Introduction

It might seem that about Blaise Pascal, and about the two works on which his fame is founded, everything that there is to say had been said. The details of his life are as fully known as we can expect to know them; his mathematical and physical discoveries have been treated many times; his religious sentiment and his theological views have been discussed again and again; and his prose style has been analysed by French critics down to the finest particular. But Pascal is one of those writers who will be and who must be studied afresh by men in every generation. It is not he who changes, but we who change. It is not our knowledge of him that increases, but our world that alters and our attitudes towards it. The history of human opinions of Pascal and of men of his stature is a part of the history of humanity. That indicates his permanent importance.

It might seem that everything there is to say had already been said about Blaise Pascal, and about the two works his fame rests on. The details of his life are as fully known as we can expect to know them. His mathematical and physical discoveries have been treated many times. His religious feeling and his theological views have been discussed again and again. French critics have analyzed his prose style down to the finest detail. But Pascal is one of those writers whom people in every generation will study afresh, and must study afresh. It is not he who changes, but we who change. Our knowledge of him does not increase. Rather, our world alters, and so do our attitudes toward it. The history of human opinions about Pascal, and about men of his stature, is part of the history of humanity. That shows his permanent importance.

The facts of Pascal's life, so far as they are necessary for this brief introduction to the Pensées, are as follows. He was born at Clermont, in Auvergne, in 1623. His family were people of substance of the upper middle class. His father was a government official, who was able to leave, when he died, a sufficient patrimony to his one son and his two daughters. In 1631 the father moved to Paris, and a few years later took up another government post at Rouen. Wherever he lived, the elder Pascal seems to have mingled with some of the best society, and with men of eminence in science and the arts. Blaise was educated entirely by his father at home. He was exceedingly precocious, indeed excessively precocious, for his application to studies in childhood and adolescence impaired his health, and is held responsible for his death at thirty-nine. Prodigious, though not incredible stories are preserved, especially of his precocity in mathematics. His mind was active rather than accumulative; he showed from his earliest years that disposition to find things out for himself, which has characterised the infancy of Clerk-Maxwell and other scientists. Of his later discoveries in physics there is no need for mention here; it must only be remembered that he counts as one of the greatest physicists and mathematicians of all time; and that his discoveries were made during the years when most scientists are still apprentices.

The facts of Pascal's life, as far as this brief introduction to the Pensées needs them, are as follows. He was born at Clermont, in Auvergne, in 1623. His family were people of means, from the upper middle class. His father was a government official. When he died, he was able to leave a sufficient inheritance to his one son and his two daughters. In 1631 the father moved to Paris. A few years later he took another government post at Rouen. Wherever he lived, the elder Pascal seems to have mixed with some of the best society, and with eminent men in science and the arts. Blaise was educated entirely by his father at home. He was extremely precocious, indeed excessively so, because his study in childhood and adolescence damaged his health. That study is held responsible for his death at thirty-nine. Astonishing, though not incredible, stories survive, especially of his early gifts in mathematics. His mind was active rather than accumulative. From his earliest years he showed the urge to find things out for himself, which also marked the childhood of Clerk-Maxwell and other scientists. His later discoveries in physics need no mention here. We need only remember that he counts as one of the greatest physicists and mathematicians of all time. He made his discoveries during the years when most scientists are still apprentices.

The elder Pascal, Étienne, was a sincere Christian. About 1646 he fell in with some representatives of the religious revival within the Church which has become known as Jansenism—after Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres, whose theological work is taken as the origin of the movement. This period is usually spoken of as the moment of Pascal's "first conversion." The word "conversion," however, is too forcible to be applied at this point to Blaise Pascal himself. The family had always been devout, and the younger Pascal, though absorbed in his scientific work, never seems to have been afflicted with infidelity. His attention was then directed, certainly, to religious and theological matters; but the term "conversion" can only be applied to his sisters—the elder, already Madame Périer, and particularly the younger, Jacqueline, who at that time conceived a vocation for the religious life. Pascal himself was by no means disposed to renounce the world. After the death of the father in 1650 Jacqueline, a young woman of remarkable strength and beauty of character, wished to take her vows as a sister of Port-Royal, and for some time her wish remained unfulfilled owing to the opposition of her brother. His objection was on the purely worldly ground that she wished to make over her patrimony to the Order; whereas while she lived with him, their combined resources made it possible for him to live more nearly on a scale of expense congenial to his tastes. He liked, in fact, not only to mix with the best society, but to keep a coach and horses—six horses is the number at one time attributed to his carriage. Though he had no legal power to prevent his sister from disposing of her property as she elected, the amiable Jacqueline shrank from doing so without her brother's willing approval. The Mother Superior, Mère Angélique—herself an eminent personage in the history of this religious movement—finally persuaded the young novice to enter the order without the satisfaction of bringing her patrimony with her; but Jacqueline remained so distressed by this situation that her brother finally relented.

