Editing Volume 4/Book 7/Chapter 1

Les Mis&eacute;rables, Volume 4: The Idyll of the Rue Plumet & The Epic of the Rue Saint-Denis, Book Seventh: Slang, Chapter 1: Origin<br />
(Tome 4: L'idylle rue Plumet et l'&eacute;pop&eacute;e rue Saint-Denis, Livre septi&egrave;me: TITLE L'argot Chapitre 1: Origine)

==General notes on this chapter==

==French text==

 
''Pigritia'' est un mot terrible.

 
Il engendre un monde, ''la p&egrave;gre'', lisez: ''le vol'', et un enfer, ''la
p&eacute;grenne'', lisez: ''la faim''.

 
Ainsi la paresse est m&egrave;re.

 
Elle a un fils, le vol, et une fille, la faim.

 
O&ugrave; sommes-nous en ce moment? Dans l'argot.

 
Qu'est-ce que l'argot? C'est tout &agrave; la fois la nation et l'idiome; c'est
le vol sous ses deux esp&egrave;ces, peuple et langue.

 
Lorsqu'il y a trente-quatre ans, le narrateur de cette grave et sombre
histoire introduisait au milieu d'un ouvrage &eacute;crit dans le m&ecirc;me but que
celui-ci un voleur parlant argot, il y eut &eacute;bahissement et
clameur.&mdash;Quoi! comment! l'argot? Mais l'argot est affreux! mais c'est
la langue des chiourmes, des bagnes, des prisons, de tout ce que la
soci&eacute;t&eacute; a de plus abominable! etc., etc., etc.

 
Nous n'avons jamais compris ce genre d'objections.

 
Depuis, deux puissants romanciers, dont l'un est un profond observateur
du c&oelig;ur humain, l'autre un intr&eacute;pide ami du peuple, Balzac et Eug&egrave;ne
Sue, ayant fait parler des bandits dans leur langue naturelle comme
l'avait fait en 1828 l'auteur du ''Dernier jour d'un condamn&eacute;'', les m&ecirc;mes
r&eacute;clamations se sont &eacute;lev&eacute;es. On a r&eacute;p&eacute;t&eacute;:&mdash;Que nous veulent les
&eacute;crivains avec ce r&eacute;voltant patois? l'argot est odieux! l'argot fait
fr&eacute;mir!

 
Qui le nie? Sans doute.

 
Lorsqu'il s'agit de sonder une plaie, un gouffre ou une soci&eacute;t&eacute;, depuis
quand est-ce un tort de descendre trop avant, d'aller au fond? Nous
avions toujours pens&eacute; que c'&eacute;tait quelquefois un acte de courage, et
tout au moins une action simple et utile, digne de l'attention
sympathique que m&eacute;rite le devoir accept&eacute; et accompli. Ne pas tout
explorer, ne pas tout &eacute;tudier, s'arr&ecirc;ter en chemin, pourquoi? S'arr&ecirc;ter
est le fait de la sonde et non du sondeur.

 
Certes, aller chercher dans les bas-fonds de l'ordre social, l&agrave; o&ugrave; la
terre finit et o&ugrave; la boue commence, fouiller dans ces vagues &eacute;paisses,
poursuivre, saisir et jeter tout palpitant sur le pav&eacute; cet idiome abject
qui ruisselle de fange ainsi tir&eacute; au jour, ce vocabulaire pustuleux dont
chaque mot semble un anneau immonde d'un monstre de la vase et des
t&eacute;n&egrave;bres, ce n'est ni une t&acirc;che attrayante, ni une t&acirc;che ais&eacute;e. Rien
n'est plus lugubre que de contempler ainsi &agrave; nu, &agrave; la lumi&egrave;re de la
pens&eacute;e, le fourmillement effroyable de l'argot. Il semble en effet que
ce soit une sorte d'horrible b&ecirc;te faite pour la nuit qu'on vient
d'arracher de son cloaque. On croit voir une affreuse broussaille
vivante et h&eacute;riss&eacute;e qui tressaille, se meut, s'agite, redemande l'ombre,
menace et regarde. Tel mot ressemble &agrave; une griffe, tel autre &agrave; un &oelig;il
&eacute;teint et sanglant; telle phrase semble remuer comme une pince de crabe.
Tout cela vit de cette vitalit&eacute; hideuse des choses qui se sont
organis&eacute;es dans la d&eacute;sorganisation.

