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Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 1: Fantine, Book First: A Just Man, Chapter 13: What he believed<br />
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(Tome 1: Fantine, Livre premier: Un juste, Chapitre 13: Ce qu'il croyait)
 
 
 
==General notes on this chapter==
 
 
 
==French text==
 
 
 
 
 
Au point de vue de l'orthodoxie, nous n'avons point &agrave; sonder M. l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que
 
de Digne. Devant une telle &acirc;me, nous ne nous sentons en humeur que de
 
respect. La conscience du juste doit &ecirc;tre crue sur parole. D'ailleurs,
 
de certaines natures &eacute;tant donn&eacute;es, nous admettons le d&eacute;veloppement
 
possible de toutes les beaut&eacute;s de la vertu humaine dans une croyance
 
diff&eacute;rente de la n&ocirc;tre.
 
 
 
 
Que pensait-il de ce dogme-ci ou de ce myst&egrave;re-l&agrave;? Ces secrets du for
 
int&eacute;rieur ne sont connus que de la tombe o&ugrave; les &acirc;mes entrent nues. Ce
 
dont nous sommes certain, c'est que jamais les difficult&eacute;s de foi ne se
 
r&eacute;solvaient pour lui en hypocrisie. Aucune pourriture n'est possible au
 
diamant. Il croyait le plus qu'il pouvait. ''Credo in Patrem'',
 
s'&eacute;criait-il souvent. Puisant d'ailleurs dans les bonnes &oelig;uvres cette
 
quantit&eacute; de satisfaction qui suffit &agrave; la conscience, et qui vous dit
 
tout bas: &laquo;Tu es avec Dieu.&raquo;
 
 
 
 
Ce que nous croyons devoir noter, c'est que, en dehors, pour ainsi dire,
 
et au-del&agrave; de sa foi, l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que avait un exc&egrave;s d'amour. C'est par l&agrave;,
 
''quia multum amavit'', qu'il &eacute;tait jug&eacute; vuln&eacute;rable par les &laquo;hommes
 
s&eacute;rieux&raquo;, les &laquo;personnes graves&raquo; et les &laquo;gens raisonnables&raquo;; locutions
 
favorites de notre triste monde o&ugrave; l'&eacute;go&iuml;sme re&ccedil;oit le mot d'ordre du
 
p&eacute;dantisme. Qu'&eacute;tait-ce que cet exc&egrave;s d'amour? C'&eacute;tait une bienveillance
 
sereine, d&eacute;bordant les hommes, comme nous l'avons indiqu&eacute; d&eacute;j&agrave;, et, dans
 
l'occasion, s'&eacute;tendant jusqu'aux choses. Il vivait sans d&eacute;dain. Il &eacute;tait
 
indulgent pour la cr&eacute;ation de Dieu. Tout homme, m&ecirc;me le meilleur, a en
 
lui une duret&eacute; irr&eacute;fl&eacute;chie qu'il tient en r&eacute;serve pour l'animal.
 
L'&eacute;v&ecirc;que de Digne n'avait point cette duret&eacute;-l&agrave;, particuli&egrave;re &agrave; beaucoup
 
de pr&ecirc;tres pourtant. Il n'allait pas jusqu'au bramine, mais il semblait
 
avoir m&eacute;dit&eacute; cette parole de l'Eccl&eacute;siaste: &laquo;Sait-on o&ugrave; va l'&acirc;me des
 
animaux?&raquo; Les laideurs de l'aspect, les difformit&eacute;s de l'instinct, ne le
 
troublaient pas et ne l'indignaient pas. Il en &eacute;tait &eacute;mu, presque
 
attendri. Il semblait que, pensif, il en all&acirc;t chercher, au-del&agrave; de la
 
vie apparente, la cause, l'explication ou l'excuse. Il semblait par
 
moments demander &agrave; Dieu des commutations. Il examinait sans col&egrave;re, et
 
avec l'&oelig;il du linguiste qui d&eacute;chiffre un palimpseste, la quantit&eacute; de
 
chaos qui est encore dans la nature. Cette r&ecirc;verie faisait parfois
 
sortir de lui des mots &eacute;tranges. Un matin, il &eacute;tait dans son jardin; il
 
se croyait seul, mais sa s&oelig;ur marchait derri&egrave;re lui sans qu'il la v&icirc;t;
 
tout &agrave; coup, il s'arr&ecirc;ta, et il regarda quelque chose &agrave; terre; c'&eacute;tait
 
une grosse araign&eacute;e, noire, velue, horrible. Sa s&oelig;ur l'entendit qui
 
disait:
 
 
 
 
&mdash;Pauvre b&ecirc;te! ce n'est pas sa faute.
 
