world are to him as if they did not exist. He is not satisfied with
occupying the best seat at table, but he must take the seats of two
other guests, and forgets that the dinner was not provided for him
alone, but for the company as well; he lays hold of every dish, and
looks on each course as his own; he never sticks to one single dish
until he has tried them all, and would like to enjoy them all at one
and the same time. At table his hands serve for a knife and fork; he
paws the meat over and over again, and tears it to pieces, so that if
the other guests wish to dine, it must be on his leavings. He does not
spare them any of those filthy and disgusting habits which are enough
to spoil the appetite of the most hungry; the gravy and sauce run
over his chin and beard; if he takes part of a stew out of a dish, he
spills it by the way over another dish and on the cloth, so you may
distinguish him by his track. He eats with a great deal of smacking and
noise, rolls his eyes, and uses the table as a manger, picks his teeth
and continues eating; he makes every place his home, and will have as
much elbow-room in church and in a theatre as if he were in his own
room. When he rides in a coach, it must always be forward, for he says
that any other seat will make him fall in a swoon, if we can believe
him. When he travels he is always in advance of his companions, so as
to get first to the inn, and choose the best room and the best bed for
himself; he makes use of everybody, and his own and other peopleʼs
servants run about and do his errands; everything is his he lays his
hands on, even clothes and luggage; he disturbs every one, but does
not inconvenience himself for anybody; he pities no one, and knows no
other indispositions but his own, his over-feeding and biliousness; he
laments no personʼs death, fears no oneʼs but his own, and to redeem
his own life, would willingly consent to see the entire human race
become extinct.
(122.) Clito[572] never had but two things to do in his life, to dine
at noon and to eat supper in the evening;[573] he seems only born
for digestion, and has only one subject of conversation, namely, the
_entrées_ of the last dinner he was present at, and how many different
kinds of _potages_[574] there were; he then talks of the roasts and
_entremets_; remembers precisely what dishes were brought up after
the first course, does not forget the side-dishes, the fruit and the
_assiettes_;[575] names all the wines and every kind of liquor he has
drunk; shows himself as well acquainted as a man can possibly be with
culinary language, and makes his hearer long to be at a good dinner,
provided he were not there. He prides himself on his palate which
cannot be imposed upon, and has never been exposed to the terrible
inconvenience of being compelled to eat a wretched stew or to drink
an indifferent wine. He is a remarkable person in his way, who has
brought the art of good living to the highest perfection; there never
will be another man who ate so much and so nicely; he is, therefore,
the supreme arbiter of dainty bits, and it would hardly be allowable
to like anything he did not approve of. But he is no more! When he was
almost dying he still would be carried to the table, and had guests to
dinner on the day of his death. Wherever he may be he is sure to eat;
and should he rise from the grave it will be to eat.
(123.) Ruffinusʼ hair begins to turn grey, but he is healthy; his ruddy
cheeks and sparkling eyes promise him at least twenty years more; he
is lively, jovial, familiar, and does not care for anything; he laughs
heartily, even when he is alone, and without any cause; he is satisfied
with himself, with his family, his little fortune, and calls himself
fortunate. Some time since he lost his only son, a young man of great
promise, who might have become an honour to his family; other people
shed tears, but he did not, and merely said, “My son is dead, and his
mother will soon follow him,” and then he was comforted. He has no
passions, no friends nor enemies; no one troubles him; everybody and
everything suits him; he speaks to those he never saw before with the
same freedom and confidence as to those he calls his old friends, and
very soon tells them his bad jokes and stories. Some people address him
and then leave him, but he does not mind it, and the tale he began to
one person he finishes to another who has just come.
(124.) N ... is less worn with age than disease, for he is not
more than threescore and eight, but he has the gout and suffers
from nephritic colic; he looks quite emaciated and has a greenish
complexion, which forebodes no good; yet he has his lands marled, and
reckons he has no need to manure them these fifteen years; he has some
young wood planted, and hopes that in less than twenty years it will
afford him a delicious shade. He has a house built of free-stone, and
at the corners are iron clasps to make it stronger; he assures you,
coughing, and in a weak and feeble tone of voice, that it will last
for ever. He walks every day among the workmen, leaning on one of his
servantsʼ arms, shows his friends what he has done, and tells them what
he purposes to do. He does not build for his children, for he has none,
nor for his heirs, who are scoundrels and who have quarrelled with him;
he only builds to enjoy it himself, and to-morrow he will be dead.
