. From _glanos_,\nmeaning brilliant, gleaming, are perhaps derived the Gland, the Glane;\nfrom _vernos_, alder-tree, they have like the Ligurians christened\nmany rivers: the Vern, the Vernaison, the Vernazon; from _der_, oak,\ncame the _D\u00e8re_. It should be added that all these words came down to\nus through the Latin form before acquiring their French form. Thus\n_Bi\u00e8vre_ and its derivatives Beuvron, Brevenne, Brevonne, derive\nfrom the Latin _bibrum_, itself borrowed from a Celtic word meaning\nbeaver. Is it to the Gauls or the Romans that we owe the names Dive,\nDivette, Divonne? Does this mean here the fairy, or the divine one? It\nis difficult to ascertain. There were great resemblances between the\ntongues.\n\nFrench and its dialects have naturally named a large number of rivers,\neither by rechristening them or modifying the old names to give them\na French meaning. In this class we have the names suggested by the\nappearance or the qualities of the river:[1] the Blanche, the Claire,\nthe Brune, the Noire, the Brillant, the Hideuse, the Vilaine, the\nFurieuse, the Rongeant, the Sonnant, the Creuse, the Sens\u00e9e. At other\ntimes the names come from plants,[2] such as Fusain, Orge, Viorne,\nLiane, Gland, Orne, Oignon, Tr\u00e8fle, Rouvre, Lys, Aunes, Bruy\u00e8re,\nTro\u00ebne; names of animals:[3] Oie, Loir, Louvette, Ch\u00e8vre, Heron,\nOurse, Lionne, Autruche; names of every kind:[4] M\u00e8re, Cousin, Sueur,\nCoquille, Oeil, Oeuf, Rognon, Br\u00eache, Vie, Automne, Blaise, Armance,\nAb\u00eeme. Some proudly bear absolute names: le Fleuve (the Stream), la\nRivi\u00e8re (the River); it so happens that they are only rivulets, the\none in la Manche, the other in the Alps. And finally, a little river\nthat is probably very wise is called la M\u00eame (the Same). The majority\nof these later names I have taken directly from the map, but a good\npart of my learning I have borrowed from M. de F\u00e9lice, who has given\nus a great deal, free from all pedantry, in his book upon _les Noms de\nnos Rivi\u00e8res_ (The Names of our Rivers.) Is it not pleasant to know\nthat the Seine means \"the gushing one?\" Those who wish to learn more\nmay consult the source I have indicated. It is with pain that I wrest\nmyself away from the charms of the rivers of France, for\n\nLa rivi\u00e8re est la m\u00e8re de toute la nature.\n\nThe river is the mother of all nature.\n\n\n[Footnote 1: These signify, in the order of occurrence: white, dear,\ndark, black, gleaming, hideous, ugly, furious, gnawing, tinkling,\nhollow, sensible.]\n\n[Footnote 2: Prickwood, barley, liburnum, liana, acorn, flowering-ash,\nonion, clover, common oak, lily, alder-trees, heather, privet.]\n\n[Footnote 3: Goose, dormouse, she-wolf, goat, heron, bear, lioness,\nostrich.]\n\n[Footnote 4: Mother, cousin, sweat, shell, eye, egg, kidney, breach,\nlife, autumn, Blase, Armance, abyss.]\n\n\n\n\nTHE FALL OF DAYS\n\n\nThere is a fall of days as there is a I fall of leaves. I do not know\nwhat wind, blowing from the infinite, shakes the years, and sends\nfalling from them one by one the sere and yellow days. Whither do they\ngo? Whither go the sere and yellow leaves? To the great laboratory,\nno doubt, where Nature fashions her annual resurrections. They will\nreturn to us from this laboratory as green as ever, and everlastingly\nthe same in their unchangeable designs, those of the poplar, which are\nhearts, the chestnut, which are hands, the aspen, which are tridents,\nand the willow leaves, which are lances. But what becomes of days when\nthey have fallen, sere and yellow? To what remote, unknown, chimerical\nworlds are they carried off forever? For they are never seen again.\nNew days come,--the foliage of the years,--unheralded days, unexpected\ndays, surprising days, days that one loves and days that one fears; but\nthe olden days, those which were familiar to us, those that we desire,\nthat we wait for, will never return. The foliage of the year will be so\nwell renovated that we shall no longer be able to recognize it at all.\n\nYes, they are days. They have a beginning and an end, they have light\nand shadow, they are born of night and into night withdraw to die.