anti religious thought
Anti-Religious Thought In The Eighteenth Century
By G.K. Chesterton
Originally a contribution to “An Outline of Christianity; the Story of our Civilization”. Vol. IV. Christianity and Modern Thought, 1926. The Waverley Book Co., London
Reprinted in “The Spice of Life”
The eclipse of Christian theology during the rationalist advance of the eighteenth century is one of the most interesting of historical episodes. In order to see it clearly, we must first realize that it was an episode and that it is now historical. It may be stating it too strongly to say that it is now dead; it is perhaps enough to say that it is now distant and yet distinct; that it is divided from our own time as much as any period of the past. Neither reason nor faith will ever die; for men would die if deprived of either. The wildest mystic uses his reason at some stage; if it be only by reasoning against reason. The most incisive sceptic has dogmas of his own; though when he is a very incisive sceptic, he has often forgotten what they are. Faith and reason are in this sense co-eternal; but as the words are popularly used, as loose labels for particular periods, the one is now almost as remote as the other. What was called the Age of Reason has vanished as completely as what are called the Ages of Faith.
It is essential to see this fact first, because if we do not see its limitations we do not see its outline. It has nothing to do with which period we prefer, or even which we think right. A rationalist is quite entitled to look back to the eighteenth century as a golden age of good sense, as the medievalist looks back to the thirteenth century as a golden age of good faith. But he must look back, and look back across an abyss. We may like or dislike the atmosphere of the modern world, with its intense interest in anything that is called psychological, and in much that is called psychical. We may think that speculation has gone more deep or that it has grown more morbid. We may like or dislike the religions of faith-healing or spirit-rapping; or a hundred other manifestations of the same mood, in fields quite remote from the supernatural or even the spiritual. We may like or dislike, for instance, that vast modern belief in “the power of suggestion” expressed in advertising or publicity and educational methods of all sorts. We may like or dislike the appeal to the non-rational element; the perpetual talk about the Sub-conscious Mind or the Race Memory or the Herd Instinct. We may deplore or we may admire all these developments. But we must fix it in our minds as a historical fact that to any one of the great ‘Infidels’ or Freethinkers of the eighteenth century, this whole modern world of ours would seem a mere madhouse. He might almost be driven, in pursuit of the reasonable, to take refuge in a monastery.
We are dealing therefore with an episode and even an interlude; though the man who likes it has as much right to say that it was an hour of happy daylight between the storms as a Christian has to say it of primitive Christianity or medieval Christendom. From about the time that Dryden died a Catholic to about the time that Newman began to write a little less like a Protestant, there was a period during which the spirit of philosophy filling men’s minds was not positively Protestant any more than it was positively Catholic. It was rationalist even in Protestants and Catholics; in a Catholic like Pope or a Protestant like Paley. But it can be seen at the clearest when the last clinging traditions or presences were dropped; when the most stolid specimen of the Protestant middle classes is found busily scribbling sneers in the footnotes and even the index of a great history of the Fall of Rome; when a brilliant pupil going forth out of the Jesuit seminary turns back over his shoulder the terrible face of Voltaire.
In order to exhibit the essential quality, let us first compare
the period with that which preceded it. Touching its historical causes,
no man with a sense of human complexity will offer anything but
contributory causes. But I think there are contributory causes
that have been strangely overlooked. On the face of it, it refers
back to the Renaissance, which refers back to the old pagan world.
On the face of it, it also refers back to the Reformation, though chiefly
in its negative aspect or branch in the old Christian world.
But both these things are connected with a third, that has not,
I think, been adequately realized. And that is a feeling which
can only be called futility. It arose out of the disproportion
between the dangers and agonies of the religious wars and the really
unreasonable compromise in which they ended;
The seventeenth century ended with a note of interrogation. Pope, the poet of reason, whom some thought too reasonable to be poetical, was once compared to a question mark, because he was a crooked little thing that asked questions. The seventeenth century was not little, but it was in some ways crooked, in the sense of crabbed. But anyhow it began with the ferocious controversies of the Puritans and it ended with a question. It was an open question, but it was also an open wound. It was not only that the end of the seventeenth century was of all epochs the most inconclusive. It was also, it must be remembered, inconclusive upon a point which people had always hoped to see concluded. To use the literal sense of the word ‘conclude’, they expected the wound to close. We naturally tend to miss this point today. We have had nearly four hundred years of divided Christianity and have grown used to it; and it is the Reunion of Christendom that we think of as the extraordinary event. But they still thought the Disunion of Christendom an extraordinary event. Neither side had ever really expected it to remain in a state of Disunion. All their traditions for a thousand years were of some sort of union coming out of controversy, ever since a united religion had spread all over a united Roman Empire. From a Protestant standpoint, the natural thing was for Protestantism to conquer Europe as Christianity had conquered Europe. In that case the success of the counter-Reformation would be only the last leap of a dying flame like the last stand of Julian the Apostate. From a Catholic standpoint the natural thing was for Catholicism to reconquer Europe, as it had more than once reconquered Europe; in that case the Protestant would be like the Albigensians: a passing element ultimately reabsorbed. But neither of these natural things happened. Prussia and the other Protestant principalities fought against Austria as the heir of the Holy Roman Empire in the Thirty Years War. They fought each other to a standstill. It was utterly and obviously hopeless to make Austria Protestant or Prussia Roman Catholic. And from the moment when that fact was realized the nature of the whole world was changed. The rock had been cloven and would not close up again, and in the crack or chasm a new sort of strange and prickly weed began to grow. The open wound festered.
