heightened in colour by exercise that I felt sure it would be useful to
her to take a stroll like this every morning.
I have been low-spirited and listless lately. It is coffee, I think. I
notice that I tell my secrets too easily when I am downhearted. There
are inscriptions on our hearts never seen except at dead low-tide.
And there is a woman's footstep on the sand at the side of my deepest
ocean-buried inscription.
I am not going to say which I like best, the seashore or the mountains.
The one where your place is, is the best for you; but this difference
there is--you can domesticate mountains. The sea is feline. It licks
your feet, its huge flanks purr very pleasantly for you; but it will
crack your bones and eat you for all that, and wipe the crimsoned foam
from its jaws as if nothing had happened. The mountains have a grand,
stupid, lovable tranquillity; the sea has a fascinating, treacherous
intelligence.
"If I thought I should ever see the Alps!" said the schoolmistress.
"Perhaps you might some time or other," I said.
"It is not very likely," she answered.
_Tableau._ Chamouni. Mont Blanc in full view. Figures in the foreground,
two of them standing apart; one of them a gentleman--oh--ah--yes!--the
other a lady, leaning on his shoulder. (The reader will understand this
was an internal, private, subjective diorama, seen for one instant on
the background of my own consciousness.)
* * * * *
I can't say just how many walks she and I had taken together. I found
the effect of going out every morning was decidedly favourable on her
health. I am afraid I did the greater part of the talking. Better too
few words from the woman we love than too many; while she is silent,
Nature is working for her; while she talks she works for herself. Love
is sparingly soluble in the words of men, therefore they speak much of
it; but one syllable of woman's speech can dissolve more of it than a
man's heart can hold.
_Nature's Patient Advance_
I don't know anything sweeter than the leaking in of Nature through all
the cracks in the walls and floors of cities. You heap a million tons
of hewn rocks on a square mile or so of earth which was green once.
The trees look down from the hill-tops and ask each other, as they
stand on tiptoe, "What are these people about?" And the small herbs
look up and whisper back, "We will go and see." So the small herbs pack
themselves up in the least possible bundles, and wait until the night
wind steals to them and whispers, "Come with me." Then they go softly
with it into the great city--one to a cleft in the pavement, one to a
spout on the roof, one to a seam in the marble over a rich gentleman's
bones, and one to the grave without a stone, where nothing but a man
is buried--and there they grow, looking down on the generations of men
from mouldy roofs, looking up from between the less-trodden pavements,
looking out through iron cemetery railings.
Listen to them when there is only a light breath stirring, and you will
hear them saying to each other, "Wait awhile." The words run along the
telegraph of those narrow green lines that border the roads leading
from the city, until they reach the slope of the hills, and the trees
repeat in low murmurs, "Wait awhile." By and by the flow of life in the
streets ebbs, and the old leafy inhabitants--the smaller tribes always
in front--saunter in, one by one, very careless seemingly, but very
tenacious, until they swarm so that the great stones gape from each
other with the crowding of their roots, and the feldspar begins to be
picked out of the granite to find them food. At last the trees take up
their solemn line of march, and never rest until they have camped in
the market-place. Wait long enough, and you will find an old doting
oak hugging in its yellow underground arms a huge worn block that
was the cornerstone of the State-house. Oh, so patient she is, this
imperturbable Nature!
_The Long Path_
It was in talking of life that the schoolmistress and I came nearest
together. I thought I knew something about that. The schoolmistress had
tried life, too. Once in a while one meets with a single soul greater
than all the living pageant that passes before it. This was one of
them. Fortune had left her, sorrow had baptised her. Yet as I looked
upon her tranquil face, gradually regaining a cheerfulness that was
often sprightly, as she became interested in the various matters we
talked about and places we visited, I saw that eye and lip and every
shifting lineament were made for love.
