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The Fullness of Mercy
Western Literature & the Illumination of a Divine Attribute
by Christine Schintgen
The treatment of the theme of mercy in Western Literature confirms what Shakespeare wrote in The Merchant of Venice—namely, that "it blesseth him that gives and him that takes." In other words, mercy benefits not just the one on whom it is bestowed, but also—just as much, if not more—the one who bestows it. Mercy is the decision, on the part of a person who has the power to exact retribution or just payment from another, not to demand this payment or retribution. Properly understood, mercy does not conflict with justice; rather, it constitutes a deeperform of justice, one that recognizes that although the other has sinned against me, I have sinned many times as well. The fact that God has forgiven me prompts me to understand that everything I have has not been earned but freely given to me by God; and so, in justice to God, I should try to give to others and to forgive them as freely as God has given to me.
In what follows I would like to consider some notable situations involving mercy in Western literature and observe the movement from a suspicion of the value of mercy to a recognition of its benefits. For we find that in the literature of the ancient world, mercy is not particularly prized, but in that of the Christian world, it is valued greatly, both for what it can give to others, and for what it does for oneself—namely, keep one in right relationship with God.
Mercy in Homer
Numerous examples from ancient Greek literature, particularly the Iliad and the Odyssey, show that in general mercy was not greatly valued. I propose to examine one such instance, from Book VI of the Iliad. During one of the many battles of the Trojan War, the Trojan warrior Adrestus is captured, and he begs the Greek Menelaus to spare his life:
Adrestus hugged [Menelaus'] knees and begged him, pleading,
"Take me alive, Atrides, take a ransom worth my life!
Treasures are piled up in my rich father's house,
Bronze and gold and plenty of well-wrought iron—
Father would give you anything, gladly, priceless ransom
If only he learns I'm still alive in Argive ships!"
The heart of Menelaus is moved by this plea, but just as he is about to hand Adrestus over to an aide to be taken back to the ships, his brother, King Agamemnon, appears on the scene. Agamemnon sternly admonishes Menelaus for considering mercy, shouting:
"So soft, dear brother, why?
Why such concern for enemies? I suppose you got
Such tender loving care at home from the Trojans.
Ah, would to God not one of them could escape
His sudden plunging death beneath our hands!"
Menelaus comes round to Agamemnon's position, which the poet describes as "rough justice, fitting, too":
Menelaus shoved Adrestus back with a fist;
Powerful Agamemnon stabbed him in the flank,
And back on his side the fighter went, face up.
The son of Atreus dug a heel in his heaving chest
And wrenched the ash spear out.
Here there is no sense that mercy is desirable for the giver. The enemy has not shown kindness to our side, so why should we show kindness to him? That would be "softness." Better by far to execute "rough justice"; that is more "fitting." It is true that at the end of the epic, the great hero Achilles releases the body of Hector to his father Priam, but that is not so much mercy as relinquishment of anger, since Hector is already dead, and Priam has not done Achilles any personal injustice.
A Shift in the Christian Era
If we turn to ancient Roman literature, we see mercy starting to be prized. But it is balanced with competing interests. In Book VI of the Aeneid, when Aeneas encounters his father Anchises in the underworld, Anchises tells him that the motto of future Rome will be to "spare the conquered, and battle down the proud." Although the first half of this injunction urges mercy, the second half allows for ruthlessness in hunting down the arrogant.
At the end of the epic, Aeneas finally encounters his great opponent Turnus and overcomes him. When Turnus surrenders and begs for mercy, Aeneas wavers for a moment and contemplates sparing his life. But then he sees the sword-belt of his slain friend Pallas slung around Turnus's body as a war-prize, and his rage returns. He slays Turnus in a frenzy, declaring: "Pallas makes this offering / And from your criminal blood exacts his due." The epic ends with Aeneas demanding strict justice from Turnus for the killing of Pallas. There is perhaps nothing wrong with this application of justice, but it does show that for Aeneas at least, there is no benefit in extending mercy to someone who is truly in the wrong.
When we get to Christian literature, however, the portrayal of mercy changes. We can understand this transformation to be rooted in the words of Christ, both as quoted by St. Paul, "It is more blessed to give than to receive" (Acts 20:35), and as stated in the Beatitudes, "Blessed are the merciful, for they will be shown mercy" (Matt. 5:7). Here the idea of mercy is no longer presented as a fool's game or as the purview of the weak, but as the supremely wise course to take. The Christian's ability to espouse mercy is shown to be grounded in God's mercy, which is its original form; all mercy ultimately flows from him.