We have all heard it said that the Renaissance was produced or precipitated by the Fall of Constantinople. It is true in a sense perhaps more subtle than is meant. It was not merely that it let loose the scholars from the Byzantine Court. It was also that it let loose the sceptical thoughts of the scholars, and of a good many other people when they saw this last turn of the tide in the interminable strife between Christ and Mahomet. The war between Islam and Christendom had been inconclusive. The war between the Reformation and the counter-Reformation was inconclusive. And I for one fancy that the former fact had a good deal to do with the full sceptical expansion of the eighteenth century. When men saw the Crescent and the Cross tossed up alternately as a juggler tosses balls, it was difficult for many not to think that one might be about as good or bad as the other when they saw the Protestant and the Catholic go up and down on the seesaw of the Thirty Years War. Many were disposed to suspect that it was six to one and half-a-dozen to the other. This addition involved an immense subtraction; and two religions came to much less than one. Many began to think that, as they could not both be true, they might both be false. When that thought had crossed the mind the reign of the rationalist had begun.
The thought, as an individual thought, had of course begun long before. It is, in fact, as old as the world; and it is quite obviously as old as the Renaissance. In that sense the father of the modern world is Montaigne; that detached and distinguished intelligence which, as Stevenson said, saw that men would soon find as much to quarrel with in the Bible as they had in the Church. Erasmus and Rabelais and even Cervantes had their part; but in these giants there was still a great gusto of subconscious conviction, still Christian; they mocked at the lives of men, but not at the life of man. But Montaigne was something more revolutionary than a revolutionist; he was a relativist. He would have told Cervantes that his knight was not far wrong in thinking puppets were men, since men are really puppets. He would have said that windmills were as much giants as anything else; and that giants would be dwarfs if set beside taller giants. This doubt, some would say this poison in its original purity, did begin to work under the surface of society from the time of Montaigne onwards and worked more and more towards the surface as the war of religions grew more and more inconclusive. There went with it a spirit that may truly be called humane. But we must always remember that even its refreshing humanity had a negative as well as a positive side. When people are no longer in the mood to be heroic, after all, it is only human to be humane. Some men were really tolerant, but others were merely tired. When people are tired of the subject, they generally agree to differ.
But against this clear mood, as against a quiet evening sky, there stood up the stark and dreadful outlines of the old dogmatic and militant institutions. Institutions are machines; they go on working under any sky and against any mood. And the clue to the next phase is the revolt against their revolting incongruity. The engines of war, the engines of torture, that had belonged to the violent crises of the old creeds, remained rigid and repellent; all the more mysterious for being old and sometimes even all the more hideous for being idle. Men in that mellow mood of doubt had no way of understanding the fanaticism and the martyrdom of their fathers. They knew nothing of medieval history or of what a united Christendon had once meant to men. They were like children horrified at the sight of a battlefield.
Take the determining example of the Spanish Inquisition. The Spanish Inquisition was Spy Fever. It produced the sort of horrors such fevers produce; to some extent even in modern wars. The Spaniards had reconquered Spain from Islam with a glowing endurance and defiance as great as any virtue ever shown by man; but they had the darker side of such warfare; they were always struggling to deracinate a Jewish plot which they believed to be always selling them to the enemy. Of this dark tale of perverted patriotism the humanitarians knew nothing. All they knew was that the Inquisition was still going on. And suddenly the great Voltaire rose up and shattered it with a hammer of savage laughter. It may seem strange to compare Voltaire to a child. But it is true that though he was right in hating and destroying it, he never knew what it was that he had destroyed.
There was born in that hour a certain spirit, which the Christian spirit should be large enough to cover and understand. In relation to many things it was healthy, though in relation to some things it was shallow. We may be allowed to associate it with the jolly uncle who does not believe in ghosts. It had an honourable expression in the squires and parsons who put down the persecution of witches. The uncle is not always just to Spiritualists; but he is rather a comfort on a dark night. The squire did not know all there is to know about diabolism, but he did stop many diabolical fears of diabolism. And if we are to understand history, that is humanity, we must sympathize with this breezy interlude in which it seemed natural for humanity to be humane.
The mention of the squire is not irrelevant; there was in that humanity something of unconscious aristocracy. One of the respects in which the rational epoch was immeasurably superior to our own was in the radiant patience with which it would follow a train of thought. But it is only fair to say that in this logic there was something of leisure, and indeed we must not forget how much of the first rational reform of the age came from above. It was a time of despots who were also deists or even, like Frederick the Great, practically atheists. But Frederick was sometimes humanitarian if he was never human. Joseph of Austria, offending his people by renouncing religious persecution, was very like a squire offending the village by repressing witch-burning. But in considering the virtues of the age, we must not forget that it had a very fine ideal of honourable poverty; the Stoic idea of Jefferson and Robespierre. It also believed in hard work, and worked very hard in the details of reform. A man like Bentham toiled with ceaseless tenacity in attacking abuse after abuse. But people hardly realized that his utilitarianism was creating the new troubles of Capitalism, any more than that Frederick of Prussia was making the problem of modern militarism.
