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INTERRELIGIOUS STUDIES IN THEORY AND PRACTICE

Possibility of
Interreligious Dialogue

Michael H. Mitias
Interreligious Studies in Theory and Practice
Palgrave’s series, Interreligious Studies in Theory and Practice, seeks to
capture the best of the diverse contributions to the rapidly expanding field
of interreligious and interfaith studies. While the series includes a diverse
set of titles, they are all united by a common vision: Each volume advocates—
explicitly or implicitly—for interreligious engagement, even if this involves
a critique of the limits of this work as it is currently defined or embodied.
Each volume provides models and resources—textual, theological, peda-
gogic, or practical—for interreligious dialogue, study, or action. The series
models a commitment to religious pluralism by including books that begin
from diverse religious perspectives. This does not preclude the publication
of books dedicated to a specific religion, but the overall series reflects a
balance of various faiths and perspectives.

More information about this series at

http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14838
 Michael H. Mitias

Possibility of
Interreligious
Dialogue
Michael H. Mitias
Jackson, MS, USA

Interreligious Studies in Theory and Practice

ISBN 978-3-030-70519-0    ISBN 978-3-030-70520-6 (eBook)
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-70520-6

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer
Nature Switzerland AG 2021
This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the
Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of
translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on
microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and
retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology
now known or hereafter developed.
The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this
publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are
exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use.
The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information
in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the
publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to
the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The
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This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature
Switzerland AG.
The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland
 Contents

1 Introduction  1

2 General Framework of Analysis  7

3 Mutual Respect as a Condition of Interreligious Dialogue 37

4 Mutual Understanding as Condition and Aim of

Interreligious Dialogue 65

5 Mysticism as a Basis of Interreligious Dialogue:

God-­Centeredness 95

6 Does Religious Self-Understanding Impede Interreligious

Dialogue?117

References137

Index141

v
 CHAPTER 1

Introduction

Two central problems are the focus of discussion in this book: (1) What is
the aim of interreligious dialogue, and under what conditions is this kind
of dialogue possible? And (2), exploration of the first, I shall elucidate and
defend the two propositions: (a) the immediate end of interreligious dia-
logue is mutual understanding, and (b) the conditions of its possibility are
tolerance, empathy, modesty, God-centeredness, mutual respect, and
truth-­mindedness. I begin the discussion with a brief analysis of the struc-
tural and formal conditions in general and then devote my attention to a
detailed analysis of mutual respect, mutual understanding, God-­
centeredness, and religious self-understanding. I have chosen these four
conditions primarily because they are the most contentious, most debated,
and most essential to an adequate understanding of interreligious dialogue
as a concept and as a possible event. In my analysis of these concepts, I
restrict myself to the logic that underlies the possibility of interreligious dia-
logue: What are the logical requirements that need to be met in order to
articulate an adequate conception of these conditions? What kind of analy-
sis would inform and enable a meaningful conversation among the various
religions of the world? In my endeavor to answer these and related ques-
tions, I acted as a logical analyst, as a metaphysician, and as a philosopher
of religion. I have kept a steady eye on the following questions: First,
what is the ontic basis of religion? How does an understanding of this

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 1

Switzerland AG 2021
M. H. Mitias, Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue, Interreligious
Studies in Theory and Practice,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-70520-6_1
2 M. H. MITIAS

basis shed a light of understanding on the viability of interreligious dia-

logue? Second, what are the commonalities and differences among the
various religions of the world? To what extent do these differences consti-
tute an obstacle that stands in the way of interreligious dialogue? Third,
what is the most effective method for analyzing the main conditions of
interreligious dialogue? Or, how can we arrive at an understanding of
these conditions that may gain the approval of the different theologians,
philosophers, and leaders of the different religions?
Given the uniqueness, tensions, hostilities, alienation, fear, ignorance,
violence, and amazingly complex institutional structures of the major reli-
gions of the world, no inquirer into the nature of interreligious dialogue
should ignore the following recalcitrant, stubbornly challenging ques-
tions: Is it really possible to design a conceptual framework within which
the various theologians, philosophers, and leaders of these religions can sit
around a table and converse about their beliefs, values, and practices; try
to solve the problems they have with each other; and discover ways to
cooperate on meeting the growing economic, political, and cultural dan-
gers that seem to constrict and sometimes threaten their role as spiritual
forces in contemporary society? Religions are not only major social institu-
tions; they are also spiritual languages. These languages are different from
each other. How can religions communicate or discuss the questions and
problems they face as religions? How can two religions that are vast, spiri-
tually complex, and culturally diverse, and that exist as disparate worlds of
faithful be represented in a rational conversation?
I am not unaware of the recalcitrance of these questions, to mention
just a few. Should we shrink from any worthwhile project because it is
daunting or hard to achieve? Did the Western European societies shrink
from pursuing the democratic form of government during the eighteenth
and nineteenth centuries? Did the founders of the major religions shrink
from pursuing the ideals of their religions during the early centuries of
their growth and development? Did the early founders of the American
system of education shrink from building a university system that was
open to all citizens? The pursuit of interreligious dialogue may or may not
be accomplished in our lifetime or by any one individual. It must be viewed
as a collaborative project espoused by the different religions and must be
treated as a project of continual development and attainment. Although it
cannot be accomplished in the near future by any one religion but rather
collectively, nevertheless it is our duty as individuals and as a religious
community of scholars to make a contribution toward its development
 1 INTRODUCTION 3

and realization. The clearer we are about it, the more rational it gets, the
more realizable it becomes, and the more adherents it will attract, primar-
ily because it is a worthwhile project and because it is an essential demand
of reason and moral sense. Religion has always existed; it is a response to
an essential demand of human nature. Human beings are social, rational,
political, and creative by nature, but they are equally religious by nature.
As an institution, and especially as a spiritual phenomenon, religion
cannot afford to remain silent or unresponsive to the unprecedented,
stunning advances in science, technology, art, politics, economics, and
education, and particularly to the radical changes they are producing in
the sphere of economic and political behavior and interindividual rela-
tions. Religion’s ideals and its mission should remain active, creative, and
a constant spring of giving, of meeting the spiritual needs of the people in
the midst of a web of materialistic values that seem to dominate contem-
porary culture. But how can it remain alive and influential if it is vitiated
by internal division and conflict rather than unity and concord? One way
of creating an atmosphere of unity and concord is an active network of
interreligious dialogue among the various religious communities in the dif-
ferent parts of the world. I hope that this book will be a modest contribu-
tion to the increasing spread of this network.
I am quite aware of the extensive research being done in the area of
Comparative Theology and Scriptural Reasoning and their substantial,
indispensable, and critical contribution to our understanding not only of
the question of interreligious dialogue and the means of implementing it
on the ground of reality but also of revaluating the subject and aim of
theological reflection and study: If the transcendent—God, Allah, Jehovah,
the ultimate, or Dharma—is revealed equally to the different cultures of
the world, if each revelation is equally unique and genuine, can any theol-
ogy afford to neglect or ignore the doctrines, that is, beliefs, values, and
ways of life of the other religions? Does interreligious dialogue not become
a religious as well as a moral imperative? But again, if we grant that the
major religions of the world are equally unique and genuine, it would
necessarily follow that mystical experience moves to the center of theo-
logical analysis because the central focus of the theologian is not only
one’s particular doctrine but also the transcendent and how this transcen-
dent is revealed to a certain people. This change of focus widens and deep-
ens our faith in God, Allah, or Jehovah, expands our appreciation and
understanding of the infinite power, wisdom, and goodness of God, and
guarantees our respect of the religiously different other. I cannot explore
4 M. H. MITIAS

