Authors: RENÉ GIRARD
by a sovereign authority specializing in this particular function. The decisions of the
judiciary are invariably presented as the final word on vengeance.
Vocabulary is perhaps more revealing here than judicial theories. Once the concept of
interminable revenge has been formally rejected, it is referred to as
private
vengeance.
The term implies the existence of a
public
vengeance, a counterpart never made explicit.
By definition, primitive societies have only private vengeance. Thus, public vengeance
is the exclusive property of well-policed societies, and our society calls it the judicial
system.
Our penal system operates according to principles of justice that are in no real conflict
with the concept of revenge. The same principle is at work in all systems of violent
retribution. Either the principle is just, and justice is therefore inherent in the idea of
vengeance, or there is no justice to be found anywhere. He who exacts his own
vengeance is said to "take the law into his own hands." There is no difference of
principle between private and public vengeance; but on the social level, the difference is
enormous. Under the public system, an act of vengeance is no longer avenged; the
process is terminated, the danger of escalation averted.
The absence of a judicial system in primitive societies has been confirmed by
ethnologists. Malinowski concludes that "the 'criminal' aspect of law in savage
communities is perhaps even vaguer than the civil one; the idea of 'justice' in our sense
[is] hardly applicable and the means of restoring a disturbed tribal equilibrium [are]
slow and cumbersome."
10.
Radcliffe-Brown's conclusions are identical, and summon up, as such conclusions must,
the specter of perpetual vengeance:
Thus, though the Andaman Islanders had a well-developed social conscience, that is, a
system of moral notions as to what is right and wrong, there was no such thing as
punishment of a crime by the society. If one person injured another it was left to the
injured one to seek vengeance if he wished and if he dared. There were probably always
some who would side with the criminal, their attachment to him overcoming their
disapproval of his actions
. 11.
The anthropologist Robert Lowie speaks of the "administering of justice" in reference to
primitive societies. He distinguishes two types of societies, those that possess a "central
authority" and those that do not. Among the latter it is the parental group, he declares,
that exercises the judicial power, and
this group confronts the other group in the same
____________________
10. Bronislaw Malinowski,
Crime and Custom in Savage Society
( Totowa, N.J.:
Littlefield, Adams & Co., 1967), 94.
11. A. R. Radcliffe-Brown,
The Andaman Islanders
( New York: Free Press, 1964), 52.
-85-
way that a sovereign state confronts the outside world
. There can be no true
"administering of justice," no judicial system without a superior tribunal capable of
arbitrating between even the most powerful groups. Only that superior tribunal can
remove the possibility of blood feud or perpetual vendetta. Lowie himself recognizes
that this condition is not always met:
From the supreme law of group solidarity it follows that when an individual has injured
a member of another group, his own group shield him while the opposing group support
the injured man's claims for compensation or revenge. Thence there may develop blood-
feuds and civil wars. . . . The Chukchi generally make peace after the first act of
retribution, but among the Ifugao the struggle may go on almost interminabl
y. 12.
To speak here of the "administering of justice" is to abuse the meaning of the words.
The desire to find in primitive societies virtues equal or superior to our own as regards
the control of violence must not lead us to minimize the difference. Lowie's terminology
simply perpetuates a widely accepted way of thinking by which the right to vengeance
takes the place
of a judicial system wherever such a system is lacking. This theory,
which seems securely anchored to common sense, is in fact erroneous and gives rise to
an infinite number of errors. Such thinking reflects the ignorance of a society -- our own
-- that has been the beneficiary of a judicial system for so many years that it is no longer
conscious of the system's real achievements.
If vengeance is an unending process it can hardly be invoked to restrain the violent
impulses of society. In fact, it is vengeance itself that must be restrained. Lowie bears
witness to the truth of this proposition every time he gives an example of the
"administering of justice," even in those societies that, according to him, possess a
"central authority." It is not the lack of any abstract principle of justice that is important, but the fact that the so-called legal reprisals are always in the hands of the victims
themselves and those near to them. As long as there exists no sovereign and independent
body capable of taking the place of the injured party and taking upon itself the
responsibility for revenge, the danger of interminable escalation remains. Efforts to
modify the punishment or to hold vengeance in check can only result in a situation that
is precarious at best. Such efforts ultimately require a spirit of conciliation that may
indeed be present, but may equally well be lacking. As I have said, it is inexact to speak
of the administering of justice, even in connection with such institutional concepts as
"an eye for an eye" or the various forms of trial by combat. In such cases it seems wise to adhere
____________________
12. Robert Lowie,
Primitive Society
( New York: Liveright, 1970), 400.
-86-
to Malinowski's conclusion: "The means of restoring a disturbed tribal equilibrium [are]
slow and cumbersome. . . . We have not found any arrangement or usage which could be
classed as a form of 'administration of justice,' or according to a code and by fixed
methods."
13.
If primitive societies have no tried and true remedies for dealing with an outbreak of
violence, no certain cure once the social equilibrium has been upset, we can assume that
preventive
measures will play an essential role. Here again I return to the concept of
sacrifice as I earlier defined it: an instrument of prevention in the struggle against
violence.
In a universe where the slightest dispute can lead to disaster -- just as a slight cut can
prove fatal to a hemophiliac -- the rites of sacrifice serve to polarize the community's
aggressive impulses and redirect them toward victims that may be actual or figurative,
animate or inanimate, but that are always incapable of propagating further vengeance.