Perhaps the perfect moment of every mortal thing is short, even of mortal things dealing with immortal, as was the best moment of the Early Church or the Middle Ages. Anyhow the best moment of rationalism was very short. Things always overlap, and Bentham and Jefferson inherited from something that had already passed its prime. Not for long did man remain in that state of really sane and sunny negation. For instance, having covered the period with the great name of Voltaire, I may well be expected to add the name of Rousseau. But even in passing from one name to the other, we feel a fine shade of change which is not mere progression. The rationalist movement is tinged with the romantic movement, which is to lead men back as well as forward. They are asked to believe in the General Will, that is the soul of the people; a mystery. By the time the French Revolution is passed, it is elemental that things are loose that have not been rationalized. Danton has said, “It is treason to the people to take away the dream”. Napoleon has been crowned, like Charlemagne, by a Pope. And when the dregs of Diderot’s bitterness were reached; when they dragged the Goddess of Reason in triumph through Notre Dame, the smouldering Gothic images could look down on that orgy more serenely then than when Voltaire began to write; awaiting their hour. The age was ended when these men thought it was beginning. Their own mystical maenad frenzy was enough to prove it: the goddess of Reason was dead.
One word may be added, to link up the age with many other ages. It will be noted that it is not true, as many suppose, that the rational attack on Christianity came from the modern discoveries in material science. It had already come, in a sense it had already come and gone, before these discoveries really began. They were pursued persistently partly through a tradition that already existed. But men were not rationalistic because they were scientists. Rather they became scientists because they were rationalists. Here as everywhere the soul of man went first, even when it denied itself.
anti religious thought
Anti-Religious Thought In The Eighteenth Century
By G.K. Chesterton
Originally a contribution to “An Outline of Christianity; the Story of our Civilization”. Vol. IV. Christianity and Modern Thought, 1926. The Waverley Book Co., London
Reprinted in “The Spice of Life”
The eclipse of Christian theology during the rationalist advance of the eighteenth century is one of the most interesting of historical episodes. In order to see it clearly, we must first realize that it was an episode and that it is now historical. It may be stating it too strongly to say that it is now dead; it is perhaps enough to say that it is now distant and yet distinct; that it is divided from our own time as much as any period of the past. Neither reason nor faith will ever die; for men would die if deprived of either. The wildest mystic uses his reason at some stage; if it be only by reasoning against reason. The most incisive sceptic has dogmas of his own; though when he is a very incisive sceptic, he has often forgotten what they are. Faith and reason are in this sense co-eternal; but as the words are popularly used, as loose labels for particular periods, the one is now almost as remote as the other. What was called the Age of Reason has vanished as completely as what are called the Ages of Faith.
It is essential to see this fact first, because if we do not see its limitations we do not see its outline. It has nothing to do with which period we prefer, or even which we think right. A rationalist is quite entitled to look back to the eighteenth century as a golden age of good sense, as the medievalist looks back to the thirteenth century as a golden age of good faith. But he must look back, and look back across an abyss. We may like or dislike the atmosphere of the modern world, with its intense interest in anything that is called psychological, and in much that is called psychical. We may think that speculation has gone more deep or that it has grown more morbid. We may like or dislike the religions of faith-healing or spirit-rapping; or a hundred other manifestations of the same mood, in fields quite remote from the supernatural or even the spiritual. We may like or dislike, for instance, that vast modern belief in “the power of suggestion” expressed in advertising or publicity and educational methods of all sorts. We may like or dislike the appeal to the non-rational element; the perpetual talk about the Sub-conscious Mind or the Race Memory or the Herd Instinct. We may deplore or we may admire all these developments. But we must fix it in our minds as a historical fact that to any one of the great ‘Infidels’ or Freethinkers of the eighteenth century, this whole modern world of ours would seem a mere madhouse. He might almost be driven, in pursuit of the reasonable, to take refuge in a monastery.
We are dealing therefore with an episode and even an interlude; though the man who likes it has as much right to say that it was an hour of happy daylight between the storms as a Christian has to say it of primitive Christianity or medieval Christendom. From about the time that Dryden died a Catholic to about the time that Newman began to write a little less like a Protestant, there was a period during which the spirit of philosophy filling men’s minds was not positively Protestant any more than it was positively Catholic. It was rationalist even in Protestants and Catholics; in a Catholic like Pope or a Protestant like Paley. But it can be seen at the clearest when the last clinging traditions or presences were dropped; when the most stolid specimen of the Protestant middle classes is found busily scribbling sneers in the footnotes and even the index of a great history of the Fall of Rome; when a brilliant pupil going forth out of the Jesuit seminary turns back over his shoulder the terrible face of Voltaire.
In order to exhibit the essential quality, let us first compare
the period with that which preceded it. Touching its historical causes,
no man with a sense of human complexity will offer anything but
contributory causes. But I think there are contributory causes
that have been strangely overlooked. On the face of it, it refers
back to the Renaissance, which refers back to the old pagan world.