The elder Pascal, Étienne, was a sincere Christian. Around 1646 he came into contact with some representatives of a religious revival within the Church. This revival has become known as Jansenism, after Jansenius, Bishop of Ypres. His theological work is taken as the origin of the movement. This period is usually called the moment of Pascal's "first conversion." However, the word "conversion" is too strong to apply to Blaise Pascal himself at this point. The family had always been devout. The younger Pascal, though absorbed in his scientific work, never seems to have suffered from unbelief. His attention was certainly turned then to religious and theological matters. But the term "conversion" can only be applied to his sisters. These were the elder, already Madame Périer, and especially the younger, Jacqueline, who at that time felt a calling to the religious life. Pascal himself was by no means inclined to give up the world. After their father died in 1650, Jacqueline wished to take her vows as a sister of Port-Royal. She was a young woman of remarkable strength and beauty of character. For some time her wish went unfulfilled because her brother opposed it. His objection rested on purely worldly grounds. She wished to give her inheritance to the Order. But while she lived with him, their combined resources let him live more nearly at the level of expense that suited his tastes. In fact, he liked not only to mix with the best society but also to keep a coach and horses. At one time his carriage was said to have six horses. He had no legal power to stop his sister from disposing of her property as she chose. Yet the amiable Jacqueline shrank from doing so without her brother's willing approval. The Mother Superior, Mère Angélique, was herself an eminent figure in the history of this religious movement. She finally persuaded the young novice to enter the order without the satisfaction of bringing her inheritance with her. But Jacqueline remained so distressed by this situation that her brother finally relented.

So far as is known, the worldly life enjoyed by Pascal during this period can hardly be qualified as "dissipation," and certainly not as "debauchery." Even gambling may have appealed to him chiefly as affording a study of mathematical probabilities. He appears to have led such a life as any cultivated intellectual man of good position and independent means might lead and consider himself a model of probity and virtue. Not even a love-affair is laid at his door, though he is said to have contemplated marriage. But Jansenism, as represented by the religious society of Port-Royal, was morally a Puritan movement within the Church, and its standards of conduct were at least as severe as those of any Puritanism in England or America. The period of fashionable society, in Pascal's life, is however, of great importance in his development. It enlarged his knowledge of men and refined his tastes; he became a man of the world and never lost what he had learnt; and when he turned his thoughts wholly towards religion, his worldly knowledge was a part of his composition which is essential to the value of his work.

As far as is known, the worldly life Pascal enjoyed during this period can hardly be called "dissipation," and certainly not "debauchery." Even gambling may have appealed to him chiefly as a way to study mathematical probabilities. He seems to have led the kind of life any cultivated, intellectual man of good position and independent means might lead. Such a man might lead it and still consider himself a model of integrity and virtue. Not even a love affair is laid at his door, though he is said to have considered marriage. But Jansenism, as represented by the religious community of Port-Royal, was morally a Puritan movement within the Church. Its standards of conduct were at least as severe as those of any Puritanism in England or America. The period of fashionable society in Pascal's life is, however, of great importance in his development. It enlarged his knowledge of men and refined his tastes. He became a man of the world and never lost what he had learned. When he turned his thoughts wholly toward religion, his worldly knowledge was part of his makeup. That knowledge is essential to the value of his work.

Pascal's interest in society did not distract him from scientific research; nor did this period occupy much space in what is a very short and crowded life. Partly his natural dissatisfaction with such a life, once he had learned all it had to teach him, partly the influence of his saintly sister Jacqueline, partly increasing suffering as his health declined, directed him more and more out of the world and to thoughts of eternity. And in 1654 occurs what is called his "second conversion," but which might be called his conversion simply.

Pascal's interest in society did not distract him from scientific research. This period also did not take up much of his short and busy life. He became more and more withdrawn from the world and turned to thoughts of eternity. Partly this was due to his natural dissatisfaction with that life after he had learned all it could teach him. Partly it was the influence of his saintly sister, Jacqueline. Partly it was the result of increasing suffering as his health declined. In 1654 what is called his "second conversion" occurred. It might simply be called his conversion.

He made a note of his mystical experience, which he kept always about him, and which was found, after his death, sewn into the coat which he was wearing. The experience occurred on 23 November, 1654, and there is no reason to doubt its genuineness unless we choose to deny all mystical experience. Now, Pascal was not a mystic, and his works are not to be classified amongst mystical writings; but what can only be called mystical experience happens to many men who do not become mystics. The work which he undertook soon after, the Lettres écrites à un provincial, is a masterpiece of religious controversy at the opposite pole from mysticism. We know quite well that he was at the time when he received his illumination from God in extremely poor health; but it is a commonplace that some forms of illness are extremely favourable, not only to religious illumination, but to artistic and literary composition. A piece of writing meditated, apparently without progress, for months or years, may suddenly take shape and word; and in this state long passages may be produced which require little or no retouch. I have no good word to say for the cultivation of automatic writing as the model of literary composition; I doubt whether these moments can be cultivated by the writer; but he to whom this happens assuredly has the sensation of being a vehicle rather than a maker. No masterpiece can be produced whole by such means; but neither does even the higher form of religious inspiration suffice for the religious life; even the most exalted mystic must return to the world, and use his reason to employ the results of his experience in daily life. You may call it communion with the Divine, or you may call it a temporary crystallisation of the mind. Until science can teach us to reproduce such phenomena at will, science cannot claim to have explained them; and they can be judged only by their fruits.

