princeton university press imperfect garden the legacy of humanism may 2002

Imperfect Garden
THE LEGACY OF HUMANISM


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Imperfect Garden
THE LEGACY OF HUMANISM

by

T z ve t a n T o d o rov
Tr a n s l a t e d b y C a r o l C o s m a n

princeton university press
princeton and oxford


Copyright ᭧ 2002 by Princeton University Press
Published by Princeton University Press, 41 William Street, Princeton, New Jersey 08540
In the United Kingdom: Princeton University Press, 3 Market Place, Woodstock,
Oxfordshire OX20 1SY
All rights reserved
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Todorov, Tzvetan, 1939–
[Jardin imparfait. English]
Imperfect garden : the legacy of humanism / by Tzvetan Todorov ; translated
by Carol Cosman.
p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 0-691-01047-1
1. Humanism—France—History. 2. Individualism—France—History. 3. Social
values—France—History. 4. Philosophy, French. I. Title.
B778 .T5613 2002
144Ј.0944—dc21

2001036868

British Library Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available
This work was published in conjunction with the French Ministry of Culture — National
Center of Books.
This book has been composed in Sabon with Centaur Display
Printed on acid-free paper. ϱ
www.pup.princeton.edu
Printed in the United States of America
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1


To my philosopher friends, Luc and Andr´
e


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Contents

Prologue
T he Hid den Pact

1

Chapter 1
The Interplay of Four Families
Chapter 2
The Declaration of Autonomy
Chapter 3
Interdependence
Chapter 4
Living Alone

47

80

94

Chapter 5
T h e Wa y s o f L o v e

115

Chapter 6
The Individual:
Plurality and Universality
Chapter 7
T h e C h o i c e o f Va l u e s
vii

9

139

160


Chapter 8
A Morality Made for Humanity
Chapter 9
The Need for Enthusiasm
Epilogue
T h e H u m a n i s t Wa g e r
Bibliog raphy
Index

viii

247

239

178

207

226


Imperfect Garden

THE LEGACY OF HUMANISM


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Prologue

T he Hid den Pact

S

atan proposed the first pact to
Jesus. After forcing him to fast forty days in the desert, he gave him a
momentary vision of all the kingdoms on earth. Then he told him: All
this is in my power. Yet I am prepared to grant it to you. I ask only one
small gesture in return: that you recognize me as your master; if you do
this, all is yours. But Jesus replied, I do not want this power, for I wish
only to serve God, and his kingdom is not of this world. Jesus thus
rejected the pact. His successors, however, accepted it after a while. And
from Constantine to Louis XVI, for more than fourteen centuries, they
strove to reign over the devil’s kingdoms. Somewhat later, a Russian
seer claimed that if Jesus returned to earth one day, he would be
roundly reproached by the Grand Inquisitor for his rejection: Men are
weak, the Inquisitor would have said, faith in God is not enough, God’s
law is worth more.
The second pact was proposed in the fifteenth century by an emissary
of the devil, Mephistopheles, to a proud and ambitious man, a magician, necromancer, and conjuror called Johann (or perhaps Georg)
Faust, who had attempted to penetrate the secrets of life and death.
Since you are so curious, the devil’s emissary said to him, I propose a

bargain: You will have access to all knowledge of the world, no mystery
will resist you; and you are surely aware that knowledge leads to power.
In return, I am not asking you to make a grand declaration of submission: I require only one thing, a little odd, it’s true: at the end of twentyfour years (but that is a long time! you might not live to be so old), you
will belong entirely to me, body and soul. Unlike Jesus, Faust accepted
the terms of the contract. He therefore enjoyed infinite knowledge and
1