 
Maintenant, depuis quand l'horreur exclut-elle l'&eacute;tude? depuis quand la
maladie chasse-t-elle le m&eacute;decin? Se figure-t-on un naturaliste qui
refuserait d'&eacute;tudier la vip&egrave;re, la chauve-souris, le scorpion, la
scolopendre, la tarentule, et qui les rejetterait dans leurs t&eacute;n&egrave;bres en
disant: Oh! que c'est laid! Le penseur qui se d&eacute;tournerait de l'argot
ressemblerait &agrave; un chirurgien qui se d&eacute;tournerait d'un ulc&egrave;re ou d'une
verrue. Ce serait un philologue h&eacute;sitant &agrave; examiner un fait de la
langue, un philosophe h&eacute;sitant &agrave; scruter un fait de l'humanit&eacute;. Car, il
faut bien le dire &agrave; ceux qui l'ignorent, l'argot est tout ensemble un
ph&eacute;nom&egrave;ne litt&eacute;raire et un r&eacute;sultat social. Qu'est-ce que l'argot
proprement dit? L'argot est la langue de la mis&egrave;re.

 
Ici on peut nous arr&ecirc;ter; on peut g&eacute;n&eacute;raliser le fait, ce qui est
quelquefois une mani&egrave;re de l'att&eacute;nuer, on peut nous dire que tous les
m&eacute;tiers, toutes les professions, on pourrait presque ajouter tous les
accidents de la hi&eacute;rarchie sociale et toutes les formes de
l'intelligence, ont leur argot. Le marchand qui dit: ''Montpellier
disponible; Marseille belle qualit&eacute;'', l'agent de change qui dit:
''report, prime, fin courant'', le joueur qui dit: ''tiers et tout, refait
de pique'', l'huissier des &icirc;les normandes qui dit: ''l'affieffeur
s'arr&ecirc;tant &agrave; son fonds ne peut cl&acirc;mer les fruits de ce fonds pendant la
saisie h&eacute;r&eacute;ditale des immeubles du renonciateur'', le vaudevilliste qui
dit: ''on a &eacute;gay&eacute; l'ours'', le com&eacute;dien qui dit: ''j'ai fait four'', le
philosophe qui dit: ''triplicit&eacute; ph&eacute;nom&eacute;nale'', le chasseur qui dit:
''voileci allais, voileci fuyant'', le phr&eacute;nologue qui dit: ''amativit&eacute;,
combativit&eacute;, s&eacute;cr&eacute;tivit&eacute;'', le fantassin qui dit: ''ma clarinette'', le
cavalier qui dit: ''mon poulet d'Inde'', le ma&icirc;tre d'armes qui dit:
''tierce, quarte, rompez'', l'imprimeur qui dit: ''parlons batio'', tous,
imprimeur, ma&icirc;tre d'armes, cavalier, fantassin, phr&eacute;nologue, chasseur,
philosophe, com&eacute;dien, vaudevilliste, huissier, joueur, agent de change,
marchand, parlent argot. Le peintre qui dit: ''mon rapin'', le notaire qui
dit: ''mon saute-ruisseau'', le perruquier qui dit: ''mon commis'', le
savetier qui dit: ''mon gniaf'', parlent argot. &Agrave; la rigueur, et si on le
veut absolument, toutes ces fa&ccedil;ons diverses de dire la droite et la
gauche, le matelot ''b&acirc;bord'' et ''tribord'', le machiniste, ''c&ocirc;t&eacute; cour'' et
''c&ocirc;t&eacute; jardin'', le bedeau, ''c&ocirc;t&eacute; de l'&eacute;p&icirc;tre'' et ''c&ocirc;t&eacute; de l'&eacute;vangile'',
sont de l'argot. Il y a l'argot des mijaur&eacute;es comme il y a eu l'argot
des pr&eacute;cieuses. L'h&ocirc;tel de Rambouillet confinait quelque peu &agrave; la Cour
des Miracles. Il y a l'argot des duchesses, t&eacute;moin cette phrase &eacute;crite
dans un billet doux par une tr&egrave;s grande dame et tr&egrave;s jolie femme de la
Restauration: &laquo;Vous trouverez dans ces potains-l&agrave; une foultitude de
raisons pour que je me libertise.&raquo; Les chiffres diplomatiques sont de
l'argot; la chancellerie pontificale, en disant 26 pour ''Rome,
grkztntgzyal'' pour ''envoi'' et ''abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI'' pour ''duc de
Mod&egrave;ne'', parle argot. Les m&eacute;decins du moyen &acirc;ge qui, pour dire carotte,
radis et navet, disaient: ''opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus,
dracatholicum angelorum, postmegorum'', parlaient argot. Le fabricant de
sucre qui dit: ''vergeoise, t&ecirc;te, clairc&eacute;, tape, lumps, m&eacute;lis, b&acirc;tarde,
commun, br&ucirc;l&eacute;, plaque'', cet honn&ecirc;te manufacturier parle argot. Une
certaine &eacute;cole de critique d'il y a vingt ans qui disait:&mdash;''La moiti&eacute; de
Shakespeare est jeux de mots et calembours'',&mdash;parlait argot. Le po&egrave;te et
l'artiste qui, avec un sens profond, qualifieront M. de Montmorency &laquo;un
bourgeois&raquo;, s'il ne se conna&icirc;t pas en vers et en statues, parlent argot.
L'acad&eacute;micien classique qui appelle les fleurs ''Flore'', les fruits
''Pomone'', la mer ''Neptune'', l'amour ''les feux'', la beaut&eacute; ''les appas'',
un cheval ''un coursier'', la cocarde blanche ou tricolore ''la rose de
Bellone'', le chapeau &agrave; trois cornes ''le triangle de Mars'', l'acad&eacute;micien
classique parle argot. L'alg&egrave;bre, la m&eacute;decine, la botanique, ont leur
argot. La langue qu'on emploie &agrave; bord, cette admirable langue de la mer,
si compl&egrave;te et si pittoresque, qu'ont parl&eacute;e Jean Bart, Duquesne,
Suffren et Duperr&eacute;, qui se m&ecirc;le au sifflement des agr&egrave;s, au bruit des
porte-voix, au choc des haches d'abordage, au roulis, au vent, &agrave; la
rafale, au canon, est tout un argot h&eacute;ro&iuml;que et &eacute;clatant qui est au
farouche argot de la p&egrave;gre ce que le lion est au chacal.

