Tzetan Todorov: The Conquest of America: The Question of the Other. Richard Howard translation. Norman: University of Oklahoma Press, 1999 [1982].
“My subject,” Todorov announces, is “the discovery self makes of other“—a sure sign of a postmodern-all-too-postmodern exercise. Whereas moderns treat the soul as a ‘self,’ with ‘self’ (rather than God or polis) as the locus of human life, postmodernists treat ‘self’ and non-‘self’ or ‘other’ as that locus, making much of ‘intersubjectivity’ in an effort to undermine ‘bourgeois individualism,’ ‘Lockean liberalism,’ and other such putative horrors. The good news is that Todorov is at core a sensible, honest Bulgarian, albeit one who lives in France and writes in French. He has “chosen to narrate a history” of the Spanish conquest of the Caribbean islands and Aztec Mexico but admits that his “main interest is less a historian’s than a moralist’s; the present is more important to me than the past.” He wants the story to be “as true a possible but in telling [it] I shall try never to lose sight of what biblical exegesis used to call its tropological or ethical meaning.” We remain ‘selves’ encountering ‘others,’ and this old story, retold in today’s terms, may teach us a thing or two.
Why this story, among so many other possible stories? First, because “the discovery of America, or of the Americans, is certainly the most astonishing encounter of our”—our Europeans’—long “history,” Europeans having more or less always known something of “the existence of Africa, India, or China,” which share with them the same land mass. What is more, that encounter resulted in “the greatest genocide in human history,” genocide being defined by Todorov not simply as mass homicide or intentional murder but as that in addition to millions of unintended deaths resulting from disease. Finally, Columbus’s expedition and the ensuing conquest serves as the archē, the formative beginning, of modernity, of ‘Europeanness’ as Europeans, and indeed the rest of the world, now live it. “Since that date,” 1492, “the world has shrunk”; “men have discovered the totality of which they are a part, whereas hitherto they formed a 0part without a whole.” The world shrank because technology shrank it, beginning with Spanish galleons and cannons.
Not that Columbus himself could be described as a modern man. He set out to find gold, a decidedly traditional motive, in China, where he hoped to meet the Emperor and spread Christianity. “The universal victory of Christianity—this is the motive that animates Columbus, a profoundly pious man (he never sets sail on Sunday), who for this very reason regards himself as chosen, as charged with a divine mission, and who sees divine intervention everywhere, in the movement of the waves as in the wreck of his ship (on a Christmas night!).” Even his desire for gold has a pious aim, to fund the reconquest of Jerusalem for Christianity. “The project of the crusades had been abandoned since the Middle Ages,” but not for long, if Columbus can help it. “The man who was to give birth to a new world could not yet belong to it.”
Columbus was rightly convinced he had discovered a new continent, for three reasons: “the abundance of fresh water; the authority of the sacred books; the opinion of other men he has met with.” Natural, divine, human: the elements of his interpretation of what he had found corresponded to his motives: “a delight in nature,” love of God, desire for wealth. His beliefs “influence his interpretations,” as he not only sees the Amerindians through Biblical eyes (they are pagans, the Christian equivalent of gentiles in Israelite eyes), but through the eyes of classical antiquity, as well. The New World has “Cyclopes and mermaids, in Amazons and men with tails.” The mermaids disappoint him, as “they were not as beautiful as they are painted, for they had something masculine in the countenance.” That is, rather as Christian exegetes see anticipations of Christ in the Old Testament, Columbus understands the New World in light of Scripture and of the scripts of antiquity, including those that record the Homeric epics and stories related by Herodotus. This doesn’t stop him from accurate perception of nature when it counts. He navigates by the stars and predicts the weather; he even uses his ‘philosophic’ knowledge politically, threatening “to steal the moon” from recalcitrant Indians and making good on his threat when the lunar eclipse he expected began, winning their obedience. And he also delights in nature, in its beauty; for him the tropiques are not triste but full of color and intricate harmonies.
