by Paul Hazard
Leibniz goes farther than any of the others. About the time when the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes was being planned and put into effect in France, he, paying no heed to what he believed to be temporary outbreaks of violence, holding fast to the conviction that the spirit of concord is the truth and the life, drew up, after long and careful meditation, the profession of faith, so grave in tone, so beautiful in diction, which goes by the name of Systema theologicum. “After invoking the divine aid by long and earnest prayer, putting aside, so far as is humanly possible, all party spirit, looking at the religious controversies as though I had come from another planet, a humble learner, unacquainted with any of the various communions, bound by no obligations, I have, after due consideration, arrived at the conclusions hereinafter set forth. I have deemed it incumbent upon me to embrace them because Holy Writ, immemorial religious tradition, the dictates of reason, and the sure testimony of the facts, seem to me to concur in establishing them in the mind of any unprejudiced human being.”
What, then, is the conclusion, the conviction, to which he thus alludes? Having examined and considered not only dogmas, the existence of God, the creation of mankind, and of the world, original sin, the mysteries, but also the most hotly debated points in regard to religious practices, monastic vows, works, ritual, statues, invocation of the saints, he was convinced that there was nothing to prevent Catholics and Protestants from coming together in unity and, by making mutual concessions in regard to a few apparent difficulties, from restoring the unity of the faith. This is how he speaks of the Roman system, and of the things which aroused the wrath or contempt of his co-religionists, the Lutherans:
I confess that the religious orders, pious brotherhoods, sacred confraternities, and all other institutions of the kind, have, in me, always excited a particular admiration. They are like an army from Heaven fighting on earth, so long as they are free from abuse and corruption, and provided that they are carried on in accordance with the spirit and rules of their founders, and that the Sovereign Pontiff employs them to serve the needs of the Church Universal.
And more striking still:
Thus the strains of music, the sweet concord of voices, the poetry of the hymns, the beauty of the liturgy, the blaze of lights, the fragrant perfumes, the rich vestments, the sacred vessels adorned with precious stones, the costly offerings, the statues and the pictures that awaken holy thoughts, the glorious creations of architectural genius, with their effects of height and distance, the stately splendour of public processions, the rich draperies adorning the streets, the music of bells, in a word all the gifts and marks of honour which the pious instincts of the people prompt them to pour forth with lavish hand, do not, I trow, excite in God’s mind the disdain which the stark simplicity of some of our contemporaries would have us believe they do. That at all events is what reason and experience alike confirm.
After that, need it surprise us that, at Rome, whither his duties as historiographer and his all-seeking curiosity take him in 1689, he is offered the curatorship of the Vatican Library? Were there not ample grounds for assuming that he was a Catholic at heart, and on the very verge of conversion?
But there was Bossuet, and Bossuet would have to be won over if the cause was to prosper. “You are like a second St. Paul, for your works are not confined to any one nation, to any single province. Your words are, at this very moment, making themselves heard in well-nigh all the languages of Europe, and your converts are blazoning abroad your triumphs in tongues to you unknown.”[4]
For a long time Bossuet had believed that the Protestants could be brought to heel by argument. When, in 1671, he published his Exposition de la doctrine catholique, he seemed to be stretching forth his hands, opening wide his arms. As with Leibniz, it was not his wish to split hairs, to aggravate differences; rather it was his aim to stress the things that might lead to reunion. Disengaging Catholic doctrine from the various accretions with which mistaken or excessive zeal had overloaded it; showing that the fundamentals of belief were the common property of both sides; stating, in the most conciliatory manner, what Catholics really held in regard to the invocation of Saints, statues, relics, indulgences, the sacraments, justification by grace; setting forth the Catholic position in regard to Tradition and the authority of the Church; showing that the doctrine of Transubstantiation constituted the only real difficulty, and that even that was not insurmountable, he displayed such generosity, such a warmth of cordiality, that the whole Protestant world was deeply moved. Some people alleged that his Exposition was too liberal to be orthodox, but, backed as it was by the approval of the Bishops and of the Pope himself, it emerged triumphant, and became a force, and an active one, in Europe. “This explanation of our doctrine will have good effects. In the first place, some of the points in dispute will wholly disappear because they will be shown to result from erroneous conceptions of our creed. Secondly, such differences as do remain will when judged by the principles of the so-called Reformers turn out to be far less crucial than at first appeared, involving nothing calculated to impair the foundations of belief.”