On the face of it, it also refers back to the Reformation, though chiefly
in its negative aspect or branch in the old Christian world.
But both these things are connected with a third, that has not,
I think, been adequately realized. And that is a feeling which
can only be called futility. It arose out of the disproportion
between the dangers and agonies of the religious wars and the really
unreasonable compromise in which they ended;
pensiero antireligioso
Il pensiero antireligioso nel diciottesimo secolo
Di G.K. Chesterton
In origine un contributo a «An Outline of Cristianesimo; the Story of our Civilization», Vol. IV. Cristianesimo and Modern Thought, 1926. The Waverley Book Co., Londra
Ristampato in «The Spice of Life»
L’eclissi della teologia cristiana durante l’avanzata razionalista del Settecento è uno degli episodi storici più interessanti. Per vederla con chiarezza dobbiamo anzitutto renderci conto che fu un episodio e che ormai appartiene alla storia. Dire che è morta sarebbe forse dire troppo; basterà forse dire che è ormai lontana eppure distinta, separata dal nostro tempo quanto qualunque epoca del passato. Né la ragione né la fede moriranno mai, perché l’uomo morirebbe se privato dell’una o dell’altra. Il mistico più sfrenato usa a un certo punto la propria ragione, non fosse che per ragionare contro la ragione. Lo scettico più tagliente ha dogmi tutti suoi, benché, quando è scettico davvero tagliente, spesso abbia dimenticato quali siano. La fede e la ragione sono in questo senso coeterne; ma per come le due parole vengono usate dai più, quali vaghe etichette di determinate epoche, l’una è ormai quasi remota quanto l’altra. Ciò che fu chiamato l’Età della Ragione è svanito tanto completamente quanto ciò che chiamiamo le Età della Fede.
È essenziale cogliere prima di tutto questo fatto, perché se non ne vediamo i limiti non ne vediamo neppure il profilo. Non ha nulla a che fare con quale epoca preferiamo, e nemmeno con quale riteniamo giusta. Un razionalista ha pieno diritto di guardare al Settecento come a un’età dell’oro del buon senso, così come il medievalista guarda al Duecento come a un’età dell’oro della buona fede. Ma deve pur sempre guardare indietro, e guardare indietro attraverso un abisso. Può piacerci o non piacerci l’atmosfera del mondo moderno, col suo intenso interesse per tutto ciò che si dice psicologico, e per molto di ciò che si dice psichico. Possiamo ritenere che la speculazione sia andata più a fondo o che sia divenuta più morbosa. Possono piacerci o no le religioni della guarigione per fede o dello spiritismo, o cento altre manifestazioni del medesimo stato d’animo, in campi assai lontani dal soprannaturale o perfino dallo spirituale. Può piacerci o no, per esempio, quella vasta credenza moderna nel «potere della suggestione» espressa nella pubblicità o nella réclame e in ogni sorta di metodi educativi. Può piacerci o no il richiamo all’elemento non razionale, il perpetuo discorrere della Mente Subconscia o della Memoria della Razza o dell’Istinto del Gregge. Possiamo deplorare o ammirare tutti questi sviluppi. Ma dobbiamo fissarci in mente, come fatto storico, che a uno qualunque dei grandi ‘Infedeli’ o Liberi Pensatori del Settecento tutto questo nostro mondo moderno parrebbe un puro manicomio. Egli potrebbe quasi essere spinto, in cerca del ragionevole, a rifugiarsi in un monastero.
Abbiamo dunque a che fare con un episodio, anzi con un intermezzo; benché chi lo ama abbia lo stesso diritto di dire che fu un’ora di sereno tra le tempeste quanto un cristiano ha di dirlo del cristianesimo delle origini o della cristianità medievale. Dal tempo in cui Dryden morì cattolico fino press’a poco al tempo in cui Newman cominciò a scrivere un po’ meno da protestante, vi fu un periodo durante il quale lo spirito della filosofia che riempiva le menti degli uomini non era positivamente protestante più di quanto fosse positivamente cattolico. Era razionalista perfino nei protestanti e nei cattolici; in un cattolico come Pope o in un protestante come Paley. Ma lo si coglie con la massima chiarezza quando furono lasciate cadere le ultime tradizioni o presenze ancora aggrappate; quando il più imperturbabile esemplare della borghesia protestante lo si trova a scarabocchiare indaffarato i suoi sarcasmi nelle note a piè di pagina e persino nell’indice di una grande storia della Caduta di Roma; quando un brillante allievo, uscendo dal seminario dei gesuiti, volge indietro, al di sopra della spalla, il volto terribile di Voltaire.
