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CHAPTER VIII—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
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
"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>I</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,
chimeras, 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."