It is true that he applauded the Revocation of the Edict of Nantes, for that fitted in logically with his line of thought, and that the rift dates from that event. It was Sunday, 21st October, 1685, that he preached his sermon Compelle intrare before the whole Court, and that day the Protestants must have seen in him not just an opponent, but a foe. And when the Histoire des Variations des Églises Protestantes appeared in 1688, we all know the storm that greeted it. For months, for years, afterwards, refutations and replies came pouring forth; and refutations of refutations, replies to replies; and none of the disputants were exactly mealy-mouthed.
“No need to drink up all the sea to find out that it is salt, any more than there is to repeat everything that is said against us to realize the general hatred with which we are regarded”.[5]
It was now that the enterprise took on its aspect of pathetic grandeur. After the Revocation, to seek to unite the Churches— what a hopeless task! Everybody had been longing for it. In Sweden, in England, and even in Russia there were people ready to do their utmost to bring all men of goodwill into a single fold. But now, when the shepherds did nothing but assail one another, how vain to go on hoping for reconciliation. Nevertheless, that was precisely what Leibniz did hope for, and he called on Bossuet to lend him his aid.
And so we behold them in conference, if not in person, if not in the actual flesh, at least in the spirit of the things they longed and hoped for; not sitting face to face, but with the same minute attention as if they were closeted together in some austere chamber with a crucifix above their heads. Aided by a few others who were in the secret, out of the daylight’s glare, in the mysterious penumbra befitting long and difficult negotiations, these two mighty spirits begin their long and heartbreaking debate.
If we disregard the opening phase of the negotiations, which consisted in a rapid exchange of letters and polite civilities, it was not until 1691 that the debate began in real earnest. In France, a small group of religious-minded people were gazing hopefully towards Hanover. There was Pellisson, Fouquet’s old friend, who had been a prisoner in the Bastille and then set free. Originally a Huguenot, he had become a Catholic and was directeur de la Caisse des conversions. He was all on fire to bring about the union of the Church he had quitted, with the Church of Rome. Then there was Louise Hollandine, sister of the Duchess of Hanover, who had abjured the Protestant faith and withdrawn to the Abbaye de Maubuisson, near Pontoise; and Mme de Brinon, her secretary, active and zealous for the glory of God. There was no telling what might happen. Perhaps the Duchess of Hanover might follow her sister’s example and come over in her turn; and perhaps her husband might do the same. It might well be that this land of Hanover, where the good seed seemed to be springing up, would yield a glorious harvest. Salutes were exchanged. Leibniz and Pellisson exchange letters and arguments, and, across the sundering distance, a mutual esteem and affection springs up between the
m. Bossuet gets the call to arms, and “enters into the plan”.
And so the battle is joined. Leibniz looks about him for a favourable terrain on which to begin his conciliatory campaign, some spot that is weakly held, or slackly defended, so that he may gain a foothold within the fortress; and this is what he chooses: A man may err on a matter of religious belief without being necessarily a heretic or a schismatic, provided only that he be not contumacious. If Protestants agree that General Councils cannot err, and are then led erroneously to deny the oecumenicity of the Council of Trent, which set its seal on the final separation, they at all events err without malice and in good faith. They are neither heretics nor schismatics, and, by agreeing to abide by the decisions of a further oecumenical council, they remain, in spirit, in communion with the Church. What a hopeful line is that, and what a great advance it would be towards religious peace, if Bossuet would but approve!
To turn the positions established by a Council in a way that would be tantamount to regarding it as null and void was hardly a move likely to suit the Bishop of Meaux. “In order to clarify the position in regard to these proposals for reunion, it must be clearly borne in mind that, while it may be permissible, should the circumstances of the time render it expedient, to relax a disciplinary ordinance, or some other non-essential, the Church will never agree to abandon any point concerning doctrine which has been expressly defined, and least of all defined by the Council of Trent”. To make concessions to the Lutherans in regard to such matters as Communion in both kinds is one thing; to give way in regard to the principle of authority, which is the Church’s very corner-stone, is quite another. Then, in his vigorous, forthright manner—not a very serviceable instrument of diplomacy— he takes the offensive. If M. Leibniz believes in Catholicism; if he proclaims his belief in propositions which are the very essence of Catholicism, the thing is simplicity itself. Let him become a Catholic.
