Je n'aime pas les hommes; j'aime ce qui les dévore. ()
What is a free act? And is there such a thing?
Over the course of a few decades André Gide (1869-1951), who imbibed Calvinism (and all of its ideology of predestination) with his mother's milk and then struggled with himself in a lengthy attempt to pull its roots out of his soul, mulled over this problem repeatedly. And, as was his wont, he worked this particular obsession along with all the others he had into his highly polished and extremely sophisticated texts. When the acte gratuit (gratuitous act) infamously became the focal point of his Les Caves du Vatican in 1914 and thenceforth associated with his name, the public ignored both the fact that he denied its very possibility and its long development in his thought.
I'm not going to address the absurdities of the scandal associated with Gide and the acte gratuit, but I do want to focus this review of Le Prométhée mal enchaîné (1899, available in English under the title Prometheus Illbound) on this particular point.
Already in Paludes (1895) Gide had his characters address the matter. In the presentation of a soirée with which he was satirizing the circle of intellectuals and artists with whom he had spent most of the previous five years he staged an argument about the free act. One character remarks "Il me semble que ce que vous appelez acte libre serait un acte ne dépendant de rien ; détachable, supprimable, en conclusion : sans valeur."(*) Another character remarks a bit later that it is not important "d’engendrer plus ou moins immédiatement de grands actes, mais bien de faire la responsabilité des petits actes de plus en plus grande."(**) Upon which Gide's narrator, who shares much but not all with his author, responds "Ce que vous faites grandir, ce sont les scrupules ; l’acte comme il faut, responsable, c’est l’acte libre, nos actes ne le sont plus."(***) And because this is a soirée in Paris, the immediate retort is "Enfin, si je vous comprends bien, Monsieur, vous voulez contraindre les gens à la liberté."(4*) At which everyone else grinds his teeth because he didn't get there first...
Paludes was Gide's first sotie, and in his second, Le Prométhée mal enchaîné, he returned to the notion of free act in the modified form of the acte gratuit. But first let me set the stage of Le Prométhée mal enchaîné.
An enormously fat man named Zeus (and nicknamed the Miglionnaire) has concocted a scheme to commit the acte gratuit. He places a 500 franc bill in an unmarked envelope, closes it, and then promenades through Paris. At some point or other he deliberately drops his handkerchief, occasioning some kind person to pick up the handkerchief and return it to the Miglionnaire. Zeus briefly thanks the man, has him write any address he wishes upon the envelope and posts it. Then he slaps the Good Samaritan hard, climbs into a horse cab and departs, leaving the poor guy bleeding and embarrassed before a throng of Parisians. The question now is: Was Zeus' act an acte gratuit?
The incident is discussed at some length around a little table in a Parisian café by Cocles (who was the recipient of one of these slaps), Damocles (who received the envelope Cocles had addressed) and Prometheus (yes, the Prometheus), all under the auspices of a most unusual waiter who has embedded the exchange into his own little acte gratuit. And as unusual as Cocles' and Damocles' stories might be, one is not quite prepared for the crashing arrival of Prometheus' eagle, come to feast upon his liver.
With a mischievous and emphatic irony Gide tears his way merrily through the unlikely and the absurd in his sotie, strewing lessons in Cocles' injuries and subsequent material success; in Damocles' scruples, questioning conscience and demise; in the codependence of Prometheus and the eagle (according to Prometheus, we all have our eagles; what counts is that we sacrifice ourselves to make them beautiful); in the final Nietzschean act of liberation.(5*)
But Gide was no philosopher, and Le Prométhée mal enchaîné is no coded allegory. It is impish, funny and startling, a serious toy composed of words and ideas by an author one would not expect if one were familiar only with Gide's later role as senior statesman of French letters.
() I don't love men; I love that which devours them.
(*) It seems to me that what you call a free act would be an act depending upon nothing: detachable, suppressible, in conclusion: without value.
(**) to give rise more or less immediately to great acts, but rather to make the responsibility for small acts larger and larger.
(***) That which you make larger, those are the scruples; the act as it should be, responsible, is the free act, which our acts no longer are.
(4*) In the end, if I understand you well, my dear Sir, you wish to force people to be free.
(5*) Nietzsche was a central figure for the young Gide.