Prologue
garnered unanimous acclaim. But it is said that during the last years of
the pact he became disgruntled, lost his interest in secrets, and never left
his house; he prayed that the devil would forget him. But the devil does
not forget, and the day the contract expired he carried the horrified
Faust away, wailing in vain.
The third pact dates from nearly the same era as Faust’s, but it has
one peculiar feature: its very existence was not revealed at the moment
it went into effect. The devil’s ruse this time consisted of keeping the
other party to the contract, Modern Man, as humanity was then called,
in the dark, allowing him to believe that he was gaining new advantages
thanks to his own efforts, and that there would be no price to pay. This
time, what the devil was offering was not power or knowledge but will.
Modern Man would have the possibility of willing freely, of acquiring
mastery of his own will and living his life as he wished. The devil hid
the price of freedom so that man should develop a taste for it and have
no desire to renounce it at a later date—then find himself obliged to
clear his debt.
Modern Man—Renaissance Man, Enlightenment Man—took some
time to realize the full extent of his possibilities. Some of his representatives asked only for the freedom to organize their affective life to their
own taste. They would have the right to choose a life with the people
they cared for rather than following the laws of blood or those of the

city, or their parents’ attachments. They might also freely choose their
place of residence: let will and not chance decide the framework of their
lives! Later, other representatives of Modern Man found the pleasure of
freedom too sweet to be confined to only personal life. They demanded
that reason should be liberated too: that it should no longer be obliged
to recognize the authority of tradition transmitted by the memory of
men. Tradition could continue to rule in civic matters or in dealings
with God, but reason should be free to note the true and the false.
Thereafter, the only knowledge declared to be certain was knowledge
that had been reached by the natural lights of reason. Thus a purely
human science was born, quite unlike the omniscience of Doctor Faust.
Having tasted these two freedoms—the freedom to submit exclusively to his own affections, to his own reason—Modern Man was
tempted by a new extension of his will. He had yet to assume the vast
domain of his public actions. Only an action performed in freedom, on
the strength of his will (this is what he would later call his responsibility), was now declared moral; only the political regime chosen by
2


T h e H i d d e n Pa c t
the will of its subjects—now called “democracy”—was judged legitimate. No domain now escaped the intervention of the will, which could
enjoy its freedom in every circumstance. During this time—a good two
centuries—the devil did not reveal that one day he would demand his
due.
In the course of these two centuries, the conquest of freedom was the
business of studious thinkers who confined their arguments to the pages
of their books. A change took place in the second half of the eighteenth
century, when a few men of action, discontented with the state of the
world around them, perused the ideas hidden in these books and decided to let them out. They admired the beautiful new principles discovered by their elders and wanted to live in harmony with them rather
than subject them to intellectual reflection. The American Revolution
and the French Revolution were accompanied not only (in the first case)

by a Declaration of Independence, but also by a Declaration of Autonomy never publicly announced, of adherence to the principle according
to which no authority is superior to the will of men: the will of the
people, the will of individuals.
Now the devil, judging that Modern Man had swallowed the bait,
chose this moment to reveal the pact and announce that it was time to
start paying for his past bounty. Even before the end of the eighteenth
century, and of course repeatedly since, he has continued to present his
bill. He did not wish, however, to appear in person but preferred to
inspire several dark prophets, whom he charged with revealing to people the total sum of their debt. If you want to keep your liberty, these
prophets said to their contemporaries, you will have to pay a triple
price, first by separating yourself from your God, then from your neighbor, and finally from yourself.
No more God: You will have no reason to believe that a being exists
above you, an entity whose value would be superior to your own life;
you will have no more ideals or values—you will be a “materialist.” No
more neighbor: other men, beside and no longer above you, will continue to exist but they will no longer matter to you. Your circle will
shrink: first to your acquaintances, then to your immediate family, and
finally to your self; you will be an “individualist.” You will then try to
cling to your self, but this too will be threatened by dislocation. You
will be swept by currents beyond your control; you will believe you are
deciding, choosing, and willing freely, when in truth these subterranean
forces will do it for you, and you will lose the advantages that had
3


Prologue
seemed to justify all those sacrifices. This self will be nothing but an
anomalous collection of impulses, an infinite dispersal; you will be an
alienated, inauthentic being, no longer deserving to be called a “subject.”
When modern men (gradually joined by modern women) understood
from these dark prophets the announcement of the pact to which they

