ny other, and yet a
great many people look upon me as being very lax. I cannot get out
of my head the idea that perhaps the libertine is right after all and
practises the true philosophy of life. This has led me to express too
much admiration for such men as Sainte-Beuve and Theophile Gautier.
Their affectation of immorality prevented me from seeing how
incoherent their philosophy was. The fear of appearing pharisaical,
the idea, evangelical in itself, that he who is immaculate has the
right to be indulgent, and the dread of misleading, if by chance all
the doctrines emitted by the professors of philosophy were wrong, made
my system of morality appear rather shaky. It is, in reality, as solid
as the rock. These little liberties which I allow myself are by way
of a recompense for my strict adherence to the general code. So in
politics I indulge in reactionary remarks so that I may not have the
appearance of a Liberal understrapper. I don't want people to take me
for being more of a dupe than I am in reality; I would not upon any
account trade upon my opinions, and what I especially dread is to
appear in my own eyes to be passing bad money. Jesus has influenced
me more in this respect than people may think, for He loved to show up
and deride hypocrisy, and in His parable of the Prodigal Son He places
morality upon its true footing--kindness of heart--while seeming to
upset it altogether.

To the same cause may be attributed another of my defects, a tendency
to waver which has almost neutralized my power of giving verbal
expression to my thoughts in many matters. The priest carries his
sacred character into every relation of life, and there is a good deal
of what is conventional about what he says. In this respect, I have
remained a priest, and this is all the more absurd because I do
not derive any benefit either for myself or for my opinions. In my
writings, I have been outspoken to a degree. Not only have I never
said anything which I do not think, but, what is much less frequent
and far more difficult, I have said all I think. But in talking and
in letter-writing, I am at times singularly weak. I do not attach any
importance to this, and, with the exception of the select few between
whom and myself there is a bond of intellectual brotherhood, I say to
people just what I think is likely to please them. In the society of
fashionable people I am utterly lost. I get into a muddle and flounder
about, losing the thread of m