 
Sans doute. Mais, quoi qu'on en puisse dire, cette fa&ccedil;on de comprendre
le mot argot est une extension, que tout le monde m&ecirc;me n'admettra pas.
Quant &agrave; nous, nous conservons &agrave; ce mot sa vieille acception pr&eacute;cise,
circonscrite et d&eacute;termin&eacute;e, et nous restreignons l'argot &agrave; l'argot.
L'argot v&eacute;ritable, l'argot par excellence, Si ces deux mots peuvent
s'accoupler, l'imm&eacute;morial argot qui &eacute;tait un royaume, n'est autre chose,
nous le r&eacute;p&eacute;tons, que la langue laide, inqui&egrave;te, sournoise, tra&icirc;tre,
venimeuse, cruelle, louche, vile, profonde, fatale, de la mis&egrave;re. Il y
a, &agrave; l'extr&eacute;mit&eacute; de tous les abaissements et de toutes les infortunes,
une derni&egrave;re mis&egrave;re qui se r&eacute;volte et qui se d&eacute;cide &agrave; entrer en lutte
contre l'ensemble des faits heureux et des droits r&eacute;gnants; lutte
affreuse o&ugrave;, tant&ocirc;t rus&eacute;e, tant&ocirc;t violente, &agrave; la fois malsaine et
f&eacute;roce, elle attaque l'ordre social &agrave; coups d'&eacute;pingle par le vice et &agrave;
coup de massue par le crime. Pour les besoins de cette lutte, la mis&egrave;re
a invent&eacute; une langue de combat qui est l'argot.

 
Faire surnager et soutenir au-dessus de l'oubli, au-dessus du gouffre,
ne f&ucirc;t-ce qu'un fragment d'une langue quelconque que l'homme a parl&eacute;e et
qui se perdrait, c'est-&agrave;-dire un des &eacute;l&eacute;ments, bons ou mauvais, dont la
civilisation se compose ou se complique, c'est &eacute;tendre les donn&eacute;es de
l'observation sociale, c'est servir la civilisation m&ecirc;me. Ce service,
Plaute l'a rendu, le voulant ou ne le voulant pas, en faisant parler le
ph&eacute;nicien &agrave; deux soldats carthaginois; ce service, Moli&egrave;re l'a rendu en
faisant parler le levantin et toutes sortes de patois &agrave; tant de ses
personnages. Ici les objections se raniment. Le ph&eacute;nicien, &agrave; merveille!
le levantin, &agrave; la bonne heure! m&ecirc;me le patois, passe! ce sont des
langues qui ont appartenu &agrave; des nations ou &agrave; des provinces; mais
l'argot? &agrave; quoi bon conserver l'argot? &agrave; quoi bon &laquo;faire surnager&raquo;
l'argot?

 
&Agrave; cela nous ne r&eacute;pondrons qu'un mot. Certes, si la langue qu'a parl&eacute;e
une nation ou une province est digne d'int&eacute;r&ecirc;t, il est une chose plus
digne encore d'attention et d'&eacute;tude, c'est la langue qu'a parl&eacute;e une
mis&egrave;re.

 
C'est la langue qu'a parl&eacute;e en France, par exemple, depuis plus de
quatre si&egrave;cles, non seulement une mis&egrave;re, mais la mis&egrave;re, toute la
mis&egrave;re humaine possible.