I never addressed a word of love to the schoolmistress in the course of
these pleasant walks. It seemed as if we talked of everything but love
on that particular morning. There was, perhaps, a little more timidity
and hesitancy on my part than I have commonly shown among our people
at the boarding-house. In fact, I considered myself the master at the
breakfast-table; but somehow I could not command myself just then so
well as usual. The truth is, I had secured a passage to Liverpool in
the steamer which was to leave at noon--with the condition of being
released if circumstances occurred to detain me. The schoolmistress
knew nothing about this, of course, as yet.
It was on the Common that we were walking. The boulevard of the
Common, you know, has various branches leading from it in different
directions. One of these runs across the whole length of the Common. We
called it the "long path," and were fond of it.
I felt very weak indeed--though of a tolerably robust habit--as we came
opposite to the head of this path on that morning. I think I tried to
speak twice, without making myself distinctly audible. At last I got
out the question, "Will you take the long path with me?" "Certainly,"
said the schoolmistress, "with much pleasure." "Think," I said, "before
you answer. If you take the long path with me now, I shall interpret it
that we are to part no more."
The schoolmistress stepped back with a sudden movement, as if an arrow
had struck her. One of the long granite blocks used as seats was hard
by--the one you may still see close by the gingko-tree. "Pray sit
down," I said.
"No, no," she answered softly; "I will walk the _long path_ with you!"
The old gentleman who sits opposite met us walking, arm-in-arm,
about the middle of the long path, and said very charmingly to us,
"Good-morning, my dears!"
LA BRUYÈRE
Characters
Jean de la Bruyère was born in Paris, in August, 1645. He studied
law and became a barrister, but at the age of twenty-eight gave
up that profession, which did not agree with his tendencies
to meditation and his scrupulous mind. In 1673, he bought the
office of Treasurer of the Finances, and led an independent and
studious life. In 1684, he became a tutor to the Duc de Bourbon,
grandson of the great Condé, and continued to reside in the Condé
household until his death in 1696. In the "Caractères," which
first appeared in 1688, La Bruyère has recorded his impressions
of men. In 1687 the manuscript was handed to Michallet, a
publisher in whose shop La Bruyère spent many hours every week.
"Will you print this?" asked the author. "I don't know whether
it will be to your advantage; but should it prove a success,
the money will be for my dear friend, your little daughter."
The sale of the book produced over $40,000. When La Bruyère was
elected a member of the French Academy, his enemies declared
that the "Characters" consisted of satirical portraits of
leading personalities, and "keys" to the portraits were widely
circulated. The pen sketches, however, are not only applicable to
that period, but to every age.
_I.--On Men and Books_
All has been said, and one comes too late after the seven thousand
years during which men have existed--and thought. All that one can do
is to think and speak rightly, without attempting to force one's tastes
and feelings upon others.
Mediocrity in poetry, music, painting, and oratory is unbearable.
There is in art a certain degree of perfection, as there is in Nature
an ideal point of matureness. To go beyond, or to remain below that
degree is faulty.
The ability of a writer consists mainly in giving good definitions and
apt descriptions. The superiority of Moses, Homer, Plato, Virgil,
and Horace resides in the beauty of their expressions and images. One
has to express the truth to write in a natural, powerful, and refined
manner.
It has taken centuries for men to return to the ideal of the ancients
and to all that is simple and natural.
We feed on the classics and the able, modern authors. Then, when we
become authors ourselves, we ill-use our masters, like those children
who, strengthened by the milk they have suckled, beat their nurses.
Read your works to those who are able to criticise and appreciate them.
A good and careful writer often finds that the expression he had so
long looked for was most simple and natural, and one which ought to
have occurred to him at once and without effort.
The pleasure there is in criticising takes from us the joy of being
moved by that which is really beautiful.
Arsène, from the top of his mind, looks down upon humanity; and, owing
to the distance from which he sees men, is almost frightened at their
smallness. He is so filled with his own sublime thoughts that he hardly
finds time to deliver a few precious oracles.
Théocrine knows things which are rather useless; his ideas are always
strange, his memory always at work. He is a supercilious dreamer, and
always seems to laugh at those whom he considers as his inferiors. I
read my book to him; he listens. Afterwards, he speaks to me about his
own book. What does he think of mine? I told you so before: he speaks
to me of his own work!