Adam-like, he gives names to the things he discovers. According to one Spanish chronicler, Columbus’s own, name, Cristobal or Christum Ferens means “the bearer of Christ, and it was thus that he often signed his name.” His surname, Colón, means “repopulator,” and the chronicler thinks it “befits this man, in that he was the first to bring the people of Spain (albeit not as they should have been) to found colonies, or new populations, which, being established amid the original inhabitants…should constitute a new…Christian Church and a happy republic.” Names should fit persons and things. Todorov observes that “the first Gesture Columbus makes upon contact with the newly discovered lands is an at of extended nomination: this is the declaration according to which these lands are henceforth part of the Kingdom of Spain.” Naming presumes authority, as God Himself bestows names and bestows the authority to name the lesser creations upon the first Man.
Todorov cautions that this authoritative naming occludes “the entire dimension of intersubjectivity,” inasmuch as to name a fellow human being (at least, one who is not an infant) presumes the right to rule an adult person while also ignoring “the arbitrary character of signs.” In naming, have you really understood the thing you have named, or have you only imposed a meaning upon it? This can extend even to translation, as when Columbus learns the Indian word cacique and simply wants to know “what Spanish word it corresponds to.” “Not for a moment does Columbus doubt that the Indians distinguish, as the Spaniards do, between nobleman, governor, and judge; his curiosity, quite limited moreover, bears only on the exact Indian equivalent for these terms.” He “does not succeed in his human communications” with the Indians “because he is not interested in them” as persons, only as subjects, and subjects not in the sense of fellow human ‘selves’ but as political subjects, rightful underlings.
Well, maybe. If Columbus wants to convert the Indians to Christianity, does he not understand them as human beings with souls that need such conversion? Even if they are “part of the landscape” (and in a sense they are—integrated within it), they are not only part of the landscape, even in his eyes. He is astonished by their nakedness, in which they resemble animals, they seem to him spiritually naked, too, having no apparent religion, not even idolatry. They are innocent of money, giving no evidence of thinking in terms of private property, so they lack the sin of covetousness, rather as Rousseau later conceived of the way of life of “noble” savages. So, as Todorov next sees, Columbus does understand them as human, with certain natural or prelapsarian virtues, but as defective humans, spiritually deprived and hence in need of subjection—conscious subjection, ultimately, to the God they do not know but immediately to the Spaniards who bring them the Word of that God. “What is denied,” Todorov laments, in full ‘postmodernist’ mode, “is the existence of a human substance truly other, something capable of being not merely an imperfect state of oneself.” That is, Columbus wants to assimilate the Indians, for both his and their own good, and for the glory of God, His Church, and the Spanish Crown. “There is never a justification of this desire to make the Indians adopt the Spanish customs,” to “propagate the Gospel”; its rightness is “self-evident.”
This sets up an exchange of sorts, “a certain equilibrium,” as “the Spaniards give religion and take gold.” Todorov objects, despite the fact that a Christian would regard this exchange as eminently liberal on the Spanish (well, Christian) side, salvation being infinitely more valuable than material wealth. “To propagate the faith presupposes that the Indians are considered his equals (before God).” But what if they are unwilling to give their wealth, to make the exchange? “Then they must be subdued, in military and political terms, so that it may be taken from them by force”—treated, “from the human perspective this time, in a position of inequality,” of inferiority. The danger in practice is this: “By gradual stages, Columbus will shift from assimilationism, which implied an equality of principle, to an ideology of enslavement, and hence to the assertion of the Indians’ inferiority.” That is, he shifts from what Aristotle classifies as parental rule, rule for the good of the ruled, to masterly rule, rule for the good (or supposed good) of the master. Columbus himself sees the problem and moves to meet it, distinguishing Indians who practice cannibalism from those who do not, Indians who are peaceful (“submitting to his power”) from bellicose Indians who thereby deserve to be punished. Todorov isn’t satisfied: “There is no middle path” in Columbus’s thinking, no middling way of life between good and bad Indians. In Christianity, you are either on the way of life leading to salvation, the straight and narrow way, or you are on the crooked way to Hell. If you then conceive of the Christian Church as the bearer of the Holy Spirit, you should work by the means of the Holy Spirit, by persuasion, except that at times even the Holy Spirit exercises force, knocking the unthinking non-Christian off his horse as he heads along the road not to Jerusalem but Damascus. Although God can make such distinctions, human beings may well blur them, doing horrific injury to one another in their mistaken assumption of Godlike wisdom.
