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Virtue and Knowledge An Introduction to Ancient Greek Ethics 1st Edition William J. Prior
We live in a time of moral confusion: many believe there are no overarching moral norms, and we have lost an accepted body of moral knowledge. Alasdair MacIntyre addresses this problem in his much-heralded restatement of Aristotelian and Thomistic virtue ethics; Stanley Hauerwas does so through his highly influential work in Christian ethics. Both recast virtue ethics in light of their interpretations of the later Wittgenstein’s views of language.
This book systematically assesses the underlying presuppositions of MacIntyre and Hauerwas, finding that their attempts to secure moral knowledge and restate virtue ethics, both philosophical and theological, fail. Scott Smith proposes alternative indications as to how we can secure moral knowledge, and how we should proceed in virtue ethics.
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Virtue Ethics and Moral Knowledge
Philosophy of language after MacIntyre and Hauerwas
R. SCOTT SMITH
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
Smith, R.Scott
Virtue ethics and moral knowledge : philosophy of language after MacIntyre and Hauerwas. – (Ashgate new critical thinking in philosophy)
1. Virtue
I.Title 179.9
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Smith, R. Scott, 1957Virtue ethics and moral knowledge : philosophy of language after MacIntyre and Hauerwas / R. Scott Smith. p. cm. – (Ashgate new critical thinking in philosophy) Includes bibliographical references.
ISBN 0-7546-0979-0 (alk. paper)
1. Ethics. 2. Virtues. 3. Language and languages-Philosophy. 4. MacIntyre, Alasdair C. 5. Hauerwas, Stanley, 1940-6. Wittgenstein, Ludwig, 1889-1951.
Introduction: The Problem of the Loss of Moral Knowledge
Part I: A Possible Solution: Linguistic Virtue Ethics
Chapter 1: From Aristotle to Wittgenstein: Tracing the History of the Loss of Moral Knowledge
Chapter 2: Philosophical, Linguistic Virtue Ethics: MacIntyre’s Solution
Chapter 3: Theological, Linguistic Virtue Ethics: Hauerwas’s Answer
Part II: The Failure of this Answer: A Critique of Linguistic Virtue Ethics
Chapter 4: The Presupposition of Epistemic Access
Chapter 5: The Issues With Behavior
Chapter 6: The Presuppositions of the Self
Part III: The Implications of this Failure and the Prospects for Moral Knowledge
Chapter 7: Problems for Philosophical Theology
Chapter 8: The Charge of Relativism
Epilogue: The Future of Virtue Ethics, and Implications for Moral Knowledge
Bibliography
Index
Acknowledgements
I am deeply indebted to several people who have made this book possible. The importance of having good character would not nearly have the same degree of interest to me if I had not seen it consistently modeled in the lives of my parents, Bob and Margaret Smith. Primarily by their actions, but also by their words, they taught me to prize being a person of integrity and high moral character. Having that background, it was quite natural for me to be drawn to study virtue ethics. Because of that, I also quickly saw the stress in Christian ethics upon developing the moral character of Jesus.
Philosophically, J.P. Moreland not only ceaselessly encouraged me, but he also enabled me to see the metaphysical implications and requirements of virtue ethics. Jack Crossley and John Orr steadily provided encouragement, guidance and refinement of my project’s overall trajectory, and Jack gave me meticulous suggestions for the manuscript. More than anyone else, Dallas Willard patiently answered my probings and finally succeeded in enabling me to penetrate to and understand the core issues in MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s views. Finally, I am deeply grateful to my wife, Debbie, who endured the long hours to produce this book and many related papers. Even more so, it has been through our lives as a couple that I have been able to see the very metaphysics of character lived out.
Introduction: The Problem of the Loss of Moral Knowledge
OUR PRESENT MORAL DILEMMA
We live in a time of widespread moral confusion. People are searching, sometimes fervently, for moral guidance. We see this today in part with the high demand for ethical experts who can tell us what we should do. In just the last few years, ethics consultants have become a new kind of occupation, as they offer expertise in the dilemmas now faced in bioethical and business ethics dilemmas. Government agencies also turn to ethics consultants, and we now find a proliferation of ethics courses being taught not only in their traditional venues, namely religion and philosophy departments, but also in all manner of disciplines, such as journalism, business, law, sports and many more. The awareness of the need for moral guidance in these fields and professions has multiplied, at the same time that people in these areas confront their own inadequacies to answer their ethical challenges.
Why is there such a need for moral guidance? One obvious reason is that today we are facing several kinds of decisions that previous generations never had to encounter. For example, biotechnological breakthroughs force upon us new issues, such as, should cloning of humans be allowed? Or to what extent should we permit fetal tissue research? To what extent and for what purposes should we permit
the manipulation of human genetic materials? These scientific discoveries, amongst others, have raised a host of issues with which we previously have not had to grapple.
Yet, an even moreimportant reason why so many people are searching for moral direction and guidance is that we have experienced a loss of moral knowledge. We live in a time in which there is no generally accepted body of moral knowledge. Furthermore, we tend to believe that we live in a world in which there are no overarching moral norms that should govern everyone’s lives. We seem to face, at least in Anglo-American societies, an inability to come to agreement on moral issues, or perhaps on the very terms of such a discussion, a feature that may help explain the enormous influence of Alasdair MacIntyre’s argument in After Virtue.1 We face this inability in whatwe ought to do in a given situation, as well as whywe should do it. As a salient characteristic of this time, there is a veritable smorgasbord of moral options from which people may choose to give moral direction to their lives, with little if any rational consensus as to why we should choose any one of those options. As an illustration, over the last five years, with almost complete unanimity, my first-year college students have told me that morality is relative to either individuals or cultures. Indeed, in academic circles, to think that there could be objective moral norms is, at the very least, a mistaken holdover of Enlightenment thought, or else symptomatic of an oppressive will to power.
With a thin set of moral norms that seem to be settled in our society (such as murder and rape are wrong), we seem to be “on our own” to choose a moral compass for life. But how do we make such choices? No matter what moral viewpoint we “try on,” we still face the daunting moral questions of what we should do in a given circumstance and why. More broadly, the pressing questions today are how should we live and why. That is, to what set of values, principles or norms should we appeal to morally guide us, and why should we adopt that set of morals over another?