these questions in this book only because my primary aim is to shed as

much light as possible on the logical structure of interreligious dialogue
and the conditions under which it can be realized (see Clooney, Ochs,
Schmidt-Leukel, Lochhead).
In what follows, I shall present a brief summary of the chapters that
make up the structure of this book. The purpose of this presentation is to
give the reader a general idea of what to expect from it. These chapters can
be read singly or as an integral whole.
Chapter 2 explores the formal and structural conditions of the possibility
of interreligious dialogue. It is intended as a conceptual framework within
which the main concepts of this book are discussed. The proposition I
defend is that to be transformative of attitudes or feelings, the dialogue
should be God-centered, objective, and empathetic, and it should be
founded in the values of respect, tolerance, and equality. In the first part
of the chapter, I discuss the following question: What are the structural
elements of dialogue between (a) individuals and (b) religious communities?
In the second part, I discuss the conditions under which interreligious
dialogue can change attitudes and views of how a religious person thinks
and feels about the religiously different other. What does it take to discern
the truth of a religion that makes claims similar to ours? We may construct
a strategy or an agenda for a rational dialogue between two religions, but
still the question remains: How can a community that tends to believe that
its version of the revealed word of God is true, unquestionably true,
change their attitude or view of the other religion?
In Chap. 3, I discuss in some detail the concept of mutual respect in
interreligious dialogue. I argue that the subject of the conversation in this
kind of dialogue is a collective subject composed of three elements: the
revealed truth, the interpreters of the truth, and the religious community.
Toward the realization of this purpose, I advance a concept of respect in
general and respect for human beings in particular. The basis of respect is
possession of human value. The kind and significance of respect is com-
mensurate with the kind and significance of the value it embodies.
Humanity is absolute valuable; therefore, human beings should be
respected as ends in themselves even when they are used as means to ends.
I conclude this discussion with an analysis of the following question: Why
is humanity absolute valuable? I argue that human beings should be
respected always as ends in themselves not only because they are capable
of self-determination, as many philosophers have argued, but primarily
 1 INTRODUCTION 5

because humanity is sacred, and it is sacred because it emanates from the

divine essence.
The focus of my critical attention in Chap. 4 is on the concept of mutual
understanding: First, what does it mean to understand an object? Second,
what does it mean for a religion to understand another religion? Under
what conditions is this kind of understanding possible? Under what condi-
tions can understanding be a transformative power? This chapter is com-
posed of two parts. First, I present a concept of understanding; second, I
present an analysis of the view that religious self-­understanding impedes
the possibility of interreligious dialogue; and third, I critically evaluate this
view. The proposition I defend is that religious self-understanding does
not in principle impede the possibility of interreligious dialogue.
The focus of my attention in Chap. 5 is God-centeredness. Some
theologians and philosophers have argued that this orientation cannot be
a condition of interreligious dialogue for at least four reasons. First, it is a
given fact that religions view their beliefs and values as unquestionably
true. Second, all religions are embedded in radically different cultural con-
texts. Third, grounding all religions in a transcendent reality relativizes
their beliefs and values. Moreover, people worship their God, not a neutral
reality. Fourth, it is difficult to ground all religions in a transcendent real-
ity anyway. In this chapter, I evaluate these arguments and defend the
belief that the mystical experience provides a justifiable basis for the claim
that the transcendent is a wealth of being and that the same transcendent
is revealed in the mystical experience that underlies all religions. The tran-
scendent is the common ground on which all religions stand in interreli-
gious dialogue.
In Chap. 6, I first respond to my critic’s query whether it is logically
possible to say that mutual understanding is the primary aim of interreli-
gious dialogue and at the same time one of its conditions. The proposition
I shall defend is that it is logically possible to hold that it can be both at
the same time. Second, I shall critically evaluate the argument that a reli-
gion’s belief is that its revelation is a true revelation of the word of God.
This evaluation will consist of two parts. In the first, I shall present an
analysis of the main components of this argument, and in the second, I
shall critically evaluate them. The proposition I shall defend is that a reli-
gion’s self-understanding is not an obstacle in the way of interreligious
dialogue.
 CHAPTER 2

General Framework of Analysis

Conditions of Interreligious Dialogue

This chapter is devoted to an exploration of the general conditions under
which interreligious dialogue can be a transformative process, one in
which what changes is not only the interlocutors’ understanding of the
beliefs and values of the religiously different other but also their attitude
toward each other—the way they view, act, and interact with each other,
regardless of whether the other is a person, a community, or a religion.
The proposition I shall defend is that to be transformative, the dialogue
should be God-centered, objective, and empathetic; it should, moreover,
proceed in the spirit of respect, toleration, and equality. I shall first discuss
the structural conditions of interreligious dialogue: What do we mean
when we speak of dialogue in general and interreligious dialogue in
particular? I raise this question because interreligious dialogue takes place,
as I shall explain in detail, at two levels. The first is discursive and its datum
is concept, and the second is practical and its datum is action. The first

I would like to thank Professor Malgorzata Czarnocka, editor of Dialogue and

Universalism, for permitting me to make use of parts of my essay, “Possibility of
Inter-religious Dialogue: Structural and Formal Conditions” (29:2, 2016), in
Chap. 2, and including “Mysticism as a Basis of Inter-religious Dialogue,” in
Chap. 5, (29:2, 2019).

