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Title: The "Characters" of Jean de La Bruyère

Author: Jean de La Bruyère

Translator: Henri Van Laun

Release date: August 19, 2014 [eBook #46633]
Most recently updated: October 24, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE
"CHARACTERS" OF JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE ***

Transcriberʼs note:

Due to the error in the numbering of the chapters in the original (no chapter number II and
no chapter number for chapter “OF FASHION”), chapters have been renumbered as
follows:

I->I, III->II, IV->III, V->IV, VI->V, VII->VI, VIII->VII, IX-VIII, X->IX, XI->X, XII->XI, XIII->XII,
(OF FASHION)->XIII, XV->XIV, XVI->XV, XVII->XVI.

The cover image was created by the transcriber and is placed in the public domain.

THE “CHARACTERS”
OF

JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE

PUBLISHERʼS NOTE.
Three hundred copies of this book printed for England, and two
hundred, with an American imprint, for sale in that country. No more will
be printed.
No. 13

JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE

THE “CHARACTERS”
OF

JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE

NEWLY RENDERED INTO ENGLISH
By HENRI VAN LAUN

With an Introduction, a Biographical Memoir and Notes

ILLUSTRATED WITH TWENTY-FOUR ETCHINGS
By B. DAMMAN and V. FOULQUIER

LONDON
JOHN C. NIMMO
14, KING WILLIAM STREET, STRAND, W.C.
1885

CONTENTS.
PAGE
INTRODUCTION 11
BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR 26
PREFACE i
OF WORKS OF THE MIND 7
OF PERSONAL MERIT 39
OF WOMEN 58
OF THE AFFECTIONS 86
OF SOCIETY AND OF CONVERSATION 100
OF THE GIFTS OF FORTUNE 132
OF THE TOWN 164
OF THE COURT 183
OF THE GREAT 221
OF THE SOVEREIGN AND THE STATE 245
OF MANKIND 271
OF OPINIONS 328
OF FASHION 377
OF CERTAIN CUSTOMS 403
OF THE PULPIT 442
OF FREETHINKERS 459

LIST OF EMBELLISHMENTS.
Etchings—Portraits.
PAGE
JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE Frontispiece
MONTAIGNE 23
DESCARTES 151
LE BRUN 236
LOUIS XIV. 270
WILLIAM III. 374
BOSSUET 453
Etchings—Vignettes.
PAGE
THE AUTHOR i
STUDY 7
TIRED OUT 39
THE TOILETTE 58
AFFECTION 86
SOCIETY 100
RUSTIC COURTSHIP 132
THE TUILERIES 164
THE COURT 183
THE GREAT 221
10THE PRICE OF GLORY 245
THE CONSULTATION 271

DIFFERENT OPINIONS 328
THE BIRD-FANCIER 377
NOBLE AND CITIZEN 403
MONK PREACHING 442
BELIEF 459

INTRODUCTION.
T is a common practice for translators to state to the public that
the author they are going to introduce, and whom they
sometimes traduce, is one of the greatest men of the age, and
that already for a long time a general desire has been felt to
make the acquaintance of such a master-mind. It would be an
insult to French scholars to speak thus of La Bruyère, for the merits of his
“Characters” are known; but, for the benefit of those who are not so well
acquainted with our author, I may state that he is neither so terse,
epigrammatic, sublime, nor profound as either Pascal or La Rochefoucauld
are, but that he is infinitely more readable, as he is always trying to please
his readers, and now and then sacrifices even a certain depth of thought to
attain his object.
La Bruyère takes good care to tell us that he has not imitated any one;
Pascal “makes metaphysics subservient to religion, explains the nature of
the soul, its passions and vices; treats of the great and serious motives
which lead to virtue, and endeavours to make a man a Christian;” La
Rochefoucauldʼs “mind, instructed by his knowledge of society, and with a
delicacy equal to his penetration, observed that self-love in man was the
cause of all his errors, and attacked it without intermission, wherever it was
found; and this one thought, multiplied as it were in a thousand different
ways by a choice of words and a variety of expression, has always the
charm of novelty.”1 Our author, on the contrary, openly declares: “I did not
wish to write any maxims, for they are like moral laws, and I acknowledge
that I possess neither sufficient authority nor genius for a legislator.”2
What is the plan and idea of the book of “Characters?” Let La Bruyère
himself answer this: “Of the sixteen chapters which compose it, there are
fifteen wholly employed in detecting the fallacy and ridicule to be found in

the objects of human passions and inclinations, and in demolishing such
obstacles as at first weaken, and afterwards extinguish, any knowledge of
God in mankind; therefore, these chapters are merely preparatory to the
sixteenth and last, wherein atheism is attacked, and perhaps routed, wherein
the proofs of a God, such at least as weak man is capable of receiving, are
produced; wherein the providence of God is defended against the insults
and complaints of freethinkers.”3
La Bruyère is not a speculative moralist, but an observer of the manners
of men, or, as he likes to call himself a philosopher, and above all a
Christian philosopher, such as a friend of Bossuet ought to be. He was the
first to make morality attractive, and to paint characters in a literary and
delicate manner; he does not dogmatise, and above all shows neither
personal hatred nor venom; in other words, to use his own expressions, he
“gives back to the public what it lent”4 him.
Underneath the literary man people often look for the man, with all his
passion, his likes and dislikes; hence the many “Keys” of the “Characters,”
published during the authorʼs lifetime and after his death, in which all kinds
of allusions were attempted, and all sorts of hypothetical explanations
ventured on.
Of the concocters of the “Keys” La Bruyère speaks as follows:
“They make it their business, if possible, to discover to which of their
friends or enemies these portraits can apply; they neglect everything that
seems like a sound remark or a serious reflection, though almost the whole
book consists of them; they dwell upon nothing but the portraits or
characters, and after having explained them in their own way, and after they
imagine they have found out the originals, they publish to the world long
lists, or, as they call them, ‘Keys,’ but which are indeed ‘false keys,’ and as
useless to them as they are injurious to the persons whose names are
deciphered, and to the writer who is the cause of it, though an involuntary
one.”5
And yet some of these “Keys” have been of great use to modern
commentators, and served to elucidate several traits in the “Characters”
which otherwise would not have been discovered.
It would be ridiculous to deny that La Bruyère never had any particular
personage in view in delineating a certain character, but, as he himself says:
“If I might be allowed to be a little vain, I should be apt to believe that my
“Characters” have pretty well portrayed men in general, since they resemble

so many in particular; and since every one thinks he finds there his
neighbour or his countryman. I did indeed paint after the life, but did not
always mean to paint, in my book of “Characters,” one individual or
another. I did not hire myself out to the public to draw only such portraits as
should be true and like the originals, for fear that sometimes they would be
thought incredible, and appear feigned or imaginary ones. Becoming yet
more difficult I went farther, and took one lineament from one person and
one from another, and from these several lineaments, which might be found
in one and the same person, I drew some likely portraits, studying not so
much to please the reader by describing the characters of certain people, or,
as the malcontents would say, by satirising them, as to lay before him what
faults he ought to avoid, and what examples to follow.”6
Our author, therefore, did not wish to depict individuals, but men in
general; for man is the same in all seasons and at all times, and is swayed
by the same motives and passions, though they exercise a different
influence in various ages, produce different results amongst many races,
and do not even act in precisely the same manner in divers centuries,
climates, and under heterogeneous circumstances. He had no intention of
presenting a series of historical events,7 but of depicting Frenchmen at the
end of the seventeenth century as they lived, breathed, and moved; not
animated by violent likes and dislikes, as those of the Ligue or the Fronde
were, nor filled by the importance of their own overweening individualities.
When we read him, we behold in our mindʼs eye the subdued subjects of
Louis XIV., slavishly obeying the “Roi Soleil,” admitting the King can do
no wrong, becoming devout to please His Majesty and Madame de
Maintenon, inaugurating the reign of courtly hypocrisy, embracing the
principle of one religion in one state, and seeing the royal sun gradually
decline, and the star of William III. in its ascendancy.
The notes of the present edition are necessary, I imagine, to assist in
illustrating the life of a past age, for “no usages or customs are perennial,
but they vary with the times.... Nothing can be more opposed to our
manners than all these things; but the distance of time makes us relish
them.” The “Characters” themselves, as well as the notes, represent a
“history of ... times,” when the usual custom was “the selling of offices; that
is to say, the power of protecting innocence, punishing guilt, and doing
justice to the world, bought with ready money like a farm.” They will also
make my readers acquainted with “a great city,” which at the end of the

seventeenth century was “without any public places, baths, fountains,
amphitheatres, galleries, porticoes, or public walks, and this the capital of a
powerful kingdom; they will be told of persons whose whole life was spent
in going from one house to another; of decent women who kept neither
shops nor inns, yet had their houses open for those who would pay for their
admission,8 and where they could choose between dice, cards, and other
games, where feasting was going on, and which were very convenient for
all kinds of intercourse. They will be informed that people crowded the
street only to be thought in a hurry; that there was no conversation nor
cordiality, but that they were confused, and, as it were, alarmed by the rattle
of coaches which they had to avoid, and which drove through the streets as
if for a prize at some race. People will learn, without being greatly
astonished, that in times of public peace and tranquillity, the inhabitants
went to church and visited ladies and their friends, whilst wearing offensive
weapons; and that there was hardly any one who did not have dangling at
his side wherewith to kill another person with one thrust.”9
La Bruyère, though a shrewd observer, has the daring of an innovator,
but always remains very guarded in his language. When now and then his
feelings get the better of him, he expresses his opinions like a man, and
attacks the vices of his age with a boldness which none of his
contemporaries has surpassed. Nearly the whole of his chapter “Of the Gifts
of Fortune” is an attack on the financiers; in the chapter “Of the Great,” he
certainly does not flatter the courtiers, whilst he himself never pretends to
be anything else but “a plebeian,”10 and almost always sides with his own
class. If he flatters the king, it is because he thinks him necessary to the
state, and, perhaps, also because he wishes to have a defender against the
many enemies his book had raised up. He was, moreover, very cautious,
and in the endless alterations he made in the various editions of the
“Characters,”11 published during his lifetime, he but seldom envenomed the
barb he had shot, or boasted of it if he did so.12 Though he touched on all
the passions of men, he did not set one class against another, a task which
was left to the so-called philosophical authors of the eighteenth century.
The style of La Bruyère has been praised by competent judges for its
conciseness and picturesqueness; he always employs the right word in the
right place, is correct in his expressions, varied in his thoughts, highly
imaginative, and, therefore, maybe called a perfect literary artist.13 A few

words and expressions, which I have noticed, have become antiquated, or
have changed their meaning, but the “Characters” will still, I think, be read
for many ages, be found very entertaining, and, what cannot be said of the
works of every classical French author, will be better liked the more they
are read. If sometimes one of the characters is portrayed with too many
details, it is because it is taken not from one man, but composed of a series
of shrewd and clever observations made on different personages; and hence
our author calls them “Characters,” and not “portraits.”
Since La Bruyèreʼs death many editions of the “Characters” have
appeared; I have collated and compared the best of them, amongst which
those edited by Mons. G. Servois and Mons. A. Chassang have laid me
under great obligations. I am indebted to these two editions for many of the
notes, and for a few to those of MM. Destailleur and Hémardinquer.
Several imitations of the “Characters” have also been published,
amongst others a Petit la Bruyère, ou Caractères et mœurs des enfants de ce
siècle, and a Le la Bruyère des domestiques, précédé de considérations sur
Pétat de domesticité en général, both by that voluminous author, Madame
de Genlis, a Le la Bruyère des jeunes gens, and a similar work for jeunes
demoiselles, which attract the attention by the oddity of their titles.
La Bruyèreʼs “Characters” have also been translated several times into
English.
1. A translation seems to have been published in London as early as
1698.14
2. The “Characters of Theophrastus,” translated from M. Bruyèreʼs
French version by Eustace Budgell, Esq., London, 1699; and another
edition of the same work published in 1702.15
3. The “Characters of Theophrastus,” together with the Characters of the
Age, by La Bruyère, with a prefatory discourse and key: London, 1700.16
4. The “Characters, or the Manners of the Age,” by Monsieur de la
Bruyère of the French Academy, made English by several hands, with the
“Characters of Theophrastus,” translated from the Greek, and a prefatory
discourse to them, by Monsieur de la Bruyère, the third edition, corrected
throughout, and enlarged, with the Key inserted in the margin: London,
Leach, 1702.
5. The Works of Monsieur de la Bruyère, containing: I. The Moral
Characters of Theophrastus; II. The Characters, or the Manners of the
Present Age; III. M. Bruyèreʼs Speech upon his Admission into the French

Academy; IV. An Account of the Life and Writings of M. Bruyère, by
Monsieur Coste, with an original Chapter of the Manner of Living with
Great Men, written after the method of M. Bruyère, by N. Rowe, Esq. This
translation seems to have been very successful, for the sixth edition, the
only one I have seen, was published in two volumes in 1713: London, E.
Curll.
6. The Moral Characters of Theophrastus, by H. Gaily: London, 1725.
7. The Works of M. de la Bruyère, in two volumes, to which is added
the Characters of Theophrastus, also The Manner of Living with Great
Men, written after the manner of Bruyère, by N. Rowe, Esq.: London, J.
Bell, 1776.
I have consulted the edition mentioned in No. 2, and printed in 1702, in
which the attacks of La Bruyère on William III. in the Chapter “Of
Opinions,” §§ 118 and 119, are omitted; the sixth edition of the
“Characters,” given in No. 5, and published in 1713; and the edition
referred to in No. 7.
In the “Advertisement concerning the new edition” of 1713, printed
with the “Characters,” it is stated, “We procured the last English edition to
be compared verbatim with the last Paris edition (which is the ninth), and ...
all the Supplemental Reflections ... we got translated, and added to this
present edition; and that it might be as complete as possible, we have not
scrupled to translate even those parts which at first sight may perhaps
disoblige some who have a just veneration for the memory of our Glorious
Deliverer, the late King William.” La Bruyèreʼs speech upon his admission
into the French Academy was in this edition “made English by M. Ozell.”
In the edition of 1776, the “parts” reflecting on William III. are again
omitted. It greatly differs from the one of 1713, and is dedicated to the
Right Honourable Henry, Earl of Lincoln, Auditor of the Exchequer, Knight
of the most noble order of the Garter, &c. &c.
Many faults may be found in the old translations, but I have
endeavoured to amend them; and I never scrupled to adopt any expressions,
turn of thought, or even page of any or every translation of my
predecessors, whenever I found I could not improve upon them.
Translations of the “Characters” have appeared in several other
languages; four of these were published in German, the last one printed in
1872, whilst already the final chapter of La Bruyèreʼs book “Of
Freethinkers” had come out in a German dress in 1739; moreover, La

Bruyèreʼs book has been translated twice into Italian, once into Spanish,
and once into Russian.
The imitations of the “Characters” into English are—
1. “The English Theophrastus, or the Manners of the Age, being the
modern Characters of the Court, the Town, and the City,” by Boyer:
London, 1692 and 1702.
2. The Chapter “Of the Manner of Living with Great Men,” written after
the method of M. Bruyère, by N. Rowe, mentioned already.
3. Imitations of the Characters of Theophrastus: London, 1774.
I imagine that the author of the “English Theophrastus” was M. Abel
Boyer, the compiler of the well-known dictionary, born at Castres in 1664,
who fled to England at the revocation of the Edict of Nantes, and died at
Chelsea in 1729.
The direct influence of La Bruyèreʼs writings on English literature is not
easily to be traced. Swift may, possibly, have studied him, though he never
mentions him,17 and so may, perhaps, Anthony Cooper, third earl of
Shaftesbury,18 “who spoke French so fluently, and with so perfect an
accent, that in France he was often mistaken for a native.”19 I venture to
think that Addison and Steele were also acquainted with our Frenchman;20
but the English author who in expression, turn of thought, art of delineating
character, and in his mixture of seriousness and familiarity, is most like him,
is a doctor of divinity, R. South, Prebendary of Westminster, and Canon of
Christ Church, and yet he wrote before La Bruyère, and therefore cannot
have imitated him.21
I am not aware La Bruyère knew English, though his successor at the
French Academy states that he spoke several foreign languages;22 he was
well acquainted with German, Italian, and I think also Spanish; nor do I
know if any of Dr. Southʼs sermons were published separately before La
Bruyère wrote, and if he, therefore, could have seen them. I should imagine
he never read any of them.
Six portraits, which adorn these volumes, have been specially etched for
this edition by M. B. Damman, whilst the portrait of La Bruyère, and the
vignettes at the head of each chapter, have been drawn and etched by M. V.
Foulquier.
In the biographical memoir of La Bruyère, I have only stated what is
known of him, which is very little.

HENRI VAN LAUN.

A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR
OF

JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE.
OR a long time it has generally been taken for granted that our
author first saw the light at Dourdan, a small town in the
department of Seine-et-Oise, but it has only lately been
discovered that he was born in Paris in the month of August
1645. His father, Louis de la Bruyère, was contrôleur des rentes de la ville,
a sort of town-tax collector, whilst his mother, Elizabeth Hamonin,
belonged to a respectable family of Parisian burgesses. His grandfather and
great-grandfather on the fatherʼs side, declared partisans of the Ligue, were
both exiled from France when Henri IV. came to the throne. Perhaps,
therefore, the feelings our author entertained for the people may be
explained by atavism. A younger brother of his father and our authorʼs
godfather, a very wealthy man, and most likely a money-lender, as well as
interested in the farming of certain taxes, seems to have produced no
favourable impression on his god-son, for the latter always attacks the
farmers of the revenue.
Jean de la Bruyère was educated at the Oratorians in Paris, and two
years before his father died, in the month of June 1664, took his degree of
licentiate at law at the University of Orléans. He became an advocate, but in
1673, when twenty-eight years old, he forsook the bar, and bought for about
24,000 livres the post of trésorier des finances in the Caen district, in
Normandy. There were fifteen trésoriers at Caen, of whom only some were
obliged to reside there, but all became ennobled by virtue of their office,
and received as non-residents a yearly salary of about 2500 livres. La
Bruyère had bought this treasurership of a certain Joseph Metezeau, said to
have been a relative by marriage of Bossuet, but this is not at all proved;
and in 1686, about two years before he was going to publish the
“Characters,” and when already he had been for some time one of the

teachers of the Duke de Bourbon, a grandson of the Prince Louis de Condé,
he sold again his post for 18,000 livres to Charles-François de la Bonde,
Seigneur dʼIberville.
On the recommendation of Bossuet, La Bruyère, in 1684, had been
appointed teacher of history to the Duke de Bourbon; and remained with the
Condés for twelve years, until the day of his death. He instructed his pupil
not only in history, but also in geography, literature, and philosophy; yet his
lessons appear to have produced no great impression, and moreover, they
did not last very long, for the youthful duke married in 1685 a daughter of
Madame de Montespan and Louis XIV.,23 and La Bruyère received then the
appointment of écuyer gentilhomme to Henri Jules, Duke of Bourbon, the
father of his former pupil.
Why La Bruyère ever accepted the post of teacher, and afterwards of
“gentleman in waiting,” cannot be elucidated at the present time; he may
have suffered reverses of fortune, which compelled him to gain a
livelihood, but in any case he made the best use of his residence with a
noble family, by studying the personages whose vices and ridicules he so
admirably portrayed. Living with the Condés at their hotel at Paris, at their
country seats at Chantilly and Saint Maur, or when they were visiting the
Court, at Versailles, Marly, Fontainebleau, or Chambord, amidst the noble
and high-born of the land, without being considered one of them, he had the
best opportunity of penetrating the characters of those men who strutted
about in gaudy trappings, and lorded it over the common herd, whilst
soliciting offices or dignities; and for observing that these men were neither
superior in feelings nor intellect to the “common people.”24
All his reflections and observations he arranged under a certain number
of headings, called the whole of them “Characters,” and read some passages
to a few of his friends, who seem not to have been greatly smitten by them.
But this did not discourage La Bruyère; he translated into French the
“Characters” of Theophrastus, a Greek philosopher of the peripatetic
school, the successor of Aristotle as the head of the Academy, who seems to
have lived until about the year 285 B.C., wrote a prefatory discourse to
them, in which he displayed more satirical power than in any of his other
works,25 and resolved to publish his translation, and to print as a kind of
appendix his own “Characters” at the end of it. One day,26 whilst La
Bruyère was sitting in the shop of a certain bookseller, named Michallet,
which he visited almost daily, and was playing with the shopkeeperʼs little

daughter, he took the manuscript of the “Characters” out of his pocket, and
told Michallet he might print it if he liked, and keep the profits, if there
were any, as a dowry for his child. The bookseller hesitated for some time,
but finally published it, and the sale of it was so large that he brought out
one edition after another as quick as he could.
It is certain that the publication of the “Characters” in 1688 made its
author many enemies, but he calmly pursued the even tenor of his way, and
increased the number of his paragraphs during the remaining portion of his
life.27
In 1691 he endeavoured to be elected a member of the French Academy,
and to become the successor of Benserade,28 but failed, thanks to the
number of his enemies, amongst whom probably Fontenelle and Thomas
Corneille, the nephew and brother of the great poet Pierre Corneille, were
the most active; yet in 1693 he was elected without having made the usual
visits to the Academicians to solicit their votes,29 though his friends,
Racine, Boileau, the secretary of state, de Pontchartrain,30 and others, used
all their influence to ensure his nomination.
The speech he delivered at his reception seems not to have given
general satisfaction, for La Bruyère defended the partisans of the classical
and attacked those of the modern school, proclaimed Boileau a judicious
critic, and hardly admitted Corneille to be the equal of Racine. This speech,
preceded by a very satirical preface,31 in which he ridiculed his enemies
under the name of “Theobalds,” was published with the eighth edition of
the “Characters.”
But if he had bitter enemies he had also warm friends, amongst whom,
besides the illustrious men I have already named, must be reckoned:
Phélypeaux, the son of de Pontchartrain; the Marquis de Termes; Bossuet,
and his nephew the Abbé Bossuet; Fénelon; de Malesieu; Renaudot; de
Valincourt; Regnier-Desmarais; La Loubère, and Bouhier, nearly all present
or future members of the French Academy; the poet Santeuil, and the
historian Caton de Court.
We hardly know anything for certain of the character of La Bruyère
except by the glimpses we get now and then in his book, or by what is told
of him in some of the letters and writings of his friends and enemies. He
was unmarried, and seems to have been a man of a modest disposition, fond
of his books and his friends, polite in his manners, and willing to oblige. I

imagine he must have felt it sometimes hard to be dependent on so
fantastic, suspicious, half-demented a man as was the father of his former
pupil, above all, after the death of the great Condé, which took place on the
8th of December 1686,32 and also to have disliked being made now and
then the butt of courtiers33 his mental inferiors, but aristocratic superiors;
hence he was often silent for fear of being laughed at.34
He was scarcely fifty when, according to some reports, he became
suddenly deaf; a few days afterwards, during the night of the 10th of May
1696, he died of an attack of apoplexy at the hotel of the Condés at
Versailles.
In 1699 were published some Dialogues sur le Quiétisme, attributed to
La Bruyère; but as the editor, the Abbé du Pin, admitted he had partly
altered them, as well as added some of his own, it is difficult to judge what
was the original share of our author in their composition.
Only twenty-one authenticated letters of La Bruyère are in existence, of
which seventeen are in the collection of the Duke dʼAumale, at
Twickenham.

PREFACE.
“Admonere voluimus, non mordere; prodesse, non lædere;
consulere moribus hominum, non officere.”35

T HE subject-matter of this work being borrowed from the public, I now
give back to it what it lent me; it is but right that having finished the
whole work throughout with the utmost regard to truth I am capable
of, and which it deserves from me, I should make restitution of it. The
world may view at leisure its picture drawn from life, and may correct any
of the faults I have touched upon, if conscious of them. This is the only goal
a man ought to propose to himself in writing, though he must not in the
least expect to be successful; however, as long as men are not disgusted
with vice we should also never tire of admonishing them; they would
perhaps grow worse were it not for censure or reproof, and hence the need
of preaching and writing. Neither orators nor authors can conceal the joy
they feel on being applauded, whereas they ought to blush if they aim at
nothing more than praise in their speeches or writings; besides, the surest
and least doubtful approbation is a change and regeneration in the morals of
their readers and hearers. We should neither write nor speak but to instruct;

yet, if we happen to please, we should not be sorry for it, since by those
means we render those instructive truths more palatable and acceptable.
When, therefore, any thoughts or reflections have slipped into a book which
are neither so spirited, well written, nor vivid as others, though they seem to
have been inserted for the sake of variety, as a relaxation to the mind, or to
draw its attention to what is to follow, the reader should reject and the
author delete them, unless they are attractive, familiar, instructive, and
adapted to the capacity of ordinary people, whom we must by no means
neglect.
This is one way of settling things; there is another which my own
interest trusts may be adopted; and that is, not to lose sight of my title, and
always to bear in mind, as often as this book is read, that I describe “The
Characters or Manners of the Age;” for though I frequently take them from
the court of France and from men of my own nation, yet they cannot be
confined to any one court or country, without greatly impairing the compass
and utility of my book, and departing from the design of the work, which is
to paint mankind in general, as well as from the reasons for the order of my
chapters, and even from a certain gradual connection between the
reflections in each of those chapters. After this so necessary precaution, the
consequences of which are obvious enough, I think I may protest against all
resentment, complaint, malicious interpretation, false application and
censure, against insipid railers and cantankerous readers. People ought to
know how to read and then hold their tongues, unless able to relate what
they have read, and neither more nor less than what they have read, which
they sometimes can do; but this is not sufficient—they must also be willing
to do it. Without these conditions, which a careful and scrupulous author
has a right to demand from some people, as the sole reward of his labour, I
question whether he ought to continue writing, if at least he prefers his
private satisfaction to the public good and to his zeal for truth. I confess,
moreover, that since the year MDCLXXXX, and before publishing the fifth
edition, I was divided between an impatience to cast my book into a fuller
and better shape by adding new Characters, and a fear lest some people
should say: “Will there never be an end to these Characters, and shall we
never see anything else from this author?” On the one hand several persons
of sound common-sense told me: “The subject-matter is solid, useful,
pleasant, inexhaustible; may you live for a long time, and treat it without
interruption as long as you live! what can you do better? The follies of

mankind will ensure you a volume every year.” Others, again, with a good
deal of reason, made me dread the fickleness of the multitude and the
instability of the public, with whom, however, I have good cause to be
satisfied; they were always suggesting to me that for the last thirty years,
few persons read except for the pleasure of reading, and not to improve
themselves, and that, to amuse mankind, fresh chapters and a new title were
needed; that this sluggishness had filled the shops and crowded the world
with dull and tedious books, written in a bad style and without any
intelligence, order, or the least correctness, against all morality or decency,
written in a hurry, and read in the same way, and then only for the sake of
novelty; and that if I could do nothing else but enlarge a sensible book, it
would be much better for me to take a rest. I adopted something of both
those advices, though they were at variance with one another, and observed
an impartiality which clashed with neither. I did not hesitate to add some
fresh remarks to those which already had doubled the bulk of the first
edition of my book;36 but, in order not to oblige the public to read again
what had been printed before, to get at new material, and to let them
immediately find out what they only desired to read, I took care to
distinguish those second additions by a peculiar mark ((¶));37 I also thought
it would not be useless to distinguish the first augmentations by another and
simpler mark (¶), to show the progress of my “Characters,” as well as to
guide the reader in the choice he might be willing to make. And lest he be
afraid I should never have done with those additions, I added to all this care
a sincere promise to venture on nothing more of the kind. If any one
accuses me of breaking my word, because I inserted in the three last
editions38 a goodly number of new remarks, he may perceive at least that by
adding new ones to old, and by completely suppressing those differences
pointed out in the margin, I did not so much endeavour to entertain the
world with novelties, as perhaps to leave to posterity a book of morals more
complete, more finished, and more regular. To conclude, I did not wish to
write any maxims, for they are like moral laws, and I acknowledge that I
possess neither sufficient authority nor genius for a legislator. I also know I
have transgressed the ordinary standard of maxims, which, like oracles,
should be short and concise.39 Some of my remarks are so, others are more
diffuse; we do not always think of things in the same way, and we describe
them in as different a manner by a sentence, an argument, a metaphor, or
some other figure; by a parallel or a simple comparison; by a story, by a

single feature, by a description, or a picture; which is the cause of the length
or brevity of my reflections. Finally, those who write maxims would be
thought infallible; I, on the contrary, allow any one to say that my remarks
are not always correct, provided he himself will make better ones.

I.
OF WORKS OF THE MIND.

(1.)
A FTER above seven thousand years,40 during which there have
been men who have thought we come too late to say anything that
has not been said already, the finest and most beautiful ideas on
morals and manners have been swept away before our times, and nothing is
left for us but to glean after the ancients and the ablest41 amongst the
moderns.
(2.) We should only endeavour to think and speak correctly ourselves,
without wishing to bring others over to our taste and opinions;42 this would
be too great an undertaking.
(3.) To make a book is as much a trade as to make a clock; something
more than intelligence is required to become an author. A certain magistrate
was going to be raised by his merit to the highest legal dignity; he was a
man of subtle mind and of experience, but must needs print a treatise of
morality, which was quickly bought up on account of its absurdity.43
(4.) It is not so easy to obtain a reputation by a perfect work as to
enhance the value of an indifferent one by a reputation already acquired.

(5.) A satirical work or a book of anecdotes44 handed about privately in
manuscript from one to another, passes for a masterpiece, even when it is
but middling; the printing ruins its reputation.
(6.) Take away from most of our works on morality the “Advertisement
to the reader,” the “Epistle dedicatory,” the “Preface,” the “Table of
contents,” and the “Permission to print,” and there will scarcely be pages
enough left to deserve the name of a book.
(7.) In certain things mediocrity is unbearable, as in poetry, music,
painting, and eloquence. How we are tortured when we hear a dull
soliloquy delivered in a pompous tone, or indifferent verses read with all
the emphasis of a wretched poet!
(8.) Some poets in their tragedies employ a goodly number of big
sounding verses, which seem strong, elevated, and filled with lofty
sentiments.45 They are listened to anxiously, with eyes raised and gaping
mouths, and are thought to please the public; and where they are understood
the least, are admired the most; people have no time to breathe, they have
hardly time to exclaim and to applaud. Formerly, when I was quite young, I
imagined those passages were clear and intelligible to the actors, the pit,
and the galleries; that the authors themselves understood them, and that I
must have been very dull not to understand what it was all about. But now I
am undeceived.
(9.) Up to the present time there exists hardly any literary masterpiece
which is the joint labour of several men.46 Homer wrote the Iliad,47 Virgil
the Æneid, Livy the Decades, and the Roman orator48 his Orations.
(10.) There is in art an acme of perfection, as there is in Nature one of
goodness and completeness. Any one who feels this and loves art possesses
a perfect taste; but he who is not sensible of it, and loves what is below or
above that point, is wanting in taste. Thus there exists a good and a bad
taste, and we are right in discussing the difference between them.
(11.) Men have generally more vivacity than judgment; or, to speak
more accurately, few men exist whose intelligence is combined with a
correct taste and a judicious criticism.
(12.) The lives of heroes have enriched history, and history has adorned
the actions of heroes; and thus I cannot say whether the historians are more
indebted to those who provided them with such noble materials, or those
great men to their historians.

(13.) A heap of epithets is but a sorry commendation. Actions alone, and
the manner of relating them, speak a manʼs praise.
(14.) The whole genius of an author consists in giving accurate
definitions and in painting well. Only Moses,49 Homer, Plato, Virgil,
Horace, excel all other writers in their expressions and their imagery: to
express truth is to write naturally, forcibly, and delicately.
(15.) People have been obliged to do with style what they have done
with architecture; they wholly abandoned the Gothic style, which the
barbarians introduced in their palaces and temples,50 and brought back the
Doric, Ionic, and Corinthian orders. That which was only seen amongst the
ruins of ancient Rome and time-honoured Greece has become modernised,
and now shines forth in our porticoes and colonnades. So, in writing, we
can never arrive at perfection, and, if possible, surpass the ancients, but by
imitating them.
How many centuries have elapsed before men were able to come back
to the taste of the ancients in arts and sciences, and, finally, took up again a
simple and natural style.
A man51 feeds on the ancients and intelligent moderns; he squeezes and
drains them as much as possible; he stuffs his works with them; and when at
last he becomes an author and thinks he can walk alone, he lifts up his voice
against them, and ill-treats them, like those lusty children, grown strong
through the healthy milk on which they have been fed, and who beat their
nurses.
An author of modern times usually proves the ancients inferior to us in
two ways: by reason and examples. The reason is his own opinion, and the
examples are his own writings.52
He confesses that the ancients, though they are unequal and incorrect,
have a great many beautiful passages; he quotes them, and they are so fine,
that his criticism is read only for their sake.
Some able men declare in favour of the ancients against the moderns;
but we doubt them, as they seem to be judges in their own cause, for their
works are so exactly written after the model of antiquity, that we cannot
accept their authority.53
(16.) We ought to like to read our works to those who know how to
correct and appreciate them.

He who will not listen to any advice, nor be corrected in his writings, is
a rank pedant.
An author ought to receive with the same moderation all praises and all
criticisms on his productions.
(17.) Amongst all the various expressions which can render our
thoughts, there is but one which is correct. We are not always so fortunate
as to hit upon it in writing or speaking, but, nevertheless, such a one
undoubtedly exists, and all others are weak, and do not satisfy a man of
culture who wishes to make himself understood.
A good author, who writes carefully, often finds that the expression he
has been looking for for some time, and which he did not know, proves,
when found at last, to be the most simple, the most natural, and the one
which was most likely to present itself to him spontaneously at first.
Fanciful authors often touch up their works. As their temper is not
always the same, and as it varies on every occasion, they soon grow
indifferent about those very expressions and terms they liked so much at
first.
(18.) The same common-sense which makes an author write good
things, makes him dread they are not good enough to deserve reading.
A shallow mind thinks his writings divine; a man of sense imagines he
writes tolerably well.
(19.) Aristus says, “I was prevailed upon to read my works to Zoilus,54
and I did so. At first he liked them, before he had leisure to disapprove of
them; he commended them coldly in my presence, and since then, has not
said one word in their favour to any one. I excuse him, and desire no more
from any author; I even pity him for listening to so many fine things which
were not his own.”
Those men who through their rank are exempt from an authorʼs
jealousy, have either other passions or necessities to distract them, and to
make them indifferent towards other menʼs conceptions. Almost no one,
whether through disposition, inclination, or fortune, is willing to relish the
delight that a perfect piece of work can give.
(20.) The pleasure of criticism takes away from us the pleasure of being
deeply moved by very fine things.
(21.) Many people perceive the merit of a manuscript which is read to
them, but will not declare themselves in its favour until they see what
success it has in the world when printed, or what intelligent men will say

about it. They do not like to risk their opinion, and they want to be carried
away by the crowd, and dragged along by the multitude. Then they say that
they were amongst the first who approved of that work, and the general
public shares their opinion.55
Such men lose the best opportunities of convincing us that they are
intelligent, clever, and first-rate critics, and can really discover what is good
and what is better. A fine work falls into their hands; it is an authorʼs first
book, before he has got any great name; there is nothing to prepossess any
one in his favour, and by applauding his writings one does not court or
flatter the great. Zelotes,56 you are not required to cry out: “This is a
masterpiece; human intelligence never went farther; the human speech
cannot soar higher; henceforward we will judge of no oneʼs taste but by
what he thinks of this book.” Such exaggerated and offensive expressions
are only employed by postulants for pensions or benefices, and are even
injurious to what is really commendable and what one wishes to praise.
Why not merely say—“Thatʼs a good book?” It is true you say it when the
whole of France has approved of it, and foreigners as well as your own
countrymen, when it is printed all over Europe, and has been translated into
several languages, but then it is too late.
(22.) Some people, after having read a book, quote certain passages
which they do not thoroughly understand, and moreover completely change
their character by what they put in of their own. Those passages, so
mutilated and disfigured that they are nothing else but their own
expressions and thoughts, they expose to censure, maintain them to be bad,
and the world agrees with them; but the passage such critics think they
quote, and in reality do not, is not a bit the worse for it.57
(23.) “What is your opinion about Hermodorusʼ book?”—“That it is
wretchedly written,” replies Anthymus.—“Wretchedly written! what do you
mean, sir?”—“Just what I say,” he continues; “it is not a book, at least it
does not deserve to be talked about”—“Have you read it?”—“No,” replies
Anthymus. Why does he not add that Fulvia and Melania have condemned
it without reading, and that he is a friend of those two ladies?
(24.) Arsène,58 from the height of his own wisdom, contemplates men,
and from the eminence he beholds them seems frightened as it were at their
littleness. Commended, extolled, and raised to the skies by certain persons
who have reciprocally promised to admire one another, he fancies, though
he has some merit, that he has as much as any man can have, which he

never will; his mind being occupied and filled with sublime ideas, he
scarcely finds time to pronounce certain oracles; raised by his character
above human judgments, he leaves to vulgar souls the merit of leading a
regular and uniform life, being answerable for his variations to none but to
a circle of friends who worship them. They alone know how to judge, to
think, to write, and they only ought to write; there is no literary work,
though ever so well received by the world and universally liked by men of
culture, which he does approve of, nay, which he would condescend to read;
he is incapable of being corrected by this picture, which will not even be
read by him.
(25.) Theocrines59 knows a good many useless things; he is singular in
his sentiments, and less profound than methodical; he only exercises his
memory, is absent-minded, scornful, and seems continually laughing to
himself at those whom he thinks his inferiors. By chance I one day read him
something of mine: he heard it out, and then spoke about some of his own
writings. “But what said he of yours?” youʼll ask me. “I have told you
already; he spoke to me only of his own.”
(26.) The most accomplished literary work would be reduced to nothing
by carping criticism, if the author would listen to all critics and allow every
one to erase the passage which pleases him the least.
(27.) Experience tells us, that if there are ten persons who would strike a
thought or an expression out of a book, we could easily find a like number
who would insist upon its being put back again. The latter will exclaim:
“Why should such a thought be suppressed? it is new, fine, and wonderfully
well expressed.” The former, on the contrary, will maintain, “that they
would have omitted such an idea, or have expressed it in another way.” “In
your work,” say the first, “there is a very happy phrase which depicts most
naturally what you meant to say.” The second maintain “that a certain word
is venturesome, and moreover does not give the precise meaning you
perhaps desired to give.” It is about the same thought and the same word
those people argue; and yet they are all critics, or pass for such. What then
can an author do but venture, in such a perplexity, to follow the advice of
those who approve of the passage.
(28.) A serious-minded author is not obliged to trouble his head about
all the foolish sayings, the obscene remarks, and bad words that are uttered,
or about the stupid constructions which some men put on certain passages
of his writings; much less ought he to suppress them. He is convinced that

let a man be never so careful in his writings, the insipid jokes of wretched
buffoons are an unavoidable evil, since they often only turn the best things
into ridicule.
(29.) If certain men of quick and resolute mind are to be believed, words
would even be superfluous to express feelings; signs would be sufficient to
address them, or we could make ourselves be understood without speaking.
However careful you may be to write closely and concisely, and whatever
reputation you may have as such, they will think you diffuse. You must
allow them to supply everything and write for them alone. They understand
a whole phrase by reading the first word, and an entire chapter by a single
phrase. It is sufficient for them to have heard only a bit of your work, they
know it all and understand the whole. A great many riddles would be
amusing reading to them; they regret that the wretched style which delights
them becomes rare, and that so few authors employ it. Comparisons of a
river flowing rapidly, though calmly and uniformly, or of a conflagration
which, fanned by the winds, spreads afar in a forest, where it devours oaks
and pine-trees, gives to them not the smallest idea of eloquence. Show them
some fireworks60 to astonish them, or a flash of lightning to dazzle them,
and they will dispense with anything fine or beautiful.
(30.) What a prodigious difference is there between a fine work and one
that is perfect or regular. I am not aware whether a single one of the latter
kind still exists. It is perhaps less difficult for uncommon minds to hit upon
the grand and the sublime than to avoid all kinds of errors. The Cid, at its
first appearance, was universally admired; it rose in spite of power and
politics, which attempted in vain to crush it. People of rank and the general
public, though always divided in their opinions and feelings, were in favour
of it; they learned it by heart so as to anticipate the actors who were
performing it. The Cid, in short, is one of the finest poems ever written, and
one of the best criticisms on any subject is that on the Cid.61
(31.) When, after having read a work, loftier thoughts arise in your mind
and noble and heartfelt feelings animate you, do not look for any other rule
to judge it by; it is fine and written in a masterly manner.62
(32.) Capys,63 who sets up for a judge of style and fancies he writes like
Bouhours64 and Rabutin,65 disagrees with public opinion, and is the only
person who says that Damis66 is not a good author. Damis is of the same

opinion as a large number of people, and says artlessly, as well as the
public, that Capys is a dull writer.
(33.) It is the business of a newsmonger to inform us when any book is
published; if it is printed by Cramoisy,67 and with what type; if it is well
bound, and on what paper, and at what price it is sold; he ought even to
know what the booksellerʼs sign is; but it is foolish in him to pretend to
criticise it.
The highest point a newsmonger can reach is to reason in a vague
manner on politics.
A newsmonger lies down at night quietly, after having received some
information, but it is spoiled overnight, and he is obliged to throw it away
when he wakes in the morning.68
(34.) A philosopher69 wastes his life in observing men, and wears
himself out in exposing vice and folly. If he shapes his thoughts into words,
it is not so much from his vanity as an author as to place entirely in its
proper light some truth he has discovered, that it may make the desired
impression. Yet some readers think they repay him with interest if they say,
with a magisterial air, “that they have read his book, and that there is some
sense in it;” but he does not mind their praise, for he has not laboured and
passed many sleepless nights to obtain it: he has higher aims, and acts from
nobler motives: he demands from mankind greater and more uncommon
results than empty praise, and even than rewards; he expects them to lead
better lives.
(35.) A fool reads a book and does not understand it; a man of ordinary
mind reads it and fancies he perfectly understands it; a man of intelligence
sometimes does not wholly understand it; he perceives what is really
obscure and what is really clear, whilst witlings70 imagine those passages
obscure which are not so, and think they do not understand what is really
intelligible.
(36.) In vain an author endeavours to obtain admiration by his works. A
fool may sometimes admire him, but then he is only a fool; an intelligent
man has within him the germs of all truth and of all sentiments; nothing is
new to him; he admires few things, but he finds that many things deserve
some praise.
(37.) I question if it be possible to write more clever letters in a more
agreeable manner and in a better style than those of Balzac71 or Voiture;72

but they are void of those sentiments which have swayed us since their time
and originated with the ladies. That sex excels ours in this kind of writing;
from their pens flow naturally those turns and expressions which often are
with us the effects of tedious labour and troublesome research; they are
fortunate in the selection of their wordings, which they employ so cleverly,
that though they are not new, they have all the charm of novelty, and seem
only designed for the use they put them to; they alone can express an entire
sentiment in a single word, and render a delicate thought as delicately; their
arguments are connected in an inimitable manner, follow one another
naturally, and are only linked together by the sense. If the ladies wrote
always correctly, I might affirm that perhaps the letters of some of them
would be among the best in our language.73
(38.) Terentius74 wanted nothing but to be less cold. What purity! what
preciseness! what polish! what elegance! what characters! Molière wanted
nothing but to avoid the vulgar tongue and barbarisms and to write
elegantly.75 What fire! what artlessness! what original and good jokes! how
well he imitates manners! what imagery! and how he lashes what is
ridiculous! But what an author might have been formed of these two comic
writers!
(39.) I have read Malherbe and Théophile.76 They both understood
nature, with this difference: the first, in a nervous and uniform style,
displays at one and the same time whatever is beautiful, noble, ingenuous
and simple, and depicts or describes it; the other, without choice or
accuracy, with a loose and uneven pen, some times overloads his
descriptions, goes into too many details, and analyses too much; sometimes
he imagines certain things,77 exaggerates, outstrips what is true in nature,
and becomes a romancer.
(40.) In both Ronsard78 and Balzac, each in their kind, are found a
sufficient number of good and bad things to form after them very great men
either in verse or prose.
(41.) Marot,79 by his phraseology and style, seems to have written after
Ronsard wrote; there is very little difference, except in a few words,
between the style of the former and our present style.
(42.) Ronsard and his contemporaries have done more harm than good
to style; they delayed its progress towards perfection, and exposed it to the
danger of being always defective and of never becoming perfect again. It is

astonishing that Marotʼs works, which are so natural and easy, have not
made of Ronsard, so full of rapture and enthusiasm, a greater poet than he
or Marot ever were; and that, on the contrary, Belleau, Jodelle, and du
Bartas80 were soon followed by a Racan81 and a Malherbe, and that the
French language was no sooner vitiated than it recovered.