God's own mercy is portrayed very potently in Christ's parable of the Prodigal Son, a scriptural hinge that Pope John Paul II emphasized in his 1980 encyclical Dives in Misericordia ("Rich in Mercy"). Just as we receive God's mercy, so, too, are we empowered to go forth and show it to others, and so again do we receive mercy in return, in a virtuous (rather than a vicious) circle.
Thus, as Portia says in her famous "quality of mercy" speech in The Merchant of Venice (Act IV, scene 1), "[Mercy] blesseth him that gives and him that takes." Mercy is not something that originates in us, and which therefore costs us something to give away. Rather, it originates in God: as Portia adds later, "It is an attribute to God himself." We are first of all the recipients of mercy. Showing it to others keeps it circulating (rather than stagnating in our hearts) and makes us fit receptacles for more of God's mercy. In that sense, mercy truly blesses the giver as much as the recipient.
Mercy in Les Misérables
There are countless works of literature in the Western tradition that feature mercy in some way, but I'd like to focus on two, one from the nineteenth century and one from the twentieth. Both show how the "logic of mercy" plays out. The first is Victor Hugo's novel Les Misérables, and the second is J. R. R. Tolkien's cycle The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings.
To begin with Les Misérables, then.The first scene showcasing mercy occurs in Book II, Chapter 12 ("The Bishop Works"), when the bishop bestows the gift of his silver on Jean Valjean, an ex-convict recently released from prison after serving a long sentence, first for stealing a loaf of bread and later for attempting to escape. Though now free, he is shunned because of his prison record, and has taken refuge in the only place to give him welcome, the home of the bishop, Monseigneur Bienvenu, who gives him a meal and a bed. But Valjean, having become hardened and cynical from his long time in prison, responds to this hospitality by stealing the silverware and sneaking away from the bishop's home in the middle of the night. The police quickly apprehend him, however, and march him back to the bishop's residence.
The bishop, though, sees with the eyes of love—the eyes of mercy—and when the police ask him to confirm that the silver pieces were taken from his residence, he responds, famously, by asking Valjean why he forgot the candlesticks, which are of silver, too. The reader savors Valjean's utter bewilderment and disbelief as the bishop hands him the candlesticks and sends him on his way with the admonition to "never forget that you have promised to use this money in becoming an honest man." (Valjean, of course, never made this promise, but it will haunt him for the rest of his days).
It is apparent that the bishop does not understand his act of mercy to be in opposition to justice. For one thing, he has always felt that "the silver belonged to the poor." Moreover, everything comes from God, and deep justice recognizes this fact. In showing mercy to Valjean, the bishop is merely recognizing his own indebtedness to God, a fact he hints at when he tells Valjean, "It is your soul that I buy from you; I withdraw it from black thoughts and the spirit of perdition, and I give it to God" (emphasis added).
Valjean is radically changed by this profound gift of mercy, and throughout the rest of the novel, he is moved almost inexorably to bestow mercy upon others. In showing mercy, his own life is blessed in profound ways, too. As mayor of a town, for example, he orders the hard-hearted police inspector, Javert, to release the desperate young prostitute Fantine from paying the penalty for hitting a man who was harassing her. Ultimately, this brings great happiness into the life of Valjean, first by cementing his new identity as a "good person," and later by bringing into his life the little girl Cosette, who becomes his beloved foster-child.
An interesting twist on the theme of mercy occurs late in the novel, when Valjean is given an opportunity to execute Javert but, after deliberating with himself, decides instead to release the policeman and let him live. Javert must then wrestle with the question of how to deal with Valjean—to let him go free, which technically would be illegal, or to arrest him again, which would result in his death—and would also be immoral, given Valjean's kindness, especially to Javert himself. The inspector's torturous cogitations are described in Chapter 1 of Volume V, Book IV ("Javert Derailed"):
Jean Valjean disconcerted him. All the axioms which had served him as points of support all his life long, had crumbled away in the presence of this man. Jean Valjean's generosity towards him, Javert, crushed him. Other facts which he now recalled, and which he had formerly treated as lies and folly, now recurred to him as realities. M. Madeleine [a pseudonym of Valjean] re-appeared behind Jean Valjean, and the two figures were superposed in such a fashion that they now formed but one, which was venerable. Javert felt that something terrible was penetrating his soul—admiration for a convict. Respect for a galley-slave—is that a possible thing? He shuddered at it, yet could not escape from it. In vain did he struggle; he was reduced to confess, in his inmost heart, the sublimity of that wretch. This was odious.
A benevolent malefactor, merciful, gentle, helpful, clement, a convict, returning good for evil, giving back pardon for hatred, preferring pity to vengeance, preferring to ruin himself rather than to ruin his enemy, saving him who had smitten him, kneeling on the heights of virtue, more nearly akin to an angel than to a man. Javert was constrained to admit to himself that this monster existed.
But in spite of Valjean's virtues, and the fact that Javert owes his very life to the convict, Javert cannot bring himself to show mercy to him. Neither, however, can he re-arrest him, and he "solves" the intractable dilemma by committing suicide, throwing himself into the Seine.
Javert's end poignantly illustrates why we need to show mercy, having received it. "It blesseth him that gives and him that takes": Valjean's life is a powerful illustration of this principle, and Javert's is an example of the failure to live by it.
Mercy in Tolkien
One of the most compelling portrayals of mercy may be found in J. R. R. Tolkien's The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings. It is necessary to take the two works together because the theme of mercy centers on the figure of Gollum, who first appears in The Hobbit and whose reappearance and final downfall are central to the action of The Lord of the Rings.
In Chapter 5 of The Hobbit ("Riddles in the Dark"), the protagonist, Bilbo Baggins, is trapped in a cave with the horrible Gollum. Though Bilbo has gotten hold of the ring that makes him invisible, he is still frightened by Gollum and frantically considers how to escape:
Bilbo almost stopped breathing, and went stiff himself. He was desperate. He must get away, out of this horrible darkness, while he had any strength left. He must fight. He must stab the foul thing, put its eyes out, kill it. It meant to kill him. No, not a fair fight. He was invisible now. Gollum had no sword. Gollum had not actually threatened to kill him, or tried to yet. And he was miserable, alone, lost. A sudden understanding, a pity mixed with horror, welled up in Bilbo's heart: a glimpse of endless unmarked days without light or hope of betterment, hard stone, cold fish, sneaking and whispering. All these thoughts passed in a flash of a second. He trembled. And then quite suddenly in another flash, as if lifted by a new strength and resolve, he leaped.
Bilbo's flash of insight leads him to spare the life of Gollum, despite the latter's hideous physique and grotesque moral character. Motivated both by a sense of justice (it wasn't a fair fight) and by pity at the nature of Gollum's miserable existence, he finds another way to escape. Here we see not only that there is no contradiction between justice and mercy, but that the just thing is the merciful thing.
Much later, in The Fellowship of the Ring, the first volume of The Lord of the Rings, this act of mercy on Bilbo's part appears to Frodo Baggins, our new hero, to have been a mistake. In Chapter 2, "The Shadow of the Past," where Frodo learns that Gollum set in motion the course of events that have led to Sauron's hunt for the ring, he is outraged:
"But this is terrible!" cried Frodo. "Far worse than the worst that I imagined from your hints and warnings. O Gandalf, best of friends, what am I to do? For now I am really afraid. What am I to do? What a pity that Bilbo did not stab that vile creature, when he had a chance!"
But Gandalf responds:
"Pity? It was Pity that stayed his hand. Pity, and Mercy: not to strike without need. And he has been well rewarded, Frodo. Be sure that he took so little hurt from the evil, and escaped in the end, because he began his ownership of the Ring so. With Pity."
Gandalf's words are prophetic. For Gollum, in his continued attempts to get the ring, is ultimately the cause of its destruction. He rips it (and a finger) from Frodo's hand when Frodo can't bring himself, after all, to part with it, and then falls to his own demise in the fires of Mount Doom. Afterwards, Frodo makes the connection explicitly when he reminds his loyal companion, Sam Gamgee, of what Gandalf had said:
"Yes," said Frodo. "But do you remember Gandalf's words: Even Gollum may have something yet to do? But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring. The Quest would have been in vain, even at the bitter end. So let us forgive him! For the Quest is achieved, and now all is over."
What's interesting about this reflection on the far-reaching ramifications of an act of mercy is that its benefits came to Frodo despite Gollum's failure to be moved, himself, to lead a better life (as, for instance, Valjean was). For Gollum, the direct recipient, the benefit of mercy was quite narrow: his own life. For Frodo, the indirect recipient, the benefits were wide-ranging and morally rich.
Moreover, during the final journey to Mount Doom, Gollum, being a captive as well as a guide to Frodo and Sam, could have been done in several times by the latter. But Frodo always refrained, even when Gollum's continued treachery might have justified such a course. In this case, one could say that mercy blessed him that gave far more than it blessed him that took, because the giver's heart was more open to the workings of grace and the presence of God in his soul than was the recipient's heart.
For this reason, this work is perhaps the strongest illustration we have of the principle that mercy blesses both him that gives and him that takes. Tolkien's masterpiece is not alone in celebrating this insight, but it may be the pinnacle of a tradition in Western literature that began with the teaching of Christ, but is now, alas, in steep decline with the dismantling of the Christian foundations of society.
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