Chapter X
Original French
L’Ingénu enfermé à la Bastille avec un janséniste.
M. Gordon était un vieillard frais et serein, qui savait deux grandeschoses: supporter l’adversité, et consoler les malheureux. Il s’avançad’un air ouvert et compatissant vers son compagnon, et lui dit enl’embrassant: Qui que vous soyez, qui venez partager mon tombeau, soyezsûr que je m’oublierai toujours moi-même pour adoucir vos tourmentsdans l’abîme infernal où nous sommes plongés. Adorons la Providence quinous y a conduits, souffrons en paix, et espérons. Ces paroles firentsur l’âme de l’Ingénu l’effet des gouttes d’Angleterre, qui rappellentun mourant à la vie, et lui font entr’ouvrir des yeux étonnés.
Après les premiers compliments, Gordon, sans le presser de luiapprendre la cause de son malheur, lui inspira, par la douceur de sonentretien, et par cet intérêt que prennent deux malheureux l’un àl’autre, le désir d’ouvrir son coeur et de déposer le fardeau quil’accablait; mais il ne pouvait deviner le sujet de son malheur; celalui paraissait un effet sans cause; et le bon-homme Gordon était aussiétonné que lui-même.
Il faut, dit le janséniste au Huron, que Dieu ait de grands desseinssur vous, puisqu’il vous a conduit du lac Ontario en Angleterre et enFrance, qu’il vous a fait baptiser en Basse-Bretagne, et qu’il vous amis ici pour votre salut. Ma foi, répondit l’Ingénu, je crois que lediable s’est mêlé seul de ma destinée. Mes compatriotes d’Amérique nem’auraient jamais traité avec la barbarie que j’éprouve; ils n’en ontpas d’idée. On les appelle sauvages; ce sont des gens de biengrossiers, et les hommes de ce pays-ci sont des coquins raffinés. Jesuis, à la vérité, bien surpris d’être venu d’un autre monde pour êtreenfermé dans celui-ci sous quatre verrous avec un prêtre; mais je faisréflexion au nombre prodigieux d’hommes qui partent d’un hémisphèrepour aller se faire tuer dans l’autre, ou qui font naufrage en chemin,et qui sont mangés des poissons: je ne vois pas les gracieux desseinsde Dieu sur tous ces gens-là.
On leur apporta à dîner par un guichet. La conversation roula sur laProvidence, sur les lettres de cachet, et sur l’art de ne pas succomberaux disgrâces auxquelles tout homme est exposé dans ce monde. Il y adeux ans que je suis ici, dit le vieillard, sans autre consolation quemoi-même et des livres; je n’ai pas eu un moment de mauvaise humeur.
Ah! M. Gordon, s’écria l’Ingénu, vous n’aimez donc pas votre marraine?Si vous connaissiez comme moi mademoiselle de Saint-Yves, vous seriezau désespoir. A ces mots il ne put retenir ses larmes, et il se sentitalors un peu moins oppressé. Mais, dit-il, pourquoi donc les larmessoulagent-elles? Il me semble qu’elles devraient faire un effetcontraire.—Mon fils, tout est physique en nous, dit le bon vieillard;toute sécrétion fait du bien au corps; et tout ce qui le soulagesoulage l’âme: nous sommes les machines de la Providence.
L’Ingénu, qui, comme nous l’avons dit plusieurs fois, avait un grandfonds d’esprit, fit de profondes réflexions sur cette idée, dont ilsemblait qu’il avait la semence en lui-même. Après quoi il demanda àson compagnon pourquoi sa machine était depuis deux ans sous quatreverrous. Par la grâce efficace, répondit Gordon: je passe pourjanséniste; j’ai connu Arnauld et Nicole; les jésuites nous ontpersécutés. Nous croyons que le pape n’est qu’un évêque comme un autre;et c’est pour cela que le P. de La Chaise a obtenu du roi, sonpénitent, un ordre de me ravir, sans aucune formalité de justice, lebien le plus précieux des hommes, la liberté. Voilà qui est bienétrange, dit l’Ingénu; tous les malheureux que j’ai rencontrés ne lesont qu’à cause du pape.