Some people think there is no good reasonwhy we should adopt one set over another. On this view, morality reduces to nothing but a
set of emotive utterances about how we feel about so-called moral questions and dilemmas. This, of course, is the view known as emotivism, and it provides one answer to why we lack moral knowledge: namely, morality simply is not a rational kind of thing! It just is a matter of our subjective tastes, likes and dislikes, and so to even think that we could have rationale for why we should choose one moral framework over another is just illogical, for on this view morality itself is not rational.
But if that is the case, then we face a severe crisis: we have no basis for being able to tell anyone (with any rational justification) that what that person has done is wrong, no matter how hurtful or grotesque an action may seem to be. For instance, we could not tell Milosevic that his genocidal actions against the Albanians were wrong, except to vent our feelings. Consequently, we are left with raw power moves to settle our disputes. Nor would we have a reason for praising the actions of someone, such as Martin Luther King, Jr., to overcome something as insidious as racism unless we happen to just feel so inclined.
On the other hand, if there are rational reasons for being good and for choosing one moral viewpoint over another, it still could be the case that morality is just subjective. In that case, what is right or wrong, or good or bad, depends solely on whether an individual accepts the thing in question as being so. And if subjectivism is true, then each of us defines morality for ourselves.
This is a very appealing view, especially for Americans, for it lets us be rugged individualists by autonomously choosing what shall be the governing moral norms for our lives. Yet, if subjectivism is true, then we still lack any rational basis for resolving interpersonal conflicts; what is right for me may not be so for you, and you have no moral authority to define morality for me. Once again, we end up in shouting matches or power struggles to resolve our moral conflicts.
A POSSIBLE SOLUTION
Is there any way out of this dilemma? Some people’s answers have dominated the ethical landscape more than those of others. This book shall concentrate on one of the most significant proposed solutions. MacIntyre develops this answer in AfterVirtue,as well as in its sequels. His answer lies in large part in a return to the virtue ethics of Aristotle and Aquinas, which he does in order to recover what has been lost in modern moral philosophy: namely, an overarching goal, or telos,for human life. MacIntyre’s appeal to Aristotle and Aquinas employs significant modifications, most notably due to his views of language, which have been significantly influenced by his understanding of the later Wittgenstein. Specifically, MacIntyre brings a strong emphasis upon narrative, which is foreign to Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s original views. MacIntyre’s work has become extremely influential in the humanities, especially in philosophy and religious studies departments. His influence also extends well beyond the classroom, and his ideas impact many ministers, priests, educators and more.
A second highly influential person is Stanley Hauerwas, particularly in the field of Christian ethics. As such, his writings have become the subject of great interest in religious studies departments and schools of divinity. But his more profound influence may occur amongst pastors and Christians in higher education. He has written volumes of literature directed primarily at Christians to help them become aware of the cultural and philosophical forces that shape their lives. Like MacIntyre, his answer is to return to a characterbased ethics and move away from liberalism and the more principledriven ethical systems of the Enlightenment. But his approach stresses something unique: namely, the primacy of the Christian gospel as embodied in the Christian community, along with the importance of narrative and the relationship of language to the world.
The importance of these two authors in their fields cannot be overstated. MacIntyre may have helped fuel the resurgence of interest in virtue ethics more than any other author. He has extensively framed the contemporary discussion about this subject.
Similarly, Hauerwas has shaped the discussion of virtue ethics in religious circles. Especially amongst Christians, Hauerwas has helped set the agenda for how they should live as well as how Christian virtue ethics ought to be conceived. Interestingly, MacIntyre, too, has personally settled upon a form of Christianity, the Thomistic tradition, since he sees it as the most rational so far.
What strikes me as interesting is that when I talk with people who study these two authors, they tend to focus on their concepts of traditions, stories and narratives, the narrative unity of the self, the formation of communities, and practices. What they do notseem to grasp, much less even notice, are the significant shifts in philosophical assumptions that MacIntyre and Hauerwas have made away from Aristotle and Aquinas and how those changes should affect how people interpret these contemporary authors. These shifts lie primarily in the areas of metaphysics and epistemology, and they have their extensions in other areas, such as philosophical theology and, of course, ethics. What are these shifts, and what is their impact upon philosophical virtue ethics and, more specifically, Christian virtue ethics and Christian philosophical theology? Essentially, they have shifted away from the three kinds of realism found in Aristotle and Aquinas. First, Aristotle and Aquinas are metaphysicalrealists, in that they believe that an unconstructed, mind-independent world exists apart from any human conceptualizations of it. On their view, human beings, as well as other living things, exist and have an essence (which they take to be the soul) that make them what they are through time and change. That is, upon their view, there is something about human beings that enables them to acquire various properties and dispositions. They also can develop capacities latent within them, or some capacities may become privated, or even remain so for their whole lives. The virtues are such properties; human beings, due to their nature, should develop these virtues since they are appropriate for their nature quahuman being. On their view, then, virtues are properties that before being actualized were latent (that is, only the capacities for them existed) within the soul. Importantly, virtues, as
well as many other things, exist independently of any minds conceiving of them, or any linguistic community’s members’ speaking of them.
I am notsuggesting we revive debates about the existence of the soul. However, Aristotle and Aquinas both can be given a slightly different reading that still preserves their point. On the other hand, I amsuggesting that, according to Aristotle and Aquinas, virtue ethics seems to require three metaphysically realistic propositions:
(a) there are human selves, or persons, who exist as continuants, who remain the same essentially through change and yet can grow in capacities;
(b) virtues are such capacities, such that selves may grow in good character qualities toward an end, or telos,that is the goal for human maturity; and
(c) both human selves and virtues are metaphysically real entities and exist as mind- or language-independent entities.
In a second sense of philosophical realism, Aristotle and Aquinas both are epistemologicalrealists. That is, not only is there a real, unconstructed world, but we also can know it as such. Contrary to much of the received wisdom of today, they both think that we can know these ontological realities in themselves. They believe that we can have access to an unconstructed reality. For example, Aristotle’s metaphysics depends heavily upon his observations of life and then reason to determine what logically is required to enable such things to be sustained in existence. Aquinas, on the other hand, has an additional source – the revelation of scripture. He draws upon scripture for its revelation of the ultimate telosfor human beings (the beatific vision), as well as the dual nature of the virtues (that is, the cardinal and theological virtues).