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature 7

Switzerland AG 2021
M. H. Mitias, Possibility of Interreligious Dialogue, Interreligious
Studies in Theory and Practice,
https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-70520-6_2
8 M. H. MITIAS

takes place between theologians, religious leaders, and philosophers, and

the second takes place between religious communities. It is one thing for
two scholars to dialogue on a concept or a question and another for two
communities to “dialogue,” or to communicate, at the level of action. I
here assume that interreligious dialogue cannot and should not stop at the
level of theory between theologians and philosophers, for we can ask,
What is the “cash value,” to borrow a term from William James, of such
dialogue if its fruits are not translated into modes of behavior in the sphere
of action, where diverse religious communities live and interact as
neighbors, religious groups, politicians, businesspersons, teachers, and
organizations? Second, I shall discuss the formal conditions under which
interreligious dialogue can be a transformative process: What does it take
a person who has grown up in a certain religion, who understands herself
and in fact lives from the standpoint of that religion, to discern the religious
truth proclaimed by another religion, comprehend it, appreciate it, and
hopefully assent to it as a divine truth and then incorporate it into her
mind or worldview? What is the use of a dialogue, or even the ritual of
going through one, if we are not willing or ready to embrace a new truth,
we may discover both theoretically and practically? We may construct a
formidable strategy, one that wins the blessing of reason, but still the
question remains: How can a religious community that tends to be
exclusivist in its religious orientation change its attitude or understanding
of God and the meaning of human life and destiny, and especially treat the
truth of other religions as equal or as a revelation of the transcendent? This
change is, I submit, a necessary condition for the possibility of mutual
understanding, appreciation, respect, and cooperation among the different
religions of the world. I shall refer to Christianity and Islam as examples in
defending my thesis and when necessary I shall refer to Hinduism, Judaism,
and Buddhism.
But a critic might point out that there are two major families of reli-
gions, theistic and dharmic. The first includes Judaism, Christianity, and
Islam and the second includes Hinduism, Buddhism, Jainism, and Sikhism.
The first group is God-centered; the second is Dharma-centered. In what
sense is God-centeredness a condition of interreligious dialogue, for
example, between Christianity and Hinduism?
First, all the major religions are founded in a transcendent reality or
principle that underlies the universe. Religion is not only a set of beliefs,
values, and modes of behavior, nor is it only an established institution, it is
also a nature, that is, an essential aspect or dimension of human nature.
 2 GENERAL FRAMEWORK OF ANALYSIS 9

We can characterize human nature as political, rational, social, or creative

(homo creator), but we can also characterize it as religious: The human
being is religious by nature. One of the basic impulses in human nature is
the impulse to respond to and to know the power that underlies the
existence of nature and humanity. This power is the ontic basis of religion.
The human response to its existence, nature, and relation to human beings
has always been concrete—cultural, historical, communal. But although
communal, any knowledge claimed of it is based on contemplation of the
design of the universe. This contemplation is the royal road that leads to
any type of knowledge of this power. The thrust of this contemplation has
always been a thrust at the being of the transcendent, that is, the source
and ground of the universe. Knowledge of this ground is the key to our
understanding of the mystery that permeates the totality of existence, the
purpose of human life, and the best way to live in this vast, strange, and
sometimes hostile nature.
Generally speaking, the kind of contemplation that is the source and
foundation of all the religions; it is the locus of what is generally called
“mystical experience.” It is mystical because its object, namely the
transcendent, is experienced as infinite and indescribable. It is uniquely
different from the universe and surpasses it in every conceivable way; we
also experience our universe, including the human mind, as dependent on
it. But although it is transcendent, it is real, indeed more real than the
reality of the nature we inhabit. Again, although it is indescribable, it is
knowable, and the knowledge the mystic has of it transcends in richness,
meaning, depth, and dignity, the kind of knowledge we have of natural
objects. To borrow a term from Plato, the kind of knowledge we have of
it is noetic in nature. Finally, although it is indescribable, it is not irrelevant
to our knowledge of the order of nature and the meaning of our lives
because this kind of knowledge illuminates the laws that govern the realms
of nature and human nature. The fundamental values and beliefs of
religion originate from the mystic’s contemplative vision of this
transcendent reality. The mystic is the kind of mind that stands on The
Edge, the edge of the universe, and contemplates what lies beyond it from
the standpoint of its experience and knowledge of the universe.
The assumption that underlies the thesis of this book is that all the reli-
gions are founded in this kind of contemplation. The contemplative vision
I have just characterized, albeit very briefly, is not merely an act of obser-
vation or voyeurism; no, it is an existential encounter with the transcen-
dent. This encounter is the locus of revelation. The way the religious
10 M. H. MITIAS

founders of the various religions—Mohammad, Jesus, or Buddha—articu-

lated their knowledge or understanding of the transcendent differs from
one culture to another. What matters in the present discussion is that all
the religions are, directly or indirectly, founded in a vision or mystical
experience of the transcendent. We encounter religious differences not
only between the major religions but also between the different denomi-
nations within them. Being a religion is one thing and the way the religion
interprets its understanding of the transcendent is something else. My pri-
mary concern in this study is the basis of religion as such. This concern is
explored recently systematically, insightfully, critically, and cogently by
Perry Schmidt-Leukel in Religious Pluralism and Interreligious
Dialogue (2017).
Thus, when I propose that God-centeredness is a necessary condition
for interreligious dialogue I mean transcendent-centeredness. I use “God-­
centeredness” in this book for the following reasons. In my analysis of the
possibility of interreligious dialogue I use Christianity and Islam as
examples. For them, God is the transcendent. Accordingly, both religions
are God-centered. Nevertheless, even in this context God-centeredness
essentially signifies “transcendent-centeredness.” But we encounter this
kind of centeredness in the dharmic religions. “Dhari,” the root word of
the concept of “Dharma,” is hard to define, and “Dharma” is understood
differently in theory and practice in the different dharmic religions. But
although “Dharma” has different significations, interpretations, and appli-
cations, it refers to the ultimate that underlies the cosmos. Generally,
“dhari” means “fixed decree, law, duty,” “to support, hold, or bear”; it
also signifies a universal, abiding, and changeless principle that steers the
cosmic process without being a part of it. In the sphere of practical life this
principle is the path to the good or the right way of living (see Brereton
2004; Rosen 2006). As I shall emphasize in my analysis the mystical expe-
rience in Chap. 5, we should always keep a steady eye on the transcendent
as the foundation of religion, not on its name, on the way it is understood
and interpreted by the different religions.
The general purpose of this chapter is to provide a conceptual frame-
work within which I shall analyze in some detail four central conditions for
the possibility of interreligious dialogic: mutual respect, mutual under-
standing, subject, and God-centeredness. I choose these conditions for
discussion in detail for three reasons. First, they are the most recalcitrant,
most important, and the most contentious of all the conditions heretofore
 2 GENERAL FRAMEWORK OF ANALYSIS 11

considered by theologians and philosophers who discussed the question of

the possibility of interreligious dialogue. Accordingly, a cogent analysis of
these conditions is a necessary condition for an adequate analysis of the
possibility of this kind of dialogue. Second, these conditions logically imply
that a religion is a subject that can assume an attitude of respect, tolerance,
or empathy with another religion. But can a religion be a subject the way
a human individual can? If it can, in what sense can it be a subject that can
assume an attitude or undergo an experience such understanding or
cooperation with another religion? Third, as my argument in the following
chapters will show, if religions recognize that they are genuine revelations
of the word of God, and they are, if they can assume an attitude of respect
toward each other, and they can, and if they understand each other as
genuine revelations of the word of God, and they can, conditions such as
empathy, modesty, equality, or tolerance will not be hard to realize.
But, what if religions can, and what if they actually do, converse with
each other under the conditions of mutual respect, mutual understanding,
and God-centeredness, and what should the ultimate purpose of this
dialogue be? Is it merely to find a way to mitigate the hatred, alienation,
and hostility that plagued interreligious relations for almost 1500 years
and to cooperate on worthwhile projects that serve their individual inter-
ests? No. These two goals are very important and in urgent need of serious
attention, but I tend to think that this is not enough: the real purpose of
interreligious dialogue should be to establish a bond of friendship between
them. Only when they exist and thrive in this kind of relation can they,
first, cooperate on worthwhile projects and face the challenges posed by
the economic, political, and technological forces that seem to weaken the
moral and cultural role they play, and can play, in the human society and,
second, realize their nature as revelations of God’s word.