 
 
 
Pourquoi ne pas dire ces enfantillages presque divins de la bont&eacute;?
 
Pu&eacute;rilit&eacute;s, soit; mais ces pu&eacute;rilit&eacute;s sublimes ont &eacute;t&eacute; celles de saint
 
Fran&ccedil;ois d'Assise et de Marc-Aur&egrave;le. Un jour il se donna une entorse
 
pour n'avoir pas voulu &eacute;craser une fourmi.
 
 
 
 
Ainsi vivait cet homme juste. Quelquefois, il s'endormait dans son
 
jardin, et alors il n'&eacute;tait rien de plus v&eacute;n&eacute;rable.
 
 
 
 
Monseigneur Bienvenu avait &eacute;t&eacute; jadis, &agrave; en croire les r&eacute;cits sur sa
 
jeunesse et m&ecirc;me sur sa virilit&eacute;, un homme passionn&eacute;, peut-&ecirc;tre violent.
 
Sa mansu&eacute;tude universelle &eacute;tait moins un instinct de nature que le
 
r&eacute;sultat d'une grande conviction filtr&eacute;e dans son c&oelig;ur &agrave; travers la vie
 
et lentement tomb&eacute;e en lui, pens&eacute;e &agrave; pens&eacute;e; car, dans un caract&egrave;re
 
comme dans un rocher, il peut y avoir des trous de gouttes d'eau. Ces
 
creusements-l&agrave; sont ineffa&ccedil;ables; ces formations-l&agrave; sont
 
indestructibles.
 
 
 
 
En 1815, nous croyons l'avoir dit, il atteignit soixante-quinze ans,
 
mais il n'en paraissait pas avoir plus de soixante. Il n'&eacute;tait pas
 
grand; il avait quelque embonpoint, et, pour le combattre, il faisait
 
volontiers de longues marches &agrave; pied, il avait le pas ferme et n'&eacute;tait
 
que fort peu courb&eacute;, d&eacute;tail d'o&ugrave; nous ne pr&eacute;tendons rien conclure;
 
Gr&eacute;goire XVI, &agrave; quatre-vingts ans, se tenait droit et souriant, ce qui
 
ne l'emp&ecirc;chait pas d'&ecirc;tre un mauvais &eacute;v&ecirc;que. Monseigneur Bienvenu avait
 
ce que le peuple appelle &laquo;une belle t&ecirc;te&raquo;, mais si aimable qu'on
 
oubliait qu'elle &eacute;tait belle.
 
 
 
 
Quand il causait avec cette sant&eacute; enfantine qui &eacute;tait une de ses gr&acirc;ces,
 
et dont nous avons d&eacute;j&agrave; parl&eacute;, on se sentait &agrave; l'aise pr&egrave;s de lui, il
 
semblait que de toute sa personne il sort&icirc;t de la joie. Son teint color&eacute;
 
et frais, toutes ses dents bien blanches qu'il avait conserv&eacute;es et que
 
son rire faisait voir, lui donnaient cet air ouvert et facile qui fait
 
dire d'un homme: &laquo;C'est un bon enfant&raquo;, et d'un vieillard: &laquo;C'est un
 
bonhomme&raquo;. C'&eacute;tait, on s'en souvient, l'effet qu'il avait fait &agrave;
 
Napol&eacute;on. Au premier abord, et pour qui le voyait pour la premi&egrave;re fois,
 
ce n'&eacute;tait gu&egrave;re qu'un bonhomme en effet. Mais si l'on restait quelques
 
heures pr&egrave;s de lui, et pour peu qu'on le v&icirc;t pensif, le bonhomme se
 
transfigurait peu &agrave; peu et prenait je ne sais quoi d'imposant; son front
 
large et s&eacute;rieux, auguste par les cheveux blancs, devenait auguste aussi
 
par la m&eacute;ditation; la majest&eacute; se d&eacute;gageait de cette bont&eacute;, sans que la
 
bont&eacute; cess&acirc;t de rayonner; on &eacute;prouvait quelque chose de l'&eacute;motion qu'on
 
aurait si l'on voyait un ange souriant ouvrir lentement ses ailes sans
 
cesser de sourire. Le respect, un respect inexprimable, vous p&eacute;n&eacute;trait
 
par degr&eacute;s et vous montait au c&oelig;ur, et l'on sentait qu'on avait devant
 
soi une de ces &acirc;mes fortes, &eacute;prouv&eacute;es et indulgentes, o&ugrave; la pens&eacute;e est
 
si grande qu'elle ne peut plus &ecirc;tre que douce.
 