\nThey are days, without a doubt, but not the same. Their smiles are\ndifferent, and also their frowns. The joys they bring us are not\ndistributed with less niggardliness, but they have neither the same\nperfume nor the same color. Hope not to find again the smile that\nenchanted you. It is dead. It will not return to the face you love any\nmore than the day of your birth will return. But may you at least hope\nto see once more the face you love, as it was. Alas! You will perhaps\nhave the illusion of seeing it thus, but it will not be reality, for\nthe days, as they vanish into the night, carry off with them somewhat\nof the countenances of men as a remembrance. It may well be that with\nthese tiny bits they fashion brand new faces, yonder in the chimerical\nworld, but that is not at all sure.\n\nNo, never the same, never. Slowly or rapidly, an indefatigable motion\nwhirls everything about in a farandola whose ends never can meet. The\nyear passes by: one day more! The day passes by: an hour longer! The\nhour passes by: only another minute! In vain. But all this will at\nleast come back? I have already told you, No. Why insist? Bow to fate.\n\nOne never crosses the same river twice, said the Greek philosopher,\nand if this be to some a source of bitterness, others will find in\nit good reason to take heart. The latter are those whose memories are\nfilled chiefly with evil days. Let them, then, be content. Neither will\nthey ever behold the same days. Tears flow and smiles fade to the same\nrhythm of life, to disappear together in the bottomless abyss.\n\nNothing returns, nothing begins anew; it is never the same thing, and\nyet it seems always the same. For, if the days never return, every\nmoment brings forth new beings whose destiny it will be to create for\nthemselves, in the course of their lives, the same illusions that have\ncompanioned and at times illuminated ours. The fabric is eternal;\neternal, the embroidery. A universe dies when we die; another is born\nwhen a new creature comes to earth with a new sensibility. If, then,\nit is very true that nothing begins all over again, it is very just to\nsay, too, that everything continues. One may fearlessly advance the\nlatter statement or the former, according to whether one considers the\nindividual or the blending of generations. From this second point of\nview, everything is coexistent; the same cause produces contradictory,\nyet logical effects. All the colors and their shades are printed at a\nsingle impression, to form the wonderful image we call life.\n\nAnd there is neither beginning nor end, nor past nor future; there is\nonly a present, at the same time static and ephemeral, multiple and\nabsolute.\n\nIt is the vital ocean in which we all share, according to our strength,\nour needs or our desires. Then what matters that which we call the fall\nof the days or the fall of the leaves?\n\nNeither the leaves nor the days fall at the same time for all men, and\nthe hour that marks the end of a year is likewise that which marks the\nbirth of another.\n\nIt is thus I dream, during these closing days of December, of life\nwhich is nothing, since it dies incessantly, and which is all, since\nit is ceaselessly reborn. It is the drop of water that flows off as\nsoon as it falls, but which is followed by another drop that presses\nupon it in its course. We are that, nothing but that,--drops of water\nthat are formed, fall, and flow away; and during such brief moments\nwe nevertheless have the time to create a world and live in it. It is\nthe nobility and the mystery of life that it should be of such little\naccount and yet be capable of such great things, for the most humble\ncreature is still very important,--one of the atoms without which the\nmass would possess neither its proper weight nor form. It has its part\nin the universal movement; it is one of the elements of the movement's\nequilibrium and its periodicity.\n\nEach one, then, should love his life, even though it be not Very\nattractive, for it is the only life. It is a boon that will never\nreturn and that each person should tend and enjoy with care; it is\none's capital, large or small, and can not be treated as an investment\nlike those whose dividends are payable through eternity. Life is an\nannuity; nothing is more certain than that. So that all efforts are\nto be respected that tend to ameliorate the tenure of this perishable\npossession which, at the end of every day, has already lost a little\nof its value. Eternity, the bait by which simple folk are still lured,\nis not situated beyond life, but in life itself, and is divided among\nall men, all creatures. Each of us holds but a small portion of it, but\nthat share is so precious that it suffices to enrich the poorest. Let\nus then take the bitter and the sweet in confidence, and when the fall\nof the days seems to whirl about us, let us remember that dusk is also\ndawn.