He made a mistake. He did not rightly read his adversary’s mind. That vague frontier, that almost imperceptible line which divided him from the Church of Rome, Leibniz was destined never to cross. He would never cross it because it was something individual that held him back, something within the man himself that no pressure from outside could annul or modify; but also, and more especially, because the real point at issue was something of a different nature. The question was not whether the Protestants were going to surrender unconditionally to their opponents, but whether they were going to join them; he, Leibniz, had come to discuss terms, not to crave asylum. Bossuet would have to understand that. He would have to discard those high-handed, imperious ways of his and learn the difference between conciliation and conversion. “We have gone a very long way for the sake of charity and peace. We have pushed on right up to the banks of the Bidassoa, so as to be ready, when the appropriate moment comes, to cross over to Conference Island. We have made a particular point of avoiding anything that might savour of the disputatious and all those superior airs with which one habitually refers to one’s own side . . . that offensive arrogance, that confident assurance which every one feels in point of fact but which it is both useless and impolitic to flaunt before people who have no small share of it themselves.” Once more, the question put to Bossuet is whether, supposing one honestly holds that the Council of Trent was not oecumenical, it would be allowable to disregard its decisions. The prelate’s answer had been too sweeping by half. Let him reconsider the data of the problem. We await his reply.
So Bossuet set to work. Despite the crushing mass of business which weighed upon him, he proceeded to examine in detail the documents so far drawn up, the formulas hitherto put forward, with a view to providing a working basis for a settlement. “At the earliest available opportunity, I will tell you with the utmost frankness what my views are on the matter.”— “May this year prove a propitious one for you and for all those who seriously desire to restore the union of Christendom.”[6] He worked with a will. “I enter into the scheme and although I cannot enter into all the means, I see plainly that, if we can go by what the Abbé Molanus says, and others as fair-minded as he, most of the difficulties should be cleared away. You shall shortly hear what I think.”
Meanwhile Leibniz used the interval to good account. He kept a sharp look-out for any arguments that might support his case. Already, sometime previously, he had pointed out that France herself had not accepted the Council of Trent as oecumenical; and now, to his great joy, he lighted upon a case with a direct bearing upon the question, a precedent which seemed to him to clinch the matter. On one occasion at any rate—there were plenty of other instances in point of fact, but one would suffice as typical of the rest—the Church of Rome had annulled the decisions of a Council. The Calixtines of Bohemia failed to comply with the ruling of the Council of Constance in regard to Communion in both kinds. Pope Eugenius and the Council of Basle, overriding the decree, did not order them to submit, but referred the matter for further consideration and final decision by the Church. What thought Bossuet of the significance of such a precedent as that? Was it not, beyond dispute, on all fours with the question now under discussion? “Consider, Monsieur, whether all these German-speaking peoples do not deserve at least the same measure of indulgence as was meted out to the Bohemians. . . .”
It came at last, the long-awaited answer. It came in the shape of a monograph dealing point by point with Molanus’s Some personal reflections on the manner of bringing about a union between the Protestant and Roman Catholic Churches, and it set forth the writer’s conclusions. Bossuet said the method proposed was unacceptable, in that it aimed at drawing up conditions of peace before any examination of the principles on which that peace was to be founded. The only acceptable method was that which should first declare the principles, and then proceed to an examination of the facts. To begin with a sort of gentleman’s agreement, then to meet together for an informal discussion about doctrine, and finally to convene a Council to settle points on which the parties had failed to agree—that was not the way to go to work at all. The first thing needed was to summon a Council to give formal hearing of the Protestant retractation, after which would follow the reconciliation. Anything else would be merely begging the question. If the Protestants expected to re-enter the Roman Communion before making their submission, it would naturally be inferred that they did not acknowledge their error, that they still did not acknowledge the authority of the Church. The whole crux of the matter was there.