A l’égard de votre grâce efficace, je vous avoue que je n’y entendsrien; mais je regarde comme une grande grâce que Dieu m’ait faittrouver dans mon malheur un homme comme vous, qui verse dans mon coeurdes consolations dont je me croyais incapable.
Chaque jour la conversation devenait plus intéressante et plusinstructive. Les âmes des deux captifs s’attachaient l’une à l’autre.Le vieillard savait beaucoup, et le jeune homme voulait beaucoupapprendre. Au bout d’un mois il étudia la géométrie; il la dévorait.Gordon lui fit lire la physique de Rohault, qui était encore à la mode,et il eut le bon esprit de n’y trouver que des incertitudes.
Ensuite il lut le premier volume de la Recherche de la vérité. Cettenouvelle lumière l’éclaira. Quoi! dit-il, notre imagination et nos sensnous trompent à ce point! quoi! les objets ne forment point nos idées,et nous ne pouvons nous les donner nous-mêmes! Quand il eut lu lesecond volume, il ne fut plus si content, et il conclut qu’il est plusaisé de détruire que de bâtir.
Son confrère, étonné qu’un jeune ignorant fît cette réflexion, quin’appartient qu’aux âmes exercées, conçut une grande idée de sonesprit, et s’attacha à lui davantage.
Votre Malebranche, lui dit un jour l’Ingénu, me paraît avoir écrit lamoitié de son livre avec sa raison, et l’autre avec son imagination etses préjugés.
Quelques jours après, Gordon lui demanda: Que pensez-vous donc del’âme, de la manière dont nous recevons nos idées, de notre volonté, dela grâce, du libre arbitre? Rien, lui repartit l’Ingénu: si je pensaisquelque chose, c’est que nous sommes sous la puissance de l’Etreéternel, comme les astres et les éléments; qu’il fait tout en nous, quenous sommes de petites roues de la machine immense dont il est l’âme;qu’il agit par des lois générales, et non par des vues particulières;cela seul me paraît intelligible; tout le reste est pour moi un abîmede ténèbres.
Mais, mon fils, ce serait faire Dieu auteur du péché.—Mais, mon père,votre grâce efficace ferait Dieu auteur du péché aussi; car il estcertain que tous ceux à qui cette grâce serait refusée pécheraient; etqui nous livre au mal n’est-il pas l’auteur du mal?
Cette naïveté embarrassait fort le bon-homme; il sentait qu’il fesaitde vains efforts pour se tirer de ce bourbier; et il entassait tant deparoles qui paraissaient avoir du sens et qui n’en avaient point (dansle goût de la prémotion physique), que l’Ingénu en avait pitié. Cettequestion tenait évidemment à l’origine du bien et du mal; et alors ilfallait que le pauvre Gordon passât en revue la boîte de Pandore,l’oeuf d’Orosmade percé par Arimane, l’inimitié entre Typhon etOsiris, et enfin le péché originel; et ils couraient l’un et l’autredans cette nuit profonde, sans jamais se rencontrer. Mais enfin ceroman de l’âme détournait leur vue de la contemplation de leur propremisère, et, par un charme étrange, la foule des calamités répandues surl’univers diminuait la sensation de leurs peines; ils n’osaient seplaindre quand tout souffrait.
Mais, dans le repos de la nuit, l’image de la belle Saint-Yves effaçaitdans l’esprit de son amant toutes les idées de métaphysique et demorale. Il se réveillait les yeux mouillés de larmes; et le vieuxjanséniste oubliait sa grâce efficace, et l’abbé de Saint-Cyran, etJansénius, pour consoler un jeune homme qu’il croyait en péché mortel.
Après leurs lectures, après leurs raisonnements, ils parlaient encorede leurs aventures; et, après en avoir inutilement parlé, ils lisaientensemble ou séparément. L’esprit du jeune homme se fortifiait de plusen plus. Il serait surtout allé très loin en mathématiques sans lesdistractions que lui donnait mademoiselle de Saint-Yves.
Il lut des histoires, elles l’attristèrent. Le monde lui parut tropméchant et trop misérable. En effet l’histoire n’est que le tableau descrimes et des malheurs. La foule des hommes innocents et paisiblesdisparaît toujours sur ces vastes théâtres. Les personnages ne sont quedes ambitieux pervers. Il semble que l’histoire ne plaise que comme latragédie, qui languit si elle n’est animée par les passions, lesforfaits, et les grandes infortunes. Il faut armer Clio du poignard,comme Melpomène.