MICHEL DE MONTAIGNE

(43.) Marot and Rabelais82 are inexcusable for scattering so much filth
in their writings: they both had genius and originality enough to be able to
do without it, even for those who seek rather what is comical than what is

admirable in an author. Rabelais above all is incomprehensible: his book is
a mystery, a mere chimera; it has a lovely womanʼs face, with the feet and
tail of a serpent or of some more hideous animal; it is a monstrous jumble
of delicate and ingenious morality and of filthy depravation. Where it is
bad, it excels by far the worst, and is fit only to delight the rabble; and
where it is good, it is exquisite and excellent, and may entertain the most
delicate.
(44.) Two writers have condemned Montaigne83 in their works. I am of
their opinion, and believe him not always free from blame; but it seems that
none of these two can see anything good in him. One of these thinks too
little to enjoy an author who thinks a great deal; the other thinks with too
much subtlety to be pleased with thoughts that are natural.84
(45.) A grave, solemn, and correct style will go a long way. Amyot and
Coëffeteau85 are read, but who else of their contemporaries? The
phraseology and the expression of Balzac have become less antiquated than
those of Voiture; but if the style, the intelligence, and originality of the latter
are not modern nor in anything resemble our present writers, it is because it
is easier not to pay any attention to him than to imitate him, and because the
few who follow him could never overtake him.
(46.) The H ... G ...86 is distinctly less than nothing, and there are a good
many works like it. There is as much trickery required to grow rich by a
stupid book as there is folly in buying it; a man would never know the
peopleʼs taste if he did not venture sometimes on some great piece of
silliness.
(47.) We perceive that an opera is an outline of a magnificent spectacle,
of which it serves to give an idea.
I cannot understand how the opera, with such perfect music and quite a
regal expenditure, has been able to tire me.87
There are some passages in an opera which make us long for others; it
sometimes happens we wish it was all over: this is the fault of the
decorations, or of a want of action or interest.
An opera is not even to this day a poem, for it contains nought but
verses; nor is it a spectacle, since machinery has disappeared through the
dexterous management of Amphion and his kindred;88 it is a concert of
voices assisted by instruments. We deceive ourselves and acquire a bad
taste when we state, as has been done, that machinery is only an amusement

fit for children and suitable for puppet-shows.89 Machines increase and
embellish poetical fiction and maintain among the spectators that gentle
illusion in which the entire pleasure of a theatre consists, to which it also
adds a feeling of wonder. There is no need of flights, or cars, or changes
when Bérénice or Pénélope90 are represented, but they are necessary in an
opera, as the characteristic of such a spectacle is to enchant the mind as well
as the ear and the eye.
(48.) Some busybodies91 have erected a theatre and machinery,
composed ballets, verses, and music; theirs is the whole spectacle, even to
the room where the performance was held, from the roof to the very
foundation of the four walls. Who has any doubt that the hunt on the
water,92 the delights of “La Table,”93 the marvels of the Labyrinth94 were
also invented by them? I think so, at least, by the agitation they are in and
by the self-satisfied air with which they applaud their success. Unless I am
deceived, they have not contributed anything to a festival so splendid, so
magnificent, and so long kept up, and which one person planned and paid
for; so that I admire two things: the ease and quietness of him who directed
everything, and the fuss and gesticulations of those who did nothing.95
(49.) The critics, or those who, thinking themselves so, decide
deliberately and decisively about all public representations, group and
divide themselves into different parties, each of whom admires a certain
poem or a certain music and damns all others, urged on by a wholly
different motive than public interest or justice. The ardour with which they
defend their prejudices damages the opposite party as well as their own set.
These men discourage poets and musicians by a thousand contradictions,
and delay the progress of arts and sciences, by depriving them of the
advantages to be obtained by that emulation and freedom which many
excellent masters, each in their own way and according to their own genius,
might display in the execution of some very fine works.96
(50.) What is the reason that we laugh so freely in a theatre but are
ashamed to weep? Is it less natural to be melted by what excites pity than to
burst into laughter at what is comical? Is it the alteration of our features that
checks us? It is more visible in immoderate laughter than in the most
passionate grief; and we avert our faces when we laugh or weep in the
presence of people of rank, or of all those whom we respect. Is it because
we are reluctant to let it be seen we are tender-hearted, or to show any

emotion, especially at an imaginary subject, and by which it seems we are
imposed upon? But without quoting those austere men, or those who do not
care for the opinions of the world,97 who think that excessive laughter or
tears betray weakness, and who forbid both, what is it that we look for in
tragedy? Is it to laugh? Is truth not depicted there as vividly as in comedy?
And have we not to feel that those things are realities in either case before
we are moved? Or is it so easily to be pleased, and is no verisimilitude
needed? It is not thought odd to hear a whole theatre ring with laughter at
some passage of a comedy, but, on the contrary, it implies that it was funny,
and very naturally performed; therefore the extreme restraint every one puts
on himself not to shed tears and the affected laughter with which one tries
to disguise them, clearly prove that the natural result of lofty tragedy should
be to make us all weep without concealment and publicly, and without any
other hindrance than wiping our eyes; moreover, after we have agreed to
indulge in our passion, it will be found there is often less room to fear we
should weep in a theatre than that we should be tired out there.
(51.) Tragedy, from its very beginning, oppresses the spectatorʼs
feelings, and, whilst being acted, scarcely allows him liberty to breathe and
leisure to recover, or if it leaves him some respite, it is only to be plunged
again into fresh abysses and new alarms. Through pity he is led to terror, or
reciprocally through terror to pity; it leads him through tears, sobs,
uncertainty, expectation, fear, surprises and horror to a catastrophe. It
should not, therefore, be a collection of pretty sentiments, tender
declarations, gallant conversations, agreeable pictures, soft words, or
something comical enough to produce laughter, followed, in truth, by a final
scene in which the “mutineers” do not listen to reason,98 and in which for
decencyʼs sake there is at last some blood spilled, and some unfortunate
manʼs life taken.99
(52.) It is not sufficient for the manners of the stage not to be bad; they
should be decent and instructive. Some comical subjects are so low, so
mean, or even so dull and so insignificant, that a poet should not be
permitted to write about them, nor could an audience by any possibility be
diverted by them. A peasant or an intoxicated man may furnish some scenes
for a farce writer; but they can scarcely be personages of true comedy; for
how can they be the basis of the main action of a comedy? Perhaps it may
be said that “such characters are natural.” Then, according to a similar rule,
the attention of an entire audience may be occupied by a lackey whistling,

or a sick person on his bed-chair, or by a drunken man snoring and being
sick; for can anything be more natural?100 An effeminate dandy rises late,
spends part of the day at his toilet, looks at himself in the glass, perfumes
himself, puts patches on his face, receives his letters and answers them. But
such a character brought on the stage, made to stop for any length of time,
during one or two acts, and depicted as natural and as like the original as
possible, will be as dull and as tedious as it well can be.101
(53.) Plays and novels, in my opinion, may be made as useful as they
are pernicious. They exhibit so many grand examples of constancy, virtue,
tenderness and disinterestedness; so many fine and perfect characters, that
when young people cast their eyes on what they see around them and find
nothing but unworthy objects, very much inferior to those they just
admired, it is not to be wondered at that they cannot have the least
inclination for them.
(54.) Corneille cannot be equalled where he is excellent; he shows then
original and inimitable characteristics, but he is unequal. His first plays102
are uninteresting and heavy, and did not lead us to expect that he would
afterwards soar to such a height, just as his last plays make us wonder at his
fall from such a pinnacle. In some of his best pieces there are unpardonable
errors in the characters of the drama103—a declamatory style which arrests
the action and delays it, and such negligence in his versification and in his
expressions that we can hardly understand how so great a man could be
guilty of them. His highest individual quality is his sublime genius, to
which he is beholden for some of the most beautiful verses ever read; for
the plots of his plays, in which he sometimes ventures to transgress the
rules of the ancients; and finally, for his catastrophes. In this he does not
always follow the taste of the Greeks and their grand simplicity; on the
contrary, he delights in crowding the stage with events, which he almost
always disentangles successfully; and is above all to be admired for his
great variety and the little similarity of his plots in the large number of
dramas he has written. It seems that Racineʼs plays are more like one
another, and that they lead up a little more to the same ending; but he is
uniform, lofty in style, and everywhere the same, as well in the plots and
incidents of his plays, which are sound, regular, rational and natural, as in
his versification, which is correct, rich in its rhythm, elegant, melodious,104
and harmonious. He is an exact imitator of the ancients, whom he carefully

follows in their distinctness and simplicity of action, and like Corneille, not
lacking the sublime and marvellous, the moving and the pathetic. Where
can we find greater tenderness diffused than in Le Cid, Polyeucte, and Les
Horaces?105 What grandeur do we not observe in Mithridates, lʼorus, and
Burrhus!106 Both poets were well acquainted with terror and pity, those
favourite passions of the ancients, which the dramatic authors were fond of
producing on the stage; as Orestes in the Andromaque of Racine, Phèdre of
the same author, as well as Œdipus and the Horatii of Corneille clearly
prove. If, however, it is allowable to draw some comparison between them,
and distinguish what are the peculiarities of each of them, as is generally
discovered in their writings, I should probablyΠsay: Corneille enthralls us
by his characters and ideas; Racineʼs coincide with ours; the one represents
men as they ought to be, the other as they are. There is in the first more of
what we admire and what we ought even to imitate; and in the second more
of what we perceive in others or feel within ourselves. Corneille elevates,
surprises, controls and instructs us; Racine pleases, affects, moves and
penetrates us. The former employs the most beautiful, the most noble, and
the most commanding arguments; the latter depicts the most praiseworthy
and the most refined passions. One is full of maxims, rules, and precepts;
the other of taste and feeling. Our mind is kept more occupied by
Corneilleʼs tragedies, but by Racineʼs we are more softened and moved.
Corneille is more moral, Racine more natural.107 The one seems to imitate
Sophocles, the other Euripides.108
(55.) What the people call eloquence is the facility some persons have
of speaking alone and for a long time, aided by extravagant gestures, a loud
voice, and powerful lungs. Pedants also will not recognise eloquence except
in public orations, and can see no distinction between it and a heap of
figures, the use of big words and flowing periods.
It seems that logic is the art of making some truth prevail, and that
eloquence is a gift of the soul which renders us master of the hearts and
minds of other men, so that we suggest to them, or persuade them, to do
whatever we please.
Eloquence may be found in conversations and in all kind of writings; it
is rarely found when looked for, and sometimes discovered where it is least
expected.
Eloquence is to the sublime what the whole is to its part.

What is the sublime? It does not appear to have been defined. Is it a
figure of speech? Does it spring from figures, or at least from some figures
of speech?109 Does the sublime enter into all kinds of writings, or are grand
subjects only fit for it?110 Can an eclogue display anything but fine
simplicity, and familiar letters as well as conversation anything but great
delicacy? Are simplicity and delicacy not the sublime of those works of
which they are the perfection? What is this sublime? Where does it begin?
111

Synonyms are several words or various phrases which are the precise
equivalents of each other. An antithesis is an opposition of two truths which
throw light on one another. A metaphor or a comparison borrows from a
foreign matter a sensible and natural image of a truth.112 A hyperbole
exaggerates truth to enable the mind to understand it better. The sublime
paints nothing but the truth, and that only in noble subjects; it depicts all its
causes and effects; it is the most meritorious expression or image of this
truth. Ordinary minds cannot find the only right expression, and, therefore,
use synonyms. Young men are dazzled by the lustre of an antithesis, and
employ it. Sensible people, who delight in exact imagery, of course, are led
away by comparisons and metaphors. Sharp people, full of fire, and carried
away by a lively imagination beyond all bounds and accuracy, cannot be
satiated with hyperboles. As for the sublime, even among the greatest
geniuses, only the highest can reach it.
(56.) Every author who wishes to write clearly should put himself in the
place of his readers, examine his own work as something new to him, which
he reads for the first time, is not at all concerned in, and which has been
submitted to his criticism; and then be convinced that no one will
understand what is written merely because the author understands it
himself, but because it is really intelligible.
(57.) People write only to be understood, but they should, at least, in
their writings produce very beautiful things. They ought to have a pure
style, and, in truth, employ a suitable phraseology; moreover, their phrases
should express noble, intense, and solid thoughts, and contain a very fine
meaning. A pure and clear style is thrown away on a dry, barren subject,
without either spirit, use, or novelty. What avails it to any reader to
understand easily and without any difficulty some frivolous and puerile
subject, not seldom dull and common, when he is less in doubt about the
meaning of the author than tired with his work?

If we aim at being profound in certain writings, if we affect a polite
turn, and sometimes too much delicacy, it is merely because we have a good
opinion of our readers.
(58.) The disadvantage of reading books written by people belonging to
a certain party or a certain set is that they do not always contain the truth.
Facts are disguised, the arguments on both sides are not brought forward in
all their strength, nor are they quite accurate; and what wears out the
greatest patience is that we must read a large number of harsh and
scurrilous reflections, tossed to and fro by serious-minded men, who
consider themselves personally insulted when any point of doctrine or any
doubtful matter is controverted. Such works possess this peculiarity, that
they neither deserve the prodigious success they have for a certain time, nor
the profound oblivion into which they fall afterwards, when the rage and
contention have ceased, and they become like almanacks out of date.113
(59.) It is the glory and the merit of some men to write well, and of
others not to write at all.
(60.) Some persons have been writing regularly for the last twenty
years; they have faithfully observed all rules of composition, enriched the
language with new words, thrown off the yoke of Latinism, and given to
style a pure French phraseology; they have almost recovered that harmony
which Malherbe and Balzac first discovered, and which since then so many
authors allowed to be lost; they have, in short, given to our style all the
clearness it is capable of, and this will gradually lead to it becoming easily
understood.114
(61.) There are some artists115 or men of ability whose intelligence is as
extensive as the art or science they profess; they repay with interest,
through their genius and inventive powers, what they borrowed from it and
from its first principles; they stray from art to ennoble it, and deviate from
its rules if they do not make use of them to attain the grand and the sublime;
they walk alone and unaccompanied, but they soar very high and are very
penetrating, always certain of the advantages sometimes to be obtained by
irregularity, and assured of their success. Careful, timorous, and sedate
minds not alone never obtain those advantages, but they do not admire them
nor even understand them, and are much less likely to imitate them; they
dwell peaceably within the compass of their sphere, go up to a certain point,
which is the limit of their capacity and knowledge, but penetrate no farther,

because they see nothing beyond it; they are at best but the first of a second
class and excel in mediocrity.
(62.) If I may venture to say so, there are certain inferior or second-rate
minds, who seem only fit to become the receptacle, register, or storehouse
of all the productions of other talents;116 they are plagiarists, translators,
compilers; they never think, but tell you what other authors have thought;
and as a selection of thoughts requires some inventive powers, theirs is ill-
made and inaccurate, which induces them rather to make it large than
excellent. They have no originality, and possess nothing of their own; they
only know what they have learned, and only learn what the rest of the world
does not wish to know; a useless and dry science, without any charm or
profit, unfit for conversation, nor suitable to intercourse, like a coin which
has no currency. We are astonished when we read them, as well as tired out
by their conversation or their works. The nobility and the common herd
mistake them for men of learning, but intelligent men rank them with
pedants.
(63.) Criticism is often not a science but a trade, requiring more health
than intelligence, more industry than capacity, more practice than genius. If
it is exercised by a person of less discernment than culture, and treats of
certain subjects, it will spoil the readerʼs judgment as well as that of the
author criticised.
(64.) I would advise an author who can only imitate,117 and who is
modest enough to tread in the footsteps of other men, to choose for his
models writings that are full of intelligence, imagination, or even learning:
if he does not come up to his originals, he may at least come somewhat near
them, and be read. He ought, on the contrary, to avoid, as a rock ahead, the
imitation of those authors who have a natural inclination for writing,
employ phrases and figures of speech which spring from the heart, and who
draw, if I may say so, from their inmost feelings all they express on paper.
They are dangerous models, and induce those who endeavour to follow
them to adopt a cold, vulgar, and ridiculous style. Indeed, I should laugh at
a man who would seriously imitate my tone of voice, or endeavour to be
like me in the face.
(65.) A man born a Christian and a Frenchman is constrained when he
uses satire, for he is forbidden to exercise it on great subjects; sometimes he
commences to write about them, but then turns to trifling topics, which he
enhances by the splendour of his genius and style.118

(66.) The turgid and puerile style of Dorilas and Handburg119 should
always be avoided. In certain writings, on the contrary, a man sometimes
may be bold in his expressions, and use metaphorical phrases which depict
his subject vividly, whilst pitying those who do not feel the pleasure there is
in employing and understanding them.
(67.) He who only writes to suit the taste of the age, considers himself
more than his writings. We should always aim at perfection, and then
posterity will do us that justice which sometimes our contemporaries refuse
us.
(68.) We ought never to turn into ridicule a subject that does not lend
itself to it; it spoils our taste, vitiates our judgment as well as other menʼs;
but we should perceive ridicule where it does exist, show it up delicately,
and in a manner which both pleases and instructs.
(69.) “Horace or Boileau have said such a thing before you.”—“I take
your word for it, but I have used it as my own. May I not have the same
correct thought after them, as others may have after me?”

II.
OF PERSONAL MERIT.

(1.)
W HAT man is not convinced of his inefficiency, though endowed
with the rarest talents and the most extraordinary merit, when
he considers that at his death he leaves a world that will not feel
his loss, and where so many people are ready to supply his place?
(2.) All the worth of some people lies in their name; upon a closer
inspection it dwindles to nothing, but from a distance it deceives us.
(3.) Though I am convinced that those who are selected to fill various
offices, every man according to his talents and his profession, perform their
duties well, yet I venture to say that perhaps there are many men in this
world, known or unknown, who are not employed, and would perform
those duties also very well. I am inclined to think so from the marvellous
success of certain people, who through chance alone obtained a place, and
from whom until then no great things were expected.
How many admirable men, of very great talent, die without ever being
talked about! And how many are there living yet of whom one does not
speak, nor ever will speak!

(4.) A man without eulogists and without a set of friends, who is
unconnected with any clique, stands alone, and has no other
recommendations but a good deal of merit, has very great difficulty in
emerging from his obscurity and in rising as high as a conceited noodle who
has a good deal of influence!
(5.) No one hardly ever thinks of the merit of others, unless it is pointed
out to him. Men are too engrossed by themselves to have the leisure of
penetrating or discerning character, so that a person of great merit and of
greater modesty may languish a long time in obscurity.
(6.) Genius and great talents are often wanting, but sometimes only
opportunities. Some people deserve praise for what they have done, and
others for what they would have done.
(7.) It is not so uncommon to meet with intelligence as with people who
make use of it, or who praise other personsʼ intelligence and employ it.
(8.) There are more tools than workmen, and of the latter more bad than
good ones. What would you think of a man who would use a plane to saw,
and his saw to plane?
(9.) There is no business in this world so troublesome as the pursuit of
fame: life is over before you have hardly begun your work.
(10.) What is to be done with Egesippus who solicits some
employment? Shall he have a post in the finances or in the army? It does
not matter much, and interest alone can decide it, for he is as able to handle
money or to make up accounts as to be a soldier. “He is fit for anything,”
say his friends, which always means that he has no more talent for one thing
than for another, or, in other words, that he is fit for nothing. Thus it is with
most men; in their youth they are only occupied with themselves, are
spoiled by idleness or pleasure, and then wrongly imagine, when more
advanced in years, that it is sufficient for them to be useless or poor for the
commonwealth to be obliged to give them a place or to relieve them. They
seldom profit by that important maxim, that men ought to employ the first
years of their lives in so qualifying themselves by their studies and labour,
that the commonwealth itself, needing their industry and their knowledge as
necessary materials for its building up, might be induced, for its own
benefit, to make their fortune or improve it.
It is our duty to labour in order to make ourselves worthy of filling
some office: the rest does not concern us, but is other peopleʼs business.

(11.) To make the most of ourselves through things which do not depend
on others but on ourselves alone, or to abandon all ideas of making the most
of ourselves, is an inestimable maxim and of infinite advantage when
brought into practice, useful to the weak, the virtuous, and the intelligent,
whom it renders masters of their fortune or their ease; hurtful to the great,
as it would diminish the number of their attendants, or rather of their slaves,
would abate their pride, and partly their authority, and would almost reduce
them to the pleasures of the table and the splendour of their carriages; it
would deprive them of the pleasure they feel in being entreated, courted,
solicited; of allowing people to dance attendance on them, or of refusing
any request; of promising and not performing; it would thwart the
disposition they sometimes have of bringing fools forward and of
depressing merit when they chance to discern it; it would banish from
courts plots, parties, trickery, baseness, flattery, and deceit; it would make a
court, full of agitation, bustle, and intrigue, resemble a comedy, or even a
tragedy, where the wise are only spectators; it would restore dignity to the
several conditions of men, serenity to their looks, enlarge their liberty, and
awaken in them their natural talents as well as a habit for work and for
exercise; it would excite them to emulation, to a desire for renown, a love
for virtue; and instead of vile, restless, useless courtiers, often burdensome
to the commonwealth, would make them clever administrators, exemplary
heads of families, upright judges or good financiers, great commanders,
orators, or philosophers; and all the inconvenience any of them would suffer
through this would be, perhaps, to leave to their heirs less treasures, but
excellent examples.
(12.) In France a great deal of resolution, as well as a widely cultivated
intellect, are required to decline posts and offices, and thus consent to
remain in retirement and to do nothing. Almost no one has merit enough to
play this part in a dignified manner, or solidity enough to pass their leisure
hours without what is vulgarly called “business.” There is, however,
nothing wanting to the idleness of a philosopher but a better name, and that
meditation, conversation, and reading should be called “work.”
(13.) A man of merit, and in office, is never troublesome through vanity.
The post he fills does not elate him much, because he thinks that he
deserves a more important one, which he does not occupy, and this
mortifies him. He is more inclined to be restless than to be haughty or
disdainful; he is only uncomfortable to himself.

(14.) It goes against the grain of a man of merit continually to dance
attendance, but for a reason quite the opposite of what some might imagine.
His very merits make him modest, so that he is far from thinking that he
gives the smallest pleasure by showing himself when the prince passes, by
placing himself just before him, and by letting him look at his face; he is
more apt to fear being importunate, and he needs many arguments based on
custom and duty to persuade himself to make his appearance; while, on the
contrary, a man who has a good opinion of himself, and who is usually
called a conceited man,120 likes to show himself, and pays his court with the
more confidence as it never enters into his head that the great people by
whom he is seen may think otherwise of him than he thinks of himself.
(15.) A gentleman121 repays himself for the zeal with which he performs
his duty by the pleasure he enjoys in acting thus, and does not regret the
praise, esteem, and gratitude which he sometimes does not receive.
(16.) If I dared to make a comparison between two conditions of life
vastly different, I would say that a courageous soldier applies himself to
perform his duty almost in the same manner as a tyler goes about his work;
neither the one nor the other seeks to expose his life, nor are diverted by
danger, for to them death is an accident of their callings, but never an
obstacle. Thus the first is scarcely more proud of having appeared in the
trenches, carried some advanced works or forced some intrenchment, than
the other of having climbed on some high roof, or on the top of a steeple.
Both have but endeavoured to act well, whilst an ostentatious man gives
himself endless trouble to have it said that he has acted well.
(17.) Modesty is to merit what shade is to figures in a picture; it gives it
strength and makes it stand out. A plain appearance is to ordinary men their
proper garb; it suits them and fits them, but it adorns those persons whose
lives have been distinguished by grand deeds; I compare them to a beauty
who is most charming in négligé.
Some men, satisfied with themselves because their actions or works
have been tolerably successful, and having heard that modesty becomes
great men, affect the simplicity and the natural air of truly modest people,
like those persons of middling size who stoop, when under a doorway, for
fear of hurting their heads.
(18.) Your son stammers; do not think of letting him make speeches;
your daughter, too, looks as if she were made for the world, so never
immure her among the vestals.122 Xanthus, your freedman, is feeble and

timorous; therefore do not delay, but let him instantly leave the army and
the soldiers.123 You say you would promote him, heap wealth on him,
overwhelm him with lands, titles, and possessions: make the most of your
time, for in the present age they will do him far more credit than virtue.
“But this will cost me too much,” you reply. “Ah, Crassus, do you speak
seriously? Why, for you to enrich Xanthus, whom you love, is no more than
taking a drop of water from the Tiber; and thus you prevent the bad
consequences of his having entered a profession for which he was not fit.”
(19.) It is virtue alone which should guide us in the choice of our
friends, without any inquiry into their poverty or riches; and as we are
resolved not to abandon them in adversity, we may boldly and freely
cultivate their friendship even in their greatest prosperity.
(20.) If it be usual to be strongly impressed by things that are scarce,
why are we so little impressed by virtue?
(21.) If it be a happiness to be of noble parentage, it is no less so to
possess so much merit that nobody inquires whether we are noble or
plebeian.
(22.) From time to time have appeared in the world some extraordinary
and admirable men, refulgent by their virtues, and whose eminent qualities
have shone with prodigious brilliancy, like those uncommon stars of which
we do not know why they appear, and know still less what becomes of them
after they have disappeared. These men have neither ancestors nor
posterity; they alone are their whole race.
(23.) A sensible mind shows us our duty and the obligation we lie under
to perform it, and if attended with danger, to perform it in spite of danger; it
inspires us with courage or supplies the want of it.
(24.) He who excels in his art, so as to carry it to the utmost height of
perfection, goes in some measure beyond it, and becomes the equal of
whatever is most noble and most transcendental: thus V ... is an artist, C ... a
musician, and the author of Pyrame a poet; but Mignard is Mignard, Lulli is
Lulli, and Corneille is Corneille.124
(25). A man who is single and independent, and who has some
intelligence, may rise above his fortune, mix with the world, and be
considered the equal of the best society, which is not so easily done if
encumbered. Marriage seems to place everybody in their proper station of
life.

(26.) Next to personal merit, it must be owned that from eminent
dignities and lofty titles men derive the greatest distinction and lustre; and
thus a man who will never make an Erasmus125 is right when he thinks of
becoming a bishop.126 Some, to spread their fame, heap up dignities,
decorations,127 bishoprics, become cardinals, and may want the tiara; but
what need for Trophime128 to become a cardinal.
(27.) You tell me that Philemonʼs129 clothes blaze with gold, but that
metal also shone when they were in the tailorʼs shop. His clothes are made
of the finest materials; but are those same materials less fine in the
warehouse or in the whole piece? But then the embroidery and trimmings
make them still more magnificent. I praise, therefore, the skill of his tailor.
Ask him what oʼclock it is, and he pulls out a watch, a masterpiece of
workmanship; the handle of his sword is an onyx,130 and on his finger he
wears a large diamond which dazzles our eyes and has no flaw. He wants
none of all those curious nicknacks which are worn more for show than
service, and is as profuse131 with all kinds of ornaments as a young fellow
who has married a wealthy old lady. Well, at last you have excited my
curiosity: I should, at least, like to see all this finery: send me Philemonʼs
clothes and jewels; but I do not wish to see him.
You are mistaken, Philemon, if you think you will be esteemed a whit
the more for your showy coach, the large number of rogues who follow
you, and those six horses that draw you along; we mentally remove all
splendour which is not properly yours, to reach you personally, and find
you to be a mere conceited noodle.
Not but that a man is sometimes to be forgiven who, on account of his
splendid retinue, his rich clothes, and his magnificent carriage, thinks
himself of more noble descent and more intelligent than he really is; for he
sees this opinion expressed on the countenances and in the eyes of those
who speak to him.132
(28.) At court, and often in the city, a man in a long silken cassock or
one of very fine cloth,133 with a broad cincture tied high upon his stomach,
shoes of the finest morocco leather, and a little skull-cap of the same
material, with well-made and well-starched bands, his hair smoothed down,
and with a ruddy complexion; who, besides, remembers some metaphysical
distinctions, explains what is the lumen gloriæ, and what it is to behold God
face to face,134 is called a doctor.135 A man of humble mind, who is

immured in his study, who has meditated, searched, compared, collated,
read or written all his lifetime, is a man of learning.136
(29.) With us a soldier is brave, a lawyer learned; we proceed no farther.
Among the Romans a lawyer was brave and a soldier learned; a Roman was
a soldier and a lawyer.
(30.) A hero seems to have but one profession, namely, to be a soldier,
whilst a great man is of all professions—a lawyer, a soldier, a politician or a
courtier; put them both together and they are not worth an honest man.137
(31.) In war it is very difficult to make a distinction between a hero and
a great man, for both possess military virtues. It seems, however, that the
first should be young, daring, unmoved amidst dangers and dauntless,
whilst the other should have extraordinary sense, great sagacity, lofty
capacities, and a long experience. Perhaps Alexander was but a hero, and
Cæsar a great man.138
(32.) Æmilius139 was born with those qualities which the greatest men
do not acquire without guidance, long study, and practice. He had nothing
to do in his early years but to show himself worthy of his innate talents, and
to give himself up to the bent of his genius. He has done and performed
deeds before he knew anything; or rather, he knew what was never taught
him. I dare say it: many victories were the sport of his childhood. A life
attended by great good fortune as well as by long experience, would have
gained renown by the mere actions of his youth.140 He embraced all
opportunities of conquest which presented themselves, whilst his courage
and his good fortune created those which did not exist; he was admired for
what he has done, as well as for what he could have done. He has been
looked upon as a man incapable of yielding to an enemy, or giving way to
numbers or difficulties; as a superior mind, never wanting in expediency or
knowledge, and seeing things which no one else could see; as one who was
sure to lead to victory when at the head of an army; and who singly was
more valuable than many battalions; as one who was great in prosperity,
greater when fortune was against him,—the being compelled to raise a
siege141 or to beat a retreat have gained him more honour than a victory,
and they rank before his gaining battles or taking of towns,—as one full of
glory and modesty. He has been heard to say, “I fled,” as calmly as he said,
“We beat the enemy;” he was a man devoted to the State,142 to his family, to
the head of that family;143 sincere towards God and men, as great an

admirer of merit as if he had not been so well acquainted with it himself; a
true, unaffected, and magnanimous man, in whom none but virtues of an
inferior kind were wanting.144
(33.) The offspring of the gods,145 if I may express myself so, are
beyond the laws of nature, and, as it were, an exception to them. They
expect almost nothing from time or age; for merit, in them, precedes
years.146 They are born well informed, and reach manhood before ordinary
men abandon infancy.
(34.) Short-sighted men, I mean those whose minds are limited and
never extend beyond their own little sphere, cannot understand that
universality of talent one sometimes observes in the same person. They
allow no one to possess solid qualities when he is agreeable; or, when they
think they have perceived in a person some bodily attractions, such as
agility, elasticity, and skill, they will not credit him with the possession of
those gifts of the mind, perspicacity, judgment, and wisdom; they will not
believe what is told in the history of Socrates, that he ever danced.
(35.) There exists scarcely any man so accomplished, or so necessary to
his own family, but he has some failing which will diminish their regret at
his loss.
(36.) An intelligent man, of a simple and straightforward character, may
fall into some snare, for he does not think that anybody would spread one
for him or select him in order to deceive him. This assurance makes him
less cautious, and he is caught by some rogues through this failing. But the
latter will not be so successful when they attempt it a second time; such a
man can only be deceived once.
If I am a just man, I will be careful not to offend any one, but above all
not to offend an intelligent man, if I have the smallest regard for my own
interests.
(37.) There exists nothing so subtle, so simple, and so imperceptible
which is not revealed to us by a something in its composition. A blockhead
cannot enter a room, nor leave it, nor sit down, nor rise, nor be silent, nor
stand on his legs like an intelligent man.
(38.) I made the acquaintance of Mopsus147 through a visit he made me
without knowing me previously; he asks people whom he does not know to
present him to others to whom he is equally unknown; he writes to ladies
whom he only knows by sight. He introduces himself into a company of
highly respectable people, though he is a perfect stranger to them, and

without waiting till they address him, or feeling that he interrupts them, he
often speaks, and that in an absurd manner. Another time he enters a public
meeting, sits down anywhere, without paying any regard to others or to
himself; and if removed from a place destined for a Minister of State, he
goes and seats himself in the seat of a duke and peer of the realm; he is the
laughing-stock of the whole company, yet the only person who keeps his
countenance. He is like a dog that is driven out of the kingʼs chair and
jumps into the pulpit. He looks with indifference, without any
embarrassment or without any shame, upon the worldʼs opinion; he and a
blockhead have the same feelings of modesty.
(39.) Celsus148 is not of a very high birth, but he is allowed to visit the
greatest men in the land; he is not learned, but he is acquainted with some
learned men; he has not much merit, but he knows people who have a great
deal of it; he has no abilities, but he has a tongue that serves him to be
understood, and feet that carry him from one place to another. He is a man
made to run backwards and forwards, to listen to proposals and to talk
about them, to do this officially, to exceed the duties of his post, and even to
be disowned; to reconcile people who fall out the first time they see one
another; to succeed in one affair and fail in a thousand; to arrogate all the
honour of success to himself, and cast all the blame of a failure on others.
He knows all the scandal and the tittle-tattle of the town; he does nothing
but only repeats and hears what others do; he is a newsmonger, he is even
acquainted with family secrets, and busies himself about the greatest
mysteries; he tells you the reason why a certain person was banished and
another has been recalled; he knows why and wherefore two brothers have
quarrelled,149 and why two ministers have fallen out.150 Did he not predict
to the former the sad consequences of their misunderstanding? Did he not
tell the latter their union would not last long? Was he not present when
certain words were spoken? Did he not enter into some kind of negotiation?
Would they believe him? Did they mind what he said? To whom do you talk
about those things? Who has had a greater share in all court intrigues than
Celsus? And if it were not so, or if he had not dreamed or imagined it to be
so, would he think of making you believe it? Would he put on the grave and
mysterious look of a man newly returned from an embassy?
(40.) Menippus151 is a bird decked in various feathers which are not his.
He neither says nor feels anything, but repeats the feelings and sayings of
others; it is so natural for him to make use of other peopleʼs minds that he is

the first deceived by it, and often believes he speaks his own mind or
expresses his own thoughts when he is but the echo of some man he just
parted with. He is bearable152 for a quarter of an hour, but a moment after
he flags, degenerates, loses the little polish his shallow memory gives him,
and shows he has nothing more left.153 He alone ignores how very far he is
from the sublime and the heroic; and having no idea of the extent of his
intelligence, ingenuously believes that he possesses as much as it is possible
for any man to have, and accordingly assumes the air and manners of one
who has nothing more to wish for nor to envy any one. He often
soliloquises, and so little conceals it, that the passers-by see him and think
he is always making up his mind, or is finally deciding some matter or
other. If you bow to him at a certain time, you perplex him as to whether he
has to return the bow or not; and, whilst he is deliberating, you are already
out of his sight. His vanity, which has made him a gentleman, has raised
him above himself, and made him what naturally he is not. When you
behold him, you can judge he has nothing to do but to survey himself, so
that he may perceive everything he wears suits him, and that his dress is not
incongruous; he fancies all menʼs eyes are upon him, and that people come
to look on him one after another.
(41.) A man who has a palace of his own, with apartments for the
summer and the winter season, and yet sleeps in an entresol in the
Louvre,154 does not act thus through modesty; another, who, to preserve his
elegant shape, abstains from wine and eats but one meal a day, is neither
sober nor temperate; whilst it may be said of a third, who, importuned by
some poor friend, finally renders him some assistance, that he buys his
tranquillity, but by no means that he is liberal. It is the motive alone that
gives merit to human actions, and disinterestedness perfects them.
(42.) False greatness is unsociable and inaccessible; as it is sensible of
its weakness, it conceals itself, or at least does not show itself openly, and
only allows just so much to be seen as will carry on the deceit, so as not to
appear what it really is, namely, undoubtedly mean. True greatness, on the
contrary, is free, gentle, familiar, and popular; it allows itself to be touched
and handled, loses nothing by being seen closely, and is the more admired
the better it is known. Out of kindness it stoops to inferiors, and recovers,
without effort, its true character; sometimes it unbends, becomes negligent,
lays aside all its superiority, yet never loses the power of resuming it and of
maintaining it; amidst laughter, gambols, and jocularity it preserves its

dignity, and we approach it freely, and yet with some diffidence. It is noble,
yet sympathetic, whilst inspiring respect and confidence, and makes us
view princes as of lofty, nay, of very lofty rank, without making us feel that
we are of inferior condition.155
(43.) A wise man is cured of ambition by ambition itself; his aim is so
exalted that riches, office, fortune, and favour cannot satisfy him. He sees
nothing good and sufficiently efficient in such a poor superiority to engage
his affections and to render it deserving of his cares and his desires; he has
to use some effort not to despise it too much. The only thing that might
tempt him is that kind of honour which should attend a wholly pure and
unaffected virtue; but men but rarely grant it, so he does without it.
(44.) A man is good who benefits others: if he suffers for the good he
does, he is still better; and if he suffers through those to whom he did good,
he has arrived at such a height of perfection that nothing but an increase of
his sufferings can add to it; if he dies through them, his virtue cannot stand
higher; it is heroic, it is complete.