He made a note of his mystical experience and always kept it with him. After his death it was found sewn into the coat he was wearing. The experience happened on 23 November 1654. There is no reason to doubt that it was genuine, unless we choose to deny all mystical experience. Now, Pascal was not a mystic, and his works are not to be classed among mystical writings. But what can only be called mystical experience happens to many men who do not become mystics. The work he took up soon after, the Lettres écrites à un provincial, is a masterpiece of religious controversy. It stands at the opposite pole from mysticism. We know well that when he received his illumination from God, he was in extremely poor health. But it is a commonplace that some forms of illness are extremely favorable to religious illumination. They are also favorable to artistic and literary composition. A piece of writing may be pondered for months or years, apparently without progress. Then it may suddenly take shape and find its words. In this state long passages may be produced that need little or no retouching. I have no good word to say for cultivating automatic writing as the model of literary composition. I doubt whether the writer can cultivate these moments. But the one to whom this happens certainly has the sensation of being a vehicle rather than a maker. No masterpiece can be produced whole by such means. But neither does even the higher form of religious inspiration suffice for the religious life. Even the most exalted mystic must return to the world. He must use his reason to put the results of his experience to work in daily life. You may call it communion with the Divine, or you may call it a temporary crystallization of the mind. Until science can teach us to reproduce such things at will, science cannot claim to have explained them. They can be judged only by their fruits.

From that time until his death, Pascal was closely associated with the society of Port-Royal which his sister Jacqueline, who predeceased him, had joined as a religieuse; the society was then fighting for its life against the Jesuits. Five propositions, judged by a committee of cardinals and theologians at Rome to be heretical, were found to be put forward in the work of Jansenius; and the society of Port-Royal, the representative of Jansenism among devotional communities, suffered a blow from which it never revived. It is not the place here to review the bitter controversy and conflict; the best account, from the point of view of a critic of genius who took no side, who was neither Jansenist nor Jesuit, Christian nor infidel, is that in the great book of Sainte-Beuve, Port-Royal. And in this book the parts devoted to Pascal himself are among the most brilliant pages of criticism that Sainte-Beuve ever wrote. It is sufficient to notice that the next occupation of Pascal, after his conversion, was to write these eighteen "Letters," which as prose are of capital importance in the foundation of French classical style, and which as polemic are surpassed by none, not by Demosthenes, or Cicero, or Swift. They have the limitation of all polemic and forensic: they persuade, they seduce, they are unfair. But it is also unfair to assert that, in these Letters to a Provincial, Pascal was attacking the Society of Jesus in itself. He was attacking rather a particular school of casuistry which relaxed the requirements of the Confessional; a school which certainly flourished amongst the Society of Jesus at that time, and of which the Spaniards Escobar and Molina are the most eminent authorities. He undoubtedly abused the art of quotation, as a polemical writer can hardly help but do; but there were abuses for him to abuse; and he did the job thoroughly. His Letters must not be called theology. Academic theology was not a department in which Pascal was versed; when necessary, the fathers of Port-Royal came to his aid. The Letters are the work of one of the finest mathematical minds of any time, and of a man of the world who addressed, not theologians, but the world in general—all of the cultivated and many of the less cultivated of the French laity; and with this public they made an astonishing success.

From that time until his death, Pascal was closely associated with the society of Port-Royal. His sister Jacqueline, who died before him, had joined it as a religieuse. The society was then fighting for its life against the Jesuits. A committee of cardinals and theologians in Rome judged five propositions in Jansenius's work to be heretical. The society of Port-Royal, the representative of Jansenism among devotional communities, suffered a blow from which it never recovered. It is not the place here to review the bitter controversy. The best account is in Sainte-Beuve's great book, Port-Royal. He wrote as a critic of genius who took no side. He was neither Jansenist nor Jesuit, neither Christian nor infidel. In that book, the parts about Pascal are among Sainte-Beuve's most brilliant pages of criticism. It is enough to note that after his conversion, Pascal's next major work was these eighteen Letters. As prose they are crucial to the foundation of French classical style. As polemic they are unsurpassed. Not even Demosthenes, Cicero, or Swift surpass them. They have the limitations of all polemic and forensic writing. They persuade. They seduce. They are unfair. But it would be unfair to claim that in these Letters to a Provincial, Pascal attacked the Society of Jesus itself. He attacked a particular school of casuistry that relaxed Confessional requirements. That school certainly flourished among the Society of Jesus at that time. The Spaniards Escobar and Molina were its most prominent authorities. He undoubtedly abused the art of quotation, as a polemical writer can hardly avoid. But there were real abuses for him to expose. He did the job thoroughly. His Letters must not be called theology. He was not versed in academic theology. When he needed help, the fathers of Port-Royal assisted him. The Letters are the work of one of the finest mathematical minds ever. They are also the work of a man of the world. He addressed not theologians, but the general public. He spoke to the cultivated and to many less cultivated members of the French laity. With that audience, the Letters were an astonishing success.

During this time Pascal never wholly abandoned his scientific interests. Though in his religious writings he composed slowly and painfully, and revised often, in matters of mathematics his mind seemed to move with consummate natural ease and grace. Discoveries and inventions sprang from his brain without effort; among the minor devices of this later period, the first omnibus service in Paris is said to owe its origin to his inventiveness. But rapidly failing health, and absorption in the great work he had in mind, left him little time and energy during the last two years of his life.

During this time Pascal never completely gave up his scientific interests. He wrote his religious works slowly and painfully. He revised them often. In mathematics his mind seemed to work with effortless ease and grace. Discoveries and inventions seemed to come from him without effort. Among smaller inventions from that later period was the first omnibus service in Paris. People say it came from his inventiveness. But his health failed quickly. He was absorbed in a great work he planned. This left him little time or energy in the last two years of his life.