Quoique l’histoire de France soit remplie d’horreurs, ainsi que toutesles autres, cependant elle lui parut si dégoûtante dans sescommencements, si sèche dans son milieu, si petite enfin, même du tempsde Henri IV, toujours si dépourvue de grands monuments, si étrangère àces belles découvertes qui ont illustré d’autres nations, qu’il étaitobligé de lutter contre l’ennui pour lire tous ces détails de calamitésobscures resserrées dans un coin du monde.
Gordon pensait comme lui. Tous deux riaient de pitié quand il étaitquestion des souverains de Fezensac, de Fesansaguet, et d’Astarac.Cette étude en effet ne serait bonne que pour leurs héritiers, s’ils enavaient. Les beaux siècles de la république romaine le rendirentquelque temps indifférent pour le reste de la terre. Le spectacle deRome victorieuse et législatrice des nations occupait son âme entière.Il s’échauffait en contemplant ce peuple qui fut gouverné sept centsans par l’enthousiasme de la liberté et de la gloire.
Ainsi se passaient les jours, les semaines, les mois; et il se seraitcru heureux dans le séjour du désespoir, s’il n’avait point aimé.
Son bon naturel s’attendrissait encore sur le prieur de Notre-Dame dela Montagne, et sur la sensible Kerkabon. Que penseront-ils,répétait-il souvent, quand ils n’auront point de mes nouvelles? Ils mecroiront un ingrat. Cette idée le tourmentait; il plaignait ceux quil’aimaient, beaucoup plus qu’il ne se plaignait lui-même.
Musean translation
Complete machine-assisted Musean translation made directly from the French, independently of the Plain English edition. All twenty chapters and Voltaire’s three author notes are retained; Beuchot’s editorial apparatus is omitted.
The Ingénu imprisoned in the Bastille with a Jansenist.
Monsieur Gordon was a hale and serene old man who knew two great things: how to bear adversity and how to comfort the unfortunate. He approached his companion with an open, compassionate air and, embracing him, said, "Whoever you may be, you who have come to share my tomb, be assured that I shall always forget myself to ease your torments in this infernal abyss into which we have been plunged. Let us adore the Providence that has brought us here, suffer in peace, and hope." These words worked upon the Ingénu's soul like those English drops that recall a dying man to life and make him half open his astonished eyes.
After their first courtesies, Gordon, without pressing him to explain the cause of his misfortune, inspired him, by the gentleness of his conversation and the sympathy two unhappy men feel for one another, with a desire to open his heart and lay down the burden that oppressed him. But he could not guess the reason for his misfortune: it seemed to him an effect without a cause; and good old Gordon was as astonished as he was.
"God must have great designs for you," the Jansenist told the Huron, "since he has brought you from Lake Ontario to England and France, had you baptized in Lower Brittany, and placed you here for your salvation." "Upon my word," replied the Ingénu, "I think the devil alone has had a hand in my destiny. My countrymen in America would never have treated me with the barbarity I am suffering here; they have no notion of it. They are called savages: they are rough men of honor, and the men of this country are polished scoundrels. I am certainly very surprised to have come from another world to be shut up in this one behind four bolts with a priest; but I reflect on the prodigious number of men who leave one hemisphere to get themselves killed in the other, or are shipwrecked on the way and eaten by fish. I do not see God's gracious designs for all those people."
Their dinner was brought through a hatch. The conversation turned to Providence, to royal warrants of imprisonment, and to the art of not succumbing to the misfortunes to which every man is exposed in this world. "I have been here for two years," said the old man, "with no consolation but myself and my books; I have not had a moment of ill humor."
"Ah, Monsieur Gordon!" cried the Ingénu. "Then you are not in love with your godmother? If you knew Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves as I do, you would be in despair." At these words he could not hold back his tears, and then felt a little less oppressed. "But," he said, "why do tears bring relief? It seems to me they ought to have the opposite effect." "My son, everything in us is physical," said the good old man. "Every secretion does the body good; and whatever relieves the body relieves the soul. We are the machines of Providence."