Per metterne in luce la qualità essenziale, confrontiamo dapprima quel periodo con quello che lo precedette. Quanto alle sue cause storiche, nessuno che abbia il senso della complessità umana offrirà se non cause concomitanti. Ma credo che vi siano cause concomitanti stranamente trascurate. A prima vista, esso rimanda al Rinascimento, che a sua volta rimanda al vecchio mondo pagano. A prima vista rimanda anche alla Riforma, sebbene soprattutto nel suo aspetto o ramo negativo entro il vecchio mondo cristiano. Ma entrambe queste cose sono legate a una terza, che non è stata, credo, adeguatamente compresa. E cioè un sentimento che non si può chiamare se non futilità. Esso nacque dalla sproporzione tra i pericoli e le agonie delle guerre di religione e il compromesso davvero irragionevole in cui esse si conclusero;
The seventeenth century ended with a note of interrogation. Pope, the poet of reason, whom some thought too reasonable to be poetical, was once compared to a question mark, because he was a crooked little thing that asked questions. The seventeenth century was not little, but it was in some ways crooked, in the sense of crabbed. But anyhow it began with the ferocious controversies of the Puritans and it ended with a question. It was an open question, but it was also an open wound. It was not only that the end of the seventeenth century was of all epochs the most inconclusive. It was also, it must be remembered, inconclusive upon a point which people had always hoped to see concluded. To use the literal sense of the word ‘conclude’, they expected the wound to close. We naturally tend to miss this point today. We have had nearly four hundred years of divided Christianity and have grown used to it; and it is the Reunion of Christendom that we think of as the extraordinary event. But they still thought the Disunion of Christendom an extraordinary event. Neither side had ever really expected it to remain in a state of Disunion. All their traditions for a thousand years were of some sort of union coming out of controversy, ever since a united religion had spread all over a united Roman Empire. From a Protestant standpoint, the natural thing was for Protestantism to conquer Europe as Christianity had conquered Europe. In that case the success of the counter-Reformation would be only the last leap of a dying flame like the last stand of Julian the Apostate. From a Catholic standpoint the natural thing was for Catholicism to reconquer Europe, as it had more than once reconquered Europe; in that case the Protestant would be like the Albigensians: a passing element ultimately reabsorbed. But neither of these natural things happened. Prussia and the other Protestant principalities fought against Austria as the heir of the Holy Roman Empire in the Thirty Years War. They fought each other to a standstill. It was utterly and obviously hopeless to make Austria Protestant or Prussia Roman Catholic. And from the moment when that fact was realized the nature of the whole world was changed. The rock had been cloven and would not close up again, and in the crack or chasm a new sort of strange and prickly weed began to grow. The open wound festered.
We have all heard it said that the Renaissance was produced or precipitated by the Fall of Constantinople. It is true in a sense perhaps more subtle than is meant. It was not merely that it let loose the scholars from the Byzantine Court. It was also that it let loose the sceptical thoughts of the scholars, and of a good many other people when they saw this last turn of the tide in the interminable strife between Christ and Mahomet. The war between Islam and Christendom had been inconclusive. The war between the Reformation and the counter-Reformation was inconclusive. And I for one fancy that the former fact had a good deal to do with the full sceptical expansion of the eighteenth century. When men saw the Crescent and the Cross tossed up alternately as a juggler tosses balls, it was difficult for many not to think that one might be about as good or bad as the other when they saw the Protestant and the Catholic go up and down on the seesaw of the Thirty Years War. Many were disposed to suspect that it was six to one and half-a-dozen to the other. This addition involved an immense subtraction; and two religions came to much less than one. Many began to think that, as they could not both be true, they might both be false. When that thought had crossed the mind the reign of the rationalist had begun.
The thought, as an individual thought, had of course begun long before. It is, in fact, as old as the world; and it is quite obviously as old as the Renaissance. In that sense the father of the modern world is Montaigne; that detached and distinguished intelligence which, as Stevenson said, saw that men would soon find as much to quarrel with in the Bible as they had in the Church. Erasmus and Rabelais and even Cervantes had their part; but in these giants there was still a great gusto of subconscious conviction, still Christian; they mocked at the lives of men, but not at the life of man. But Montaigne was something more revolutionary than a revolutionist; he was a relativist. He would have told Cervantes that his knight was not far wrong in thinking puppets were men, since men are really puppets. He would have said that windmills were as much giants as anything else; and that giants would be dwarfs if set beside taller giants. This doubt, some would say this poison in its original purity, did begin to work under the surface of society from the time of Montaigne onwards and worked more and more towards the surface as the war of religions grew more and more inconclusive. There went with it a spirit that may truly be called humane. But we must always remember that even its refreshing humanity had a negative as well as a positive side. When people are no longer in the mood to be heroic, after all, it is only human to be humane. Some men were really tolerant, but others were merely tired. When people are tired of the subject, they generally agree to differ.