The plan of what we call the Pensées formed itself about 1660. The completed book was to have been a carefully constructed defence of Christianity, a true Apology and a kind of Grammar of Assent, setting forth the reasons which will convince the intellect. As I have indicated before, Pascal was not a theologian, and on dogmatic theology had recourse to his spiritual advisers. Nor was he indeed a systematic philosopher. He was a man with an immense genius for science, and at the same time a natural psychologist and moralist. As he was a great literary artist, his book would have been also his own spiritual autobiography; his style, free from all diminishing idiosyncrasies, was yet very personal. Above all, he was a man of strong passions; and his intellectual passion for truth was reinforced by his passionate dissatisfaction with human life unless a spiritual explanation could be found.

The plan for what we call the Pensées took shape around 1660. The finished book was meant to be a carefully built defense of Christianity. It would be a true Apology and a kind of Grammar of Assent. It would present reasons meant to convince the intellect. As I have said before, Pascal was not a theologian. On matters of dogmatic theology he relied on his spiritual advisers. He was not a systematic philosopher either. He had an immense genius for science. At the same time he was a natural psychologist and moralist. As a great literary artist, the book would also have been his spiritual autobiography. His style avoided distracting mannerisms, yet remained very personal. Above all, he was a man of strong passions. His intellectual passion for truth was reinforced by a deep dissatisfaction with human life unless there was a spiritual explanation.

We must regard the Pensées as merely the first notes for a work which he left far from completion; we have, in Sainte-Beuve's words, a tower of which the stones have been laid on each other, but not cemented, and the structure unfinished. In early years his memory had been amazingly retentive of anything that he wished to remember; and had it not been impaired by increasing illness and pain, he probably would not have been obliged to set down these notes at all. But taking the book as it is left to us, we still find that it occupies a unique place in the history of French literature and in the history of religious meditation.

We should view the Pensées as only the first notes for a work he left far from finished. As Sainte-Beuve put it, it is like a tower where the stones are laid on top of each other. They are not cemented. The structure is incomplete. In his early years his memory held whatever he wanted to remember with extraordinary precision. His memory was later weakened by growing illness and pain. Otherwise he probably would not have needed to write these notes. Still, if we accept the book as he left it, we find it holds a unique place. It occupies an important position in the history of French literature and in the history of religious meditation.

To understand the method which Pascal employs, the reader must be prepared to follow the process of the mind of the intelligent believer. The Christian thinker—and I mean the man who is trying consciously and conscientiously to explain to himself the sequence which culminated in faith, rather than the public apologist—proceeds by rejection and elimination. He finds the world to be so and so; he finds its character inexplicable by any non-religious theory; among religions he finds Christianity, and Catholic Christianity, to account most satisfactorily for the world and especially for the moral world within; and thus, by what Newman calls "powerful and concurrent" reasons, he finds himself inexorably committed to the dogma of the Incarnation. To the unbeliever, this method seems disingenuous and perverse; for the unbeliever is, as a rule, not so greatly troubled to explain the world to himself, nor so greatly distressed by its disorder; nor is he generally concerned (in modern terms) to "preserve values." He does not consider that if certain emotional states, certain developments of character, and what in the highest sense can be called "saintliness" are inherently and by inspection known to be good, then the satisfactory explanation of the world must be an explanation which will admit the "reality" of these values. Nor does he consider such reasoning admissible; he would, so to speak, trim his values according to his cloth, because to him such values are of no great value. The unbeliever starts from the other end, and as likely as not with the question: Is a case of human parthenogenesis credible? and this he would call going straight to the heart of the matter. Now Pascal's method is, on the whole, the method natural and right for the Christian; and the opposite method is that taken by Voltaire. It is worth while to remember that Voltaire, in his attempt to refute Pascal, has given once and for all the type of such refutation; and that later opponents of Pascal's Apology for the Christian Faith have contributed little beyond psychological irrelevancies. For Voltaire has presented, better than any one since, what is the unbelieving point of view; and in the end we must all choose for ourselves between one point of view and another.

To understand Pascal's method, the reader must be ready to follow the thinking of an intelligent believer. By "Christian thinker" I mean someone who tries, consciously and conscientiously, to explain to himself the sequence that led to faith. I do not mean the public apologist. Such a thinker proceeds by rejection and elimination. He observes the world as it is and finds its nature cannot be explained by any nonreligious theory. Among religions, he finds Christianity, especially Catholic Christianity, explains the world best. This is truer for the moral world inside people. By what Newman called "powerful and concurrent" reasons, he feels inevitably committed to the dogma of the Incarnation. To the unbeliever, this method seems disingenuous and perverse. The unbeliever is generally not so troubled to explain the world to himself, nor so distressed by its disorder. He is usually not concerned, in modern terms, with "preserving values." He does not accept the argument that if certain emotional states, character developments, and what can truly be called "saintliness" are obviously good, then a satisfactory explanation of the world must allow the reality of these values. Nor does he find such reasoning acceptable. He would, so to speak, trim his values to fit his circumstances, because to him those values are not very valuable. The unbeliever starts from the opposite end. He is likely to begin with a question like, "Is human parthenogenesis credible?" He would call that going straight to the heart of the matter. Pascal's method is, on the whole, the natural and right method for the Christian. The opposite method was taken by Voltaire. It is worth remembering that Voltaire, in trying to refute Pascal, gave once and for all the model of that kind of refutation. Later opponents of Pascal's Apology for the Christian Faith added little beyond psychological irrelevancies. Voltaire presented the unbelieving point of view better than anyone since. In the end, we must all choose between one point of view and another.