III.
OF WOMEN.

(1.)
T HE male and female sex seldom agree about the merits of a
woman, as their interests vary too much. Women do not like those
same charms in one another which render them agreeable to men:
many ways and means which kindle in the latter the greatest passions, raise
among them aversion and antipathy.
(2.) There exists among some women an artificial grandeur depending
on a certain way of moving their eyes, tossing their heads, and on their
manner of walking, which does not go farther; it is like a dazzling wit
which is deceptive, and is only admired because it is superficial. In a few
others is to be found an ingenuous, natural greatness, not beholden to
gestures and motion, which springs from the heart, and is, as it were, the
result of their noble birth; their merit, as unruffled as it is efficient, is
accompanied by a thousand virtues, which, in spite of all their modesty,
break out and display themselves to all who can discern them.
(3.) I have heard some people say they should like to be a girl, and a
handsome girl, too, from thirteen to two-and-twenty, and after that age
again to become a man.

(4.) Some young ladies are not sensible of the advantages of a happy
disposition, and how beneficial it would be to them to give themselves up to
it; they enfeeble these rare and fragile gifts which Heaven has given them
by affectation and by bad imitation; their very voice and gait are affected;
they fashion their looks, adorn themselves, consult their looking-glasses to
see whether they have sufficiently changed their own natural appearance,
and take some trouble to make themselves less agreeable.
(5.) For a woman to paint herself red or white is, I admit, a smaller
crime than to say one thing and think another; it is also something less
innocent than to disguise herself or to go masquerading, if she does not
pretend to pass for what she seems to be, but only thinks of concealing her
personality and of remaining unknown; it is an endeavour to deceive the
eyes, to wish to appear outwardly what she is not; it is a kind of “white lie.”
We should judge of a woman without taking into account her shoes and
head-dress, and, almost as we measure a fish, from head to tail.156
(6.) If it be the ambition of women only to appear handsome in their
own eyes and to please themselves, they are, no doubt, right in following
their own tastes and fancies as to how they should beautify themselves, as
well as in choosing their dress and ornaments; but if they desire to please
men, if it is for them they paint and besmear themselves, I can tell them that
all men, or nearly all, have agreed that white and red paint makes them look
hideous and frightful; that red paint alone ages and disguises them, and that
these men hate as much to see white lead on their countenances as to see
false teeth in their mouths or balls of wax to plump out their cheeks;157 that
they solemnly protest against all artifices women employ to make
themselves look ugly; that they are not responsible for it to Heaven, but, on
the contrary, that it seems the last and infallible means to reclaim men from
loving them.
If women were by nature what they make themselves by art; if they
were to lose suddenly all the freshness of their complexion, and their faces
to become as fiery and as leaden as they make them with the red and the
paint they besmear themselves with, they would consider themselves the
most wretched creatures on earth.
(7.) A coquette is a woman who never yields to the passion she has for
pleasing, nor to the good opinion she entertains of her own beauty; she
regards time and years only as things that wrinkle and disfigure other
women, and forgets that age is written on her face. The same dress, which

formerly enhanced her beauty when she was young, now disfigures her, and
shows the more the defects of old age; winning manners and affectation
cling to her even in sorrow and sickness; she dies dressed in her best, and
adorned with gay-coloured ribbons.
(8.) Lise158 hears that people make fun of some coquette for pretending
to be young and for wearing dresses which no longer suit a woman of forty.
Lise is as old as that, but years for her have less than twelve months; nor do
they add to her age; she thinks so, and whilst she looks in the glass, lays the
red on her face and sticks on the patches, confesses there is a time of life
when it is not decent to affect a youthful appearance, and, indeed, that
Clarissa with her paint and patches is ridiculous.
(9.) Women make preparations to receive their lovers, but if they are
surprised by them, they forget in what sort of dress they are, and no longer
think of themselves. They are in no such confusion with people for whom
they do not care; they perceive that they are not well dressed, bedizen
themselves in their presence, or else disappear for a moment and return
beautifully arrayed.
(10.) A handsome face is the finest of all sights, and the sweetest music
is the sound of the voice of the woman we love.
(11.) Fascination is despotic; beauty is something more tangible and
independent of opinion.
(12.) A man can feel his heart touched by certain women of such perfect
beauty and such transcendent merit that he is satisfied with only seeing
them and conversing with them.
(13.) A handsome woman, who possesses also the qualities of a man of
culture, is the most agreeable acquaintance a man can have, for she unites
the merits of both sexes.
(14.) A young lady accidentally says many little things which are clearly
convincing, and greatly flatter those to whom they are addressed. Men say
almost nothing accidentally; their endearments are premeditated; they
speak, act, and are eager to please, but convince less.
(15.) Handsome women are more or less whimsical; those whims serve
as an antidote, so that their beauty may do less harm to men, who, without
such a remedy, would never be cured of their love.
(16.) Women become attached to men through the favours they grant
them, but men are cured of their love through those same favours.

(17.) When a woman no longer loves a man, she forgets the very
favours she has granted him.
(18.) A woman with one gallant thinks she is no coquette; she who has
several thinks herself but a coquette.
A woman avoids being a coquette if she steadfastly loves a certain
person, but she is not thought sane if she persists in a bad choice.
(19.) A former gallant is of so little consideration that he must give way
to a new husband; and the latter lasts so short a time that a fresh gallant
turns him out.
A former gallant either fears or despises a new rival, according to the
character of the lady to whom he pays his addresses.
Often a former gallant wants nothing but the name to be the husband of
the woman he loves; if it was not for this circumstance he would have been
dismissed a thousand times.
(20.) Gallantry in a woman seems to add to coquetry. A male coquette,
on the contrary, is something worse than a gallant. A male coquette and a
woman of gallantry are pretty much on a level.
(21.) Few intrigues are secret; many women are not better known by
their husbandsʼ names than they are by the names of their gallants.
(22.) A woman of gallantry strongly desires to be loved; it is enough for
a coquette to be thought amiable and to be considered handsome. This one
seeks to form an engagement; that one is satisfied with pleasing. The first
passes successively from one engagement to another; the second has at one
and the same time a great many amusements on her hands. Passion and
pleasure are predominant in the first; vanity and levity in the second.
Gallantry is a weakness of the heart, or perhaps a constitutional defect;
coquetry is an irregularity of the mind. A woman of gallantry is feared; a
coquette is hated. From two such characters might be formed a third worse
than any.
(23.) A weak woman is one who is blamed for a fault for which she
blames herself; whose feelings are struggling with reason, and who should
like to be cured of her folly, but is never cured, or not till very late in life.
(24.) An inconstant woman is one who is no longer in love; a giddy
woman is one who is already in love with another person; a flighty woman
neither knows if she loves or whom she loves; and an indifferent woman is
one who loves nobody.

(25.) Treachery, if I may say so, is a falsehood told by the whole body;
in a woman it is the art of arranging words or actions for the purpose of
deceiving us, and sometimes of making use of vows and promises which it
costs her no more to break than it did to make.
A faithless woman, if known to be such by the person concerned, is but
faithless; if she is believed faithful, she is treacherous.
The benefit we obtain from the perfidy of women is that it cures us of
jealousy.
(26.) Some women in their lifetime have a double engagement to keep,
which it is as difficult to violate as to conceal; in the one nothing is wanting
but a legal consecration, and in the other nothing but the heart.
(27.) If we were to judge of a certain woman by her beauty, her youth,
her pride, and her haughtiness, we could almost assert that none but a hero
would one day win her. She has chosen to fall in love with a little monster
deficient in intelligence.159
(28.) There are some women past their prime, who, on account of their
constitution or bad disposition, are naturally the resource of young men not
possessing sufficient wealth. I do not know who is more to be pitied, either
a woman in years who needs a young man, or a young man who needs an
old woman.160
(29.) A man who is looked upon with contempt at court, is received
amongst fashionable people161 in the city, where he triumphs over a
magistrate in all his finery,162 as well as over a citizen wearing a sword; he
beats them all out of the field and becomes master of the situation; he is
treated with consideration and is beloved; there is no resisting for long a
man wearing a gold-embroidered scarf163 and white plumes; a man who
talks to the king and visits the ministers. He kindles jealousy amongst men
as well as amongst women; he is admired and envied; but in Versailles, four
leagues from Paris, he is despised.164
(30.) A citizen is to a woman who has never left her native province
what a courtier is to a woman born and bred in town.
(31.) A man who is vain, indiscreet, a great talker and a mischievous
wag, who speaks arrogantly of himself and contemptuously of others, who
is boisterous, haughty, forward, without morality, honesty, or commonsense,
and who draws for facts on his imagination, wants nothing else, to be
adored by many women, but handsome features and a good shape.

(32.) Is it for the sake of secrecy, or from some eccentricity, that a
certain lady loves her footman and Dorinna her physician?165
(33.) Roscius treads the stage with admirable grace: yes, Lelia, so he
does; and I will allow you, too, that his limbs are well shaped, that he acts
well, and very long parts, and that to recite perfectly he wants nothing else,
as they say, but to open his mouth. But is he the only actor who is charming
in everything he does? or is his profession the noblest and most honourable
in the world? Moreover, Roscius cannot be yours; he is anotherʼs, or, if he
were not, he is pre-engaged. Claudia waits for him till he is satiated with
Messalina. Take Bathyllus, then, Lelia. Where will you find, I do not say
among the knights you despise, but among the very players, one to compare
with him in rising so high whilst dancing or in cutting capers? Or what do
you think of Cobus, the tumbler, who, throwing his feet forward, whirls
himself quite round in the air before he lights on the ground? But, perhaps,
you know that he is no longer young? As for Bathyllus, you will say, the
crowd round him is still too great, and he refuses more ladies than he
gratifies. Well, you can have Draco, the flute-player; none of all his
profession swells his cheeks with so much decency as he does whilst
playing on the hautboy or the flageolet; for he can play on a great number
of instruments; and he is so comical that he makes even children and young
women laugh. Who eats or drinks more at a meal than Draco? He makes the
whole company intoxicated, and is the last to remain comparatively sober.
You sigh, Lelia. Is it because Draco has already made his choice, or
because, unfortunately, you have been forestalled? Is he at last engaged to
Cesonia, who has so long pursued him, and who has sacrificed for him such
a large number of lovers, I might even say, the entire flower of Rome? to
Cesonia, herself belonging to a patrician family, so young, so handsome,
and of so noble a mien? I pity you, Lelia, if you have been infected with
this new fancy which possesses so many Roman ladies for what are called
public men, whose calling exposes them to the public gaze. What course
will you pursue, then, since the best of their kind are already engaged?
However, Brontes, the executioner,166 is still left; everybody speaks of his
strength and his skill; he is young, broad-shouldered and brawny, and,
moreover, a negro, a black man.167
(34.) A woman of fashion looks on a gardener as a gardener, and on a
mason as a mason; but other women, who live more secluded, look upon a

mason and a gardener as men. Anything is a temptation to those who dread
it.168
(35.) Some ladies are169 liberal to the Church as well as to their lovers;
and being both gallant and charitable, are provided with seats and oratories
within the rails of the altar, where they can read their love-letters, and where
no one can see whether they are saying their prayers or not.
(36.) What kind of a woman is one who is “spiritually directed”? Is she
more obliging to her husband, kinder to her servants, more careful of her
family and her household, more zealous and sincere for her friends? is she
less swayed by whims, less governed by interest, and less fond of her ease?
I do not ask if she makes presents to her children who already are opulent,
but if, having wealth enough and to spare, she provides them with the
necessaries of life, and, at least, gives them what is their due? Is she more
exempt from egotism, does she dislike others less, and has she fewer
worldly affections? “No,” say you, “none of all those things.” I repeat my
question again: “What kind of a woman is one who is ‘spiritually
directed’?” “Oh! I understand you now; she is a woman who has a spiritual
director.”170
(37.) If a father-confessor and a spiritual director cannot agree about
their line of conduct, what third person shall a woman take to be arbitrator?
(38.) It is not essential that a woman should provide herself with a
spiritual director, but she should lead such a regular life as not to need one.
(39.) If a woman should tell her father-confessor, among her other
weaknesses, those which she has for her director, and the times she wastes
in his company, perhaps she might be enjoined as a penance to leave him.
(40.) Would I had the liberty of shouting, as loud as I could, to those
holy men who formerly suffered by women: “Flee from women; do not
become their spiritual directors, but let others take care of their salvation!”
(41.) It is too much for a husband to have a wife who is a coquette and
sanctimonious as well; she should select only one of those qualities.
(42.) I have deferred it for a long time, but after all I have suffered it
must come out at last; and I hope my frankness may be of some service to
those ladies who, not deeming one confessor sufficient to guide them, show
no discrimination in the choice of their directors. I cannot help admiring
and being amazed on beholding some people who shall be nameless; I open
my eyes wide when I see them; I gaze on them; they speak and I listen; then
I inquire, and am told certain things, which I do not forget. I cannot

understand how people, who appear to me the very reverse of intelligent,
sensible, or experienced, and without any knowledge of mankind, or any
study of religion and morality, can presume that Heaven, at the present
time, should renew the marvels of an apostolate, and perform a miracle on
them, in rendering such simple and little minds fit for the ministry of souls,
the most difficult and most sublime of all vocations. It is to me still more
incomprehensible if, on the contrary, they fancy themselves predestined to
fill a function so noble and so difficult, and for which but few people are
qualified, and persuade themselves that in undertaking it they do but
exercise their natural talents and follow an ordinary vocation.
I perceive that an inclination of being intrusted with family secrets, of
being useful in bringing about reconciliations, of obtaining various
appointments, or of procuring places to people,171 of finding all doors of
noblemenʼs houses open, of eating frequently at good tables, of driving
about the town in private carriages, of making pleasant excursions to
charming country-seats, of seeing several persons of rank and quality
concern themselves about our life and health, and of employing for others
and ourselves every worldly interest,—I perceive, I say so again, that for
the sake of those things solely has been invented the specious and
inoffensive pretence of the care of souls, and an inexhaustible nursery of
spiritual directors planted in this world.
(43.) Devotion172 with some people, but especially with women, is
either a passion, or an infirmity of age, or a fashion which must be
followed. Formerly such women divided the week in days for gambling, for
going to a theatre, a concert, a fancy-dress ball, or a nice sermon. On
Mondays they went and lost their money at Ismenaʼs; on Tuesdays their
time at Climèneʼs, and on Wednesday their reputation at Célimèneʼs; they
knew overnight what amusements were going on the next day, and the day
after that; they thus enjoyed the present, and knew what pleasures were in
store for them; they wished it were possible to unite them all in one day, for
this was then the sole cause of their uneasiness and all they had to think
about; and if they sometimes went to the Opera, they regretted they had not
gone to any other theatre. But with other times came other manners; now,
they exaggerate their austerity and their solitude; they no longer open their
eyes, which were given them to see; they do not make any use of their
senses, and what is almost incredible, but little of their tongues; and yet
they think, and that pretty well of themselves and ill enough of others; they

compete with each other in virtue and reformation in a jealous kind of way;
they do not dislike being first in their new course of life, as they were in the
career they lately abandoned out of policy or disgust. They used gaily to
damn themselves through their intrigues, their luxury and sloth, and now
their presumption and envy will damn them, though not so merrily.173
(44.) Hermas, were I to marry a stingy woman, she will be sure not to
ruin me; if a woman fond of gambling, she may enrich me; if a woman fond
of learning, she may teach me; or if prim and precise, she will not fly into a
rage; if a passionate one, she will exercise my patience; if a coquette, she
will endeavour to please me; if a woman of gallantry, she will perhaps be so
gallant as to love me; but tell me, Hermas, what can I expect if I were to
marry a devout woman174 who would deceive Heaven, and who really
deceives herself?
(45.) A woman is easily managed if a man will only give himself the
trouble. One man often manages a great many; he cultivates their
understanding and their memory, settles and determines their religious
feelings, and undertakes even to regulate their very affections. They neither
approve nor disapprove, commend or condemn, till they have consulted his
looks and his countenance. He is the confidant of their joys and of their
sorrows, of their desires, jealousies, hatred, and love; he makes them break
with their gallants, embroils and reconciles them with their husbands, and is
useful during the intervals. He looks after their business, solicits for them
when they have lawsuits, and goes and sees the judges;175 he recommends
them his physician, his tradesmen, his workmen; he tries to find them a
residence, to furnish it, and he orders also their carriages. He is seen with
them when they drive about in the streets, and during their walks, as well as
in their pew at church and their box at the theatre; he goes the same round
of visits as they do, and attends on them when they go to the baths, to
watering-places, and on their travels; he has the most comfortable
apartment at their country-seat. He grows old, but his authority does not
decline; a small amount of intelligence and the spending of a good deal of
leisure time suffice to preserve it; the children, the heirs, the daughter-in-
law, the niece, and the servants, are all dependent on him. He began by
making himself esteemed, and ends by making himself feared. This old and
necessary friend dies at last without being regretted, and about half a score
of women he tyrannised over recover their liberty at his death.

(46.) Some women have endeavoured to conceal their conduct under a
modest exterior; but the most any one of them has obtained by the closest
and most constant dissimulation has been to have it said, “One would have
taken her for a Vestal virgin.”
(47.) It is a proof positive that a woman has an unstained and
established reputation if it is not even sullied by the familiar intercourse
with some ladies who are unlike her, and if, with all the inclination people
have to make slanderous observations, they ascribe a totally different reason
to this intimacy than similarity of morals.
(48.) An actor overdoes his part when on the stage; a poet amplifies his
descriptions; an artist who draws from life heightens and exaggerates
passions, contrasts, and attitudes; and he who copies him, unless he
measures with a pair of compasses the dimensions and the proportions, will
make his figures too big, and all parts of the composition of his picture by
far larger than they were in the original. Thus an imitation of sagacity
becomes pretentious affectation.
There is a pretended modesty which is vanity, a pretended glory which
is levity, a pretended grandeur which is meanness, a pretended virtue which
is hypocrisy, and a pretended wisdom which is affectation.
An affected and pretentious woman is all deportment and words; a
sensible woman shows her sense by her behaviour. This one follows her
inclination and disposition, that one her reason and her affections; the one is
formal and austere, the other is on all occasions exactly what she ought to
be. The first hides her weaknesses underneath a plausible outside; the
second conceals a rich store of virtue underneath a free and natural air.
Affectation and pretension shackle the mind, yet do not veil age or ugliness,
but often imply them; common-sense, on the contrary, palliates the
imperfections of the body, ennobles the mind, gives fresh charms to youth,
and makes beauty more dangerous.
(49.) Why should men be blamed because women are not learned? What
laws, edicts, or regulations prohibit them from opening their eyes, from
reading and remembering what they have read, and from introducing this in
their conversation and in their writings? Is their ignorance, on the contrary,
not owing to a custom introduced by themselves; or to the weakness of their
constitution, or to the indolence of their mind, or the care of their beauty, or
to a certain flightiness which will not allow them to prosecute any
continuous studies, or to a talent and aptitude they only have for

needlework, or to an inattention caused by domestic avocations, or to a
natural aversion for all serious and difficult things, or to a curiosity quite
distinct from that which gratifies the mind, or to a wholly different pleasure
from that of exercising the memory? But to whatever cause men may
ascribe this ignorance of women, they may consider themselves happy that
women, who rule them in so many things, are inferior to them in this
respect.
We look on a learned woman as we do on a fine piece of armour,
artistically chiselled, admirably polished, and of exquisite workmanship,
which is only fit to be shown to connoisseurs, of no use whatever, and no
more apt to be used for war or hunting than a horse out of a riding-school is,
though it may be trained to perfection.
Whenever I find learning and sagacity united in one and the same
person, I do not care what the sex may be, I admire; and if you tell me that a
sensible woman hardly thinks of becoming learned, or that a learned
woman is hardly ever a sensible woman, you have already forgotten what
you have just read, namely, that women are prevented from studying
science by certain imperfections. Now you can draw your own conclusions,
namely, that those who have the fewest imperfections are most likely to
have the greatest amount of common-sense, and that thus a sensible woman
bids fairest to become learned; and that a learned woman could never be
such without having overcome a great many imperfections, and this is the
very best proof of her sense.176
(50.) It is very difficult to remain neutral when two women, who are
both our friends, fall out through some cause or other in which we are not at
all concerned; we must often side with one or lose both.
(51.) There are certain women who love their money better than their
friends, and their lovers better than their money.
(52.) We are amazed to observe in some women stronger and more
violent passions than their love for men, I mean ambition and gambling.
Such women render men chaste, and have nothing of their own sex but the
dress.177
(53.) Women run to extremes; they are either better or worse than men.
(54.) Most women have hardly any principles;178 they are led by their
passions, and form their morals and manners after those whom they love.
(55.) Women exceed the generality of men in love; but men are their
superiors in friendship. Men are the cause that women do not love one

another.
(56.) There is some danger in making fun of people. Lise, who is more
or less in years, in trying to render a young woman ridiculous, has changed
so much as to become frightful. She made so many grimaces and
contortions in imitating her, and now has grown so ugly, that the person she
mimicked cannot have a better foil.
(57.) In the city many male and female nincompoops have the
reputation of being intelligent; at court many men who are very intelligent
are considered dolts; and a beautiful woman who has some intelligence will
hardly escape being called “foolish” by other women.
(58.) A man keeps another personʼs secret better than his own; a
woman, on the contrary, keeps her own secrets better than any other
personʼs.
(59.) There is no love, however violent, raging in the heart of a young
woman, but there is still some room left for interest and ambition.
(60.) There comes a time when the wealthiest women ought to marry;
they seldom let slip the first opportunity without repenting it for many a
day; it seems that the reputation of their wealth diminishes in the same
proportion as their beauty does. On the contrary, every thing is favourable
to young girls, even menʼs opinions, for they attribute to them every
accomplishment, to render them still more desirable.
(61.) To how many girls has a great beauty been of no other use but to
make them expect a large fortune!
(62.) Handsome girls are apt to gratify the revenge of the lovers they
have ill-treated, by giving their hand to ugly, old, or unworthy husbands.
(63.) Most women judge of the merits and good looks of a man by the
impression he makes on them, and very rarely allow either of those qualities
to a person who is indifferent to them.
(64.) A man who is anxious to know whether his appearance is changed,
and if he begins to grow old, needs only to consult the eyes of any fair one
he addresses, and the tone of her voice as she converses with him, and he
will then learn what he dreads to know. But it will be a severe lesson to
him!
(65.) A woman who always stares at one and the same person, or who is
for ever avoiding to look at him, makes us conclude but one and the same
thing of her.

(66.) Women are at little trouble to express what they do not feel; but
men are still at less to express what they do feel.
(67.) It sometimes happens that a woman conceals from a man the love
she feels for him, while he only feigns a passion he does not feel.
(68.) Suppose a man indifferent, but intending to declare to a woman a
passion he does not feel, it may be doubted whether it would not be easier
for him to deceive179 a woman who loves him than one to whom he is
indifferent.
(69.) A man may deceive a woman by a pretended inclination, but then
he must not have a real one elsewhere.
(70.) A man storms and rails at a woman who no longer cares for him,
but he finds consolation; a woman is not so vociferous when she is
forsaken, but she remains unconsolable for a longer time.
(71.) Sloth in women is cured either by vanity or love; though, in
vivacious women, it is an omen of love.
(72.) It is certain that a woman who writes letters full of passion is
agitated, though it is not so sure that she is in love. A deep and tender
passion is more likely to become dejected and silent; and the greatest and
most stirring interest a woman can feel whose heart is no longer free, is less
to convince her lover of her own affection than to be assured of his love for
her.
(73.) Glycera180 does not love her own sex; she hates their conversation
and their visits; she gives orders to be denied to them, and often to her male
friends, who are not many, whom she treats very abruptly, keeps within
limits, and whom she never allows to transgress the bounds of friendship.
She is absent-minded when they are present, answers them in
monosyllables, and seems to seek every opportunity of getting rid of them;
she dwells alone, and leads a very retired life in her own house; her gates
are better guarded and her rooms are more inaccessible than those of
Montauron or dʼEsmery.181
Only Corinna is expected and admitted at all hours, embraced several
times, caressed, and addressed with bated breath, though they are alone in a
small room; whatever she says is attentively listened to; complaints are
poured into Corinnaʼs ears about another person; everything is told her,
though nothing is new to her, for she possesses the confidence of that other
person as well. Glycera is seen with another lady and two gentlemen at a
ball, in the theatre, in the public gardens, on the road to Venouse,182 where

people eat fruit early in the season; sometimes alone in a sedan-chair on the
way to the grand suburb,183 where she has a splendid fruit-garden, or else at
Canidiaʼs184 door, who possesses so many rare secrets, promises second
husbands to young wives, and tells them also when and under what
circumstances they will obtain them. Glycera appears commonly in a low
and unpretentious head-dress, in a plain morning gown, without any stays,
and in slippers; she is charming in this dress, and wants nothing but a little
colour. People remark, nevertheless, that she wears a splendid brooch,
which she takes special care to conceal from her husbandʼs eyes. She
cajoles and caresses him, and every day invents some new pretty names for
him; the “dear husband” and his wife have but one bedroom, and would not
sleep in any other room. The morning she spends at her toilet and in writing
some urgent letters; a servant185 enters, and speaks to her in private; it is
Parmenion, her favourite, whom she upholds against his masterʼs dislike
and his fellow-servantsʼ jealousy. Who, indeed, delivers a message or
brings back an answer better than Parmenion? who speaks less of what
should not be mentioned? who opens a private door with less noise? who is
a more skilful guide up the back-stairs? or more cleverly leads a person out
again the same way?
(74.) I cannot understand how a husband who gives way to his freaks
and his temper, who, far from concealing his bad qualities, shows, on the
contrary, only his worst, who is covetous, slovenly in his dress, abrupt in his
answers, impolite, dull and taciturn, can expect to defend successfully the
heart of a young wife against the attacks of a gallant who makes the most of
dress, magnificence, complaisance, politeness, assiduity, presents, and
flattery.186
(75.) A husband seldom has a rival who is not of his own making, and
whom he has not introduced himself to his wife at one time or other; he is
always praising him before her for his fine teeth and his handsome
countenance; he encourages his civilities and allows him to visit at his
house; and next to the produce of his own estate, he relishes nothing better
than the game and the truffles his friend sends him. He gives a supper, and
says to his guests: “Let me recommend this to you; it is sent by Leander and
costs me nothing but thanks.”
(76.) A certain wife seems to have annihilated or buried her husband, for
he is not so much as mentioned in this world;187 it is doubted whether such

a man be alive or dead. In his family his only use is to be a pattern of timid
silence and of implicit submission. He has nothing to do with jointure or
settlement; if it were not for that, and his not lying-in, one would almost
take him for the wife and her for the husband. They are for months in the
house together without any danger of meeting one another; in reality they
are only neighbours. The master of the house pays the cook and his
assistants, but the supper is always served in my ladyʼs apartment. Often
they have nothing in common, neither bed, board, nor even the same name;
they live in the Greek or Roman fashion; she keeps her name, and he has
his; and it is only after some time, and when a man has been initiated in the
tittle-tattle of the town, that at last he comes to know that Mr. B ... and
Madam L ... have been man and wife these twenty years.188
(77.) Another wife, who does not give her husband any uneasiness on
account of her disorderly behaviour, repays herself for it by worrying him
about her high birth, her connections, the dowry she has brought him, her
enchanting beauty, her merits, and by what some people call “her virtue.”
(78.) There are few wives so perfect as not to give their husbands at
least once a day good reason to repent of ever having married, or at least of
envying those who are unmarried.
(79.) Dumb and stupefied grief189 is out of fashion; women weep, are
garrulous, and so concerned about their husbandsʼ death that they do not
forget to harp on every one of the details.
(80.) Is it impossible for a husband to discover the art of making his
wife love him?
(81.) An insensible woman is one who has not yet met the person whom
she is to love. In Smyrna there lived a very handsome young lady, named
Emira, yet better known throughout the town for her strict conduct than for
her beauty, and above all, for the indifference she showed for all men,
whom, as she said, she beheld without any danger, and without any greater
emotions than when in the company of her female friends and her brothers.
She could not believe a thousandth part of all the follies ascribed to love at
all times; and those which she saw herself, seemed to her unaccountable.
Friendship was the only feeling she knew, and her first experience of it was
through a youthful and charming maiden, who pleased her so much that she
only thought how to continue it, never imagining that any other inclination
could ever abate that feeling of esteem and confidence in which she now
exulted. All her conversation was about Euphrosyne, for this was the name

of her faithful friend, and the whole town talked about nothing else but
about her and Euphrosyne; their friendship became a proverb. Emira had
two brothers, both young, and so handsome that all the ladies of the city
were in love with them, whilst she herself loved them as a true sister. One
of the priests of Jupiter, who visited at her fatherʼs house, fell in love with
her, and dared to declare his passion, but was repelled with scorn. A man of
a certain age, who, relying on his noble birth and large estates, had the same
assurance, met with the same repulse. She boasted of this, however; and
even when in the company of her brothers, the priest, and the old noble,
declared she was insensible to love. It seemed that Heaven reserved severer
trials for her; yet these had no other effect but to render her more vain and
to enhance her reputation as a maiden superior to love. Of three lovers
smitten by her charms in succession, and whose affections she did not
dread, the first, in a fit of passion, stabbed himself at her feet; the second,
despairing of ever succeeding in his suit, went to seek his death in the wars
of Crete; and the third ended his days in languor and passed his nights
without sleep. The man who was to avenge them had not yet made his
appearance. The aged noble, who had not been fortunate in his suit, was
cured of his love by reflecting on his age and on the character of the young
lady to whom he paid his addresses; however, he wished to visit her
sometimes, and received her permission so to do. One day he introduced to
her his youthful son, who united to a charming countenance manners full of
dignity. Emira beheld him with some interest; but as he remained silent in
the presence of his father, she thought he was wanting in intelligence, and
could have wished him more. He saw her afterwards alone, and conversed
long enough and intelligently; but as he did not look at her much, and talked
still less about her and her beauty, she was surprised and somewhat
indignant that such a nice-looking and clever young man should be so void
of gallantry. She spoke of him to her friend, who expressed a desire to see
him. He, then, only looked at Euphrosyne, and praised her beauty. At this
the unfeeling Emira became jealous; she perceived that Ctesiphon spoke
what he really felt, and that he was not only capable of gallantry, but even
of tenderness. From that time she cooled towards her friend; yet she wished
to see the couple together once more, to make quite sure that her suspicions
were well-founded. The second interview showed her more than she
dreaded to see, and changed her suspicions into certainty. She now avoided
Euphrosyne; she no longer perceived in her that merit which charmed her

before; she lost all pleasure in her conversation; she loved her no longer;
and this alteration made her aware that love had driven friendship from her
heart. Ctesiphon and Euphrosyne saw each other every day, loved one
another, agreed to marry, and, finally, were married. The news spread
through the town, and was talked about the more as it is not often that two
persons who love one another are married. Emira heard of it, and became
desperate; she now felt all the power of love; she again visited Euphrosyne
only for the pleasure of anew beholding Ctesiphon; but that young husband
still remained a lover, and in his new wife found all the charms of a
mistress; he looked on Emira but as a friend of her who was dear to him.
This unfortunate girl could no longer rest, and refused to take any
nourishment; she got weaker and weaker, and at last her mind became
affected; she mistook her brother for Ctesiphon, and spoke to him as a
lover; she recollected herself, and blushed for her error, yet soon relapsed
into greater errors, for which she did not blush, for she was no longer aware
of them. Now she dreads men, but it is too late; that is the cause of her
madness. She has lucid intervals, but these are the most painful to her. The
youth of Smyrna, who saw her formerly so proud and so void of feeling,
now think that the gods have punished her too severely.190

IV.
OF THE AFFECTIONS.

(1.)
P URE friendship is something which men of an inferior intellect can
never taste.
(2.) Friendship can exist between persons of different sexes,
without any coarse or sensual feelings; yet a woman always looks upon a
man as a man, and so a man will look upon a woman as a woman. Such a
connection is neither love nor pure friendship, but something out of the
common.
(3.) Love arises suddenly, without any warning, through a natural
disposition or through weakness; one glance of the fair transfixes us,
determines us. Friendship, on the contrary, is formed gradually, in time,
through familiarity and long acquaintance. How much intelligence,
kindness of heart and affection; how many good offices and civilities are
required among friends to accomplish in several years what a lovely face or
a fine hand does in a minute.
(4.) Time, which strengthens friendship, weakens love.
(5.) As long as love lasts, it feeds on itself, and sometimes by those very
means which seem rather likely to extinguish it, such as caprice, severity,

absence, jealousy. Friendship, on the contrary, needs every assistance, and
dies from want of attention, confidence, and kindness.
(6.) It is not so difficult to meet with excessive love as with perfect
friendship.
(7.) Love and friendship exclude each other.
(8.) A man who is passionately in love neglects friendship, and one
whose whole feelings are for friendship has none to give to love.
(9.) Love begins with love; and the warmest friendship cannot change
even to the coldest love.
(10.) Nothing is more like the most ardent friendship than those
acquaintances which we cultivate for the sake of our love.
(11.) We never love with all our heart and all our soul but once, and that
is the first time we love. Subsequent inclinations are less instinctive.
(12.) Sudden love takes the longest time to be cured.
(13.) Love, slow and gradual in its growth, is too much like friendship
ever to be a violent passion.
(14.) A man who loves so ardently that he wishes he were able to love
ever so many thousand times more than he does, yields in love to none but
to a man who loves more intensely than he could wish.
(15.) If I were to admit that in the ebullitions of a violent passion one
may love another person better than oneself, whom should I please most—
those who love or those who are beloved?
(16.) Men are not seldom inclined to fall in love, but cannot succeed in
their desire; they seek every opportunity of being conquered, but fail to
meet it, and, if I may say so, are compelled to remain at liberty.
(17.) Those who love too violently at first, soon contribute individually
to their loving one another less, and, finally, to their not loving one another
any longer. It is not so easy to decide who is most to blame for this rupture,
the man or the woman. Women accuse men of being inconstant, and men
retort that women are fickle.
(18.) However particular we may be in love, we pardon more faults in
love than in friendship.
(19.) It is a sweet revenge to a man who loves passionately to make an
ungrateful mistress appear still more so, by his very actions.
(20.) It is a sorry circumstance to love when we have not a fortune large
enough to render those whom we love so happy that there is nothing more
they can wish for.

(21.) If a woman with whom we have been violently in love, and who
has not returned our passion, afterwards renders us some important
services, she will hardly meet with anything but ingratitude.
(22.) A lively gratitude denotes a great esteem and affection for the
person who lays us under some obligation.
(23.) To be in the company of those whom we love satisfies us; it does
not signify whether we dream of them, speak or not speak to them, think of
them or think of indifferent things, as long as we are near them.
(24.) Hatred is nearer to friendship than antipathy is.
(25.) It seems that antipathy changes oftener into love than into
friendship.
(26.) We confide our secret to a friend, but in love it escapes us.
It is possible to enjoy some peopleʼs confidence, and yet not their
affections; he who possesses these needs no trusting, no confidence;
everything is open to him.
(27.) In friendship we only see those faults which may be prejudicial to
our friends; in those whom we love we discern no faults but those by which
we suffer ourselves.
(28.) The first tiff in love, as the first fault in friendship, is the only one
of which we are able to make good use.
(29.) Methinks that if an unjust, eccentric, and groundless suspicion 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 Latin192 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 passionately196
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.
Drance198 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.