 
 
 
Comme on l'a vu, la pri&egrave;re, la c&eacute;l&eacute;bration des offices religieux,
 
l'aum&ocirc;ne, la consolation aux afflig&eacute;s, la culture d'un coin de terre, la
 
fraternit&eacute;, la frugalit&eacute;, l'hospitalit&eacute;, le renoncement, la confiance,
 
l'&eacute;tude, le travail remplissaient chacune des journ&eacute;es de sa vie.
 
''Remplissaient'' est bien le mot, et certes cette journ&eacute;e de l'&eacute;v&ecirc;que
 
&eacute;tait bien pleine jusqu'aux bords de bonnes pens&eacute;es, de bonnes paroles
 
et de bonnes actions. Cependant elle n'&eacute;tait pas compl&egrave;te si le temps
 
froid ou pluvieux l'emp&ecirc;chait d'aller passer, le soir, quand les deux
 
femmes s'&eacute;taient retir&eacute;es, une heure ou deux dans son jardin avant de
 
s'endormir. Il semblait que ce f&ucirc;t une sorte de rite pour lui de se
 
pr&eacute;parer au sommeil par la m&eacute;ditation en pr&eacute;sence des grands spectacles
 
du ciel nocturne. Quelquefois, &agrave; une heure m&ecirc;me assez avanc&eacute;e de la
 
nuit, si les deux vieilles filles ne dormaient pas, elles l'entendaient
 
marcher lentement dans les all&eacute;es. Il &eacute;tait l&agrave;, seul avec lui-m&ecirc;me,
 
recueilli, paisible, adorant, comparant la s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute; de son c&oelig;ur &agrave; la
 
s&eacute;r&eacute;nit&eacute; de l'&eacute;ther, &eacute;mu dans les t&eacute;n&egrave;bres par les splendeurs visibles
 
des constellations et les splendeurs invisibles de Dieu, ouvrant son &acirc;me
 
aux pens&eacute;es qui tombent de l'inconnu. Dans ces moments-l&agrave;, offrant son
 
c&oelig;ur &agrave; l'heure o&ugrave; les fleurs nocturnes offrent leur parfum, allum&eacute;
 
comme une lampe au centre de la nuit &eacute;toil&eacute;e, se r&eacute;pandant en extase au
 
milieu du rayonnement universel de la cr&eacute;ation, il n'e&ucirc;t pu peut-&ecirc;tre
 
dire lui-m&ecirc;me ce qui se passait dans son esprit, il sentait quelque
 
chose s'envoler hors de lui et quelque chose descendre en lui.
 
Myst&eacute;rieux &eacute;changes des gouffres de l'&acirc;me avec les gouffres de
 
l'univers!
 
 
 
 
Il songeait &agrave; la grandeur et &agrave; la pr&eacute;sence de Dieu; &agrave; l'&eacute;ternit&eacute; future,
 
&eacute;trange myst&egrave;re; &agrave; l'&eacute;ternit&eacute; pass&eacute;e, myst&egrave;re plus &eacute;trange encore; &agrave;
 
tous les infinis qui s'enfon&ccedil;aient sous ses yeux dans tous les sens; et,
 
sans chercher &agrave; comprendre l'incompr&eacute;hensible, il le regardait. Il
 
n'&eacute;tudiait pas Dieu, il s'en &eacute;blouissait. Il consid&eacute;rait ces magnifiques
 
rencontres des atomes qui donnent des aspects &agrave; la mati&egrave;re, r&eacute;v&egrave;lent les
 
forces en les constatant, cr&eacute;ent les individualit&eacute;s dans l'unit&eacute;, les
 
proportions dans l'&eacute;tendue, l'innombrable dans l'infini, et par la
 
lumi&egrave;re produisent la beaut&eacute;. Ces rencontres se nouent et se d&eacute;nouent
 
sans cesse; de l&agrave; la vie et la mort. Il s'asseyait sur un banc de bois
 
adoss&eacute; &agrave; une treille d&eacute;cr&eacute;pite, et il regardait les astres &agrave; travers les
 
silhouettes ch&eacute;tives et rachitiques de ses arbres fruitiers. Ce quart
 
d'arpent, si pauvrement plant&eacute;, si encombr&eacute; de masures et de hangars,
 
lui &eacute;tait cher et lui suffisait.
 
 
 
 
Que fallait-il de plus &agrave; ce vieillard, qui partageait le loisir de sa
 
vie, o&ugrave; il y avait si peu de loisir, entre le jardinage le jour et la
 
contemplation la nuit? Cet &eacute;troit enclos, ayant les cieux pour plafond,
 
n'&eacute;tait-ce pas assez pour pouvoir adorer Dieu tour &agrave; tour dans ses
 
&oelig;uvres les plus charmantes et dans ses &oelig;uvres les plus sublimes?
 