 
Et puis, nous y insistons, &eacute;tudier les difformit&eacute;s et les infirmit&eacute;s
sociales et les signaler pour les gu&eacute;rir, ce n'est point une besogne o&ugrave;
le choix soit permis. L'historien des m&oelig;urs et des id&eacute;es n'a pas une
mission moins aust&egrave;re que l'historien des &eacute;v&eacute;nements. Celui-ci a la
surface de la civilisation, les luttes des couronnes, les naissances de
princes, les mariages de rois, les batailles, les assembl&eacute;es, les grands
hommes publics, les r&eacute;volutions au soleil, tout le dehors; l'autre
historien a l'int&eacute;rieur, le fond, le peuple qui travaille, qui souffre
et qui attend, la femme accabl&eacute;e, l'enfant qui agonise, les guerres
sourdes d'homme &agrave; homme, les f&eacute;rocit&eacute;s obscures, les pr&eacute;jug&eacute;s, les
iniquit&eacute;s convenues, les contre-coups souterrains de la loi, les
&eacute;volutions secr&egrave;tes des &acirc;mes, les tressaillements indistincts des
multitudes, les meurt-de-faim, les va-nu-pieds, les bras-nus, les
d&eacute;sh&eacute;rit&eacute;s, les orphelins, les malheureux et les inf&acirc;mes, toutes les
larves qui errent dans l'obscurit&eacute;. Il faut qu'il descende, le c&oelig;ur
plein de charit&eacute; et de s&eacute;v&eacute;rit&eacute; &agrave; la fois, comme un fr&egrave;re et comme un
juge, jusqu'&agrave; ces casemates imp&eacute;n&eacute;trables o&ugrave; rampent p&ecirc;le-m&ecirc;le ceux qui
saignent et ceux qui frappent, ceux qui pleurent et ceux qui maudissent,
ceux qui je&ucirc;nent et ceux qui d&eacute;vorent, ceux qui endurent le mal et ceux
qui le font. Ces historiens des c&oelig;urs et des &acirc;mes ont-ils des devoirs
moindres que les historiens des faits ext&eacute;rieurs? Croit-on qu'Alighieri
ait moins de choses &agrave; dire que Machiavel? Le dessous de la civilisation,
pour &ecirc;tre plus profond et plus sombre, est-il moins important que le
dessus? Conna&icirc;t-on bien la montagne quand on ne conna&icirc;t pas la caverne?

 
Disons-le du reste en passant, de quelques mots de ce qui pr&eacute;c&egrave;de on
pourrait inf&eacute;rer entre les deux classes d'historiens une s&eacute;paration
tranch&eacute;e qui n'existe pas dans notre esprit. Nul n'est bon historien de
la vie patente, visible, &eacute;clatante et publique des peuples s'il n'est en
m&ecirc;me temps, dans une certaine mesure, historien de leur vie profonde et
cach&eacute;e; et nul n'est bon historien du dedans s'il ne sait &ecirc;tre, toutes
les fois que besoin est, historien du dehors. L'histoire des m&oelig;urs et
des id&eacute;es p&eacute;n&egrave;tre l'histoire des &eacute;v&eacute;nements, et r&eacute;ciproquement. Ce sont
deux ordres de faits diff&eacute;rents qui se r&eacute;pondent, qui s'encha&icirc;nent
toujours et s'engendrent souvent. Tous les lin&eacute;aments que la providence
trace &agrave; la surface d'une nation ont leurs parall&egrave;les sombres, mais
distincts, dans le fond, et toutes les convulsions du fond produisent
des soul&egrave;vements &agrave; la surface. La vraie histoire &eacute;tant m&ecirc;l&eacute;e &agrave; tout, le
v&eacute;ritable historien se m&ecirc;le de tout.

 
L'homme n'est pas un cercle &agrave; un seul centre; c'est une ellipse &agrave; deux
foyers. Les faits sont l'un, les id&eacute;es sont l'autre.

 
L'argot n'est autre chose qu'un vestiaire o&ugrave; la langue, ayant quelque
mauvaise action &agrave; faire, se d&eacute;guise. Elle s'y rev&ecirc;t de mots masques et
de m&eacute;taphores haillons.

 
De la sorte elle devient horrible.

 
On a peine &agrave; la reconna&icirc;tre. Est-ce bien la langue fran&ccedil;aise, la grande
langue humaine? La voil&agrave; pr&ecirc;te &agrave; entrer en sc&egrave;ne et &agrave; donner au crime la
r&eacute;plique, et propre &agrave; tous les emplois du r&eacute;pertoire du mal. Elle ne
marche plus, elle clopine; elle boite sur la b&eacute;quille de la Cour des
miracles, b&eacute;quille m&eacute;tamorphosable en massue; elle se nomme truanderie;
tous les spectres, ses habilleurs, l'ont grim&eacute;e; elle se tra&icirc;ne et se
dresse, double allure du reptile. Elle est apte &agrave; tous les r&ocirc;les
d&eacute;sormais, faite louche par le faussaire, vert-de-gris&eacute;e par
l'empoisonneur, charbonn&eacute;e de la suie de l'incendiaire; et le meurtrier
lui met son rouge.