were party, they were divided. They could not agree on how to respond
to what seemed to them at times a warning, at times a threat, and at
times a curse. After the revelation of the contract, those who aired their
opinions in public—scholars, writers, politicians, or philosophers—
grouped together into several large families, according to the responses
they wanted to make to this pact. These intellectual families still exist in
our time, even if overlappings, defections, and adaptions have somewhat muddied the picture.
The first family, the easiest to identify, unites those who think that the
devil is right: that the price of freedom truly includes God, society, and
the self, that the price is too high and therefore it is better to renounce
freedom. More precisely, the members of this family do not advocate a
pure and simple return to the old society, because they see quite well
that the world around them has changed and that such a return would
imply the same exercise of freedom and will that they otherwise condemn. But they regret the previous state of things and try to preserve
vestiges of it while opposing the demands of a more radical modernity.
This is the family of conservatives: those who would like to live in the
new world while appealing to the values of the old.
The other families, reduced here to three, are united in accepting and
welcoming the advent of modernity, and for this reason they have sometimes been confused with one another. However, their differences are no
less crucial, and their reactions to the devil’s challenges have nothing in
common. These modern families are the humanists, the individualists,
and the proponents of scientism (not necessarily those who practice
science).
When the “scientists” hear the claims of the devil, they dismiss them
without batting an eye. Don’t worry, they reply, there will be no price to
pay because there never was any freedom. Or rather, the only freedom
is that of knowledge. Thanks to human capacities of observation and
reasoning, therefore thanks to purely human science, it is possible
to penetrate all the secrets of nature and history. Now, whoever has
knowledge has power, as Faust already discovered. Science leads to

technology; if we master the laws of the existing world, we can also
4


T h e H i d d e n Pa c t
transform it. As for choosing, and apart from choosing to know, one’s
freedom is very limited: men are unwittingly led by biological and historical laws, and what they take for their freedom is, more often than
not, only their ignorance. Even the values they claim inspire their actions essentially flow from these ineluctable laws of the world. If God,
society, and the self participate in human identity, nothing will extract
them from it; if they do not, there will be nothing to regret. In either
case, the devil will turn away with his hands empty.
The reaction of the individualists, members of the second, resolutely
modern family, is quite different. It consists of saying: You believe that
our freedom entails the loss of God, society, and the self? But for us this
is not a loss, it is a further liberation. Your description of our state is
correct, but rather than chilling us (or worse, making us wish to turn
back), we shall try to push it even further. Let man affirm himself in his
essential solitude, in his freedom from all moral constraint, in his unlimited dispersal! Let him affirm his will to power, let him serve his own
interests: the greatest good will emerge for him, and that is all that
matters. Instead of mourning we should shout for joy. What you describe as a sickness (or as the painful counterpart of a hidden pact) is in
reality the beginning of a celebration.
For scientistic thinkers, there is no price to pay for freedom, for there
is no freedom in the usual sense but only a new mastery of nature and
history based on knowledge. For the individualists, there is no price to
pay because what we have lost merits no regrets, and we shall carry on
very well without common values, without encumbering social ties,
without a stable and coherent self. The humanists, the last large family,
think, on the contrary, that freedom exists and that it is precious, but at
the same time they appreciate the benefit of shared values, life with
others, and a self that is held responsible for its actions; they want to

continue to enjoy freedom, then, without having to pay the price. The
humanists take the devil’s threats seriously, but they do not concede that
a pact was ever concluded, and they throw down a challenge to him in
return.
In our part of the world, we are still living today under the sway of
the devil’s threats. We cherish our freedom but we are afraid of living in
a world without ideals or common values, a mass society populated by
solitary individuals unfamiliar with love; we secretly—though not always knowingly—dread the loss of our identity. These fears and questionings persist. To come to terms with them, I have chosen to turn to
5


Prologue
the history of thought. Remembering the dwarf perched on the shoulders of giants, I wanted to defend myself against these threats by calling
to my aid the thought of writers from that rather distant period when
the unknown pact was concluded; to tell in some fashion the story of
the invention of modernity, with its main characters—their adventures,
conflicts, and alliances. I believe, moreover, that one of the modern intellectual families, the humanists, might be more helpful than the others
in thinking about our present condition and overcoming its difficulties.
And so this book is devoted to them.
The term humanist has several meanings, but we can say in a first
approximation that it refers to the doctrines according to which man is
the point of departure and the point of reference for human actions.
These are “anthropocentric” doctrines, just as others are theocentric,
and still others put nature or tradition in this central place. The term
humanist figures, perhaps for the first time in French, in a passage by
Montaigne in which he uses it to characterize his own practice, in contrast to that of the theologians. Though he grants the theologians their
right to respect, and certainly to existence, he prefers to separate the
two domains and reserve a new field for the “humanists,” which consists of strictly human activities or “fantasies,” of “purely human” writings, those concerning subjects that are “matters of opinion, not matters
of faith,” treated in “a lay not clerical manner” (Essays, I, 56, 234).*
The specificity of human affairs (in contrast to those that relate to God)