The Ingénu, who, as we have said several times, possessed a great fund of intelligence, reflected deeply on this idea, whose seed he seemed to carry within himself. Afterward he asked his companion why his machine had been behind four bolts for two years. "Through efficacious grace," replied Gordon. "I am considered a Jansenist; I knew Arnauld and Nicole; the Jesuits have persecuted us. We believe the pope is merely a bishop like any other; and that is why Father de La Chaise obtained from the king, his penitent, an order depriving me, without any judicial process, of mankind's most precious possession: liberty." "How very strange," said the Ingénu. "All the unhappy people I have met owe their unhappiness to the pope alone.
"As for your efficacious grace, I confess I understand nothing about it; but I consider it a great grace that God has let me find, in my misfortune, a man like you, who pours into my heart consolations I thought myself incapable of feeling."
Each day their conversation grew more interesting and instructive. The souls of the two prisoners became attached to one another. The old man knew much, and the young man wished to learn much. After a month he took up geometry; he devoured it. Gordon had him read Rohault's physics, which was still in fashion, and he had the good sense to find nothing in it but uncertainties.
Next he read the first volume of the Search for Truth. This new light illuminated him. "What!" he said. "Our imagination and our senses deceive us to that degree! What! Objects do not form our ideas, and we cannot give ourselves ideas either!" When he had read the second volume, he was less pleased, and concluded that it is easier to destroy than to build.
His fellow prisoner, astonished that an ignorant young man should make a reflection possible only to practiced minds, formed a high opinion of his intelligence and grew still more attached to him.
"Your Malebranche," the Ingénu told him one day, "seems to me to have written half his book with his reason, and the other half with his imagination and prejudices."
A few days later Gordon asked him, "What, then, do you think of the soul, of the way we receive our ideas, of our will, of grace, of free will?" "Nothing," the Ingénu answered. "If I thought anything, it would be that we are under the power of the eternal Being, like the stars and the elements; that he does everything in us; that we are little wheels in the immense machine of which he is the soul; that he acts through general laws, not particular intentions. That alone seems intelligible to me; all the rest is an abyss of darkness."
"But, my son, that would make God the author of sin." "But, Father, your efficacious grace would also make God the author of sin; for it is certain that all those denied that grace would sin, and is not whoever delivers us to evil the author of evil?"
This candor greatly embarrassed the good man. He felt that his efforts to extricate himself from this mire were vain; and he piled up so many words that seemed to have a meaning and had none—in the manner of physical premotion—that the Ingénu pitied him. This question plainly touched on the origin of good and evil; and then poor Gordon had to review Pandora's box, the egg of Orosmade pierced by Arimane, the enmity between Typhon and Osiris, and finally original sin; and the two of them ran through this profound night without ever meeting. Yet in the end this romance of the soul turned their eyes from the contemplation of their own misery, and, by a strange enchantment, the multitude of calamities spread over the universe diminished their sense of their own sufferings. They dared not complain when everything suffered.
But in the stillness of the night, the image of the beautiful Saint-Yves effaced every thought of metaphysics and morality from her lover's mind. He would wake with his eyes wet with tears; and the old Jansenist forgot his efficacious grace, the abbé de Saint-Cyran, and Jansenius, to comfort a young man whom he believed to be in mortal sin.
After their reading, after their reasoning, they would speak again of their adventures; and after speaking of them to no purpose, they would read together or separately. The young man's mind grew stronger and stronger. In mathematics especially, he would have gone very far but for the distractions Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves caused him.
He read histories; they saddened him. The world seemed to him too wicked and too wretched. Indeed, history is nothing but a picture of crimes and misfortunes. The multitude of innocent, peaceable men always disappears on these vast stages. The characters are all depraved men of ambition. It seems that history, like tragedy, can please only when it is quickened by passions, atrocities, and great calamities; without them it languishes. Clio must be armed with a dagger, like Melpomene.
Although the history of France is full of horrors, like every other history, he nevertheless found it so revolting in its beginnings, so dry in its middle, so petty even in the time of Henry IV, always so barren of great monuments, so alien to those splendid discoveries that have brought distinction to other nations, that he had to struggle against boredom to read all these accounts of obscure calamities confined to one corner of the world.