 
Quand on &eacute;coute, du c&ocirc;t&eacute; des honn&ecirc;tes gens, &agrave; la porte de la soci&eacute;t&eacute;, on
surprend le dialogue de ceux qui sont dehors. On distingue des demandes
et des r&eacute;ponses. On per&ccedil;oit, sans le comprendre, un murmure hideux,
sonnant presque comme l'accent humain, mais plus voisin du hurlement que
de la parole. C'est l'argot. Les mots sont difformes, et empreints d'on
ne sait quelle bestialit&eacute; fantastique. On croit entendre des hydres
parler.

 
C'est l'inintelligible dans le t&eacute;n&eacute;breux. Cela grince et cela chuchote,
compl&eacute;tant le cr&eacute;puscule par l'&eacute;nigme. Il fait noir dans le malheur, il
fait plus noir encore dans le crime; ces deux noirceurs amalgam&eacute;es
composent l'argot. Obscurit&eacute; dans l'atmosph&egrave;re, obscurit&eacute; dans les
actes, obscurit&eacute; dans les voix. &Eacute;pouvantable langue crapaude qui va,
vient, saut&egrave;le, rampe, bave, et se meut monstrueusement dans cette
immense brume grise faite de pluie, de nuit, de faim, de vice, de
mensonge, d'injustice, de nudit&eacute;, d'asphyxie et d'hiver, plein midi des
mis&eacute;rables.

 
Ayons compassion des ch&acirc;ti&eacute;s. H&eacute;las! qui sommes-nous nous-m&ecirc;mes? qui
suis-je, moi qui vous parle? qui &ecirc;tes-vous, vous qui m'&eacute;coutez? d'o&ugrave;
venons-nous? et est-il bien s&ucirc;r que nous n'ayons rien fait avant d'&ecirc;tre
n&eacute;s? La terre n'est point sans ressemblance avec une ge&ocirc;le. Qui sait si
l'homme n'est pas un repris de justice divine?

 
Regardez la vie de pr&egrave;s. Elle est ainsi faite qu'on y sent partout de la
punition.

 
&Ecirc;tes-vous ce qu'on appelle un heureux? Eh bien, vous &ecirc;tes triste tous
les jours. Chaque jour a son grand chagrin ou son petit souci. Hier,
vous trembliez pour une sant&eacute; qui vous est ch&egrave;re, aujourd'hui vous
craignez pour la v&ocirc;tre, demain ce sera une inqui&eacute;tude d'argent,
apr&egrave;s-demain la diatribe d'un calomniateur, l'autre apr&egrave;s-demain le
malheur d'un ami; puis le temps qu'il fait, puis quelque chose de cass&eacute;
ou de perdu, puis un plaisir que la conscience et la colonne vert&eacute;brale
vous reprochent; une autre fois, la marche des affaires publiques. Sans
compter les peines de c&oelig;ur. Et ainsi de suite. Un nuage se dissipe, un
autre se reforme. &Agrave; peine un jour sur cent de pleine joie et de plein
soleil. Et vous &ecirc;tes de ce petit nombre qui a le bonheur! Quant aux
autres hommes, la nuit stagnante est sur eux.

 
Les esprits r&eacute;fl&eacute;chis usent peu de cette locution: les heureux et les
malheureux. Dans ce monde, vestibule d'un autre &eacute;videmment, il n'y a pas
d'heureux.

 
La vraie division humaine est celle-ci: les lumineux et les t&eacute;n&eacute;breux.

 
Diminuer le nombre des t&eacute;n&eacute;breux, augmenter le nombre des lumineux,
voil&agrave; le but. C'est pourquoi nous crions: enseignement! science!
Apprendre &agrave; lire, c'est allumer du feu; toute syllabe &eacute;pel&eacute;e &eacute;tincelle.

 
Du reste qui dit lumi&egrave;re ne dit pas n&eacute;cessairement joie. On souffre dans
la lumi&egrave;re; l'exc&egrave;s br&ucirc;le. La flamme est ennemie de l'aile. Br&ucirc;ler sans
cesser de voler, c'est l&agrave; le prodige du g&eacute;nie.

 
Quand vous conna&icirc;trez et quand vous aimerez, vous souffrirez encore. Le
jour na&icirc;t en larmes. Les lumineux pleurent, ne f&ucirc;t-ce que sur les
t&eacute;n&eacute;breux.

 
L'argot, est la langue des t&eacute;n&eacute;breux.

 
==English text==

 
Pigritia is a terrible word.
 
It engenders a whole world, la pègre, for which read theft, and a hell, la
pègrenne, for which read hunger.

