Chương Chương 9 · PHILOSOPHY AFTER DRINKING

The senator above mentioned was a clever man, who had made his own way,

heedless of those things which present obstacles, and which are called

conscience, sworn faith, justice, duty: he had marched straight to his

goal, without once flinching in the line of his advancement and his

interest. He was an old attorney, softened by success; not a bad man by

any means, who rendered all the small services in his power to his

sons, his sons-in-law, his relations, and even to his friends, having

wisely seized upon, in life, good sides, good opportunities, good

windfalls. Everything else seemed to him very stupid. He was

intelligent, and just sufficiently educated to think himself a disciple

of Epicurus; while he was, in reality, only a product of

Pigault-Lebrun. He laughed willingly and pleasantly over infinite and

eternal things, and at the “crotchets of that good old fellow the

Bishop.” He even sometimes laughed at him with an amiable authority in

the presence of M. Myriel himself, who listened to him.

On some semi-official occasion or other, I do not recollect what,

Count*** [this senator] and M. Myriel were to dine with the prefect. At

dessert, the senator, who was slightly exhilarated, though still

perfectly dignified, exclaimed:—

“Egad, Bishop, let’s have a discussion. It is hard for a senator and a

bishop to look at each other without winking. We are two augurs. I am

going to make a confession to you. I have a philosophy of my own.”

“And you are right,” replied the Bishop. “As one makes one’s

philosophy, so one lies on it. You are on the bed of purple, senator.”

The senator was encouraged, and went on:—

“Let us be good fellows.”

“Good devils even,” said the Bishop.

“I declare to you,” continued the senator, “that the Marquis d’Argens,

Pyrrhon, Hobbes, and M. Naigeon are no rascals. I have all the

philosophers in my library gilded on the edges.”

“Like yourself, Count,” interposed the Bishop.

The senator resumed:—

“I hate Diderot; he is an ideologist, a declaimer, and a revolutionist,

a believer in God at bottom, and more bigoted than Voltaire. Voltaire

made sport of Needham, and he was wrong, for Needham’s eels prove that

God is useless. A drop of vinegar in a spoonful of flour paste supplies

the _fiat lux_. Suppose the drop to be larger and the spoonful bigger;

you have the world. Man is the eel. Then what is the good of the

Eternal Father? The Jehovah hypothesis tires me, Bishop. It is good for

nothing but to produce shallow people, whose reasoning is hollow. Down

with that great All, which torments me! Hurrah for Zero which leaves me

in peace! Between you and me, and in order to empty my sack, and make

confession to my pastor, as it behooves me to do, I will admit to you

that I have good sense. I am not enthusiastic over your Jesus, who

preaches renunciation and sacrifice to the last extremity. ’Tis the

counsel of an avaricious man to beggars. Renunciation; why? Sacrifice;

to what end? I do not see one wolf immolating himself for the happiness

of another wolf. Let us stick to nature, then. We are at the top; let

us have a superior philosophy. What is the advantage of being at the

top, if one sees no further than the end of other people’s noses? Let

us live merrily. Life is all. That man has another future elsewhere, on

high, below, anywhere, I don’t believe; not one single word of it. Ah!

sacrifice and renunciation are recommended to me; I must take heed to

everything I do; I must cudgel my brains over good and evil, over the

just and the unjust, over the _fas_ and the _nefas_. Why? Because I

shall have to render an account of my actions. When? After death. What

a fine dream! After my death it will be a very clever person who can

catch me. Have a handful of dust seized by a shadow-hand, if you can.

Let us tell the truth, we who are initiated, and who have raised the

veil of Isis: there is no such thing as either good or evil; there is

vegetation. Let us seek the real. Let us get to the bottom of it. Let

us go into it thoroughly. What the deuce! let us go to the bottom of

it! We must scent out the truth; dig in the earth for it, and seize it.

Then it gives you exquisite joys. Then you grow strong, and you laugh.

I am square on the bottom, I am. Immortality, Bishop, is a chance, a

waiting for dead men’s shoes. Ah! what a charming promise! trust to it,

if you like! What a fine lot Adam has! We are souls, and we shall be

angels, with blue wings on our shoulder-blades. Do come to my

assistance: is it not Tertullian who says that the blessed shall travel

from star to star? Very well. We shall be the grasshoppers of the

stars. And then, besides, we shall see God. Ta, ta, ta! What twaddle

all these paradises are! God is a nonsensical monster. I would not say

that in the _Moniteur_, egad! but I may whisper it among friends.

_Inter pocula_. To sacrifice the world to paradise is to let slip the

prey for the shadow. Be the dupe of the infinite! I’m not such a fool.

I am a nought. I call myself Monsieur le Comte Nought, senator. Did I

exist before my birth? No. Shall I exist after death? No. What am I? A

little dust collected in an organism. What am I to do on this earth?

The choice rests with me: suffer or enjoy. Whither will suffering lead

me? To nothingness; but I shall have suffered. Whither will enjoyment

lead me? To nothingness; but I shall have enjoyed myself. My choice is

made. One must eat or be eaten. I shall eat. It is better to be the

tooth than the grass. Such is my wisdom. After which, go whither I push

thee, the grave-digger is there; the Pantheon for some of us: all falls

into the great hole. End. _Finis_. Total liquidation. This is the

vanishing-point. Death is death, believe me. I laugh at the idea of

there being any one who has anything to tell me on that subject. Fables

of nurses; bugaboo for children; Jehovah for men. No; our to-morrow is

the night. Beyond the tomb there is nothing but equal nothingness. You

have been Sardanapalus, you have been Vincent de Paul—it makes no

difference. That is the truth. Then live your life, above all things.

Make use of your _I_ while you have it. In truth, Bishop, I tell you

that I have a philosophy of my own, and I have my philosophers. I don’t

let myself be taken in with that nonsense. Of course, there must be

something for those who are down,—for the barefooted beggars,

knife-grinders, and miserable wretches. Legends, chimæras, the soul,

immortality, paradise, the stars, are provided for them to swallow.

They gobble it down. They spread it on their dry bread. He who has

nothing else has the good God. That is the least he can have. I oppose

no objection to that; but I reserve Monsieur Naigeon for myself. The

good God is good for the populace.”

The Bishop clapped his hands.

“That’s talking!” he exclaimed. “What an excellent and really

marvellous thing is this materialism! Not every one who wants it can

have it. Ah! when one does have it, one is no longer a dupe, one does

not stupidly allow one’s self to be exiled like Cato, nor stoned like

Stephen, nor burned alive like Jeanne d’Arc. Those who have succeeded

in procuring this admirable materialism have the joy of feeling

themselves irresponsible, and of thinking that they can devour

everything without uneasiness,—places, sinecures, dignities, power,

whether well or ill acquired, lucrative recantations, useful

treacheries, savory capitulations of conscience,—and that they shall

enter the tomb with their digestion accomplished. How agreeable that

is! I do not say that with reference to you, senator. Nevertheless, it

is impossible for me to refrain from congratulating you. You great

lords have, so you say, a philosophy of your own, and for yourselves,

which is exquisite, refined, accessible to the rich alone, good for all

sauces, and which seasons the voluptuousness of life admirably. This

philosophy has been extracted from the depths, and unearthed by special

seekers. But you are good-natured princes, and you do not think it a

bad thing that belief in the good God should constitute the philosophy

of the people, very much as the goose stuffed with chestnuts is the

truffled turkey of the poor.”