What an amazing difference there is between a beautiful book and a
perfect book!
When a book elevates your mind, and inspires you with noble thoughts,
you require nothing else to judge it; it is a good and masterly work.
The fools do not understand what they read. The mediocre think they
understand thoroughly. Great minds do not always understand every page
of a book; they think obscure that which is obscure, and clear that
which is clear. The pedantic find obscure that which is not, and refuse
to understand that which is perfectly clear.
Molière would have been a perfect writer had he only avoided jargon and
barbarisms, and written more purely.
Ronsard had in him enough good and bad to form great disciples in prose
and verse.
Corneille, at his best, is original and inimitable, but he is uneven.
He had a sublime mind, and has written a few verses which are among the
best ever written.
Racine is more human. He has imitated the Greek classics, and in his
tragedies there is simplicity, clearness, and pathos.
Corneille paints men as they ought to be; Racine paints them as they
are. Corneille is more moral; Racine is more natural. The former, it
seems, owes much to Sophocles; the latter, to Euripides.
How is it that people at the theatre laugh so freely, and yet are
ashamed to weep? Is it less natural to be moved by all that is worthy
of pity than to burst out laughing at all that is ridiculous? Is it
that we consider it weak to cry, especially when the cause of our
emotion is an artificial one? But the cause of our laughter at the
theatre is also artificial. Some persons think it is as childish to
laugh excessively as to sob.
Not only should plays not be immoral; they should be elevating.
Logic is the art of convincing oneself of some truth. Eloquence is a
gift of the soul which makes one capable of conquering the hearts and
minds of the listeners and of making them believe anything one pleases.
He who pays attention only to the taste of his own century thinks more
of himself than of his writings. One should always aim at perfection.
If our contemporaries fail to do us justice, posterity may do so.
Horace and Boileau have said all this before. I take your word for it;
but may I not, after them, "think a true thought," which others will
think after me?
There are more tools than workers, and among the latter, more bad than
good ones.
There is, in this world, no task more painful than that of making a
name for oneself; we die before having even sketched our work. It
takes, in France, much firmness of purpose and much broadmindedness
to be indifferent to public functions and offices, and to consent to
remain at home and do nothing.
Hardly anyone has enough merit to assume that part in a dignified
manner, or enough brains to fill the gap of time without what is
generally called business.
All that is required is a better name for idleness; and that
meditation, conversation, reading, and repose should be called work.
You tell me that there is gold sparkling on Philémon's clothes. So
there is on the clothes at the draper's. He is covered with the most
gorgeous fabrics. I can see those fabrics in the shops. But the
embroidery and ornaments on Philémon's clothes further increase their
magnificence. If so, I praise the embroiderer's workmanship. If someone
asks him the time, he takes from his pocket a jewelled watch; the hilt
of his sword is made of onyx; he displays a dazzling diamond on his
finger and wears all the curious and pretty trifles of fashion and
vanity. You arouse my interest at last. I ought to see those precious
things. Send me the clothes and jewels of Philémon; I don't require to
see _him_.
It is difficult to tell the hero from the great man at war. Both have
military virtues. However, the former is generally young, enterprising,
gifted, self-controlled even in danger, and courageous; the latter has
much judgment, foresees events, and is endowed with much ability and
experience. Perhaps one might say that Alexander was only a hero and
that Cæsar was a great man.
Ménippe is a bird adorned with feathers which are not his own. He
has nothing to say; he has no feelings, no thoughts. He repeats what
others have said, and uses their ideas so instinctively that he
deceives himself, and is his first victim. He often believes that he
is expressing his own thoughts, while he is only an echo of someone
whom he has just left. He believes childishly that the amount of wit he
possesses is all that man ever possessed. He therefore looks like a man
who has nothing to desire.
_II.--On Women and Wealth_
From the age of thirteen to the age of twenty-one, a girl wishes she
were beautiful; afterwards she wishes she were a man.