 
Thus, idleness is the mother.

 
She has a son, theft, and a daughter, hunger.

 
Where are we at this moment? In the land of slang.

 
What is slang? It is at one and the same time, a nation and a dialect; it
is theft in its two kinds; people and language.

 
When, four and thirty years ago, the narrator of this grave and sombre
history introduced into a work written with the same aim as this[[39]] a thief
who talked argot, there arose amazement and clamor.&mdash;"What! How!
Argot! Why, argot is horrible! It is the language of prisons, galleys,
convicts, of everything that is most abominable in society!" etc., etc.

 
We have never understood this sort of objections.

 
Since that time, two powerful romancers, one of whom is a profound
observer of the human heart, the other an intrepid friend of the people,
Balzac and Eugene Sue, having represented their ruffians as talking their
natural language, as the author of The Last Day of a Condemned Man did in
1828, the same objections have been raised. People repeated: "What do
authors mean by that revolting dialect? Slang is odious! Slang makes one
shudder!"

 
Who denies that? Of course it does.

 
When it is a question of probing a wound, a gulf, a society, since when
has it been considered wrong to go too far? to go to the bottom? We have
always thought that it was sometimes a courageous act, and, at least, a
simple and useful deed, worthy of the sympathetic attention which duty
accepted and fulfilled merits. Why should one not explore everything, and
study everything? Why should one halt on the way? The halt is a matter
depending on the sounding-line, and not on the leadsman.

 
Certainly, too, it is neither an attractive nor an easy task to undertake
an investigation into the lowest depths of the social order, where terra
firma comes to an end and where mud begins, to rummage in those vague,
murky waves, to follow up, to seize and to fling, still quivering, upon
the pavement that abject dialect which is dripping with filth when thus
brought to the light, that pustulous vocabulary each word of which seems
an unclean ring from a monster of the mire and the shadows. Nothing is
more lugubrious than the contemplation thus in its nudity, in the broad
light of thought, of the horrible swarming of slang. It seems, in fact, to
be a sort of horrible beast made for the night which has just been torn
from its cesspool. One thinks one beholds a frightful, living, and
bristling thicket which quivers, rustles, wavers, returns to shadow,
threatens and glares. One word resembles a claw, another an extinguished
and bleeding eye, such and such a phrase seems to move like the claw of a
crab. All this is alive with the hideous vitality of things which have
been organized out of disorganization.

 
Now, when has horror ever excluded study? Since when has malady banished
medicine? Can one imagine a naturalist refusing to study the viper, the
bat, the scorpion, the centipede, the tarantula, and one who would cast
them back into their darkness, saying: "Oh! how ugly that is!" The thinker
who should turn aside from slang would resemble a surgeon who should avert
his face from an ulcer or a wart. He would be like a philologist refusing
to examine a fact in language, a philosopher hesitating to scrutinize a
fact in humanity. For, it must be stated to those who are ignorant of the
case, that argot is both a literary phenomenon and a social result. What
is slang, properly speaking? It is the language of wretchedness.