I have said above that Pascal's method is "on the whole" that of the typical Christian apologist; and this reservation was directed at Pascal's belief in miracles, which plays a larger part in his construction than it would in that, at least, of the modern liberal Catholic. It would seem fantastic to accept Christianity because we first believe the Gospel miracles to be true, and it would seem impious to accept it primarily because we believe more recent miracles to be true; we accept the miracles, or some miracles, to be true because we believe the Gospel of Jesus Christ: we found our belief in the miracles on the Gospel, not our belief in the Gospel on the miracles. But it must be remembered that Pascal had been deeply impressed by a contemporary miracle, known as the miracle of the Holy Thorn: a thorn reputed to have been preserved from the Crown of Our Lord was pressed upon an ulcer which quickly healed. Sainte-Beuve, who as a medical man felt himself on solid ground, discusses fully the possible explanation of this apparent miracle. It is true that the miracle happened at Port-Royal, and that it arrived opportunely to revive the depressed spirits of the community in its political afflictions; and it is likely that Pascal was the more inclined to believe a miracle which was performed upon his beloved sister. In any case, it probably led him to assign a place to miracles, in his study of faith, which is not quite that which we should give to them ourselves.

I said above that Pascal's method is "on the whole" that of the typical Christian apologist. This reservation was aimed at Pascal's belief in miracles. That belief plays a larger part in his argument than it would, at least, in that of the modern liberal Catholic. It would seem fantastic to accept Christianity because we first believe the Gospel miracles to be true. It would seem impious to accept it mainly because we believe more recent miracles to be true. We accept the miracles, or some miracles, as true because we believe the Gospel of Jesus Christ. We base our belief in the miracles on the Gospel, not our belief in the Gospel on the miracles. But we must remember that Pascal had been deeply impressed by a miracle of his own time, known as the miracle of the Holy Thorn. A thorn said to have been preserved from the Crown of Our Lord was pressed on an ulcer, which quickly healed. Sainte-Beuve, who as a medical man felt himself on solid ground, fully discusses the possible explanation of this apparent miracle. It is true that the miracle happened at Port-Royal. It is also true that it came at a timely moment to revive the community's low spirits in its political troubles. And it is likely that Pascal was all the more inclined to believe a miracle performed on his beloved sister. In any case, it probably led him to give miracles a place in his study of faith that is not quite the one we would give them ourselves.

Now the great adversary against whom Pascal set himself, from the time of his first conversations with M. de Saci at Port-Royal, was Montaigne. One cannot destroy Pascal, certainly; but of all authors Montaigne is one of the least destructible. You could as well dissipate a fog by flinging hand-grenades into it. For Montaigne is a fog, a gas, a fluid, insidious element. He does not reason, he insinuates, charms, and influences; or if he reasons, you must be prepared for his having some other design upon you than to convince you by his argument. It is hardly too much to say that Montaigne is the most essential author to know, if we would understand the course of French thought during the last three hundred years. In every way, the influence of Montaigne was repugnant to the men of Port-Royal. Pascal studied him with the intention of demolishing him. Yet, in the Pensées, at the very end of his life, we find passage after passage, and the slighter they are the more significant, almost "lifted" out of Montaigne, down to a figure of speech or a word. The parallels[^381] are most often with the long essay of Montaigne called Apologie de Raymond Sébond—an astonishing piece of writing upon which Shakespeare also probably drew in Hamlet. Indeed, by the time a man knew Montaigne well enough to attack him, he would already be thoroughly infected by him.

Now the great adversary Pascal set himself against from his first conversations with M. de Saci at Port-Royal was Montaigne. One cannot destroy Pascal, certainly. But of all authors Montaigne is one of the least destructible. You could as well disperse a fog by flinging hand-grenades into it. Montaigne is a fog, a gas, a fluid, an insidious element. He does not reason. He insinuates, charms, and influences. Or if he reasons, be prepared for him to have some other purpose than simply to convince you by argument. It is hardly an exaggeration to say Montaigne is the most essential author to know if we want to understand the course of French thought over the last three hundred years. In every way, Montaigne’s influence was repugnant to the men of Port-Royal. Pascal studied him intending to demolish him. Yet in the Pensées, near the end of his life, we find passage after passage that seem taken from Montaigne. The smaller the passages, the more significant they are, sometimes down to a figure of speech or a single word. The parallels[^381] are most often with Montaigne’s long essay called Apologie de Raymond Sébond. It is an astonishing piece of writing, and Shakespeare probably drew on it for Hamlet. Indeed, by the time someone knew Montaigne well enough to attack him, they were already thoroughly infected by him.

It would, however, be grossly unfair to Pascal, to Montaigne, and indeed to French literature, to leave the matter at that. It is no diminution of Pascal, but only an aggrandisement of Montaigne. Had Montaigne been an ordinary life-sized sceptic, a small man like Anatole France, or even a greater man like Renan, or even like the greatest sceptic of all, Voltaire, this "influence" would be to the discredit of Pascal; but if Montaigne had been no more than Voltaire, he could not have affected Pascal at all. The picture of Montaigne which offers itself first to our eyes, that of the original and independent solitary "personality," absorbed in amused analysis of himself, is deceptive. Montaigne's is no limited Pyrrhonism, like that of Voltaire, Renan, or France. He exists, so to speak, on a plan of numerous concentric circles, the most apparent of which is the small inmost circle, a personal puckish scepticism which can be easily aped if not imitated. But what makes Montaigne a very great figure is that he succeeded, God knows how—for Montaigne very likely did not know that he had done it—it is not the sort of thing that men can observe about themselves, for it is essentially bigger than the individual's consciousness—he succeeded in giving expression to the scepticism of every human being. For every man who thinks and lives by thought must have his own scepticism, that which stops at the question, that which ends in denial, or that which leads to faith and which is somehow integrated into the faith which transcends it. And Pascal, as the type of one kind of religious believer, which is highly passionate and ardent, but passionate only through a powerful and regulated intellect, is in the first sections of his unfinished Apology for Christianity facing unflinchingly the demon of doubt which is inseparable from the spirit of belief.