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 Arontius200 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 phébus201 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.) Theodectes205 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.
(13.) Troïlus is useful to those who have too much wealth; he eases
them of their onerous superfluity, and saves them the trouble of hoarding up
money, of making contracts, locking trunks, carrying keys about, and of
dreading to be robbed by servants. He assists them in their pleasures, and
afterwards is able to serve them in their passions; in a short time he
regulates and dictates their conduct; he is the oracle of the house, whose
decisions are anxiously expected, nay, even anticipated and surmised; he
orders a slave to be punished, and he is flogged; another to be freed, and he
is set at liberty. If a parasite does not make him laugh, he perhaps does not
please him, and therefore must be dismissed. The master of the house may
consider himself lucky if Troïlus leaves him his wife and children. If at
table he declares that a certain dish is excellent, the master and the guests,
who did not pay much attention to it, find it also excellent, and cannot eat
enough of it; if, on the contrary, he says of some other dish that it is insipid,
those who were just beginning to enjoy it dare not swallow the piece they
had in their mouths, but throw it on the floor;206 every eye is on him, and
every one observes his looks and his countenance before giving an opinion
on the wine or the dishes before them. Do not look for him anywhere else
but in the house of an opulent man, whose adviser he is; there he eats,
sleeps, digests his food, quarrels with his servant, gives audience to those
whom he employs, and puts off his creditors; he lays down the law in the
drawing-room, and receives there the adulation and homage of those
persons, who, more cunning than the rest, only wish to curry favour with
the master through Troïlusʼ intercession. If any one enters who is
unfortunate enough to have a countenance which Troïlus does not like, he
frowns and turns away his head; if a stranger accosts him, he sits still, and if
the latter sits down close to him, he leaves his seat; if he talks to him, he
does not reply, and if he continues to speak, Troïlus stalks away into another

chamber; if the stranger follows him, he makes for the stairs, and would
rather climb from one storey to another or throw himself out of a window,
than encounter a man whose face and voice he dislikes. Both are very
charming in Troïlus, and he has turned them to good account to insinuate
himself or to overcome a difficulty. At last he considers everything
unworthy of his attention, and he scorns to keep his position207 or to
continue to please by exercising any of those talents by which he first
brought himself into notice. It is a condescension if sometimes he leaves off
his musings and his taciturnity to contradict, and deigns once a day to show
his wit, though only to criticise. Do not expect him to listen to what you
may have to say, to be courteous, or to commend you, for you are not even
sure that he will permit you to approve him, or allow you to be polite.208
(14.) Do not interrupt a stranger whom you meet by chance in a stage-
coach, at an entertainment, or at any public exhibition; and if you listen to
him, it will not be long before youʼll know who he is; heʼll tell you his
name, his residence, his native country, what his property is worth, his
position, and his fatherʼs, his motherʼs family, his kindred, his family
connections, and even his coat-of-arms; for he will soon let you know that
he is nobly born, and that he has a castle beautifully furnished, a suitable
retinue, and a carriage.209
(15.) Some men speak one moment before they think; others tediously
study everything they say, and in conversation bore us as painfully as was
the travail of their mind; they are, as it were, made up of phrases and quaint
expressions, whilst their gestures are as affected as their behaviour. They
call themselves “purists,”210 and do not venture to say the most trifling
word not in use, however expressive it may be. Nothing comes from them
worth remembering, nothing is spontaneous and unrestrained; they speak
correctly,211 but they are very tiresome.
(16.) The true spirit of conversation consists more in bringing out the
cleverness of others than in showing a great deal of it yourself; he who goes
away pleased with himself and his own wit is also greatly pleased with you.
Most men rather please than admire you; they seek less to be instructed, and
even to be amused, than to be praised and applauded; the most delicate of
pleasures is to please another person.
(17.) Too much imagination is to be avoided in our conversation and in
our writings, as it often gives rise to idle and puerile ideas, neither tending

to perfect our taste nor to improve our conduct. Our thoughts should
originate from sound sense and reasoning, and always be the result of our
judgment.
(18.) It is a sad thing when men have neither enough intelligence to
speak well nor enough sense to hold their tongues; this is the root of all
impertinence.
(19.) To say simply that a certain thing is good or bad, and to state the
reasons for its being so, requires some common-sense and power of
expression, which is not so easily found. A much shorter way is to give
oneʼs opinion peremptorily, which is a convincing proof a man is right in
his statement, namely, that the thing is execrable or wonderful.
(20.) Nothing is more displeasing to Heaven and to men than to confirm
everything said in conversation, and even the most trifling subjects, with
long and disgusting oaths. Whether a gentleman merely says “Yes” or “No,”
he deserves to be believed; his reputation swears for him, adds weight to his
words, and obtains for him every confidence.212
(21.) He who continually affirms he is a man of honour and honest as
well, that he wrongs no man but wishes the harm he has done to others to
fall on himself, and raps out an oath to be believed, does not even know
how to imitate an honest man.
An honest man, with all his modesty, cannot prevent people saying of
him what a dishonest man says of himself.
(22.) Cléon213 talks always rather rudely or inaccurately; he does either
the one or the other; but he says he cannot help it, and that it is his natural
disposition to speak just as he thinks.
(23.) There are such things as to speak well, to speak easily, to speak
correctly, and to speak seasonably. We offend against the last way of
speaking if we mention a sumptuous entertainment we have just been
present at before people who have not had enough to eat; if we boast of our
good health before invalids; if we talk of our riches, our income, and our
fine furniture to a man who has not so much as an income or a dwelling; in
a word, if we speak of our prosperity before people who are wretched; such
a conversation is too much for them, and the comparison which they then
make between their condition and ours is very painful.
(24.) “As for you,” says Euthyphron,214 “you are rich, or ought to be so,
for you have a yearly income of ten thousand livres,215 all from land. I think
that glorious! charming! and a man could be happy with much less.” The

person who talks in this fashion has fifty thousand livres a year, and thinks
he has not half what he deserves. He settles what youʼll have to pay, values
what you are worth, determines what you have to spend; and if he thought
you deserved a better fortune, and even such a one as he himself aspires to,
he would be certain to wish it to you. He is not the only man who makes
such wretched estimations or such odious comparisons; the world is full of
Euthyphrons.
(25.) A person inclined to the usual flattery, and accustomed to praise
and exaggeration, congratulates216
Theodemus on a sermon he did not hear, and of which no one had, as
yet, given him an account. He extols his genius, his delivery, and, above all,
his excellent memory, when, in truth, Theodemus had stopped short in the
middle of his sermon, and had forgotten what he wished to say.217
(26.) Some abrupt, restless, conceited men, who are unemployed, and
have no manner of business to call them away, will dismiss you from their
presence in a few words, and only think to get rid of you; you are still
speaking to them, and they are already gone and have disappeared. They are
as impertinent as those people who stop you only to bore you; but the
former are perhaps less irksome.
(27.) To speak and to offend is with some people but one and the same
thing; they are biting and bitter; their words are steeped in gall and
wormwood; sneers as well as insolent and insulting remarks flow from their
lips. It had been well for them had they been born mute or stupid; the little
vivacity and intelligence they have prejudices them more than dulness does
others; they are not always satisfied with giving sharp answers, they often
attack arrogantly those who are present, and damage the reputation of those
who are absent; they butt all round like rams, for rams, of course, must use
their horns. We therefore do not expect, by our sketch of them, to change
such coarse, restless, and stubborn individuals. The best thing a man can do
is to take to his heels as soon as he perceives them, without even turning
round to look behind him.218
(28.) There are persons of such a disposition or character that a man
ought never to be compromised with them; of such persons he should
complain as little as possible, and not even be permitted to vanquish them
in arguments.
(29.) When two persons have had a violent quarrel, of whom one is in
the right and the other is in the wrong, the bystanders, for fear of being

appealed to, or through a certain frowardness which always seemed to me
ill-timed, condemn both. This is an important lesson, and a weighty and
necessary reason for going away, even when a coxcomb is seen in quite
another direction, so as to avoid sharing in his disgrace.
(30.) I hate a man whom I cannot accost or salute before he bows to me,
without debasing myself in his eyes, or sharing in the good opinion he has
of himself. Montaigne would say:219 “I will have elbow-room: I will be
courteous and affable according to my fancy, without fear or remorse. I
cannot strive against my inclination nor go contrary to my disposition,
which leads me to address myself to every one whom I meet. If such a
person is my equal and not my enemy, I anticipate his courtesy; I ask him
about his temper and his health, I offer him my services without any
haggling, and am not always on my guard, as some people say. That man
displeases me who by my knowledge of his habits and behaviour deprives
me of such liberty and freedom.
How should I remember, as soon as I see him afar off, to put on a grave
and important look, and to let him know that I think I am as good as he, and
better? To do this I must call to mind all my good qualities and points, and
his bad ones, so as to compare them together. This is too much trouble for
me, and I am not at all able of showing such an abrupt and sudden presence
of mind; even if I had been successful at first, I am sure I should give way
and lose my head a second time, for I cannot put any restraint on myself nor
assume a certain haughtiness for any man.”220
(31.) We may be virtuous, intelligent, and well-behaved, and yet be
unbearable. By our manners, which we consider of no consequence, the
world often forms either a good or a bad opinion of us; a little care to
appear obliging and polite will prevent its condemning us. The least thing is
enough to make people believe that we are proud, impolite, haughty, and
disobliging; but, on the other hand, still less is needed to make them esteem
us.
(32.) Politeness does not always produce kindness of heart, justice,
complacency, or gratitude, but it gives to a man at least the appearance of it,
and makes him seem externally what he really should be.
We may define all the essentials of politeness, but we cannot determine
how and where they should be used; they depend on ordinary habits and
customs, are connected with times and places, and are not the same in both
sexes nor in different ranks of life; intelligence alone cannot find this out;

politeness is acquired and perfected by imitation. Only some persons are
naturally disposed to be polite, as others are in acquiring great talents and
solid virtue. Politeness tends, undoubtedly, to advance merit and to render it
agreeable; a man must have very eminent qualities to hold his own without
being polite.
The very essence of politeness seems to be to take care that by our
words and actions we make other people pleased with us as well as with
themselves.
(33.) It is an offence against politeness to bestow excessive praise on a
personʼs singing or playing before any other who has sung or played for
you, or to commend another poet in the presence of those who have read
you their verses.
(34.) A man may be giving entertainments and feasts to certain persons,
may make them presents, and let them enjoy themselves, and he may do
this well; but he will do much better by acting according to their
inclinations.
(35.) It is more or less rude to scorn indiscriminately all kinds of praise;
we ought to be proud of that which comes from honest men, who praise
sincerely those things in us which are really commendable.
(36.) An intelligent man, who is naturally proud, abates nothing of his
pride and haughtiness because he is poor; on the contrary, if anything will
mollify him and make him more pliant and sociable, it is a little prosperity.
(37.) Not to be able to bear with all bad-tempered people with whom the
world is crowded, shows that a man has not a good temper himself: small
change is as necessary in business as golden coin.
(38.) To live with people who have been quarrelling and to whose
complaints you have to listen, is like being in a court of justice from
morning till night listening to pleadings and lawsuits.
(39.) Two persons had all their lives been very intimate with one
another; their incomes were in common, they lived together, and were never
out of one anotherʼs sight. After fourscore years they thought it was time to
part and put an end to their intimacy; they had then but one day to live, and
dared not attempt to pass it together: they hastened to break before death, as
their complacency would hold out no longer. They would have been good
models had they not lived so long, for had they died one moment sooner,
they still would have been good friends and have left behind them a rare
example of perseverance in friendship.221

(40.) Families are often disturbed by mistrust, jealousy, and antipathy,
while outwardly they seem happy, peaceable, and cheerful, and we suppose
they enjoy a tranquillity which does not exist; there are very few who can
bear investigation. The visit you pay only interrupts a domestic quarrel
which awaits but your departure to break out afresh.
(41.) In all societies common-sense always gives way first. The most
sensible people often are swayed by a most foolish and eccentric personage;
they study his weakness, his temper, his fancies, and put up with them; they
avoid thwarting him, and everybody gives him his way; when his
countenance betrays he is cheerful, he is commended; they are grateful to
him for not being always insufferable; he is feared, considered, obeyed, and
sometimes beloved.
(42.) None but those persons who have had aged relatives, or those who
have them still, and whose heirs they may become, can tell what they had,
or have now, to endure.
(43.) Cleantes222 is a very worthy man; he has taken unto himself a
wife, who is the best and most sensible person in the world; both, in their
ways, are the life and soul of the company they keep; a more
straightforward and more polite behaviour than theirs is nowhere to be met
with. They are to part to-morrow, and the deed of separation is already
drawn up at the lawyerʼs. Surely they must possess certain merits which do
not harmonise together and certain virtues which are incompatible.
(44.) A man may be sure of the dowry, the jointure, and his marriage
settlements, but scarcely of the contract the parents have entered upon to
board and lodge the young couple for a certain time;223 for that depends on
the frail harmony between the mother-in-law and the daughter-in-law,
which often ends the first year of the marriage.
(45.) A father-in-law loves both his son and daughter-in-law, a mother-
in-law her son and not her daughter-in-law; the latter pays her back in her
own coin.
(46.) What a step-mother loves the least in the wide world are her
husbandʼs children; the fonder she is of her husband the worse step-mother
she shows herself.
Step-mothers make of towns and villages complete deserts, and stock
the country with more beggars, vagrants, servants, and slaves, than poverty
does.

(47.) G ... and H ... are neighbours, living in the country;224 their lands
are contiguous; they dwell in a secluded and solitary spot. Far from towns
and all intercourse with men, we might have thought that the dread of being
completely estranged from the world and from all society should have kept
up their mutual intimacy; but it is difficult to say what trifling circumstance
has caused their being at variance, renders them implacable, and transmits
their hatred to their descendants. Relatives, or even brothers, never
quarrelled about a thing of less consequence.
Suppose there were but two men on this habitable globe, the sole
possessors of it, who should divide it between them, even then I am
convinced that soon some cause of disagreement would spring up, though it
were only about boundaries.
(48.) It is often easier as well as more advantageous to conform
ourselves to other menʼs opinions than to bring them over to ours.
(49.) I am now approaching a little town, and I am already on a hill
whence I discover it. It is built on a slope, a river washes its walls and then
meanders through a lovely meadow; a dense forest shelters it from cold
winds and northern blasts. The weather is so bright that I can count its
towers and steeples, and it seems, as it were, painted on the slope of the hill.
I exclaim: “How agreeable must it be to dwell underneath such a pure sky
and in such a delightful abode!” I enter the town, and have not spent there
above two or three nights when I feel I am just like its inhabitants; I long to
get away from it.
(50.) There is a certain thing which has never yet been seen under the
canopy of heaven, and, in all likelihood, never will be: it is a small town
without various parties, where all the families are united and all relations
visit one another without reserve, where a marriage does not engender a
civil war, where there are no disputes about precedence at the offertory,225
the carrying of the censer, or the giving of a cake to the church to be
consecrated and distributed during mass, as well as about processions and
funerals: whence gossiping, falsehoods, and slandering are banished; where
the bailli and the president of the court, the élus and the assesseurs226 are
on speaking terms together; where the dean is well with the canons, the
canons do not disdain the choristers, and the choristers bear with the
singing-boys.
(51.) Country people and fools are apt to get angry, and to fancy you
make fun of them or despise them. You should never venture on the most

innocent and inoffensive joke, unless it be with people of culture or
intelligence.
(52.) A man should not pretend to show his talents in the society of men
of rank; their very rank forbids it; nor with people of inferior degree who
repel you by being always on their guard.
(53.) Men of merit discover, discern, and find out each other
reciprocally; he who would be esteemed should frequent persons who are
themselves estimable.
(54.) He who is of so lofty a rank as to be above repartee, ought never to
joke in a racy kind of way.
(55.) There are some little failings which we freely abandon to censure,
and about which we do not dislike being bantered; when we banter others
we should select failings of the same kind.
(56.) It is a foolʼs privilege to laugh at an intelligent man; he is in
society what a jester is at court—of no consequence whatever.
(57.) Banter is often a proof of want of intelligence.
(58.) You fancy a man your dupe, but if he only pretends to be so, who
is the greatest dupe, you or he?
(59.) If you observe carefully those people who praise nobody, who are
always finding fault, and are never satisfied with any one, you will discover
them to be persons with whom nobody is satisfied.
(60.) The proud and disdainful will find precisely in society the contrary
of what they expect, which is to be esteemed.
(61.) The pleasure of social intercourse amongst friends is kept up by a
similarity of morals and manners, and by slender differences in opinion
about science; this confirms us in our sentiments, exercises our faculties or
instructs us through arguments.
(62.) Two persons will not be friends long if they are not inclined to
pardon each otherʼs little failings.
(63.) How many fine and useless arguments are laid before a person in
great affliction to attempt to soothe him! Things from without which we call
events are sometimes too strong for arguments and nature. Eat, drink, do
not kill yourself with grief, think only to live, are magnificent admonitions,
and impracticable as well. If we say to a man that it is not wise to unsettle
his mind so much, do we not tell him in reality that he is a fool for being so
unfortunate?

(64.) Advice which is necessary in all matters of business, is sometimes
hurtful in social affairs to those who give it, and useless to the persons to
whom it is given. You observe, perhaps, faults in manners and morals which
are either not acknowledged, or, perhaps, considered virtues; you blot out
some passages in a composition which please the author the most, and in
which he thinks he has surpassed himself. By those means you lose the
confidence of your friend without making him better or wiser.
(65.) Not long since certain persons of both sexes formed a society for
intellectual conversation and interchange of ideas.227 They left to the vulgar
herd the art of talking intelligibly; an expression used by them, and which
was not very clear, was followed by another still more obscure, which was
improved on by others still more enigmatic, which were always crowned
with prolonged applause, so that at last, by what they were pleased to call
refinements, sentiments, turn and delicacy of expression, they succeeded in
becoming unintelligible to others and to themselves. Common-sense,
judgment, memory, or the smallest capacity were unnecessary in their
conversation; all that was wanted was a certain amount of intellect, and that
not of the right sort, but of a spurious kind, and in which imagination was
too predominant.
(66.) I know it, Theobaldus,228 you have grown old; but would you have
me think you decline, that you are no longer a poet nor a wit, that you are
now as bad a critic of all kind of writings as you are a wretched author, and
that your conversation is neither ingenuous nor refined? Your careless and
conceited behaviour reassures me, and convinces me of my error. You are
the same to-day as you ever were, and perhaps better; for if you are so brisk
and vivacious at your age, what name, Theobaldus, did you deserve in your
youth, when you were the pet and the caprice of certain ladies who only
swore by you, believed every word you uttered, and then exclaimed, “It is
delightful! What has he said?”
(67.) We frequently speak hastily in conversation, often through vanity
and natural inclination, seldom with the necessary caution, and only
anxious to reply to what we have not heard; we follow our own ideas, and
explain them without the smallest deference for other menʼs arguments; we
are very far from finding out the truth, as we are not yet agreed upon what
we are looking for. If any man could hear such conversations and write
them down, he would now and then find many good things said without the
smallest result.

(68.) Some time ago a sort of insipid and puerile conversation was in
fashion, which turned on trivial questions about the affections, and what
people please to call passion or tenderness. The reading of some novels first
introduced this talk amongst the most gentlemanly men in town and at
court, but they soon discarded it, and then the citizens took it up, as well as
puns and plays on words.229
(69.) Some city ladies are so refined that they do not know or dare not
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.) “Lucanus232 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.) Hermagoras235 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 Mardokampad239 are to him as familiar as those of
Valois and Bourbon are to us. He has yet to learn that the Emperor240 is
married, but he can tell you that Ninus241 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 Sesostris243 ambidexter; that it is an error to imagine one of the
Artaxerxes was called Longimanus244 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. “Lucianus247 and Seneca,”248 says Cydias, “come pretty
near me; but as for Plato,249 Virgil,250 and Theocritus251 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.

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 perceptible265 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.) Sosia267 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.) Arfuria269 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.) Crœsus271 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.) Sylvanus274 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.) Dorus276 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 funeral280 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 thousand283 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.
(28.) Let Ergastus alone, and he will demand a duty from all who drink
some water from the river or who walk on terra firma; he knows how to
convert reeds, rushes, and nettles into gold;286 he listens to all projects, and

proposes everything he hears. The prince gives nothing to any one but at
Ergastusʼ expense, and bestows no favours but what are his due, for his
desire to have and to possess is never appeased. He would even deal in arts
and sciences, and farm out harmony; were his advice to be taken, the
people, for the pleasure of seeing him wealthy, and with a pack of hounds
and a stable, would forget the music of Orpheus and be satisfied with his.
(29.) Have no dealings with Crito,287 who only looks after his own
advantages; the snare is always ready spread for those who wish to acquire
his office, his estate, or anything he possesses, for his conditions will be
exorbitant. There is no consideration or arrangement to be expected from
one so wrapt up in his own interest and so inimical to yours; he will always
take a man in if he can.
(30.) Brontin,288 according to common report, retires from the busy
world, and during a whole week sees none but priests; they enjoy their
meditations, and he enjoys his.
(31.) The people very often have the pleasure of seeing a tragedy acted,
and of beholding expire on the worldʼs stage the most hateful personages,
who did as much harm as they could whenever they appeared, and whom
they heartily detested.
(32.) If we divide the lives of the P.T.S.289 into two parts, the first, brisk
and active, is wholly occupied in trying to oppress the people, and the
second, bordering on death, is spent in betraying and ruining one another.
(33.) The man290 who made your fortune and that of several others was
unable to keep his own, or secure a maintenance for his wife and children
after his death; they live in obscurity and in wretchedness. You are informed
of their miserable condition, but you do not think of alleviating it; indeed
you cannot do so, for you give a good many dinners, you build a good deal;
but out of gratitude you have kept the portrait of your benefactor, which, it
is true, has been removed from your own private room to the anteroom. You
have at least shown him some respect, for it might have gone to the lumber-
room.
(34.) There exists a stubbornness of temper, and another of rank and
condition, which both harden our hearts against the misfortunes of others,
and, I should even say, prevent us from pitying the evils which befall our
own family. A true financier grieves neither for the loss of friends, wife, nor
children.

(35.) “Away, fly; you are not far enough.” “Here,” say you, “I am under
another tropic.” “Pass under the pole and into another hemisphere; ascend
to the stars, if possible.” “I am there.” “Very well; then you are pretty safe.”
I look down and discover on this earth a rapacious, insatiable, and
inexorable man, who, in spite of everything he meets on his way or may
encounter, and at whatever cost to others, will provide for himself, enlarge
his fortune, and wallow in wealth.
(36.) To make oneʼs fortune is so fine a phrase, and of such charming
import, that it is universally used; it is to be met with in all languages, is
pleasing to strangers and to barbarians, is to be found at court and in the
city, has made its way into cloisters and scaled the walls of convents for
both sexes; there is no place so sacred where it has not penetrated, no desert
or solitude where it is unknown.291
(37.) A man who knows how to make good bargains or finds his money
increase in his coffers, thinks presently that he has a good deal of brains and
is almost fit to be a statesman.
(38.) A man must have a certain sort of intelligence to make a fortune,
and above all a large fortune; but it is neither a good nor a fine, a grand nor
a sublime, a strong nor a delicate intellect. I am at a loss to tell exactly what
it is, and shall be glad if some one will let me know.
Custom or experience are of more avail in making our fortune than
intelligence; we think of it too late, and when at last we have made up our
mind to make it, we begin by committing some errors which we have not
always the time to repair; and this, perhaps, is the reason why fortunes are
far from common.
A man of small intellect wishes to get on in life; he neglects everything,
but from morning till evening he only thinks of one thing, and dreams of it
at night, namely, to get on in the world. He begins early and from his very
youth the chase after wealth; if a barrier in front of him stops the way, he
naturally hesitates, and goes to the right or left, according as he sees an
opening or thinks it most convenient; and if fresh obstacles arise, he returns
to the path he just left, and determines, according to the nature of the
difficulties, sometimes to overcome them, sometimes to avoid them, or to
take other measures as his own interest, custom, and opportunity may direct
him. Does any traveller need such a good head and such great talents to set
out at first on a main road, and if that be crowded or impracticable, to cross
the fields, jump over hedges and ditches, come back into the former road,

and follow it until his journeyʼs end? Does he require so much intelligence
to attain the goal? Is it, then, so wonderful for a fool ever to become rich or
of repute?
There are some stupid, and I may even say weak-minded men, who
occupy handsome posts, and who die rich without any one ever supposing
that they contributed to it in any way whatever by the smallest industry or
their own labour. Somebody directed them to the fountainhead, or, perhaps,
chance alone has led them to it; then they have been asked if they should
like to have some water, and if so, to draw it; and they have drawn it.292
(39.) When we are young we are often poor; either we have not yet
acquired nor inherited anything. We become rich and old at the same
moment; for seldom do men obtain every advantage at one and the same
time. But even if some persons are so fortunate, we ought not to envy them,
since they lose by their death sufficiently to deserve our compassion.
(40.) A man is thirty years old before he thinks of making his fortune,
but it is not completed at fifty; he begins to build in his old age, and dies by
the time his house is in a condition to be painted and glazed.
(41.) What is the advantage of having a large fortune, unless it be to
enjoy the vanity, industry, labour and outlay of those who came before us,
and to labour ourselves in planting, building, and hoarding for our
posterity?
(42.) Men open their shops and set out their wares every morning to
deceive their customers; and they close them at night after having cheated
all day.
(43.) A tradesman turns over all his goods, that he may sell you the
worst; he has a certain preparation to give them a lustre, or else holds these
goods in a peculiar light, to conceal their faults and to make them appear
sound; he asks too large a price for them, so as to sell them for more than
they are worth; he has forged mysterious trade-marks, so that people may
believe they get the full value for their hard cash; he employs a short yard
measure, so that the buyer may obtain as little for his money as possible,
and has a pair of scales to try whether the gold he receives be of full weight.
(44.) In all conditions of life a poor man is a near neighbour to an
honest one,293 and a rich man is as little removed from a knave; tact and
ability alone seldom procure great riches.
A show of a certain amount of honesty is in any profession or business
the surest way of growing rich.

(45.) The shortest and best way of making your fortune is to let people
clearly see that it is their interest to promote yours.
(46.) Some men,294 stimulated by the necessities of life, and sometimes
by a desire to gain money or glory, improve their secular talents or adopt a
profession far from reputable, and overlook its danger and consequences for
a considerable time; they leave it afterwards from secret and devout
reasons, which never stirred them before they had reaped their harvest and
enjoyed a comfortable income.
(47.) There exist miseries in this world which wring the very heart;
some people want even food; they dread the winter and are afraid to live;
others eat hothouse fruits; the earth and the seasons are compelled to
furnish forth delicacies; and mere citizens, simply because they have grown
rich, dare to swallow in one morsel what would nourish a hundred families.
Whatever may be brought forward against such extremes, let me be neither
unhappy or happy if I can help it; I take refuge in mediocrity.
(48.) It is well known that the poor are sad because they want
everything and nobody comforts them; but if it be true that the rich are
irascible, it is because they may want the smallest thing, or that some one
might oppose them.
(49.) A man is rich whose income is larger than his expenses, and he is
poor if his expenses are greater than his income.
There are some men295 who with an annual revenue of two millions are
yearly still five hundred thousand livres in arrears.
Nothing keeps longer than a middling fortune, and nothing melts away
sooner than a large one.
Great riches are a temptation for poverty.
If it be true that a man is rich who wants nothing, a wise man is a very
rich man.296
If a man be poor who wishes to have everything, then an ambitious and
a miserly man languish in extreme poverty.
(50.) Passions tyrannise over mankind, but ambition keeps the others in
abeyance, and makes for a while a man appear to possess every virtue.
I once believed that Tryphon, whom I now know to practise every vice,
was sober, chaste, liberal, modest, and even pious; I might have believed so
still if he had not made his fortune.
(51.) All that a man wishes for is riches and grandeur; he falls very ill,
and death draws near, and though his face be shrivelled and his legs totter,

yet he is still talking of his fortune and his post.
(52.) There are but two ways of rising in the world, either by your own
industry or by the folly of others.
(53.) The features may indicate the natural disposition, habits, and
morals of a man, but it is the expression of the whole countenance that
discovers his wealth; it is written in a manʼs face whether he has more or
less than a thousand livres a year.
(54.) Chrysantes, a wealthy and impertinent man, would think it a
disgrace to be seen with Eugenius, who is a man of merit but poor;
Eugenius entertains the same feelings towards Chrysantes; so there is no
chance of their ever quarrelling together.
(55.) When I see some persons, who formerly were the first to bow to
me, wait, on the contrary, till I salute them, and stand on ceremony with me,
I say to myself, “All this is mighty fine, and I am very glad things go so
well with them; it is quite certain that those gentlemen live in larger houses,
have handsomer furniture and better repasts than formerly, and that for the
last few months they have had a share in a business by which they have
already made some very good profit. Pray Heaven they may in a short time
come even to despise me!”

DESCARTES

(56.) If thoughts, books, and their authors were depending on the rich
and on those who have made a large fortune, they would all be exiled, and
that without appeal. Such men act superciliously and lord it over the
learned! They keep their dignity with those poor wretches whose merit has
not advanced or enriched them, and who still think and write sensibly! We
must confess that at present the rich predominate, but the future will be for
the virtuous and ingenious. Homer lives still and will ever flourish, whilst
the tax-gatherers and publicans are no more and are utterly forgotten, and
their native country and their very names are unknown at present. Were
there any farmers of the revenue in Greece? What has become of all those

important personages who despised Homer, who were careful to avoid him,
who never bowed to him, or, if they did so, never called him “Sir,” who did
not think him worthy of being admitted to their tables, who looked on him
as a man who was not rich and had written a book? What will become of
the Fauconnets?297 Will their names be transmitted to posterity as the name
of Descartes was, who, though born a Frenchman, died in Sweden?298
(57.) The same amount of pride which makes a man treat haughtily his
inferiors, makes him cringe servilely to those above him. It is the very
nature of this vice, which is neither based on personal merit nor on virtue,
but on riches, posts, influence, and useless knowledge, to render a man as
supercilious to those who are below him as to over-value those who are of a
loftier rank than they themselves are.
(58.) There are some sordid minds, formed of slime and filth, to whom
interest and gain are what glory and virtue are to superior souls; they feel no
other pleasure but to acquire money and never to lose it; they are covetous
and are always wanting ten per cent.;299 they only occupy themselves with
their creditors; always dread the lowering or calling in of certain monies;300
and are absorbed and immerged in contracts, deeds, and parchments. Such
people are neither relatives, friends, citizens, Christians, nor perhaps men;
they have money.
(59.) Let us first except those noble and courageous minds, if there are
any yet on this earth, who assist those who are in want, contrive to do good,
whom no necessities, nor inequality of rank or fortune, nor intrigues can
separate from those they have once chosen for their friends; and after
having made this remark, let us boldly state a lamentable truth, which
makes us miserable to think about, namely, that there is not a person in this
world, however intimately connected with us by social ties or by friendship,
who likes us, enjoys our society, has a great many times offered us his
services, and sometimes even rendered us one, who, when swayed by his
own interests, would not feel inwardly disposed to break with us and
become our enemy.
(60.) Whilst Orontes301 is increasing in years, in wealth, and in income,
a girl born in a certain family flourishes, grows up, becomes very
handsome, and enters on her sixteenth year. Orontes, who is then fifty, of
inferior birth, without intelligence and the smallest merit, has to be

entreated to marry that young, handsome, and witty girl, and is preferred to
all his rivals.
(61.) Marriage, which ought to be a source of all felicity, is often to a
man a heavy burden which crushes him through want of fortune. For his
wifeʼs and childrenʼs sake he is sorely tempted to commit fraud, to tell
falsehoods, and obtain illicit gains. It must be a dreadful situation for any
man to have to choose between roguery and indigence.
To marry a widow means, in plain language,302 to make oneʼs fortune,
though this is not always the case.303
(62.) A man who has only inherited sufficient money to live comfortably
as a lawyer wishes presently to become an official, then a magistrate, and
finally a judge.304 Thus it is with all ranks and conditions of men straitened
or limited in their means, who, after having attempted several things beyond
their power, force, if I may say so, their destiny; they have neither sense
enough to forbear being rich nor to continue rich.
(63.) Dine comfortably, Clearchus,305 make a good supper, put some
wood on the fire, buy a cloak, put hangings all round your room, for you
have no love for your heir; you even do not know him; you have not got
any.
(64.) When we are young we lay up for old age; when we are old we
save for death; a prodigal heir first gives us a splendid funeral, and then
lavishes whatever money is left to him.
(65.) After his death a miser spends more money in one day than he
spent in ten years when he was alive; and his heir more in ten months than
the miser could find in his heart to part with during his whole lifetime.306
(66.) When we lavish our money we rob our heir; when we merely save
it we rob ourselves. The middle course is to be just to ourselves and to
others.
(67.) Children, perhaps, would be dearer to their parents and parents to
their children, were it not for the latter being their heirs.
(68.) How wretched is manʼs estate, and how it makes one sick of life!
We have to moil and toil, to watch, to yield, and to be dependent, to acquire
a little money, or else we get it at the last gasp of our nearest relations. He
who can master his feelings so far as not to wish for his fatherʼs death is an
honest man.

(69.) A person who expects to inherit something becomes over-polite;
we are never better flattered, better obeyed, followed, courted, attended, and
caressed than by those who hope to gain by our death, and wish it may
happen soon.
(70.) As far as different places, titles, and inheritances are concerned, all
men look upon themselves as one anotherʼs heirs, and, therefore, quietly
and stealthily wish all their lives for one anotherʼs death. The happiest man,
under such circumstances, is he who has most to lose by his death, and most
to leave to his successor.
(71.) It is said of gambling that it makes all ranks equal; but there is
often such a strange disparity and such a vast, immense, and profound
chasm between this and that condition, that it pains us to see such extremes
meet together.307 It is like discord in music, like colours which do not
harmonise, like words that clash and jar on our ears, like those sounds and
noises which make us shudder. In a word, it is a subversion of all order and
decency. If any one tells me gambling is the custom throughout the whole
western hemisphere, I reply that perhaps it is one of the reasons why we are
considered barbarians in another part of the globe, and what the Eastern
nations who travel this way particularly remark of us in their journals. I
have not the smallest doubt that such an excessive familiarity appears to
them as disgusting as their zombay308 and their other prostrations seem to
us incongruous.
(72.) An assembly of the provincial states or a parliament309 meeting to
discuss a very important matter of business, presents nothing so grave and
serious as a table crowded with gamblers who play very high; a
melancholic severity is depicted on every countenance; implacable towards
one another, and irreconcilable enemies as long as they are together, they
neither regard relationship, connections, birth, or social distinctions. Chance
alone, that blind and stern divinity, presides over the assembly, and
pronounces her opinions like a sovereign; people show their respect for her
by remaining very silent, and by being more attentive than they are
elsewhere. Every passion seems in abeyance for a while, to give way to one
passion only, during which the courtier neither pretends to be gentle,
fawning, polite, nor pious.
(73.) Even the smallest trace of their former condition seems utterly
obliterated in those who have made their fortune by gambling; they lose
sight of their equals, and associate only with persons of the highest rank. It

is true that the fortune of the die or lansquenet310 often puts them in the
same place whence it took them.311
(74.) I am not surprised that there are gambling houses, like so many
snares laid for human avarice; like abysses where many a manʼs money is
engulphed and swallowed up without any hope of return; like frightful
rocks against which the gamblers are thrown and perish; that certain men
are sent forth to find out the precise time some person has landed with
newly got prize-money, or who has gained a lawsuit which has brought him
in a goodly sum, or who has received some presents, or who has had a very
lucky run at play; what young man of family has just come into a large
inheritance, or what desperate clerk will venture the monies of his office on
the turn of a card. Truly cheating is villainous and rascally, but it is an old
and well-known trade, and practised at all times by the men we call
professional gamblers. They have a sign outside their doors, and this may
be the inscription: “Here cheating is done fairly;” for I suppose they do not
pretend to be blameless. Every one knows that if a man gambles in one of
these houses he is certain to lose. What to me is unaccountable, is that there
should always be as many fools as gamblers want, to make a living by
them.
(75.) Thousands have been ruined by gambling, and yet they tell you
very coolly they cannot do without it. What an idle excuse is this! Is there
any violent and shameful passion in existence to which we cannot apply the
same language? Would any one be allowed to say, he cannot live without
stealing, murdering, or rushing into all kinds of excesses? It is allowable to
gamble in a frightful manner, without intermission, shame, or limit; to have
no other aim but the total ruin of your adversary; to be carried away by a
desire for gain, thrown into despair by losing or consumed by avarice; to
risk on the turn of a card or die your own future and that of your wife and
children; or should we do without it yet? And are there not sometimes
worse consequences than these at the gambling-table, when men are
entirely stripped, obliged to do without clothes and food, and cannot
provide these for their families?
I allow no one to be a knave, but I will allow a knave to play high, but
not an honest man, for it is too silly to expose oneself to a heavy loss.312
(76.) There is but one sorrow which is lasting, and that is one produced
by the loss of property; time, which alleviates all others, sharpens this; we

feel it every moment during the course of our lives when we miss the
fortune we have lost.
(77.) The man who spends his fortune without marrying his daughters,
paying his debts, or lending it out on good security, may be well enough
liked by every one except by his wife and children.
(78.) Neither the troubles, Zenobia,313 which disturb your empire, nor
the war which since the death of the king, your husband, you have so
heroically maintained against a powerful nation, diminish your
magnificence in the least. You have preferred the banks of the Euphrates to
any other country for erecting a splendid building; the air is healthy and
temperate, the situation delightful; a sacred wood shades it on the west; the
Syrian gods, who sometimes visit the earth, could not choose a finer abode;
the adjacent country is peopled with men who are constantly busy shaping
and cutting, coming and going, rolling or carting away the timber of Mount
Lebanon, brass and porphyry; the air rings with the noise of cranes and
machinery; and that noise instils a hope in the breasts of those who pass that
way to go to Arabia, that, on their return home, they may see that palace
finished, with all the splendour you design to bestow on it before you, or
the princes, your children, make it your dwelling. Spare nothing, great
queen; make use of your gold and of the best workmanship of first-class
artists;314 let the Phidiasses and Zeuxisses315 of your century display the
utmost of their skill on your walls and ceilings; lay out expensive and
delightful gardens, so enchanting that they do not seem created by the hand
of man; exhaust your treasures and your energy in this incomparable
edifice; and, after you have brought it to perfection, one of those herdsmen
who dwell in the neighbouring sandy deserts of Palmyra, and who has
enriched himself by farming the tolls of your rivers, will purchase one day,
with ready money, this royal demesne, and add fresh embellishments to it,
so as to render it more worthy of him and his fortune.316
(79.) This palace, this furniture, these gardens, those handsome
waterworks charm you, and on first beholding such a delightful mansion,
you cannot forbear expressing your opinion that its owner ought to be
superlatively happy. He is no more, and he never enjoyed it so pleasantly
and so quietly as you did; he never knew a cheerful day or a quiet night; he
sunk beneath the debts he contracted in adorning it with those beauties
which so delight you. His creditors drove him from it, and then he turned

round his head and looked upon it for the last time; this affected him so
much that it caused his death.317
(80.) We cannot avoid observing the strokes of fate or the freaks of
fortune which happen in certain families, and which a hundred years ago
were never heard of because they did not exist. Providence, on a sudden,
bestows its favours on them; and more than once showers on them wealth,
honours, and dignities, so that they bask in prosperity. Eumolpus,318 one of
those men who never had any ancestors, was raised so high that he obtained
everything he desired during the course of a long life. Was this owing to the
superior intelligence and to the profound capacity of either father or son, or
to favourable circumstances? Fortune, at last, smiles on them no longer; it
leaves them to sport elsewhere, and treats their descendants as it did their
ancestors.
(81.) The immediate cause of the ruin and overthrow of gentlemen of
the long robe and the sword is that they have to spend their money, not
according to their income, but according to their rank in society.
(82.) If you have omitted nothing towards making your fortune, how
great has been your labour! If you have neglected the most trifling thing,
how lasting will be your repentance!
(83.) Giton has a fresh complexion, a full face, pendulous cheeks, a
steady and resolute look, broad shoulders, a huge chest, a firm and
deliberate gait; he speaks with assurance, must have every word repeated
that is said to him, and is not greatly pleased with what is told him. He takes
a large handkerchief out of his pocket, and blows his nose with a
tremendous noise: he expectorates about the room, and sneezes very loud;
he sleeps by day, by night, and that soundly, for he snores in company. He
takes up more room than any one else at table or whilst walking, and walks
in the middle of the road when with his equals; he stops and they stop; he
goes forward and they go forward; all are governed by what he does. He
interrupts and corrects those who are talking, but is never interrupted, and
people listen to him as long as he likes to speak, for their ideas are like his,
and they take it for granted that the news he tells them is perfectly true. If
he sits down he throws himself into an easy-chair, crosses his legs, frowns,
pulls his hat over his eyes so as to see no one, or suddenly draws it back to
show a supercilious and bold countenance; he is merry, ever laughing,
impatient, impudent, a freethinker,319 and a politician full of secrets about

the affairs of the day; he thinks he has talents and intelligence; he is
wealthy.
Phædo has sunken eyes, a reddish complexion, a lean body and an
emaciated countenance; he sleeps very little, and his slumbers are light; he
is absent-minded, pensive, and, with some intelligence, looks like a dolt; he
forgets to say what he knows or to speak about those incidents with which
he is acquainted; if he says something now and then, he does it badly; he
thinks he bores those persons to whom he addresses himself, and therefore
tells his story briefly but coldly, so that he is never listened to nor taken
notice of, for he makes nobody laugh. He praises and laughs at other
personsʼ jests, is of their opinions, and runs and flies to render them some
small services; he is over polite, and flatters and waits on them; he is close
about his own affairs, and does not always tell the truth about them; he is
very peculiar,320 scrupulous, and timorous. He steps lightly and softly, and
seems afraid to tread the ground; he walks with his eyes downward, and
dares not raise them to face the passers-by; he never joins in any
conversation, but places himself behind the person who speaks; picks up by
stealth all that has been said, and withdraws if any one looks at him. He
does not take up any room nor fill a place anywhere; he walks about with
his arms close to his body, his hat over his eyes that he may not be seen, and
wraps and folds himself up in his cloak. There is no street nor gallery so
crowded and filled with people, but he finds a way to get through without
jostling, and to steal along unperceived. If they beg him to sit down, he
seats himself on the edge of a chair, and talks in a low voice and not very
distinctly; he freely expresses, however, his opinion on public affairs, is
angry with the age, and but indifferently pleased with the cabinet and the
ministers; he seldom opens his mouth but to reply; he coughs and blows his
nose with his hat before his face, he almost expectorates on himself, and
does not sneeze till he is alone, or if it does happen, no one hears it, so that
no one has to say “God bless you.” He is poor.321

VII.
OF THE TOWN.322

(1.)
P EOPLE in Paris, without giving any notice beforehand, and as if it
were some public assignation, meet every evening on the Cours323
or in the Tuileries, to stare around and criticise one another.
They cannot dispense with those very persons whom they do not like
and whom they deride.
They wait for one another in these public walks,324 and they examine
one another; carriages, horses, liveries, coats of arms, nothing escapes their
gaze; everything is looked at keenly or maliciously, and they respect or
contemn the persons they meet according to the greater or lesser splendour
of their equipages.
(2.) Everybody knows that long bank325 which borders and confines the
Seine where it joins the Marne on entering Paris; close by men come to
bathe during the heat of the dog-days, and people at a little distance see
them amuse themselves by jumping in and out of the water. Now, as long as
there is no bathing, the city ladies never walk that way, and when the season
is over they walk there no longer.326

(3.) In those places of general resort, where the ladies assemble only to
show their fine dresses, and to reap the reward for the trouble they have
taken with their apparel, people do not walk with a companion for the
pleasure of conversation, but they herd together to get a little more
confidence, to accustom themselves to the public, and to keep one another
in countenance against criticisms. They talk but say nothing, or rather they
talk to be taken notice of by those for whose sake they raise their voices,
gesticulate, joke, bow carelessly, and walk up and down.
(4.) The town is split up into several sets, which, like so many little
republics, have their peculiar laws, customs, dialects, and jests. As long as
such a set remains in force, and as long as the conceit lasts, nothing is
allowed to be well said or well done which it had no hand in, and it cannot
enjoy anything from strangers; it even contemns those who have not been
initiated in its mysteries. An intelligent man, whom chance has thrown
amongst the members of such a set, is a stranger to them: he is, as it were,
in a distant country, where he is ignorant of the roads, the language, the
manners and the laws; he sees a sort of people who talk, rattle, whisper,
burst out laughing, and presently relapse into a gloomy silence; he does not
know what to do, and can hardly tell where to put in a word, or even when
to listen. Some sorry buffoon is ever at hand who is the head and, as it were,
the hero of such a set, and has always to keep them merry and to make them
laugh before he has uttered a single word. If at any time a woman comes
amongst them, who is not one of them, these jolly fellows are amazed she
does not laugh at things she cannot understand, and appears not to be
amused with some nonsense they would not understand themselves, if it
were not their own; they will not overlook her tone of voice, her silence, her
figure, her dress, her coming or going out of the room. This same set,
however, does not last two years; in the first year are already sown those
seeds of division which break it up the following year; quarrels about some
woman, disputes at play, extravagant entertainments, which, though
moderate at first, soon degenerate into pyramids of viands and sumptuous
banquets, overthrow the commonwealth, and finally give it a mortal blow,
and in a little while there is no more talk about them than about last yearʼs
flies.
(5.) There are in town lawyers belonging to the grande robe, and others
to the petite robe;327 and the first take on the second their revenge for the
contempt and the supercilious way in which they are treated by a court of

justice. It is not easy to know where the grande robe328 begins and the
petite ends; there is even a large number of lawyers who refuse to belong to
the second class and who are yet not considered to be of the first; they will,
however, not abandon their pretensions, but, on the contrary, endeavour, by
their sedate carriage and by the money they spend, to show themselves the
equals of the magistrates; they have often been heard to say that their
sublime duties, the independence of their profession, their eloquence, and
their personal merits, balance at least the bags of money which the sons of
financiers and bankers have paid for their offices.
(6.) You are very inconsiderate to sit musing, or perhaps dozing, in your
carriage. Rouse yourself, and take a book or your papers, and begin to read;
and hardly return the bows of those people who pass you in their carriages,
for they will believe you to be very busy, and say everywhere that you are
hard-working and indefatigable, and that you read and work even in the
streets or on the highroad.329 You may learn from a pettifogger that you
should ever seem to be immersed in business, knit your brows and muse
most profoundly about nothing at all; that you should not always have the
time for eating or drinking, and that as soon as you are in the house you
should vanish like a ghost, and betake yourself to your dark private room,
hide yourself from the public, avoid the theatre, and leave that to those who
run no risk in appearing there, though they have hardly the leisure for it, to
the Gomons and the Duhamels.330
(7.) There are a certain number of young magistrates with large estates
and fond of pleasure, who have become acquainted with some of those men
who are called at court “dandies;” they imitate them, behave in a manner
unbecoming the gravity of a judge, and believe that on account of their
youth and fortune they have no need to be discreet or passionless. They
borrow from the court the very worst qualities, appropriate to themselves
vanity, effeminacy, intemperance, and indecency, as if all those vices were
their privilege, thus affecting a character quite the opposite to what they
ought to maintain, and, in the end, according to their wishes, become exact
copies of very wicked originals.331
(8.) A gentleman of the legal profession is not like the same man in the
city and at court; when he has returned home he resumes his natural
manners, look, and gestures, which he left behind, and is no longer so
embarrassed nor so polite.