N'est-ce pas l&agrave; tout, en effet, et que d&eacute;sirer au-del&agrave;? Un petit jardin
 
pour se promener, et l'immensit&eacute; pour r&ecirc;ver. &Agrave; ses pieds ce qu'on peut
 
cultiver et cueillir; sur sa t&ecirc;te ce qu'on peut &eacute;tudier et m&eacute;diter;
 
quelques fleurs sur la terre et toutes les &eacute;toiles dans le ciel.
 
 
 
 
 
 
==English text==
 
 
 
 
We are not obliged to sound the Bishop of D&mdash;&mdash; on the score of
 
orthodoxy. In the presence of such a soul we feel ourselves in no mood but
 
respect. The conscience of the just man should be accepted on his word.
 
Moreover, certain natures being given, we admit the possible development
 
of all beauties of human virtue in a belief that differs from our own.
 
 
 
 
What did he think of this dogma, or of that mystery? These secrets of the
 
inner tribunal of the conscience are known only to the tomb, where souls
 
enter naked. The point on which we are certain is, that the difficulties
 
of faith never resolved themselves into hypocrisy in his case. No decay is
 
possible to the diamond. He believed to the extent of his powers. "Credo
 
in Patrem," he often exclaimed. Moreover, he drew from good works that
 
amount of satisfaction which suffices to the conscience, and which
 
whispers to a man, "Thou art with God!"
 
 
 
 
The point which we consider it our duty to note is, that outside of and
 
beyond his faith, as it were, the Bishop possessed an excess of love. In
 
was in that quarter, quia multum amavit,&mdash;because he loved much&mdash;that
 
he was regarded as vulnerable by "serious men," "grave persons" and
 
"reasonable people"; favorite locutions of our sad world where egotism
 
takes its word of command from pedantry. What was this excess of love? It
 
was a serene benevolence which overflowed men, as we have already pointed
 
out, and which, on occasion, extended even to things. He lived without
 
disdain. He was indulgent towards God's creation. Every man, even the
 
best, has within him a thoughtless harshness which he reserves for
 
animals. The Bishop of D&mdash;&mdash; had none of that harshness, which
 
is peculiar to many priests, nevertheless. He did not go as far as the
 
Brahmin, but he seemed to have weighed this saying of Ecclesiastes: "Who
 
knoweth whither the soul of the animal goeth?" Hideousness of aspect,
 
deformity of instinct, troubled him not, and did not arouse his
 
indignation. He was touched, almost softened by them. It seemed as though
 
he went thoughtfully away to seek beyond the bounds of life which is
 
apparent, the cause, the explanation, or the excuse for them. He seemed at
 
times to be asking God to commute these penalties. He examined without
 
wrath, and with the eye of a linguist who is deciphering a palimpsest,
 
that portion of chaos which still exists in nature. This revery sometimes
 
caused him to utter odd sayings. One morning he was in his garden, and
 
thought himself alone, but his sister was walking behind him, unseen by
 
him: suddenly he paused and gazed at something on the ground; it was a
 
large, black, hairy, frightful spider. His sister heard him say:&mdash;
 
 
 
 
"Poor beast! It is not its fault!"
 
 
 
 
Why not mention these almost divinely childish sayings of kindness?
 
Puerile they may be; but these sublime puerilities were peculiar to Saint
 
Francis d'Assisi and of Marcus Aurelius. One day he sprained his ankle in
 
his effort to avoid stepping on an ant. Thus lived this just man.
 
Sometimes he fell asleep in his garden, and then there was nothing more
 
venerable possible.
 
 
 
 
Monseigneur Bienvenu had formerly been, if the stories anent his youth,
 
and even in regard to his manhood, were to be believed, a passionate, and,
 
possibly, a violent man. His universal suavity was less an instinct of
 
nature than the result of a grand conviction which had filtered into his
 
heart through the medium of life, and had trickled there slowly, thought
 
by thought; for, in a character, as in a rock, there may exist apertures
 
made by drops of water. These hollows are uneffaceable; these formations
 
are indestructible.
 
 
 
 
In 1815, as we think we have already said, he reached his seventy-fifth
 
birthday, but he did not appear to be more than sixty. He was not tall; he
 
was rather plump; and, in order to combat this tendency, he was fond of
 
taking long strolls on foot; his step was firm, and his form was but
 
slightly bent, a detail from which we do not pretend to draw any
 
conclusion. Gregory XVI., at the age of eighty, held himself erect and
 
smiling, which did not prevent him from being a bad bishop. Monseigneur
 
Welcome had what the people term a "fine head," but so amiable was he that
 
they forgot that it was fine.
 
