has been called jealousy, that other jealousy which is just, natural,
founded on reason and on experience, deserves some other name.
Our natural disposition has no small share in jealousy which does not
always spring from a great passion. Yet it is a paradox for a violent
love not to be esoteric.
Our idiosyncrasy often causes no suffering to any one but to ourselves;
but in jealousy we suffer ourselves and give pain to others.
Those women who do not respect any of our feelings and give us so many
opportunities of becoming jealous, should not be worthy of our jealousy
if we were guided rather by their sentiments and conduct than by our
affections.
(30.) Coolness in friendship and the slackening of its ties, arise not
without cause; in love there is hardly any other cause for our ceasing
to love but that of having loved to excess.
(31.) It is no more in our power to love always than it was not to love
at all.
(32.) Love receives its death-wound from aversion, and forgetfulness
buries it.
(33.) We perceive when love begins and when it declines by our
perplexity when alone.
(34.) To cease from loving is a distinct proof that the powers of man
are limited and his affections as well.
It is a weakness to love; it is sometimes another weakness to attempt
the cure of it.
We are cured in the same way as we are comforted, for we cannot always
weep nor love with all our heart.
(35.) There should be within the heart inexhaustible sources of grief
for certain losses. It is seldom that either by our virtue or strength
of mind we overcome a great affliction; we weep bitterly and are deeply
moved, but afterwards we are either so weak or so flighty that we
console ourselves.[191]
(36.) When a plain-looking woman is loved, it is certain to be very
passionately; for either her influence on her lover is irresistible, or
she has some secret and more irresistible charms than those of beauty.
(37.) For a long time visits among lovers and professions of love are
kept up through habit, after their behaviour has plainly proved that
love no longer exists.
(38.) To endeavour to forget any one is a certain way of thinking of
nothing else. Love has this in common with scruples, that it becomes
embittered by the reflections and the thoughts that beset us to free
ourselves. If we could do it, the only way to extinguish our passion
would be never to think of it.
(39.) We should like those whom we love to receive all their happiness,
or, if this were impossible, all their unhappiness from our hands.
(40.) To bewail the loss of a person we love is a happiness compared
with the necessity of living with one we hate.
(41.) However disinterested we may be with regard to those we love,
we must sometimes constrain ourselves for their sake, and have the
generosity to accept gifts.
A man may freely accept a gift if he feels as great a pleasure in
receiving it as his friend felt in giving it him.
(42.) To give is to act; we do not suffer any pains by our liberality,
nor by yielding to the importunity or necessity of postulants.
(43.) If at any time we have been liberal to those we loved, whatever
happens afterwards, there is no occasion to think of what we have given.
(44.) It has been said in Latin[192] that it costs less to hate than
to love; or, in other words, that friendship is more expensive than
hatred. It is true that we need not be liberal towards our enemies; but
does revenge cost nothing? Or, if it be so pleasing and natural to harm
those we hate, is it less so to do good to those we love? Would it not
be disagreeable and painful for us not to do so?
(45.) There is a pleasure in meeting the glance of a person whom we
have lately laid under some obligations.
(46.) I do not know whether a benefit conferred upon an ungrateful
person, and thus on a person unworthy of it, does not change its name,
and whether it deserves any gratitude.[193]
(47.) Liberality consists not so much in giving a great deal as in
giving seasonably.
(48.) If it be true that in showing pity and compassion we think
of ourselves, because we fear to be one day or another in the same
circumstances as those unfortunate people for whom we feel, why are the
latter so sparingly relieved by us in their wretchedness?
It is better to expose ourselves to ingratitude than to neglect our
duty to the distressed.
(49.) Experience proves us that if we are effeminate, and indulgent
towards ourselves, and obdurate towards others, we show but one and the
same vice.
(50.) A moiling, toiling man, who shows no mercy to himself, is only
lenient to others by excess of reason.
(51.) Though the charge of maintaining a poor person may be very
burdensome to us, yet a change of fortune, which makes him no longer
our dependent, gives us no great pleasure, in the same way as our joy
at the preferment of a friend is somewhat tempered by the small grudge
we bear him for having become our superior or our equal. Thus we agree
but ill with ourselves, for we should like to have others dependent on
us, but, it must cost us nothing; and we should like to see our friends
prosperous, yet when good fortune comes to them, the first thing we do
is not always to be glad about it.
(52.) People send you invitations, ask you to come to their house,
offer you even board and lodging, nay, their very fortune and their
services; all this costs them nothing; but will they be as good as
their word?
(53.) One faithful friend is enough for a man, and he is very fortunate
to meet with one; yet he cannot have too many which may be of use to
others.
(54.) When we have done all that we can do for certain people in order
to acquire their friendship, and we find we have been unsuccessful,
there is still one resource left to us, which is, not to do anything
more.
(55.) To live with our enemies as if they might one day become our
friends,[194] and to live with our friends as if they might some time
or other become our enemies, is equally opposed to the very nature of
hatred, as well as to the rules of friendship. It may be a political
maxim, it is certainly not a moral one.
(56.) We ought not to make those people our enemies who might have
become our friends, if we had only known them better. We ought to
choose friends of such a high and honourable character that, even
after having ceased to remain our friends, they should not abuse our
confidence, nor make us dread them as our enemies.
(57.) It is pleasant to visit our friends because we like and esteem
them; it is a torture to frequent them because we want them; then we
become applicants.
(58.) We should try and gain the affections of those to whom we wish
to do good rather than of those who could do us some good.[195]
(59.) We do not employ the same means for bettering our position as we
do in pursuing frivolous and fanciful things. We feel a certain kind
of freedom in acting according to our fancy, and, on the contrary, a
certain kind of thraldom in labouring for obtaining a place. It is
natural to desire it ardently and to take little pains to obtain it,
for we think that we deserve it without seeking for it.
(60.) He who knows how to wait for what he desires does not feel very
desperate if he fails in obtaining it; and he, on the contrary, who
is very impatient in procuring a certain thing, takes so much pains
about it, that, even when he is successful, he does not think himself
sufficiently rewarded.
(61.) There are certain people who so ardently and so passionately[196]
desire a thing, that from dread of losing it they leave nothing undone
to make them lose it.
(62.) Those things which we desire most never happen at all, or do not
happen at the right time, and under those circumstances when they would
have given us the greatest pleasure.
(63.) We must laugh before we are happy, or else we may die before ever
having laughed at all.
(64.) Life is short, if we are only said to live when we enjoy
ourselves; and if we were merely to count up the hours we spent
agreeably, a great number of years would hardly make up a life of a few
months.
(65.) How difficult is it to be pleased with any one!
(66.) We imagine that it would be impossible to prevent our feeling
some pleasure if we were present at the death of a wicked man, for then
we could reap the harvest of our hatred, and get from him all that we
could ever hope to get from him, namely, the delight his death causes
us. But when at last this man really dies, and at a time when our
interest will not permit us to rejoice, he dies either too soon or too
late for us.
(67.) It is difficult for a proud man ever to forgive a person who has
found him at fault, and who has good grounds for complaining of him;
his pride is not assuaged till he has regained the advantages he lost
and put the other person in the wrong.
(68.) As our affection increases towards those whom we wish to assist,
so we violently hate those whom we have greatly offended.
(69.) It is as difficult at first to stifle the resentment of a wrong
done to us as to retain it after many years.
(70.) It is weakness which makes us hate an enemy and seek revenge, and
it is idleness that pacifies us and causes us to neglect it.
(71.) It is as much from idleness as from weakness that we allow
ourselves to be controlled.
No man should think of controlling another person all at once, and
without some preliminaries, in some important matter of business which
might be of great consequence to him and to his family; such a person
would at once become aware of the sway and ascendency intended to
be obtained over him, and would throw off the yoke out of shame or
inconsistency. He should be tried first with trifling things, and then
success is certain when attempting greater ones. Some people, who, at
first, scarcely ventured to make a man leave for the country or to let
him return to town, obtained such an influence over him at last, that
he made his will, as they told him, and only left his own son what he
was obliged to leave him.[197]
In order to control a man for any length of time and completely, a
light hand is necessary, so as to let him feel his dependence as little
as possible.
Some people allow themselves to be controlled up to a certain point,
but beyond that they are intractable and ungovernable; suddenly all
influence is lost over their feelings and mind, and neither rough
nor gentle means, force nor address, can reduce them: yet, with this
difference, that some act thus moved by reasoning and conclusive
evidence, and others through inclination and constitution.
There are some men who turn a deaf ear to reason and good advice, and
wilfully go wrong for fear of being controlled.
There are others who allow their friends to control them in trifling
things, and thence presume to control them in things of weight and
consequence.
Drance[198] would fain pass for a man who rules his master, though
his master and the world know better. For a man in office to talk
incessantly to his employer, a man of high rank, at improper times and
places, to be always whispering or using certain words with mysterious
intent, to laugh boisterously in his presence, to interrupt him when he
speaks, to interfere when others address him, to treat with contempt
those who come to pay their court to his master, or express impatience
till they are gone, to stand near him in too unconstrained an attitude,
to lean with his back against the chimney-mantel as his master does,
to pluck him by his coat, to tread upon his heels, to affect a certain
familiarity and to take such liberties, are signs of a coxcomb rather
than of a favourite.
An intelligent man neither allows himself to be controlled nor attempts
to control others; he wishes reason alone to rule, and that always.
Had I a friend, a man of sense, I should not object to confide in him,
and to be controlled by him in everything, completely and for ever. I
should then be sure of acting rightly without the trouble of thinking
about it, whilst enjoying all the calm of a man swayed by common-sense.
(72.) All passions are deceptive; they conceal themselves as much as
possible from others and from themselves as well. No vice exists which
does not pretend to be more or less like some virtue, and which does
not take advantage of this assumed resemblance.
(73.) We open a book of devotion, and it affects us; we open a book
of gallantry, and that, too, impresses us. If I may say so, it is the
heart alone which reconciles things so opposed to one another, and
allows incompatibilities.
(74.) Men are less ashamed of their crimes than of their weaknesses and
their vanity. The same man who is openly unjust, violent, treacherous,
and a slanderer, will conceal his love or his ambition for no other
reason but to conceal it.
(75.) It rarely happens that a man can say he is ambitious, for if he
has been so once, he remains so; but there comes a time when he admits
he has been in love.
(76.) Men begin with love and end with ambition, and are seldom free
from passion till they die.
(77.) Nothing is easier for passion than to overcome reason, but the
greatest triumph is to conquer a manʼs own interests.
(78.) A man who is swayed by his feelings is more sociable and
agreeable to converse with than one who is swayed by his intelligence.
(79.) There are certain sublime sentiments, certain noble and lofty
actions, for which we are indebted rather to the kindness of our
disposition than to the strength of our mind.
(80.) There is no excess in the world so commendable as excessive
gratitude.
(81.) A man must be completely wanting in intelligence if he does not
show it when actuated by love, malice, or necessity.
(82.) There are certain spots which we admire, others which we love,
and where we long to pass our days.
It seems that our mind, our temper, passions, taste and feelings, are
influenced by the places where we dwell.[199]
(83.) Benevolent persons should be the only ones to be envied, if there
were not a better course open to us, which is, to excel them; thus we
can avenge ourselves pleasantly on those whom we dislike.
(84.) Some people pretend they never were in love and never wrote
poetry; two weaknesses which they dare not own—one of the heart, the
other of the mind.
(85.) During the course of our life we now and then enjoy some
pleasures so inviting, and have some encounters of so tender a nature,
that though they are forbidden, it is but natural to wish that they
were at least allowable. Nothing can be more delightful, except it be
to abandon them for virtueʼs sake.
[Illustration]
V.
OF SOCIETY AND OF CONVERSATION.
(1.) A man must be very inert to have no character at all.
(2.) A fool is always troublesome, a man of sense perceives when he
pleases or is tiresome; he goes away the very minute before it might
have been thought he stayed too long.
(3.) Mischievous wags are a kind of insects which are in everybodyʼs
way and plentiful in all countries. Real wit is rarely to be met
with, and even if it be innate in a man, it must be very difficult to
maintain a reputation for it during any length of time; for, commonly,
he that makes us laugh does not stand high in our estimation.
(4.) There are a great many obscene minds, yet more railing and
satirical, but very few fastidious ones. A man must have good manners,
be very polite, and even have a great deal of originality to be able to
jest gracefully and be felicitous in his remarks about trifles; to jest
in such a manner and to make something out of nothing is to create.
(5.) If in ordinary conversation we were to pay great attention to
every dull, vain, and puerile remark, we should be ashamed to speak or
even to listen, and we should perhaps condemn ourselves to a perpetual
silence, which would be more injurious to society than idle talk. We
must, therefore, accommodate ourselves to all intellects, bear as a
necessary evil the spreading of false news, of vague reflections on the
Government or on the interests of princes, listen to the enunciation of
fine sentiments which are always the same, and even allow Arontius[200]
to utter wise saws, and Melinda to speak of herself, her nerves, her
headaches, and her want of rest.
(6.) We meet with persons who, in their conversation, or in the little
intercourse we have with them, disgust us with their ridiculous
expressions, the novelty, and, if I may say so, the impropriety of the
phraseology they use, as well as by linking together certain words
which never came together but in their mouths, and were never intended
by their creators to have the meaning they give to them. In their
conversation they neither follow reason nor custom, but only their own
eccentricity; and their desire always to jest, and perhaps to shine,
gradually changes it into a peculiar sort of dialect which at last
becomes natural to them; they accompany this extraordinary language by
affected gesticulations and a conceited kind of pronunciation. They are
all highly delighted with themselves, and with their pleasant wit, of
which, indeed, they are not entirely destitute; but we pity them for
the little they have, and, what is worse, we suffer through it.
(7.) What do you say? What? I do not understand you. Will you be kind
enough to say it again? I understand you still less. Oh, I guess your
meaning at last; you wish to tell me, Acis, that it is cold! Why donʼt
you say so? You wish to let me know that it rains or snows; say at once
that it rains or snows. You think I am looking well, and you wish to
congratulate me; say that you think I am looking well. But youʼll reply
that it is so plain and clear, anybody might have said it. What does
that signify, Acis? Is it so very wrong to be intelligible in speaking,
and to speak as everybody does? There is one thing, Acis, which you,
and men like you, who utter _phébus_[201] want very much; you have not
the smallest suspicion of it, and I know I am going to surprise you. Do
you know what that thing is? It is wit. But that is not all. There is
too much of something else in you, which is the opinion that you have
more intelligence than other men; this is the cause of all your pompous
nonsense, of your mixed-up phraseology, and of all those grand words
without any meaning. The next time I find you addressing anybody, or
entering a room, I shall pull your coat-tails and whisper to you: “Do
not pretend to be witty; be natural, that is better suited to you; use,
if you can, plain language, such as those persons speak whom you fancy
are without wit; then, perhaps, we may think you have some yourself.”
(8.) Who, that goes into society, can help meeting with certain vain,
fickle, familiar, and positive people who monopolise all conversation,
and compel every one else to listen to them? They can be heard in the
anteroom, and a person may boldly enter without fear of interrupting
them; they continue their story without paying the smallest attention
to any comers or goers, or to the rank and quality of their audience;
they silence a man who begins to tell an anecdote, so that they may
tell it themselves according to their fashion, which is the best; they
heard it from Zamet, from Ruccellaï, or from Concini,[202] whom they do
not know, to whom they never spoke in their lives, and whom they would
address as “Your Excellency,” if ever they spoke to any one of them.
