It is in the same spirit that he writes in many of his later ‘Pensées.’ Some of the passages already quoted are in fact taken from the chapter “On the Christian Religion,” which appears to have been intended to form one of the concluding chapters of his Apology. But he repeats over and over again the same strain—that the present condition of man is only intelligible in the light
of the Christian revelation, and that this revelation alone answers to all man’s necessities. Christ has not only proclaimed a higher truth to man, which man is bound to accept under penalties of default. This tone is also found sometimes, but comparatively seldom. The prevailing note is, that there is an admirable fitness between the two—the mysteries of human nature witnessing to the divine veracity of the Gospel, and the Gospel again holding the only key to these mysteries, and the only power of unravelling them and restoring them to their divine original. “Jesus Christ,” he says, “is for all men; Moses for one people.” “The knowledge of God without a knowledge of our misery produces pride; that of our misery without God leads to despair. The knowledge of Jesus is the means by which we at once find God and our misery.” “Without Jesus Christ man is sunk in vice and misery. . . . In Him is all our virtue and felicity.”
Of the more directly apologetic ‘Pensées’ of Pascal there are many of great significance and interest, slight as may be the value of his general historical argument, so far as this can be traced. Wherever he trusts to his own clear judgment and profound penetration, he throws out sentences weighty with meaning, and capable of being expanded into trains of argument. Our shortening space warns us that our quotations must come to an end; but the reader may thank us for drawing his attention to the following:—
“Even when Epictetus had discovered the right way, he could only say to man, ‘You follow a wrong one.’ He shows that there is another, but he does not lead to it. . . . Jesus Christ alone leads to it—via, veritas.
“Jesus Christ has spoken great things so simply that they seem to have cost Him little thought—and yet so fitly that we see well what His thought was.” [This combination of clearness and naïveté is admirable.]
“The apostles were either deceived or deceivers; either supposition is full of difficulty.
“What right have they to say, ‘It is impossible that we should rise again’? Which is the more difficult to be—to be born, or to be raised from the dead? Is it less difficult to come into being than to return to being? Custom (experience) renders the one easy to us; the want of custom makes the other seem impossible. But this is a popular way of judging.
“Who taught the evangelists the qualities of a truly heroic soul, that they should paint it to such perfection in Jesus Christ? Why have they made Him weak in His agony? Did they not know how to describe a death of fortitude? Assuredly; for it is the same St Luke paints St Stephen’s death as so much braver than that of Jesus Christ. They have made Him capable of fear before the necessity of death had come, then entirely calm and brave. But when they show Him in trouble, the trouble comes from Himself; in the face of men He remains unmoved.
“The highest achievement of reason is to recognise that there is an infinity of things which surpass its powers.
“If we submit everything to reason, our religion would have nothing mysterious or supernatural. If we violate the principles of reason, our religion will be absurd and ridiculous.
“There are two extremes—to exclude reason, and to admit only reason.
“It is your own consent, and the steady voice of your own reason, and not that of others, which must make you believe.
“If antiquity was the rule of faith, the ancients were without a rule.
“Let them say what they will, it must be confessed that the Christian religion is something astonishing. ‘That is because you were born in it,’ they say. So far from this, I am on my guard against it on this very account, lest this incline me unduly to it. But though I was born in it, the facts are not the less as I find them.”
True to his whole conception of religion as the free choice of the heart and will, Pascal does not find any special difficulty in the fact of so many rejecting Christianity. It is of its very nature that it cannot be forced on any mind. The God of the Gospel can only be reached by faith. To all without faith, or the inner eye to see Him, He is a Deus absconditus, “a God who hides himself.” In one of his letters to Mademoiselle de Roannez, he dwells upon this idea, which also continually recurs in his Thoughts:—
“If God continually revealed Himself to man, faith would have no value; we could not help believing. If He did not reveal Himself, there could be no such thing as faith. While hiding Himself, He yet reveals Himself to those who are willing to be His servants. . . . All things hide a mystery. All are a veil which conceal God. The Christian must recognise Him in all. . . . There is light enough for those who wish to see, but darkness enough for those who are of an opposite disposition. . . . For God would rather move the will than the intellect. Perfect clearness would cure the one, but injure the other.”
And so this great mind comes round once more to its central thought, that religion is born not of science, but of love and faith. Christianity appeared to Pascal divine—as the only true interpreter of human experience; and where this experience bore no witness to it, and found no blessing in it, the fault and the misery were its own. The divine light was not gone because men did not see it, when they were not willing to see it.
This may seem a hard saying,—a paradox of faith rejoicing in its own illumination, rather than an utterance of reason challenging the world. But can a divine appeal ever go further? Christian apology has its own sphere, no less than science; and the evidence which the one desiderates is not the supreme life and power of the other. It may not on this account be the less satisfactory or the less rational when the whole life of humanity is looked at.
If we ask ourselves, in conclusion, what is the chief charm of the ‘Pensées,’ we feel inclined to answer,—their touching reality. They are the utterances of one who thought not only deeply but passionately. A strange thrill of personal emotion runs through them all, animating them with vitality, even when one-sided or extravagant. One of his own countrymen [204] has said of Pascal that it was his mission to do for theology what Socrates did for philosophy—to bring it down from heaven to earth. And certainly there is the breathing movement as of a human heart through his whole writings. More than anything else, it is this vitality combined with his exquisite literary art which sets him above all his friends and contemporaries—Arnauld, De Saci, Le Maitre, Nicole, or Fontaine. Still, when we read the ‘Provincial Letters’ or the ‘Pensées,’ we feel ourselves in communion with a living writer who knew how to light up with an immortal touch both the follies of ecclesiasticism and the struggles of a solitary spirit after truth. The tenderness of a genuine insight mingles with all the sublimity
and severe reserve of the thought, and so we get close to a true soul, distant as Pascal himself in some respects remains to us. The play of human feeling which we miss in the man moves in his writings, and touches our hearts with an ineffable sympathy, even when we remain unconvinced or unenlightened.