In a third sense, both Aristotle and Aquinas are moralrealists. This sense is closely related to metaphysical realism, and on this view moral properties are actualized capacities in persons. But there is more to their view; for them, moral properties are irreducibly non-
natural. That is, the nature of moral properties is that they are essentially moral. Importantly, they are not human constructions, and they are not reducible to just behavior. The virtues are appropriate for us due to our human nature, while the vices are inappropriate because they demean our nature.
There has been great staying power in Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s virtue ethics. Significantly, they provide an answer to a problem that has made contemporary virtue ethics quite difficult to sustain. Specifically, they are able to argue that the question ‘what is a good person?’ presupposesthe answer to ‘what isa person?’ They steadfastly hold to a metaphysical view of human persons that supports our common-sense observation that we all can (and often do) grow in character. Their view allows for the ability of people to actually develop virtues, grow in maturity and yet still be the same person through that change.
A major reason that they hold to that view is that they do their epistemology in light of their metaphysics. For them, metaphysics is logically prior to epistemology, and this priority makes sense. In most cases, what we can know seems to depend upon what exists. (Granted, Pegasus does not have to exist in order for me to know that it is a winged horse.) Indeed, virtue ethics seems to require a metaphysical realism that is logically prior to an epistemic realism.
Yet, all three realist positions come under attack in MacIntyre and Hauerwas due to their adaptation and use of the later Wittgenstein’s views of language. The metaphysical position that living things have natures runs afoul not only of MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s views, but also of contemporary academic mindsets. Nonetheless, an initial question should be asked: can virtue ethics survive such a transformation away from the realism of Aristotle and Aquinas to the linguistic variety found in MacIntyre and Hauerwas? That is, are these realist understandings necessary for virtue ethics, in both its more general, philosophical form, as well as its specifically Christian version, or can they be replaced by a linguisticized account? And can such a move provide the basis for the moral knowledge we need?
THE FAILURE OF THIS ANSWER
It is true that both MacIntyre and Hauerwas offer widely embraced answers to the many dilemmas we face today in ethics, and in particular the problem of the loss of moral knowledge. Still, we must ask if their views are worthy of our rational acceptance. With their widespread and far-reaching influence, we should expect that many people would examine their views. Yet, what has been written by way of criticism focuses mainly upon isolated pieces of their views, and most often that piece is the challenge of relativism. Thus far, no one has systematically critiqued (much less even surfaced) the full extent of their views’ underlying presuppositions, especiallyabout therelationoflanguagetotheworld,to see if they truly make sense.
Thisbookissuchanattempt,and what we will find is either that (a) they repeatedly beg the most important questions of all, and that they presuppose the very things they deny, such as epistemic access to an extra-linguistic realm that exists independently of our linguistic characterizations of it. That is, they presuppose epistemological and metaphysical realism in order to deny them. Or, (b), they make assertions just from within some discrete, localized community (which is not specified), claims which, on their own view’s presuppositions, become relatively uninteresting to the rest of us. And if these conclusions are sound, then their attempts to secure moral knowledge will fail.
In the subsequent chapters, I will argue that these realist positions are necessary for virtue ethics. MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s reconstructions of Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s ethics actually undermine virtue ethics, and they will not enable us to solve the dilemma of the loss of moral knowledge. To help see this, in Part I I carefully develop their views so that we may see just what their linguistic views are, and that they bear a strong family resemblance. In Chapter 1, I provide an exposition of Aristotle’s and Aquinas’s views on virtue ethics. Then I develop a historical sketch to trace the shift
away from metaphysical and epistemological realism up to and including the ‘linguistic turn’ in philosophy. Then we will have a context within which we can begin to understand the importance of the later Wittgenstein and his impact upon Hauerwas and MacIntyre, in order that we may understand the factors and views that shape their solution to the loss of moral knowledge.
At this juncture, however, it is important to ward off a potential misunderstanding of my project. Trying to give the authoritative interpretation of the later Wittgenstein’s views on language is the subject of another book! The burden of my essay, however, does not depend on reaching such a formidable, if not unattainable, goal. After all, if MacIntyre and Hauerwas are right, then there is not some objective meaning in any text, even those of Wittgenstein, but meaning just is a matter of use of terms within a linguistic community. Rather, my point is to examine how Hauerwas and MacIntyre, along with others such as Hilary Putnam and Brad J. Kallenberg, hold what they might call a ‘family resemblance’ in their interpretationsanduseof the later Wittgenstein. It is their understanding of the later Wittgenstein that I refer to by terms such as their ‘linguistic constructionism’, ‘linguistic viewpoint’, or ‘linguistic method’, or, in context, just their ‘method’. To the extent that my criticisms would be applicable to their use of Wittgenstein, they also would extend by implication to that interpretation of Wittgenstein.2
Through the lens of Kallenberg’s cutting-edge defense of Hauerwas as the true heir of Wittgenstein’s mantle, we may gain an understanding of this particular interpretation of Wittgenstein.3 More than these other authors, Kallenberg is explicit and clear in his own views of Wittgenstein. But even more importantly, he also is clear as to how remarkably consistent Hauerwas is with being that kind of Wittgensteinian. Hauerwas himself agrees, for in an endorsement of Kallenberg’s book, he explains that ‘Kallenberg, by drawing on Wittgenstein, wonderfully exposes the high wire act that constitutes “my work” ’.4 When we compare MacIntyre’s views with this interpretation, as I do in Chapter 2, we find that his views also have a clear family resemblance. In Chapter 3, I develop Hauerwas’s own
Wittgensteinian understanding and how he applies it to his particular Christian convictions. Once again, we will see that his views bear a strong family resemblance to those of MacIntyre and Kallenberg. In both chapters, we will gain not only a clear understanding of their answer to the loss of moral knowledge, but also how their views of language shape both the problem and their solution.
Such an exposition of their linguistic presuppositions is important, since they are not developed in MacIntyre’s or Hauerwas’s own writings. In Part II, I shift to criticize their core presuppositions. Chapter 4 addresses and criticizes the fundamental issue posed by this linguistic method, namely, that we do not have epistemic access to a language-independent world. What is utterly crucial to see is that this position, no matter how it may be defended by MacIntyre, Hauerwas or Kallenberg, nonetheless begs the question by assuming such an access in order to deny it. It is critical that I address and break down this epistemic issue first, for if we can see that they presuppose access to an unconstructed realm, then we will be in a position to see that they also presuppose various key metaphysical positions.