The method, in fact, takes for granted the very matter that is under discussion. The Church is infallible: the decisions of the Council of Trent are valid for all time. The notion that France disputed its oecumenicity is a pure delusion, for France’s protest had reference solely to questions of precedence, to the prerogatives, privileges and customs of the realm. To quote the incident of the Calixtines of Bohemia is also beside the mark: the enquiry which was agreed to at Basle was to be regarded not as questioning the decision arrived at Constance, but as clarifying and confirming it. And since Leibniz asks point-blank whether people who are willing to submit to the Church’s authority, but choose to doubt the oecumenicity of this Council or of that, are rightly to be looked on as heretics, Bossuet replies equally point-blank that they are: “Yes, heretics they are, recusants they are.” After that, it was useless for Leibniz to try and hit back, retorting that it was a very odd thing to say, “Yesterday we believed such and such a thing, so we’ve got to go on believing it”. It was no good digging up more precedents; they got him no farther. Bossuet had built up a wall, and he could see no flaw in it. The discussion might as well be regarded as closed.
However, it began again. The secondary actors in the play were gradually fading out; death was taking its toll of them; but Leibniz and Bossuet still remained, and hope was not yet entirely extinguished. The 27th August, 1698, found Leibniz in the monastery at Lockum hard at work on a new Plan for facilitating the reunion of Protestants and Roman Catholics, which he concluded with a fervent prayer to God. Then he resumed his corre
spondence with Bossuet. But the arguments were the same as ever, all save one, that is. Quite determined to show that it was untrue to say that the Church had never changed, he broached the question of the authenticity of the Scriptures. The Church to-day, he remarks, accepts as authentic books which the early Church regarded as apocryphal; consequently tradition had changed. The controversy went lumbering heavily on, coming to a stop at every trifling little obstacle. It went on till Bossuet felt that his end was approaching. The letters on either side developed into lengthy treatises; one of them numbered as many as a hundred and twenty-two clauses. There was no getting away from it, Leibniz in questioning the authenticity of the Scriptures had strayed a long way from the paths of conciliation.
These two mighty toilers, whom neither weariness nor work, however heavy, could dishearten, laboured on till the end, each in the light of his own guiding principle. Leibniz made good use of his nimble and penetrating intelligence, of his native gift for diplomacy; he began cautiously, warily treading the path of discretion, for, as he said, it was not a matter of constructing arguments or making books, but rather of getting to read men’s hearts, of gauging the opposing powers. Gradually he grew more heated. Chafing at a resistance which neither his goodwill nor his ingenuity availed to overcome, he permitted himself to talk about people “splitting hairs”. He accused Bossuet of shuffling, of wilfully obscuring the issue, and of putting on tragic airs. A note of bitterness began to creep in. This Bishop is a die-hard. Better bring a few laymen into the discussion and talk things over with them; these ecclesiastical gentlemen have their own peculiar way of looking at things, their own preconceived ideas. He, Leibniz, was all for a friendly compromise, for a little give-and-take on either side. He could always draw on his prodigious memory for something in the past that had a useful application to the present; he had the sort of mind that was constantly urging him to look for points of agreement in seeming opposites, to whittle away differences to vanishing point, to elicit the harmonious elements in things whenever he could. His approach was political rather than religious. The value of the prize to be won seemed to him to warrant a somewhat liberal interpretation of the rules of the game. But on one point, and one point only, he was adamant, though it must be admitted that that point involved all the rest; it was the right of full and free enquiry, the refusal to bow to any dogmatic authority. When, in spite of all his efforts, he failed to achieve his object, his heart was filled with vexation, nay, with grief, and it was a bitter wrench for him to have to abandon a project which had seemed to him to promise so much for Europe and for all the human race. There was bitterness, too, one feels, and a note of reproach to all whom it might concern, in his obstinate harping on the one unvarying theme: He gives notice that “he washes his hands of all responsibility for whatever further ills the existing schism may have in store for the Christian Church”; “We can console ourselves that we have left undone nothing that we ought to have done, and that to reproach us with perpetuating the schism would be the very acme of injustice”; the Church of Rome it is that causes the schism by violating that charity which is the soul of unity.