Gordon thought as he did. Both laughed with pity whenever the sovereigns of Fezensac, Fesansaguet, and Astarac came up. Indeed, such study could be useful only to their heirs, if they had any. The glorious centuries of the Roman republic made him indifferent for a time to the rest of the earth. The spectacle of Rome, victorious and giving laws to nations, occupied his whole soul. He grew fervent as he contemplated this people, governed for seven hundred years by a passion for liberty and glory.
So passed the days, the weeks, the months; and he would have thought himself happy in this abode of despair had he not been in love.
His good heart also felt tender concern for the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain and the sensitive Mademoiselle de Kerkabon. "What will they think," he often repeated, "when they have no news of me? They will think me ungrateful." This thought tormented him; he pitied those who loved him far more than he pitied himself.
Plain English translation
Complete machine-assisted Plain English translation made independently and directly from the French, not from the Musean edition. All twenty chapters and Voltaire’s three author notes are retained; Beuchot’s editorial apparatus is omitted.
The Ingénu is locked in the Bastille with a Jansenist.
Monsieur Gordon was a healthy, calm old man who knew two important things: how to endure hardship and how to comfort people in distress. With an open, sympathetic expression, he approached his companion, embraced him, and said, "Whoever you are, coming here to share my tomb, you can be sure I'll always put myself aside to ease your suffering in this hellish pit we've been thrown into. Let's worship the Providence that brought us here, endure it peacefully, and hope." These words affected the Ingénu's heart like English drops that bring a dying man back to life and make him open his eyes a little in surprise.
After their first greetings, Gordon did not press him to explain his misfortune. Instead, his gentle conversation, and the concern two unhappy people feel for each other, made the young man want to open his heart and lay down the burden crushing him. But he could not guess the reason for his imprisonment. It seemed to him an effect without a cause, and good old Gordon was just as astonished as he was.
"God must have great plans for you," the Jansenist told the Huron, "since he brought you from Lake Ontario to England and France, had you baptized in Lower Brittany, and put you here for your salvation." "Honestly," the Ingénu answered, "I think the devil alone has been managing my fate. My fellow countrymen in America would never have treated me with the cruelty I'm suffering here. They wouldn't even think of it. People call them savages. They're decent people with rough manners; the men here are polished scoundrels. I certainly am surprised to have come from another world only to be locked up in this one behind four bolts with a priest. But then I think of the enormous number of people who leave one hemisphere to get killed in the other, or are shipwrecked on the way and eaten by fish. I can't see God's gracious plans for all those people."
Dinner was passed in through a hatch. They talked about Providence, royal orders of imprisonment, and the art of not giving in to the misfortunes everyone faces in this world. "I've been here for two years," the old man said, "with no comfort except myself and books. I haven't had a single moment of bad temper."
"Oh, Monsieur Gordon!" the Ingénu cried. "Then you aren't in love with your godmother? If you knew Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves as I do, you'd be in despair." At this he could not hold back his tears, and he felt a little less weighed down. "But why do tears bring relief?" he asked. "I'd have thought they would do the opposite." "My son," the good old man said, "everything in us is physical. Every secretion does the body good, and whatever relieves it relieves the soul. We're Providence's machines."
The Ingénu, who, as we have said several times, had a very capable mind, thought deeply about this idea. It seemed he had already carried its seed within him. Then he asked his companion why his machine had been behind four bolts for two years. "Because of efficacious grace," Gordon replied. "I'm considered a Jansenist. I knew Arnauld and Nicole; the Jesuits persecuted us. We believe the pope is only a bishop like any other. That's why Father de La Chaise got the king, whose confessions he hears, to order me deprived of humanity's most precious possession, freedom, without any legal proceedings." "That's very strange," said the Ingénu. "All the unfortunate people I've met owe their troubles to the pope."
"As for your efficacious grace, I admit I don't understand it. But I consider it a great grace that God has let me find, in my suffering, someone like you. You fill my heart with a comfort I thought I could never feel."