An unfaithful woman is a woman who has ceased to love.
A light-hearted woman is a woman who already loves another.
A fickle woman is a woman who does not know whether she loves or not,
and who does not know what or whom she loves.
An indifferent woman is a woman who loves nothing.
There is a false modesty which is vanity; a false glory which is
light-mindedness; a false greatness which is smallness; a false virtue
which is hypocrisy; a false wisdom which is prudishness.
Why make men responsible for the fact that women are ignorant? Have
any laws or decrees been issued forbidding them to open their eyes, to
read, to remember what they have read, and to show that they understood
it in their conversations and their works? Have they not themselves
decided to know little or nothing, because of their physical weakness,
or the sluggishness of their minds; because of the time their beauty
requires; because of their light-mindedness which prevents them from
studying; because they have only talent and genius for needlework or
house-managing; or because they instinctively dislike all that is
earnest and demands some effort?
Women go to extremes. They are better or worse than men.
Women go farther than men in love; but men make better friends.
It is because of men that women dislike one another.
It is nothing for a woman to say what she does not mean; it is easier
still for a man to say all what he thinks.
Time strengthens the ties of friendship and loosens those of love.
There is less distance between hatred and love than between dislike and
love.
One can no more decide to love for ever than decide never to love at
all.
One comes across men who irritate one by their ridiculous expressions,
the strangeness and unfitness of the words they use. Their weird jargon
becomes to them a natural language. They are delighted with themselves
and their wit. True, they have some wit, but one pities them for having
so little of it; and, what is more, one suffers from it.
Arrias has read and seen everything, and he wants people to know it.
He is a universal man; he prefers to lie rather than keep silent or
appear ignorant about something. The subject of the conversation is the
court of a certain northern country. He at once starts talking, and
speaks of it as if he had been born in that country; he gives details
on the manners and customs, the women and the laws: he tells anecdotes
and laughs loudly at his own wit. Someone ventures to contradict him
and proves to him that he is not accurate in his statements. Arrias
turns to the interrupter: "I am telling nothing that is not exact," he
says. "I heard all those details from Sethon, ambassador of France to
that court. Sethon returned recently; I know him well, and had a long
conversation with him on this matter." Arrias was resuming his story
with more confidence than ever, when one of the guests said to him: "I
am Sethon, and have just returned from my mission."
Cléante is a most honest man. His wife is the most reasonable person
in the world. Both make everybody happy wherever they go, and it were
impossible to find a more delightful and refined couple. Yet they
separate to-morrow!
At thirty you think about making your fortune; at fifty you have not
made it; when you are old, you start building, and you die while the
painters are still at work.
Numberless persons ruin themselves by gambling, and tell you coolly
they cannot live without gambling. What nonsense! Would it be allowed
to say that one cannot live without stealing, murdering, or leading a
riotous existence?
Giton has a fresh complexion, and an aggressive expression. He is
broad-shouldered and corpulent. He speaks with confidence. He blows his
nose noisily, spits to a great distance, and sneezes loudly. He sleeps
a great deal, and snores whenever he pleases. When he takes a walk with
his equals he occupies the centre; when he stops, they stop; when he
advances again, they do the same. No one ever interrupts him. He is
jovial, impatient, haughty, irritable, independent. He believes himself
witty and gifted. He is rich.
Phédon has sunken eyes. He is thin, and his cheeks are hollow. He
sleeps very little. He is a dreamer, and, although witty, looks stupid.
He forgets to say what he knows, and when he does speak, speaks badly.
He shares the opinion of others; he runs, he flies to oblige anyone; he
is kind and flattering. He is superstitious, scrupulous, and bashful.
He walks stealthily, speaks in a low voice, and takes no room. He can
glide through the densest crowd without effort. He coughs, and blows
his nose inside his hat, and waits to sneeze until he is alone. He is
poor.
_III.--On Men and Manners_
Paris is divided into a number of small societies which are like so
many republics. They have their own customs, laws, language, and even
their own jokes.