 
We may be stopped; the fact may be put to us in general terms, which is
one way of attenuating it; we may be told, that all trades, professions,
it may be added, all the accidents of the social hierarchy and all forms
of intelligence, have their own slang. The merchant who says: "Montpellier
not active, Marseilles fine quality," the broker on 'change who says:
"Assets at end of current month," the gambler who says: "Tiers et tout,
refait de pique," the sheriff of the Norman Isles who says: "The holder in
fee reverting to his landed estate cannot claim the fruits of that estate
during the hereditary seizure of the real estate by the mortgagor," the
playwright who says: "The piece was hissed," the comedian who says: "I've
made a hit," the philosopher who says: "Phenomenal triplicity," the
huntsman who says: "Voileci allais, Voileci fuyant," the phrenologist who
says: "Amativeness, combativeness, secretiveness," the infantry soldier
who says: "My shooting-iron," the cavalry-man who says: "My turkey-cock,"
the fencing-master who says: "Tierce, quarte, break," the printer who
says: "My shooting-stick and galley,"&mdash;all, printer, fencing-master,
cavalry dragoon, infantry-man, phrenologist, huntsman, philosopher,
comedian, playwright, sheriff, gambler, stock-broker, and merchant, speak
slang. The painter who says: "My grinder," the notary who says: "My
Skip-the-Gutter," the hairdresser who says: "My mealyback," the cobbler
who says: "My cub," talks slang. Strictly speaking, if one absolutely
insists on the point, all the different fashions of saying the right and
the left, the sailor's port and starboard, the scene-shifter's court-side,
and garden-side, the beadle's Gospel-side and Epistle-side, are slang.
There is the slang of the affected lady as well as of the precieuses. The
Hotel Rambouillet nearly adjoins the Cour des Miracles. There is a slang
of duchesses, witness this phrase contained in a love-letter from a very
great lady and a very pretty woman of the Restoration: "You will find in
this gossip a fultitude of reasons why I should libertize."[[40]]
Diplomatic ciphers are slang; the pontifical chancellery by using 26 for
Rome, grkztntgzyal for despatch, and abfxustgrnogrkzu tu XI. for the Due
de Modena, speaks slang. The physicians of the Middle Ages who, for
carrot, radish, and turnip, said Opoponach, perfroschinum, reptitalmus,
dracatholicum, angelorum, postmegorum, talked slang. The
sugar-manufacturer who says: "Loaf, clarified, lumps, bastard, common,
burnt,"&mdash;this honest manufacturer talks slang. A certain school of
criticism twenty years ago, which used to say: "Half of the works of
Shakespeare consists of plays upon words and puns,"&mdash;talked slang.
The poet, and the artist who, with profound understanding, would designate
M. de Montmorency as "a bourgeois," if he were not a judge of verses and
statues, speak slang. The classic Academician who calls flowers "Flora,"
fruits, "Pomona," the sea, "Neptune," love, "fires," beauty, "charms," a
horse, "a courser," the white or tricolored cockade, "the rose of
Bellona," the three-cornered hat, "Mars' triangle,"&mdash;that classical
Academician talks slang. Algebra, medicine, botany, have each their slang.
The tongue which is employed on board ship, that wonderful language of the
sea, which is so complete and so picturesque, which was spoken by Jean
Bart, Duquesne, Suffren, and Duperre, which mingles with the whistling of
the rigging, the sound of the speaking-trumpets, the shock of the
boarding-irons, the roll of the sea, the wind, the gale, the cannon, is
wholly a heroic and dazzling slang, which is to the fierce slang of the
thieves what the lion is to the jackal.

 
No doubt. But say what we will, this manner of understanding the word
slang is an extension which every one will not admit. For our part, we
reserve to the word its ancient and precise, circumscribed and determined
significance, and we restrict slang to slang. The veritable slang and the
slang that is pre-eminently slang, if the two words can be coupled thus,
the slang immemorial which was a kingdom, is nothing else, we repeat, than
the homely, uneasy, crafty, treacherous, venomous, cruel, equivocal, vile,
profound, fatal tongue of wretchedness. There exists, at the extremity of
all abasement and all misfortunes, a last misery which revolts and makes
up its mind to enter into conflict with the whole mass of fortunate facts
and reigning rights; a fearful conflict, where, now cunning, now violent,
unhealthy and ferocious at one and the same time, it attacks the social
order with pin-pricks through vice, and with club-blows through crime. To
meet the needs of this conflict, wretchedness has invented a language of
combat, which is slang.

 
To keep afloat and to rescue from oblivion, to hold above the gulf, were
it but a fragment of some language which man has spoken and which would,
otherwise, be lost, that is to say, one of the elements, good or bad, of
which civilization is composed, or by which it is complicated, to extend
the records of social observation; is to serve civilization itself. This
service Plautus rendered, consciously or unconsciously, by making two
Carthaginian soldiers talk Phoenician; that service Moliere rendered, by
making so many of his characters talk Levantine and all sorts of dialects.
Here objections spring up afresh. Phoenician, very good! Levantine, quite
right! Even dialect, let that pass! They are tongues which have belonged
to nations or provinces; but slang! What is the use of preserving slang?
What is the good of assisting slang "to survive"?

 
To this we reply in one word, only. Assuredly, if the tongue which a
nation or a province has spoken is worthy of interest, the language which
has been spoken by a misery is still more worthy of attention and study.

 
It is the language which has been spoken, in France, for example, for more
than four centuries, not only by a misery, but by every possible human
misery.

 
And then, we insist upon it, the study of social deformities and
infirmities, and the task of pointing them out with a view to remedy, is
not a business in which choice is permitted. The historian of manners and
ideas has no less austere a mission than the historian of events. The
latter has the surface of civilization, the conflicts of crowns, the
births of princes, the marriages of kings, battles, assemblages, great
public men, revolutions in the daylight, everything on the exterior; the
other historian has the interior, the depths, the people who toil, suffer,
wait, the oppressed woman, the agonizing child, the secret war between man
and man, obscure ferocities, prejudices, plotted iniquities, the
subterranean, the indistinct tremors of multitudes, the die-of-hunger, the
counter-blows of the law, the secret evolution of souls, the go-bare-foot,
the bare-armed, the disinherited, the orphans, the unhappy, and the
infamous, all the forms which roam through the darkness. He must descend
with his heart full of charity, and severity at the same time, as a
brother and as a judge, to those impenetrable casemates where crawl,
pell-mell, those who bleed and those who deal the blow, those who weep and
those who curse, those who fast and those who devour, those who endure
evil and those who inflict it. Have these historians of hearts and souls
duties at all inferior to the historians of external facts? Does any one
think that Alighieri has any fewer things to say than Machiavelli? Is the
under side of civilization any less important than the upper side merely
because it is deeper and more sombre? Do we really know the mountain well
when we are not acquainted with the cavern?

