pronounce the names of streets, squares, and public places, which they
think are not noble enough to be known. They speak of the _Louvre_,
the _Place Royale_, but they use certain circumlocutions and phrases
rather than mention some names; and if, by chance, such a word escapes
them, it is not without some alteration, and after some changes which
reassure them; they are less natural in this than the ladies at court,
who, when they have occasion to speak of the _Halles_, the _Châtelet_,
or the like, simply say the _Halles_ or the _Châtelet_.[230]
(70.) If people pretend sometimes not to remember certain names which
they think obscure, and affect to spoil them in the pronunciation, it
is through the good opinion they have of their own names.
(71.) When we are in a good temper, and when we can talk as we like,
we often say silly things, which, in truth, we do not pretend to be
anything else, and which are considered very good, because they are
very bad.[231] This inferior kind of joking, fit only for the mob, has
already infected a great part of the youth at court. It is true we
need not fear it will spread further, for it is really too insipid and
coarse to thrive in a country which is the centre of good taste and
politeness. However, it should be rendered distasteful to those who
employ it, for though it is never used seriously, yet it continually
takes the place of better things in their mind and in their ordinary
conversation.
(72.) Between saying bad things or saying such good things which
everybody knows, and pretending they are quite new, there is so little
difference that I do not know which to choose.
(73.) “Lucanus[232] has said a pretty thing. There is a fine expression
in Claudianus.[233] There is a certain passage in Seneca;”[234] and
then follow a good many Latin words, often quoted before people who
do not know what they mean, though they pretend to understand them.
The right thing would be to have sense and intelligence ourselves, for
then we might dispense with the ancients, or after having read them
carefully, we might still select the best and quote them pertinently.
(74.) Hermagoras[235] knows not who is king of Hungary, and wonders
that no one talks about the king of Bohemia.[236] Speak not to him of
the wars in Flanders or in Holland,[237] or, at least, you must excuse
him from answering any questions about them; he mixes up all dates; he
neither knows when they began nor ended; battles and sieges are all
new to him; but he is very well read in the Titansʼ war, and can tell
you its progress and the most trifling details; nothing has escaped
him; he unravels in the same way the horrible chaos of the Babylonian
and Assyrian monarchies; he knows intimately the Egyptians and their
dynasties. He never saw Versailles, nor ever will; but he has almost
seen the tower of Babel, and counted its steps; he has found out
how many architects were employed about that building, and even has
their names at his fingersʼ ends. He believes Henri IV. to be a son
of Henri III.,[238] and neglects to know anything about the reigning
houses of France, Austria, and Bavaria. He asks what is the use of
studying such trifles; but he can quote to you all the kings of Media
and Babylon, and the names of Apronal, Herigebal, Noesnemordach, and
Mardokampad[239] are to him as familiar as those of Valois and Bourbon
are to us. He has yet to learn that the Emperor[240] is married, but he
can tell you that Ninus[241] had two wives. He hears the king enjoys
perfect health, and this reminds him that Thetmosis, a king of Egypt,
was a valetudinarian, and that he inherited this disposition from his
grandfather, Alipharmutosis.[242] What does he not know? What in all
venerable antiquity is hid from him? He will tell you that Semiramis,
or, as some call her, Serimaris, spoke so much like her son Ninyas,
that their voices could not be distinguished from one another; but he
dare not decide whether the mother had a manly voice like her son, or
the son an effeminate voice like his mother; he will confide to you
that Nimrod was left-handed, and Sesostris[243] ambidexter; that it is
an error to imagine one of the Artaxerxes was called Longimanus[244]
because his arms reached down to his knees, and not because one of his
hands was longer than the other; he adds that though some grave authors
affirm that it was his right hand, he has good grounds to maintain it
was the left hand.
(75.) Ascanius is a sculptor, Hegio an iron-founder, Æschines a fuller,
and Cydias a wit,[245] for that is his trade. He has a signboard, a
shop, work that is ordered,[246] and journeymen who work under him;
he cannot possibly let you have those stanzas he has promised you in
less than a month, unless he breaks his word with Dosithea, who has
engaged him to write an elegy; he has also an idyl on the loom which
is for Crantor, who presses him for it, and has promised him a liberal
reward. You can have whatever you like—prose or verse, for he is just
as good in one as in the other. If you want a letter of condolence,
or one on some personʼs absence, he will write them; he has them even
ready made; step into his warehouse, and you may pick and choose.
Cydias has a friend who has nothing else to do but to promise to
certain people a long time beforehand that he will come to them, and
who, finally, introduces him in some society as a man seldom to be met
with, and exquisite in conversation. Then, just as a vocalist sings
or as a lute-player touches his instrument in a company where it has
been expected, Cydias, after having coughed, puts back his ruffles,
extends his hand, opens his fingers, and very gravely utters his
over-refined thoughts and his sophisticated arguments. Unlike those
persons whose principles agree, and who know that reason and truth
are one and the same thing, and snatch the words out of one anotherʼs
mouths to acquiesce in one anotherʼs sentiments, he never opens his
mouth but to contradict: “I think,” he says graciously, “it is just
the opposite of what you say;” or, “I am not at all of your opinion,”
or else, “Formerly I was under the same delusion as you are now; but,
...” and then he continues, “There are three things to be considered,”
to which he adds a fourth. He is an insipid chatterer; no sooner has he
obtained a footing into any society, than he looks out for some ladies
whom he can fascinate, before whom he can set forth his wit or his
philosophy, and produce his rare conceptions; for, whether he speaks
or writes, he ought never to be suspected of saying what is true or
false, sensible or ridiculous; his only care is not to express the same
sentiments as some one else, and to differ from everybody. Therefore,
in conversation, he often waits till every one has given his opinion
on some casual subject, or one which not seldom he has introduced
himself, in order to utter dogmatically things which are perfectly
new, but which he thinks decisive and unanswerable. “Lucianus[247] and
Seneca,”[248] says Cydias, “come pretty near me; but as for Plato,[249]
Virgil,[250] and Theocritus[251] they are quite below me,” and his
flatterer takes care to confirm him every morning in this opinion. As
Cydias has the same taste and interest as the revilers of Homer,[252]
he quietly expects that mankind will be undeceived and prefer modern
poets to the blind bard; then he will put himself at the head of these
poets, and reserve the second place for a friend.[253] He is, in a
word, a compound of pedantry and formality, to be admired by cits and
rustics, in whom, nevertheless, there is nothing great except the
opinion he has of himself.
(76.) Profound ignorance makes a man dogmatical; he who knows nothing
thinks he can teach others what he just now has learned himself;
whilst he who knows a great deal can scarcely imagine any one should
be unacquainted with what he says, and, therefore, speaks with more
indifference.
(77.) Great things only require to be simply told, for they are spoiled
by emphasis; but little things should be clothed in lofty language,
as they are only kept up by expression, tone of voice, and style of
delivery.
(78.) I think we generally say things more delicately than we write
them.
(79.) Hardly any other men but born gentlemen or men of culture are
capable of keeping a secret.
(80.) All confidence placed in another is dangerous if it is not
perfect, for on almost all occasions we ought to tell everything or to
conceal everything. We have already told too much of our secret, if one
single circumstance is to be kept back.
(81.) Some men promise to keep your secret and yet reveal it without
knowing they are doing so; they do not wag their lips, and yet they
are understood; it is read on their brow and in their eyes; it is seen
through their breast; they are transparent. Other men do not exactly
tell a thing that has been intrusted to them, but they talk and act in
such a manner that people discover it for themselves. Lastly, there are
some who despise your secret, of whatever importance it may be: “it is
something mysterious which such-a-one has imparted to me and forbade me
to mention it,” and then out it comes.
If a secret is revealed, the person who has confided it to another is
to be blamed.
(82.) Nicander converses with Eliza about the gentle and courteous
way in which he lived with his wife from the day of their marriage to
the hour of her death; he had already said how sorry he was he had no
children by her, and he now repeats it; he talks of the houses he has
in town, and then of an estate he has in the country; he calculates
what it brings him in, draws a plan of the buildings, describes its
situation, expatiates on the conveniency of the apartments as well as
on the richness and elegance of the furniture; he assures her he loves
good cheer and fine horses and carriages, and complains that his late
wife did not care much for play and company. “You are so wealthy,”
said one of his friends to him, “why do you not buy some official
post,[254] or why not a certain piece of ground which would enlarge
your estate?” “People think I am richer than I really am,” replies
Nicander. He neither forgets his birth nor his relatives, and speaks of
his cousin, the superintendent of finances, or of his kinswoman, the
Lord Chancellorʼs wife. He informs
Eliza how discontented he has become with his nearest relatives, and
even with his heirs. “Am I wrong, and have I any cause for doing them
good?” he asks her, and desires her to give her opinion. He then
intimates that he is in a weak and wretched state of health, and speaks
of the vault where he wishes to be interred. He insinuates himself,
and fawns on all those who visit the lady he courts. But Eliza has not
courage enough to grow rich at the cost of being his wife. Whilst he
is thus conversing with her a military man is introduced, and by his
mere presence defeats all the plans of the worthy citizen, who gets up
disappointed and vexed, and goes somewhere else to say that he wishes
to marry for the second time.
(83.) Wise men sometimes avoid the world, that they may not be
surfeited with it.
[Illustration]
VI.
OF THE GIFTS OF FORTUNE.
(1.) A very rich man may eat of his side-dishes, have his walls and
recesses painted, enjoy a palatial residence in the country and another
in town, have a large retinue, even become connected with a duke
through marriage,[255] and make of his son a great nobleman, and all
this will be considered quite right and proper; but to live happy is
perhaps the privilege of other men.
(2.) A lofty birth or a large fortune portend merit, and cause it to be
the sooner noticed.
(3.) The ambition of a coxcomb is excusable, because, after he has made
a large fortune, people will be careful to discover in him some merit
which he never had before, and as great as it is in his own opinion.
(4.) As favour and riches forsake a man, we discover in him the
foolishness they concealed, and which no one perceived before.
(5.) We could never imagine what a strange disproportion a few or a
great many pieces of money make between men, if we did not see it every
day with our own eyes.
Those few or many pieces of money are what determine men to adopt the
profession of arms, of the law, or of the church, for they have hardly
any other vocation.
(6.) Two merchants were neighbours and in the same line of business,
but their success in life was quite different. They each had a
daughter; and these, brought up together, had been as intimate as girls
of the same age and the same condition in life could have been; later,
one of them, driven by want and misery, endeavoured to get a place,
and entered the service of a great lady, one of the highest rank at
court;[256] and this same lady had formerly been her bosom friend.
(7.) If a financier fails in making a lucky stroke, the courtiers say
of him, “He is a mere citizen, a man sprung from nothing, a boor;” but
if he succeeds, they become suitors for his daughterʼs hand.
(8.) Some men in their youth serve an apprenticeship to a certain
trade, to follow a very different one the rest of their lives.[257]
(9.) A man is very plain-looking, dwarfish in size, and wanting in
intelligence;[258] but some one whispers to me that he has an annual
income of fifty thousand _livres_. That concerns him alone, and I shall
never be the better or the worse for it; but people might well consider
me mad if I were to look on such a man in a different light because he
is wealthy, and were to do so involuntarily.
(10.) It is in vain to attempt to turn a very rich blockhead into
ridicule, for the laughers will be on his side.
(11.) N ...[259] has a clownish, rude doorkeeper, who looks somewhat
like a Swiss,[260] a big hall and an anteroom, where people are
obliged to tire themselves out by dancing attendance; at last he makes
his appearance with a serious mien and a solemn gait, hears only a few
words of what is said, and sends people away without seeing them to the
door. However inferior he may seem elsewhere, in his own house he will
attract something very akin to respect.
(12.) I want you, Clitiphon,[261] and this has driven me early from my
bed and room, and brought me to your door. Would to Heaven I had no
occasion to ask you a favour or be troublesome to you! Your servants
tell me you are in your own room, and that it will be at least an hour
before you can see me; I return before that time, and they inform me
you are gone out. What keeps you so deeply engaged, Clitiphon, in the
innermost corner of your residence, that prevents you from seeing
me? You file some papers, you collate some register, you sign your
name or your initials to some documents. I had but one thing to ask
you, and you had only to say “Yes” or “No.” If you wish to become a
curiosity, be of use to those who depend on you, and you will be a
greater curiosity by such conduct than by remaining invisible.[262]
You are a man of importance and overwhelmed with business, but if
you in your turn have need of my services, come to the solitude of
my study, where the philosopher is always to be found, and where you
will not be put off till another day. You will find me turning over
Platoʼs writings “On the spirituality of the soul and its difference
with the body,”[263] or, pen in hand, calculating the distance between
Saturn and Jupiter;[264] admiring the works of the Creator and
endeavouring, by acquiring a knowledge of truth, to rectify my
opinions and to improve my morals. You can enter; all my doors are
open; you will not get tired in my anteroom with waiting for me; you
have no need to let me know beforehand when you are coming; you bring
me something more precious than silver or gold, if it is an opportunity
of being of service to you. Only tell me what you wish me to do for
you? Do you want me to leave my books, my studies, my writings, and
the line I have just begun? I am glad to be interrupted when I can
be of service to you. A moneyed man, a man of business, is like a
bear not yet tamed; there is no seeing him in his den but with the
utmost difficulty; or, rather, he is not to be seen at all, for in the
beginning he is but dimly visible, and afterwards you see no more of
him. A man of letters, on the contrary, is as perceptible[265] as a
pillar in a cross-road; he is to be seen by everybody, at all times
and in all conditions, at table, in bed, without clothes, dressed, in
sickness or in health; he is not a man of importance, and does not wish
to be one.
(13.) Let us not envy a certain class of men for their enormous riches;
they have paid such an equivalent for them that it would not suit us;
they have given for them their peace of mind, their health, their
honour, and their conscience; this is rather too dear, and there is
nothing to be made out of such a bargain.
(14.) The P.T.S.[266] give us all possible sensations one after
another; we first despise them for their low origin, then we envy them,
afterwards fear, hate, and sometimes esteem and respect them; we often
live long enough to finish by pitying them.
(15.) Sosia[267] was first a footman, then an under-farmer of the
revenue, and by extortion, violence, and malversation has now raised
himself to a high post on the ruins of several families. He was
ennobled by virtue of his office, and the only thing he wanted was to
be an honest man;[268] this marvel has been effected by his becoming
churchwarden.
(16.) Arfuria[269] used formerly to walk by herself, and go on foot
towards the main entrance of a certain church, in which she heard from
a distance the sermon of a Carmelite friar or of a doctor of divinity,
of whom she saw but the side face, and could not hear many words he
said.
Her virtue was not apparent and her piety as well known as she herself
was. Her husband has become a farmer of the _huitième denier_,[270] and
made a prodigious fortune in less than six years. Now she never comes
to church but in a carriage, wearing a heavy train, which is borne up:
the preacher stops while she seats herself opposite to him, so that
not a single word nor the smallest gesture can escape her. The priests
intrigue among themselves as to who shall be her father-confessor, for
all wish to give her absolution, but the victory remains with the vicar
of the parish.
(17.) Crœsus[271] is carried to the churchyard; and of all the
immense wealth which he acquired by rapine and extortion, and which he
has lavished in luxury and riotous living, there is not enough left
for a decent burial; he died insolvent, without any property, and
consequently without any attendance; neither medicines, nor cordials,
nor physicians were seen about him, nor the most inferior priest to
shrive him.
(18.) Champagne,[272] rising from a prolonged dinner, quite gorged, and
his head full of the agreeable fumes of Avenay or Sillery,[273] signs
an order for a tax to be levied which would have produced a famine in
a whole province, if other means had not been taken. He is excusable;
for how can a man whose digestion is just beginning understand that
people could anywhere die of starvation.
(19.) Sylvanus[274] has with his money bought rank and another name;
he is lord of the same manor where his forefathers had been paying the
_taille_;[275] formerly he was not good enough to be Cleobulusʼ page,
but now he is his son-in-law?
(20.) Dorus[276] is carried in a litter along the Appian Way;[277] his
freedmen and slaves run before him to clear the way and to turn aside
the people; he wants nothing but Lictors;[278] he enters Rome with
quite a retinue, a triumphant foil to the meanness and poverty of his
father Sanga.
(21.) No one makes a better use of his fortune than Periander;[279] it
gives him a certain rank, influence, and authority; people no longer
ask him to be their friend, but they implore his protection. In the
beginning he spoke of himself as “such a man as I am,” but soon he
says “a man of my rank;” for he pretends to be one of these men, and
there are none who borrow money of him, or eat his dinners, which are
exquisite, who dare dispute it. His residence is splendid; the outside
is Doric, and there is no gate but a portico. Is it a private house
or a temple? People are at a loss to know which. He is lord paramount
of the entire precincts; every one envies him, and would rejoice at
his downfall; his wifeʼs pearl necklace has made all the ladies of the
neighbourhood her enemies. Everything in him is of a piece, and nothing
yet belies that grandeur he has acquired, for which he has paid and
does not owe anything. But why did his old and feeble father not die
twenty years ago before Perianderʼs name was ever mentioned? How can
any man ever endure those odious invitations to a funeral[280] which
always reveal the real origin of the deceased, and often put the widows
or the heirs to the blush? How shall he hide them from the eyes of the
envious, malicious, keen-sighted town, and offend a thousand people
who will insist on taking their due places at all funerals? Besides,
what would you have him do? Shall he style his father _Noble homme_ and
perhaps _Honorable homme_, whilst he himself is dubbed _Messire_?[281]
(22.) How many men are like trees, already strong and full grown, which
are transplanted into some gardens, to the astonishment of those people
who behold them in these fine spots, where they never saw them grow,
and who neither know their beginning nor their progress!
(23.) If some dead were to rise again and saw who bore their
illustrious names, and that their ancient lands, their castles, and
their venerable seats were owned by the very men whose fathers had
perhaps been their tenants, what would they think of our age?
(24.) Nothing makes us better understand what trifling things
Providence thinks He bestows on men in granting them wealth, money,
dignities, and other advantages, than the manner in which they are
distributed and the kind of men who have the largest share.
(25.) If you were to enter a kitchen, where all that art and method can
do is employed to gratify your palate, and make you eat more than you
want; if you see how the viands are prepared which will be served up
at the feast; if you observe how they are manipulated, and the various
modifications they undergo before they become first-rate dishes, and
are brought to that neatness and elegance which charm your eyes, puzzle
your choice, and make you decide to taste them all; and then saw the
ingredients of this feast anywhere else than on a well-spread table,
how offended and disgusted you would be! If you were to go behind the
scenes, and count the weights, the wheels, the ropes in “flights” and
in the machinery; if you were to consider how many men are employed in
executing these movements, and how they ply their arms and strain their
nerves, you would ask if these are the prime motors and mainsprings of
so handsome and natural a spectacle, which seems so full of life and so
intuitive, and you would be greatly astonished at such efforts and such
energy. In like manner inquire not too narrowly into the origin of the
fortune of any farmer of the revenue.
(26.) This youth,[282] so ruddy, so florid, and so redolent of health,
is lord of an abbey and of ten other benefices; they bring him in
altogether one hundred and twenty thousand[283] _livres_ a year, which
are paid him in golden coin.[284] Elsewhere there are a hundred and
twenty indigent families who have no fire to warm themselves during
winter, no clothes to cover themselves, and who are often wanting
bread; they are in a wretched and piteous state of poverty. What an
inequality? And does this not clearly prove that there must be a future
state?
(27.) Chrysippus,[285] an upstart, and the first nobleman of his
lineage, thirty years ago limited his aims to two thousand _livres_
a year; this was the height of his desires and the summit of his
ambition; at least he said so, as many still remember. Some time
after, I do not know by what means, he was able to give to one of his
daughters as her dowry as much money as he thought formerly an ample
competency for his whole lifetime. A like sum is put away for each of
his other children, and he has a good many of them; and this is only an
advance of their share in his estate, for a good deal of wealth may be
expected at his death. He is still alive, and though advanced in years,
employs the few days which still remain to him in labouring to become
richer.