 
 
 
When he conversed with that infantile gayety which was one of his charms,
 
and of which we have already spoken, people felt at their ease with him,
 
and joy seemed to radiate from his whole person. His fresh and ruddy
 
complexion, his very white teeth, all of which he had preserved, and which
 
were displayed by his smile, gave him that open and easy air which cause
 
the remark to be made of a man, "He's a good fellow"; and of an old man,
 
"He is a fine man." That, it will be recalled, was the effect which he
 
produced upon Napoleon. On the first encounter, and to one who saw him for
 
the first time, he was nothing, in fact, but a fine man. But if one
 
remained near him for a few hours, and beheld him in the least degree
 
pensive, the fine man became gradually transfigured, and took on some
 
imposing quality, I know not what; his broad and serious brow, rendered
 
august by his white locks, became august also by virtue of meditation;
 
majesty radiated from his goodness, though his goodness ceased not to be
 
radiant; one experienced something of the emotion which one would feel on
 
beholding a smiling angel slowly unfold his wings, without ceasing to
 
smile. Respect, an unutterable respect, penetrated you by degrees and
 
mounted to your heart, and one felt that one had before him one of those
 
strong, thoroughly tried, and indulgent souls where thought is so grand
 
that it can no longer be anything but gentle.
 
 
 
 
As we have seen, prayer, the celebration of the offices of religion,
 
alms-giving, the consolation of the afflicted, the cultivation of a bit of
 
land, fraternity, frugality, hospitality, renunciation, confidence, study,
 
work, filled every day of his life. Filled is exactly the word; certainly
 
the Bishop's day was quite full to the brim, of good words and good deeds.
 
Nevertheless, it was not complete if cold or rainy weather prevented his
 
passing an hour or two in his garden before going to bed, and after the
 
two women had retired. It seemed to be a sort of rite with him, to prepare
 
himself for slumber by meditation in the presence of the grand spectacles
 
of the nocturnal heavens. Sometimes, if the two old women were not asleep,
 
they heard him pacing slowly along the walks at a very advanced hour of
 
the night. He was there alone, communing with himself, peaceful, adoring,
 
comparing the serenity of his heart with the serenity of the ether, moved
 
amid the darkness by the visible splendor of the constellations and the
 
invisible splendor of God, opening his heart to the thoughts which fall
 
from the Unknown. At such moments, while he offered his heart at the hour
 
when nocturnal flowers offer their perfume, illuminated like a lamp amid
 
the starry night, as he poured himself out in ecstasy in the midst of the
 
universal radiance of creation, he could not have told himself, probably,
 
what was passing in his spirit; he felt something take its flight from
 
him, and something descend into him. Mysterious exchange of the abysses of
 
the soul with the abysses of the universe!
 
 
 
 
He thought of the grandeur and presence of God; of the future eternity,
 
that strange mystery; of the eternity past, a mystery still more strange;
 
of all the infinities, which pierced their way into all his senses,
 
beneath his eyes; and, without seeking to comprehend the incomprehensible,
 
he gazed upon it. He did not study God; he was dazzled by him. He
 
considered those magnificent conjunctions of atoms, which communicate
 
aspects to matter, reveal forces by verifying them, create individualities
 
in unity, proportions in extent, the innumerable in the infinite, and,
 
through light, produce beauty. These conjunctions are formed and dissolved
 
incessantly; hence life and death.
 
 
 
 
He seated himself on a wooden bench, with his back against a decrepit
 
vine; he gazed at the stars, past the puny and stunted silhouettes of his
 
fruit-trees. This quarter of an acre, so poorly planted, so encumbered
 
with mean buildings and sheds, was dear to him, and satisfied his wants.
 
 
 
 
What more was needed by this old man, who divided the leisure of his life,
 
where there was so little leisure, between gardening in the daytime and
 
contemplation at night? Was not this narrow enclosure, with the heavens
 
for a ceiling, sufficient to enable him to adore God in his most divine
 
works, in turn? Does not this comprehend all, in fact? and what is there
 
left to desire beyond it? A little garden in which to walk, and immensity
 
in which to dream. At one's feet that which can be cultivated and plucked;
 
over head that which one can study and meditate upon: some flowers on
 
earth, and all the stars in the sky.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
==Translation notes==
 
 
 
==Textual notes==
 
 
 
==Citations==
 
<references />
 

Latest revision as of 23:37, 13 April 2015

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