Todorov sees much of that confusion of the Holy Spirit with the Will to Power in the conquistadors who followed Columbus. How, he asks, in the years 1519 to 1521, did Hernando Cortés, with only a few hundred men under his command, defeat the great Montezuma, who had several hundred thousand? (Four centuries later, Europeans would wonder the same thing about General Zachary Taylor and his more or less unimpeded march to Mexico City.) It turns out that Cortés acted as a Roman would have done, not even dividing and conquering but conquering an already divided Amerindian population, a concatenation of tribal societies incapable of uniting under one commander. What is more, just as many of the regions within nineteenth-century Mexico had little love for the central government in the capital, so “the Indians in the regions Cortés first passed through are not more impressed by his imperialist intentions because they have already been conquered and colonized—by the Aztecs.” “Cortés often appears to them as a lesser evil, as a liberator, so to speak, who permits them to throw off the yoke of a tyranny especially detestable because so close at hand.” Even if the Spaniards burn the Indians’ book in order “to wipe out their religion,” are they any worse than the Aztecs, who had done the same things a hundred years before? In both cases, the attacks on religious writings and holy places may have played a larger role in the conquests than military force and disease.
The religious beliefs of the Indians themselves contributed to their own conquest by the Spaniards. Like Christians, they “devoted a great part of their time and their powers to the interpretation of messages,” but in their case they understood time itself, and the messages conveyed over time, in an entirely different way. To them, divination was the perception of cyclical patterns—much like the astrology which predated Biblical prophecy in most parts of the world and persists to this day among those still resistant to Biblical patterns of thought. The Aztec calendar consisted of recurrent months and days, as ours do, but each day “possesses its own character, propitious or unlucky, which is transmitted to actions performed on that day and even more to the persons born on it.” As with astrology, “to know someone’s birthday is to know his fate.” Any deviation from this pattern betokens an omen, usually an ill omen, a malign supernatural intervention. “The world is from the start posited as overdetermined”; “the key word of Mesoamerican society is order,” and order confirmed by rituals, rites. One Spanish observer wrote, “The good order was such that no one dared to interfere with another’s job or express an opinion, since he would be rebuffed immediately.” Even the persons selected for ritual sacrifice “accept[ed] their lot, if not with joy, in any case without despair”; “the same is true of soldiers on the battlefield,” who believed, like those sacrificed at the temples, that “their blood will help keep society alive.” “No one’s life is ever an open and indeterminate field, to be shaped by an individual free will, but rather the realization of an order always preordained.”
This being so, when Montezuma learned of the unprecedented, omen-laden event of the arrival of the Spaniards, he consulted wizards and necromancers, relying on the gods to explain this phenomenon and to tell him what to do. “The identity of the Spaniards is so different, their behavior to such a degree unforeseeable, that the whole system of communication is upset, and the Aztecs no longer succeed precisely where they had previously excelled: in gathering information,” in knowing how the gods had ordered the world. They were spiritually paralyzed. Must these white-skinned beings not be gods? True, Columbus believed that his voyage of Christian conquest was foretold in Holy Scripture, designed by Providence, but what Providence provides is victory over those lacking the understanding that time is linear, not cyclical. In the Biblical account, events which occur in time point back to God’s founding of human life and forward toward His refounding of that life under Christ, His Son. The impressive attention to education seen in both peoples, families’ care for the intellectual nurturing of their children, led in opposite directions. The Aztec regime had two types of schools, one in which students were prepared for the warrior’s way of life, the other that prepared them for what we would call the ‘civilian’ ways of life, the lives of priests, judges, kings and their accessory co-rulers. The second type of school put a premium on the use of words, of “interpretation and speech, of rhetoric and hermeneutics.” To rule well was in large measure to rule well; “power demands wisdom, which is attested by the capacity to interpret.” Students who failed the tests of good speech, preeminently right interpretation, were put to death. No remedial classes for young Aztecs or the Mayans they displaced. The word for ruler, tlatoani, means the one who possesses speech (“something in the manner of our ‘dictator,'” Todorov remarks).