Chapter 5 therefore examines the first of two sets of metaphysical issues. The first set of issues cluster around the matter of behavior, and I argue that again they must presuppose the very things they deny in order for their method to work, such as the primacy of the first-person viewpoint. I also argue that they presuppose, yet deny, the identity (and not mere family resemblance) of words and behaviors in order to secure the meaningfulness of behavior.
Chapter 6 takes up the second set of metaphysical issues, which focus on the kind of self that is needed for virtue ethics. Here, we shall see that a self that has a narrative unity cannotprovide the unity needed for growth in the virtues. Any version of virtue ethics must make sense of the key metaphysical proposition that persons can grow in character and yet still be the same person through change. Withoutthatunderpinning,virtueethicsdoesnothavea chancetosucceedormakesense.Unfortunately, MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s idea of the self cannot accomplish this fundamental task.
Nor can their kind of self grow in moral knowledge. Furthermore, we shall see that, once again, they presuppose the kind of self that they deny (namely, an extra-linguistic one) in order for their ethics to work. Taken together, these three chapters identify several serious incoherent aspects of their view, such that their solution to the problem of the loss of moral knowledge cannot be sustained.
THE IMPLICATIONS OF THIS FAILURE AND THE PROSPECTS FOR MORAL KNOWLEDGE
Having performed the crucial epistemological and metaphysical labor, the subsequent chapters in Part III examine related, specific issues in light of those findings. Chapter 7 surveys several considerations of their linguistic method that threaten orthodox Christian philosophical theology and Christian moral knowledge. That is, they claim that the Christian tradition is the most rational so far (MacIntyre), or that it is the true story (Hauerwas), yet their linguistic method renders Christian philosophical theology absurd. Chapter 8 tackles the charge most often leveled against MacIntyre and Hauerwas, that their views are utterly relativistic. Yet, they, along with Kallenberg, have offered formidable defenses against this charge, and so I set out to clear the philosophical confusion by showing how their views are relativistic and furthermore why that is indeed a serious problem.
Yet, even if these conclusions are correct, a perplexing phenomenon still requires explanation: viz., that their views make much sense. Yet, I will argue that this is so only to the extent that we interpret them as realists. That is, their views presuppose realism. But removed from that framework, their views become incoherent. Indeed, MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s linguistic approach, and especially its new ontology, is inimical to philosophical virtue ethics and, specifically, Christian virtue ethics.
So what is at stake in this project? First, in light of these lines of critique, their seemingly persuasive attempts to provide us with
moral knowledge will not succeed. It would be a mistake to think that we can find (much less recover) moral knowledge by following their recommendations. Hence, we should reject their linguistic method and their presuppositions. Yet, I will suggest that there are implications of my analysis that can lead to solutions to this problem.
Second, since bothphilosophical and specifically Christian virtue ethics have enjoyed an immense revival within MacIntyre’s and Hauerwas’s frameworks, the collapse of the rationality of their viewpoints couldlead to the subsequent demise of virtue ethics. That is, these findings will leave us with a couple of options for future consideration: either we dismiss virtue ethics, or at least this linguisticized version, or we reconsider the metaphysical and epistemological grounding for virtue ethics that gave the AristotelianThomistic version such lasting power. If we choose the latter, in the end we may still decide that virtue ethics is irremediably flawed. Yet, I will conclude with suggestions for further study that such a decision will be misguided and shortsighted, and that there may be a way to ‘go on’ in virtue ethics without being MacIntyrean or Hauerwasian.
These findings for virtue ethics also will have implications for other fields of study, such as philosophy of mind. Virtue ethics presupposes a kind of self that can grow in character and yet somehow, fundamentally, remain the same. Yet that insight poses conceptual problems for physicalism, which treats persons as bundles of physical properties that lack a continuant that hasthese properties. And the kind of thing that a virtue is also will pose problems for epiphenomenalism, which would tend to treat character traits as just non-causally efficacious byproducts of the brain’s activity. But, the very idea that someone has developed certain traits, such as integrity, means that that individual will tend to act outofthat settled disposition, and not that one’s integrity is a mere epiphenomenon.
There are applications for other fields of study. Despite the fact that MacIntyre and Hauerwas hold that the Christian story is rational to believe, it is important to see that their method will render that
tradition absurd. Other current approaches in theology that accept the internal relationship of language and the world also could lead to that same result. Finally, there will be implications for other kinds of constructionist methodologies, such as certain approaches taken in religious ethics, as well as for more philosophical varieties, like that found in Nancey Murphy’s non-reductive physicalism.
But most significantly, and contrary to their claims, MacIntyre and Hauerwas’s linguistic constructionism will fail to secure moral knowledge. To an exposition and then a critique of that view we will now turn, and then we will be in a position to see why their constructionism fails to solve this critical dilemma.
NOTES
1 Alasdair MacIntyre, After Virtue, 2nd edn (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 1984).
2 It is possible, at least according to David Burrell, that my analysis might apply to Wittgenstein’s views. For in his endorsement of Kallenberg’s book, Ethics as Grammar, Burrell writes: ‘Ethics as Grammar represents a quite flawless account of Ludwig Wittgenstein’s “project.” ’ At least, that is Burrell’s interpretation of Wittgenstein and Kallenberg.
3 Brad J. Kallenberg, Ethics as Grammar: Changing the Postmodern Subject (Notre Dame: University of Notre Dame Press, 2001).