Il Seicento si chiuse con un punto interrogativo. Pope, il poeta della ragione, che alcuni giudicavano troppo ragionevole per essere poetico, fu una volta paragonato a un punto di domanda, perché era una piccola cosa storta che poneva domande. Il Seicento non fu piccolo, ma fu per certi versi storto, nel senso di arcigno. In ogni caso cominciò con le feroci controversie dei Puritani e finì con una domanda. Era una questione aperta, ma era anche una ferita aperta. Non solo la fine del Seicento fu, di tutte le epoche, la più inconcludente. Fu anche, va ricordato, inconcludente su un punto che gli uomini avevano sempre sperato di veder concluso. Per usare il senso letterale della parola ‘concludere’, si aspettavano che la ferita si chiudesse. Oggi tendiamo naturalmente a trascurare questo punto. Abbiamo alle spalle quasi quattrocento anni di cristianesimo diviso e ci siamo abituati; ed è la Riunione della cristianità che consideriamo l’evento straordinario. Ma essi ritenevano ancora la Disunione della cristianità un evento straordinario. Nessuna delle due parti si era mai davvero aspettata che rimanesse in stato di Disunione. Tutte le loro tradizioni, per mille anni, parlavano di una qualche unione che scaturisse dalla controversia, fin da quando una religione unita si era diffusa su un unito Impero Romano. Dal punto di vista protestante, la cosa naturale era che il protestantesimo conquistasse l’Europa come il cristianesimo aveva conquistato l’Europa. In tal caso il successo della Controriforma sarebbe stato soltanto l’ultimo guizzo di una fiamma morente, come l’ultima resistenza di Giuliano l’Apostata. Dal punto di vista cattolico, la cosa naturale era che il cattolicesimo riconquistasse l’Europa, come più d’una volta l’aveva riconquistata; in tal caso il protestante sarebbe stato come gli Albigesi: un elemento passeggero infine riassorbito. Ma nessuna di queste cose naturali accadde. La Prussia e gli altri principati protestanti combatterono contro l’Austria, erede del Sacro Romano Impero, nella Guerra dei Trent’anni. Si combatterono fino a un punto morto. Era del tutto e palesemente vano rendere l’Austria protestante o la Prussia cattolica. E dal momento in cui quel fatto fu compreso, la natura del mondo intero mutò. La roccia era stata spaccata e non si sarebbe più richiusa, e nella fenditura o voragine cominciò a crescere una nuova specie di erbaccia strana e spinosa. La ferita aperta suppurò.
Tutti abbiamo sentito dire che il Rinascimento fu prodotto o affrettato dalla Caduta di Costantinopoli. È vero in un senso forse più sottile di quanto si intenda. Non fu soltanto che liberò gli studiosi dalla Corte bizantina. Fu anche che liberò i pensieri scettici degli studiosi, e di parecchi altri, quando videro quest’ultima svolta della marea nell’interminabile lotta fra Cristo e Maometto. La guerra fra l’Islam e la cristianità era stata inconcludente. La guerra fra la Riforma e la Controriforma era inconcludente. E io, per parte mia, credo che il primo fatto abbia avuto molto a che vedere con la piena espansione scettica del Settecento. Quando gli uomini videro la Mezzaluna e la Croce lanciate in aria a turno come un giocoliere lancia le palle, fu difficile per molti non pensare che l’una potesse valere all’incirca quanto l’altra, nel bene o nel male, vedendo il protestante e il cattolico salire e scendere sull’altalena della Guerra dei Trent’anni. Molti erano inclini a sospettare che fosse sei contro uno e mezza dozzina contro l’altro. Questa addizione comportava un’immensa sottrazione; e due religioni finivano per valere assai meno di una. Molti cominciarono a pensare che, poiché non potevano essere entrambe vere, potevano essere entrambe false. Quando quel pensiero ebbe attraversato la mente, il regno del razionalista era cominciato.
Il pensiero, come pensiero individuale, era naturalmente cominciato assai prima. È, in effetti, vecchio quanto il mondo; ed è del tutto evidente che è vecchio quanto il Rinascimento. In questo senso il padre del mondo moderno è Montaigne; quell’intelligenza distaccata e distinta che, come disse Stevenson, vide come gli uomini avrebbero presto trovato nella Bibbia tanto da bisticciare quanto ne avevano trovato nella Chiesa. Erasmo e Rabelais e persino Cervantes ebbero la loro parte; ma in questi giganti vi era ancora un grande gusto di convinzione subconscia, ancora cristiana; deridevano le vite degli uomini, ma non la vita dell’uomo. Montaigne, però, fu qualcosa di più rivoluzionario di un rivoluzionario; fu un relativista. Avrebbe detto a Cervantes che il suo cavaliere non aveva poi tutti i torti a credere che i pupazzi fossero uomini, giacché gli uomini sono davvero pupazzi. Avrebbe detto che i mulini a vento erano giganti quanto qualsiasi altra cosa; e che i giganti sarebbero nani se posti accanto a giganti più alti. Questo dubbio, che taluni direbbero questo veleno nella sua originaria purezza, cominciò davvero a lavorare sotto la superficie della società dal tempo di Montaigne in poi, e affiorò sempre più verso la superficie via via che la guerra delle religioni si faceva sempre più inconcludente. Ad esso si accompagnava uno spirito che si può veramente dire umano. Ma dobbiamo sempre ricordare che perfino la sua rinfrescante umanità aveva un lato negativo altrettanto bene quanto positivo. Quando la gente non è più in vena di essere eroica, in fin dei conti, è solo umano essere umani. Alcuni uomini erano davvero tolleranti, ma altri erano semplicemente stanchi. Quando la gente è stanca dell’argomento, generalmente conviene di dissentire.
But against this clear mood, as against a quiet evening sky, there stood up the stark and dreadful outlines of the old dogmatic and militant institutions. Institutions are machines; they go on working under any sky and against any mood. And the clue to the next phase is the revolt against their revolting incongruity. The engines of war, the engines of torture, that had belonged to the violent crises of the old creeds, remained rigid and repellent; all the more mysterious for being old and sometimes even all the more hideous for being idle. Men in that mellow mood of doubt had no way of understanding the fanaticism and the martyrdom of their fathers. They knew nothing of medieval history or of what a united Christendon had once meant to men. They were like children horrified at the sight of a battlefield.