In much of this, the Spaniards would concur. Neither Athens nor Jerusalem (nor Rome, nor Madrid) overlooked the power of speech. But all of those cities also had writing. The Aztecs had pictograms, only. Their visual signs were unintelligible without the “ritual discourse accompanying them.” For the Aztecs, memory could only be invested in speech and ritual actions; disrupt the symbols and the meaning of life, the way of life, vanishes. The Aztecs communicated their way of life through memories of ancestors. In conversing with them, the Spanish Christians enjoyed the advantages of both the written Word and written words, enabling them to travel far from their homeland in the service of a universal religion whose precepts and stories sustain themselves in a form at once portable in form but stable in meaning. When Cortés tells the Aztecs “how vain and foolish was their belief, for they placed their trust in idols which could not even defend themselves and were so easily overthrown,” the Aztecs “replied that they had been brought up in that belief by their fathers.” They were helpless in the face of changes imposed by men who thought not only in terms of the past but in terms of a prophesied but never-before-seen future. If time consists of the eternal return of the same, how can one understand the unprecedented? Ritualism won’t suffice to defend the regime from a regime in which religious rituals invoke not only the past in the present but the future in the past and in the present. For the Spaniards, by contrast, “the ease of their conquest” proves “the excellence of the Christian religion,” with its “infinite progression toward the final victory of the Christian spirit”—a “conception subsequently inherited by communism,” our Bulgarian refugee ominously intones. Like the communists, the Spaniards succeeded for a time in “imposing their superiority” over another regime only to destroy “their own capacity to integrate themselves into the world,” taking their conquest several bridges too far.
Unlike previous Spanish commanders in the New World, Cortés understood politics, deciding that “he will not be content with extorting gold, but must subjugate the kingdom itself.” It probably would be more just to say that he understood that both gold extraction and Christian conversion, the accomplishment of Spain’s economic and religious ends, required changing the political regimes of the Indians, which in turn required military conquest. “It is to him that we owe the invention, on the one hand, of conquest tactics, and on the other, of a policy of peacetime colonization.” Once again, Cortés has the advantage of knowing what natural philosophy has discovered rather than relying on magic. At the same time, his religion—universalist and egalitarian—will not tolerate compromise with the many gods of the Aztecs and the temples and idols devoted to them. In his anti-Christian bias, Todorov complains that “the Spaniards’ God is an auxiliary rather than a Lord, a being to be used rather than enjoyed”; this is premature Machiavellianism. (Sure enough, he writes, “Cortés’s behavior irresistibly suggests the almost contemporary teachings of Machiavelli,” who cited King Ferdinand as “a model of the ‘new prince.'” But the use of exemplary punishments, which Todorov notices and is indeed applauded by Machiavelli, was hardly a new, distinctively ‘modern’ device of rule.) The Christian God is both to be ‘used’ in the sense of prayed to, and enjoyed, and there’s no evidence that the Spaniards thought any differently.
Although Cortés understood the Aztecs better than Montezuma understood the Spaniards, “this superior understanding does not keep the conquistadors from destroying Mexican civilization and society.” Indeed, “we suspect that destruction becomes possible precisely because of this understanding.” But “should not understanding go hand in hand with sympathy?” But, one must ask, why should it? I might understand Stalin without much sympathizing with him. Or I might sympathize with Stalin and out of that very sympathy wish to destroy the evil regime he has built and to convert the atheist to Christianity along with that. Todorov acknowledges that Cortés considered the Mexican peoples highly civilized—well-ordered, with large marketplaces, impressive buildings, and refined manners. Yet surely the Egyptians and the Babylonians were as civilized, even more civilized, than the Israelites, according to those measurements. “Cortés goes into ecstasies about the Aztec productions but does not acknowledge their makers as human individualities to be set on the same level as himself.” But he does so acknowledge them, qua human. It is their lack of Christianity and some of the decidedly un-Christian and indeed inhumane religious and dietary practices that he deplores.