4 See Hauerwas’s endorsement on the back cover of the jacket of Ethics as Grammar.
PART I A POSSIBLE SOLUTION: LINGUISTIC VIRTUE ETHICS
Chapter 1
From Aristotle to Wittgenstein: Tracing the History of the Loss of Moral Knowledge
In AfterVirtue,Alasdair MacIntyre proposes a solution to what he describes as a disaster in contemporary moral discourse. In so doing, he offers a solution to the problem of the loss of moral knowledge, one that involves a return to the virtue ethics of Aristotle albeit reformulated into what he calls a ‘tradition’. Then, in Whose Justice?WhichRationality?,Aquinas has become his hero, and Thomism has become his preferred moral tradition. In both cases, MacIntyre argues for a return to the tradition of the virtues in order to escape what he sees as the crisis of our interminable moral disputes. For him, the dilemma posed by the loss of moral knowledge is a result of the many mistakes foisted upon us by the Enlightenment, chief of which is the notion that language correspondsto an extra-linguistic realm. That is, MacIntyre repudiates the metaphysical realism found in Aristotle and Aquinas, not to mention their epistemological realism, the view that we can know things as they are in themselves, even apart from language. In MacIntyre’s view, traditional metaphysics (that is, metaphysical realism) is dead.1
Stanley Hauerwas closely follows MacIntyre in that he too believes that language and world are not related by correspondence; rather, language use in a way of life constitutesa world. His ethical writings
focus on the Christian way of life and how it provides moral knowledge in the wake of the philosophical mischief inherited from the Enlightenment. Hauerwas’s major concern seems to be that a focus in ethics on disembodied, abstract agents making decisions outside of a context has severely distorted the moral enterprise. According to him, this view distorts moral action because it seeks an epistemic foundation for all moral reflection when there is none, and it also treats moral agents as autonomous, atomized selves without a history that reduces the moral life to just one of making right decisions. As a solution, Hauerwas develops in part an account of the moral agent as an embodied person in a particular context who needs moral virtues as well as a vision for perceiving the good, both of which are found in a community formed by metaphors and stories. He focuses on the Christian community, the church, as the true narrative, since it is formed around the true story of Jesus of Nazareth.
Significantly, both writers have embraced a form of virtue ethics as part and parcel of their solutions to this loss of moral knowledge. Such knowledge, they would contend, is found only within linguistically formed communities, and it is not some disembodied set of propositions somewhere ‘out there’ that anyone, regardless of their communal membership, may know. Yet, within this broad agreement, each author has his distinctiveness. While MacIntyre seeks to defend Thomism as the most rational tradition sofar, Hauerwas thinks he has found thetrue story, period. We might generalize and characterize their philosophical relationship as MacIntyre being the one who justifies a narrative-based virtue ethic, while Hauerwas applies the theory. Yet, such a depiction will prove to be too simplistic. For instance, this does not mean that Hauerwas does not have philosophical interests. He wants to develop a narrative approach to Christian ethics, but not a philosophical system. Additionally, MacIntyre has broader concerns than just theological ethics; he is concerned with finding the most rational tradition so far, which he argues happens to be Thomism, a Christian tradition. MacIntyre’s concerns, therefore, are largely philosophical,
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Language: French
Original publication: Paris: Arthème Fayard, 1921
Credits: Laurent Vogel (This file was produced from images generously made available by the Bibliothèque nationale de France (BnF/Gallica)) *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LA FARCE DE LA SORBONNE ***
RENÉ BENJAMIN
LA FARCE DE LA SORBONNE
« … Cet Asinarium de Paris. » V H .
PARIS
ARTHÈME FAYARD & Cie, ÉDITEURS
18-20, RUE DU SAINT-GOTHARD
DU MÊME AUTEUR
LES SOUTIENS DE LA SOCIÉTÉ
LES JUSTICES DE PAIX, ou LES VINGT FAÇONS DE JUGER DANS
PARIS (A F Cie , éditeurs )
LE PALAIS ET SES GENS DE JUSTICE (A F Cie , éditeurs )
PARIS, SA FAUNE ET SES MŒURS
L’HOTEL DES VENTES, avec les dessins de JEAN LEFORT. (A. F Cie , éditeurs.)
LA GUERRE
GASPARD. [Prix Goncourt 1915]. (A. F Cie , édit.)
SOUS LE CIEL DE FRANCE (A F Cie , éditeurs )
LE MAJOR PIPE ET SON PÈRE (A F Cie , édit )
LES RAPATRIÉS.
GRANDGOUJON. (A. F Cie , éditeurs.)
LA PAIX
AMADOU, BOLCHEVISTE. (A. F Cie , éditeurs.)
Copyright by René Benjamin, 1921.
Il a été tiré à part :
Cinquante exemplaires sur papier de Hollande numérotés de 1 à 50.
Cent exemplaires sur papier pur fil des papeteries Lafuma numérotés de 51 à 150.
A JEAN VARIOT
I
OÙ
L’AUTEUR,
ENCORE A L’ÂGE INNOCENT,
RENCONTRE
POUR LA PREMIÈRE FOIS DES SAVANTS
A CHAPEAUX POINTUS
On rajeunit aux souvenirs d’enfance, Comme on renaît au souffle du printemps.
B .
Aux yeux de beaucoup d’esprits, qui traînent des convictions comme de vieilles habitudes, la Sorbonne reste une des gloires de la France. C’est un fétichisme qui me surprend, car ma mémoire ne garde de mes passages dans cette maison-mère de l’Université, que des images sans aucun sérieux.
Du lycée où l’on m’instruisit, c’est-à-dire où je transcrivais sur des cahiers ce qui était imprimé dans mes livres, on m’expédia pour la première fois à la Sorbonne vers mes quinze ans, afin que je prisse part à ce qu’on appelait pompeusement le Concours Général. J’en revois tous les détails avec l’exactitude qu’ont les souvenirs de nos grands étonnements. Rendez-vous à sept heures du matin, rue
Saint-Jacques, devant la Tour universitaire qui ressemble à celle de la gare du P.-L.-M. Là s’assemblaient les meilleurs élèves des meilleurs lycées. Ils parlaient fort, brandissaient des dictionnaires importants ; ils me choquaient tous par leurs échanges de vanités ; et je me trouvais soudain une sympathie secrète pour les cancres, si modestes.