However, it would be grossly unfair to Pascal, to Montaigne, and indeed to French literature, to leave the matter there. This takes nothing away from Pascal. It only enlarges Montaigne. Suppose Montaigne had been an ordinary, life-sized skeptic. He might have been a small man like Anatole France, or a greater man like Renan, or even like Voltaire, the greatest skeptic of all. Then this "influence" would count against Pascal. But if Montaigne had been no more than Voltaire, he could not have affected Pascal at all. The picture of Montaigne that first presents itself to us is deceptive. It shows the original and independent solitary "personality," absorbed in amused analysis of himself. But Montaigne's is no limited Pyrrhonism, like that of Voltaire, Renan, or France. He exists, so to speak, on a plan of many concentric circles. The most visible is the small inmost circle, a personal, puckish skepticism that can easily be aped, if not imitated. But what makes Montaigne a very great figure is this. He succeeded, God knows how, in giving expression to the skepticism of every human being. Montaigne very likely did not know he had done it. It is not the sort of thing that men can observe about themselves, for it is essentially bigger than the individual's consciousness. For every man who thinks and lives by thought must have his own skepticism. It may stop at the question. It may end in denial. Or it may lead to faith, and be somehow taken up into the faith that goes beyond it. Pascal is the type of one kind of religious believer. This kind is highly passionate and ardent, but passionate only through a powerful and disciplined intellect. In the first sections of his unfinished Apology for Christianity, Pascal faces without flinching the demon of doubt. That demon is inseparable from the spirit of belief.

There is accordingly something quite different from an influence which would prove Pascal's weakness; there is a real affinity between his doubt and that of Montaigne; and through the common kinship with Montaigne Pascal is related to the noble and distinguished line of French moralists, from La Rochefoucauld down. In the honesty with which they face the données of the actual world this French tradition has a unique quality in European literature, and in the seventeenth century Hobbes is crude and uncivilised in comparison.

So there is something here quite different from an influence that would prove Pascal's weakness. There is a real affinity between his doubt and Montaigne's. Through this shared kinship with Montaigne, Pascal is related to the noble and distinguished line of French moralists, from La Rochefoucauld onward. This French tradition has a unique quality in European literature. It lies in the honesty with which they face the données of the actual world. Compared with it, Hobbes in the seventeenth century is crude and uncivilized.

Pascal is a man of the world among ascetics, and an ascetic among men of the world; he had the knowledge of worldliness and the passion of asceticism, and in him the two are fused into an individual whole. The majority of mankind is lazy-minded, incurious, absorbed in vanities, and tepid in emotion, and is therefore incapable of either much doubt or much faith; and when the ordinary man calls himself a sceptic or an unbeliever, that is ordinarily a simple pose, cloaking a disinclination to think anything out to a conclusion. Pascal's disillusioned analysis of human bondage is sometimes interpreted to mean that Pascal was really and finally an unbeliever, who, in his despair, was incapable of enduring reality and enjoying the heroic satisfaction of the free man's worship of nothing. His despair, his disillusion, are, however, no illustration of personal weakness; they are perfectly objective, because they are essential moments in the progress of the intellectual soul; and for the type of Pascal they are the analogue of the drought, the dark night, which is an essential stage in the progress of the Christian mystic. A similar despair, when it is arrived at by a diseased character or an impure soul, may issue in the most disastrous consequences though with the most superb manifestations; and thus we get Gulliver's Travels; but in Pascal we find no such distortion; his despair is in itself more terrible than Swift's, because our heart tells us that it corresponds exactly to the facts and cannot be dismissed as mental disease; but it was also a despair which was a necessary prelude to, and element in, the joy of faith.

Pascal is a man of the world among ascetics, and an ascetic among men of the world. He had the knowledge of worldliness and the passion of asceticism, and in him the two are fused into one individual whole. Most of mankind is lazy-minded, incurious, absorbed in vanities, and lukewarm in feeling. It is therefore incapable of either much doubt or much faith. When the ordinary man calls himself a skeptic or an unbeliever, that is usually a mere pose. It hides an unwillingness to think anything through to a conclusion. Pascal's disillusioned analysis of human bondage is sometimes taken to mean that he was really and finally an unbeliever. On this reading, in his despair he could not endure reality and enjoy the heroic satisfaction of the free man's worship of nothing. But his despair and his disillusion are no sign of personal weakness. They are perfectly objective, because they are essential moments in the progress of the intellectual soul. For Pascal's type, they are the counterpart of the drought, the dark night, which is an essential stage in the progress of the Christian mystic. A similar despair may be reached by a diseased character or an impure soul. Then it may lead to the most disastrous consequences, though with the most magnificent manifestations. That is how we get Gulliver's Travels. But in Pascal we find no such distortion. His despair is in itself more terrible than Swift's, because our heart tells us that it matches the facts exactly. It cannot be dismissed as mental disease. But it was also a despair that was a necessary prelude to, and part of, the joy of faith.