(9.) The Crispins join and club together to drive out with six horses to
their carriage, and with a swarm of men in livery, to which each has
furnished his share; they figure at the Cours or at Vincennes332 as brilliantly
as a newly-married couple, or as Jason who is ruining himself, or as Thraso
who wishes to get married, and who has deposited the money to buy an
important place.333
(10.) I hear a good deal of talk about the Sannions; about “the same
name, the same arms, the elder branch, the younger branch, the younger
sons of the second branch; about the first bearing their arms plain, the
second with a label, and the third with a bordure indented.” Their colour
and metal are the same as those of the Bourbons, and, like them, they bear
two and one;334 it is true these are not “fleurs de lis,” but they are satisfied;
perhaps, in their inmost hearts, they believe their bearings as noble; at least,
they are the same as those of lords of the highest rank who are quite content
with them. We see them on their mourning hangings,335 and on the
windows of their chapels, on the gates of their castle, on their justiciary
pillar, where many a man is condemned to be hanged who only deserved
banishment; they are visible anywhere, on their furniture and their locks,
while their carriages are covered with them, and the liveries of their
servants do not disgrace their escutcheon. I should like to tell the Sannions
that their ostentation is too precipitate; that they should have waited at least
until their race had existed a century; that those persons who knew and
conversed with their grandfather are old and cannot live long, and that, after
their death, no one will be able to say where he kept his shop, and what a
very dear one it was.
The Sannions and the Crispins336 had rather be thought extravagant than
covetous; they tell you a long story of a feast or a collation they gave, of
their losses at play, and express aloud their regrets they have not lost more.
They mention in their peculiar language certain ladies of their acquaintance;
they have ever many pleasant things to tell each other, are always making
new discoveries, and confide to one another their successes with the fair.
One of them, coming lately to his country-house, hastens to bed, and rises
with the dawn, then puts on his gaiters and a linen suit, and fastens on his
belt and his powder-horn, ties back his hair, takes his gun, and is a
sportsman, if he did but shoot well. He returns at night, wet and weary,

without any game, but goes shooting again on the morrow, and spends the
whole day in missing thrushes and partridges.
Another man337 speaks of some wretched dogs he has as “his pack of
hounds;” he knows where the meet is held, and goes there; he is at the
starting,338 and enters the thicket with the huntsmen, with his horn by his
side; he does not ask, like Menalippus, “Do I enjoy myself?”339 but he
thinks he does; he forgets the law and all lawsuits, and would be thought an
Hippolytus.340 Menander, who yesterday was engaged in a lawsuit, paid
him a visit, but to-day would not know again his judge. To-morrow you
may see him at court, where a weighty and capital case is going to be tried;
he gets his learned brethren about him, and informs them that he did not
lose the stag, but that he is quite hoarse with hallooing after the hounds
which lost the scent, or after those sportsmen who were at fault, and that,
with half a dozen hounds, he was in at the death; but the clock strikes, and
he has no more time to talk of the stag being at bay, or of the quarry: he
must take his seat with the other magistrates and administer justice.
(11.) How great is the infatuation of certain men, who, being possessed
of the wealth their fathers acquired by trade, which they have just inherited,
imitate princes in their dress and retinue, and by excessive expenditure and
ridiculous pomp provoke the remarks and sneers of the whole town they
think to dazzle, and thus ruin themselves to be laughed at!
Some have not even the sorry advantage of having their follies talked
about beyond their immediate neighbourhood, and the only spot where their
vanity is displayed. They do not know in the Ile that André makes a figure
and squanders his patrimony in the Marais.341 If he were only better known
in town and in the suburbs, perhaps, amongst so large a number of citizens,
who are not all able to judge sensibly of everything, possibly one of them
might declare André has a magnificent spirit, and give him credit for his
banquets to Xanthe and Ariston, and for his entertainments to Elamire; but
he ruins himself obscurely, and hastens to become poor only for the sake of
two or three persons, who do not esteem him in the least, and though at
present he rides in his coach, in six months he will hardly be able to go on
foot.342
(12.) Narcissus343 rises in the morning to lie down at night; he spends as
many hours in dressing as a woman; he goes every day to mass at the
Feuillants or the Minims;344 is very agreeable in company, and in his parish

they reckon on him to make a third man at ombre or reversis.345 He sits for
hours together at
Ariciaʼs, where every night he ventures his five or six golden
pistoles;346 he never misses reading the Gazette de Hollande or the Mercure
Galant;347 he has read Bergerac,348 Desmarets,349 Lesclache,350 Barbinʼs351
stories, and some collections of poetry; he walks with the ladies on the
Plaine or the Cours,352 and is scrupulously punctual in his visits; he will do
to-morrow precisely what he has done to-day and did yesterday; thus he
lives, and thus he will die.
(13.) “I have seen this man somewhere,” youʼll say,353 “and, though his
face is familiar to me, I have forgotten where it was.” It is familiar to many
other people, and, if possible, I will assist your memory. Was it on the
Boulevard,354 in a carriage, or in the large alley of the Tuileries, or else in
the dress-circle at the theatre? Was it at church, at a ball, or at
Rambouillet;355 or, rather, can you tell me where you have not seen him,
and where he is not to be met with? If some well-known criminal is going
to be executed, or if there are any fireworks, he makes his appearance at a
window at the town-hall; if some one enters the town in state, you see him
in the reserved seats; if a carousel356 is ridden, he enters and takes his place
on some bench; if the king gives an audience to an ambassador, he sees the
whole procession, is present at the reception, and thrusts himself in the
ranks when it returns. His presence is as essential at the solemn renewal of
the alliance between the Swiss Cantons as that of the Lord Chancellor or the
Helvetian plenipotentiaries.357 You see his face on the almanacks amongst
the people or the bystanders;358 if there is a public hunt going on or a Saint
Hubert,359 he will be present on horseback; they say to him that a camp is
going to be pitched or that a review is going to be held, and off he will start
for Houilles or Achères;360 he is very fond of the army, the militia, and war,
of which he has seen a good deal, even the taking of Fort Bernardi.361
Chamlay knows something of marches, Jacquier of the commissariate, du
Metz of the artillery,362 but our gentleman is a looker-on, has grown old in
the service of looking-on, and is a spectator by profession; he does not do
anything that a man ought to do, and he does not know anything that a man
ought to know; but he boasts that he has seen everything that was to be
seen, and now does not regret to die. But what a loss will his death be for

the whole town! Who will inform us, as he did, that the Cours is closed, and
nobody is walking there, that the pond of Vincennes has been filled up and
is now a raised moat, and that no carriage will any more be upset on that
spot? Who will acquaint us when there is a concert, a choral service in
church, or something wonderful to be seen at the fair? Who will let us know
that Beaumavielle363 died yesterday, and that Rochois364 has got a cold and
will not be able to sing for a week? Who will inform us that Scapin bears
the “fleur de lis” on his arms, and who is very glad he does so? Who will
pronounce, with the most boastful emphasis, the name of a mere citizenʼs
wife, or who will be better provided with topical songs? Who will lend to
the ladies the Annales Galantes and the Journal Amoureux?365 Who will
sing at table a whole dialogue of an opera, or the madness of “Roland”366 in
a ruelle, as well as he does?367 To conclude, since there are in the city and
elsewhere some very foolish people as well as some dull and idle people,
who have nothing to do, who will so exactly suit every one of them as he
did?
(14.) Theramenes368 was rich and had some merit; some property was
left him, and therefore he is now much wealthier and has a great deal more
merit; all the women set to work to make him their gallant, and all the
young girls to get him for a husband; he goes from house to house, to make
the mothers believe that he is inclined to marry. As soon as he has taken his
seat they withdraw, to leave full liberty to their daughters to be amiable and
to Theramenes to declare his intentions. Here he is the rival of a
magistrate;369 there he throws into the shade a military man or a nobleman.
The ladies could not covet more passionately any rosy-cheeked, gay, brisk,
witty young fellow, nor could he be better received; they snatch him out of
one anotherʼs hands, and can hardly find leisure to vouchsafe a smile to any
other person who visits them at the same time. How many gallants is he
going to defeat! how many good matches will be broken off on his account!
Will he bestow his hand on the large number of heiresses who court him?
He is not only the terror of husbands, but the dread of all these who wish to
be so, and to whom marriage is the only resource for obtaining a sufficient
sum to replace the money they paid for their official situations.370 A man so
happy and so wealthy371 ought to be banished from a well-governed city,
and the fair sex should be forbidden, under pain of being considered insane
or degraded, to treat him better than if he were merely a person of merit.

(15.) The people in Paris commonly ape the court, but they do not
always know how to imitate it; they by no means resemble it in those
agreeable and flattering outward civilities with which some courtiers, and
particularly the ladies, affably treat a man of merit, who possesses nothing
but merit. Such ladies never inquire after that manʼs means or his ancestors;
they find him at court, and that is sufficient for them; they give themselves
no airs, they esteem him, and do not ask whether he came in a carriage or
on foot, or whether he has a post, an estate, or followers; as they are satiated
with pomp, splendour, and honour, they like to recreate themselves with
philosophy or virtue. If a city lady hears the rattling of a carriage stopping
at her door, she is anxious to be acquainted with any person who is in it, and
to be polite to him, without at all knowing him; but from her window she
has caught a glance of a set of fine horses, a good many liveries, is dazzled
by the numerous rows of finely gilt nails,372 and is very impatient to behold
such a military man or a magistrate in her apartments. How well will he be
received! Sheʼll never take her eyes off him. Nothing is lost upon her, and
she has already given him credit for the double braces and springs of his
carriage, which make it go easier, and she esteems him the more and loves
him the better for them.
(16.) The infatuation of some city women in their wretched imitation of
those at court is more offensive than the coarseness of the women of the
people and the rusticity of country-women, since it is a mixture of both, and
of affectation as well.
(17.) What a cunning contrivance to give during courtship valuable
presents which cost nothing, and which after marriage have to be returned
in kind!373
(18.) It is sensible and praiseworthy in a man to spend on his nuptials
one-third of his wifeʼs dowry; to begin with deliberately impoverishing
himself by buying and collecting superfluous things; and already to take
from his capital in order to pay Gaultier,374 the cabinet-maker, and the
milliner!
(19.) Truly it is a charming and judicious custom which, in defiance of
modesty and decency, and through some kind of shamelessness, compels a
newly-married bride to lie on her bed for show, and to render herself
ridiculous for some days, by exposing her to the curiosity of a few men and
women whom she may know, or who may be strangers to her, and who
hasten from all quarters of the town to look on such a sight as long as it

lasts.375 There is nothing wanting to make this custom seem very absurd
and incomprehensible, except to see it mentioned in print in some book of
travels in Mingrelia.
(20.) What a painful habit and what a troublesome kind of obligation it
must be for certain persons to be continually anxious of meeting one
another, yet when they meet to have nothing but trifles to say to one
another, and to communicate reciprocally things which were previously
known to both and of no matter of importance to either; to enter a room
merely to leave it again; to go out after dinner,376 only to come home in the
evening, highly satisfied with seeing in five hours three Swiss,377 a woman
they hardly knew, and another they scarcely liked. Whoever will rightly
consider the value of time, and how irreparable its loss is, must lament
bitterly such wretched trifling.378
(21.) In town, people are brought up in complete ignorance of rural and
country affairs; they can scarcely distinguish flax from hemp, wheat from
rye, and neither of them from meslin; they are satisfied with eating,
drinking, and dressing. Do not mention to a large number of townsfolk such
words as fallowland, staddles, layers, or after-grass, if you wish to be
understood, for they will not think it is their mother-tongue. Speak to some
of them of measures, tariffs, taxes,379 and to others of appeals, petitions,
decrees, and injunctions; for they know the world, and above all, what is
ugly and vulgar in it; but they do not know Nature, its beginning, growth,
gifts, and bounteousness. Their ignorance often is voluntary, and based on
the conceit they have of their own callings and talents. There is not a low
pettifogger in his dark and grimy room, his brain teeming with the most
wicked legal quibbles, who does not prefer himself to a husbandman, who,
blest of Heaven, cultivates the land, sows when it is needed, and gathers a
rich harvest; and if at any time the former hears mention made of the first
men or the patriarchs, their rural lives and their husbandry, he wonders how
people could have been living in those days without lawyers,
commissioners, presidents, or solicitors, and cannot understand how they
could ever have done without rolls-offices, courts of judicature, and
refreshment-rooms.
(22.) When the Roman emperors were making their triumphal entries,
they never protected themselves in a more effeminate, easy, and efficacious
manner against the wind, the rain, the dust, and the sun, than the citizens of

Paris do when they are driven from one end of the town to another. What a
difference between their habits and the mules on which their forefathers
rode! The latter did not know how to deprive themselves of the necessaries
of life to get superfluities, nor to prefer show to substance; their houses
were never illuminated with wax-candles, and they never warmed
themselves by a little fire, for in their time such candles were only used at
the altar and in the Louvre;380 they never ate a bad dinner in order to keep a
carriage; they were convinced that men had legs given them to walk, and
they did walk. In dry weather they kept themselves clean; in wet they did
not mind to dirty their shoes and stockings, and to cross a street or passage
with the same alacrity as a sportsman rides over ploughed fields, or a
soldier gets wet in the trenches. They had not then invented the harnessing
of two men to carry them in a Sedan chair; then several magistrates walked
to the two courts,381 and with as good a grace as Augustus formerly went on
foot to the Capitol. Pewter in those days shone on the tables and the
sideboards, brass and iron in the chimneys, whilst silver and gold lay safe in
coffers. Women were then waited on by women, and there were even
women in the kitchen. Such fine names as “governor” and “governess”
were not unknown to our forefathers, for they knew to whom the children
of kings and of great princes were intrusted;382 but their children had the
same servants they had, and they themselves were satisfied to superintend
their education. Everything they did was calculated; their expenses were in
proportion to their means; their liveries, their carriages, their furniture, their
household expenses, their town and country houses were all in accordance
with their incomes and their station in life. Outward distinctions existed,
however, amongst them, so that it was impossible to mistake the wife of an
attorney for the wife of a judge, and a commoner or a mere servant for a
nobleman. Less desirous to spend or enlarge their patrimony than to keep it,
they left it entire to their heirs, led a tranquil life, and died a peaceful death;
then, there was no complaint of hard times, of excessive misery, of scarcity
of money; they had less than we have, and yet they had enough, richer
through their economy and their moderation than through their incomes or
estates. To conclude, in former days people observed this maxim, that what
is splendour, pomp, and magnificence in nobles of high rank, is
extravagance, folly, and stupidity in private gentlemen.383

VIII.
OF THE COURT.

(1.)
T HE most honourable thing we can say of a man is, that he does not
understand the court; there is scarcely a virtue which we do not
imply when saying this.384
(2.) A perfect courtier can command his gestures, his eyes, and his
countenance; he is profound and impenetrable; he seems to overlook every
injury; he smiles on his enemies, controls his temper, disguises his passions,
belies his inclinations, and both speaks and acts against his opinions. Such a
quintessence of refinement is usually called “falsehood,” and is, after all,
sometimes of no more use to a courtierʼs success than frankness, sincerity,
and virtue.
(3.) A court is like certain changeable colours; which vary according to
the different lights they are exposed in. He who can define these colours can
define the court.
(4.) A man who leaves the court for a single moment renounces it for
ever; the courtier who was there in the morning must be there at night, and
know it again next day, in order that he himself may be known there.

(5.) A man must appear small at court, and let him be never so vain, it is
impossible to prevent it; but it is the common lot, and the highest nobles
themselves are there of no consequence.
(6.) People who live in the provinces consider the court admirable; but
if they visit it, its beauties diminish, like those of a fine drawing of
perspective viewed too closely.
(7.) It is difficult to get accustomed to the spending of our lives in ante-
chambers, courtyards, or on staircases.
(8.) The court does not satisfy a man, but it prevents him from being
satisfied with anything else.
(9.) A cultured gentleman should have some experience of the court; as
soon as he enters it he will discover a new world, as it were, wholly
unknown to him, where vice and politeness have equal sway, and where
good and evil alike may be of use to him.
(10.) The court is like a marble structure, for the courtiers are very
polished and very hard.
(11.) Sometimes people go to court only to come back again, so that, on
their return, they may be taken notice of by the nobility of their county or
by the bishops of their diocese.
(12.) There would be no use for embroiderers and confectioners, and
they would open their shops in vain, if all the people were modest and
temperate; courts would be deserts and kings almost left alone, if every one
was void of vanity and self-interest. Men are willing to be slaves in one
place if they can only lord it in another. It seems that at court a proud,
imperious, and commanding mien is delivered wholesale to the great for
them to retail in the country; they do exactly what is done unto them, and
are the true apes of royalty.
(13.) Nothing disparages some courtiers so much as the presence of a
prince; their faces are scarcely to be recognised; their features are altered
and their looks debased; the more proud and haughty they are, the greater is
the change in them, because they have suffered a greater loss; whilst a
gentlemanly and modest man bears it much better, as there is nothing in him
to alter.
(14.) Courtly manners are contagious; they are caught at Versailles,385
as the Norman accent is at Rouen and Falaise; we partly find them amongst
quartermasters, superintendents, and confectioners;386 a man with no very
great intellect may become proficient in them; one with a lofty genius and

of solid worth does not sufficiently value such accomplishments to make it
his principal business387 to study and acquire them; he contracts them
imperceptibly, and does not trouble himself to get rid of them.
(15.) N ...,388 in a great flutter, comes up to the kingʼs chamber, turns
everybody aside, and clears the way; he scratches at the door, nay, almost
raps; he gives his name, and the people around him recover now their
breath; after some time he is admitted, but it is with the crowd.389
(16.) Courts are haunted by certain bold adventurers, of free-and-easy
manners, who introduce themselves, pretend to possess greater abilities than
others in their profession, and are believed on their sole assertion.390 In the
meanwhile they take advantage of this general belief, or of the fondness of
some men for novelty; they make their way through the crowd, and reach
the ear of the prince, with whom the courtier sees them talking, whilst he
thinks himself happy if he only obtains a glance. It is not difficult for great
people to get rid of them, for as they are only admitted on sufferance, and
are of no consequence, their dismissal is of no importance: then they
disappear, at once rich and out of favour; and the very men who so lately
were deceived by them are ready to be deceived by others.
(17.) Some men, on entering a room, make but a slight bow, stretch their
shoulders and thrust out their chests like women; they ask you a question,
look another way, and speak in a loud tone, to show that they think
themselves above every one present; they stop, and everybody gathers
around them; they do all the talking, and seem to take the lead. This
ridiculous and simulated haughtiness continues until some really great
person makes his appearance, when they shrink away at once, and are
reduced to their natural level, for which they are all the better.
(18.) Courts cannot exist without a class of courtiers who can flatter, are
complaisant, insinuating, devoted to the ladies, whose pleasures they direct,
whose weaknesses they study, and whose passions they flatter; they whisper
some naughty words to them, speak of their husbands and lovers in a proper
manner, conjecture when they are sad, ill, or expect a baby; they head the
fashions, refine on luxury and extravagance, and teach the fair to spend in a
short time large sums on clothes, furniture, and carriages; they wear nothing
themselves but what shows good taste and riches, and will not live in an old
palace till it be repaired and embellished; they eat delicately and
thoughtfully; there is no pleasure they have not tried and of which they
cannot tell you something; they owe their position to themselves, and they

keep it with the same ability they made it. Disdainful and proud, they no
longer accost their former equals, and scarcely bow to them; they speak
when every one else is silent; enter, and at inconvenient hours thrust
themselves into places where men of the highest rank dare not intrude; and
when such men, after long services, their bodies covered with wounds,
filling great posts or occupying high official positions, do not look so
confident, and seem embarrassed. Princes listen to what these courtiers
have to say, who share all their pleasures and entertainments, and never stir
out of the Louvre or the Castle,391 where they behave themselves as if quite
at home and in their own house; they seem to be in a thousand different
places at one and the same time; their countenances are sure always to
attract the notice of any novice at court; they embrace and are embraced,
they laugh, talk loud, are funny, tell stories, and are of an easy disposition;
they are agreeable, rich, lend money, but, after all, are of no importance.392
(19.) Would any person not think that to Cimon and Clitandre alone are
intrusted all the details of the State, and that they alone are answerable for
them? The one manages at least everything concerning agriculture and land,
and the other is at the head of the navy. Whoever will give a sketch of them
must express bustle, restlessness, curiosity, activity, and paint Hurry itself.
We never see them sitting, standing, or stopping; no one has ever seen them
walk; for they are always running, and they speak whilst running, and do
not wait for an answer; they never come from any place, or go anywhere,
but are always passing to and fro. Stop them not in their hurried course, for
you would break their machinery; do not ask them any questions, or, if you
do, give them at least time to breathe and to remember that they have
nothing to do, can stay with you long, and follow you wherever you are
pleased to lead them. They do not, like Jupiterʼs satellites,393 crowd round
and encompass their prince, but precede him and give notice of his coming:
they rush with impetuosity through the crowd of courtiers, and all who
stand in their way are in danger. Their profession is to be seen again and
again, and they never go to bed without having acquitted themselves of
such an important duty, so beneficial to the commonwealth. They know,
besides, all the circumstances of every petty accident, and are acquainted
with anything at court people wish to ignore; they possess all the
qualifications necessary for a small post. Nevertheless they are eager and
watchful about anything they think will suit them as well as slightly
enterprising, thoughtless, and precipitate. In a word, they both carry their

heads very high, and are harnessed to the chariot of Fortune, but are never
likely to sit in it.
(20.) A courtier who has not a pretty name ought to hide it under a
better;394 but if it is one that he dares own,395 he should then insinuate that
his name is the most illustrious of all names, and his house the most ancient
of all others; he ought to be descended from the princes of Lorraine, the
Rohans, the Châtillons, the Montmorencys,396 and, if possible, from princes
of the blood; he ought to talk of nothing but dukes, cardinals, and ministers;
to introduce his paternal and maternal ancestors in all conversations, as well
as the Oriflamme397 and the Crusades; to have his apartments adorned with
genealogical trees, escutcheons with sixteen quarters, and portraits of his
ancestors and of the relatives of his ancestors; to value himself on his
having an old castle with turrets, battlements, and portcullises; to be always
speaking of his race, his branch, his name, and his arms; to say of a man
that he is not a man of rank, of a woman that she is not of noble
extraction;398 or to ask whether Hyacinthus is a nobleman when they tell
him he has drawn a great prize in the lottery.399 If some persons laugh at
such absurd remarks, he lets them laugh on; if others make erroneous
comments, they are welcome; he will always assert that he takes his place
after the royal family, and, by constantly repeating it, he will finally be
believed.
(21.) It shows a simple mind to acknowledge at court the smallest alloy
of common blood, and not to set up for a nobleman.
(22.) At court people go to bed and rise only with a view to self; it is
what they revolve in their own minds morning and evening, night and day;
it is for this they think, speak, are silent or act; it is with this disposition that
they converse with some and neglect others, that they ascend or descend; by
this rule they measure all their assiduity, complaisance, esteem,
indifference, or contempt. Whatever progress any of them seems to make
towards moderation and wisdom, they are carried away by the first motive
of ambition along with the most covetous, the most violent in their desires,
and the most ambitious. Can they stand still when everything is in motion,
when everything is stirring, and forbear running whither every one runs?
Such people even think they only owe their success in life to themselves;
and a man who has not made it at court is supposed not to have deserved it;
and this judgment is without appeal. However, is it advisable for a man to

leave the court without having obtained any advantage by his stay, or
should he remain there without favour or reward? This question is so
intricate, so delicate, and so difficult to decide, that a very large number of
courtiers have grown old without coming to any affirmative or negative
conclusion, and died, at last, without having arrived at any final resolution.
(23.) There is nothing at court so worthless and so contemptible as a
man who cannot assist us in the least to better our position; I am amazed
such a person dares appear there.
(24.) A man who sees himself raised far above his contemporaries,
whose rank was formerly the same as his own, and who made their first
appearance at court at the same time as he did, fancies it is a sure proof of
his superior merit, and thinks himself better than those other people who
could not keep up with him; but he forgets what he thought of himself
before he became a favourite, and what he thought of those who had
outstripped him.
(25.) It proves a good deal for a friend, after he has become a great
favourite at court, still to keep up an acquaintance with us.
(26.) If a man who is in favour dares to take advantage of it before it is
all over; if he makes use of a propitious gale to get on; if he keeps his eye
on any vacancies, posts, or abbeys, asks for them, obtains them, and is
stocked with pensions, grants, and reversions,400 people will blame him for
being covetous and ambitious, and will say that everything tempts him and
is secured by him, his friends and his creatures; and that through the
numberless and various favours bestowed on him, he, in his own person,
has monopolised several fortunes. But what should he have done? I judge
not so much by what people say, as by what they would have done
themselves under similar circumstances, and that is precisely what he has
done.
We blame those persons who make use of their opportunities for
bettering their positions, because we are in a very inferior situation, and,
therefore, despair of being ever in such circumstances that will expose us to
a similar reproach. But if we were likely to succeed them, we should begin
to think they were not so much in the wrong as we imagined, and would be
more cautious in censuring them, for fear of condemning ourselves
beforehand.
(27.) We should not exaggerate things, nor blame the court for evils
which do not exist there. Courtiers never endeavour to harm real merit, but

they leave it sometimes without reward; they do not always despise it when
they have once discerned it, but they forget all about it; for a court is a place
where people most perfectly understand doing nothing, or very little, for
those whom they greatly esteem.
(28.) It would be very wonderful indeed, if among all the instruments I
employ for building up my fortune, some of them were not to miscarry. A
friend of mine who promised to speak for me does not say a single word;
another speaks without any spirit; a third speaks by accident against my
interests, though it was not his intention to do so. One lacks the will,
another sagacity and prudence; and none of them would be sufficiently
delighted in seeing me happy, and do everything in their power for making
me so. Every one remembers well enough what pains he took in
establishing his own position, and what assistance he got in clearing his
way to obtain it. We should not be averse to acknowledge the services
which certain people have rendered us, by rendering to others some service
on similar occasions, if our chief and only care were not to think of
ourselves when we have made our fortune.
(29.) Courtiers never employ whatever intelligence, skill, or
perspicacity they may possess to find out means of obliging those of their
friends who implore their assistance, but they only invent evasive answers,
plausible excuses, or what they call impossibilities for moving in the
matter; and then they think they have satisfied all the duties which
friendship and gratitude require.
No courtier cares to take the initiative in anything, but he will offer to
second him who does, because, judging of others by himself, he thinks that
no one will make a beginning, and that therefore he shall not be obliged to
second any one. This is a gentle and polite way of refusing to employ his
influence, good offices, and mediation in favour of those who stand in need
of them.
(30.) How many men almost stifle you with their demonstrations of
friendship, and pretend to love and esteem you in private, who are
embarrassed when they meet you in public, and at the kingʼs levée, or at
mass at Versailles, look another way, and do all they can to avoid you.
There are few courtiers who have sufficient greatness of soul or confidence
in themselves to dare to honour in public a man of merit but who does not
occupy a grand post.

(31.) I see a man surrounded and followed by a crowd, but he is in
office. I see another to whom every one says a few words, but he is a court
favourite; a third is embraced and caressed even by persons of high rank,
but he is wealthy; a fourth is stared at by all, and pointed at, but he is
learned and eloquent. I perceive one whom nobody omits bowing to, but he
is a bad man. I should like to see a man courted who is merely good and
nothing else.
(32.) When a man is appointed to a new post he is inundated with
praises, which flood the courtyards, the chapel, overflow the grand
staircase, the vestibules, the galleries, and all the rooms of the palace;401 he
has quite enough of them, and can no longer bear it. There are not two
different opinions about him; those of envy and jealousy are the same as
those of adulation; every one is carried away by the raging torrent which
forces a person to say what he thinks of such a man, or what he does not
think of him, and often to commend a man of whom he has no knowledge.
If such a man has any intelligence, merit, or valour, he becomes in one
moment a genius of the first order, a hero, a demi-god; he is so
extravagantly flattered in all the portraits painted of him that he appears
disagreeably ugly when compared with any of them; it is impossible for
him ever to reach the point to which servility and adulation would have him
rise; he blushes at his own reputation. But let him not be so firmly
established in the post in which he has been placed as people thought he
was, and the world will without difficulty entertain another opinion. If his
downfall be complete, then the very men who were instrumental in raising
him so high by their applause and praise are quite ready to overwhelm him
with the greatest contempt; I mean, there are none who will despise him
more, blame him with greater acrimony, or deny him with more contumely
than those very men who were most impassioned in speaking well of
him.402
(33.) It may be justly said that it is easier to get appointed to an eminent
and difficult post than to keep it.
(34.) We see men fallen from a high estate for those very faults for
which they were appointed to it.
(35.) At court there are two ways of dismissing or discharging servants
and dependants; to be angry with them, or to make them so angry with us
that they leave us of their own accord.

(36.) Courtiers speak well of a man for two reasons: firstly, that he may
know they have commended him; and secondly, that he may say the same
of them.
(37.) It is as dangerous at court to make any advances as it is
embarrassing not to make them.
(38.) There are some people who, if they do not know the name or the
face of a man, make this a pretence for laughing at him. They ask who that
man is; it is not Rousseau, Fabry, or La Couture,403 for then they would
know him.
(39.) I am told so many bad things of this man, and see so few in him,
that I begin to suspect he has some merit which is so vexatious that it
eclipses the merit of others.
(40.) You are an honest man,404 and do not make it your business either
to please or displease the favourites. You are merely attached to your master
and to your duty; you are a lost man.
(41.) None are impudent by choice; but they are so constitutionally, and
though it is quite wrong, yet it is natural; a man who is not born so is
modest and cannot easily pass from one extreme to another. It would be
useless to advise such a man to be impudent in order to be successful; a bad
imitation will not do him any good, and would ensure his failure. Without
real and ingenious effrontery there is not doing anything at court.
(42.) We seek, we hurry, we intrigue, we worry ourselves, we ask and
are refused; we ask again and get what we ask for; but we pretend we
obtained it without ever having asked for it, or so much as thought about it,
and even when we had quite another thing in view. This is an obsolete style,
a silly falsehood, which deceives nobody.
(43.) A man intrigues to obtain an eminent post, lays all his plans
beforehand, takes all the right measures, and is on the point of being as
successful as he wishes; some people are to initiate the business in hand,
others are to second it; the bait is already laid, and the mine ready to be
sprung; and then the candidate absents himself from the court. Who would
dare suspect that Artemon ever aimed at so fine a post when he is ordered to
leave his seat or his government to fill it?405 Such an artifice and such a
policy has become so stale, and the courtiers have so often employed it, that
if I would impose upon the world and mask my ambition, I should always
be about the prince to receive from his own hand that favour which I had
solicited so passionately.

(44.) Men do not like us to pry into their prospects of bettering their
position, or to find out what post they are anxious to occupy, because, if
they are not successful, they fancy their failure brings some discredit upon
them; and if they succeed, they persuade themselves it redounds more to
their credit that the giver thought them worthy of it than that they thought
themselves worthy of it, and, therefore, intrigued and plotted; they appear
decked in their stateliness as well as in their modesty.406
Which is the greater shame, to be refused the post which we deserve, or
to be put into one we do not deserve?
Difficult as it is to obtain a place at court, it is yet harder and more
difficult to be worthy of filling one.
A man had better be asked by what means he obtained a certain post
than why he did not obtain it.
People become candidates for any municipal office, or try to get a seat
in the French Academy,407 but formerly they endeavoured to obtain a
consulship. Why should a man not labour hard during the early years of his
life to render himself fit for eminent posts, and then ask openly and
fearlessly, without mystery and without any intriguing, to serve his
fatherland, his prince, and the commonwealth?
(45.) I never yet have seen a courtier whom a prince has appointed
governor of a wealthy province, given a first-rate place, or a large pension,
who does not protest, either through vanity, or to show himself
disinterested, that he is less pleased with the gift than with the manner in
which it was given. What is certain and cannot be doubted is that he says
so.
To give awkwardly denotes the churl; the most difficult and unpleasant
part is to give; then, why not add a smile?
There are, however, some men who refuse with more politeness to grant
you what you ask than others know how to give;408 and some of whom it
has been said that you have to ask them so long, and they give so coldly and
impose such disagreeable conditions on whatever favour you have to tear
from them, that their greatest favour would be to excuse us from receiving
any.409
(46.) There are some men at court so covetous that they catch hold of
any rank or condition to reap its benefits; governments of provinces,
offices, benefices, nothing comes amiss to them; they are so situated that,
by virtue of their official position, they can accept any kind of favour; they

are amphibious, live by the church and the sword, and one day or other will
discover the secret of including the law also.410 If you ask what those men
do at court, you will be told that they receive and envy every one to whom
anything is given.
(47.) A thousand people at court wear out their very existence by
embracing, caressing, and congratulating all persons who have received
favours, and die without having any bestowed on themselves.
(48.) Menophilus411 borrows his manners from one profession and his
dress from another; he goes masked all the year, though he does not conceal
his countenance; he appears at court, in town, and elsewhere, always under
a certain name and in the same disguise. He is found out and known by his
face.
(49.) There is a highroad or a beaten road, as it is called, which leads to
grand offices, and there is a cross or bye-way which is much the shortest.
(50.) We run to get a look at some wretched criminals, we line one side
of the street, and we stand at the windows to observe the features and the
bearing of a man who is doomed and knows he is going to die, impelled by
a senseless, malignant, inhuman curiosity. If men were wise, they would
avoid public executions, and then it would even be considered infamous to
be present at such spectacles.412 If you are of such an inquisitorial turn of
mind, exercise your curiosity on a noble subject, and look on a happy man
on the very day he has been appointed to a new post, and when he is
congratulated on his nomination; read in his eyes, through his affected
composure and feigned modesty, his delight and latent exultation; observe
how quiet his heart beats and how serene his countenance looks now that he
has obtained all he wished; how he thinks of nothing but his long life and
health; how, at last, his joy bursts forth and can no longer be concealed;
how he bends beneath the weight of his happiness, and how coolly and
stiffly he behaves towards those who are no longer his equals; he
vouchsafes them no answer, and seems not to see them; the embraces and
demonstrations of friendship of men of high rank, whom he views now no
more from a distance, finish his ruin; he becomes bewildered, dazed, and
for a short time his brain is turned. You who would be happy and in your
princeʼs favour, consider how many things you will have to avoid.413
(51.) When a man has once got into office, he neither makes use of his
reason nor of his intelligence to regulate his behaviour and manners towards

others, but shapes them according to his office and his position; this is the
cause of his forgetfulness, pride, arrogance, harshness, and ingratitude.414
(52.) Theonas having been an abbé415 for thirty years, grows weary of
being so any longer. Others show less anxiety and impatience in being clad
in purple than he displays in wearing a golden cross on his breast;416 and
because no great festival at court has ever made any alteration in his
position,417 he rails at the times, declares the state badly governed, and
forebodes naught but ill for the future. Convinced in his heart that in courts
merit is prejudicial to a man who wishes to better his position, he at last
makes up his mind to renounce the prelacy; but some one hastens to inform
him that he has been appointed to a bishopric, and full of joy and conceit at
news so unexpected he says to a friend, “Youʼll see I shall not remain a
bishop for ever; I shall be an archbishop yet.”
(53.) There must be knaves at court418 about the great and the Ministers
of State, even if those are animated with the best intentions; but to know
when to employ them is a very difficult question, and requires a certain
amount of shrewdness. There are times and seasons when others cannot fill
their places; for honour, virtue, and conscience, though always worthy of
our respect, are frequently useless, and therefore in certain emergencies an
honest man419 cannot be employed.
(54.) An ancient author, whose very words I shall take the liberty to
quote,420 for fear I should weaken the sense of them by my translation,
says: “To forsake the common herd, nay, oneʼs very equals, to despise and
vilify them; to get acquainted with rich men of rank; to join them in their
private amusements, deceits, tricks, and bad business; to be brazen-faced,
shameless, bankrupt in reputation; to endure the gibes and jokes of all men,
and, in spite of all this, not to fear to go on, and that skilfully, has been the
cause of many a manʼs fortune.”
(55.) The youth of a prince is the making of many courtiers.
(56.) Timantes,421 still the same, and possessed of that very merit which
at first got him reputation and rewards, has deteriorated in the opinion of
the courtiers, who are weary of respecting him; they bow to him coldly,
forbear smiling on him, no longer accost nor embrace him, nor take him
into a corner to talk mysteriously about some trivial affair; they have
nothing more to say to him. He receives a pension, or is honoured by being
appointed to a new post; and his virtues, almost dead in their memories,

revive whilst their thoughts are refreshed; now they treat him as they did at
the beginning, and even better.
(57.) How many friends, how many relatives of a new Minister, spring
up in a single night! Some men pride themselves on their former
acquaintance, on their having been his fellow-students or neighbours; others
ransack their genealogy, go back to their great-grandfather, and recall their
father and motherʼs side, for in some way or other every one wishes to be
related to him; several times a day people affirm they are his relatives, and
they would even gladly print it. They say presently: “The Minister is my
friend; I am very glad of his promotion, and I ought to share in it, for he is a
near relative of mine.” Would those silly men, those servile votaries of
fortune, those effete courtiers, have said this a week ago? Has the Minister
become a more virtuous man, or more worthy of his sovereignʼs choice, or
were they waiting for this appointment to know him better?422
(58.) What supports me and comforts me when sometimes men of high
rank or my equals slight me, is the feeling that perhaps those very men only
despise my position; and they are quite right, for it is a very humble one;
but they would doubtless worship me if I were a Minister.
Am I suddenly to obtain some post, and do people know it, or foresee it,
because they forestall me and bow to me first?
(59.) A man who tells us he has dined the day before at Tibur, or is
going to have supper there tonight, and repeats it often, who brings in the
name of Plancusʼ423 about a dozen times during a few minutes
conversation, such as, “Plancus asked me....” or “I said to Plancus....” is
told that very moment that his hero has been snatched away by sudden
death. He starts off at a tangent, gathers around him the people in the
market-place or underneath the porticoes; accuses the deceased, rails at his
conduct, and blackens his administration; he even denies him a knowledge
of those details which the public own he had mastered, will not allow him
to have had a good memory, refuses to praise him for his steadiness of
character and power of work, and will not do him the honour to believe that
among all the enemies of the State there was one who was Plancusʼ enemy.
(60.) I think it must be a pretty sight for a man of merit to observe at a
meeting, or at a public entertainment, that the very seat which has been
refused him is given up before his face to a man who has neither eyes to see
nor ears to hear,424 nor sense to know and to judge, and who has nothing to

recommend him but his court-dress as a favourite,425 which now he himself
is above wearing.
(61.) Theodotus426 is staid in dress, whilst his countenance, as theatrical
as an actorʼs who has to appear on the stage, harmonises with his voice, his
carriage, gestures, and attitude. He is cunning, cautious, insinuating,
mysterious; he draws near you and whispers, “It is fine weather; it is
thawing.” If he has no grand qualifications, he has all the little ones, even
those which would scarcely become a youthful précieuse.427 Imagine the
application of a child building a house of cards or catching a butterfly; such
is Theodotus, engaged on an affair of no consequence, and which is not
worth any oneʼs attention; he, however, treats it seriously, and as if it were
of the greatest importance; he moves about, bestirs himself, and is
successful; then he takes breath and rests awhile, as indeed he should, for he
has given himself a good deal of trouble. Some people are intoxicated, and
bewitched with the favour of the great; they think of them all day, and
dream of them all night; they are always trotting up and down the stairs of a
Ministerʼs apartment, go in and come out of his ante-chamber, but they
have nothing to say to him, though they speak to him; they speak to him a
second time, and they are highly pleased, for they have spoken. Press them,
squeeze them, and nothing will be got from them but pride, arrogance, and
presumption; address them, and they do not answer; they know you not,
they look bewildered, and their brain is turned; their relatives should take
care of them and lock them up, lest in time their folly should drive them
frantic, and make them harm some one. Theodotus has a gentler hobby; he
immoderately loves favour, but his passion is less impetuous, and he
worships it secretly, and fosters and serves it mysteriously; he is ever on the
watch to discover who are the new favourites of the king;428 if these wish
for anything, he offers to serve them, and to intrigue for them; and stealthily
sacrifices to them merit, connections, friendship, engagements, and
gratitude. If the place of Cassini429 were vacant, and a Swiss porter or
postillion of a favourite were applying for it, he would support his
pretensions, judge him worthy of the place, and think him capable of
making observations and calculations, and of discussing about parhelions
and parallaxes.430 Should you like to know whether Theodotus be an author
or a plagiary, original or a copyist, I will give you one of his works, and bid
you read and judge. Who can decide, from the picture I have drawn,

whether he is really pious, or merely a courtier?431 I can with more
assurance proclaim whether the stars will be propitious to him. Yes,
Theodotus, I have calculated your nativity; you will obtain an appointment,
and that very soon; so abandon your lucubrations, and print no more any of
your writings; the public begs for quarter.
(62.) Never more expect candour, frankness, justice, good offices,
services, kindness, generosity, steadiness from a man who for some time
has spent all his days at court, and secretly wishes to better his fortunes. Do
you know him by his face or conversation? He no longer calls things by
their proper names; for him there exist no longer any knaves, rogues, fools,
or impertinent people; if by chance he should say of any man what he
thinks of him, that very man might come to know it, and prevent him from
getting on.432 Though he thinks ill of everybody, he speaks ill of none, for
he only wishes success to himself, but would make believe that he wishes it
to everybody, so that all may assist him, or at least that nobody may oppose
him. Not satisfied with being insincere himself, he cannot endure that any
one should be otherwise; truth offends his ear; he is indifferent, and does
not care what remarks are made about the court and courtiers, but because
he knows what they mean, he fancies himself an accomplice, and
answerable for them. A tyrant in society and a martyr to his ambition, he is
mournfully circumspect in his conduct and in his language; his raillery is
innocent, but cold and constrained; his laughter is forced, his
demonstrations of friendship deceptive, his conversation desultory, and his
absence of mind frequent: he is profuse in his praises, and, if I may say so,
pours out torrents of them whenever any man in office and a favourite does
or says the smallest thing; but for any other person he is as sparing with his
words as if he were consumptive. He has different formulas for
complimenting people on entering or leaving a room, as well when he visits
as when he is visited, and none of those who are satisfied with mere
appearances and forms of speech ever leaves him discontented. He aims at
getting patrons as well as partisans, and is a mediator, a confidant, and a go-
between; he wishes to rule; he is as anxious as a novice to do every trifling
thing that has to be observed at court; he knows where a man must stand to
be seen; he can embrace you, share in your joy, ask you one question after
another about your health and your affairs; and while you are answering
him, he loses the thread of his curiosity, interrupts you, and begins another
subject; or if he happens to see some one whom it is necessary to address in

a different way, he finishes his congratulations to you whilst condoling with
the other person; he weeps with one eye and laughs with the other.
Sometimes, in imitation of the Ministers or the favourite, he speaks in
public of trivial things, such as the wind or the frost, but, on the contrary, is
silent and very mysterious about some important things he does know, and
still more so about some he does not know.
(63.) There is a country433 where all joy is conspicuous but false, and all
grief hidden but real. Who would imagine that the anxiety to be present at
entertainments, the raptures and applause at Molièreʼs or Harlequinʼs
comedies,434 the banquets, the chase, the ballets, and carrousels,435 conceal
so much uneasiness, so many cares and such various interests, so many
fears and expectations, so many ardent passions, and such serious matters of
business.
(64.) Court life is a serious, sad game, requiring application; a man must
arrange his pieces and his plans, have a design, pursue it, thwart his
adversaries, now and then venture something, and play capriciously; yet
after all those fancies and contrivances he may be kept in check, and not
seldom be checkmated; whilst often with well-handled men he may queen it
and win the game; the most skilful or the most fortunate player obtains the
victory.
(65.) The wheels, the springs, the movements of a watch are hidden, and
only the hands can be seen gradually going round and finishing their course.
This is a true image of a courtier, who goes over a great deal of ground, but
often returns to the very same point whence he started.
(66.) “Two-thirds of my life are already gone; why, then, should I
perplex myself so much about the remainder? The most brilliant career
neither deserves the anxiety I suffer, nor the meannesses I accidentally
commit, nor the humiliations and mortifications I have to bear. In thirty
years those giants of power whom we can hardly perceive without raising
our heads will be destroyed; I, who am so small, and those to whom I
looked up with so much anxiety and from whom I expected all my
greatness, will have disappeared. The best of all good things, if such there
be in this world, is repose, retirement, and a place you can call your own.”
N ... was of this opinion when he was in disgrace, but he forgot it in his
prosperity.436
(67.) A nobleman who resides in his own province, lives free, but
without patronage; if he lives at court he will be patronised, but is a slave;

so one thing compensates for another.
(68.) Xantippus,437 at the uttermost end of his province, under an old
roof and in a wretched bed, dreamt one night that he saw his prince, spoke
to him, and felt great joy at this; when he awoke he was melancholy, told
his dream, and exclaimed, “What strange fancies a man may have in his
sleep!” Xantippus some time afterwards went to court, saw the prince, and
spoke to him; and then his dream was more than realised, for he became a
favourite.
(69.) Nobody is a greater slave than an assiduous courtier, unless it be a
courtier who is more assiduous.
(70.) A slave has but one master; an ambitious man has as many masters
as there are people who may be useful in bettering his position.
(71.) A thousand men scarcely known appear every day in crowds at the
levée,438 to be seen by their prince, who cannot see a thousand at a time; if
to-day he only sees those whom he saw yesterday and will see tomorrow,
how many must be unhappy!439
(72.) Of all those persons who dangle after men of rank, and pay their
respects to them, a few honour them in their hearts, a great number follow
them out of ambition or interest, but the motive of the largest number is a
ridiculous vanity or a silly impatience to be noticed.
(73.) There are certain families who, according to the ways of the world,
and what we call decency, ought never to be reconciled to one another;
however, now they are good friends, for those whom religion could not
induce to lay aside their feuds, interest, without much trouble, has linked
together.
(74.) People say there exists a certain country where old men are
gallant, well-mannered, and polite, young men, on the contrary, unfeeling,
rude, ill-mannered, and impolite; they no longer entertain a passion for the
fair sex at an age when, in other countries, young men begin to entertain it;
and prefer to that sex feasts, revelry, and ridiculous amours. Amongst those
people a man is considered sober and moderate who is never intoxicated
with anything but wine, the excessive use of which makes it appear insipid;
they endeavour by brandy, and by the strongest liquors, to revive their taste,
which is already gone, and want nothing to complete their excesses but to
drink aquafortis. The women of that country hasten the decay of their
beauty by their artifices to preserve it; they paint their cheeks, eyebrows,
and shoulders, which they bare, together with their breasts, arms, and ears,

as if they were afraid of concealing those parts which they think will please,
or of not showing enough of themselves. The countenance of the inhabitants
of this country is not clear, but blurred and shrouded with a mass of hair
that does not belong to them, but which they prefer to their own, and which
is woven into a something to cover their heads, hanging down half way
their bodies, altering all their features, and preventing people from being
known by their natural faces. This nation has, besides, its God and its king:
the high and mighty among them go at a fixed time every day to a temple
they call a church; at the upper end of that temple stands an altar
consecrated to their God, where a certain priest celebrates some mysteries,
called by them holy, sacred, and formidable. The high and mighty men
stand in a large circle at the foot of the altar, with their back to the priest
and the holy mysteries, and their faces towards their king, who is seen
kneeling in a raised and open pew, and towards whom all minds and all
hearts seem directed. However, a certain kind of subordination is to be
observed whilst this is going on; for this people seem to adore their prince,
and their prince appears to worship God. The natives of this country call
it.... It is situated about forty-eight degrees northern latitude, and more than
eleven hundred leagues by sea from the Iroquois and the Hurons.440
(75.) Whoever will consider that a kingʼs presence constitutes the entire
happiness of courtiers, that their sole occupation and satisfaction during the
whole course of their lives is to see and be seen by him,441 will in some
measure understand how to behold God may constitute the glory and
felicity of the saints.442
(76.) Great noblemen show their respect for their prince; this concerns
them, as they have also their dependants. Courtiers of inferior rank are more
relaxed in those duties, assume a kind of familiarity, and live like men
whose examples none will follow.
(77.) What is there wanting in the youth of the present time? They can
do and they know everything; or at least if they do not know as much as it is
possible to know, they are as positive as if they did.
(78.) How weak are men! A great lord says of your friend Timagenes
that he is a blockhead, but he makes a mistake. I do not require you to reply
that Timagenes is a clever man, but only dare think he is not a blockhead.
He says also that Iphicrates is a coward; and you have seen him perform
an act of bravery. But do not be uneasy. I do not insist you should relate it,

but, after what you have heard this lord say, still remember that you saw
him perform it.
(79.) To know how to speak to a king is perhaps the sole art of a prudent
and pliant courtier. One word escapes him, which the prince hears,
recollects, and sometimes lodges in his heart; there is no recalling it; all the
care and skill that can be used to explain or soften it, serves only to impress
it the more and to bite it in deeper. If the courtier has only spoken against
himself, though this misfortune is very unusual, the remedy is at hand; he
must take warning by his fault, and bear the punishment of his levity; but if
another be the victim, he ought to feel dejected and contrite. Is there a better
rule in such a dangerous conjuncture than to talk to our sovereign of others,
of their persons, works, actions, manners, or conduct, at least with the same
reserve, precaution, and care with which we talk of ourselves?
(80.) I would say that a man who tries to be witty must have a most
wretched character, if it had not been said before.443 Those persons who
injure the reputation or position of others for the sake of a witticism deserve
to be punished with ignominy; this has not been said before, and I dare say
it.
(81.) There are a certain number of ready-made phrases which we store
and use when we wish to congratulate one another. Though we often utter
them without really feeling what we say, and are received without gratitude,
yet we must not omit them, because, at least, they represent the very best
thing in this world, namely, friendship; and since men cannot depend on
one another in reality, they seem to have agreed to be satisfied with
appearances.
(82.) With five or six terms of art, and nothing else, we set up for
connoisseurs in music, painting, architecture, and gastronomy; we fancy we
have more pleasure than others in hearing, seeing, or eating; we impose on
our fellow-creatures and deceive ourselves.
(83.) At court there are always a certain number of people to whom a
knowledge of the world, politeness, or fortune supply the want of merit;444
they know how to enter and to leave a room; they are never embarrassed in
their conversation, because they never engage in one; they please by their
very taciturnity, and make themselves appear of importance by their
prolonged silence, or by uttering, at most, a few monosyllables; they answer
you by a glance, an intonation, a gesture, and a smile; their understanding,

if I may venture on the expression, is only two inches deep, and if you
fathom it, you will soon come to the bottom.
(84.) There are some men on whom favour lights as it were
accidentally; they are the first it surprises and even alarms; they recollect
themselves at last, and think they are worthy of their good fortune; and, as
if stupidity and fortune were two things incompatible, or as if it were
impossible to be lucky and foolish at one and the same time, they fancy
they are intelligent, and venture, or I should rather say, are conceited
enough, to speak on all occasions, on every possible subject, and without
any regard for their audience. I might add that at last they become terrible,
and disgust every one by their fatuity and nonsense. This is at least certain;
they infallibly discredit those who assisted them in their promotion.445
(85.) What shall we call those who are only shrewd in the opinion of
fools? I know this, that able men rank them with the people they impose
upon.
A man must be very shrewd to make other people believe that he is not
so sharp after all.
Shrewdness is neither too good nor too bad a quality, but is something
between a virtue and a vice; there is scarcely any circumstance in which
prudence cannot supply its place, and, perhaps, in which it ought not to do
so.
Shrewdness is a near neighbour of rascality; there is but a step from the
one to the other, and that a slippery one; falsehood only makes the
difference, for add shrewdness to it, and the result is rascality.
Amongst those people who, out of shrewdness, hear everything and talk
little, be sure to talk less; or, if you must talk much, say little.
(86.) You have a just and important business depending on the consent
of two persons; and one of them says to you that he will favour it provided
the other will agree to it, which the latter does, though he wishes to know
what the first intends doing. Meanwhile nothing comes of it; and months
and years roll on to no purpose. You say you are bewildered, that it is a
complete mystery to you, and that all that was necessary for your success
was for these two persons to meet together and to converse about it. I tell
you I see through it all, and it is no mystery to me; they have met and
conversed about your business.
(87.) Methinks a man who solicits for others shows the confidence of a
person asking for justice, whilst he who speaks or acts for himself is as

embarrassed and bashful as if he were asking a favour.
(88.) If a courtier be not continually upon his guard against the snares
laid for him to make him ridiculous, he will, with all his sagacity, be
amazed to find himself duped by people far less intelligent than he is.
(89.) In life some circumstances may happen when truth and simplicity
prove the best policy.
(90.) If you are in favour, whatever you do is well done; you commit no
faults, and every step you take leads you to the goal; but if you are not in
favour, everything you do is faulty and useless, and whatever path you take
leads you out of the way.
(91.) A man who has schemed for some time can no longer do without
it; all other ways of living are to him dull and insipid.
(92.) Intelligence is requisite to be a schemer; yet a man may have a
sufficient amount of it to be above scheming and plotting, and above
subjecting himself to such things; in such a case he takes other means for
bettering his fortune, or for acquiring a brilliant reputation.
(93.) Fear not, O Aristides, with your sublime intellect, your universal
learning, your well-tried honesty, and your highly accomplished merits, to
fall into disgrace at court, or to lose the favour of men of high rank so long
as they need you.446
(94.) Let a favourite watch his actions very narrowly; for if I have to
wait in his anteroom not so long as usual; if his countenance be more open,
his forehead less clouded; if he listens to me more patiently, and sees me to
the door a little farther than he used to do, I shall think he is tottering, and
shall not be mistaken.
Man has but very little strength of mind, for disgrace or mortifications
are needed to make him more humane, pliable, less rude, and more of a
gentleman.
(95.) If we observe certain people at court, their discourses and their
whole conduct show that they think neither of their grandfathers nor
grandchildren; they only care for the present, and that they do not enjoy, but
abuse.
(96.) Straton447 is born under two planets, equally fortunate and
unfortunate; his life is a romance, but with even less probability. Adventures
he had none, but good and bad dreams in abundance, or, if I may say so, no
dreams come up to his life. Fate has been to none more kind than to him; he
is acquainted with the mean and the extremes of life; he has made a figure,

been in distress, led an ordinary life, and gone through all vicissitudes. He
has made himself valued for those virtues which he seriously asserted he
possessed; he has said of himself, “I have intelligence and courage,” and
every one said after him, “He has intelligence and courage.” In his good and
bad fortune he has experienced the disposition of courtiers, who said of him
perhaps more good and more ill than ever he deserved. When people
praised him they called him pretty, amiable, rare, wonderful, and heroic;
and words quite the contrary have also been employed to vilify him. His
character is heterogeneous, mixed and confused; his life has been an
enigma, which is not yet wholly solved.
(97.) Favour raises a man above his equals, and disgrace throws him
below them.
(98.) He who one day or other deliberately abandons a great name, a
great authority, or a large fortune, frees himself at once from many troubles,
many restless nights, and sometimes from many crimes.
(99.) The world will be the same a hundred years hence as it is now;
there will be the same stage and the same decorations, though not the same
actors. All who were glad to receive favours, as well as those who were
grieved and in despair for boons that were refused, shall have disappeared
from the boards; others have already made their entrances who will act the
same parts in the same plays, and in their turn make their exits, whilst those
who have not yet appeared one day will also be gone, and fresh actors will
take their places. What reliance is there to be placed on any actor?
(100.) Whoever has seen the court has seen the most handsome, the
best-looking, and the most decked-out part of the world. He who despises
the court after having seen it, despises the world.
(101.) The city makes a man take a dislike to the country; the country
undeceives him as to the city and cares of the court.
A healthy mind acquires at court a liking for solitude and retirement.448

IX.
OF THE GREAT.

(1.)
T HE common people are so blindly prepossessed in favour of the
great, and so enthusiastic about their bearing, looks, tone of voice,
and manners, that if the latter would take it into their heads to be
good, this prepossession would become idolatry.
(2.) If you are intrinsically vicious, O Theagenes449 I pity you; if you
have become so out of weakness for those men who have an interest in your
being debauched, who have conspired to corrupt you, and boast already of
their success, you will excuse me if I despise you. But if you are wise,
temperate, modest, polite, generous, grateful, industrious, and besides of a
birth and rank which ought to set examples rather than copy those others
give, and to make rules rather than to receive them, agree with such a class
of men, and be complaisant enough to imitate their disorders, vices, and
follies, after the respect they owe you has obliged them to imitate your
virtues. This is a bitter but useful ironical remark, very suitable for securing
your morals, for ruining all their projects, and for compelling them to
remain as they are, and leave you as you are.

(3.) In one thing great men have an immense advantage over others;
they may enjoy their sumptuous banquets, their costly furniture, their dogs,
horses, monkeys, dwarfs, fools, and flatterers; but I envy them the
happiness of having in their service their equals, and sometimes even their
superiors, in feelings and intelligence.
(4.) Great lords delight in opening glades in forests, in raising terraces
on long and solid foundations, in gilding their ceilings, in bringing a good
deal of water where there was none before, in growing oranges in
hothouses; but they are not anxious to restore peace to the distracted, to
make joyful the afflicted, and to forestall urgent necessities, or to relieve
them.
(5.) The question arises, whether, in comparing the different conditions
of men, their troubles and advantages, we cannot observe such a mixture or
balance of good and evil as seems to place them on an equality, or at least
as makes one scarcely more desirable than another. Those men who are
powerful, rich, and who want nothing may put the question, but the decision
must be left to the indigent.
There is, however, a kind of charm belonging to each of those different
conditions, and which lasts till misery removes it. The great please
themselves in excess, their inferiors in moderation: these delight in lording
and commanding; those are pleased, and even proud, to serve and to obey:
the great are surrounded, complimented, and respected; the little surround,
compliment, and cringe; and both are satisfied.
(6.) Good words cost the great so little, and their rank gives them such a
dispensation for not keeping what they have most solemnly promised, that
they really are moderate in being so sparing of those promises.
(7.) “Such a person,” says some great man, “has grown old and feeble,
and has worn himself out in my service. What can I do for him?” A younger
competitor steps in, and obtains the post which had been refused to this
unfortunate man for no other reason but that he too well deserved it.
(8.) “I do not know how it happens,” you exclaim with a cold and
disdainful air, “that Philanthes, though he possesses merit, intelligence, is
agreeable, exact in fulfilling his duties, faithful and fond of his master, is
not greatly valued by him, cannot please, and is not at all liked.”—“Explain
yourself; do you blame Philanthes or the great man whom he serves?”
(9.) It is often more advantageous to quit the service of great men than
to complain of them.

(10.) Who can explain to me why some men get a prize in a lottery and
others find favour with the great?
(11.) The great are so happily situated that in the whole course of their
lives they never feel the loss of their best servants, or of persons eminent in
their various capacities, and from whom they have obtained all the pleasure
and profit they could. As soon as those unique persons, so difficult to
replace, are dead, a host of flatterers are ready to expose their supposed
weaknesses, from which, according to them, their successors are entirely
free; they are convinced that these successors, whilst possessing all the skill
and knowledge of their predecessors, will have none of their faults; and this
is the language which consoles princes for the loss of worthy and excellent
servants, and makes them satisfied with indifferent ones.450
(12.) The great feel a contempt for intelligent men, who have nothing
but intelligence; men of intelligence despise the great, who possess nothing
but greatness; a good man pities them both, if their greatness or intelligence
is not allied with virtue.
(13.) When, on the one hand, I see some brisk, busy, intriguing, bold,
dangerous, and obnoxious persons at the table of the great, and sometimes
intimate with them, and, on the other hand, consider what difficulty a man
of merit has to obtain an interview with them, I am not always inclined to
believe that the wicked are tolerated out of interest, or that good men and
true are looked upon as useless; but I am rather confirmed in my opinion
that rank and sound judgment do not always go together, and that a liking
for virtue and virtuous people is a distinct quality.
(14.) Lucilius chooses to spend his life rather in being admitted on
sufferance by a few of the great than in being reduced to his living
familiarly with his equals.
The custom of associating with people who are our superiors in rank
ought to have some restrictions; it often requires extraordinary talents to put
it into practice.451
(15.) Theophilusʼ disease seems to be incurable; he has suffered from it
these thirty years, and now he is past recovery. He was, is, and will always
be desirous of governing the great; death alone can extinguish with his life
this craving for swaying and ruling other minds. Is it in him zeal for his
neighbourʼs weal, or is he accustomed to it, or is it an excessive good
opinion he has of himself? He insinuates himself into every palace, and
does not stop in the middle of an apartment, but goes on to a window-niche

or a closet; other people wait to be seen or to have an audience till he has
finished his speech, which lasts generally a goodly time, during which he
gesticulates much. He penetrates the secrets of many families, has a share in
their good or bad fortunes; forestalls many an occasion, offers his services,
and forces himself upon people so discreetly452 that he must be admitted.
The care of ten thousand souls, for which he is accountable to Providence
as much as for his own, is not sufficient to employ his time or satisfy his
ambition; there are others of a higher rank, and of more consideration, for
whom he is not responsible, but of whom he officiously takes charge. He
listens and watches for anything that may gratify his spirit of intrigue,
meddling and muddling. A great man has scarcely set foot on shore, but he
gets hold of him, and pounces upon him; and we hear that Theophilus is his
guide and director before we could even suspect he had so much as thought
of it.453
(16.) A coldness or incivility from our superiors in rank makes us hate
them; but a bow or a smile soon reconciles us.
(17.) There are some proud men whom the success of their rivals
humbles and mortifies; it is a disgrace which even sometimes makes them
return your bow; but time, which alleviates all things, restores them at last
to their natural disposition.
(18.) The contempt the great feel for the common people renders them
so indifferent to their flattery or praises, that it does not feed their vanity. In
like manner, princes praised continually and unreservedly by the great and
the courtiers, would be more elated if they had a better opinion of those
who praise them.
(19.) The great believe themselves the only persons who are the pink of
perfection, and will hardly allow any sound judgment, ability, or refined
feelings in any of a meaner rank; but they arrogate to themselves those
qualities by virtue of their birth. However, they are greatly in error in
entertaining such absurd prejudices, for the best thoughts, the best
discourses, the best writings, and perhaps the most refined behaviour, have
not always been found among them. They have large estates and a long
train of ancestors, and there is no arguing about those facts.454
(20.) Have you any intelligence, grandeur of mind, capacity, taste,
sound judgment? Can I believe prejudice and flattery which so boldly
proclaim your merit? No! I suspect and reject them. I will not be dazzled by
that look of capacity and grandeur which makes it appear as if you could

act, speak, and write better than any one else; which makes you so
niggardly of bestowing praise, and renders it impossible to obtain the
smallest approbation from you. Hence I naturally infer that you are a
favourite, have influence, and are very wealthy. How shall we describe you,
Telephon?455 We can only approach you as we do fire, namely, from a
certain distance; and to form an opinion of you in a sensible and rational
manner, we ought to strip you, handle you, and confront you with your
equals. Your confidant, your most intimate friend, who gives you advice,
for whom you give up the society of Socrates and Aristides, with whom you
laugh, and who laughs louder than yourself, Davus,456 in short, I know
thoroughly; and this is enough for me to make you out.
(21.) There are some persons who, if they did know their inferiors and
themselves, would be ashamed to be above them.
(22.) If there are but few excellent orators, are there many who can
understand them? If good writers are scarce, are there many who can read?
Thus we are always complaining of the paucity of persons qualified to
counsel kings, and assist them in the administration of affairs; but if such
able and intelligent personages make their appearance, and act according to
their ideas and knowledge, are they beloved and esteemed as much as they
deserve? Are they commended for what they plan and do for their country?
They exist, that is all; they are censured if they fail, and envied if they
succeed. Let us then blame the people for whom it would be ridiculous to
find an excuse. The great and those in power look on their dissatisfaction
and jealousy as inevitable; and, for this reason, they have been gradually
induced not to take into account and to neglect their opinions in whatever
they undertake, and even to consider this a rule in politics.
The common people hate one another for the injuries they reciprocally
do each other; the great are execrated by them for all the harm they do, and
for all the good they do not, whilst they are also blamed for their obscurity,
poverty, and misfortunes.
(23.) The great think it too much condescension to have the same
religion and the same God as the common people, for how can they be
called Peter, John, or James, as any tradesman or labourer? Let us avoid,
they say, to have anything in common with the multitude; let us affect, on
the contrary, a distinction which may separate us from them; the people are
welcome to the twelve apostles, their disciples, and the first martyrs, fit
patrons for such folks; let them every year rejoice on some saintʼs day,

which each celebrates as if it were his birthday;457 but for us great people,
let us have recourse to profane names, and be baptized by such patronymics
as Hannibal, Cæsar, and Pompey, for they were indeed great men; by that of
Lucretia, for she was an illustrious Roman lady; or by those of Rinaldo,
Rogero, Oliviero, and Tancredo,458 who were paladins and among the most
marvellous heroes of romance; by those of Hector, Achilles, or Hercules, all
demi-gods: even by those of Phœbus and Diana; and who shall prevent us
from calling ourselves Jupiter, Mercury, Venus, or Adonis?459
(24.) While the great neglect to become acquainted not only with the
interests of their princes and with public affairs, but with their own, while
they ignore how to govern a household or a family, boast of this very
ignorance, and are impoverished and ruled by their agents, while they are
satisfied with being dainty in eating and drinking,460 with visiting Thais and
Phryne,461 talking of various packs of hounds, telling how many stages
there are between Paris and Besançon or Philipsburg,462 some citizens
instruct themselves in what is going on within and without the kingdom,
study the art of government, become shrewd politicians, are acquainted
with the strength and weakness of an entire state, think of bettering their
position, obtain a place, rise, become powerful, and relieve their prince of a
portion of the cares of state. The great, who disdained them, now respect
them, and think themselves fortunate in being accepted as their sons-in-
law.463
(25.) If I compare the two most opposite conditions of men, I mean the
great and the common people, the latter appear satisfied if they only have
the necessities of life, and the former fretful and poor amidst superfluities.
A man of the people can do no harm; a great man will do no good, and is
capable of doing great mischief; the first only plans and practises useful
things, the second adds to them what is hurtful. Here rusticity and frankness
show themselves ingenuously; there a malignant and corrupt disposition lies
hidden under a veneer of politeness. If the common people have scarcely
any culture, the great have no soul; the first have a good foundation and no
outward appearances; the latter are all outward appearance and but a mere
superstratum. Were I to choose between the two, I should select, without
hesitation, being a plebeian.
(26.) However able the great at court may be, and whatever skill they
may possess in appearing what they are not, and in not appearing what they

are, they cannot conceal their malice and their inclination to make fun of
other people, and often to render a person ridiculous who is not really so.
These fine talents are discovered in them at the first glance, and are
admirable without doubt to ensnare a dupe or make a fool of a man who
already was one, but are still better suited to deprive them of the pleasure
they might receive from a person of intelligence, who knows how to vary
and adapt his conversation in a thousand agreeable and pleasant ways, and
would do so, if the dangerous inclination of a courtier to ridicule any one
did not induce him to be very reserved; he, therefore, assumes a grave air,
and so effectively entrenches himself behind it, that the jokers, ill disposed
as they are, cannot find an opportunity of making fun of him.
(27.) Ease, affluence, and a smooth and prosperous career are the cause
why princes can take some delight in laughing at a dwarf, a monkey, an
imbecile, or a wretched story; men less fortunate never laugh but when they
ought to.
(28.) A great man loves champagne and hates wine from La Brie; he
gets intoxicated with better wine than a man of the people; and this is the
only difference between orgies in the two most opposite conditions of life,
that of a lord and of a footman.
(29.) It would seem, at the first glance, that the pleasures of princes
always are a little seasoned with the pleasure of inconveniencing other
people. But this is not so; princes are like other men; they only think of
themselves, and follow their own inclinations, passions, and convenience,
which is quite natural.
(30.) One would think that the first rule of companies, of people in
office and in power, is to provide those who depend on them in their
business with as many obstructions as they dread those dependants might
place in their way.
(31.) I cannot imagine in what a great man is happier than others, except
perhaps in having more often the power as well as the opportunity of
rendering a service; and if such an opportunity occurs, it seems to me that
by all means he ought to embrace it. If it is for an honest man, he should be
afraid of letting it slip; but as it is right to act thus, he should forestall any
solicitation, and not be seen until thanks are due to him for his success: if it
is an easy thing to render such a service, he should not set any value on it; if
he refuses to assist this honest man, I pity them both.

(32.) Some men are born inaccessible, and yet these are the very men of
whom others stand in need, and on whom they depend; they move about
continually, are as restless as quicksilver, turn on their heels, gesticulate,
shout, and are always in motion. Like those cardboard temples erected for
fireworks during public festivals, they scatter fire and flames, thunder and
lightning; and there is no approaching them until they are extinguished and
have fallen down, and then only they can be handled, but are of no more
use, and good for nothing.
(33.) A Swiss hall-porter, a valet-de-chambre, a footman, if they have no
more sense than belongs to their station in life, do no longer estimate
themselves by the meanness of their condition, but by the rank and fortune
of those whom they serve, and without discrimination think that all people
who enter by the door or ascend the staircase where they are in waiting are
inferior to them and their masters; so true is it that we are doomed to suffer
from the great and from all who belong to them.464
(34.) A man in office ought to love his prince, his wife, his children,
and, next to them, men of intelligence; he ought to befriend them, surround
himself with them, and never be without them; he cannot repay, I will not
say with too many pensions or kindnesses, but with too great an intimacy
and too many demonstrations of friendship, the assistance and the services
they render him even when he does not suspect it. What rumours do they
not scatter to the winds? How many stories do they not prove to be but fable
and fiction? How well do they understand to justify want of success by
good intentions, and demonstrate the soundness of a project and the
correctness of certain measures by a prosperous issue; raise their voices
against malice and envy, and prove that good enterprises proceed from the
best of motives; put a favourable construction on wretched appearances,
palliate slight faults, exhibit only virtues and place them in the best light;
spread on innumerable occasions a report of facts and details which
redound to their patronʼs honour, and make a jest of those who dare doubt it
or advance anything to the contrary. I know it is a maxim with great men to
let people speak, while they themselves continue to act as they think fit; but
I also know that it not seldom happens that their carelessness in paying
attention to what people say of them prevents them from performing the
actions they intended.
(35.) To be sensible of merit, and, when known, to treat it well, are two
great steps quickly to be taken one after another, but of which few great

men are capable.
(36.) You are great, you are powerful, but this is not enough; act in such
a manner that I can esteem you, so that I should be sorry to lose your
favour, or sorry I was never able to obtain it.
(37.) You say of a great man or of a person in office, that he is very
obliging, kind, and delights in being serviceable; and you confirm this by
giving details of everything he has done in a certain business, in which he
knew you took some interest. I understand what you mean; you succeed
without any solicitation, you have influence, you are known to the ministers
of state, you stand well with the great. What else would you have me
understand?
A man tells you, “I think I am not very well treated by a certain
personage; he has become proud since he has bettered his position; he treats
me with contempt and no longer knows me.” You answer, “I have no reason
to complain of him; on the contrary, I must commend him; he even seems to
be to be very civil.” I believe I understand you too. You would let us know
that some person in office has a regard for you, that in the anteroom he
selects you from a large number of cultured gentlemen from whom he turns
aside, to avoid the inconvenience of bowing to them or smiling on them.
“To commend some one, to commend some great man,” is a nice phrase
to start with, and which doubtless means to commend ourselves, when we
relate all the good some great man has done to us, or never thought of doing
to us.
We praise the great to show we are intimate with them, rarely out of
esteem or gratitude; we often do not know the persons we praise; vanity and
levity not seldom prevail over resentment; we are very dissatisfied465 with
them, and yet we praise them.
(38.) If it is dangerous to be concerned in a suspicious affair, it is much
more so when you are an accomplice of the great; they will get clear and
leave you to pay double, and for them and for yourself.466
(39.) A princeʼs fortune is not large enough to pay a man for a base
complacency, if he considers what it costs the man whom he would reward;
and all his power is not sufficient to punish him, if he measures the
punishment by the injury done to him.
(40.) The nobility expose their lives for the safety of the state and the
glory of their sovereign, and the magistrates relieve the prince of part of the
burden of administering justice to his people. Both these functions are

sublime and of great use, and men are scarcely capable of performing
higher duties; but why men of the robe and the sword reciprocally despise
each other is beyond my comprehension.
(41.) If it be true that the great venture more in risking their lives,
destined to be spent in gaiety, pleasure, and plenty, than a private person
who ventures only a life that is wretched, it must also be confessed that they
receive a wholly different compensation, namely, glory and a grand
reputation. The common soldier entertains no thoughts of becoming known,
and dies unnoticed, among many others; he lived indeed very much in the
same way, but still he was alive; this is one of the chief causes of the want
of courage in people of low and servile condition. On the contrary, those
personages whose birth distinguishes them from the common people, and
who are exposed to the gaze of all men, to their censures and praises, exert
themselves more than they were predisposed to do, even if they are not
naturally courageous;467 and this elevation of heart and mind, which they
derive from their ancestors, is the cause of courage being usually found
among persons of noble birth, and is perhaps nobility itself.
Press me into the service as a common soldier, I am Thersites; put me at
the head of an army for which I am responsible to the whole of Europe, and
I am Achilles.468
(42.) Princes, without any science or rules, can form a judgment by
comparison; they are born and brought up amidst the best things, with
which they compare what they read, see, and hear. Whoever does not
approach Lulli, Racine, and Le Brun469 they condemn.
(43.) To talk to young princes of nothing but their rank is an excess of
precaution, while all courtiers consider it their duty and part and parcel of
their politeness to respect them; so that they are less apt to ignore the regard
due to their birth than to confound persons, and treat all sorts of ranks and
conditions of men indifferently, or without distinction. They have an innate
pride which they show when needed; they only have to be taught how to
regulate it, and how to acquire kindness of heart, culture, gentlemanly
manners, and sound discrimination.

L.F. BRUN

(44.) It is downright hypocrisy in a man of a certain position not at once
to take the rank due to him, and which every one is willing to yield; he need
not trouble himself to be modest, to mingle with the crowd that opens and
makes way for him, to take the lowest seat at a public meeting, so that every
one may see him there and run to lead him to a higher place. Modesty in
men of ordinary condition is more trying; if they push themselves into a
crowd, they are almost crushed to death, and if they choose an
uncomfortable seat, they may remain there.470
(45.) Aristarchus hies to the market-place with a herald and a trumpeter,
who blows on his instrument, so that a crowd comes running and gathers

round him: “Oyez! Oyez! people!”471 exclaims the herald, “be attentive;
silence! silence! This very Aristarchus, whom you see before you, is to do a
good action to-morrow.” I would have said, in more simple and less ornate
style: “Aristarchus has done well; is he now going to do better? If so, let me
not know that he does well, or at least let me not suspect that I should be
told it.”472
(46.) The best actions of men are spoiled and weakened by their manner
of doing them, which sometimes leaves even a suspicion of the purity of
their intentions. Whoever protects or commends virtue for virtueʼs sake, or
condemns and blames vice for the sake of vice, acts without design,
naturally, without any artifice or peculiarity, pomp or affectation; he neither
replies demurely and sententiously, and still less makes sharp and satirical
remarks;473 he never acts a part for the benefit of the public, but he shows a
good example and acquits himself of his duty; he is not a subject to be
talked about when ladies visit one another, nor for the cabinet,474 nor
amongst the newsmongers;475 he does not provide an amusing gentleman
with a subject for a funny story. The good he does is, indeed, a little less
known, but good he does, and what more could he desire?
(47.) The great ought not to like the early ages of the world, for they are
not favourable to them, and they must feel mortified to see that we are all
descended from one brother and sister. All mankind form but one family,
and the whole difference is merely in the nearer or remote degree of
relationship.
(48.) Theognis476 is very dandified in his dress, and goes abroad decked
out like a lady; he is scarcely out of the house, and already his looks and
countenance are arranged in a studied manner, so that he is fit to appear in
public, and that the passers-by may behold him gracefully bestowing his
smiles on them. If he enters any apartments at court, he turns to the right,
where there is a large number of people, and to the left, where there are
none; he bows to those who are there and to those who are not; he embraces
the first man he meets, presses his head against his bosom, and then asks his
name. Some one wants his assistance in a very easy matter of business; he
waits on Theognis, and presents his request, to which the latter kindly
listens, is delighted in being of use to him, and entreats him to procure him
opportunities of serving him; but when the other comes to the point,
Theognis tells him it lies not in his power to help him, begs him to fancy

himself in his position, and to judge for himself. The postulant leaves, is
seen to the door and caressed by Theognis, and becomes so embarrassed
that he is almost satisfied with his request being refused.
(49.) A man must have a very bad opinion of mankind and yet know
them well to believe he can impose on them with studied demonstrations of
friendship and long and useless embraces.
(50.) Pamphilus477 does not converse with the people he meets in the
apartments at court or in the public walks; but some persons would think by
his serious mien and his loud voice that he admits them into his presence,
gives them audience, and then dismisses them. He has a stock of phrases, at
once civil and haughty; an imperious, gentlemanly kind of civility, which he
makes use of without any discrimination; a false dignity which debases
him, and is very troublesome to his friends who are loth to despise him.
A true Pamphilus is full of his own merit, keeps himself always in view,
and never forgets his ideas about his grandeur, alliances, office, and dignity;
he takes everything belonging to his escutcheon, and produces it when he
wants to show off; he speaks of his order and his blue ribbon,478 which he
displays or hides with equal ostentation. A Pamphilus, in a word, would be
a great man, and believes he is one; but he really is not, and is only an
imitation one. If at any time he smiles on a person of the lower orders, or a
man of intelligence, he chooses his time so well that he is never caught in
the fact; and were he unfortunately caught in the least familiarity with a
person neither rich, powerful, nor the friend of a minister of state, his
relative, nor one of his household,479 he would blush up to his ears; he is
very severe, and shows no mercy to a man who has not yet made his
fortune. One day he sees you in a public walk and avoids you; the next day
he meets you in a less public place, or, if it be public, in the company of
some great man, and he takes courage, comes up to you, and says,
“Yesterday you pretended not to see me.” Sometimes he will leave you
abruptly to go and speak to some lord and to the secretary of some
minister,480 and sometimes, finding that you are in conversation with them,
he will pass between you and them481 and take them away. Meet him at any
other time and he will not stop; you must run and then heʼll speak so loud
as to expose you and him to all within hearing. Thus the Pamphiluses live,
as it were, always on a stage; they are a class nurtured in dissimulation, who

hate nothing more than to be natural, and who are real actors as much as
ever Floridor and Mondori482 were.
We can never say enough of the Pamphiluses; they are servile and
timorous before princes and ministers; proud and overbearing to people
who are merely virtuous; dumbfounded and embarrassed before the learned;
brisk, forward, and positive before the ignorant. They talk of war to a
lawyer and of politics to a financier; they pretend to know history among
women, are poets among doctors, and mathematicians among poets. They
do not trouble themselves about maxims, and less about principles; they
live at random, are wafted onward and carried away by a blast of favour and
the attractions of wealth; they have no feelings of their own, but they
borrow them as they want them, and the person to whom they apply is
neither a wise, able, nor virtuous man, but a man of fashion.
(51.) We nourish a fruitless jealousy and an impotent hatred against the
great and men in power, which, instead of avenging us for their splendour
and position, only adds to our own misery the galling load of anotherʼs
happiness. What is to be done against such an inveterate and contagious
disease of the mind? Let us be satisfied with little, and, if possible, with
less; let us learn to bear those losses which may occur; the prescription is
infallible, and I will try it. Then I shall refrain from bribing a doorkeeper or
from mollifying a secretary;483 from being driven from the door by a large
crowd of candidates and courtiers which a ministerʼs house484 disgorges
several times a day; from repining in an ante-chamber, from presenting to
him, whilst trembling and stammering, a well-founded request; from
bearing with his stateliness, his bitter laugh and his laconism. Now I neither
hate nor envy him any more; he begs nothing of me, nor I of him; we stand
on the same footing, unless perhaps that he is never at rest, and that I am.
(52.) If the great have frequent opportunities of doing us good, they
seldom wish to do so; and if they wanted to injure us it lies not always in
their power; therefore the sort of worship we pay them may frustrate our
expectations, if rendered from other motives but hope or fear. A man may
sometimes live a long while without depending on them in the least, or
being indebted to them for his good or bad fortune. We ought to honour
them, as they are great and we little, and because there are others less than
ourselves who honour us.
(53.) The same passions, the same weaknesses, the same meannesses,
the same eccentricities, the same quarrels in families and among relatives,

the same jealousies and antipathies prevail at court and in town.485 You find
everywhere daughters-in-law, mothers-in-law, husbands and wives;
divorces, separations, and patched-up reconciliations; everywhere fancies,
fits of passion, partialities, tittle-tattle, and what is called evil-talking. An
observer would easily imagine that the inhabitants of a small town or of the
Rue Saint-Denis were transported to V ... or to F....486 In these two last
places people display, perhaps, more pride, haughtiness, and perhaps more
decorum in hating one another; they injure one another with more skill and
refinement; their outbursts of rage are more eloquent, and they insult one
another with more politeness and in a more select phraseology; they do not
defile the purity of the language, they only offend men or blast their
reputations; the outside of vice is handsome, but in reality, I say it again, it
is the same as in the most abject conditions, for whatever is base, weak, and
worthless is found there. These men so eminent by their birth, by favour, or
by their position, these minds so powerful and so sagacious, these women
so polished and so witty, are themselves but common people, though they
despise common people.
The words “common people” include several things; they are a
comprehensive expression, and we may be surprised to see what they
contain and how far they extend. The common people, in opposition to the
great, signify the mob and the multitude; but, as opposed to wise, able, and
virtuous men, they include the great as well as the little.
(54.) The great are governed by sensations; their minds are unoccupied,
and everything makes immediately a strong impression on them. If anything
happens, they talk about it too much; soon after they talk about it but little,
and then not at all, nor ever will; actions, conduct, execution, incidents are
all forgotten; expect from them neither amendment, foresight, reflection,
gratitude, nor reward.
(55.) We are led to two opposite extremes with regard to certain
persons. After their death satires about them are current among the people,
while the churches re-echo with their praises. Sometimes they deserve
neither those libels nor these funeral orations, and sometimes both.
(56.) The less we talk of the great and powerful the better; if we say any
good of them, it is often almost flattery; it is dangerous to speak ill of them
whilst they are alive, and cowardly when they are dead.

X.
OF THE SOVEREIGN AND THE STATE.487

(1.)
W HEN we have cursorily examined all forms of government
without partiality to the one of our fatherland, we cannot decide
which to choose; they are all a mixture of good and evil; it is,
therefore, most reasonable to value that of our native land above all others,
and to submit to it.
(2.) Tyranny has no need of arts or sciences, for its policy, which is very
shallow and without any refinement, only consists in shedding blood; it
prompts us to murder every one whose life is an obstacle to our ambition;
and a man naturally cruel has no difficulty in doing this. It is the most
detestable and barbarous way of maintaining power and of aggrandisement.
(3.) It is a sure and ancient maxim in politics that to allow the people to
be lulled by festivals, spectacles, luxury, pomp, pleasures, vanity, and
effeminacy, to occupy their minds with worthless things, and to let them
relish trifling frivolities, is efficiently preparing the way for a despotism.
(4.) Under a despotic government the love for oneʼs native land does not
exist; self-interest, glory, and serving the prince supply its place.

(5.) To innovate or introduce any alterations in a state is more a question
of time than of action; on some occasions it would be injudicious to attempt
anything against the liberties of the people, and on others it is evident that
everything may be ventured on. Today you may subvert the freedom, rights,
and privileges of a certain town, and to-morrow you must not so much as
think of altering the signboards of their shops.488
(6.) In public commotions we cannot understand how the people can
ever be appeased, nor in quiet times imagine as little what can disturb them.
(7.) A government connives at certain evils in order to repress or prevent
greater ones. There are others which are only evils because they originally
sprang from abuses or bad customs, but these are less pernicious in their
consequences and practice than would be a juster law or a more reasonable
custom. Some kind of evils, which indeed are very dangerous, are curable
by novelty and change: other evils are hidden and under ground, as filth in a
common sewer; these are buried in shame, secrecy, and obscurity, and
cannot be stirred up or raked about, without exhaling poison and infamy; so
that the ablest men sometimes doubt whether it be more judicious to take
notice of them or to ignore them. The State not seldom tolerates a
comparatively great evil to keep out millions of lesser ills and
inconveniences which otherwise would be inevitable and without remedy.
Some there are,489 which are greatly complained of by private persons, but
which tend to benefit the public, though the public be only an aggregate of
those self-same private persons; other ills a person suffers which turn to the
good and advantage of every household; others, again, afflict, ruin, and
dishonour certain families, but tend to benefit and preserve the working of
the machinery of the State and of the government. Finally, there are some
which subvert governments and cause fresh ones to arise on their ruins; and
instances can be quoted of others which have undermined the foundations
of great empires, and utterly destroyed them, merely to diversify and renew
the surface of the globe.
(8.) What does the State care whether Ergastes be rich, has a good pack
of hounds, invents new fashions in carriages and dress, and wantons in
superfluities? Is the interest of a private person to be considered when the
interest and convenience of the public are in question? When the burdens of
the people weigh a little heavy, it is some comfort for them to know that
they relieve their prince and enrich him alone; but they do not think they are
obliged to contribute to the fortune of Ergastes.

(9.) Even in the most remote antiquity, and in all ages, war has existed,
and has always filled the world with widows and orphans, drained families
of heirs, and destroyed several brothers in one and the same battle. Young
Soyecourt!490 I mourn your loss, your modesty, your intelligence, already
so developed, so clear, lofty, and communicative; I bewail that untimely
death which carried you off, as well as your intrepid brother, and removed
you from a court where you had barely time to show yourself; such a
misfortune is not uncommon, but nevertheless should be deplored! In every
age men have agreed to destroy, burn, kill, and slaughter one another, for
some piece of land more or less; and to accomplish this with the greater
certainty and ingenuity, they have invented beautiful rules, which they call
“strategy.” When any one brings these rules into practice, glory and the
highest honours are his reward, whilst every age improves on the method of
destroying one another reciprocally. An injustice committed by the first men
was the primary occasion for wars, and made the people feel the necessity
of giving themselves masters to settle their rights and pretensions. If each
man could have been satisfied with his own property and had not infringed
on that of his neighbours, the world would have enjoyed uninterrupted
peace and liberty.
(10.) They who sit peaceably by their own firesides among their friends,
and in the midst of a large town, where there is nothing to fear either for
their wealth or their lives, breathe fire and sword, busy themselves with
wars, destructions, conflagrations, and massacres, cannot bear patiently that
armies are in the field and do not meet; or, if in sight, that they do not
engage; or, if they engage, that the fight was not more sanguinary, and that
there were scarcely ten thousand men killed on the spot. They are
sometimes so infatuated as to forget their dearest interests, their repose and
security, for the sake of change, and from a liking for novelty and
extraordinary events; some of them would even be satisfied with seeing the
enemy at the very gates of Dijon or Corbie,491 with beholding chains
stretched across the streets and barricades thrown up, for the satisfaction of
hearing and of communicating the news.
(11.) Demophilus, on my right, is full of lamentations, and exclaims,
“Everything is lost; we are on the brink of ruin; how can we resist such a
powerful and general league?492 What can we do, I dare not say to
vanquish, but to make head by ourselves against so many and such
powerful enemies? There never was anything like it as long as the

monarchy has existed! A hero, an Achilles, would have to succumb!
Besides,” adds he, “we have committed some very serious blunders; I know
what I am talking about, for I have been a soldier myself; I have seen some
battles, and have learned a good deal from studying history.” Then he falls
to admiring Olivier le Daim and Jacques Cœur,493 who, according to him,
were men after his own heart, and ministers indeed. He retails his news,
which is sure to be the most melancholy and disadvantageous that could be
invented. Now a party of our soldiers has fallen into an ambush, and are cut
to pieces; presently some of our troops, shut up in a castle, surrender at
discretion, and are all put to the sword. Should you tell him that such a
report is incorrect, and wants confirmation, he will not listen to you, but
affirms that a general has been killed, and though it is certain that he has
only been slightly wounded, and you tell him so, he deplores his death, is
sorry for the widow, the children, and the State, and is even sorry for
himself, for he has lost a good friend and an influential person. He tells you
the German horse are invincible, and turns pale if you but name the
Imperial cuirassiers.494 “If we attack such a place,” continues he, “we shall
be obliged to raise the siege; we shall have to remain on the defensive
without engaging in action, or if we do fight, we shall certainly be beaten,
and then the enemy will be upon the frontiers.” Demophilus gives them
wings, and brings them presently into the heart of the kingdom; he fancies
he already hears the alarm-bells ring in the towns, and thinks of his property
and his estate; he does not know where to take his money, his movables,
and his family, and whether to escape to the Swiss Cantons or to Venice.
But Basilides, on my left, raises suddenly an army of three hundred
thousand men, and will not abate a single troop; he has a list of all the
squadrons, battalions, generals, and officers, not omitting the artillery and
baggage. All these troops are at his entire disposal; some he sends into
Germany, others into Flanders, reserves a certain number for the Alps, a
smaller quantity for the Pyrenees, and conveys the rest beyond seas; he
knows their marches, he can tell what they will do, and what they will not
do; you would think he had the Kingʼs ear, or was the ministerʼs confidant.
If the enemies are beaten,495 and lose about nine or ten thousand men, he
positively avers it was thirty, neither more nor less; for his numbers are
always as settled and certain as if he had the best intelligence. Tell him in
the morning we have lost a paltry village, he not only puts off a dinner to
which the day before he had invited his friends, but does not take any

dinner himself on that day; and if he eats a supper it is without appetite. If
we besiege a town strong through its natural position, and regularly
fortified,496 well stored with provisions and ammunition, defended by a
good garrison, commanded by a brave general, he tells you the town has its
weak spots, which are badly fortified, is in want of powder, has a governor
who lacks experience, and will capitulate eight days after the trenches are
opened. Another time he runs himself quite out of breath, and after he has
recovered himself a little he exclaims, “I have some important news for
you; our enemies are beaten and totally routed; the general and principal
officers, or at least the greater part of them, are all killed, or have perished.
What a tremendous slaughter! We certainly have been very lucky!” Then he
sits down and takes a rest, after having told us the news, which only wants a
trifle more confirmation; for it is certain there has been no battle at all. He
assures us further that some prince, dreading our arms, has abandoned the
League and left his confederates in the lurch, and that a second is inclined
to follow his example; he believes firmly, with the populace, that a third is
dead,497 and names you the place where he is buried; and even when the
common people498 are undeceived, he offers to lay a wager it is true. He
knows for a fact that T. K. L. is very successful against the Emperor,499 that
the Grand Turk500 is making formidable preparations, and will not hear of
peace; and that the Vizier will once more show himself before Vienna.501
He claps his hands and is as delighted as if there were not the smallest
doubt about it. The triple alliance502 is a Cerberus503 with him, and the
enemy only so many monsters to be knocked on the head. He talks of
nothing but laurels, palm-branches, triumphs, and trophies; in conversation
he speaks of “our august hero, our mighty potentate, our invincible
monarch,” and whatever you do, you will not get him to say simply, “The
King has a great many enemies; they are powerful, united, and exasperated;
he has conquered them, and I hope he will always do so.” This style, too
bold and decisive for Demophilus, is not sufficiently pompous or
grandiloquent for Basilides; his head is full of other expressions; he is
planning inscriptions for triumphal arches and pyramids to adorn the capital
when the conqueror will enter it; and as soon as he hears that the armies are
in sight of each other, or that a town is invested, he has his clothes hung out
and aired, so that they should be ready when a Te Deum is sung in the
cathedral.504

(12.) A business which has to be discussed by the plenipotentiaries or by
the diplomatic agents of crowned heads and republics must needs be
unusually intricate and difficult if its conclusion requires a longer time than
the settling of the preliminaries, nay, even than the mere regulating of ranks,
precedences, and other ceremonies.
A minister or a plenipotentiary is a chameleon or a Proteus;505
sometimes, like a practised gambler, he hides his temper and character,
either to avoid any conjectures or guesses, or to prevent any part of his
secret escaping through passion or weakness; and at other times he knows
how to assume any character most suited to his designs, or which is
required, as it may be his interest artfully to appear to other people as they
think he really is. Thus when he intends to conceal that his master is very
formidable or very weak, he is resolute and inflexible to prevent any large
demands; or he is easygoing, so as to give others an opportunity of making
some demands, and so secure the same liberty. At other times he is either
diplomatic and disingenuous, so as to veil a truth whilst telling it, because it
is of some importance to him to have it divulged but not believed; or else he
is free and open, so that when he wishes to conceal what should not be
known, people should nevertheless believe that he is acquainted with
everything they wish to know, and be convinced that they have been told
everything. In like manner he is fluent and verbose to excite others to talk,
or prevent their saying what he does not wish or ought not to hear; to speak
of many and various things which modify and destroy each other, and leave
the mind hovering between confidence and distrust; to make amends for an
expedient thoughtlessly proposed by suggesting another; or he is sedate and
taciturn to induce others to talk, to listen for a long time, so that he may
afterwards obtain the same favour himself, speak with authority and weight,
and utter promises or threats which will influence people and produce a
strong impression. He begins and speaks first, the better to discover the
opposition and contradictions, the intrigues and cabals, of foreign ministers
about some proposals he has made, to take his measures and reply to them;
and at another meeting he speaks last, that he may be sure not to speak in
vain, and to be exact, so as perfectly to be aware on what support he can
reckon for his master and his allies, as well as to know what he ought to ask
and what he can get. He knows how to be clear and explicit, or still better,
how to be ambiguous and obscure, and to use words and phrases with a
double meaning, which he can render more or less forcible as the occasion

or his interest may require. He asks for a little because he will not grant
much; he asks for much to make sure of a little. At first he insists upon
getting a few trifling things, which he afterwards pretends to be of small
value, so as not to prevent him for asking for one of greater value; he
avoids, on the contrary, to gain at first an important point, if it is likely to
prevent him from obtaining several others of less importance, but which,
when united, exceed the other in value. His demands are extravagant, but he
knows beforehand they will be denied, so he is provided with a convenient
excuse for refusing those he knows will be made, and which he does not
wish to grant; as industrious to aggravate the enormity of these demands,
and to let his adversaries admit, if possible, that there may be reasons why
they cannot agree, as to weaken those which they pretend to have for not
granting him what he solicits so urgently; and as diligent in vaunting and in
enlarging upon the little he has to offer as he is in despising openly the little
they are willing to grant. He pretends to make some extraordinary proposals
which beget distrust, and cause to be rejected what indeed, if accepted,
could not be performed; this also serves to colour his exorbitant demands,
and throws on his antagonists the responsibility of a refusal. He grants more
than is asked, so as to get still more than he gives. You have to pray, entreat,
and beseech him for a long time to obtain some trifling favour, so as to
destroy all expectations and uproot all thoughts of asking anything more
important of him; or, if he is persuaded to grant it, it is always on such
conditions that he may share in its profits and advantages. He directly or
indirectly espouses the interest of an ally, if he finds it at the same time
conducive to the advancing of his own pretensions; he talks of nothing but
peace and alliances, the public tranquillity and the public interests, and
thinks, indeed, only of his own, or rather of his masterʼs and the Stateʼs he
represents. Sometimes he reconciles some people who were opposed to one
another, and sometimes he divides those who were united; he intimidates
the powerful and encourages the weak; he draws several weak States into a
league against a more powerful one, under the pretence of a balance of
power, and then joins the former to turn the scale; but his protection and his
alliance are always expensive. He knows how to interest those with whom
he treats, and by a dexterous management and by shrewd and subtle
subterfuges he makes them perceive what private advantage, profits, and
honours they may derive through a certain pliability, which does not in the
least clash with their instructions nor with the intentions of their masters.

And in order not to be thought impregnable on his side, he betrays some
anxiety to better his fortunes, and then receives some proposals which
unveil to him the most secret intentions, the most profound designs, and the
last resource of his opponents, and which he turns to his own advantage. If
sometimes he is a loser by certain stipulations, which have at last been
settled, he clamours loudly; and if he is not, he is still louder, and puts the
losers on their justification and defence. His court has laid down rules of
conduct for his guidance, all his measures are preconcerted, and his smallest
advances arranged beforehand; and yet, whilst subjects of the greatest
difficulty are treated and certain points are most strenuously contested, he
behaves as if his yielding was voluntary, unexpected, and purely a
condescension on his part; he dares even pledge his word that a certain
proposal will be approved of, and that his master will not disavow his
proceedings; he allows false reports to be spread concerning his
instructions, which are represented as very limited, but he knows he has
some private instructions which he never discloses until obliged to do so,
and when it would damage him not to bring them forward. All his intrigues
aim at something solid and substantial, for which he always is ready to
sacrifice punctilios and imaginary points of honour. He possesses a great
deal of coolness, is armed with courage and patience, and wearies and
discourages others, but is never weary himself! He takes precautions and is
hardened against all delays and procrastination, against all reproaches,
suspicions, mistrust, difficulties, and obstacles, convinced that time and
circumstances will influence the minds of his opponents, and accomplish
the desired end. He goes so far as to pretend he has a secret purpose in
breaking off the negotiations, while he passionately desires their
continuance; but, on the contrary, when he has strict orders to do his utmost
to break them off, he thinks the best way to effect it is to urge they should
be continued and speedily despatched. If some important event happens, he
affects either haughtiness or affability, as it may be to his advantage or
prejudice; and if he is so perspicacious as to foresee it, he hurries it on or
temporises according as the state for whom he labours dreads or desires it,
and acts according to these emergencies. He shapes his actions to suit time,
place, and opportunities, his own strength or weakness, the genius of the
nation he has to deal with, and the mood and character of the personages
with whom he is negotiating. All his designs and maxims, all the devices of
his policy, tend only to prevent his being deceived, and to deceive others.506

(13.) The French nation require their sovereign to be grave in his
deportment.507
(14.) One of the misfortunes of a prince is to be often overburdened
with a secret of which the communication would be dangerous; he is
fortunate if he can meet with a faithful confidant to whom he can unbosom
himself.508
(15). A prince can get everything he wants except the pleasures of a
private life: only the charms of friendship and the fidelity of his friends can
console him for such a great loss.
(16.) A monarch who deservedly fills a throne finds it pleasant
sometimes to be less grand, to quit the stage, to leave off the theatrical cloak
and buskins,509 and act a more familiar part with a confidant.
(17.) Nothing is more creditable to a prince than the modesty of his
favourite.
(18.) No ties of friendship or consanguinity affect a favourite; he may
be surrounded on all sides by relatives and friends, but he does not mind
them; he is detached from everything, and, as it were, isolated.
(19.) The best thing a man can do who has fallen into disgrace is to
retire from the court, for it would be better for him to disappear than to
wander about in society as a former favourite, and to act a wholly different
part from his first one. If he does this and remains in solitude, his career
will be looked upon as marvellous; and though he dies, as it were, before
his time, people will only remember his splendour and his kindness.
A favourite who has fallen into disgrace can behave still better than by
becoming a hermit and trying to be forgotten, namely, by attempting some
lofty and noble deed, if he can do so, for which he will be greatly praised,
his reputation exalted, or, at least, confirmed; and by which also it will be
clearly proved that he deserved his former favour, so that people will pity
his downfall, and partly blame his ill-luck.510
(20.) I do not doubt that a favourite who has a sufficiently powerful and
lofty mind must often feel embarrassed and abashed at the meanness,
littleness, and flattery, at the superfluous cares and frivolous attentions of
those who run after him, follow him, and cling to him, like the vile
creatures they are; no doubt he laughs and sneers at them in private to make
amends for the restraint he has to impose on himself in public.
(21.) Ye who are in office, ministers of state or favourites, give me leave
to offer you some advice. Do not trust to your progeny to look after your

reputation when you are gone, or expect that they will preserve the lustre of
your name; titles pass away, a princeʼs favour is evanescent, honours are
lost, wealth is spent, and merit degenerates. It is true you have children
worthy of you, and I shall even add, capable of maintaining the position you
leave them; but can you say the same thing of your grandchildren? Do not
believe me, but cast your eyes for once on some men whom you despise,
and who are descended from the very persons to whom you succeed, though
you are now in such a high position. Be virtuous and humane; and, if you
ask what more is necessary, I will tell you: “Humanity and virtue.” Then
you can command the future and be independent of posterity; then you can
be certain to last as long as the monarchy. And when in ages to come some
people will point out the ruins of your castles, and perhaps only the spot
where they once existed, the thought of your praiseworthy deeds will still
remain fresh in their minds; they will look eagerly at portraits and
medallions of you, and will say, “The man511 whose effigies you behold
was one who dared to address his prince forcibly and freely, and was more
afraid of injuring than of displeasing him; he did not oppose his being good
and generous, nor his speaking of his good cities and of his good people. In
this other personage whose portrait you see512 you will observe strongly
marked lineaments and an austere and majestic air; his reputation increases
every year, and the greatest politicians cannot compete with him. His chief
design was to establish the authority of the prince, and to ensure the lives
and property of the people by destroying the power of the great; from this,
neither the opposition of various parties, conspiracies, treacheries, the risk
of being assassinated, nor his own infirmities, were able to divert him; he
accomplished it, and yet he had leisure to commence another enterprise,
since continued and completed by the best and greatest of our princes, the
extirpation of heresy.”513
(22.) The most artful and plausible snare that ever was set for great men
by their men of business, or for kings by their ministers, has been the advice
of liquidating their debts whilst enriching themselves.514 Such advice is
admirable, such a maxim is useful and productive, and proves a gold mine
and a Peru, at least to those who have hitherto had the address to instil it
into their mastersʼ minds.515
(23.) Happy indeed is that nation whose prince appoints the very same
persons for his confidants and ministers whom the people would have

chosen themselves if they could have done so.
(24.) The mastering of the details of business and a diligent application
to the smallest necessities of the state are essential to a good administration,
though, in truth, too much neglected in these latter times by kings and their
ministers; it is a knowledge greatly to be desired in a prince who is ignorant
of it, and highly to be valued in him who has acquired it.516 Indeed, what
benefits and what increase of pleasure would accrue to a people by their
prince extending the bounds of his empire into the territories of his enemies,
by their sovereignties becoming provinces of his kingdom, by his
overcoming them in sieges and battles, by neither the plains nor the
strongest fortifications affording any security against him, by the
neighbouring nations asking aid of one another, and entering into leagues to
defend themselves and put a stop to his conquests, by their leagues being in
vain, by his continual advances and triumphs, by their last hopes being
frustrated by the monarch recovering his health,517 and thus affording him
the pleasure of seeing the young princes, his grandchildren, maintain and
enhance his glory, beholding them lead an army into the field, take the
strongest fortresses, conquer new states, command old and experienced
officers rather by their genius and merit than by the privilege of their noble
birth, observing them tread in the footsteps of their victorious father and
imitate his goodness, his willingness to learn, his justice, vigilance, and
magnanimity. What signifies it to me, in a word, or to any of my fellow-
subjects, that my sovereign be successful and overwhelmed with glory,
through his own actions as well as through those of his family and servants;
that my country is powerful and dreaded, if, sad and uneasy, I have to live
oppressed and poor; if, while I am secured against any inroads of the
enemy, I am exposed in the public squares or the streets of our cities to the
dagger of the assassin; or if rapine and violence are less to be feared in the
darkest nights amidst the densest forests than in our streets; if security,
order, and cleanliness have not rendered the residing in our cities so
delightful, and have not introduced there plenty as well as the pleasures of
social intercourse; or if, being weak and defenceless, my property is to be
encroached upon by some great man in the neighbourhood; if there is not a
provision made to protect me against his injustice; if I have not within reach
so many masters, and excellent masters too, to instruct my children in
sciences and arts, which will one day raise their fortunes; if the
improvement of trade will not facilitate my providing myself with more

decent clothing518 and wholesome food for my sustenance, at a reasonable
rate; if, to conclude, through the care my sovereign takes of me, I am not as
satisfied with my lot as his virtues must needs make him with his own?
(25.) Eight or ten thousand men are to a prince like money; with their
lives he buys a town or a victory; but, if he can obtain either at a cheaper
rate, and is sparing of them, he is like a man who is bargaining and knows
better than any other the value of money.
(26.) All things succeed in a monarchy where the interests of the state
are identical with those of the prince.
(27.) To call a king the father of his people519 is not so much to eulogise
him as to call him by his name and to define what he is.
(28.) There exists a sort of interchange or permutation of duties between
a sovereign and his subjects, and between them and him; and I shall not
decide which are most obligatory and most difficult. On the one hand, we
have to determine what are the bounden duties of reverence, assistance,
service, obedience, and dependence, and on the other what are the
indispensable obligations of goodness, justice, and protection. To say the
prince can dispose of the lives of the people, is to tell us only that through
their crimes men have become subjected to the laws and justice which the
king administers; to add that he is absolute master of all his subjectsʼ goods
without any considerations, without rendering any accounts, or without
discussion, is the language of flattery, the opinion of a favourite who will
recant on his deathbed.520
(29.) When on a fine evening a numerous flock of sheep is seen on a hill
quietly browsing thyme and wild thyme, or nibbling in a meadow the short
and tender grass which has escaped the scythe of the reaper, the careful and
diligent shepherd is amongst them; he does not lose sight of them, but
follows them, leads them, changes their pasture; if they wander, he calls
them together; if a hungry wolf approaches, he sets his dog on to beat him
off; he keeps them and defends them; and when the sun rises he is already
in the fields, which he leaves at its setting. What an amount of care,
watchfulness, and assiduity is needed! Which condition seems to you the
most delicious and the most unfettered, that of the sheep or of the shepherd?
Was the flock made for the shepherd or the shepherd for the flock? This is
an artless representation of a nation and its prince, but then the prince must
be good.

A gorgeous and sumptuous monarch is like a shepherd adorned with
gold and jewels, with a golden crook in his hands, with a collar of gold
about his dogʼs neck, and a silken and golden string to lead him. What is his
flock the better for all this gold, or what avails it against the wolves?
(30.) How happy is that station which every instant furnishes
opportunities of doing good to thousands of men! how dangerous is that
post which every moment exposes its occupant to injure millions!
(31.) If men in this world cannot feel a more natural, praiseworthy, and
sensible pleasure than to know that they are beloved, and if kings are men,
can they purchase the hearts of their people at too high a rate?
(32.) There are very few general rules and unvariable regulations for
governing well; they depend on times and circumstances, as well as on the
prudence and designs of the rulers. A perfect government is, therefore, a
masterpiece of the intellect; and perhaps it would be impossible to attain it,
if the subjects did not contribute their moiety towards it by their habits of
dependence and submission.
(33.) Those persons who, under a very great monarch, fill the highest
offices, have no very intricate duties to perform, and they do this without
any trouble; everything goes on easily; the authority and the genius of the
prince smoothes their way, rids them of all difficulties, and makes
everything prosper beyond their expectations; their merit consists in being
subordinates.521
(34.) If the care of a single family be so burdensome, if a man has
enough to do to answer for himself, what a weight, what a heavy load must
be the charge of a whole realm! Is a sovereign rewarded for all his anxieties
by the pleasures which absolute power seems to afford and by the
prostrations of his courtiers? When I think of the difficult, hazardous, and
dangerous paths he sometimes is forced to tread to attain public tranquillity;
when I think of the extreme but necessary means he often is obliged to
employ to compass a good end; when I am aware he is accountable to God
for the welfare of his people, that good and evil are in his hands, and that he
cannot plead ignorance as an excuse, I cannot forbear asking myself the
question if I should like to reign? A man who is tolerably happy as a private
individual should not abandon it for a throne, for, even to one who occupies
it by hereditary right, it is almost unbearable to be born a monarch.
(35.) How many gifts Heaven must bestow on a prince for him to
become a good ruler! He must be of royal blood, have an august and

commanding air, a presence to satisfy the curiosity of a crowd anxious to
see the prince, as well as to command respect from his courtiers.522 His
temper must be always the same; he must be averse to ill-natured raillery,
or, at least, be so sensible as to refrain from it; he must never threaten,
reproach, nor give way to passion, yet he must be always obeyed; he should
be complacent and engaging, so frank and sincere that all may think they
plainly see the bottom of his heart, which will tend to gain him friends,
partisans, and allies; yet he must be secret, close, and impenetrable in his
motives and plans; he must be very grave and serious in public; be brief,
precise, and dignified in his answers to ambassadors, as well as in his
expressions in council; be careful in choosing fit objects for his favours, and
bestow them with that peculiar charm which enhances them; great must be
his sagacity to penetrate into the minds, qualifications, and tempers of men,
to nominate them to various posts and places, as well as to select his
generals and ministers of state. His opinions should be so settled, sound,
and decisive in matters of state, as immediately to point out what is the best
and most honest thing to do; his mind ought to be so upright and just as
sometimes to decide against himself and in favour of his subjects, allies, or
enemies; so comprehensive and ready should be his memory as to
remember the necessities of his subjects, their faces, names, and
petitions.523 His capacious intelligence should not only exercise itself on
foreign affairs, commerce, maxims of state, political designs, extension of
the frontiers by conquering new provinces, and ensuring their safety by
numerous and inaccessible forts; but also look after the affairs of his own
kingdom, and study them in detail; banish from it a false, insidious, and anti
monarchical sect,524 if such a one exists; abolish all barbarous and impious
customs, if they are to be found there;525 reform the abuses of laws and
usages, for such may have crept in;526 render his cities more safe and
comfortable by establishing new police regulations, more splendid and
magnificent by sumptuous edifices; punish severely scandalous vices;
increase the influence of religion and virtue by his authority and
example;527 protect the Church and clergy, their rights and liberties;528 and
govern the nation like a father, always intent on relieving it and making the
subsidies as light as those levied in the provinces529 without impoverishing
them. He must have great talents for war, be vigilant, diligent, and
unwearied, able to command numerous armies, and be composed in the

midst of danger; he ought to be sparing of his own life for the good of the
state, and prefer its welfare and glory to that very life; his power must be
absolute, to leave no room for indirect influence, intrigues and factions, and
sometimes to lessen that vast distance which exists between the great and
the common people, so that they may be drawn closer together, and obey
that power equally; the knowledge of the prince should be extensive, that he
may see everything with his own eyes, act immediately and by himself, so
that his generals, though at a distance, are but his lieutenants, and his
ministers but his ministers;530 he should be sagacious enough to know when
to declare war, when to conquer and make the best use of a victory, when to
make peace, and when to break it; when, sometimes, to compel his enemies
to accept it, according to the various interests at stake; to set bounds to his
vast ambition, and how far to extend his conquests; he should find leisure
for games, festivals, and spectacles; cultivate arts and sciences, and erect
magnificent structures, even when surrounded by secret and declared
enemies. To conclude, he should possess a superior and commanding
genius, which renders him beloved by his subjects and feared by strangers,
and makes of his court, and even of his entire realm, as it were, one family,
governed by one head, living in perfect unison and harmony with one
another, and thus formidable to the rest of the world. All these admirable
virtues seem to me comprised in the notion of what a sovereign ought to be.
It is true we rarely see them all combined in one man, for too many
adventitious qualities, such as intelligence, feelings, outward appearances,
and natural disposition, must be found at the same time in him; it therefore
appears to me that a prince who unites all these in his single person well
deserves the name of Great.531