\n\n\n\n\nINSINUATIONS\n\n\n_Esthetic Morality_.\n\nPerhaps we ought to renounce such distinctions as beautiful and ugly,\ngood and bad, good and evil, and so on, and consider in life's acts\nonly the curve of movements. Thus morality and esthetics would blend.\nAlready men of more than average culture consider the subject of a\npainting only to judge whether the painter has submitted to the same\nlogic the subject of the picture itself, the composition that compasses\nit, the color that unites it to the vital milieu. A subject, in art,\nmay be criticized only in relation to the purpose of the work and the\nmanner in which it is treated. It might be the same with human acts,\nin which case they would be judged only according to their opportunity\nand their esthetic curves. One must act,--must be always stirring; life\nis a series of movements, the lines of which interlace. This forms a\ndesign. Is it harmonious? That is the whole question; that is all of\nmorality.\n\n_Another Point of View._\n\nIn order to make a system of morality by separating what is good from\nwhat is evil we must have fixed principles, a definite belief,--and\nwe live in an age of skepticism. Doubtless religion is not true, but\nneither is anti-religion true: truth dwells in a perfect indifference.\nGovernments should restrict themselves to a truly scientific neutrality\nand consider all manifestations of intelligence or feeling legitimate,\nwhatever their nature. The State should be but a visible providence, a\nsovereign police that would protect the exercise of all human activity,\nopposing only those deeds which could fetter the plenitude of all\nliberties, of every kind.\n\nIt is here that one must make a distinction, though it is hardly\nscientific, between the body and the mind, sensitive matter and the\nwill. Without a doubt acts directed against bodily sensibility should\nbe repressed; but the case is not the same with acts against the\nintellectual sensibility. Acts called immoral may be prohibited in such\na measure as custom recommends; provocations to immoral acts should be\npermitted. The only crime is the crime of violence. It matters little\nthat I am asked to do something by written or spoken word; the evil\nbegins only when I am made to do so by force.\n\n_The Word \"God.\"_\n\nRenan loved it, finding it convenient for the connotation of an\nentire order of ideas, none of which is easily limited verbally. It\nis undefinable; and moreover, if it were defined it would lose all\nits value. God is not all that exists; God is all that does not exist.\nTherein resides the power and the charm of that mysterious word. God is\ntradition, God is legend, God is folklore, God is a fairy-tale, God is\na romance, God is a lie, God is a bell, God is a church window, God is\nreligion, God is all that is absurd, useless, invisible, intangible,\nall that is nothingness and that symbolizes nothingness. God is the\n_nihil in tenebris_--(nothing in the darkness)--men have made of him\nlight, life and love.\n\n_Money_.\n\nIt is hard to read without irritation the old pleasantries of the\njournalists and the ancient lamentations of socialists upon the worship\nof the golden calf. To rail at money, to wax indignant against it, are\nequally silly. Money is nothing; its power is purely symbolical. Money\nis the sign of liberty. To curse money is to curse liberty,--to curse\nlife, which is nothing, if it be not free.\n\nPopular simplicity adores money. Look at that poor huckstress: she\nmakes the sign of the cross with the first coin she takes in during the\nmorning. A God has come to visit her and bless her. It is a communion\nat once mystic and real, in the guise of metal.\n\nMoney, which is liberty, is also fecundation. It is the universal sperm\nwithout which human societies would remain but barren wombs. Paganism,\nwhich knew and understood everything, opens to a shower of gold from\non high the conquered thighs of Dana\u00eb. That is what we should see\non our coins, instead of a meaningless head, if we were capable of\ncontemplating without embarrassment that religious tableau.\n\n_Antinomy_\n\nThe most interesting thing about man is man as the human animal. Almost\nall the rest is folly. As soon as he loses contact with nature, with\nprimitive nature, man wanders. Yet it is this very divagation that\nis called reason, wisdom, morality. And the natural conduct that man\nmight follow, and which he sometimes does follow, is called unreason,\nimmorality. But, through a balance of logic, this immorality that we\ndisparage we make the sole object of our dreams, our desires, our\nspeeches, our acts, our meditations, our dissertations, our art and our\nscience.