None of this commits one to endorse the conquest itself, the means by which it was effected, and especially its devastating consequences, which Todorov rightly and tellingly remarks: in 1500, 80 million people lived in the Americas but by the middle of the next century there were 10 million. In Mexico, the population dropped from 25 million to one million. “If the word genocide has ever been applied to a situation with some accuracy, this is the case”; “none of the great massacres of the twentieth century can be compared to this hecatomb.” True, but did this hideous mass of death result from massacre? That is, the term ‘genocide’ ordinarily means deliberate killing on a mass scale. Did the Spaniards intend to do that? On the contrary, “the Spaniards did not undertake a direct extermination of these millions of Indians, nor could they have done so.” The vast majority of these victims died of diseases, although Todorov is confident that the Spaniards knew how to fight bacteriological warfare they would have done so because they regarded the mass deaths of the Spanish as “proof that God is on the conquerors’ side.” That is ‘a bit of a stretch,’ as the saying goes. Europeans themselves took the same view of their own deaths when the plague struck in the Middle Ages, but that would not have justified the use of microbes in war, in their own eyes. The judgment of God is the judgment of God, and diseases were (mis)understood as God’s judgment, since they were beyond human control.
Still, the Spaniards did murder and torture some of the Indians. “Torture is inflicted in order to discover the hiding places of treasure; human beings are exploited in order to obtain profits.” That is a fair indictment, although it fails to distinguish between mercantilism and ‘capitalism.’ With its valorization of material objects, gold being first among them, mercantilism fails to recognize humanity as the main source of the wealth of nations. Slavery does recognize that, but in the wrong way, failing to understand (quite apart from natural right) that free workers produce more than enslaved ones, over a lifetime. Worse, some of the torture-murders can only be understood as spurred by “an intrinsic pleasure in cruelty, in the fact of exerting their power over others, in the demonstration of their capacity to inflict death.” But Todorov doesn’t want to attribute this to human nature, a term he puts in scare quotes, despite his recognition that the Aztecs, too, killed, tortured, and enslaved their enemies, sacrificing 80,400 persons on one festive occasion. The difference is that in Christianity libido dominandi is a sin—arguably the original one, induced by Satan’s promise, “You shall be as gods.” Todorov sees some this, writing that for the Aztecs, “the sacrifice is performed in public and testifies to the power of the social fabric, to its mastery over the individual.” Massacre, as practiced by the Spaniards, “reveals the weakness of this same social fabric, the desuetude of the moral principles that once assured the group’s coherence” during “colonial wars waged far from the metropolitan country” and hidden from the authorities of that country.
Todorov claims that massacre bespeaks not human nature but modernity. “Far from the central government, far from royal law, all prohibitions give way, the social link, already loosened, snaps, revealing not a primitive nature, the beast sleeping in each of us, but a modern being, one with a great future in fact, restrained by no morality and inflicting death because and when he pleases,” heralding “the advent of modern times.” To believe this, one must believe that there were no massacres in antiquity. This error may indicate Todorov’s intention to make “the present more important than the past.” In fact it indicates a commitment to historicism.
Todorov next moves to distinguish not only the “doctrine of inequality” from the doctrine “which affirms the equality of all men” but also “identity” from “difference.” To begin, he cites the Requerimiento, a document written in 1514 by the royal jurist, Palacios Rubios, narrating the history of humanity since the birth of Jesus, asserting the authority of the Catholic Church. The edict ‘required’ the Indians to place themselves under the rule of the Spanish, themselves subjects of the Church; it was to be promulgated to them, in accordance with the law of nations, although there is no evidence that the public reading was properly translated for them. If the Indians obey, “no one has the right to take them as slaves,” but if they do not obey, if they become rebels against God’s Kingdom, instantiated by Spain a just war on behalf of both kingdoms will follow. Apart from the blatant procedural injustice of this grim charade, Todorov would convict the Spanish of contradicting Christian egalitarianism with human slavery. The Spanish offer the Indians a choice “between two positions of inferiority,” namely, voluntary serfdom or involuntary slavery. “The Indians are posited as inferiors from the start, for it is the Spaniards who determine the rules of the game.”
