Joris-Karl Huysmans chez lui par Dornac (1893)
Available from Amazon. You can read this book for free on Archive.org, Huysmans.org, and here on Parmenidean.is! You can also listen to it on Librivox.org.
Book Length: 329 pages
If we are to apply a spiritual interpretation to the common saying that “all roads lead to Rome”, the conclusion may be arrived at that many paths lead men to Eternal Rome. This the late nineteenth century novel is the tale of one such road taken; hence the title of this work, En Route, or “on the road” as it may be rendered in English. Dutch-French author Joris-Karl Huysmans’ protagonist, Durtal, can be compared to the figure of the Pilgrim in Dante’s Divine Comedy; he is both analogous to the personage of the author while simultaneously embodying a type of man lost in the darkness of error, and who therefore stands in need of conversion, of a spiritual rebirth. Thus Durtal’s struggle is not only that of a disillusioned Parisian gentleman confined to the past, as Catholic readers of our day will find that his arduous journey back into the life of grace bears a striking resemblance to their own spiritual combat.
Many of the problems of his time, in fact, have only become more pronounced in the passage of the intervening hundred and twenty nine years: infidelity, the vacuum of secular modernity, “innovations” in the Church, social alienation, and addictions to sins of the flesh. Huysmans, however, not only presented these problems in this novel, but also the solution to these same issues—a solution which begins with the return of our modern prodigal sons to the loving embrace of the Heavenly Father.
Beginning with his entry into the church of Saint-Sulpice on an evening within the Octave of All Souls Day in the very first chapter, the reader gazes into the introspective Durtal. One is invited to inspect the various facets of this a hidden gem of a man, who possesses an impressive intellect and wide imagination, yet is beset by alienation. He is estranged both from God and his fellow man; thus it is art, represented by the liturgical music he hears sung in that church, which moves him to reconnect with both. He cannot help but be struck by the sublime faith which radiates through the voices of the choir, a faith which leads him to conclude:
(5)
Ah! the true proof of Catholicism was that art which it had founded, an art which has never been surpassed; in painting and sculpture the Early Masters, mystics in poetry and in prose, in music plain chant, in architecture the Romanesque and Gothic styles. And all this held together and blazed in one sheaf, on one and the same altar; all was reconciled in one unique cluster of thoughts: to revere, to adore and serve the Dispenser, showing to Him reflected in the soul of His creature, as in a faithful mirror, the still immaculate treasure of his gifts.
Though his idiosyncratic criticisms throughout the book concerning the arts may seem intimidating and, at times, even overwhelming, they always return to this high standard—Catholic indeed, but also medieval. For much like Huysmans himself, Durtal despises the Paris of the left side of the river Seine—the Paris of modernity, of liberalism, of the Revolution. He, on the other hand, is a son of the right side of that river—the side of the France which was proud to call itself the Eldest Daughter of the Church. And this must also be borne in mind when Durtal criticizes certain trends in the priesthood, for he does not despise the institution of the priesthood as such (as, for instance, the Protestants do) but instead despises worldliness, the corrosive which rusts the gold of the holy priesthood throughout Church history. Even before his conversion back to the Faith, his true attitude becomes apparent in this opening chapter when, while thinking about a funeral he had attended that morning in the Madeleine, he professes to himself in admiration that:
(12)
Never, in any religion, has a more charitable part, a more august mission, been assigned to man.
Humbled, then, by the art of the Church and the spirit reflected through it, a spirit which is none other than the Holy Spirit, Durtal’s soul begins to open to the grace being offered to it. Reflecting on his seemingly inexplicable and sudden movement back towards the Church in the second chapter, he recognizes the influence of the Virgin Mother:
(17)
“It is certain,” he continued, after a silent thought, “that in these cases the Virgin acts upon us, it is she who moulds and places us in the hands of her Son, but her fingers are so light, so supple, so caressing, that the soul they have handled has felt nothing.”
Mary is not only the Refuge of Sinners; she is also the Mediatrix who distributes the graces merited for us by Christ. This invocation of Mary is not the only one in this book, dear reader, for you will find many more places within its pages where she is explicitly called upon, highlighting her watchful presence over Durtal. By this, Huysmans is teaching us not only something about his own conversion, but also a truth of our spiritual lives. This truth is the following: Mary watches over us, moulds us, and draws us to her Son.
Though he is writing a tale of conversion, is this message not also true for those who have remained faithful like the elder brother of the prodigal? Recall what the father in that story said to that brother: “Son, thou art always with me, and all I have is thine” (Luke 15:31). It can reasonably deduced, then, from this and the words of Christ to St. John, “Behold thy mother” (John 19:27) that the Virgin has been equally given to both the repentant and the just as their Mother.