I do not wish to enter any further than necessary upon the question of the heterodoxy of Jansenism; and it is no concern of this essay, whether the Five Propositions condemned at Rome were really maintained by Jansenius in his book Augustinus; or whether we should deplore or approve the consequent decay (indeed with some persecution) of Port-Royal. It is impossible to discuss the matter without becoming involved as a controversialist either for or against Rome. But in a man of the type of Pascal—and the type always exists—there is, I think, an ingredient of what may be called Jansenism of temperament, without identifying it with the Jansenism of Jansenius and of other devout and sincere, but not immensely gifted doctors.[^382] It is accordingly needful to state in brief what the dangerous doctrine of Jansenius was, without advancing too far into theological refinements. It is recognised in Christian theology—and indeed on a lower plane it is recognised by all men in affairs of daily life—that freewill or the natural effort and ability of the individual man, and also supernatural grace, a gift accorded we know not quite how, are both required, in co-operation, for salvation. Though numerous theologians have set their wits at the problem, it ends in a mystery which we can perceive but not finally decipher. At least, it is obvious that, like any doctrine, a slight excess or deviation to one side or the other will precipitate a heresy. The Pelagians, who were refuted by St. Augustine, emphasised the efficacy of human effort and belittled the importance of supernatural grace. The Calvinists emphasised the degradation of man through Original Sin, and considered mankind so corrupt that the will was of no avail; and thus fell into the doctrine of predestination. It was upon the doctrine of grace according to St. Augustine that the Jansenists relied; and the Augustinus of Jansenius was presented as a sound exposition of the Augustinian views.

I do not wish to go any further than necessary into the question of whether Jansenism was heterodox. It is no concern of this essay whether Jansenius really held, in his book Augustinus, the Five Propositions condemned at Rome. Nor is it our concern whether we should regret or approve the decline of Port-Royal that followed, which indeed came with some persecution. It is impossible to discuss the matter without becoming involved as a controversialist, either for or against Rome. But in a man of Pascal's type, and the type always exists, there is, I think, an ingredient of what may be called Jansenism of temperament. I do not identify it with the Jansenism of Jansenius and of other devout and sincere, but not immensely gifted, doctors.[^382] It is therefore necessary to state briefly what the dangerous doctrine of Jansenius was, without going too far into theological refinements. Christian theology recognizes something that, on a lower plane, all men recognize in the affairs of daily life. Two things are both required for salvation, working together. One is free will, the natural effort and ability of the individual man. The other is supernatural grace, a gift granted we know not quite how. Many theologians have applied their wits to the problem, but it ends in a mystery that we can perceive but not finally decipher. At least it is obvious that, as with any doctrine, a slight excess or deviation to one side or the other will bring on a heresy. The Pelagians, whom St. Augustine refuted, stressed the power of human effort and belittled the importance of supernatural grace. The Calvinists stressed the degradation of man through Original Sin. They thought mankind so corrupt that the will was of no use. And so they fell into the doctrine of predestination. The Jansenists relied on the doctrine of grace according to St. Augustine. The Augustinus of Jansenius was presented as a sound account of the Augustinian views.

Such heresies are never antiquated, because they forever assume new forms. For instance, the insistence upon good works and "service" which is preached from many quarters, or the simple faith that any one who lives a good and useful life need have no "morbid" anxieties about salvation, is a form of Pelagianism. On the other hand, one sometimes hears enounced the view that it will make no real difference if all the traditional religious sanctions for moral behaviour break down, because those who are born and bred to be nice people will always prefer to behave nicely, and those who are not will behave otherwise in any case: and this is surely a form of predestination—for the hazard of being born a nice person or not is as uncertain as the gift of grace.

Such heresies never become outdated because they keep taking new forms. For example, there is the emphasis on good works and "service" preached from many directions. There is also the simple belief that anyone who lives a good and useful life need not have "morbid" anxieties about salvation. Both are a form of Pelagianism. On the other hand, people sometimes say it would make no real difference if all the traditional religious sanctions for moral behavior collapsed. They argue that those born and raised to be decent people will always prefer to act decently, and those who are not will act otherwise anyway. This view is clearly a form of predestination, because the chance of being born a decent person is as uncertain as receiving the gift of grace.

It is likely that Pascal was attracted as much by the fruits of Jansenism in the life of Port-Royal as by the doctrine itself. This devout, ascetic, thoroughgoing society, striving heroically in the midst of a relaxed and easy-going Christianity, was formed to attract a nature so concentrated, so passionate, and so thoroughgoing as Pascal's. But the insistence upon the degraded and helpless state of man, in Jansenism, is something also to which we must be grateful, for to it we owe the magnificent analysis of human motives and occupations which was to have constituted the early part of his book. And apart from the Jansenism which is the work of a not very eminent bishop who wrote a Latin treatise which is now unread, there is also, so to speak, a Jansenism of the individual biography. A moment of Jansenism may naturally take place, and take place rightly, in the individual; particularly in the life of a man of great and intense intellectual powers, who cannot avoid seeing through human beings and observing the vanity of their thoughts and of their avocations, their dishonesty and self-deceptions, the insincerity of their emotions, their cowardice, the pettiness of their real ambitions. Actually, considering that Pascal died at the age of thirty-nine, one must be amazed at the balance and justice of his observations; much greater maturity is required for these qualities, than for any mathematical or scientific greatness. How easily his brooding on the misery of man without God might have encouraged in him the sin of spiritual pride, the concupiscence de l'esprit, and how fast a hold he has of humility!