But whose rules would Spaniards follow? Perhaps the rules of just war, as set down by the eminent theologian and jurist Francisco de Vitoria. Todorov is scarcely more impressed by those rules than he is by the Requerimiento. Vitoria cites “the natural right to society and communication,” referring to the right of persons to move outside their native country and to travel to other countries in order to trade. He limits this right when it comes to evangelizing, however, “think[ing] only of the Spaniards’ freedom to preach the Gospels to the Indians,” never of the Indians’ right to preach paganism in Spain. “Christian ‘salvation’ is an absolute value for him.” Vitoria’s rule violates the principle of reciprocity.
What about wars of regime change—specifically, wars against tyrannies that sacrifice and eat innocents? This, too, violates the principle of reciprocity, since “even if this rule were applied alike to Indians and Spaniards, it is the latter who have decided on the meaning of the word tyranny, and this is the essential thing.” Why, however, is that the essential thing? Todorov says it’s because the Spaniards decided “that human sacrifice is the consequence of tyranny, but massacre is not.” But does Vitoria say that massacre is just? He does not. Todorov has shifted from Vitorian principle to conquistador practice, and far from seamlessly.
Vitoria does say that the “barbarians” cannot govern themselves “any more than madmen or even wild beasts,” making it just to intervene “in order to exercise the rights of guardianship.” Here again, Todorov doesn’t say that this is unjust because the Indians do govern themselves (this would implicate him in relativizing cannibalism and human sacrifice); instead, he contents himself by asking who “decides what is barbarity or savagery and what is civilization,” answering, “only one of the two parties to the agreement, between whom subsists no equality or reciprocity.” Todorov denies that “one has the right to impose on others what one considers as the good, without concern as to whether or not this is also the good from the other’s point of view.” But what if one does consider this, and still regards the asserted ‘good’ of ‘the other’ as evil?
Reciprocity of rule is what Aristotle calls political rule; it should not prevail among unequals, such as parents and children or masters and natural slaves, i.e., those incapable of ruling themselves or, more precisely, those incapable of ruling themselves justly. (The eminent Spanish Aristotelian scholar, Juan Ginés Sepúlveda, made exactly that argument, comparing Spaniards to parents, Indians to children.) [1] The real question is less ‘who’ rules but the nature of the persons in the polis. If the Indians are “imperfectly human” inasmuch as they practice cannibalism, sodomy, and human sacrifice, they are surely candidates for non-political rule. The problems is rather that the Spaniards themselves are inclined to massacre them, making at least some of them unfit for rule over anyone, and that some of them misuse Christianity as an excuse for military conquest. [2] Several of them are ignorant of the Indians’ way of life, claiming that they “exercise none of the human arts or industries,” a claim that not even Cortés makes. One of them, Gonzalo Fernández de Ovidedo y Valdés, advocated genocide, offering his readers the vicious image, “Who can deny that the use of gunpowder against pagans is the burning of incense to Our Lord?”
Todorov allows that the Spaniards were more “advanced” than the Indians in one area: technology, including not only weaponry but writing. Beyond that, their moral-political criticisms were nothing more than instances of “anti-Indian prejudice.” Among the Spanish thinkers, he prefers Bartolomé de las Casas, who rejected Aristotle for Christ, Who commanded us to love our neighbor as ourselves. For Las Casas, “All the Indians to be found [in the New World] are to be held as free: for in truth so they are, by the same right as I myself am free.” Against Aristotle, Las Casas claimed that “there is no natural difference in the creation of man” inasmuch as all possess reason and so can be “corrected” by God’s grace. Christianity, a universalist religion, “is suited to all the nations of the world,” and God has ordained that all shall receive it in the course of time. Las Casas went so far that the “gentleness and decency” of the Indians showed that they were “supremely fitted and prepared to abandon the worship of idols and to accept, province, by province and people by people, the word of God and the preaching of the truth.” Even the ease with which Spaniards defeat them in battle indicates that they incline toward Christian peaceableness. They will abandon their evil practices, if rightly taught. For Las Casas, the conquistadors are the Satanic ones.