Concept of Interreligious Dialogue

It is, I think, reasonable to begin my discussion with a brief elucidatory
analysis of the concept of dialogue as such because it is extremely difficult,
if not impossible, to theorize on the elements that make up the structure
of interreligious dialogue, its outcome, and the conditions that make it a
transformative process if we do not proceed in this discussion from a clear
understanding of dialogue as such, that is, of the kind of ingredients or
structure without which an encounter between human beings cannot be
12 M. H. MITIAS

characterized as a dialogue. We may view this structure as the ontological

locus within which the encounter evolves into a kind of dialogue.
“Religious” in “interreligious dialogue” qualifies “dialogue” as a sub-
ject. Accordingly, we understand the sense in which a dialogue is religious
inasmuch as we understand the factor, or aspect, that makes it religious.
We can say that it is religious because the interlocutors are religious people
or members of a religious establishment, or because the ideas discussed in
the dialogue are religious in nature. For example, a philosopher may not
be a religious person; does it necessarily follow that she cannot participate
in a religious dialogue? It would seem that at the level of individuals, what
makes a dialogue religious is not the religious identity of the interlocutors
or their institutional status but rather the subject matter of the dialogue.
Thus, a dialogue is philosophical inasmuch as the ideas discussed in it are
philosophical, it is scientific inasmuch as the ideas discussed in it are scien-
tific, it is political inasmuch as the ideas discussed in it are political, and so
forth. But is the religious nature of the subject matter of interreligious
dialogue the only factor that makes it religious? An answer to this question
should, I think, start with a focus on “inter” in “interreligious dialogue.”
In a philosophical dialogue as it is embodied in the Platonic model of dia-
logue, the interlocutors are individual human beings. But first, what are
they in interreligious dialogue? Second, how are they related in this kind
of event, or how do they dialogue with each other? The interlocutors in
interreligious dialogue cannot be only individuals. This is why when we
speak of interreligious dialogue, we should mean the kind that takes place
between, or inter, two religious communities. But if they are communi-
ties, the question necessarily arises: In what sense can they dialogue with
each other? Moreover, unlike the dialogue that takes place between indi-
viduals, what makes interreligious dialogue religious is not only the fact
that its subject matter is religious ideas but also the fact that the partici-
pants in it are religious communities and converse as religious communi-
ties, as embodiments of the revealed word of God. Thus, the signification
“religious” in interreligious dialogue is not restricted to the religious char-
acter of the subject matter but includes the religious identity of the partici-
pants in the dialogue.
We readily understand someone when she speaks of a dialogue between
two individuals, but can we readily understand her when she speaks of
dialogue between two communities? This question is warranted because
there is a radical difference between an individual and a community, for we
can ask, Can a community think, feel, and speak with one voice? In the
 2 GENERAL FRAMEWORK OF ANALYSIS 13

Platonic model of dialogue, the aim is, generally speaking, clear: to grow
in understanding or to establish the truth or validity of an idea or a
hypothesis. But is this the only aim of interreligious dialogue? We may say,
as I shall discuss, that in addition to understanding or discerning the truth
of an idea, interreligious dialogue aims at changing one’s attitude and
hopefully one’s behavior toward the members of the other community. If
this is the case, and I think it is, as I shall argue, we should grant that
interreligious dialogue is made up of two basic components; the first is
theoretical or conceptual, and the second is practical. In interreligious
dialogue, we aim at understanding the other religious community and
hopefully the way we interact with its members in the domain of praxis.
This essential yet peculiar feature of interreligious dialogue sheds new
light on the significance of the question I raised earlier: In what sense is
interreligious dialogue a dialogue? In my response to this question, I shall
(a) discuss the general idea of dialogue, (b) explain the sense in which two
communities can dialogue with each other, and (c) analyze the conditions
under which it can be a transformative power in the attitudes and action
of the dialoguing communities.

Idea of Dialogue
“Dialogue” is a translation of the Greek word dialogos, which derives from
dialogesthai, which in turn derives from dia (between) and legein (talk);
that is, dialogue is a discourse—talk or discussion—between two or more
persons. Again, the word legein is the source of the word “logic,” namely
the science of correct reasoning—of correct thinking or talking. This is
why we can characterize dialogue as a rational conversation, one governed
by the principles of reason (logos). We usually distinguish between idle talk
and meaningful talk. Idle talk is pointless; therefore, it is worthless.
Dialogue is meaningful talk; it is the kind of conversation that aims at
something good or significant. When people engage in meaningful talk,
they usually analyze, reason, criticize, and evaluate important ideas: beliefs,
questions, propositions, hypotheses, values, or points of view. The
discussion is guided by an aim, and the aim is to discover or ascertain the
truth, falsity, or meaning of a claim or belief.
Regardless of whether it is philosophical, scientific, or theological, dia-
logue is a rational conversation in which concepts are interchanged and
discussed. By “discussion” I do not merely mean the exchange of ideas or
points of view, or merely their presentation, but especially their analysis,
14 M. H. MITIAS