One grows up, in towns, in a gross ignorance of all that concerns the
country. City-bred men are unable to tell hemp from flax, and wheat
from rye. We are satisfied as long as we can feed and dress.
When we speak well of a man at court, we invariably do so for two
reasons: firstly, in order that he may hear that we spoke well of him;
secondly, in order that he may speak well of us in his turn.
To be successful and to secure high offices there are two ways: the
high-road, on which most people pass; and the cross-road, which is the
shorter.
The youth of a prince is the origin of many fortunes.
Court is where joys are evident, but artificial; where sorrows are
concealed, but real.
A slave has one master; an ambitious man has as many as there are
persons who may be useful to him in his career.
With five or six art terms, people give themselves out as experts in
music, painting, and architecture.
The high opinions people have of the great and mighty is so blind, and
their interest in their gestures, features, and manners so general,
that if the mighty were only good, the devotion of the people to them
would amount to worship.
Lucile prefers to waste his life as the protégé of a few aristocrats
than to live on familiar terms with his peers.
It is advisable to say nothing of the mighty. If you speak well of
them, it is flattery. It is dangerous to speak ill of them during their
lifetime, and it is cowardly to do so after they are dead.
Life is short and annoying. We spend life wishing.
When life is wretched, it is hard to bear; when it is happy, it is
dreadful to lose it. The one alternative is as bad as the other.
Death occurs only once, but makes itself felt at every moment of our
life. It is more painful to fear it than to suffer it.
There are but three events for man: birth, life, and death. He does not
realise his birth, he suffers when he dies, and he forgets to live.
We seek our happiness outside ourselves. We seek it in the opinions of
men whom we know are flatterers, and who lack sincerity. What folly!
Most men spend half their lives making the other half miserable.
It is easier for many men to acquire one thousand virtues than to get
rid of one defect.
It is as difficult to find a conceited man who believes himself really
happy as to discover a modest man who thinks himself too unhappy.
The birch is necessary to children. Grown-up men need a crown, a
sceptre, velvet caps and fur-lined robes. Reason and justice devoid of
ornaments would not be imposing or convincing. Man, who is a mind, is
led by his eyes and his ears!
_IV.--On Customs and Religion_
Fashion in matters of food, health, taste and conscience is utterly
foolish. Game is at present out of fashion, and condemned as a
food. It is to-day a sin against fashion to be cured of the ague by
blood-letting.
The conceited man thinks every day of the way in which he will be able
to attract attention on the following day. The philosopher leaves the
matter of his clothes to his tailor. It is just as childish to avoid
fashion as to follow its decrees too closely.
Fashion exists in the domain of religion.
There have been young ladies who were virtuous, healthy and pious, who
wished to enter a convent, but who were not rich enough to take in a
wealthy abbey the vows of poverty.
How many men one sees who are strong and righteous, who would never
listen to the entreaties of their friends, but who are easily
influenced and corrupted by women.
I would like to hear a sober, moderate, chaste, righteous man declare
that there is no God. At least he would be speaking in a disinterested
manner. But there is no such man to be found.
The fact that I am unable to prove that God does not exist establishes
for me the fact that God does exist.
Atheism does not exist. If there were real atheists, it would merely
prove that there are monsters in this world.
Forty years ago I didn't exist, and it was not within my power to
be born. It does not depend upon me who now exist to be no more.
Consequently, I began being and am going on being, thanks to something
which is beyond me, which will last after me, which is mightier than I
am. If that something is not God, pray tell me what it is.
Everything is great and worthy of admiration in Nature.
O you vain and conceited man, make one of these worms which you
despise! You loathe toads; make a toad if you can!
Kings, monarchs, potentates, sacred majesties, have I given you all
your supreme names? We, mere men, require some rain for our crops or
even some dew; make some dew, send to the earth a drop of water!
A certain inequality in the destinies of men, which maintains order and
obedience, is the work of God. It suggests a divine law.
If the reader does not care for these "characters," it will surprise
me; if he does care for them, it will also surprise me.
WALTER SAVAGE LANDOR
Imaginary Conversations