Their conversations became more interesting and instructive every day. The two prisoners grew deeply attached to each other. The old man knew a great deal; the young man badly wanted to learn. After a month he began studying geometry and devoured it. Gordon had him read Rohault's physics, which was still fashionable. He showed good judgment by finding only uncertainty in it.
Next he read the first volume of The Search for Truth. This new light helped him see. "What!" he said. "Our imagination and senses deceive us that much? Objects don't form our ideas, and we can't give them to ourselves?" After reading the second volume, he was less pleased. He concluded that tearing down is easier than building.
His companion was surprised to hear an uneducated young man make a reflection that normally belongs to experienced minds. He formed a high opinion of his intelligence and grew still more attached to him.
"Your Malebranche," the Ingénu told him one day, "seems to have written half his book with his reason and the other half with his imagination and prejudices."
A few days later Gordon asked, "What do you think about the soul, the way we receive our ideas, our will, grace, and free will?" "Nothing," the Ingénu replied. "If I thought anything, it would be that we're under the power of the eternal Being, like the stars and the elements; that he does everything in us; that we're little wheels in the immense machine of which he is the soul; and that he acts through general laws, not particular intentions. That's all that seems understandable to me. Everything else is a dark abyss."
"But, my son, that would make God the author of sin." "But, Father, your efficacious grace would make him the author of sin too. Everyone denied that grace would certainly sin. Isn't whoever hands us over to evil the author of evil?"
This straightforwardness greatly embarrassed the good man. He felt his efforts to get out of this bog were useless. He piled up so many words that seemed to mean something but meant nothing—along the lines of physical premotion—that the Ingénu pitied him. This question clearly led to the origin of good and evil. Poor Gordon then had to review Pandora's box, Orosmade's egg pierced by Arimane, the hatred between Typhon and Osiris, and finally original sin. Both ran about in that deep darkness without ever meeting. But in the end this novel about the soul took their eyes off their own misery. By a strange enchantment, the mass of disasters spread over the universe dulled their sense of their own troubles. They did not dare complain when everything was suffering.
But in the quiet of night, the image of beautiful Saint-Yves erased every thought of metaphysics and morals from her lover's mind. He woke with his eyes wet with tears. The old Jansenist forgot his efficacious grace, the abbé de Saint-Cyran, and Jansenius, to comfort a young man he believed to be in mortal sin.
After their reading and reasoning, they talked again about their adventures. When that talk had achieved nothing, they read together or separately. The young man's mind grew stronger and stronger. He would have gone especially far in mathematics if Mademoiselle de Saint-Yves had not distracted him.
He read histories, and they saddened him. The world seemed too wicked and too miserable. History is, in fact, nothing but a picture of crimes and disasters. The great mass of innocent, peaceful people always disappears on these vast stages. The characters are nothing but wicked, ambitious people. History seems to please only as tragedy does, and tragedy drags unless passions, crimes, and great misfortunes bring it to life. Clio, like Melpomene, must be armed with a dagger.
French history, like every other history, was full of horrors. Yet its beginnings seemed so revolting, its middle so dry, and even the time of Henry IV so petty, always so lacking in great monuments and so untouched by the fine discoveries that had brought fame to other nations, that he had to fight boredom to read all these obscure disasters crowded into one corner of the world.
Gordon agreed. Both laughed with pity whenever the rulers of Fezensac, Fesansaguet, and Astarac came up. Studying them would really be useful only to their heirs, if they had any. The great ages of the Roman republic made him indifferent to the rest of the earth for a while. The sight of Rome, victorious and giving laws to nations, filled his whole soul. He grew excited as he thought about this people, ruled for seven hundred years by a passion for freedom and glory.
So the days, weeks, and months went by. He would have thought himself happy in that home of despair if he had not been in love.
His kind heart also felt for the prior of Our Lady of the Mountain and tenderhearted Kerkabon. "What will they think," he often said, "when they get no news of me? They'll think I'm ungrateful." This thought tormented him. He pitied the people who loved him much more than he pitied himself.
About this section
Chapter X is part of L’Ingénu, histoire véritable tirée des manuscrits du P. Quesnel by Voltaire. This page sets the French original beside 2 direct-source translations, so any line can be checked against the source. It is chapter 10 of 20 in the work, which is kept in the European tradition.
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