criticism, and evaluation and the attempt to discern the truth inherent in
them. The instrument, or power, by which this activity takes place is
reason. This is why, once more, dialogue is justifiably called “rational
conversation,” that is, as a conversation conducted in the light of logos.
Rational conversation is the formal structure within which ideas are
presented and discussed. It may take place by means of questions and
answers, arguments, conceptual or logical analysis, or the expansion of the
abilities of the intellect into higher levels of understanding. The
interlocutors are “dialecticians” inasmuch as they submit to the voice of
reason (Plato, Republic, chapters V and VII).
A distinctive feature of dialogue is that it is a purposeful encounter.
Two or more people meet in order to establish the truth or falsity of an
idea, theory, or claim, or in order to understand it. This activity involves,
as I have just pointed out, clarification, definition, analysis, evaluation,
argumentation, and systematization of the ideas under consideration.
Accordingly, a clear formulation of the purpose of the dialogue is critically
important so that all the participants proceed into the discussion with a
clear understanding of the question they seek to explore. Failure to clarify
the purpose will certainly undermine the focus of the participants on the
subject matter of the dialogue and consequently on the character of the
encounter, or meeting, qua dialogue. Moreover, when the interlocutors
do not address the same idea or adhere to the purpose of the meeting—
that is, to converse rationally on a particular subject matter—the dialogue
will necessarily be reduced to a monologue or idle talk.
A second distinctive feature of dialogue is that the truth the interlocu-
tors seek emerges in the course of the conversation as a kind of disclosure.
They “see” or “discern” it as a luminous presence. It emerges as a result
of the analytical, critical, and reasoned interchange of the ideas under con-
sideration, as a result of the logical movement of thought that develops in
the dialogue; in fact, it emerges in and through this movement. It may
appear at its end as an intuition that can be articulated into a concept or in
the process of the conversation as a shining presence of the truth, the kind
that retransforms the intuition into knowledge. This is why, as I shall
argue, a necessary condition for interreligious dialogue is that the
interlocutors bracket their personal biases, emotions, and desires before
and during the dialogue.
A third distinctive feature of dialogue is that it is not always a smooth
or direct development toward a certain end (viz., the truth or the
understanding the interlocutors seek), but is frequently rough, nebulous,
 2 GENERAL FRAMEWORK OF ANALYSIS 15

or unpredictable because there is frequently a need to clarify vague or

ambiguous concepts, to consider hidden assumptions, to broach neglected
questions or ideas, or to unravel certain complex propositions. The
dialectical process is always expansive in its ideas, insights, and possibilities
of understanding. An excursus from the main course of the conversation
now and then is not uncommon in the major philosophical, scientific, and
theological dialogues.
A fourth distinctive feature of dialogue is that, although the model I
use is essentially Platonic, I take into serious consideration the basic insight
of the Buberian model of dialogue in my analysis of the conditions of
interreligious dialogue. Conducting a dialogue within the framework of
this model is not merely an activity of discovering or communicating the
truth of an aspect or element of this or that religion the way a scientist
discovers and communicates her knowledge of an aspect or element of
nature, it is also a human encounter in which the representatives of the
dialoguing religions do not stand before each other as “others” or as
“they” or as strangers, but as human others, or, to use Buber’s well-known
term, as “Thou,” as realities with whom we share our humanity—the
human essence—and before whom we stand as “human subjects.” The
truth the interlocutors seek does not pre-exist but is disclosed in the course
of the conversation. Indeed, the dialogue cannot be transformative in
character, as I shall argue, if it does not happen as a human encounter. This
kind of dialogue originates from two human cores. The disclosure of the
truth is a collaborative effort. This is a main reason why we can character-
ize it as an adventure in mutual cooperation and understanding qua differ-
ent revelations. If the rational activity is the spoken dimension of the
dialogue, the dialogue-as-encounter is the medium in which the rational
activity takes place. We should always remember that religious dialogue is
supposed to be one of the highest forms of spiritual activities! (See
Lochhead 1988; Buber 1980, 2002.)

Idea of Interreligious Dialogue

Now, in what sense can two communities engage in a religious dialogue?
If they can, what may the structure of such a dialogue be? In the Platonic
model of dialogue, or any dialogue that takes place between individuals,
the conversation consists of a clearly defined purpose: a commitment to the
principles of reason in the activity of analysis, criticism, and evaluation, a
focus on the logic implicit in the ideas or issues under consideration
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Title: Le livre de l'émeraude: en Bretagne

Author: André Suarès

Release date: June 8, 2022 [eBook #68265]

Language: French

Original publication: France: Calmann-Lévy, 1901

Credits: Laurent Vogel, Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed

Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book
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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LE LIVRE DE

L'ÉMERAUDE: EN BRETAGNE ***
 LE LIVRE

DE

L’ÉMERAUDE
Droits de traduction et de reproduction réservés pour tous les pays
y compris la Suède, la Norvège et la Hollande.
 A. SUARÈS

LE LIVRE
DE
L’ÉMERAUDE
— EN BRETAGNE —

PARIS

CALMANN-LÉVY, ÉDITEURS
3, RUE AUBER, 3
 Amico Meo

MAVR. POTTECHER

LOTTHARIG.

HVNC SVVM LIBRVM

GRATO ANIMO ET LIBENTER QVONDAM DEDICAV.

ANDR. SVAR. BRITT.

D. P. Q. E.

die VII a. Id. dec. ann.

MCM
 DÉDICACE

Enn eskopti ar Gerne, war vordik ar mor glaz[A]...

Je dédie ces reflets d’elle-même à la pierre forte entre toutes, verte et

précieuse, d’un cher pays. Et je ne saurais dire, dans l’amour que je lui
porte, si j’en ai plus reçu le sang, ou si j’ai plus voulu l’y reconnaître,
comme en l’objet que la prédilection choisit.
On est d’où l’on veut être. La fatalité du cœur vaut bien les autres. Il
n’est point de lieu où elle ne suffise à rapatrier l’homme. Car, à l’âge où il
est venu, qui peut fixer d’où il n’est pas, si son cœur ne fait choix d’où il
est?—Notre esprit nous disperse entre toutes les demeures du monde. Mais
il en est une ou deux, où notre passion nous ramène. Elle en a des raisons
puissantes et obscures: ce qu’il y a de plus fort dans l’homme est ce qu’on
n’y voit pas.
Il n’est point juste de croire que l’homme reste l’esclave de ses atomes,
au même titre qu’un cristal ou qu’une roche. L’homme n’est pas tout entier
dans les éléments qui le composent: il en est d’abord la forme. La volonté ni
le choix ne sont pas un néant, alors qu’on fait un tout de la race,—cette
forme abstraite.
La puissance de la race est en raison de la faiblesse des personnes.
L’homme puissant accepte les legs de la nature, mais n’en est point accablé.
Il ne consent point à être le serf de la misère, ni même de la richesse qu’il
hérite. Sans quoi, rien de plus grand ne se fût jamais vu à la suite de ce qui
avait été.
Le royaume des esprits est réglé de toute éternité: mais l’illusion d’un
ordre libre lui est permise: c’est celle de la nouveauté. Il en est du cœur de
l’homme, comme de la loi qui régit la succession à l’empire: le César
romain est libre de choisir le fils qu’il préfère; la rigueur de l’ordre est
tempérée par l’adoption.
La vertu de la race est exquise et toute forte dans les âmes les plus
simples. Et, en elles, c’est la race qui, vraiment, a seule toutes les vertus.
Mais enfin, il est digne de l’homme, et même il plaît à l’ironie des dieux,
que l’individu le plus puissant, où la race accomplit ses vœux séculaires, et
sa beauté parfaite, soit justement celui qui sorte de la race comme d’une
pirson, et qui tende à une perfection, où elle entre, sans suffire à la faire.
Voilà ce que tant d’hommes excellents et presque divins,—quand même
ils ne sont pas des dieux pour tous les hommes,—ont osé montrer par
l’exemple. En eux, la nature a fait voir l’audace unique, qui la porte sans
cesse à s’achever en se niant. Jésus-Christ accomplit les Israélites, et les
détruit: ils ne sont plus rien après lui qu’une ombre malheureuse, et qui n’a
plus ni foyer, ni corps, ni sens.
Socrate est né d’Athènes pour porter le premier coup à la cité heureuse
des beaux aristocrates. Qui est plus athénien que lui?—Et le grand César,
cet effort surhumain de Rome, accomplissant le destin de la ville, la perd
dans l’univers qu’il lui associe.