Take the determining example of the Spanish Inquisition. The Spanish Inquisition was Spy Fever. It produced the sort of horrors such fevers produce; to some extent even in modern wars. The Spaniards had reconquered Spain from Islam with a glowing endurance and defiance as great as any virtue ever shown by man; but they had the darker side of such warfare; they were always struggling to deracinate a Jewish plot which they believed to be always selling them to the enemy. Of this dark tale of perverted patriotism the humanitarians knew nothing. All they knew was that the Inquisition was still going on. And suddenly the great Voltaire rose up and shattered it with a hammer of savage laughter. It may seem strange to compare Voltaire to a child. But it is true that though he was right in hating and destroying it, he never knew what it was that he had destroyed.
There was born in that hour a certain spirit, which the Christian spirit should be large enough to cover and understand. In relation to many things it was healthy, though in relation to some things it was shallow. We may be allowed to associate it with the jolly uncle who does not believe in ghosts. It had an honourable expression in the squires and parsons who put down the persecution of witches. The uncle is not always just to Spiritualists; but he is rather a comfort on a dark night. The squire did not know all there is to know about diabolism, but he did stop many diabolical fears of diabolism. And if we are to understand history, that is humanity, we must sympathize with this breezy interlude in which it seemed natural for humanity to be humane.
The mention of the squire is not irrelevant; there was in that humanity something of unconscious aristocracy. One of the respects in which the rational epoch was immeasurably superior to our own was in the radiant patience with which it would follow a train of thought. But it is only fair to say that in this logic there was something of leisure, and indeed we must not forget how much of the first rational reform of the age came from above. It was a time of despots who were also deists or even, like Frederick the Great, practically atheists. But Frederick was sometimes humanitarian if he was never human. Joseph of Austria, offending his people by renouncing religious persecution, was very like a squire offending the village by repressing witch-burning. But in considering the virtues of the age, we must not forget that it had a very fine ideal of honourable poverty; the Stoic idea of Jefferson and Robespierre. It also believed in hard work, and worked very hard in the details of reform. A man like Bentham toiled with ceaseless tenacity in attacking abuse after abuse. But people hardly realized that his utilitarianism was creating the new troubles of Capitalism, any more than that Frederick of Prussia was making the problem of modern militarism.
Perhaps the perfect moment of every mortal thing is short, even of mortal things dealing with immortal, as was the best moment of the Early Church or the Middle Ages. Anyhow the best moment of rationalism was very short. Things always overlap, and Bentham and Jefferson inherited from something that had already passed its prime. Not for long did man remain in that state of really sane and sunny negation. For instance, having covered the period with the great name of Voltaire, I may well be expected to add the name of Rousseau. But even in passing from one name to the other, we feel a fine shade of change which is not mere progression. The rationalist movement is tinged with the romantic movement, which is to lead men back as well as forward. They are asked to believe in the General Will, that is the soul of the people; a mystery. By the time the French Revolution is passed, it is elemental that things are loose that have not been rationalized. Danton has said, “It is treason to the people to take away the dream”. Napoleon has been crowned, like Charlemagne, by a Pope. And when the dregs of Diderot’s bitterness were reached; when they dragged the Goddess of Reason in triumph through Notre Dame, the smouldering Gothic images could look down on that orgy more serenely then than when Voltaire began to write; awaiting their hour. The age was ended when these men thought it was beginning. Their own mystical maenad frenzy was enough to prove it: the goddess of Reason was dead.
Ma contro questo umore sereno, come contro un quieto cielo serale, si ergevano i profili nudi e spaventosi delle antiche istituzioni dogmatiche e militanti. Le istituzioni sono macchine; continuano a funzionare sotto qualunque cielo e contro qualunque umore. E la chiave della fase successiva sta nella rivolta contro la loro rivoltante incongruità. Le macchine della guerra, le macchine della tortura, che erano appartenute alle violente crisi delle antiche fedi, rimanevano rigide e repellenti; tanto più misteriose perché vecchie e talora persino tanto più orrende perché inattive. Gli uomini, in quell’umore blando di dubbio, non avevano modo di comprendere il fanatismo e il martirio dei loro padri. Non sapevano nulla della storia medievale né di ciò che una cristianità unita aveva un tempo significato per gli uomini. Erano come bambini inorriditi alla vista di un campo di battaglia.
Si prenda l’esempio determinante dell’Inquisizione spagnola. L’Inquisizione spagnola fu una febbre di spie. Produsse quel genere di orrori che simili febbri producono; in una certa misura persino nelle guerre moderne. Gli spagnoli avevano riconquistato la Spagna all’Islam con una tenacia ardente e una sfida grandi quanto qualsiasi virtù mai mostrata dall’uomo; ma avevano il lato più oscuro di simili guerre: erano sempre affannati a sradicare un complotto ebraico che credevano intento di continuo a venderli al nemico. Di questa cupa vicenda di patriottismo pervertito gli umanitari non sapevano nulla. Tutto ciò che sapevano era che l’Inquisizione era ancora in atto. E d’un tratto il grande Voltaire si levò e la fracassò con un martello di riso selvaggio. Può parere strano paragonare Voltaire a un fanciullo. Eppure è vero che, per quanto avesse ragione a odiarla e a distruggerla, non seppe mai che cosa avesse distrutto.