While Todorov prefers Las Casas, he rejects his argument, again on ‘postmodernist’ grounds: Who decides on judging the Indians by the Christian standard, other than Spanish Christians? Las Casas merely reverses the roles of Indians and Spanish, ascribing the role of the innocents to the Indians, the role of evildoers to the Spanish. “There is an incontestable generosity on the part of Las Casas, who refuses to despise others simply because they are different. But he goes one step further and adds: moreover, they are not (or will not be) indifferent. The postulate of equality involves the assertion of identity, and the second great figure of alterity, even if it is incontestably more attractive, leads to a knowledge of the other even less valid than the first.” This is because the very agapic love Las Casas bears for the Indians distorts his perception of them. “Can we really love someone if we know little or nothing of his identify; if we see, in place of that identity, a projection of ourselves or of our ideals?” The Christian answer to this question is ‘Yes.’ A human being, even a defective human being, is susceptible to the workings of divine grace; one does not need to know more than that in order to love him, Christianly. Las Casas would have the Spaniards wrest the Indians from “the power of these unnatural fathers,” the conquistadors, and brought under the rule of the husbandly—in Aristotle’s sense, the reciprocal or political rule—of the priests. This point is lost on Todorov, who equates the husband-wife relationship with the master-slave relationship. He asks, “Is there not already a violence in the conviction that one possesses the truth oneself, whereas this is not the case for others, and that one must furthermore impose that truth on those others?” Clearly not: Todorov himself evidently doesn’t regard the truth as negotiable; he would not impose what he takes to be the truth on others under normal circumstances, but he does not object to warfare under extraordinary circumstances. In a subsequent book, he has no objection whatever to the Allied response to Nazi Germany in the Second World War. But here he prefers to emphasize “the relativity of values.”
Vitoria addresses the problem of ‘who says’ a war is just by arguing that it cannot be left to fickle and manipulable public opinion but only to the wise. Wisdom requires accurate information, among other things. Although Todorov claims that Vitoria “does not envisage the possibility of the leaders’ bad faith,” he evidently does, since he regards men of bad faith as supremely unwise, at very least violators of the commandment not to lie. He also says that Vitoria relied on rumor, failing genuinely to seek the truth about the Indians. But in that case, he wasn’t really wise. He did not meet one of his own criteria for wisdom.
Todorov would reorganize moral judgment alone three “axes.” The first is what he calls “a value judgment”: Is the person good or bad, my equal or my inferior? Second, there is a “praxeological” judgment: Do I “identify myself with him” or “impose my own image upon him”? Third, there is an “epistemic” judgement: How well do I know him? Las Casas, for example, visited Mexico, learned more about the Indians and the Spanish colonizers, concluding that the military response to the Indians “risks being worse than the disease,” namely, the Indians’ practices of cannibalism and human sacrifice. He also inclined now to minimize the disease, claiming that each human being has an intuitive knowledge of God in the sense that everyone understands that there must be someone or something “than which there is nothing better or greater”; further, men worship the god so conceived as best they can; and that the proof of living worship can be seen in whether the worshipper offers god the most precious thing, human life. Since the Indians did in fact offer human sacrifices, they were sincere if mistaken worshippers of God. Todorov applauds. Here, “equality is no longer bought at the price of identity; it is not an absolute value that we are concerned with,” as “each man has the right to approach god by the path that suits him.” More, “there is no longer a true God (ours) but a coexistence of possible universes” of belief, none more valid than another. “Las Cases has surreptitiously abandoned theology and practices here a kind of religious anthropology,” which Todorov praises as “the first step toward the abandonment of religious discourse itself.” The difficulty with this argument is that anthropology is not only non-religion but amoral. The mere observation of ‘difference’ yields no moral conclusion. If you subtract religion (and/or moral philosophy) from anthropology you get exactly zero moral guidance, since there is no justification for multiculturalism, intersubjectivity, respect for ‘the other,’ either.