Je dédie ces reflets d’elle-même, et que je voudrais de la même eau pure

qu’elle, à cette Bretagne, la plus noble terre qui soit dans le Nord, à la fin
des temps où il y eut des peuples singuliers en Europe et des provinces
libres. Le Barbare est partout à nos portes,—je veux dire l’automate saxon,
machiné dans les usines de la morale et de l’esprit à bon marché. Le monde
nouveau se reconnaît déjà dans les États-Unis,—dont le nom odieux semble
peindre un univers partout nivelé sous une médiocrité impitoyable.
La Bretagne va mourir, après Venise et Florence, après Paris. Demain,
elle sera riche Peut-tre,—illustre à la manière des gueux d’âme,—après
avoir été tout le contraire, riche d’âme et gueuse d’écus. Bientôt, elle aura
donc cessé d’être bretonne.
Peuplée, marchande, pleine de bruit et de commis à l’effigie effacée, elle
sera peut-être prépondérante en France. Mais elle ne mirera plus dans
l’Océan des traits si rares, et sa figure de sirène mélancolique. Voici déjà
qu’elle montre le charme inégalé de sa mort prochaine.
Et j’aime en elle, la Belle Émeraude, tout ce qui jette un dernier feu, qui
va bientôt cesser d’être, et qui est plus beau sans doute, comme le soleil à
l’Occident, de toucher au moment de n’être plus.
19 novembre 1900.
LE LIVRE DE L’ÉMERAUDE
 I

VERS L’OUEST
De Paris à Plou-Gastel. En juin.

Le crépuscule lent d’une journée brûlante planait sur Paris.

Dans l’immense rumeur du soir, c’était l’heure douteuse où les désirs
s’allument; où, dans la lumière grise, les lampes ne brillent pas encore; où
la foule quitte le travail et court, à pas rapides, vers le repas du soir; l’heure
où, frôlant les murs, on voit passer les misérables qui ont faim, dont l’envie
aiguise les dents et fait luire les yeux au milieu d’une face blême... La ville
n’étouffait plus le bâillement d’une fatigue accablante. Le tumulte sourd
bourdonnait, énorme et sans grandeur, que font les pas et les roues, les voix
innombrables et les machines. La cohue se précipitait. Une poudre de sueur,
de crottin, de sable chaud et de cris vibrait entre les maisons livides, dans
les larges rues. Et l’air empesté était l’haleine de cette multitude.
Dans la gare, un tumulte de fer et de foule. Mais, sur une voie à l’écart,
se forme le train que je dois prendre; et déjà l’espace parle d’une pureté
nouvelle, d’une liberté infinie. Le dôme d’azur se voûte à une hauteur
sublime: et là, comme au seuil d’un étage inaccessible, s’arrêtait le souffle
trouble de la ville.
Une vieille attendait sur le quai; elle était chargée de paquets qu’elle
s’efforçait de tenir sous les deux bras. De la main gauche elle portait un
gros parapluie rouge, qu’elle avait pris par le milieu, comme un cierge, et
dont le manche était la mèche brune. Elle avait à ses pieds un sac bourré
jusqu’au col et plein de bosses; une corde l’étranglait, et la bonne femme au
dessus des nœuds serrés avait essayé une ganse grossière. Elle regardait
avec inquiétude, espérant du secours et le craignant, une espèce de caisse en
bois étroite et longue, vêtue d’un poil fauve et ras. Elle ne savait quel
paquet laisser choir ou lâcher, pour se défaire des autres. Et voici que, sur la
voie, effarées, hochant la tête, tournant les yeux de tous côtés, d’autres
femmes parurent, toutes vêtues de noir, en tablier et en châle, comme la
première, et, comme elle, laissant voir des regards jeunes sous la coiffe. Les
bonnes femmes s’interrogèrent des yeux, et toutes s’étant reconnues, sinon
pour des sœurs, au moins pour de proches voisines, elles se parlèrent. Elles
posèrent leurs paquets et leurs sacs. Elles convinrent de voyager ensemble;
et une nonne, qui vint à elles et prit place dans la même voiture, parut au
milieu de ces vieilles comme un ange sauveur.
Plusieurs autres moniales survinrent; et, marchant d’un pas rapide,
comme des soldats que presse l’heure, elles ne se quittaient pas: elles
allaient en rang, et se cachèrent précipitamment dans un wagon.
Il y avait aussi des prêtres, dont le port était déjà plus libre, et l’air plus
assuré. Et quelques-uns avaient la mine haute, et dans un visage maigre le
regard paisible.
Des marins s’avancèrent en roulant sur les hanches. Deux ou trois étaient
rouges, et un peu ivres; les jambes molles, ils s’écartaient de la ligne droite;
et leurs traits puérils étaient durs. Deux ou trois autres étaient maigres,
hâves, gris et blêmes: ils avaient l’air grave et inquiet des convalescents, et
cette figure un peu hagarde, où l’on croit déjà lire le regret de la vie.
Quelques jeunes filles rieuses, les yeux vifs et les lèvres humides, la
coiffe coquettement posée sur les cheveux et vêtues d’une mode nouvelle
où la main de Paris avait mis sa marque, coururent vers le train. Elles aussi
avaient des sacs, qu’elles ouvraient sans raison; elles se montraient de
menus objets, leurs emplettes, et l’une d’elles distribua des friandises aux
autres. Elles parlaient le français avec un accent chantant et bref. Passant à
côté des vieilles qui s’entretenaient avec la religieuse, d’une voix
circonspecte, elles se touchèrent l’une l’autre le coude, et une lueur de
malice traversa leurs yeux.
Blonds ou bruns, grands ou petits, ces hommes étaient maigres, sveltes
et agiles. Ils avaient des traits précis, et ces yeux d’eau où dort quelque
mystère. Leur geste était décidé. Une simplesse paysanne, une franche
hardiesse de marins respirait de cette foule. Elle encombrait le quai; il
semblait qu’il ne restât plus une place libre; et le train devait être bondé.
Mais en dépit des filles rieuses, des marins et des soldats peut-être ivres,
cette foule faisait moins de bruit qu’une autre: on s’interpellait peu, les cris
ne s’élevaient que de loin en loin; et le murmure même n’était pas continu.
Déjà, c’était la Bretagne.