is therefore the point of departure for humanist doctrine, even if it is
not confined to that; its other ingredients will emerge in the course of
the present investigation. This initial choice does not mean, as we shall
also see, that man is granted unconditional esteem: Montaigne himself
never forgets that human life is meant to remain an “unfinished” or
“imperfect” garden (I, 20, 62).
To conduct this investigation to advantage, I have imposed limits on
myself in time and space. I deal exclusively with humanists in the
French tradition (an arbitrary limitation but a necessary one). Furthermore, the texts I have read do not belong to the contemporary period.
The thought of the authors who founded the doctrine has not been
radically revised in the course of 150 years; moreover, it seems to me
richer and subtler than the “humanist” vulgate, which can be glimpsed
in the common discourse of our day. Humanism is the ideology under* Wherever possible, material quoted from other sources is from the standard English
translations of the works, which are listed in the bibliography. All other quotations are by
the translator of the present volume.

6


T h e H i d d e n Pa c t
pinning modern democratic states; but this very omnipresence makes it
invisible or insipid. Because of this, although everyone today is more or
less a “humanist,” the doctrine in its original form can still surprise and
enlighten us. It seems to me that these classic authors had in a sense
given a rejoinder to the “dark prophets” even before the prophecy had
been formulated, while not limiting themselves, of course, to this response alone.
The humanist thought that I examine flourished during three strong
periods: the Renaissance, the century of the Enlightenment, and the aftermath of the Revolution. Three authors embody these periods: Montaigne, who produced the first coherent version of the doctrine; Rousseau, in whom it reached its full flowering; and Benjamin Constant,
who understood how to think about the new world that emerged from
the revolutionary upheaval. I will turn to them to seek tools for thought

that can serve us again today.
This book, in its way, participates in the history of thought. I say
specifically thought and not philosophy, since its field is wider, closer to
practice, and less technical than the other. The intellectual families that I
identify are “ideological” rather than philosophical: each of them is an
aggregate of political and moral ideas, of anthropological and psychological hypotheses, that participate in philosophy but are not limited to
it. By choosing to study thought in itself, I am already committing myself to the humanist family, since thought would not deserve to be examined separately if it were not free but only the mechanical product of
a cultural community, a social class, a historical moment, or the biological necessities of the species.
Yet I must specify that what chiefly interests me is not to reconstruct
the thought of Montaigne, Rousseau, Constant, and several others yet
again; but while trying to read these authors attentively, to use them to
build a model of humanist thought that is sometimes called an “ideal
type.” My object of knowledge is not “the Renaissance” or “the Enlightenment” or “Romanticism,” but modern thought in its diversity,
with humanism at its center, as it has manifested itself in each of these
epochs. In other words, my project is typological rather than historical,
even if I am convinced that the only useful typologies are those that
help us to know history. For the same reason, I have renounced at the
outset any concern with an exhaustive approach and opt most of the
time not for the first formulation of a thought but rather for what I
judge to be the most powerful or eloquent.
These qualifications are even more necessary since the establishment
7


Prologue
of humanist doctrine is not—or not always—part of the conscious project of these authors. It is by meditating on various subjects, sometimes
quite far removed from mine, such as the self or the world, the spirit of
the law or political principles, that they establish as though in passing
the tenets and nuances of this new thought. They imply humanism more
than they state it outright. I am therefore led to divert their arguments

