The other day in a chat, Pilf commented that she doesn’t much see in Marius much of a desire for personal progress, and yet he seems to get more help from the narrative to make progress (relative to his starting point, at least) anyway. This lead into a discussion from which I’m going to attempt to create a post, with the disclaimer that not all the ideas here are mine—they were formed in discussion, primarily with Pilf and Fizz.
In the section on Waterloo, Hugo discusses the double direction of history. That is, he believes that it both springs up from below (the individual, the people), and comes down from above (God, Providence, Grace). To him this is a paradox rather than a contradiction, and it is a paradox which plays out at the barricades, in Valjean’s narrative, etc., as well as in his description of Waterloo. However, Marius is a character who does not quite know how to work the paradox. He is at once stubbornly independent and frustratingly passive. Unwilling to accept help, he views accepting assistance as acquiring debt that must be repaid. At the same time, however, he isolates himself and maintains many of the toxic habits that he learned in the abusive home of his grandfather.
Marius’ attitude on debt is typical for protagonists in reduced circumstances as portrayed in nineteenth-century novels, but it contrasts sharply with that of other characters in Les Misérables. The amis in general have a very relaxed perspective on lending and owing money; Courfeyrac offers to lend Marius funds after knowing him only a short while, and Bossuet borrows ten sous from both Joly and Grantaire to pay the gamin who delivers Enjolras’ message just before the barricades. In fact, Bossuet’s entire lifestyle reflects a casualness about debt—living here and there while remaining absolutely cheerful, and brushing off Marius’ thanks for keeping him in school.
Marius, on the other hand, refuses Courfeyrac’s help despite being homeless, having no job, and possessing only ten francs to live on until he acquires on. Having decided to leave his grandfather behind, he has also chosen to assert his independence—but to do so when friends who have nothing but your best interests in mind offer help is merely pride, which is one of his grandfather’s own strongest characteristics. In searching to separate himself utterly from his past, he reverts into some of the same habits he has always known. (This pride is also demonstrated in his willingness to give help, but never to receive it—he occasionally lends money to Courfeyrac when he is somewhat more financially stable, and gives to the Thénardiers, but still is unwilling to accept aid himself.) He is determined to earn his own way and to ensure that he is never beholden to anyone. That is to say, Marius actively refuses grace, because grace cannot be deserved or repaid.
And yet Providence is sneaky, and kind, and deconstructive. (Snarky, as Pilf says.) Providence isn’t going to give up, and Grace likes to laugh gently as she guides those she loves to the ability to laugh at themselves.
Thus, Marius, with his proud resistance to any form of human grace, is arguably the character most guided by divine Grace. While his father’s death (understandably) works no change in him, a chance meeting with the churchwarden Mabeuf overturns his life. When he leaves his grandfather’s—alone, friendless, aimless—he is immediately found by Bossuet, who has kept him in school and who puts him in contact with Courfeyrac, his source of temporary lodgings and a job contact. When he’s peering into the Thénardiers’ room, he happens to see Cosette, leading to the scene in which he asks Éponine for her address.
Les Misérables arguably relies less on coincidence than the average nineteenth-century novel, and therefore the coincidences in Marius’ storyline are pointed. Indeed, it is very difficult to call them coincidence. Marius is graciously guided. On his own, he moves very little. He wanders a bit, but mostly he traps himself in spirals of thought and cuts himself off from the world. Grace, however, takes him by the hand like a child that he may, someday, learn to work hand-in-hand with her, uniting his agency with her guidance.
In a beautiful paradox which further testifies to the unexpectedness of Grace, Marius the hermit plays a connective role throughout the narrative. Despite his upbringing in seclusion, amid division, and his strong tendency to live in personal isolation, he unites the threads of the story—drawing Valjean and Cosette out of the microcosm they’ve created for themselves, for example, or allowing Javert and Valjean to meet again.
Marius is, therefore, a symbol of the power of Grace to work with the ordinary, the reluctant, the proud, the passive, the flawed and problematic and hurt. As Providence helps him, neither his stubborn independence nor his frustrating passivity keeps him from helping others. Although his progress is hardly consistent—he wanders and backslides as much at the end of the novel as when he is first introduced—his storyline has only just begun when the book closes. His life is ahead of him, plenty of time for him to learn to work with Grace.