Las Casas himself ended by judging the Spanish much more harshly than he judged the Indians, prophesying that God would revenge them for their bloodshed in the service greed. Todorov applies this claim to all of Europe, regarding the ongoing colonization of Europe by non-Europeans as a sort of backlash against imperial conquests, although he hastens to add that this “cannot be considered my ideal.” He would rather have all human beings “discover the other.” More interestingly, he recognizes that European attempts to assimilate the rest of the populations of the world have succeeded. “The colonized peoples have adopted our customs and have put on clothes.” This happened in part, “paradoxically,” thanks to “Europeans’ capacity to understand the other.” Montesquieu was a European, studied by Europeans. Even Cortés, as Todorov has remarked, understood the Indians better than they understood him. This is another way of saying that Europeans discovered philosophy in addition to adopting Christianity. Europeans “exhibit remarkable qualities of flexibility and improvisation which permit them all the better to impose their own way of life.” (By practicing writing rather than pictograms, a particular European technology lends itself to exactly such flexibility and improvisation.) Egalitarianism serves both colonialism and anti-colonialism. “To experience difference in equality is easier said than done.” Todorov hopes for “a dialogue of cultures.” [3] He intends to conduct this dialogue in writing, to be sure, but in the form of narrative rather than the “systematic discourse” favored by scientistic Europeans. Narrative history “can be exemplary for us because it permits us to reflect upon ourselves,” yielding self-knowledge ‘through the knowledge of the Other.”
“I do not believe that history obeys a system”—few victims of a Marxist regime would. Rather, “to become conscious of the relativity (hence of the arbitrariness) of any feature of our culture is already to shift it a little, and that history (not the science but its object) is nothing other than a series of such imperceptible shifts.” Yet one must ask: Shifts to where? What constitutes a moral “advance”?
Note
- Sepúlveda cites four reasons for considering war against the Indians just: that the Indians refuse obedience to the Spaniards, whereas their “natural condition“—note well, not their nature—is “such that they should obey others”; that the “portentous crime of human flesh,” a “special offense to nature,” and “the worship of demons,” an offense against God, and human sacrifice should be abolished; that the “numerous innocent mortals” who are sacrificed annually should be saved; and that “war on the infidels is justified because it opens the way to the propagation of Christian religion and eases the task of the missionaries.” The Spanish therefore have the duty to rule them—to, as Todorov puts it, “impose the good on others.” While admitting that some of these claims “are not far from the truth,” he nonetheless rejects them in favor of postmodern ‘intersubjectivity.’
- Todorov quotes Sepúlveda quoting Augustine to the effect that the salvation of one soul is worth more than the sacrifice of many human lives—this, in support of the right to undertake massacres in the service of Christian evangelism. This is an obvious distortion of Augustine’s teaching, which would concur with the principle—one immortal soul is worth more than—any number of physical bodies—but would deny the conclusion. Only if a human being could know that God would never have converted the souls that animated those dead bodies could he put the principle into practice. “God knows,” he writes in his Epistle 34, “that I do not want anybody forced into the Catholic community against his will. My only desire is that the truth be openly proclaimed to all men who are in error, and that once it has been made manifest through my ministry and God’s assistance, it be persuasive enough om make them embrace and follow it.” More menacingly, he does grant Catholic authorities the right to physical punishment of evil men, on the grounds that they will thereby be forced to consider the error of their ways, rather as we whip a boy so that “he will learn” not to commit wrongdoing. In so dealing with heretics, Catholic authorities act as loving parents. But this is quite far from commending massacres in the name of God.
- He has his predecessors, a familiar example being André Malraux, whose first book, The Temptation of the West, was intended to undermine imperialism by challenging its ‘epistemological’ assumptions. And of course he titled one of his earliest novels, set in China, The Conquerors.
Recent Comments