Une vague d’azur court dans le ciel profond; peu à peu elle gagne sur le
brouillard de la Ville, ces nuages faits de fumée noire en spirales, et ce
dôme fiévreux de poussière en fusion. Mais la lueur de la fournaise poursuit
longtemps le prisonnier dans sa fuite. Babylone flambe, la nuit, sous le ciel
noir et pourpre.
L’air bleu recule. Le dais du firmament se tend plus haut sur le fleuve.
Le deuil et le sang se voilent. Les lumières au loin se font plus rares. La nuit
était venue, une nuit étincelante, pleine d’étoiles et sans lune,—la nuit qui
accomplit toutes les formes. Mais Paris ne voulait pas disparaître. Les
bourgs satellites retentissent encore de rumeurs, de feux, d’agitation. Enfin,
les petites villes s’éteignent une à une, comme les lampions d’une fête. Et la
lumière de la Ville immense, ce rouge reflet d’or sanglant et de brillante
poussière, s’efface du ciel pacifié.
L’espace s’élargit. La plaine se déroule sans heurts et sans surprise. L’air
vient au visage plus vif. Saines, paisibles, uniformes, les senteurs du soir se
répandent; elles n’ont plus l’odeur changeante et lourde de la fièvre.
La solitude sacrée de la campagne, où l’on entend l’haleine du silence: la
Beauce vaste, large et impassible. Sur l’horizon rougeâtre s’était arrêtée,
comme sur un talus, après la bataille, une armée de nuages obliques, une
cavalerie suspendue, des chevaux violets et des dragons échevelés, coiffés
de casques; toute la cavalcade rougeoyait dans l’ombre bleuâtre, et campait.
Avec elle, sur la plaine, régnait une tristesse auguste.
Enfin la Ville est oubliée. Enfin il fait silence.

Le train roule sur les rails, à toute vitesse, dans la nuit. Vers l’Ouest se
hâte la bête de fer, haletante, qui s’ébroue en sifflant, et secoue son collier
de fumée: vers l’Ouest, là où la terre finit et où l’Océan s’espace, image du
ciel sans bornes.
L’Ouest!... Les mots ont leur magie, et comme les parfums ils évoquent
les visions lointaines. L’Ouest a pour moi la féerie de la lumière qui
descend, du soleil qui tombe, la gloire passionnée du couchant, le
crépuscule sur la lande qui rêve et la splendeur de la mer, cette beauté
déserte... Sur l’âme changeante de l’Ouest c’est le prestige de ce qu’elle
préfère, le songe de sa demeure ardente et triste, au bord de la mer, devant
l’horizon où s’attarde la flamme du jour sanglant, couchée sur l’heure
occidentale...

Puis, ce fut la nuit noire, la nuit humide, qui trempe les labours.
 Au réveil, le coucou flûta dans la paix des champs. Sur la rivière et la
prairie courait la mince brume de l’aube. La bonne petite pluie, qui
chuchote et salue mille fois les feuilles, au delà de Rennes annonça l’aurore
à la campagne. Elle cessa bientôt; et le jour vert parut dans un voile d’or fin,
teinté de rose. L’âme fraîche de l’Occident disait une chère contrée.
Dans une petite gare, on ne parla plus français, et j’entendis la langue
dure dont l’accent chante. Je vis les haies mouillées, et les paisibles vaches.
Je revis le ciel humide qui sourit de plus près aux ajoncs sombres sur la
lande qui lui rend, en rêvant, son grave et mélancolique sourire; le pays où
toutes les femmes en noir portent des coiffes blanches, et où les hommes
très droits ont l’air supérieur à leur fortune.
Une jeune fille peignait, à la fenêtre, ses blonds cheveux, que le soleil
poudrait de miel rosé. Et la fumée s’éleva des toits au soleil levant.
Une ville, un quai désert, où un seul homme parle à grand fracas, un
corps énorme, rond de graisse, une figure joviale, une voix qui prend tout le
monde à témoin, et à qui personne ne répond; et chacun de savoir, sans le
dire, que cet ogre familier jusque dans la mauvaise humeur, n’est pas du
pays... Une marchande porte sur un plat des journaux et des brioches, sans
les annoncer, sans les offrir: comme on la hèle, elle ne tourne seulement pas
la tête à l’appel; elle va du même pas indifférent, et pour un peu semble
prête à fuir le client qui crie... En voiture monte un grand homme botté, hâlé
et blond, une figure ferme et vive, au front sec, un jeune seigneur dont les
yeux et les gestes brusques trahissent la vivacité intérieure.
Une petite laitière tire par les cornes une grosse vache, à la croupe noire;
la bête immobile, entêtée, ne veut pas venir sur la lande; et plantée des
quatre pieds sur le sol, la queue collée au flanc, elle est de pierre. Là-
dessous, la fillette s’agite; et, quand elle tourne autour de la vaste bête,
passant par derrière, l’arc ouvert des jambes écartées semble une porte, où
la petite fille va entrer...
Puis, du ciel gris encore, et de la pluie; un grain violent, que rien
n’annonce, une averse brutale, qui tourne court. Dans la prairie si verte, que
bornent les pommiers, des poulains galopent, gauches et gais comme de
gros enfants au sortir de table... Une vieille, rouge et bigle, le front strié de
veines bleues, arrache des pousses claires; elle les tient, vertes entre ses
doigts durs et bruns, comme au bout d’une serpe. Et deux petits moulins
noirauds, dans le ciel bleu d’eau pure, au sommet d’une hauteur herbeuse,
où un rayon de soleil somnole, ressemblent à de gros insectes, qui tirent en
arrière une de leurs pattes...
Je revois les prés, l’avoine nacrée, la campagne silencieuse, les espaces
verdoyants, et l’étendue déserte, sans villes et sans hommes, les yeux
innombrables de l’herbe mouillée, les chênes sur le roc, et, descendant la
pente, les houx dentelés que l’on préfère à tous les arbres, quand on les
aime...
Et voici, voici la mer!... Je suis en Cornouailles.
 II

DE LA FENÊTRE
A Ker Joz.., en Benodet, Juillet.