\n\n_The Supernumerary._\n\nMonsieur Tarde, an ingenious and bitter philosopher, has thus defined\nlife: \"The pursuit of the impossible through the useless.\"\n\nThat deserves to endure. It is one of those sentences that one would\nlike to see engraved in gold upon the marbles at street corners. It is\nundeniable that in endowing man with an immortal soul Christianity gave\nto life an inestimable worth.\n\nDeprived of the infinite, man has become what he always was: a\nsupernumerary.\n\nHe hardly counts; he forms part of the troupe called Humanity; if\nhe misses a cue, he is hissed; and if he drops through the trapdoor\nanother puppet is in readiness to take his place.\n\n\n\n\nFOOTPRINTS ON THE SAND\n\n\nPosterity is a schoolboy who is condemned to learn a hundred verses by\nheart. He learns ten of them and mumbles a few syllables of the rest.\nThe ten are glory; the rest is literary history.\n\nTraditions? Of course, tradition. But do you not believe that there is\na beginning to everything, even to tradition?\n\nAnti-clericalism works for the benefit of the dissident sect. In\nEngland, religious radicalism recruits Catholics; in France it recruits\nProtestants.\n\nMan can no more see the world than a fish can see the river bank.\n\nMany a time have I written the word \"beauty,\" but almost never without\nbeing conscious of writing down an absurdity. There are beautiful\nthings, but there is no such thing as Beauty: that is an abridged\nexpression. It cannot be taken in an absolute sense; there is no\nAbsolute.\n\nCivilization is the cultivation of everything that Christianity calls\nvice....\n\nFor two thousand years Christianity, impudently playing with the\nmeaning of words, has been telling us: Life is death, death is life. It\nis time to consult the dictionary.\n\nPolitics depends upon statesmen in about the same measure that the\nweather depends upon astronomers.\n\nThere are two courses open to the prophet: either to announce a future\nin conformity with the past,--or to be mistaken.\n\nAn imbecile is never bored: he contemplates himself.\n\nNothing is better for \"spiritual advancement\" and the detachment of the\nflesh than a close reading of the \"Erotic Dictionary.\"\n\nThe greater part of men who speak ill of women are speaking ill of a\ncertain woman.\n\nThe man of genius may dwell unknown, but one always may recognize the\npath he has followed into the forest. It was a giant who passed that\nway. The branches are broken at a height that other men cannot reach.\n\n_Werther_ possesses great interest because Goethe afterward wrote\n_Faust, Wilhelm Meister_, and so many other works, all different. The\n_Werther_ of those who revamp their first book fifteen or thirty times\nloses with each new work a little of its initial worth; after the\nthird book it is worth almost nothing. At first, however, one cannot\ntell whether that _Werther_ is the product of a brain or of a mould;\nthat is why the first book is sacred.\n\nAn unnamable critic notes some of the flaming errors of Verhaeren,--a\nfew \"among a hundred others.\" It is thither, toward the error, toward\nthe stain, toward the wound, that the mediocre spirit, like the fly,\nwings its way unerringly. He looks at neither the eyes, the hair,\nthe hands, the throat, nor all the grace of the woman passing by; he\nsees only, the mud with which some churl has bespattered her gown; he\nrejoices at the sight; he would like to see the spot grow and devour\nboth the gown and the flesh of its wearer; he would have everything as\nugly, as dirty and despicable as himself.\n\nDialogue.--GOD: Who has made you man? MAN: Who has made you God?\n\nReligions turn madly about sexual questions.\n\nThe world will never forgive the Jews for having disdained the religion\nwhich they gave to the world. There is in this a sort of intellectual\ntreason which reminds one of those merchants who do not wear, or eat,\nor drink their own merchandise.\n\nWhen one comes to define the philosophy of the nineteenth century, one\nwill discover that it was only theology.\n\nAn opinion is shocking only when it is a conviction.\n\nNothing so imparts the satisfaction of having accomplished one's duty\nas a good night's sleep, an excellent meal, a beautiful moment of love.