from their original goal while trying not to betray them.
The use to which I mean to put these authors of the past is responsible for the way I read them—a dialogue with history rather than a
history in the strict sense. I aspire to understand their thought and to
convey its meaning more than to explain it by tracing its causes or
reconstituting its original context. This desire to go downstream rather
than upstream, and to stay in the realm of ideas, does not imply that I
would consider the opposite choice illegitimate; it is simply not part of
my present project.
Is there something anachronistic about bringing texts of the past to
bear on a present discussion? Perhaps in this case it is a “paradox of the
critic,” indeed of any historian just beginning his or her activity, since
this critic, this historian, is always addressing his contemporaries and
not those of his author. The commentators’ habitual squinting condemns them to tack continually from one dialogue to the other, from
author to reader; the balance they attempt is a gamble. Moreover, the
thinkers of the past aimed both at their contemporaries, with whom
they shared the same historical context, and at future readers, representatives of humanity as a whole; they addressed themselves both to the
present and to eternity. So at the risk of displeasing pure historians as
well as pure ideologues, I persist in believing that the past can help us to
think about the present.
By relying in this way on the history of thought in order to advance
my own reflections, I am pursuing (and perhaps, personally, completing)
an inquiry begun in 1979 that led to my publication, in 1989, of On
Human Diversity, a work in which other humanist themes were already
evoked, notably that of universality; these two books are therefore, in
certain respects, complementary.

8


Chapter 1

The Interplay of Four Families

A

revolution took place in the
mind of Europeans—a slow revolution, since it took several centuries—
which led to the establishment of the modern world. To grasp it in its
most general sense, we can describe it as the passage from a world
whose structure and laws were preexisting and immutable givens for
every member of society, to a world that could discover its own nature
and define its norms itself. The members of the old society gradually
learned their assigned place in the universe, and wisdom led them to
accept it. The inhabitant of contemporary society does not reject everything passed down by tradition but wants to know the world on her
own, and demands that whole swathes of existence should be governed
by the principles she chooses. The elements of her life are no longer all
givens in advance; some of them are chosen.
Before this revolution, an act was declared just and praiseworthy because it conformed either to nature (that of the universe as well as that
of man) or to divine will. These two justifications can sometimes conflict and sometimes be reconciled (this is sometimes described as the
rivalry between Athens and Jerusalem); but both require that human
beings should submit to an authority external to them: nature, like God,
is not accessible except through common wisdom or religion—a tradition accepted and transmitted by society without one’s consent. The
universe one inhabits, including its human laws, is based on an elsewhere upon which this particular person has no purchase. It was revolutionary to claim that the best justification of an act, one that makes it
most legitimate, issues from man himself: from his will, from his reason,
from his feelings. The center of gravity shifts, here, from cosmos to
9


Chapter 1
anthropos, from the objective world to the subjective will; the human

being no longer bows to an order that is external to him but wishes to
establish this order himself. The movement is therefore double: a disenchantment of the world and a sacralization of man; values, removed
from one, will be entrusted to the other. The new principle, whose consequences may still affect us, is responsible for the present face of our
politics and our law, our arts and our sciences. This principle also presides over the modern nation-states, and if we accept them, we cannot
deny the principle without becoming incoherent. On the other hand, we
can do so in the name of a return to the supremacy of religion (as in
theocratic fundamentalism) or to the primacy of a natural order that
reserves no special place for man (as in certain ecological utopias).
Today we readily agree to describe this passage from the Ancients to
the Moderns, which began in the Renaissance, in more or less similar
terms. Consensus disappears, however, the moment we begin to analyze
its effects. My working thesis is as follows: Modernity itself is not homogeneous; the criticism to which it has been subjected has revealed
several tendencies within it that constitute the framework of social
thought in which we are living today. For this reason, I find it disconcerting to use a single word to designate these reactions, such as modernity, or individualism, or liberalism, or rationality, or subjectivity, or
“Western,” especially since the amalgam imposed by such terms is often
used to polemical purpose. I call each of these major tendencies a family, both because the various representatives of one family each have
their own peculiarities, and because alliances between members of distinct families are always possible. These families are four in number,
and they were clearly outlined by the second half of the eighteenth century. Condorcet, Sade, Constant, and Bonald were all born in the middle of the century, between 1740 and 1767; and they embody these four
distinct families, which appear quite distinctly in the aftermath of the
Revolution, when those who reject it begin to challenge the mode of
thought that made it possible. This does not mean, of course, that our
families do not have their roots in a much earlier tradition.
It is always awkward to regroup the thought of individual authors
under generic labels. No one likes words ending in ism, and for good
reason: every regrouping has something violent and arbitrary about it (I
myself hesitated until the last moment to decide whether it was fairer to
speak of three, four, or five major modern families); someone can always challenge you with intermediate or hybrid cases. Every authentic
10