This Mother, then, as in the case of all converts, works upon this hardened man, enabling him to awake from his stupor and see the horror of his iniquities. Yet his senses militate against the enlightenment of his spirit and intellect; these opposing movements do not escape the notice of this watchful gentleman, who observes his own state:
(30-31)
But what disquieted him still more than the need of helps to feeling, was that his shameless senses rebelled at the contact of religious ideas. He floated like wreckage between Licentiousness and the Church, they each threw him back in turn, obliging him as he approached one to return at once to that which he had left, and he was inclined to ask if he were not a victim to some mystification of his lower instincts, seeking to revive themselves, without his consciousness, by the cordial of a false piety.
Tormented by this inner struggle, Durtal realizes his powerlessness to wrest himself from his life of sin on his own accord. It is indeed well that he now believes, but he knows that this alone will not save him; he must believe and live as a Christian, and to do this he requires the aid of the priest. But to which priest shall he go? He does not approve of the typical Parisian secular priest, who—blinded by their compromise with or even love of modernity—will not understand his sincere fondness for mysticism. Thus, he decides upon consulting an old priest and former acquaintance of his, Abbé Gévresin, for direction. Despite his anxieties about the matter, the protagonist, in a manner evocative of the Prodigal Son, declares to himself that:
(42)
“I will not turn back, but just disturb him in his own house…”
Despite some delay in his plan, he ultimately follows through; thus our Pilgrim has met his Virgil, and now the journey can really begin.
Perceiving Durtal’s state from the exterior, Abbé Gévresin is more capably equipped to assess him than the reader, who only knows Durtal by means of imbibing his internal monologues. After hearing his nervous recounting of the story of his awakening in St. Sulpice and his battles against his evil habits, the abbé pieces together the greater portrait of the man before him:
(63)
“It is quite certain,” he began again, “that art is the principal means which the Saviour has used to make you absorb the Faith. He has taken you on your weak side—or strong side, if you like that better.”
Charitably, the abbé considers that with Durtal, he simply cannot have this man confess to just any priest in Paris; for his knowledge of the spiritual life and the psychology of souls enables him to see in this prodigal son a “…sort of ‘sensitive’, whom the least imprudence, the least stupidity of a confessor would at once repel” (Ibid). Upon being asked by Durtal if he could hear his confession, Abbé Gévresin draws on his intuition to declare that, “…I have an idea that my part will be confined to pointing out the road to you; I shall be a connecting link, and nothing more…” (64).
As this abbé also shares with the protagonist a deep appreciation for the rich history of Catholic spiritual literature and Medieval art, he engages with this tormented soul in discussions which uplift his spirit and prepare him for the way forward. Guided by this sacerdotal sage through frequent conversations, Durtal is able to come to terms with the movements of divine grace in his soul, and thus is liberated from the paralysis of endless interior debates. Moreover, Durtal enjoys another benefit from the company of this good priest—his own fascination with mysticism (quite understandable for a man who has lived in denial the supernatural) does not start with mist and end in schism. Indeed, Durtal may have started out in mist, but is lead by the abbé’s edifying discussions about the mystics, such as St. Teresa and St. John of the Cross, to obtaining a greater desire for obtaining pardon for his sins. Mysticism is not a vague vapor; it is a science, a spiritual science—the fruits of which can only truly be understood and enjoyed in the state of grace. As the Abbé Gévresin says to Durtal:
“In fact, the end of Mysticism is to render visible, sensible, almost palpable, the God who remains silent and hidden from all.”
“And to to throw us into His deep, into the silent abyss of joy! But in order to speak correctly, we must forget the ordinary use of expressions which have been degraded. In order to describe this mysterious love, we are obliged to draw our comparisons from human acts, and to inflict on our Lord the shame of our words. We have to employ such terms as ‘union,’ ‘marriage,’ ‘wedding feast’; but it is impossible to speak of the inexpressible, and with the baseness of our language declare the ineffable immersion of the soul in God.”
(73)
By listening to this voice of clarity and wisdom, Durtal grows; he moves further and further away from appreciating the Church from the outside, viewing its ideas and art in an almost secular manner, yet not wholly detached from her spirit—for this son of the Church never forgot he was one, even when he was bad. He instead shifts, and continues to travel down that path which began on that fateful evening in Saint-Sulpice—the path of rising above his appreciations to loving the Church and of no longer being haunted by his abandonment of her in his youth. This culminates in a decision presented to him by the
abbé: to go to the Cistercian monastery of La Trappe to not only see mysticism lived out by the monks and to hear them sing plain chant in all its unaltered glory, but also to make his first confession and Communion in decades. Our protagonist hesitates, but after some convincing and encouragement from Abbé Gévresin, he accepts. No scene in the novel perhaps best illustrates the aftermath of Durtal’s decision, so full of hope for a future lived in the peace of Christ, than the following excerpt which takes place during a Mass in his beloved church of Saint-Séverin:
It was at the moment of the Communion. The monk, elevating the Host, uttered the “Domine, non sum dignus.” Pale, with drawn features, sorrowful eyes, and a serious mouth, he seemed to have escaped from a monastery of the Middle Ages, cut out of one of those Flemish pictures where the monks are standing in the background, while the nuns are praying on their knees with joined hands, near the donors, to the child Jesus on whom the Virgin smiles, while lowering her long lashes under her arching brow.