They sometimes will go up to a man of the highest rank among those who
are present, and whisper in his ear some circumstance which nobody
else knows, and which they would not have divulged to others for the
world; they conceal some names to disguise the anecdote they relate and
to prevent the real persons being found out; you ask them to let you
have these names, you urge them in vain. There are some things they
must not tell, and some persons whom they cannot name; they have given
their word of honour not to do so; it is a secret, a mystery of the
greatest importance; moreover, you ask an impossibility. You might wish
to learn something from them, but they know neither the facts nor the
persons.[203]
(9.) Arrias has read and seen everything, at least he would lead you
to think so; he is a man of universal knowledge, or pretends to be,
and would rather tell a falsehood than be silent or appear to ignore
anything. Some person is talking at meal-time in the house of a man of
rank of a northern court; he interrupts and prevents him telling what
he knows; he goes hither and thither in that distant country as if he
were a native of it; he discourses about the habits of its court, the
native women, the laws and customs of the land; he tells many little
stories which happened there, thinks them very entertaining, and is
the first to laugh loudly at them. Somebody presumes to contradict
him, and clearly proves to him that what he says is untrue. Arrias is
not disconcerted; on the contrary, he grows angry at the interruption,
and exclaims: “I aver and relate nothing but what I know on excellent
authority; I had it from Sethon, the French ambassador at that court,
who only a few days ago came back to Paris, and is a particular friend
of mine; I asked him several questions, and he replied to them all
without concealing anything.” He continues his story with greater
confidence than he began it, till one of the company informs him that
the gentleman whom he has been contradicting was Sethon himself,
but lately arrived from his embassy.[204]
(10.) In conversation there is a middle course between a certain
backwardness in speaking or a kind of incogitancy which leads us to
wander away from the subject under discussion, so as to make us ask
untimely questions or return silly answers, and between paying too
great attention to the least word said, in order to improve upon it, to
joke about it, to discover in it some mystery hidden to all others, to
find something shrewd and subtle in it, only to have an opportunity of
showing how clever we are.
(11.) Any one who is infatuated with himself and quite convinced he is
very clever, only shows that he has but very little intelligence or
none at all. It is a misfortune for a man to listen to the conversation
of such a person. What a great many affected phrases he has to endure!
How many of those fanciful words which appear of a sudden, live for a
short time, and then are never heard again! If such a person relates
some trifling event, it is not so much to give some information to
his hearers, as merely for the honour of telling it and of telling
it cleverly. He amplifies it till it becomes a romance; he makes the
people connected with it think as he does; he puts his own trivial
expressions in their mouths, and renders them, like himself, very
talkative; he falls then into some parentheses which may pass for
episodes, and by which speaker and hearers forget what the story really
was about. It is difficult to say what might have become of them, had
not somebody fortunately come in to break up the company and put an
end to the narrative.
(12.) Theodectes[205] is heard in the anteroom; the nearer he comes
the more he raises his voice; he enters, he laughs, he shouts, he
vociferates; everybody stops his ears; he is a mere thunderer, and
no less to be dreaded for what he says as for the loud tone in which
he speaks. He becomes quiet and less boisterous only to stammer out
some idle talk and some nonsense. So little regard has he for time,
individuals, or decency, that he offends every one without intending
it; before he has taken a seat he has already insulted the whole
company. When dinner is served, he is the first to sit down, and
always in the place of honour; the ladies are to the right and left
of him, but he eats, drinks, talks, banters, and interrupts every one
at the same time; he has no respect for any one, neither for master
nor guests, and takes advantage of the foolish way they look up to
him. Is it he or Euthydemes who is the host? He assumes all authority
while at dinner; and it is better to give way to him than to quarrel
with him about it. Neither eating nor drinking improve his temper. If
some gambling is going on, and if he wins, he banters his antagonist
and insults him; the laughers are on his side, and there is no sort of
folly they do not overlook in him. At last I leave him and go away,
unable to bear any longer with Theodectes and those who bear with him.