Puis, sur le seuil de la Faculté paraissait le groupe de nos censeurs. Chacun de nous, à l’appel de son nom, passait devant le sien, qui lui remettait un droit d’entrée d’un geste si digne que, pour ma part, j’en restais stupide et le cœur battant. Je montais avec peine les six étages menant à la salle du Concours… Ouf ! On atteignait les combles !… Là, des maîtres nous désignaient gravement une table. Nous étalions nos papiers ; nous sortions un déjeuner froid, car l’épreuve devait durer jusqu’au milieu de l’aprèsmidi… Silence… Trois coups de règle… Et un Monsieur, toujours vieux et toujours triste, décachetait un vaste pli, duquel, solennellement, il tirait non pas un ordre de mobilisation générale, mais une simple et ridicule version latine, revue par l’Académie de Paris, complètement indéchiffrable, ou encore quelque plaisanterie historique, anatomique, philosophique, de ce genre-ci : Le règne de Marie Stuart. — La Vessie. — Des particularités de l’idée générale. Ceci énoncé, commençait le temps douloureux, quatre, six, huit heures, de bâillements, de langueur, d’ennui mortel et… de jalousie à voir des pions qui ne faisaient que se promener et lire sur nos épaules avec des moues avantageuses.
Alors, par rage, il m’arrivait d’être imbécile à dessein et, d’une plume satanique, d’écrire exprès ce qui me semblait le plus impersonnel, le plus pédagogique, le plus servilement exact dans les souvenirs que j’apportais de mes cours. Et je jure — je jure sur la tête du Recteur, de l’ancien et du nouveau, — que chaque fois que j’eus ces pensées mauvaises, j’obtins de l’Alma mater qu’est l’Université, mention ou accessit. En sorte que le Concours Général devint à bref délai une source de joies pour mon esprit, et qu’à dixhuit ans, lorsqu’il s’agit d’aller suivre toute une année les cours de la
Sorbonne, j’abordai cette épreuve avec de l’allégresse dans l’humeur.
Ce fut pourtant une triste année, mais qui s’acheva par une libération réjouissante. Je ne connus que de pauvres maîtres : M. Lanson qui, pour féconder nos cerveaux, dictait, des heures entières, de la bibliographie ; M. Courbaud, qui traduisait les textes avec l’intelligence toute vive d’un dictionnaire ; M. Gazier et M. Lafaye, si encuistrés ceux-là, qu’ils étaient intolérables les jours de mélancolie, mais bouffes les matins de beau temps. — J’eus la chance que le seul homme d’esprit de la Faculté, Émile Faguet, me fît passer mes examens. Il me posa trois questions, auxquelles, luimême, répondit coup sur coup ; et il se mit avec contentement une note favorable, grâce à laquelle je fus nommé je ne sais quoi èslettres.
A la prière de ma famille, je me rendis au Secrétariat pour y demander mon diplôme. Ce lieu spécial était habité par M. Uri, ours sans usages, qui jouit encore, même à l’étranger, d’un renom d’impolitesse assez étendu.
Il m’accueillit, les yeux hors de la tête :
— Qu’est-ce que vous voulez, vous, encore ?
Je répondis froidement :
— Vous voir de près.
Et je sortis, lui faisant cadeau de mon diplôme.
Il l’a toujours. Comme je sais qu’il est économe, il pourra, s’il veut, gratter mon nom dessus, le remplacer par un autre, et le donner au premier Turc venu.
Quelques années passèrent, lorsqu’un de mes jeunes amis atteignit l’âge fatal où l’on subit, en Sorbonne, les épreuves du Baccalauréat.
Son père disait :
— Mon petit, tu es à un tournant de la vie.
Moi je me tournais pour ne pas rire.
Mais comme ils étaient nerveux l’un et l’autre, on proposa de m’emmener. J’accompagnai donc père et fils à l’amphithéâtre, mot qui désigne une salle d’examens ou une salle d’autopsie ; et cette rentrée imprévue dans la Sorbonne me valut une riche journée, dont j’ai toujours plaisir à conter le détail.
M. Seignobos, professeur d’histoire, petit homme impertinent, tout en poils, l’œil moqueur et la voix aigre, dont tous les mots portaient comme des gifles, avait dit à sa victime, dans un ricanement :
— Qu’est-ce vous savez ?… Savez-vous quelque chose ?… Savez rien ?… Alors parlez-moi de n’importe quoi !
Le jeune homme avait protesté :
— Mais, Monsieur… je… je veux bien parler de la question d’Orient…
— Question d’Orient ?… Ah ! Ah !
M. Seignobos en sauta sur sa chaise.
— Eh bien, qu’est c’est l’Orient ?
— Monsieur, l’Orient comprend les pays…
— Pays orientaux ? Oui, lesquels ?
— La Turquie…
— Turquie ? Ah ! Ah ! Et qu’est c’est la Turquie ?
— Monsieur… c’est un grand État… capitale Constantinople…
— Tiens, vraiment ? Et quelle langue parle-t-on dans c’t État ?
— Le…
— Le quoi ?
— Le turc…
— Le turc ? Pas p’ssible ! Et c’t une langue répandue, ça, l’turc ?
— Oui… non, Monsieur.
— Est-ce les Arabes parlent aussi l’ turc ?
— Non… oui, Monsieur.
— Ah ! ils parlent le turc ? Et l’arabe alors ? Quel peuple parle l’arabe ?
— Monsieur, ce sont…
— Les Turcs ?
— Non, Monsieur. Aussi les Arabes.
— Ah ! aussi les Arabes… Aussi est merveilleux ! Qu’est c’est les Arabes ?
— Un peuple d’Afrique…
— Voyez-vous ça ! Et alors l’Afrique, où est l’Afrique ? C’t en Asie l’Afrique ?
— Oh ! non, Monsieur… mais l’Afrique… va jusqu’à l’Asie.
— Et l’Arabie, c’t en Asie ?
— Oui, Monsieur, mais…
— Si c’t en Asie, y a pas de mais…
— Je veux dire… il y a… quand même des Arabes en Algérie.
— Et des Algériens ?
— Aussi.
— Aussi quoi ?
— Enfin… quand on a fait la conquête de l’Algérie…
— Oh, pas de conquêtes, hein, ni de victoires ! Ne nous perdons pas dans des matricules ou numéros de régiment ! Vous demande des choses simples… Êtes pas capable répondre… Vais pas passer à des sujets compliqués. Où ça se trouve-t-il, l’Algérie ?
— Au sud de la France.
— Ah ? Et Marseille ?
— Euh… Marseille est en bas de la France…
— Alors le sud, c’est plus bas que le bas ?
— Monsieur, c’est-à-dire…
— C’t-à-dire ! C’t-à-dire ! Jamais rien vu d’ pareil à vous, sinon vos semblables ! Suffit, allez ! Asseyez-vous et taisez-vous !
Mon jeune ami regagna sa place. Il était écarlate. Son père lui dit avec anxiété :
— Eh bien ? Eh bien ?
Il répondit :
— Eh bien, ça y est : je suis fichu !
— Non ?
— Si.
— Mais quelles questions t’a-t-il posées ?
— La Turquie… et Marseille.
— Quoi ?
— Je n’ai rien compris.
— Oh ! C’est ridicule, fit le père. Tu es comme ta mère : aucun sang-froid !
Sur ces mots, je me souviens que M. Gazier l’appela.
M. Gazier, vieille connaissance ! Je ne pus retenir un « Ah ! » qui me valut un « Chut ! » du garçon de salle. Alors, je me frottai les mains en silence.
M. Gazier, dont je n’ai dit qu’un mot, était le contraire de M. Seignobos. Un simple, sans trace d’ironie, qui croyait à l’Université, aux examens, et surtout à M. Gazier. Il avait une noble laideur, où se marquait sa foi. Il regarda ce nouveau candidat avec une sorte d’appétit. Puis, tout de suite, fiévreusement, il lui tendit un La Fontaine, et il dit :
— Expliquez-moi la fable : Le Chameau et les Bâtons flottants.
— Oui, Monsieur, répondit docilement notre ami.
— Je vous écoute.
— Le premier qui vit un chameau S’enfuit à cet objet nouveau.
— Arrêtez ! Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’un chameau ?
— Un cha…? Ah ! Monsieur, un chameau… est… un animal… avec une bosse…
— Une bosse ? cria M. Gazier. Jamais de la vie ! Deux bosses ! Toujours deux bosses !… Continuez !
— Le second approcha ; le troisième osa faire Un licou pour le dromadaire.
— Arrêtez ! Qu’est-ce que c’est qu’un dromadaire ?
— Monsieur… euh… un dromadaire… est une sorte de chameau… avec aussi des bosses…
— Des bosses ? rugit M. Gazier. Jamais de la vie ! Une bosse, une seule, le dromadaire ! Mais alors, pourquoi La Fontaine traite-t-il les deux mots comme des synonymes, s’il n’y a pas le même nombre de bosses ?…
— Monsieur… parce que…
— Parce que ?… Parce qu’il avait besoin d’une rime, parbleu !
— Ah ! oui…
— Or, « chameau » rimait mal avec « faire ».
— Bien sûr…
— On peut d’ailleurs l’excuser en remarquant ?… en remarquant quoi ?
— En remarquant que…
— Que le chameau habite l’Asie, mais que le dromadaire est, somme toute…
— Euh…
— Un chameau d’Afrique !
— Oui, Monsieur
— Vous dites « Oui », mais vous n’en saviez rien ! (Un temps.) De plus… ces animaux sobres et doux, sont de la plus grande utilité.
— Oui, Monsieur.
— Pour les longs voyages au désert.
— Dans le Sahara.
— Dans le Sahara ou ailleurs !… Ils portent de lourds fardeaux.
— Très lourds.
— Et ils peuvent rester longtemps sans boire. Voilà. (Un temps.) Rendez-moi votre livre… sans l’abîmer… et passons à l’histoire littéraire.
— Oui, Monsieur.
— Qu’est-ce que vous savez de Jean-Jacques Rousseau ?
— De Jean-Ja… Oh ! Monsieur… euh… Jean-Jacques Rousseau est un des écrivains du XVIIIe siècle des plus réputés. Il a écrit : La Nouvelle Héloïse, Le Contrat Social
— Je vous en prie, procédons par ordre ! De qui était-il le fils, Jean-Jacques Rousseau ?
— De… d’un horloger.
— Ah ?… Eh bien, est-ce qu’il était bon horloger, le père de JeanJacques Rousseau ?
— Oh !… oui, Monsieur.
— Pas du tout ! (Haussement d’épaules.) Je vous pose cette question élémentaire pour voir justement si vous êtes capable d’un effort minime d’intelligence. Le père de Rousseau ne pouvait pas être un bon horloger : il lisait trop de romans.
— Ah ! oui, Monsieur.
— Il passait toute sa nuit à lire des romans ! Puis, au petit jour, quand il entendait les hirondelles, il disait à son fils… Savez-vous ce qu’il disait à son fils !
— Il disait…
— Il disait à son fils : « Allons nous coucher ; je suis plus enfant que toi ! »
— Oui, oui, Monsieur.
— En fait de « oui », vous n’avez pas ouvert votre histoire littéraire.
— Oh ! si, Monsieur !
— Si ? Prenons un autre écrivain. Qu’est-ce que vous savez de Beaumarchais ?
— Monsieur, Beaumarchais est un des auteurs comiques du dixhuitième siècle les plus réputés… euh… On a de lui : « Le Barbier de Séville », « Le Mariage… »
— Oh ! Oh ! Je vous en prie ! Commençons par le commencement. Qui est son père à Beaumarchais ?
— Son père ?
— Oui, père. P-è-r-e.
— Monsieur, c’était…
— Quoi ?… Allons, sortez-en ! C’était un hor…? un horlo…?
— Un horloger !
— Mais bien sûr ! Et alors lui, Beaumarchais fils, est-ce qu’il faisait aussi de l’horlogerie ?
— Oh ! non, Monsieur !
— Comment non ! A vingt ans, il avait déjà inventé un nouvel échappement pour les montres ! A vingt ans !
— Ah ! oui, Monsieur.
— Vous vous rappelez ?
— Oui, oui.
— Alors, qu’est-ce qu’il a fait de son échappement ?
— Mais… rien, Monsieur
— Rien ? Par exemple ! Un horloger célèbre, du nom de Lepautre, essaya de lui voler son invention, et il eut recours à l’Académie des Sciences, qui le défendit. C’est très important ! (Haussement d’épaules.) Très ! (Un temps — deux temps — trois temps.) Allons, je vous remercie.
Le pauvre revint vers nous en trébuchant. Puis M. Gazier plongea le nez sur sa feuille, et soudain on l’entendit qui, à mi-voix, additionnait : « Dix-huit et trois, vingt, et je retiens un » ; puis il fit la preuve… recommença… n’en sortit pas… Désespéré, il appela le professeur de mathématiques. Celui-ci corrigea l’opération… C’était fini. M. Gazier appela :
— Candidat X…!