It is likely that Pascal was drawn as much by the fruits of Jansenism in the life of Port-Royal as by the doctrine itself. This devout, ascetic, thoroughgoing community strove heroically in the midst of a relaxed and easy-going Christianity. It was made to attract a nature as concentrated, as passionate, and as thoroughgoing as Pascal's. But we must also be grateful for Jansenism's insistence on the degraded and helpless state of man. To it we owe the magnificent analysis of human motives and occupations that was to have formed the early part of his book. There is the Jansenism that is the work of a not very eminent bishop, who wrote a Latin treatise now unread. Apart from that, there is also, so to speak, a Jansenism of the individual life story. A moment of Jansenism may naturally occur in the individual, and rightly so. This is especially true in the life of a man of great and intense intellectual powers. Such a man cannot help seeing through human beings. He observes the vanity of their thoughts and pursuits, their dishonesty and self-deceptions, and the insincerity of their emotions. He sees their cowardice and the pettiness of their real ambitions. In fact, considering that Pascal died at the age of thirty-nine, one must be amazed at the balance and justice of his observations. These qualities require much greater maturity than any mathematical or scientific greatness. How easily his brooding on the misery of man without God might have encouraged in him the sin of spiritual pride, the concupiscence de l'esprit. And how firm a grip he keeps on humility!

And although Pascal brings to his work the same powers which he exerted in science, it is not as a scientist that he presents himself. He does not seem to say to the reader: I am one of the most distinguished scientists of the day; I understand many matters which will always be mysteries to you, and through science I have come to the Faith; you therefore who are not initiated into science ought to have faith if I have it. He is fully aware of the difference of subject-matter; and his famous distinction between the esprit de géométrie and the esprit de finesse is one to ponder over. It is the just combination of the scientist, the honnête homme, and the religious nature with a passionate craving for God, that makes Pascal unique. He succeeds where Descartes fails; for in Descartes the element of esprit de géométrie is excessive.[^383] And in a few phrases about Descartes, in the present book, Pascal laid his finger on the place of weakness.¹

And although Pascal brings to his work the same powers he used in science, he does not present himself as a scientist. He does not seem to say to the reader: I am one of the most distinguished scientists of the day. I understand many matters that will always be mysteries to you, and through science I have come to the Faith. So you who are not initiated into science ought to have faith if I have it. He is fully aware of the difference in subject matter. His famous distinction between the esprit de géométrie and the esprit de finesse is one to ponder. What makes Pascal unique is the well-balanced combination of the scientist, the honnête homme, and the religious nature with a passionate craving for God. He succeeds where Descartes fails, for in Descartes the element of esprit de géométrie is excessive.[^383] And in a few phrases about Descartes, in this book, Pascal put his finger on the weak spot.¹

He who reads this book will observe at once its fragmentary nature; but only after some study will perceive that the fragmentariness lies in the expression more than in the thought. The "thoughts" cannot be detached from each other and quoted as if each were complete in itself. Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point: how often one has heard that quoted, and quoted often to the wrong purpose! For this is by no means an exaltation of the "heart" over the "head," a defence of unreason. The heart, in Pascal's terminology, is itself truly rational if it is truly the heart. For him, in theological matters, which seemed to him much larger, more difficult, and more important than scientific matters, the whole personality is involved.

Whoever reads this book will notice its fragmentary nature at once. But only after some study will he see that the fragmentariness lies in the expression more than in the thought. The "thoughts" cannot be detached from each other and quoted as if each were complete in itself. Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point: how often one has heard that quoted, and often quoted to the wrong purpose! For this is by no means an exaltation of the "heart" over the "head," a defense of unreason. In Pascal's terms, the heart is itself truly rational if it is truly the heart. For him, the whole personality is involved in theological matters, which seemed to him much larger, more difficult, and more important than scientific ones.

We cannot quite understand any of the parts, fragmentary as they are, without some understanding of the whole. Capital, for instance, is his analysis of the three orders: the order of nature, the order of mind, and the order of charity. These three are discontinuous; the higher is not implicit in the lower as in an evolutionary doctrine it would be.[^384] In this distinction Pascal offers much about which the modern world would do well to think. And indeed, because of his unique combination and balance of qualities, I know of no religious writer more pertinent to our time. The great mystics like St. John of the Cross, are primarily for readers with a special determination of purpose; the devotional writers, such as St. François de Sales, are primarily for those who already feel consciously desirous of the love of God; the great theologians are for those interested in theology. But I can think of no Christian writer, not Newman even, more to be commended than Pascal to those who doubt, but who have the mind to conceive, and the sensibility to feel, the disorder, the futility, the meaninglessness, the mystery of life and suffering, and who can only find peace through a satisfaction of the whole being.

We cannot quite understand any of the parts, fragmentary as they are, without some understanding of the whole. Of first importance, for instance, is his analysis of the three orders: the order of nature, the order of mind, and the order of charity. These three are discontinuous. The higher is not implicit in the lower, as it would be in an evolutionary doctrine.[^384] In this distinction Pascal offers much that the modern world would do well to think about. And indeed, because of his unique combination and balance of qualities, I know of no religious writer more relevant to our time. The great mystics, like St. John of the Cross, are mainly for readers with a special determination of purpose. The devotional writers, such as St. François de Sales, are mainly for those who already consciously desire the love of God. The great theologians are for those interested in theology. But I can think of no Christian writer, not even Newman, more to be recommended than Pascal to those who doubt. I mean doubters who have the mind to conceive, and the sensibility to feel, the disorder, the futility, the meaninglessness, the mystery of life and suffering. Such readers can find peace only through a satisfaction of the whole being.

T. S. Eliot.

T. S. Eliot.