And while he descended the steps and communicated two women, Durtal trembled, and his desires went forth towards the ciborium.
It seemed to him that if he were nourished on that Bread, there would be an end to all his dryness and all his fears; it would seem to him that the wall of his sins, higher and higher from year to year, and now barring his view, would roll away, and at least he would see. And he was in haste to set off for La Trappe, that he too might receive the Sacred Body from the hands of a monk.
(133)
In imaging the Benedictine priest he is witnessing represented under the form of a monk pictured in one of those great pieces from his beloved Flemish masters, Durtal’s aforementioned artistic ideals have, as it were, come down and implanted themselves into the modern world in a kind of transubstantiation. This is evidently analogous in a manner to the transubstantiation of the Eucharist which he is observing, thus again highlighting the means by which art has aided the protagonist to return to the Faith. Moreover, the illustrative nature of Durtal’s thoughts about the Communion gives the reader a visual portrait by which they can better understand the Mass as the ineffable ritual handed down from generation to generation ever since Holy Thursday. In a word, the Mass is a tradition, the greatest tradition in the world. The Middle Ages did indeed die, but the Faith which built them—so perfectly encapsulated in the liturgy—survived into the late nineteenth century, and has survived into our day, even despite the best efforts of the Modernist heretics to persecute and destroy it.
Durtal is no longer afraid of the possibility of receiving Holy Communion; in fact, his attendance of this Mass has helped him to foster a burning desire to communicate, but he knows he cannot on account of his being in the state of sin. Through this, Huysmans is not only indicating a change in the sensitive Durtal’s character—he is also reinforcing the lesson given to us Catholics by many saints and good priests that even a soul struck down in the mire of grave sin, so long as it is attentive to the holy Sacrifice, can profit by it. For grace can touch these souls as it is touching that of the protagonist to seek repentance and return to Him who offers Himself for us in these sacred mysteries.
It is not too long after this moving section that the book enters its second part; however, I will not elaborate on it here, for I hope that you, dear reader, uncover the wonders laid bare there for yourself. La Trappe is portrayed magnificently, and in following the steps of Durtal there as he makes his retreat, one is moved to compassionate him, and yet rejoice with him: “For this thy brother was dead and is come to life again; he was lost, and is found” (Luke 15:32).
This is a fantastic work, full of stylistic beauty and reverence for the Catholic Faith which features prominently within its narrative. As the novel is mostly set in Paris, readers who have traveled there will see its historic streets and churches reappear in their mind’s eye while reading this novel, enhanced by Huysmans’ illustrative wit. Of the available translations, the Kegan Paul translation is recommended for the Anglophone reader because of certain adaptations made in that rendition which are not present in others.1
It would seem that there are issues with the Forgotten Books reprinting, as in my copy I occasionally found some words mistakenly omitted here and there within its pages, which forced me to consult online editions to fix these errors in the text. This is the only negative criticism worth mentioning. Owing, however, to the mature subject matter of the text and the presence of occasional scenes which describe temptation to sins of the flesh in some detail, this is a work which should only be read by adult Catholics.
Durtal’s story, despite taking place over a century ago, has great relevance to our times; it is thus unfortunate that this novel, the first Huysmans wrote after his return to the Holy Faith, has been largely obscured. In the beginning of this story, Durtal ponders the beauty of the liturgy and traditional hymns, and among his thoughts one finds the following:
(14)
The Middle Ages have left us these to help save, if it may be, the soul of the modern and dead fine gentlemen.
Just as these sublime products of the Church are an inheritance from the Middle Ages to save the souls of his time, so too is this novel a gift from the much-maligned Victorian Age to to help save the souls of our time.
-
For more specific information, see the Introduction to the Kegan Paul translation. Though it seems that Kegan Paul took the most charitable interpretation for his time in examining what Huysmans was attempting in this work, ultimately Rev. Blunt provided a better perspective in his evaluation of this novel and its author in the relevant chapter of his work Great Penitents. I recommend the reading of this chapter, which can be found at the following: