The Girard Reader (18 page)

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.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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