XII. The perfect hypocrites are few in number. I call those perfect
hypocrites, whose outside is all devotion, and who within, are all
baseness and iniquity, or such as answer the description of the
satyrist:
_Qui curios simulant, et bacchanalia vivunt._
Upon serious reflection, it will not appear wonderful these are so
few, for notwithstanding the road of hypocrisy is the shortest a man
can pursue, to arrive at the temple of Fortune; still we rarely see
men endued with a sufficient degree of perseverance, to engage in so
laborious an undertaking; for conceive the practice of virtue to be
ever so arduous, the pursuit of the feigned, is much more painful
than that of the true. In order to carry it on, there is need of a
constant studiousness, joined to a continual anxiety, and also an
indefatigable watchfulness, to suppress the sallies of the soul, which
without intermission is making efforts to disclose herself. There is
no passion, which, like a wild beast chained, strives more forcibly
to break its confinement, than that of dissimulation. The animal
faculty of the heart is as plainly reflected on the countenance, as
the vital is manifested in the artery. The tokens of their internal
movements, may be compared to those of a clock, which has a bell that
proclaims them, and a hand that points them out. There is not a word,
nor an action, if not restrained by a contrary impetus, which would
not follow the impulse of that animated machine. Curiosity and lust,
importune and tempt a man’s eyes by turns; he is anxious to give vent
to his bosom by his voice, and his brow manifests his impatience to
do it; a pleasant jest provokes to laughter; an injury calls for
vengeance; and the tongue and the ear are averse to silence. There
is not a member which is not put under painful restrictions, nor a
faculty that is not constrained, by being thus compelled to wear the
forced appearance of composure. The strings, of which the harmony of
an exterior modesty are composed, are infinite, and ought always to be
kept violently on the stretch; the desires also of possessing beloved
objects, are continually tapping at the doors of the senses. What force
is sufficient to resist so many impulses? or what address, equal to
managing so many reins at a time?
XIII. Add to this, the apprehension of their deceit being detected;
for they look upon all the eyes that surround them as so many spies of
their enemies; and they are very well aware, with all their caution,
of the difficulty of always preserving their souls impenetrable to
foreign inspection; for let them be never so careful in shutting up
their windows, there will ever remain, by imperceptible omissions,
innumerable crevices; and although they may succeed in deceiving the
multitude, there are never wanting transcendent spirits, who can
discern and distinguish, whereever they meet with it, the natural
from the artificial. Let affection strive to imitate reality never so
industriously; one or another will make his remarks, which, although
they cannot be explained, may be conceived, and may be compared to the
character of a language, which, notwithstanding you comprehend it, you
can’t pronounce. The very means that are taken to conceal the soul,
manifest and disclose it, because the reserve or caution that is used
for this purpose is visible, and it is also visible and well known,
that innocent people have no need of this disguise. Every man who uses
great circumspection, makes himself suspected. He who is confirmed
that he possesses a good conscience, acts and speaks with openness;
nor would it avail a hypocrite, to endeavour at imitating that native
frankness; for he never could hit upon the true criterion of the
character. Those of experience and penetration, would always be able to
distinguish the copy from the original; therefore I believe, that to
this day, there never was a hypocrite who succeeded in deceiving all
the world.
XIV. O how much less toilsome would it be, for hypocrites to tread the
path of true virtue, than to pursue that of false! The first affords
intervals of ease and tranquillity to the mind, and also administers to
it many comforts; but the fiction of virtue, demands a constant labour
of thought, and a continual stretch of invention to save appearances.
It is like a fabric built in the air, which would fall to the ground,
if you neglect to keep it propped up a minute.
XV. I may be told, that with time and practice, fiction would become
habitual, and then a man would find no difficulty in dissembling.
Truly I doubt whether habit has power to effect so much. When art
fights against the whole bent or force of nature, I don’t think
the case ever happened, of the first obtaining a complete triumph;
but judge rather, that the last always remains with a residue of
strength, sufficient to renew the combat. It sometimes falls out with
a consummate hypocrite, as it happened to the cat converted to a fine
lady in the fable of Æsop. She continued to sit with much studied
composure at the table, till a rat entered the room; but instantly
upon the animal’s appearing, hurried away by that native impulse which
supersedes all caution, she with all her might threw herself on her
beloved prey, and exposed her nature to the bye-standers.
XVI. But admitting, that, by long practice in deceit, a man could
overcome all difficulties; this does not obviate the mistake of the
hypocrites; for with a great deal less labour, and in a much less time,
he could have made virtue more familiar to him than dissimulation.
The first is most conformable to the inclination of man as a rational
creature, and he only acts in contradiction to this principle as a
sensitive one; the last is a violence on his nature, both as a rational
and as a sensitive one. In a land of virtue, the soul may be said to
live at home; in that of deceit, she resides as a total stranger. She
certainly then must find more fatigue and trouble in familiarizing
herself to deceit, and more difficulty in making dissimulation seem
natural to her than virtue.