Nacque in quell’ora un certo spirito, che lo spirito cristiano dovrebbe essere abbastanza ampio da contenere e comprendere. Rispetto a molte cose era sano, benché rispetto ad alcune fosse superficiale. Ci sia concesso associarlo al gioviale zio che non crede ai fantasmi. Ebbe un’onorevole espressione negli squire e nei parroci che posero fine alla persecuzione delle streghe. Lo zio non è sempre giusto verso gli spiritisti; ma è pur sempre un conforto in una notte buia. Lo squire non sapeva tutto ciò che c’è da sapere sul diabolismo, ma pose fine a molti timori diabolici del diabolismo. E se vogliamo comprendere la storia, vale a dire l’umanità, dobbiamo simpatizzare con questo arioso intermezzo in cui parve naturale per l’umanità essere umana.
La menzione dello squire non è irrilevante; vi era in quella umanità qualcosa di aristocrazia inconsapevole. Uno degli aspetti per cui l’epoca razionale fu incommensurabilmente superiore alla nostra fu la raggiante pazienza con cui sapeva seguire un filo di pensiero. Ma è giusto dire che in questa logica vi era qualcosa di ozioso, e in verità non dobbiamo dimenticare quanta parte della prima riforma razionale dell’epoca venisse dall’alto. Fu un’epoca di despoti che erano anche deisti o addirittura, come Federico il Grande, praticamente atei. Ma Federico era talvolta umanitario, se pure non fu mai umano. Giuseppe d’Austria, offendendo il suo popolo col rinunciare alla persecuzione religiosa, somigliava assai a uno squire che offende il villaggio reprimendo i roghi delle streghe. Ma nel considerare le virtù dell’epoca, non dobbiamo dimenticare che essa ebbe un ideale assai bello di onorevole povertà; l’idea stoica di Jefferson e Robespierre. Credeva anche nel duro lavoro, e lavorò sodo nei dettagli della riforma. Un uomo come Bentham si affaticò con incessante tenacia attaccando un abuso dopo l’altro. Ma la gente a stento si avvedeva che il suo utilitarismo stava creando i nuovi guai del Capitalismo, non più di quanto Federico di Prussia stesse creando il problema del militarismo moderno.
Forse il momento perfetto di ogni cosa mortale è breve, anche delle cose mortali che hanno a che fare con l’immortale, come fu il momento migliore della Chiesa primitiva o del Medioevo. In ogni caso il momento migliore del razionalismo fu assai breve. Le cose sempre si sovrappongono, e Bentham e Jefferson ereditarono da qualcosa che aveva già oltrepassato il proprio apice. Non a lungo l’uomo rimase in quello stato di negazione davvero sana e solare. Per esempio, avendo coperto il periodo col grande nome di Voltaire, ci si potrà ben aspettare che io aggiunga il nome di Rousseau. Ma già nel passare dall’uno all’altro nome avvertiamo una sottile sfumatura di mutamento che non è mera progressione. Il movimento razionalista è tinto del movimento romantico, che deve ricondurre gli uomini indietro altrettanto bene quanto in avanti. Si chiede loro di credere nella Volontà Generale, cioè nell’anima del popolo; un mistero. Ormai passato il tempo della Rivoluzione francese, è elementare che siano allo stato brado le cose che non sono state razionalizzate. Danton ha detto: «È tradimento verso il popolo togliergli il sogno». Napoleone è stato incoronato, come Carlomagno, da un Papa. E quando si toccò la feccia dell’amarezza di Diderot; quando trascinarono in trionfo la Dea della Ragione per Notre Dame, le fumanti immagini gotiche poterono contemplare quell’orgia più serenamente allora di quando Voltaire cominciò a scrivere, in attesa della loro ora. L’epoca era finita quando quegli uomini credevano stesse cominciando. Bastava a provarlo la loro stessa mistica frenesia da menadi: la dea della Ragione era morta.
One word may be added, to link up the age with many other ages. It will be noted that it is not true, as many suppose, that the rational attack on Christianity came from the modern discoveries in material science. It had already come, in a sense it had already come and gone, before these discoveries really began. They were pursued persistently partly through a tradition that already existed. But men were not rationalistic because they were scientists. Rather they became scientists because they were rationalists. Here as everywhere the soul of man went first, even when it denied itself.
Si può aggiungere una parola, a collegare l’epoca con molte altre epoche. Si noterà che non è vero, come molti suppongono, che l’attacco razionale al Cristianesimo sia venuto dalle scoperte moderne della scienza materiale. Esso era già venuto, in un certo senso era già venuto e passato, prima che quelle scoperte davvero cominciassero. Furono perseguite con ostinazione in parte grazie a una tradizione che già esisteva. Ma gli uomini non erano razionalisti perché erano scienziati. Piuttosto divennero scienziati perché erano razionalisti. Qui come ovunque l’anima dell’uomo andò per prima, anche quando negava se stessa.