The sacrificial process furnishes an outlet for those violent impulses that cannot be
mastered by self-restraint; a partial outlet, to be sure, but always renewable, and one
whose efficacy has been attested by an impressive number of reliable witnesses. The
sacrificial process prevents the spread of violence by keeping vengeance in check.
In societies that practice sacrifice there is no critical situation to which the rites are not
applicable, but there are certain crises that seem to be particularly amenable to sacrificial
mediation. In these crises the social fabric of the community is threatened; dissension
and discord are rife. The more critical the situation, the more "precious" the sacrificial
victim must be.
It is significant that sacrifice has languished in societies with a firmly established
judicial system -- ancient Greece and Rome, for example. In such societies the essential
purpose of sacrifice has disappeared. It may still be practiced for a while, but in
diminished and debilitated form. And it is precisely under such circumstances that
sacrifice usually comes to our notice, and our doubts as to the "real" function of
religious institutions are only reinforced.
Our original proposition stands: ritual in general, and sacrificial rites in particular,
assume essential roles in societies that lack a firm judicial system. It must not be
assumed, however, that sacrifice simply "replaces" a judicial system. One can scarcely
speak of replacing something that never existed to begin with. Then, too, a judicial
system is ultimately irreplaceable, short of a unanimous and entirely voluntary
renunciation of all violent actions.
When we minimize the dangers implicit in vengeance we risk losing sight of the true
function of sacrifice. Because revenge is rarely encountered in our society, we seldom
have occasion to consider how societies
____________________
13. Malinowski,
Crime and Custom in Savage Society
, 94, 98.
-87-
lacking a judicial system of punishment manage to hold it in check. Our ignorance
engages us in a false line of thought that is seldom, if ever, challenged. Certainly we
have no need of religion to help us solve a problem, runaway vengeance, whose very
existence eludes us. And because we have no need for it, religion itself appears
senseless. The efficiency of our judicial solution conceals the problem, and the
elimination of the problem conceals from us the role played by religion.
The Sacrificial Crisis
As we have seen, the proper functioning of the sacrificial process requires not only the
complete separation of the sacrificed victim from those beings for whom the victim is a
substitute but also a similarity between both parties. This dual requirement can be
fulfilled only through a delicately balanced mechanism of associations.
Any change, however slight, in the hierarchical classification of living creatures risks
undermining the whole sacrificial structure. The sheer repetition of the sacrificial act --
the repeated slaughter of the same type of victim -- inevitably brings about such change.
But the inability to adapt to new conditions is a trait characteristic of religion in general.
If, as is often the case, we encounter the institution of sacrifice either in an advanced
state of decay or reduced to a relative insignificance, it is because it has already
undergone a good deal of wear and tear.
Whether the slippage in the mechanism is due to "too little" or "too much" contact between the victim and those whom the victim represents, the results are the same. The
elimination of violence is no longer effected; on the contrary, conflicts within the
community multiply, and the menace of chain reactions looms ever larger.
If the gap between victim and the community is allowed to grow too wide, all similarity
will be destroyed. The victim will no longer be capable of attracting the violent impulses
to itself; the sacrifice will cease to serve as a "good conductor," in the sense that metal is a good conductor of electricity. On the other hand, if there is
too much
continuity the
violence will overflow its channels. "Impure" violence will mingle with the "sacred"
violence of the rites, turning the latter into a scandalous accomplice in the process of
pollution, even a kind of catalyst in the propagation of further impurity.
These are postulates that seem to take form a priori from our earlier conclusions. They
can also be discerned in literature -- in the adaptations of certain myths in classical
Greek tragedy, in particular in Euripides' version of the legend of Heracles.
-88-
Euripides' Heracles contains no tragic conflict, no debate between declared adversaries.
The real subject of the play is the failure of a sacrifice, the act of sacrificial violence that suddenly
goes wrong
. Heracles, returning home after the completion of his labors, finds
his wife and children in the power of a usurper names Lycus, who is preparing to offer
them as sacrificial victims. Heracles kills Lycus. After this most recent act of violence,
committed in the heart of the city, the hero's need to purify himself is greater than ever,
and he sets about preparing a sacrifice of his own. His wife and children are with him
when Heracles, suddenly seized by madness, mistakes them for his enemies and
sacrifices
them.
Heracles' misidentification of his family is attributed to Lyssa, goddess of madness, who
is operating as an emissary of two other goddesses, Iris and Hera, who bear Heracles ill
will. The preparations for the sacrifice provide an imposing setting for the homicidal
outburst; it is unlikely that their dramatic significance passed unnoticed by the author. In
fact, it is Euripides himself who directs or attention to the ritualistic origins of the
onslaught. After the massacre, Heracles' father, Amphitryon, asks his son: "My child,
what happened to you? How could this horror have taken place? Was it perhaps the spilt
blood that turned your head?" Heracles, who is just returning to consciousness and
remembers nothing, inquires in turn: "Where did the madness overtake me? Where did it
strike me down?" Amphitryon replies: "Near the altar, where you were purifying your
hands over the sacred flames."
The sacrifice contemplated by the hero succeeded only too well in polarizing the forces
of violence. Indeed, it produced a superabundance of violence of a particularly virulent