\n\nWhat is life? A series of sensations. What is a sensation? A\nremembrance.\n\nOne does n't live. One has lived. Life, said an old man, is a regret.\n\nThe terrible thing about the quest for truth is that you find it.\n\nThere are things which one must have the courage not to write.\n\nAs to possessing the truth: I think of those explorers who have with\nthem a tame lion, and who sleep with one eye open.\n\nThose men who live with the greatest intensity are often the ones who\nseem to take least interest in life.\n\nTo have a solid foundation of skepticism,--that is to say, the faculty\nof changing at any moment, of turning back, of facing successively the\nmetamorphoses of life.\n\nLearning for learning's sake is perhaps as coarse as eating for\neating's sake.\n\nIt is a singular thing: in literature, when the form is not new,\nneither is the content.\n\nMan is an animal that \"arrived\"; that is all.\n\nIt was an accident that endowed man with intelligence. He has made use\nof it: he invented stupidity.\n\nSexual modesty is an advance over the exhibitionism of monkeys.\n\nModesty is the delicate form of hypocrisy.\n\nNothing so softens the obduracy of chaste hearts as the certainty of\nsecrecy.\n\nThe notion that the dead are not dead assumes, in the crowd, comical\nforms. I read in a novel (1901): \"Madeleine read the letter over again.\nM. Piot was dead, the poor man! How cold he must be in that north\nwind!\" Men are stupid.\n\nYou have doubts? About what? About whom? About God? Why, that's a very\nsimple matter: write to him.--I haven't his address.--Such, in fact, is\nthe state of the question.\n\nRevolutionary socialists make me think of the fellow who, having a\npiano that was out of tune, would say: \"Let's smash this piano and\nthrow the pieces into the fire; in its place we'll install an Aeolian\nharp.\"\n\nChristianity has already won three great victories: Constantine, the\nReform, the Revolution. A fourth is being awaited, Collectivism, after\nwhich it is probable that the Strong, wearied at last of being bullied,\nwill revolt against the Weak and reduce them to slavery--once again.\n\nProperty is necessary; but it is not necessary that it should forever\nremain in the same hands.\n\nTo ameliorate and raise the standard of the workingmen to the bourgeois\nlevel, is perhaps to create a race of slaves content with their\nlot,--a cast of comfortable Pariahs.\n\nThought harms the loins. One cannot at the same time carry burdens and\nideas.\n\nSaid Sixtus: \"Believe in nothing, not even the trade you follow, not\neven the hand you caress, the eyes in which you are mirrored, not even\nyourself,--above all, not in yourself.\"\n\nThe true philosopher does not desire to see his ideas applied. He knows\nthat they would be ill carried out, deformed, vulgarized. If need be,\nhe would actually oppose such a course: this has happened.\n\nModesty is a timid confession of pride.\n\nThe ill are always optimistic. Perhaps optimism itself is an illness.\n\nThere is a simulation of intelligence, just as there is a simulation of\nvirtue.\n\nMr. X used to say: \"Some people need a great deal in order to retain a\nlittle; as for me, I need a little to retain a great deal.\"\n\nScience is worth what the scientist is worth.\n\nScholars spread the rumor that science is impersonal. Scholars? They\nare scholars as much as the masons are architects.\n\nThe people may make uprisings; but revolutions, never. Revolutions\nalways come from above.\n\nDescartes wrote to Balzac: \"Every day I walk amidst an immense people,\nalmost as tranquilly as you may walk in your lanes. The men I meet\nproduce upon me the same impression as if I were gazing upon the trees\nof your forests or the flocks of your country-side.\" All the weakness\nof the metaphysicians is explained by these two scornful sentences.\nIn order to understand life it is not only necessary not to be\nindifferent to men, but not to be indifferent to flocks, to trees. One\nshould be indifferent to nothing.\n\nThe superstition which, among the ancients, caused them to look upon\nnew-born weaklings, lame, blind and hunchbacked infants, as tokens of\ndivine anger, and to sacrifice them, was happier than the religious or\nscientific sentimentality that tolerates them, brings them up, making\nof them half-men and introducing eternal germs of decrepitude among the\nrace.\n\nPity is perhaps at bottom only cowardice. We pity only ourselves or\nthose whom we fear.