T h e I n t e r p l a y o f Fo u r Fa m i l i e s
thinker has his or her individuality, and it is a simplification to amalgamate them with others; every work itself is unique and deserves to be
considered separately. Only disciples and epigones properly correspond
to labels; the original thinkers always participate in more than one intellectual family—witness Montaigne or Rousseau. I am not unaware of
the disadvantages of this procedure. I have decided, however, to use it
because I also see its advantages. First, we must have at hand a common
language in order to speak of the past (proper names are not enough);
then, my acquaintance with the texts has convinced me, although it is
impossible for me to prove it, that certain affinities, certain differences
are more important than others and therefore justify this or that regrouping. Finally, the amalgam of distinct families seems to me to be
one of the chief obstacles to the lucid analysis of our current situation.
That is why I would now like to evoke them in greater detail.
To begin with, we must recall the principal reproaches addressed to
modernity as a whole; these will allow us, paradoxically, to identify the
first modern family.

The Conservatives
In the wake of the French Revolution, voices were clearly heard condemning the earlier revolution, the revolution in thought. Its partisans
had, of course, been challenged before; but this purely ideological debate remained limited to a particular author or an isolated theme. Once
ideas were transformed into actions and institutions, they provoked a
reaction of much greater intensity and unremitting resistance. Yes, the
opposition maintained, it is possible to see individuals, like collectivities, as self-governing, but this freedom is too dangerous and its benefits
insufficient to compensate for the havoc they wreak. It would be preferable to return to the earlier situation, with less freedom but without the
new disadvantages.
We might say, then, that whatever the nuances in their different formulations, the advocates of this general argument always proceed from a
position of conservation. At the same time, this position does not lead
us back to the world of the Ancients, pure and simple: this return has
become impossible in reality, and only the most extreme reactionaries
reject the modern world as a whole. The usual conservatives also constitute a modern family, one that accepts a minimum of modernity, one for
11

Chapter 1
whom all the other modern families tend to merge and to deserve equal
condemnation. The conservatives are those who think that modern men
have sold their souls to the devil, and that they ought to regret it, indeed
that they should attempt to buy it back. But this critique is not the way
they define themselves. Their positive stance is to value and seek to
preserve the existing order against revolutionaries and reformers on all
sides—against reactionaries as well as progressives (the project of a
“conservative revolution” is to them a contradiction in terms). What
already exists deserves to exist; changes have, on the whole, more drawbacks than advantages. The conservatives privilege if not immobility, at
least gradualism.
In finding a spokesman for this family, we have an abundance of
choices, since conservative warnings have never ceased, from the Revolution until our day. To illustrate its variety, I have decided to keep two
of its representatives from among the earliest, chosen by design for being as different from one another as possible. One is a theocrat, the
other a democrat; yet the substance of their reproaches is very much the
same.
The first is Viscount Louis de Bonald, declared enemy of the Revolution, who attacked it, beginning in 1796, in his treatise Th´ orie du
e
pouvoir politique et religieux, and who would develop his criticisms
over the next three or four decades.
Bonald begins with what he considers a disastrous effect—revolutionary reality in France—and works his way back to its causes, which he
finds in philosophy (Revolution, he assures us, is the freakish child of
Philosophy and Atheism), the philosophy of Descartes and Rousseau,
itself heir to the Reformation.
Where did the Revolution come from? “From that doctrine which
substituted the reason of each for the religion of all, and the calculations of personal interest for the love of the Supreme Being and his
fellow men” (Th´ orie, I, 494–95). Thought bears a heavy responsibility:
e

before manifesting itself in action, freedom was in men’s minds. It acted
like a corrosive agent in two directions, which Bonald always associates: love of God and love of men, elevation above the self and attachment beyond the self; “religion,” it is readily said, comes from the verb
relier (to bind, to tie). “Each” is substituted for “all”: this is the fault of
Luther and Calvin, followed on this point by the Savoyard Vicar, who
claims that the conscience of the individual can be the ultimate judge of
good and evil. And reason has replaced religion: the guilty party here is
12