Mon ami se leva, nerveux.
— Mon enfant, prononça M. Gazier de son creux le plus solennel, nous ne sommes pas contents de vous. (L’enfant pâlit : il était refusé !) Lorsqu’on a trente-cinq sur quarante à l’écrit, on mérite la mention « très bien ». Or, vous n’avez même pas la mention « bien » ; vous avez seulement la mention « assez bien ». (L’enfant rougit : il était reçu !) Vous n’avez, hélas ! justifié qu’une partie des espérances de la Faculté.
Mon jeune ami éclata de rire ; il courut embrasser son père qui riait aussi ; et nous sortîmes en chantant.
Après cette scène, nouvel entr’acte. Dix ans d’entr’acte. La guerre. La paix. Et voici que tout à coup, en faisant mon inventaire moral, je retrouve intacts mes sentiments de gaîté à l’égard de la Sorbonne.
C’est que, malgré quatre années de massacres, nous gardons saine et sauve l’éternelle blague sociale, où tant de marionnettes officielles sont entretenues avec dévotion. Si mon fils, à vingt ans, se sent assez fort pour, toute sa vie, rire des humains, quel choix lui conseillerai-je entre tant de façons de devenir un charlatan ?
Aujourd’hui, j’incline pour la carrière de cuistre : une des plus sûres ; elle inspire à trop de cœurs une fièvre de respect. Quelle grande chose de coiffer le chapeau de pédant et, du haut d’une chaire, de raisonner de l’esprit des autres ! Poètes, entendez-vous, du fond de l’éternité, en quelle prose ces Messieurs ont le génie de vous traduire ? Et vous tous, grands Français, qui fûtes l’honneur des
siècles, vos ossements, dans les tombes, ne sont-ils pas émus, quand ces maîtres, éternuant de la poussière de leurs fiches, croient vous ressusciter par la trouvaille d’une date, que votre cœur, avant de mourir, ne savait plus !
Le pédant est toujours et partout à l’honneur. A l’étranger, il dit : « Je suis la pensée de la France ! » Et c’est vrai qu’il la porte : il marche comme un baudet, chargé des plus beaux livres. Chez nous, il se fait de la gloire par des études et des travaux que personne ne contrôle. Bref, quand je me suis mis, dans les journaux, à rire des Sorbonards, que de pompiers pour s’écrier : « Au feu ! » Et ils tentèrent de me brûler vif.
Pourtant, j’étais rentré dans la Sorbonne, poussé par cet instinct candide qui me mène vers tous les monuments publics. Je ne prévoyais même pas tout le bonheur que j’y eus, qui est un bonheur sain. On rit là d’un bon rire, sans arrière-pensée. Le pion enseignant a l’avantage unique, qu’on n’éprouve aucune gêne à se moquer de lui. Car si les autres corps constitués prêtent à la satire, du moins devient-elle vite douloureuse. On peut se divertir d’un général faible d’esprit ou d’un évêque possédé, mais l’armée et la religion ont une grandeur qui suscite la haine et la guerre civile. Adieu la farce, voici la tragédie. — Tous les bavards qui s’exhibent au nom de la politique, semblent d’un comique sûr. Le Parlement, cependant, représente le dégoût le plus certain des esprits réfléchis et patriotes, et leur rire est amer — Enfin, Justice et Médecine méritent, dans tous les siècles, d’être mises à la scène pour divertir les honnêtes gens. Hélas, la prison, la ruine ou la mort change vite la comédie en un drame pathétique. Seule l’Université, dans cette série des grands soutiens de la Société, se présente avec une face de carnaval, sous un déguisement irrésistible. Ne résistons pas. D’ailleurs, à votre premier pas dans la Sorbonne, dès la cour, regardez les statues de Pasteur et de Victor Hugo. On dirait deux crétins ! C’est une gageure, une farce ! De même dans les amphithéâtres, vous verrez, sans payer, la farce de l’enseignement.
Là, j’entends bien que de bons esprits vont me dresser l’épouvantail de l’étranger.
« Chut ! diront-ils, l’Europe nous regarde. Quel tort vous faites à la France ! Nos amis, nos alliés, des peuples qui nous admirent, ont de la Sorbonne une idée si haute et si pure ! Ils prononcent les noms d’Aulard ou de Seignobos avec la même piété qu’ils parleraient d’un vieux Bourgogne. Si l’objet de leur dévotion est une duperie, il faut leur mentir quand même : c’est notre devoir. On cache son père quand il est ivre. »
Je ne suis pas insensible à l’objection, surtout qu’elle est d’ordre financier autant que sentimental. Il est vrai que la plupart des nations qui nous chérissent, ont, à leur amour, deux raisons essentielles : nos vins et nos professeurs. Ce peut donc être un danger pour notre réclame nationale de dénoncer la misère sorbonarde. Mais il y a plus précieux que l’idée qu’on donne de soi : c’est la conscience profonde que l’on en a. Si nous avons, par delà les frontières, de vrais amis, ayons le courage d’une confession devant eux ; éclairons leur innocence ou leur tendresse. Les étudiants étrangers qui conservent un souvenir grisant de leurs études à Paris, confondent dans la même émotion la Ville, ses beautés, les jours charmants qu’ils y vécurent, et les pédagogues qui manquèrent les faire crever d’ennui. Ces gens-là ont trop de chance ! Notre devoir c’est, sur place, de garder du sang-froid et, louant sans réserve Notre-Dame et le Louvre, de dire :
— Mais l’enseignement de la Sorbonne est au-dessous de tout…
La Sorbonne nous dupe. Elle nous vole un respect auquel elle n’a pas droit. Je me méfie toujours des institutions « respectables ». Hypocrisie facile, entretenue par les simples ou les ignorants. En dehors d’une vingtaine de vivants, d’une trentaine de morts, de quelques paysages de mon pays, du soleil que je vénère, de la nuit que je redoute, — en dehors d’une douzaine d’idées et de sentiments qui me sont une raison de vivre, la question du respect pour moi ne se pose pas. Le respect est un chantage, avec quoi l’on combat ma liberté de penser, disons plus modestement ma liberté de pleurer ou de rire. Or, celle-ci n’est pas moins importante que celle-là.