\n\nNietzsche stupefies. Why? Calm reflection will show that he almost\nalways expresses common-sense truths.\n\nNietzsche was a revealer, in the new photographic sense. Contact with\nhis work has brought to light truths that were slumbering in men's\nminds.\n\nHappiness, like wealth, has its parasites.\n\nOne does not dwell in a house; one dwells in himself.\n\nPut a pig in a palace and he'll make a pen of it.\n\nPaul Bourget still believes in duchesses. What is there astonishing\nabout that? There are many people who believe in ghosts.\n\nThe crowd has no idea of how much sensibility, and intelligence it\nrequires to enjoy the perfume of a rose or the smile of a woman.\n\nSainte-Beuve is too scholarly. He cannot stand nude before a nude\nstatue; he has to have pockets from which to take out note-books and\npapers.\n\nA woman sometimes feels pity for the sorrows that she causes\nremorselessly.\n\nThe little girl expects no declaration of tenderness from her doll. She\nloves it, and that's all. It is thus that we should love.\n\nThe craze for decorations has reached such a height that actors, they\nsay, are proud to play the r\u00f4le of an Officer of the Legion of Honor.\n\nI'm very fond of going to the butcher shop and looking at a sheep's\nbrains. We have in our heads a reddish sponge of the same kind, which\nthinks.\n\nLove disposes one to religiosity. I knew an atheist who wished to go\nto church one evening to exchange vows with his mistress; through\nscruples, she refused.\n\nIntelligence is perhaps but a malady,--a beautiful malady; the oyster's\npearl.\n\nThere are anti-clericals who are in reality somewhat excessive\nChristians.\n\nIs not the poet who recites his verses before an audience really the\nnightingale singing his song? Not quite. The instinct has gone astray:\nsexual mimicry, without actual application. The useful has become a\ngame: and this is the whole history of civilization.\n\n\n\"How many contradictions!\"\n\n\"Eh! If I loaded my wagon all on the same side, I'd tumble it over.\"\n\n\nPersons full of morality preach. Everything that they judge criminal I\neither practise or think. And nevertheless....\n\nLove ye one another. How do that, without knowing one another? No, no;\na little modesty, a little dignity.\n\nIt is shameful to be ashamed of one's pleasures.\n\nTo be above everything. To scorn everything and love everything. To\nknow that there is nothing, and that this nothing, none the less,\ncontains everything.\n\nIn order to be true, a novel must be false.\n\nTo be impersonal is to be personal in a particular manner: for\ninstance, Flaubert. In the literary jargon one would say: the objective\nis one of the forms of the subjective.\n\nProudhon said: \"After the persecutors, I know nothing more hateful than\nthe martyrs.\" Not having thought of this myself, I feel pleasure in\ncopying it.\n\nTo be seen. The man of letters loves not only to be read but to be\nseen. Happy to be by himself, he would be happier still if people knew\nthat he was happy to be by himself, working in solitude at night under\nhis lamp; and he would be indeed happiest of all if, after he has\nclosed his door, his servant should open it for a visitor and show to\nthe importunate fellow, through the chink, the man of letters happy to\nbe by himself.\n\n\nMan begins by loving love and ends by loving a woman.\n\nWoman begins by loving a man and ends by loving love.\n\n\nSaid a country vicar to a fanatically scrupulous devotee: \"God is not\nso silly as that.\"\n\nHe has known Claude Bernard, Flaubert, Barbey d'Aurevilly, Goncourt,\nManet, Villiers de l'Isle-Adam, Renan, Taine, Pasteur, Verlaine, Tarde,\nMallarm\u00e9, Puvis de Chavannes, Marey, Gauguin, Curie, Berthelot; he\nknows Rodin, Ribot, Renoir, France, Quinton, Monet, Poincar\u00e9,--and he\ncomplains! He bewails his country's decadence: The ingrate!\n\nNietzsche opened the gate. Now one may walk straight into the orchard\nof which, before him, it was necessary to scale the walls.\n\nI am vexed that people should have thought so many things before me. I\nseem like a reflection. But perhaps some day I'll cause another man to\nrepeat the same thing.\n\nI do not vouch for the fact that none of these observations may be\nfound in my previous writings, or that none will figure in any future\nwork. They may even be found in writings that are not mine.","title":"Philosophic Nights in Paris: Being selections from Promenades Philosophiques","tradition":"philosophy-ethics","translated_text":null,"word_count":23531}