 
Let us say, moreover, parenthetically, that from a few words of what
precedes a marked separation might be inferred between the two classes of
historians which does not exist in our mind. No one is a good historian of
the patent, visible, striking, and public life of peoples, if he is not,
at the same time, in a certain measure, the historian of their deep and
hidden life; and no one is a good historian of the interior unless he
understands how, at need, to be the historian of the exterior also. The
history of manners and ideas permeates the history of events, and this is
true reciprocally. They constitute two different orders of facts which
correspond to each other, which are always interlaced, and which often
bring forth results. All the lineaments which providence traces on the
surface of a nation have their parallels, sombre but distinct, in their
depths, and all convulsions of the depths produce ebullitions on the
surface. True history being a mixture of all things, the true historian
mingles in everything.

 
Man is not a circle with a single centre; he is an ellipse with a double
focus. Facts form one of these, and ideas the other.

 
Slang is nothing but a dressing-room where the tongue having some bad
action to perform, disguises itself. There it clothes itself in
word-masks, in metaphor-rags. In this guise it becomes horrible.

 
One finds it difficult to recognize. Is it really the French tongue, the
great human tongue? Behold it ready to step upon the stage and to retort
upon crime, and prepared for all the employments of the repertory of evil.
It no longer walks, it hobbles; it limps on the crutch of the Court of
Miracles, a crutch metamorphosable into a club; it is called vagrancy;
every sort of spectre, its dressers, have painted its face, it crawls and
rears, the double gait of the reptile. Henceforth, it is apt at all roles,
it is made suspicious by the counterfeiter, covered with verdigris by the
forger, blacked by the soot of the incendiary; and the murderer applies
its rouge.

 
When one listens, by the side of honest men, at the portals of society,
one overhears the dialogues of those who are on the outside. One
distinguishes questions and replies. One perceives, without understanding
it, a hideous murmur, sounding almost like human accents, but more nearly
resembling a howl than an articulate word. It is slang. The words are
misshapen and stamped with an indescribable and fantastic bestiality. One
thinks one hears hydras talking.

 
It is unintelligible in the dark. It gnashes and whispers, completing the
gloom with mystery. It is black in misfortune, it is blacker still in
crime; these two blacknesses amalgamated, compose slang. Obscurity in the
atmosphere, obscurity in acts, obscurity in voices. Terrible, toad-like
tongue which goes and comes, leaps, crawls, slobbers, and stirs about in
monstrous wise in that immense gray fog composed of rain and night, of
hunger, of vice, of falsehood, of injustice, of nudity, of suffocation,
and of winter, the high noonday of the miserable.

 
Let us have compassion on the chastised. Alas! Who are we ourselves? Who
am I who now address you? Who are you who are listening to me? And are you
very sure that we have done nothing before we were born? The earth is not
devoid of resemblance to a jail. Who knows whether man is not a recaptured
offender against divine justice? Look closely at life. It is so made, that
everywhere we feel the sense of punishment.

 
Are you what is called a happy man? Well! you are sad every day. Each day
has its own great grief or its little care. Yesterday you were trembling
for a health that is dear to you, to-day you fear for your own; to-morrow
it will be anxiety about money, the day after to-morrow the diatribe of a
slanderer, the day after that, the misfortune of some friend; then the
prevailing weather, then something that has been broken or lost, then a
pleasure with which your conscience and your vertebral column reproach
you; again, the course of public affairs. This without reckoning in the
pains of the heart. And so it goes on. One cloud is dispelled, another
forms. There is hardly one day out of a hundred which is wholly joyous and
sunny. And you belong to that small class who are happy! As for the rest
of mankind, stagnating night rests upon them.

 
Thoughtful minds make but little use of the phrase: the fortunate and the
unfortunate. In this world, evidently the vestibule of another, there are
no fortunate.

 
The real human division is this: the luminous and the shady. To diminish
the number of the shady, to augment the number of the luminous,&mdash;that
is the object. That is why we cry: Education! science! To teach reading,
means to light the fire; every syllable spelled out sparkles.

 
However, he who says light does not, necessarily, say joy. People suffer
in the light; excess burns. The flame is the enemy of the wing. To burn
without ceasing to fly,&mdash;therein lies the marvel of genius.

 
When you shall have learned to know, and to love, you will still suffer.
The day is born in tears. The luminous weep, if only over those in
darkness.


==Translation notes==

==Textual notes==

==Citations==
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