T h e I n t e r p l a y o f Fo u r Fa m i l i e s
Descartes, at least as far as knowledge of the world is concerned. Consequently, we have come under the rule of personal interest, meaning
what does not go beyond the individual (he is alone) and also what
serves him (he is selfish). In short, modern man, contrived by Calvin,
Descartes, and Rousseau, and put into the world by the Revolution,
knows nothing external to himself. Neither above himself (a superior
being), nor beyond himself (his fellow men), he is condemned to remain
shut inside himself.
The price of freedom is therefore double. On the one hand, modern
man is destined to become an “individualist,” in the current sense of the
term: to be preoccupied only with himself, to ignore the ties that bind
him to other men. It was the philosophers of the social contract, above
all Rousseau, who believed that this transformation was necessary; it
was the revolutionaries who wanted to impose it. “The philosophy of
the last century [that is, the eighteenth century] saw only man and the
universe, and never society. On the one hand, it has—if I may use this
familiar expression—made mincemeat of states and families, in which it
saw neither fathers nor mothers nor children, nor masters nor servants,
nor powers, nor ministers, nor subjects, but only men, that is to say
individuals, each with their rights, and not persons bound together by
relationships. . . . On the other, it has proposed to our affections only

the human race” (M´ langes, II, 246–47). Such an extension makes any
e
real attachment impossible. The very idea of a contract, the attempt to
base everything on the will of consenting individuals, brings with it an
“individualistic” conception of humanity, which is deeply disconcerting:
“The author of The Social Contract saw only the individual in society”
(L´ gislation primitive, I, 123).
e
On the other hand, this same modern man is condemned to be nothing but a “materialist,” in the still common sense of the word, that is, a
being who has no ideals, who cherishes no value above his personal
interest, who can have no moral code. For the only possible basis of
morality is religion, the faith in a power infinitely superior to that of
men and capable of sanctioning their acts in this world below. “If God
does not exist,” writes Bonald, “men can legitimate nothing for each
other, and all duty ceases between beings, where the power over all
beings ceases” (Rousseau, Legislation Primitive, II, 142). If God is dead,
then all is permitted: this highly problematic linkage, made familiar to
us by Dostoevsky, is already present in Bonald.
Faced by what he judges to be the individualism of all modern fami13


Chapter 1
lies, the conservative privileges the social: individual human beings acquire their identity only through the groups, institutions, and customs
in which they participate. That is why their duties (which flow from
their membership in these larger bodies) prevail over their rights as simple individuals, members of the human race. Man is made by his community; he owes it his allegiance.
This demand for submission to the collectivity has the potential to
conflict with the universal appeal of religion. Modern conservatives
evade this conflict by making a clean separation between politics and
morality. Moral conservatism affirms absolute values based on the will
of God or on the natural order (among conservatives the connection

with religion is frequent but optional). Yet this moral order does not
determine the political order, as in the case of theocracies (and as Bonald recommends; in this respect he is more revolutionary than conservative). The political order is dictated by national interest, and it can
differ from one country to the next, even if the two share an affiliation
with the same religion. Within the country, conservatism does not seek
to submit everything to a single principle, nor to control the individual’s
whole life; it is satisfied with assuring the rule of law: it is not absolutism, and even less totalitarianism. In the international sphere, political
conservatism values above all the defense of the status quo; it is not
animated by a proselytizing spirit nor does it engage in crusades, any
more than it spearheads imperialistic wars or seeks to impose its values
everywhere (the French conservatives of the nineteenth century were
opposed to the colonial wars). We might say that for a conservative like
Joseph de Maistre, man does not exist, only members of various societies: the French, the Germans, the Russians; on the other hand, God
exists (in the singular), and not as a so-called plurality, to say nothing of
a war of the gods. This very separation is bound up with the opposition
between morality and politics.
From either perspective, the individual must submit to common values,
to the group to which he belongs. Man is radically bad and weak: Bonald is in agreement here with the Augustinian tradition, hence with the
Jansenists, but also with Luther and Calvin, whom he denounces. Other
conservative Christians, even if they do not share such a dark vision of
humanity, nonetheless believe in original sin. Consequently, only a force
greater than man’s can constrain him to behave virtuously. Rather than
futile revolt, our goal should be to place ourselves in harmony with the
higher order. This is why the very idea of choice is prohibited: one
14