(125.) Antagoras has a familiar[576] and popular countenance; he is as
well known to the mob as the parish beadle or as the saint carved in
stone adorning the high altar. Every morning he runs up and down the
courts and the offices of parliament,[577] and every evening up and
down the streets and highways of the town. He has had a lawsuit these
forty years, and has always been nearer his death than the end of his
legal troubles. There has not been any celebrated case or any long and
difficult lawsuit tried that he has not had something to do with; his
name is in the mouth of every barrister, and agrees as naturally with
such words as “plaintiff” or “defendant” as an adjective does with a
substantive. He is everybodyʼs kinsman, and disliked by all; there
is scarcely a family of whom he does not complain, or who does not
complain of him; he is perpetually engaged in seizing some property, in
asking for an injunction[578] to prevent the sale of an office[579] or
some stocks, in using the privilege of pleading in certain cases[580]
or of seeing some judgments put into execution; besides this, he is
every day at some meeting of creditors, is appointed chairman of their
committee,[581] and loses money by every bankruptcy; he finds some
spare moments for a few private visits, and like an old gossip[582]
talks about lawsuits, and tells you all the news about them. You leave
him one hour at one end of the town and find him the next at another
end,[583] where he arrived before you, and has been giving again all
the details of his lawsuit. If you yourself are engaged in a lawsuit
and wait early the next morning on your judge,[584] you are sure to
meet Antagoras, who must first leave before you can be admitted.[585]
(126.) Some men pass their long lives in defending themselves and in
injuring other people, and die at last, worn out with age, after having
caused as many evils as they suffered.
(127.) There must, I confess, be seizures of land, distraint
on furniture, prisons, and punishments; but without taking into
consideration justice, law, and stern necessity, it has always
astonished me to observe with what violence some men treat other men.
(128.) Certain wild animals, male and female, are scattered over the
country, dark, livid, and quite tanned by the sun, who are chained, as
it were, to the land they are always digging and turning up and down
with an unwearied stubbornness; their voice is somewhat articulate, and
when they stand erect they discover a human face, and, indeed, are men.
At night they retire to their burrows, where they live on black bread,
water, and roots; they spare other men the trouble of sowing, tilling
the ground, and reaping for their sustenance, and, therefore, deserve
not to be in want of that bread they sow themselves.
(129.) Don Fernando resides in his province, and is idle, ignorant,
slanderous, quarrelsome, knavish, intemperate, and impertinent; but he
draws his sword against his neighbours, and exposes his life for the
smallest trifle; he has killed several men, and will be killed in his
turn.[586]
(130.) A provincial nobleman, useless to his country, his family and
himself, often without a roof to cover himself, without clothes or the
least merit, tells you ten times a day that he is of noble lineage,
despises all graduates, doctors, and presidents of parliaments[587] as
upstarts, and spends all his time among parchments and old title-deeds,
which he would not part with to be appointed chancellor.[588]
(131.) Power, favour, genius, riches, dignity, nobility, force,
industry, capacity, virtue, vice, weakness, stupidity, poverty,
impotence, plebeianism, and servility generally are combined in men
in endless variety. These qualities mixed together in a thousand
various manners, and compensating one another in many ways, form the
different states and conditions of human life. Moreover, people who are
acquainted with each otherʼs strength and weakness act reciprocally,
for they believe it their duty; they know their equals, are conscious
that some men are their superiors, and that they are superior to some
others; and hence familiarity, respect or deference, pride or contempt.
This is the reason why, in places of public resort, we see each moment
some persons we wish to accost or bow to, and others we pretend not
to know, and still less desire to meet; and why we are proud of being
with the first and ashamed of the others. Hence it even happens that
the very person with whom you think it an honour to be seen, and
with whom you are desirous to converse, deems you troublesome and
leaves you; and that often the very person who blushes when he meets
others, receives the same treatment when others meet him, and that a
man who treated others with contempt is himself disdained, for it is
common enough to despise those who despise us. How wretched is such a
behaviour; and since it is certain that in this strange interchange
we gain on one side what we lose on another, should we not do better
to abandon all haughtiness and pride, qualities so unsuited to frail
humanity, and make an arrangement to treat one another with mutual
kindness, by which we should at once gain the advantage of never being
mortified ourselves, and the happiness, which is just as great, of
never mortifying others?
(132.) Instead of being frightened, or even ashamed, at being called a
philosopher, everybody in this world ought to have a strong tincture of
philosophy;[589] it suits every one: its practice is useful to people
of all ages, sexes, and conditions; it consoles us for the happiness
of others, for the promotion of those whom we think undeserving, for
failures, and decay of strength and beauty; it steels us against
poverty, age, sickness, and death, against fools and buffoons; it will
help us to pass away our life without a wife, or to bear with the one
with whom we have to live.
(133.) Men are one hour overjoyed at trifles, and the next overcome
with grief for a mere disappointment; nothing is more unequal and
incoherent than the emotions stirring their hearts and minds in so
short a time. If they would set no higher value on the things of this
world than they really deserve, this evil would be cured.
(134.) It is as difficult to find a vain man who believes himself as
happy as he deserves, as a modest man who believes himself too unhappy.
(135.) When I contemplate the fortune of princes and of their
Ministers, which is not mine, I am prevented from thinking myself
unhappy by considering, at the same time, the fate of the vine-dresser,
the soldier, and the stone-cutter.
(136.) There is but one real misfortune which can befall a man, and
that is to find himself at fault, and to have something to reproach
himself with.
(137.) The generality of men are more capable of great efforts to
obtain their ends than of continuous perseverance; their occupation
and inconstancy deprives them of the fruits of the most promising
beginnings; they are often overtaken by those who started some time
after them, and who walk slowly but without intermission.
(138.) I almost dare affirm that men know better how to plan certain
measures than to pursue them, how to resolve what they must needs
do and say than to do or to say what is necessary. A man is firmly
determined not to mention a certain subject when negotiating some
business; and afterwards, either through passion, garrulity, or in the
heat of conversation, it is the first thing which escapes him.
(139.) Men are indolent in what is their particular duty, whilst they
think it very deserving, or rather whilst it pleases their vanity, to
busy themselves about those things which do not concern them, nor suit
their condition of life or character.
(140.) There is as much difference between a heterogeneous character
a man adopts and his real character as there is between a mask and a
countenance of flesh and blood.
(141.) Telephus has some intelligence, but ten times less, if rightly
computed, than he imagines he has; therefore, in everything he says,
does, meditates, and projects, he goes ten times beyond his capacity,
and thus always exceeds the true measure of his intellectual power and
grasp. And this argument is well founded. He is limited by a barrier,
as it were, and should be warned not to pass it; but he leaps over
it, launches out of his sphere, and though he knows his own weakness,
always displays it; he speaks about what he does not understand, or
badly understands; attempts things above his power, and aims at what
is too much for him; he thinks himself the equal of the very best men
ever seen. Whatever is good and commendable in him is obscured by an
affectation of doing something great and wonderful; people can easily
see what he is not, but have to guess what he really is. He is a man
who never measures his ability, and does not know himself; his true
character is not to be satisfied with the one that suits him, and which
is his own.
(142.) The intelligence of a highly cultivated man is not always the
same, and has its ebbs and flows; sometimes he is full of animation,
but cannot keep it up; then, if he be wise, he will say little, not
write at all, and not endeavour either to draw upon his imagination, or
try to please. Does a man sing who has a cold? and should he not rather
wait till he recovers his voice?
A blockhead is an automaton,[590] a piece of machinery moved by springs
and weights, always turning him about in one direction; he always
displays the same equanimity, is uniform, and never alters; if you have
seen him once you have seen him as he ever was, and will be; he is at
best but like a lowing ox or a whistling blackbird; I may say, he acts
according to the persistence and doggedness of his nature and species.
What you see least is his torpid soul, which is never stirring, but
always dormant.
(143.) A blockhead never dies; or if, according to our manner of
speaking, he dies at one time or other, I may truly say he gains by it,
and that, when others die, he begins to live. His mind then thinks,
reasons, draws inferences and conclusions, judges, foresees, and does
everything it never did before; it finds itself released from a lump
of flesh, in which it seemed buried without having anything to do,
and without any motion, or at least any worthy of that name; I should
almost say, it blushes to have lodged in such a body, as well as for
its own crude and imperfect organs, to which it has been shackled so
long, and with which it could only produce a blockhead or a fool. Now
it is equal to the greatest of those minds which animated the bodies of
the cleverest or the most intellectual men, and the mind of the merest
clodhopper[591] is no longer to be distinguished from those of Condé,
Richelieu, Pascal, and Lingendes.[592]
(144.) A false delicacy in familiar actions, in manners or conduct,
is not so called because it is simulated, but because it is really
employed in things and on occasions where it is utterly out of place.
On the other hand, a false delicacy in taste or temper is only so when
it is feigned or affected. Emilia screams as loud as she can when a
trifling accident happens, and when she is not a bit afraid; another
lady affectedly turns pale at the sight of a mouse, or is fond of
violets, and swoons at the scent of a tuberose.
(145.) Who would venture and flatter himself to satisfy mankind?
Let no prince, however good and powerful, pretend to do so. Let him
promote their pleasures,[593] let him open his palace to his courtiers,
and even admit them amongst his own followers; let him show them
other spectacles in those very places of which the mere sight is a
spectacle;[594] let him give them their choice of games, concerts,
and refreshments, and add to this magnificent cheer, amidst the most
complete liberty; join with them in their amusements; let the great
man become affable, and the hero humane and familiar, and this would
not be sufficient. Men finally tire of the very things which at
first enraptured them; they would forsake the table of the gods; and
nectar, in time, would become insipid. Through vanity and wretched
over-refinement, they do not hesitate to criticise things which are
perfect; in spite of every exertion, their taste, if we may believe
them, can never be gratified, and even regal expenditure would be
unsuccessful; malice prompts them to do what they can to lessen the
joy others may feel in satisfying them. These same people, commonly so
sycophantic and complaisant, are liable to forget themselves; sometimes
they are scarcely to be recognised, and we see the man even in the
courtier.
(146.) Affectation in gesture, speech, and manners is frequently the
outcome of indolence or indifference; whereas a great passion or
matters of importance seem to compel a man to become natural.
(147.) Men have no characters, or if they have, it is that of having
no constant and invariable one, by which they may at all times be
known; they cannot bear to be always the same, to persevere either
in regularity or license; and if they sometimes forsake one virtue
for another, they more often get disgusted with one vice through
another vice. Their passions run counter to another, and their foibles
contradict each other; extremes are easier to them than a regular and
natural conduct would be; they dislike moderation, and are extravagant
in good as well as evil things; and when they no longer are able to
stand excesses they relieve themselves by change. Adrastes was such
a profligate libertine that he found it comparatively easy to comply
with the fashion and to become devout; he would have found it much more
difficult to become an honest man.[595]
(148.) What is the reason that some people, who can meet the most
trying disasters with coolness, lose all command over themselves and
fly into a passion at the least inconvenience? Such conduct is not
wise, for virtue is always the same and does not contradict itself;
it is a vice, then, and nothing else but vanity, roused and stirred
up by those events which make a noise in the world and when there is
something to be gained, but which is negligent in all other things.
(149.) We seldom repent talking too little, but very often talking too
much; this is a common and well-known maxim, which everybody knows and
nobody practises.
(150.) To say things of our enemies which are not true, and to lie to
defame them, is to avenge ourselves on ourselves, and give them too
great an advantage over us.
(151.) If men knew how to blush at their own actions, how many crimes,
and not only those that are hidden, but those that are public and well
known, would never be committed!
(152.) If some men are not so honest as they might be, the fault lies
in their bringing up.
(153.) There exists in some people a happy mediocrity of intelligence
which contributes to keep them discreet.
(154.) Rods and ferulas are for children;[596] crowns, sceptres, caps,
gowns, _fasces_, kettledrums, archersʼ dresses for men.[597] Reason and
justice, without their gewgaws, would neither convince nor intimidate;
man who has intelligence, is led by his eyes and his ears.
(155.) Timon, or the misanthrope, may have an austere and savage mind,
but outwardly he is polite, and even ceremonious; he does not lose all
command over himself, and does not become familiar with other men; on
the contrary, he treats them politely and gravely, and in a manner
that does not encourage any freedom to be taken; he does not desire
to be better acquainted with them nor to make friends of them, and is
somewhat like a lady visiting another lady.[598]
(156.) Reason is ever allied to truth, and is almost identical with
it; only one way leads to it, but a thousand roads can lead us astray.
The study of wisdom is not so extensive as that of fools and coxcombs;
he who has seen none but polite and reasonable men, either does not
know men, or knows them only by halves. Whatever difference may be
noticed in disposition and manners, intercourse with the world and
politeness produce the same appearance in all, and externally make men
resemble one another in some way which mutually pleases, and being
common to all, leads us to believe that everything else is in the same
proportion. A man, on the contrary, who mixes with the common people,
or retires into the country, will, if he has eyes, in a short time make
some strange discoveries, and see things which are new to him, and
which he never before imagined existed; gradually and by experience he
increases his knowledge of humanity, and almost calculates in how many
different ways man may become unbearable.
(157.) After having maturely considered mankind and found out the
insincerity of their thoughts, opinions, inclinations, and affections,
we are compelled to acknowledge that stubbornness does them more harm
than inconstancy.
(158.) How many weak, effeminate, careless minds exist without any
extraordinary faults, and who yet are proper subjects for satire! How
many various kinds of ridicule are disseminated amongst the whole human
race, which by their very eccentricity are of little consequence,
and are not ameliorated by instruction or morality. Such vices are
individual and not contagious, and are rather personal than belonging
to humanity in general.
[Illustration]
XII.
OF OPINIONS.
(1.) Nothing is more like a deep-rooted conviction than obstinate
conceit; whence proceed parties, intrigues, and heresies.
(2.) We do not always let our thoughts run on one and the same subject
without varying them: infatuation[599] and disgust closely follow on
one another.
(3.) Great things astonish and small dishearten us; custom familiarises
us with both.
(4.) Two qualities quite opposed to one another equally bias our minds:
custom and novelty.
(5.) There is nothing so mean and so truly vulgar as extravagantly to
praise those very persons of whom we had but very indifferent opinions
before their promotion.
(6.) A princeʼs favour does not exclude merit, nor does it even suppose
its existence.
(7.) We are puffed up with pride and entertain a high opinion of
ourselves and of the correctness of our judgment, and yet it is
surprising we neglect to make use of it in speaking of other peopleʼs
merit; fashion, the fancy of the people or of the prince, carry us
away like a torrent; we extol rather what is praised than what is
praiseworthy.
(8.) I doubt whether anything is approved and commended more
reluctantly than what deserves most to be approved and praised; and
whether virtue, merit, beauty, good actions, and the best writings
produce a more natural and certain impression than envy, jealousy, and
antipathy. A pious person[600] does not speak well of a saint, but of
another pious person. If a handsome woman allows that another woman is
beautiful, we may safely conclude she excels her; or if a poet praises
a brother poetʼs verses, it is pretty sure they are wretched and
spiritless.
(9.) Men do not easily like one another, and are not much inclined
to commend each other. Neither actions, behaviour, thoughts, nor
expression please them nor are satisfactory; they substitute for what
is recited, told, or read to them what they themselves would have done
in such a circumstance, or what they think and have written on such a
subject; and are so full of their own ideas that they have no room for
anotherʼs.
(10.) Men are generally inclined to become dissolute and frivolous,
and such a large number of pernicious or ridiculous examples is to
be found in this world, that I should feel inclined to believe that
eccentricity, if kept within bounds and not gone too far, would almost
be like correct reasoning and regular behaviour.
“We must do as others do” is a dangerous maxim, which nearly always
means “we must do wrong” if it is applied to any but external things of
no consequence, and depending on custom, fashion, or decency.