Avant de finir en aiguille, la pointe de la rive s’arrondit comme la base

d’une tour, à l’entrée de la rivière. Là, une ferme de châtelains rustiques,
une sorte de manoir dans les arbres. La fougère couvre les murs jusqu’au
toit d’ardoises, usées et blanchies par le temps. Les pierres brunes ont le
grain de la peau méridionale, que le soleil et le hâle salin ont tannée. De
longs sillons noirs, reste des pluies d’hiver, y font comme des rides. Et la
fougeraie est d’un vert plus frais, collée contre ces chaudes murailles.
La ferme a sa tour ronde, couronnée de créneaux, toute vêtue de la même
fougère, légère et dense, verte, profonde à l’œil et veloutée comme les
algues. Un mur de blocs solides, et fort haut, entoure le petit parc en pente,
et le défend de la mer. Posé sur la courtine qui règne, étroite, au-dessus des
rocs chevelus de goémons, le mur est percé de meurtrières: les grandes
marées vont jusque-là, à l’assaut. O la calme ceinture qu’un vieux mur,
couleur de cuir, fait aux vieux arbres, aux pins, aux chênes et aux ormeaux,
dans la lumière blonde, tandis qu’au milieu de la pelouse en pente, deux
chevaux bruns, le col baissé, broutent le gazon vert!
La ligne des arbres suit la hauteur et la continue jusqu’au bourg par une
charmante clairière, plantée de pins: ils ont les pieds croisés, comme pour la
danse; c’est le vent en tous sens qui les assembla de la sorte; et toutes leurs
têtes égales laissent le soleil filtrer entre les fûts ployés. Parfois le soir,
quand le bois est déjà sombre, au fond des branches coule un fil de ciel,
comme un ruisseau de bleu céleste.
Les ombres et les rais du soleil dessinent sur le sol montant, doré
d’aiguilles de pin, un beau blason, d’or et de sable; et souvent, le reflet des
feuillages sur le duvet de mousse qui protège le tronc d’un arbre, lui fait
comme un pied de sinople.
Que cette hauteur modeste est calme! Elle est fine et gracieuse à voir,
comme un dessin de Léonard gravé à la pointe sèche. Tout est mesuré dans
cette vue; tout est d’un ordre exquis, d’un trait léger et fin. Ce morceau de
colline, d’une élégance si discrète, est parfait à sa manière, non sans être
émouvant pour l’esprit, quand on songe qu’à deux pas d’ici, le lugubre
Penmarc’h entasse ses rochers et que les nuages roulent sur la scène
sinistre, où l’Océan joue sa tragédie.
 III

LA PAIX DE KERGOAT
En Loc Ronan. Juillet.

Journée délicieuse, où j’ai rencontré la paix, comme une blonde vierge,

étendue sous les arbres, au détour d’une route, dans un pays secret.
Le soleil lançait de haut sa pluie d’or sur la baie, et la campagne était
couchée dans la joie. Une vive langueur, où la jeunesse de l’année se sentait
encore, possédait toutes choses, comme un rêve léger. Le rire ardent du
magnifique été planait sur la terre sonore: la lumière était suspendue,
comme un aigle d’azur et d’or. La brise de mer sentait la violette; et la
contrée amoureuse exhalait de toutes parts l’odeur des roses.
Je me trouvai bientôt dans une retraite plus calme et plus heureuse qu’un
jardin d’amour. C’était un petit bois, aux branches claires, brillantes de
feuillage et de verdure. Les grands chênes levaient la tête, et le ciel bleu
leur souriait. La pluie d’or tombait sur la terre brune, en feuilles blondes,
comme la fable-conte que le dieu jouait avec Danaé. Et, sous les chênes,
posées comme des mains tranquilles sur les genoux, méditaient les blanches
tombes.
Elles brillaient, ces pierres de granit, plus égales et moins vieilles que les
roches, où se fixe le goémon. Elles étaient sans pensée, sans regret et même
sans mémoire: mais elles jouaient en silence avec le soleil et les feuilles, qui
jouaient avec elles. Quelques-unes étaient sans nom, et par là plus paisibles.
Au delà des chênes, dans le ciel bleu, la tour de la chapelle; et les noirs
martinets dansaient leurs rondes autour des hautes fenêtres, fleuries de lys...
On entend bruire le moindre frisson de branches; et la mouche qui
bourdonne sur une fleur a des échos dans l’air qui vibre. Les oiseaux, ravis
de plaisir, pépient dans les arbres; et l’on voit, sur les pierres tombales, leur
ombre qui fuit, quand ils passent de branche en branche.
Un vieux mendiant, aux traits graves, courbé sur son bâton, au bout de
l’allée me regarde: il est des pèlerins qui déjà remplissent le pays, pour le
prochain Pardon. Ses yeux d’eau pure me parlent. Il me croit ici pour les
miens, et m’en sait gré. Il a peut-être reconnu l’empreinte de mes genoux...
Et son regard me propose des prières.
Priez donc, vieil homme. Il s’agenouille. Il est très doux de faire ployer
les genoux, sans violence, au vieil enfant chenu qu’est l’homme. Il est très
doux de faire prier ce passant pour cette jeune femme, que la terre couvre,
et ce marin inconnu...
La fauvette s’égosille en chansons dans le grand chêne. Il me semble
entendre le soupir profond de la mer... O calme retraite, dans la lumière!...
O paix de Kergoat!
 IV

LE FOL ET LA SŒUR BLANCHE

A Pen-Ker... En juillet.

La Religieuse causait sur le chemin avec la femme de Le Corre, le

charpentier. La Religieuse est une grande et forte femme, plus ample encore
dans sa robe de bure et sous le manteau vaste, qui semble d’un seul lé: son
visage n’en paraît que plus petit, emprisonné sous la cornette, serré par le
linge roide, si blanc qu’à l’ombre du matin, on le voit teinté de bleu. C’est
une figure grosse comme le poing, aux traits secs et trop pâles; le front ne
se montre pas; et l’on est frappé du regard, presque indifférent, qui tombe
de deux yeux ronds, et d’un bleu presque blanc. La femme de Le Corre,
elle, parle d’abondance. Le désir de plaire à la Bonne Sœur, le plaisir de
causer avec elle, et même une certaine fierté d’en être jugée digne, se
disputent la bonne femme, courte et osseuse dans sa lourde jupe: parfois,
elle étend sa main aux doigts tannés, tandis que la Religieuse cache les
siennes dans ses larges manches. Elles s’entretiennent de Gwénoc’h,
l’Innocent, qui, cette nuit, a fait du bruit dans le hameau... Il appelait, mais
il n’a pas su dire qui: il ne se comprend pas lui-même, le pauvre gars; à
l’ordinaire, il est bien doux, et il ne ferait pas peur, même à un enfant...
Dame, il n’aime pas les étrangers, non, par exemple; mais il n’a pas si tort,
donc... Et, ma sœur, pensez-vous qu’il porte bonheur, comme on dit, à ceux
qu’il regarde? Je le croirais, s’il vous plaît... car, s’il n’a pas plus de raison
qu’un enfant de deux ans, c’est que la main de Dieu est sur lui... Jusqu’au
matin, pourtant, il a couru de côté et d’autre...
—Précisément, dit la Religieuse.—Il est venu, une heure avant
l’Angélus, frapper à la porte de la chapelle; et il est resté là jusqu’à ce qu’on
l’ouvrît...
—Vraiment? dit madame Le Corre; voyez donc!...
Et elle soupire de plaisir; elle lève la tête vers le ciel doré du matin. On
n’entend que le coucou lointain, et le murmure de la mer prochaine, aussi
faible que l’haleine des feuilles dans la forêt.