LOUIS XIV

XI.
OF MANKIND.

(1.)
L ET us not be angry with men when we see them cruel, ungrateful,
unjust, proud, egotists, and forgetful of others; they are made so; it
is their nature; we might just as well quarrel with a stone for
falling to the ground, or with a fire when the flames ascend.
(2.) In one sense men are not fickle, or only in trifles; they change their
habits, language, outward appearance, their rules of propriety, and
sometimes their taste; but they always preserve their bad morals, and adhere
tenaciously to what is ill and to their indifference for virtue.
(3.) Stoicism is a mere fancy, a fiction, like Platoʼs Republic. The Stoics
pretend a man may laugh at poverty; not feel insults, ingratitude, loss of
property, relatives, and friends; look unconcernedly on death, and regard it
as a matter of indifference which ought neither to make him merry nor
melancholy; not let pleasure or pain conquer him; be wounded or burned
without breathing the slightest sigh or shedding a single tear; and this
phantasm of courage and imaginary firmness they are pleased to call a
philosopher. They have left man with the same faults they found in him, and
did not blame his smallest foible. Instead of depicting vice as something
terrible or ridiculous, which might have corrected him, they have limned an

idea of perfection and heroism of which man is not capable, and they
exhorted him to aim at what is impossible. Thus, the philosopher that is to
be, but will never exist except in imagination, finds himself naturally, and
without any exertions of his own, above all events and all ills; the most
excruciating fit of the gout, the most severe attack of colic, cannot draw
from him the least complaint; Heaven and earth may be overturned, without
dragging him along in their downfall; and he remains calm and collected
amidst the ruins of the universe, whilst a man really beside himself utters
loud exclamations, despairs, looks fierce, and is in an agony for the loss of a
dog or for a China dish broken into pieces.
(4.) Restlessness of mind, inequality of temper, fickleness of affections,
and instability of conduct, are all vices of the mind, but they are all
different; and, in spite532 of their appearing analogous, are not always found
in one and the same subject.
(5.) It is difficult to decide whether irresolution makes a man more
unfortunate than contemptible, or even whether it is always a greater
disadvantage to take a wrong step than to take none at all.
(6.) A man of variable mind is not one man, but several men in one; he
multiplies himself as often as he changes his taste and manners; he is not
this minute what he was the last, and will not be the next what he is now; he
is his own successor. Do not ask what is his nature, but what are his
proclivities; nor what mood he is in, but how many sorts of moods he has.
Are you not mistaken, and is it Eutichrates whom you accost? To-day he is
cool to you, but yesterday he was anxious to see you, and was so
demonstrative that his friends were jealous of you. Surely he does not
remember you; tell him your name.
(7.) Menalcas533 goes down-stairs, opens the door to go out, and shuts it
again; he perceives that he has his nightcap on, and on looking at himself
with a little more attention, he finds that he is but half shaved, that he has
fastened his sword on the wrong side, that his stockings are hanging on his
heels, and that his shirt is bulging out above his breeches. If he walks about,
he feels something strike him all at once in the stomach or in the face, and
he cannot imagine what it is, until he opens his eyes and wakes up, when he
finds himself before the shaft of a cart, or behind a long plank a workman is
carrying. He has been seen to run his head against a blind man, and to get
entangled between his legs, so that both fell backwards. Often he meets a
prince face to face, who wishes to pass; he recollects himself with some

difficulty, and scarcely has time to squeeze himself up against the wall to
make room for him.534 He searches about, rummages, shouts, gets excited,
calls his servants one after another, and complains that everything is lost or
mislaid; he asks for his gloves which he holds in his hands, like the woman
who asked for the mask she had on her face. He enters the rooms at
Versailles,535 and passing under a chandelier, his wig gets hooked on to one
of the brackets and is left hanging, whilst all the courtiers stare and laugh.
Menalcas looks also, and laughs louder than any of them, staring in the
meanwhile at all the company to see what man shows his ears and has lost
his wig.536 If he goes into town,537 before he has gone far he thinks he has
lost his way, gets uneasy, and asks some of the passers-by where he is, who
name to him the very street he lives in; he enters his own house, runs out in
haste, and fancies he is mistaken. He comes out of the Palais de Justice,
and finding a carriage waiting at the bottom of the great staircase, he thinks
it is his own and enters it; the coachman just touches the horses with his
whip, and supposes all the while he is driving his master home; Menalcas
jumps out, crosses the courtyard, mounts the stairs, and passes through the
ante-chamber and ordinary rooms into the study; but nothing is strange or
new to him; he sits down, takes a rest, and feels himself at home. When the
real master of the house arrives, he rises to receive him, treats him very
politely, begs him to be seated, and believes he is doing the honours of his
own room; he talks, muses, and talks again; the master of the house is tired
and amazed, and Menalcas as much as he, though he does not say what he
thinks, but supposes the other is some bore who has nothing to do, and will
leave soon—at least he hopes so, and remains patient; yet it is almost night
before he is undeceived, and that with some difficulty. Another time he pays
a visit to a lady, and imagines that she is visiting him; he sits down in her
arm-chair538 without any thought of giving it up; it then seems to him that
the lady is somewhat long in her visit, and he expects every moment that
she will rise and leave him at liberty; but as she delays, he is growing
hungry, and night coming on, he invites her to have some supper with him,
at which she bursts out in such loud laughter that he comes to himself. He
marries in the morning, but has forgotten it at night, and does not sleep at
home on his wedding-night; some time afterwards his wife dies in his arms,
and he is present at her funeral; the next day one of the servants informs
him that dinner is on the table, when he asks if his wife is already dressed
and if they have told her it is served up. He enters a church, and takes a

blind man, always stationed at the door, for a pillar, and the plate he holds
in his hands for a holy-water basin, into which he dips his hands; and when
he makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, he, on a sudden, hears the
pillar speak and beg for alms; he walks through the aisle, and fancying he
sees a praying-chair, throws himself heavily on it; the chair bends, gives
way, and strives to cry out;539 Menalcas is surprised to find himself
kneeling on the legs of a very little man, and leaning on his back, with both
his arms on his shoulders, his folded hands extended, taking him by the
nose and stopping his mouth; he is quite confused, withdraws, and goes and
kneels elsewhere. He takes out his prayer-book as he thinks, but he pulls out
a slipper instead, which he had inadvertently put into his pocket before he
went out; he has hardly left the church when a footman runs after him,
comes up to him, and asks him, with a laugh, if he has not got the bishopʼs
slipper; Menalcas produces his, and assures him that he has no other
slippers about him; but, however, after searching he finds the slipper of his
lordship, whom he has just been visiting, had found indisposed at his
fireside, and whose slipper he had pocketed before he took his leave,
instead of one of his gloves he had dropt; so that Menalcas returns home
with one slipper less. One day whilst gambling he lost all the money he had
about him, and, as he wished to continue, he went into his private room,
unlocked a cupboard, took out his cash-box, helped himself to whatever he
pleased, and then thought he put it back again in its former place; but he
heard some barking going on in the cupboard he just locked, and, quite
astonished at this marvellous occurrence, he opened it again, and burst out
laughing on beholding his dog he had locked up instead of his cash-box.
Whilst he is playing backgammon he asks for something to drink, which is
brought him; it is his turn to play, and, holding the box in one hand and the
glass in the other, and being very thirsty, he gulps down the dice and almost
the box, whilst the water is thrown on the board, and quite wets the person
he is playing with. One day being in a room with a family with whom he
was very intimate, he spits on the bed, and throws his hat on the ground,
thinking he is spitting on the floor and shying his hat on the bed. Once on
the river he asked what oʼclock it was; they hand him a watch, but it is
scarcely in his hands when he forgets both the time and the watch, and
throws the latter into the river as a thing which bothers him. He writes a
long letter, throws some sand on his paper,540 and then pours the sand into
the inkstand; but that is not all. He writes a second letter, and after having

sealed both, he makes a mistake in addressing them; one of them is sent to a
duke and peer of the realm, who, on opening it, reads: “Mr. Oliver,—Pray
donʼt fail to send me my provision of hay as soon as you receive this letter.”
His farmer receives the other letter, opens it, has it read to him, and finds in
it: “My lord,—I receive with the utmost submission the orders which it has
pleased your highness,” and so on. He writes another letter at night, and
after sealing it, puts out the light; yet is surprised to be on a sudden in the
dark, and is at a loss to conceive how it has happened. Coming down the
Louvre staircase, Menalcas meets another person coming up, and exclaims
that the latter is the very man he is looking for; he takes him by the hand,
and they go down-stairs together, cross several courtyards, enter some
apartments, and come out again; he moves about, and returns whence he
started; then, looking more narrowly at the man he has thus been dragging
after him for a quarter of an hour, he wonders who it is, has nothing to say
to him, lets go his hand, and turns another way. He often asks a question,
and is almost out of sight before it is possible to answer him; or else he will
ask you, whilst he is running about, how your father is, and when you
answer him that he is seriously unwell, he will shout to you that he is very
glad to hear it. Another time, if you fall in his way, he is delighted to meet
you, and says he has just come from your house to talk to you on a certain
matter of business; then, looking at your hand, he exclaims, “Thatʼs a fine
ruby you wear; is it a balass ruby?”541 and then he leaves you, and goes on
his way; this is the important matter of business he was so anxious to talk to
you about. If he is in the country, he tells some person he must feel happy
he has been able to leave the court in the autumn and to have spent on his
estate all the time the court was at Fontainebleau;542 whilst to other people
he talks about something else; then, going back to the first, he says to him,
“You have had some very fine weather at Fontainebleau, and you must have
followed the royal hunt pretty often.” He begins a story which he forgets to
finish; he laughs to himself, and that aloud, at something he is thinking of,
and replies to his own thoughts; he hums a tune, whistles, throws himself
into a chair, sends forth a pitiful whine, yawns, and thinks himself alone.
When he is at a dinner-party he gradually gathers all the bread on his own
plate, and his neighbours have none; and he does the same with the knives
and forks, which do not remain long in their hands. Lately some large
spoons, convenient for helping every one, have been introduced at certain
tables; he takes one of these spoons, plunges it into the dish, fills it, puts it

into his mouth, and is highly astonished to see the soup he has just taken all
over his clothes and linen. He forgets to drink at dinner, or, if he remembers
it, thinks there is too much wine poured out for him; he flings more than
half of it in the face of a gentleman seated at his right hand, drinks the rest
with a great deal of composure, and cannot understand why everybody
should burst out laughing for throwing on the floor the wine he did not wish
to drink.543 He keeps his bed a day or two for a slight indisposition, and a
goodly number of ladies and gentlemen visit him, and converse with him in
the ruelle;544 in their presence he lifts up the blankets and spits in the
sheets. He is taken to the Convent of the Carthusians, where they show him
a gallery adorned with paintings, all executed by the hand of a master;545
the monk who explains the subjects persistently expatiates on the life of
Saint Bruno, and points out the adventure with the canon in one of the
pictures.546 Menalcas, whose thoughts are all the while wandering away
from the gallery, and far beyond it, returns to it at last, and asks the monk
whether it is the canon or Saint Bruno who is damned. Being once, as it
happened, with a young widow, he talks to her of her deceased husband,
and asks of what he died; this conversation renews all the sorrows of the
lady, who, amidst tears and sobs, tells him all the particulars of her late
husbandʼs illness, from the night he first was attacked by fever to his final
agony; whereupon Menalcas, who apparently listens to her narrative with
great attention, asks her if the deceased was her only husband. One morning
he gets it into his head to hurry on everything for dinner; but he rises before
the dessert is brought on, and leaves his guests by themselves. That day he
is sure to be seen everywhere in town except on the spot where he has made
an appointment about the very business which prevented him finishing his
dinner, and made him walk, for fear it would take too long a time to get the
horses and carriage ready. You may frequently hear him shout, scold, and
get in a rage about one of his servants being out of the way. “Where can that
man be?” says he;
“what can he be doing? what has become of him? Let him never more
present himself before me; I discharge him this very minute!” The servant
makes his appearance, and he asks him, in a contemptuous tone, where he
comes from; the man replies he has been where he was sent to, and gives a
faithful account of his errand. You would often take Menalcas for what he is
not, for an idiot; for he does not listen, and speaks still less; for a madman,
because he talks to himself, and indulges in certain grimaces and

involuntary motions of the head; for proud and discourteous, because when
you bow to him, he may pass without looking at you, or look at you and not
return your bow; for a man without any feeling, for he talks of bankruptcy
in a family where there is such a blot; of executions and the scaffold before
a person whose father has been beheaded; of plebeians before plebeians
who have become rich and pretend to be of noble birth. He even intends to
bring up his illegitimate son in his house, and pretends he is a servant; and
though he would have his wife and children know nothing about the matter,
he cannot forbear calling him his son every hour of the day. He resolves to
let his son marry the daughter of some man of business, yet he now and
then boasts of his birth and ancestors, and that no Menalcas has ever made a
misalliance. In short, he seems to be absent minded, and to pay no attention
to the conversation going on; he thinks and speaks at the same time, but
what he says is seldom about what he thinks; so that there is hardly any
coherence and sequence in his talk; he often says “yes” when he should say
“no,” and when he says “no,” you must suppose he would say “yes.” When
he answers you so pertinently, his eyes are fixed on your countenance, but it
does not follow that he sees you; he looks neither at you nor at any one, nor
at anything in the world. All that you can draw from him, even when he is
most sociable and most attentive, are some such words as these: “Yes,
indeed; it is true; very well; really; indeed; I believe so; certainly; O
Heaven!” and some other monosyllables, even not always used on the right
occasions. He never is with those with whom he appears to be; he calls his
footman very seriously “Sir,” and his friend “La Verdure;”547 says “Your
Reverence” to a prince of the royal blood, and “Your Highness” to a Jesuit.
When he is at mass, and the priest sneezes, he cries out aloud, “God bless
you!” He is in the company of a magistrate of serious disposition, and
venerable by his age and dignity, who asks him whether a certain event
happened in such and such a way, and Menalcas replies, “Yes, miss.” As he
came one day from the country, his footmen plotted to rob him and
succeeded; they jumped down from behind his coach, presented the end of a
torch to his breast, and demanded his purse, which he gave up.548 When he
came home he told his friends what had happened, and when they asked for
details he said they had better inquire of his servants, who also were
present.
(8.) Impoliteness is not a vice of the mind, but the consequence of
several vices; of foolish vanity, of ignorance of oneʼs duties, of idleness, of

stupidity, of absence of mind, of contempt for others, and of jealousy.
Though it only shows itself outwardly, it is not the less odious, because it is
a fault which is always visible and manifest; however, it gives more or less
offence, according as the motives for displaying it are more or less
offensive.
(9.) If we say of an angry, captious, quarrelsome, melancholy, formal,
capricious person, that it is all owing to his temper, it is not to find an
excuse for him, whatever people may think, but an involuntary
acknowledgment that such great faults admit of no remedy.
What we call good temper is a thing too much neglected among men;
they ought to understand that they should not alone be good, but also appear
to be so, at least if they are inclined to be sociable and disposed to friendly
intercourse; in other words, if they would be men. We do not require wicked
men to be gentle and urbane; in these qualities they are never wanting, for
they employ them to ensnare the simple, and to find a larger field for their
operations; but we wish kind-hearted men always to be tractable,
accessible, and courteous; so that there should no longer be any reason for
saying that wicked men do harm and that good men make others
uncomfortable.
(10.) The generality of men proceed from anger to insults; others act
differently, for they first give offence and then grow angry; our surprise at
such behaviour always supersedes resentment.
(11.) Men do not sufficiently take advantage of every opportunity for
pleasing other people. When a person accepts a certain post, it seems that he
intends to acquire the power of obliging others without using it; nothing is
quicker and more readily given than a refusal, whilst nothing is ever granted
until after mature reflection.
(12.) Know exactly what you are to expect from men in general, and
from each of them in particular, and then mix with the people around you.
(13.) If poverty is the mother of all crimes, lack of intelligence is their
father.
(14.) A knave can hardly be a very intelligent man; a clear and far-
seeing mind leads to regularity, honesty, and virtue; it is want of sense and
penetration which begets obstinacy in wickedness as well as in duplicity; in
vain we endeavour to correct such a man by satire; it may describe him to
others, but he himself will not know his own picture; it is like scolding a
deaf man. It would be well, please gentlemen of sense and culture, and

avenge everybody, if a rogue were not so constituted as to be without any
feeling whatever.
(15.) There are some vices for which we are indebted to none but
ourselves, which are innate in us, and are strengthened by habit; there are
others we contract which are foreign to us. Sometimes men are naturally
inclined to yield without much difficulty, to be urbane, and to desire to
please; but by the treatment they meet from those whom they frequent and
on whom they depend, they soon lose all moderation, and even change their
disposition; they grow melancholy and peevish to a degree ere this
unknown to them; their temper is completely changed, and they are
themselves astonished at their being rude and tetchy.
(16.) Some people ask why the whole bulk of mankind does not
constitute one nation, and does not like to speak the same language, obey
the same laws, and agree among themselves to adopt the same customs and
the same worship? For my part, observing how greatly minds, tastes, and
sentiments differ, I am astonished to see seven or eight persons, living
under the same roof and within the same walls, constitute one family.549
(17.) There are some extraordinary fathers, who seem, during the whole
course of their lives, to be preparing reasons for their children for being
consoled at their deaths.550
(18.) Everything is strange in the dispositions, morals, and manners of
men: one person who during his whole lifetime has been melancholy,
passionate, avaricious, fawning, submissive, laborious, and egotistical, was
born lively, peaceable, indolent, ostentatious, and with lofty feelings,
abhorring anything base; want, circumstances, and dire necessity have
compelled him and caused such a great change. Such a manʼs inmost
feelings can really not be described, for too many external things have
altered, changed, and upset him, so that he is not exactly what he thinks he
is himself or what he appears to be.
(19.) Life is short and tedious, and is wholly spent in wishing; we trust
to find rest and enjoyment at some future time, often at an age when our
best blessings, youth and health, have already left us. When at last that time
has arrived, it surprises us in the midst of fresh desires; we have got no
farther when we are attacked by a fever which kills us; if we had been
cured, it would only have been to give us more time for other desires.
(20.) A man requesting a favour from another, surrenders himself at
discretion to the personage from whom he expects it, but when he is quite

sure it will be granted, he temporises, parleys, and capitulates.
(21.) It is so usual for men not to be happy, and so essential for every
blessing to be acquired with infinite trouble, that what is obtained easily is
looked upon with suspicion. We can hardly understand how anything which
costs us so little can be greatly to our advantage, or how by strictly honest
means we can so easily obtain what we want; we may think we deserve our
success, but we ought very seldom to depend on it.
(22.) A man who says he is not born happy may at least become so by
the happiness his friends and relatives enjoy, but envy deprives him even of
this last resource.
(23.) Whatever I may somewhere have said,551 it is, perhaps, wrong to
be dejected. Men seem born to misfortune, pain, and poverty, and as few
escape this, and as every kind of calamity seems to befall them, they ought
to be prepared for every misfortune.
(24.) Men find it so very difficult to make business arrangements, they
are so very touchy where their smallest interests are concerned, they are so
bristling over with difficulties, so willing to deceive and so unwilling to be
deceived, they place so high a value on what belongs to themselves, and are
so apt to undervalue what belongs to others, that I admit I cannot
understand how and in what way marriages, contracts, acquisitions,
conventions, truces, treaties, and alliances are brought about.
(25.) Among some people arrogance supplies the place of grandeur,
inhumanity of decision, and roguery of intelligence.
Knaves easily believe others as bad as themselves; there is no deceiving
them, neither do they long deceive.
I would rather at any time be considered a fool than a rogue.
We never deceive people to benefit them, for knavery is a compound of
wickedness and falsehood.
(26.) If there were not so many dupes in this world there would be fewer
of those men called shrewd or sharp, who are honoured for having been
artful enough in deceiving others during the whole course of their lives, and
are proud of having done so. Why should you expect Erophilus not to
presume on himself and his shrewdness, whose breach of faith, bad actions,
and roguery, instead of doing him any harm, have procured him favours and
rewards, even from those whom he has either never served or to whom he
has done an ill turn?

(27.) We hear nothing in the squares and in the streets of great cities,
and out of the mouths of the passers-by, but such words as “writs,
executions, interrogatories, bonds, and pleadings.” Is there not the smallest
equity more left in this world? Or is it, on the contrary, full of people who
coolly ask for what is not due to them, or who distinctly refuse to pay what
they owe?
The invention of legal documents to remind men of what they promised,
and to convince them that they did so, is a shame to humanity.
If you suppress passion, interest, and injustice, how quiet would the
greatest cities be! The necessities of life, and the means of satisfying them,
are the cause of nearly half the difficulties.
(28.) Nothing is of greater assistance to a man for bearing quietly the
wrongs done to him by relatives and friends than his reflections on the vices
of humanity; on the difficulty men have in being constant, generous, and
faithful, or on their loving anything better than their own interests. He
knows the extent of their power, and does not require them to penetrate
solid bodies, to fly in the air, or to give every one his due; he may dislike
mankind in general for having no greater respect for virtue; but he finds
excuses for individuals, and even loves them from higher motives, whilst he
does his best to require himself as little indulgence as possible.
(29.) There are certain things which we most passionately desire, and of
which the mere thought carries us away and throws us into an ecstasy: if we
happen to obtain them, we are less sensible of them than we thought we
should be, and we enjoy them the less because we aspire to get some of
greater importance.
(30.) There exist some evils so terrible and some misfortunes so horrible
that we dare not think of them, whilst their very aspect makes us shudder;
but if they happen to fall on us, we find ourselves stronger than we
imagined; we grapple with our ill luck, and behave better than we expected
we should.
(31.) Sometimes a pretty house which we inherit, or a fine horse, or a
handsome dog which is given to us, or some hangings, or a clock presented
to us, will alleviate a great grief, and make us feel less acutely a great loss.
(32.) Suppose men were to live for ever in this world, I do not think I
could discover what more they could do than they do at present.
(33.) If life be wretched, it is hard to bear it; if it be happy, it is horrible
to lose it; both come to the same thing.

(34.) There is nothing men are so anxious to keep, and yet are so
careless about, as life.
(35.) Irene is at great cost conveyed to Epidaurus;552 she visits
Æsculapius in his temple, and consults him about all her ailings. She
complains first that she is weary and excessively fatigued, and the god
replies that the long journey she just made is the cause of this; she says that
she is not inclined to eat any supper, and the oracle orders her to eat less
dinner; she adds she cannot sleep at night, and he prescribes her to lie a-bed
by day; she complains of her corpulency, and asks how it can be prevented;
the oracle replies she should get up before noon and now and then use her
legs to walk; she declares that wine disagrees with her, the oracle bids her
drink water; she suffers from indigestion, and he tells her she must diet
herself. “My sight begins to fail me,” says Irene. “Use spectacles,” says
Æsculapius. “I grow weak,” continues she; “I am not half so strong nor so
healthy as I was.” “You grow old,” says the god. “But how,” asks she, “can
I get rid of this disease?” “The shortest way to cure it, Irene, is to die, as
your mother and grandmother have done.” “Son of Apollo!” exclaimed
Irene, “is this all the advice you give me? Is this the skill praised by all, and
for which every one reveres you? What rare and secret things did you tell
me, and what remedies have you prescribed for me, which I did not know
before?” “Why did you not take these, then,” the god replied, “without
coming such a long distance to consult me, and shortening your days by
such a tedious journey?”553
(36.) Death happens but once, yet we feel it every moment of our lives;
it is worse to dread it than to suffer it.
(37.) Restlessness, fear, and dejection cannot delay death, but, on the
contrary, hasten it; I only question whether man, who is mortal, should
indulge in much laughing.
(38.) Whatever is certain in death is slightly alleviated by what is not so
infallible; the time when it shall happen is undefined, but it is more or less
connected with the infinite, and what we call eternity.
(39.) When we are sighing for the loss of our past blooming youth,
which will return no more, let us think that decrepitude will come, when we
shall regret the mature age we have reached and do not sufficiently value.
(40.) The fear of old age disturbs us, yet we are not certain of becoming
old.

(41.) We hope to grow old, and yet we dread old age; or, in other words,
we are willing to live, and afraid to die.
(42.) A man had better yield to nature and fear death, than be engaged in
continual conflicts, provide himself with arguments and reflections, and be
always combating his own feelings in order not to fear it.
(43.) If some persons died, and others did not die, death would indeed
be a terrible affliction.
(44.) A long disease seems to be a halting-place between life and death,
that death itself may be a comfort to those who die and to those who are left
behind.
(45.) Humanly speaking, there is something good in death, namely, that
it puts an end to old age. That death which prevents decrepitude comes
more seasonably than that which ends it.
(46.) Men regret their life has been ill-spent, but this does not always
induce them to make a better use of the time they have yet to live.
(47.) Life is a kind of sleep; old men have slept longer than others, and
only begin to wake again when they are to die. If, then, they take a
retrospect of the whole course of their lives, they frequently discover
neither virtues nor commendable actions to distinguish one year from
another; they confound one time of their life with another time, and see
nothing of sufficient note by which to measure how long they have lived.
They have dreamt in a confused, indistinct, and incoherent way; but,
nevertheless, they are aware, as all people who wake up, that they have
slept for a long while.
(48.) There are but three events which concern man: birth, life, and
death. They are unconscious of their birth, they suffer when they die, and
they neglect to live.
(49.) There is a time preceding the power of reasoning, when, like
animals, we live by instinct alone, and of which memory retains no
vestiges. There is a second period, when reason is developed, formed, and
might act, if it were not obscured and partly extinguished by vices of the
constitution, and a sequence of passions following one another till the third
and last age; reason then, being in its full strength, should produce
something; but it is chilled and impaired by years, disease, and sorrow, and
rendered useless by the machinery getting old and out of gear; yet these
three periods constitute the whole life of man.

(50.) Children are overbearing, supercilious, passionate, envious,
inquisitive, egotistical, idle, fickle, timid, intemperate, liars, and
dissemblers; they laugh and weep easily, are excessive in their joys and
sorrows, and that about the most trifling objects; they bear no pain, but like
to inflict it on others; already they are men.
(51.) Children are neither for the past nor the future, but enjoy the
present, which we rarely do.
(52.) There seems to be but one character in childhood; at that age
morals and manners are nearly all the same, and it is only by paying great
attention that we can perceive any difference, which, however, increases in
the same proportion as reason does, whilst the passions and vices gather
strength as well; these alone make men so unlike each other and so at
variance with themselves.
(53.) Children already possess those faculties which are extinct in old
men, namely, imagination and memory, and which are very useful to them
in their little sports and amusements; by the help of these they repeat what
they have heard, imitate what they see done, exercise all trades, either in
busying themselves with many small labours or in copying the movements
and gestures of various workmen; are guests at a sumptuous feast and
entertained most luxuriously; are transported to enchanted palaces and
places; have splendid carriages and a large retinue, though they are by
themselves; are at the head of armies, give battle, and enjoy the delights of
obtaining a victory; converse with kings and with the greatest princes; are
themselves monarchs, have subjects, possess treasures which they make of
leaves or sand; and know then, what they will ignore in after-life, to be
satisfied with their fortune and to be masters of their own happiness.
(54.) There are no outward vices, nor bodily defects, which children do
not perceive; they observe them at once, and know how to describe them in
suitable terms, for more exact definitions could not be invented; but when
they become men, they, in their turn, contract the same imperfections which
they ridiculed.
The only anxiety children have is to find out the weaknesses of their
masters, and of the persons they have to obey; as soon as they have taken
once advantage of these, they get the upper hand, and obtain an influence
over these people which they never part with: for what once deprived these
persons of their superiority will always prevent them recovering it.

(55.) Idleness, indolence, and laziness, vices so natural to children,
disappear as soon as they begin to play; they are then lively, attentive, exact
observers of rule and order, never pardon the least slip, and several times
begin again one and the same thing, in which they failed; these are sure
forebodings that they may, hereafter, neglect their duties, but will forget
nothing that can promote their pleasures.
(56.) To children everything seems great; courtyards, gardens, houses,
furniture, men, and animals; to men the things of the world appear so, and, I
dare say, for the same reason, because they are little.
(57.) Children begin among themselves with a democracy, where every
one is master; and what is very natural, it does not suit them for any length
of time, and then they adopt a monarchy. One of them distinguishes himself
from among the rest, either by greater vivacity, strength, and comeliness, or
by a more exact knowledge of their various sports and of the little laws
which regulate them; all the others submit to him, and then an absolute
government is established, but only in matters of pleasure.
(58.) Who can doubt but that children conceive, judge, and reason
consistently? If only in small things consider they are children, and without
much experience; if they make use of an indifferent phraseology it is less
their fault than their parentsʼ and mastersʼ.
(59.) It destroys all confidence in the minds of children, and alienates
them as well, to punish them for faults they have not committed, or even to
be severe with them for trifling offences; they know exactly, and better than
any one, what they deserve, and seldom deserve more than they dread;
when they are chastised, they know if it is justly or unjustly, whilst unjust
punishments do them more harm than not to be punished at all.
(60.) Man does not live long enough to be benefited by his faults; he is
committing them during the whole course of his life, and it is as much as he
can do, if, after many errors, he dies at last improved.
Nothing revives more a man than the knowledge that he has avoided
doing some foolish action.
(61.) Men are loath to particularise their faults; they conceal them or
blame some other person for them, and this gives the “spiritual director”554
an advantage over the father-confessor.
(62.) The faults of blockheads are sometimes so great and so difficult to
foresee, that wise men are puzzled by them; they are only of use to those
who commit them.

(63.) A party spirit betrays the greatest men to act as meanly as the
vulgar herd.
(64.) Vanity and propriety lead us to act in the same way and in the
same manner as we should do through inclination or a feeling of duty; a
man died lately in Paris of a fever which he got by sitting up at night with
his wife, for whom he did not care.555
(65.) All men in their hearts covet esteem, but are loath any one should
discover their anxiety to be esteemed; for men wish to be considered
virtuous; and men would no longer be thought virtuous, but fond of esteem
and praises, and vain, were they to derive any other advantages from virtue
than virtue itself. Men are very vain, and of all things hate to be thought so.
(66.) A vain man finds it to his advantage to speak well or ill of himself;
a modest man never talks of himself.
We cannot better understand how ridiculous vanity is, and what a
disgraceful vice it is, than by observing how careful it is not to be seen, and
how often it hides itself underneath a semblance of modesty.
False modesty is the highest affectation of vanity; it never shows a vain
man in his true colours, but, on the contrary, enhances his reputation,
through the very virtue which is the opposite of the vice constituting his real
character; it is a falsehood. False glory is the rock on which vanity splits; it
induces a desire in men to be esteemed for things they indeed possess, but
which are frivolous and unworthy of being noticed; it is an error.
(67.) Men speak of themselves in such a manner, that though they admit
they are guilty of some trifling faults, these very faults imply noble talents
or great qualities. Thus they complain of a bad memory, though quite
satisfied with the large amount of common sense and sound judgment they
possess; submit to being reproached for absence of mind and musing,
imagining them the concomitants of intelligence; acknowledge being
awkward and not able to do anything with their hands, and comfort
themselves for being without these small qualities by the knowledge of
possessing those of the understanding or those innate feelings which every
one allows them. In owning their indolence they always intimate they are
disinterested and entirely cured of ambition; they are not ashamed of being
slovenly, which shows they merely are careless of little things, and seems to
imply that they solely occupy themselves with solid and important matters.
A military man affects to say that it was rashness or curiosity which carried
him into the trenches on a certain day, or in a dangerous spot, without being

on duty or ordered to do so; and he adds that the general reprimanded him
for it. Thus a man possessing brains or a solid genius and an innate
circumspection which other men endeavour in vain to acquire; a man who
has strengthened his mind by a long experience; to whom the number,
weight, variety, difficulty, and importance of affairs merely procure some
occupation without embarrassing him; who, by his extensive knowledge
and penetration masters all events; who does not consult all the remarks
ever written on the art of governments and politics, but is, perhaps, one of
those sublime minds created to sway others, and from whose example those
rules were first made; who is diverted, by the great things he does, from
those pleasant and agreeable things he might read, and who, on the contrary,
loses nothing by recapitulating and turning over, as it were, his own life and
actions: a man, so constituted, may easily, and without compromising
himself, admit that he knows nothing of books and never reads.556
(68.) Men intend sometimes to conceal their imperfections, or attenuate
the opinion of others about them, by frankly acknowledging them. “I am
very ignorant,” says some man who knows nothing; “I am getting old,” says
a second above threescore; “I am far from rich,” says a third who is
wretchedly poor.
(69.) There is either no such thing as modesty, or it is mistaken for
something quite different, if we think it to be an inward sentiment, debasing
man in his own eyes, and which is a supernatural virtue we call humility.
Man naturally thinks of himself with pride and conceit, and thinks thus of
no one but himself; modesty only aims at modifying this disposition so that
no one shall suffer by it; it is an external virtue, which commands our looks,
gait, words, tone of voice, and obliges a man ostensibly to act with others as
if in reality he did not despise them.
(70.) There are many people in this world who inwardly and habitually
draw a comparison between themselves and others, always give a decision
in favour of their own merits, and behave accordingly.
(71.) You say, “Men must be modest;” that is what all intelligent men
desire; but then people tyrannise over those who yield through modesty, and
should not crush them when they give way.
Again some say, “People should be quiet in their dress;” intelligent men
do not wish for anything else; but the world requires ornaments, and we
comply with its demands; it runs eagerly after superfluities, and we display
them. Some people value others only for the fine linen or the rich silks they

wear, and we do not always refuse to purchase esteem, even on those terms.
There are some places where every person shows himself, and where you
will be admitted or refused admittance according as your gold lace is
broader or narrower.
(72.) Vanity, and the high value we set upon ourselves, makes us
imagine that others treat us very haughtily, which is sometimes true and
often false; a modest man is not so susceptible.
(73.) We ought not to be so vain and imagine that others are anxious to
have a look at us, and to esteem us, and that our talents and merits are the
topics of their conversations, but we should have so much confidence in
ourselves as not to fancy when people whisper that they speak ill of us, or
laugh only to make fun of us.
(74.) What is the reason that to-day Alcippus bows to me, smiles and
almost throws himself out of his coach to take notice of me. I am not rich,
and on foot; therefore, according to the present fashion, he ought not to
have seen me. Is it not because a person of the highest rank is with him in
his carriage?
(75.) Men are so full of themselves, that everything they do is connected
with self; they like to be seen, to be shown about, even by those who do not
know them, and who, if they omit this, are said to be proud, for they should
guess who and what those men are.
(76.) We never look for happiness within ourselves, but in the opinions
of men we know to be flatterers, insincere, unjust, envious, whimsical and
prejudiced. How eccentric!
(77.) We might think that people laugh only at something really
ridiculous; yet there are certain people who laugh just as much at what is
not so as at what is. If you are foolish and thoughtless, and some
unbecoming expression escapes you, they laugh at you; if you are wise, and
say nothing but what is sensible, and as it should be said, they laugh at you
all the same.
(78.) Those who, by violence or injustice, steal our property, or rob us
of our honour by slander, show effectually that they hate us; but this is not
an undoubted proof that they no longer esteem us; therefore, it is not
impossible that we may forgive them, and, one day or other, again become
their friends. Ridicule, on the contrary, is of all wrongs the least to be
excused, for it is the language of contempt, and one of the ways in which it
is most plainly expressed; it attacks a man in his last intrenchment, namely,

the good opinion he has of himself; it aims at making him ridiculous in his
own eyes; and thus convinces him that the person who ridicules him is very
badly disposed towards him, so that he resolves never to be reconciled to
him.
It is monstrous to consider how easy it is for us to ridicule, censure, and
despise others, and how we enjoy it; and yet how enraged we are when
others ridicule, censure, and despise us.
(79.) Health and wealth prevent men from experiencing misfortunes,
and thus make them callous to their suffering fellow-creatures; whilst they
who already are burdened by their own miseries feel most tenderly those of
others.
(80.) In well-constituted minds,557 festivals, spectacles, and music bring
more vividly before us, and make us feel the more the misfortunes of our
relatives or friends.
(81.) A great mind is above insults, injustice, grief, and raillery, and
would be invulnerable were it not open to compassion.
(82.) We feel somewhat ashamed of being happy at the sight of certain
miseries.
(83.) Men have a very quick perception of their smallest advantages and
are as backward in discovering their faults. They never ignore they have
fine eyebrows and well-shaped nails, but scarcely know they have lost an
eye, and not at all when they are wanting in understanding.
Argyra pulls off her glove to show her fine hand, and does not forget to
let us have a peep of her little shoe, which makes us think she has a small
foot; she laughs at serious as well as at funny observations to show her fine
teeth; if she does not hide her ears it is because they are well shaped; and if
she does not dance, it is because she is not too well satisfied with her waist,
which is not very slender. She knows perfectly well what she is about, with
the exception of one thing: she is always talking, and has not one grain of
sense.
(84.) Men do not value very highly the affections of the heart, but
idolise the gifts of body and mind. A person who, in speaking of himself,
would coolly say that he is good, constant, faithful, sincere, just, and
grateful, does not imagine he offends against modesty; but he would not
venture to say that he is sprightly, or that he has fine teeth or a soft skin;
that would be rather too much of a good thing.

It cannot be denied that men admire two virtues, courage and liberality,
because they highly value two things which these virtues cause us to
neglect, namely, life and money; yet no one boasts that he is courageous or
liberal.
No one in speaking of himself will say, especially without any
foundation, that he is handsome, generous, eminent, for men value those
qualities too highly, and so they are satisfied with thinking they possess
them.
(85.) Whatever similarity is apparent between jealousy and emulation,
they differ as much as vice and virtue.
Jealousy and emulation have the same object, which is the prosperity or
merit of another, but with this difference, that the latter is a voluntary
sentiment, as courageous as sincere, which fertilises the mind and induces it
to take advantage of great examples, so that it not seldom excels what it
admires; whilst the first, on the contrary, is violent in its action, and, as it
were, a forced acknowledgment of a merit it does not possess; it goes so far
as even to deny merit whenever it exists; or, if it is compelled to admit its
existence, refuses to commend it, and envies the reward it receives.
Jealousy is a barren passion, which leaves a man in the same state it finds
him, fills him with high ideas of himself and of his reputation; causes him
to become callous and insensible to the actions and labours of others; and
inspires him with astonishment on perceiving in this world other talents
than his own, or other men with the same talents on which he prides
himself; this disgraceful vice, which by its very excess always turns to
vanity and presumption, does not so much persuade the person infected
with it that he has more intelligence and merit than others, as that he alone
is intelligent and praiseworthy.
Emulation and jealousy are always found in persons practising the same
art, possessing the same talents, and filling the same positions. The meanest
artisans are most subject to jealousy; those persons who follow the liberal
arts or literature, as artists, musicians, orators, poets, and all who pretend to
write, ought not to be capable of anything but emulation.
Jealousy is never free from some sort of envy; and these two passions
are often taken for one another. But this is wrong: envy may sometimes
exist without jealousy, as, for example, when a position very superior to our
own, a large fortune, royal favour, or a secretaryship of state have caused it.

Envy and hatred are always united, and fortify each other in one and the
same person; they can only be distinguished from one another in this, that
the latter aims at the individual, the former at his position and condition in
life.
An intelligent man is not jealous of a cutler who has made a first-rate
sword, nor of a sculptor who has just finished a fine piece of statuary; he
knows there are rules and methods in those arts beyond his ken; that tools
have to be handled with which he is unacquainted, and of whose very
names and shapes he is ignorant; it is sufficient for him to be aware that he
has never served an apprenticeship to such a trade, and he consoles himself,
therefore, that he has not mastered them. But he may, on the contrary, envy,
and even be jealous of a minister of state, and of those who govern; as if
reason and common sense, of which he has a share as well as they have, are
the only things required for ruling a nation and for the administration of
public affairs, and as if they could take the place of regulations, directions,
and experience.
(86.) We meet with few utterly dull and stupid men, but with fewer
sublime and transcendental ones. The generality of mankind hovers
between these two extremes; the gap is filled by a great number of men of
ordinary talents, but who are very useful and serviceable to the State, and
efficient as well as agreeable; as, for example, in commerce, finances,
during war, in navigation, arts, trades, in the possession of a good memory,
in gambling,558 in society, and in conversation.
(87.) All the intelligence of the world is useless to a man who has none,
for having no ideas himself, he cannot be improved by those of others.
(88.) To feel the want of reasoning faculties is the next thing to
possessing them; a madman cannot have this sensation. Thus the next best
thing to intelligence is the consciousness that we have none, for then we
might do what is considered impossible, and, without intelligence, neither
be a fool nor a fop nor impertinent.
(89.) A man who has not a large amount of intelligence is grave and all
of a piece; he does not laugh, he never jokes nor trifles; and is as incapable
of rising to great things as of suiting himself, by way of change, to small
ones; he hardly knows how to play with his children.
(90.) Everybody says of a coxcomb that he is a coxcomb, but no one
dares to tell him so; he dies without knowing it and without anybody being
avenged on him.

(91.) What a dissonance is there between the mind and the heart! Some
philosophers lead bad lives though they have large stores of “wise saws;”
and some politicians, full of schemes and ideas, cannot govern themselves.
(92.) The mind wears out like other things; sciences are its aliment; they
nourish it and wear it out.
(93.) Men of inferior rank are sometimes burdened with a thousand
useless virtues, but they have no opportunities of making use of them.
(94.) We meet with some men who bear with ease the weight of the
royal favour and of power, who get accustomed to their grandeur, and
remain steady though they occupy the highest posts. On the contrary, those
men whom fortune, without any choice or discrimination, has almost
blindly overwhelmed with its blessings, behave insolently and
extravagantly; their looks, their carriage, their tone of voice, and their
manner of receiving people, show for some time the admiration they have
for themselves, as well as for beholding themselves on such an eminence;
they become at last so restless that their downfall alone can tame them.
(95.) A stout and robust fellow, who has a wide chest and a broad pair of
shoulders, carries heavy burdens quickly and gracefully, and has still one
hand at liberty, while a dwarf would be crushed by half his load. Thus
eminent stations make great men yet more great, and little ones less.
(96.) Some men gain by being eccentric; they scud along in full sail in a
sea where others are lost and dashed to pieces; they are successful by the
very means which would seem to prevent all success; they reap from their
irregularity and folly all the advantages of consummate wisdom; they are
men who devote themselves to other men, to high-born nobles, for whom
they have sacrificed everything, and in whom they have placed their last
hope; they do not serve, but amuse them. Obsequious men of merit are
useful to the great; they are necessary to them, and grow old whilst retailing
their witticisms, for which they expect to be rewarded as if they had done
some noble deeds; by dint of being funny they obtain posts of great
importance, and rise to the highest dignities by continually buffooning, until
finally and unexpectedly they find themselves in a position they neither
dreaded nor anticipated. Nothing remains of them in this world but an
example of their success, which it would be dangerous to imitate.559
(97.) People might expect that certain persons who once performed
some noble and heroic actions known to the entire world, would not be
exhausted by so arduous an effort, and should at least be as rational and

judicious in their behaviour as men commonly are; that they should be
above any meanness unworthy of the great reputation they have acquired;
and that by mixing less with the people they should not give them an
opportunity of viewing them too closely, so that curiosity and admiration
might not change to indifference, and perhaps to contempt.560
(98.) It is easier for some men to enrich themselves with a thousand
virtues than to correct a single vice; it is unfortunate for them that this vice
is often the least suitable to their condition in life, and renders them highly
ridiculous; it weakens their splendid and grand qualities, and prevents them
from becoming perfect and keeping their reputation stainless. We do not
require these men to be more enlightened and incorruptible, more fond of
order and discipline, more assiduous in doing their duties, more zealous for
the public good, or more solemn in their deportment; we could only desire
them to be less amorous.561
(99.) Some men in the course of their lives alter so much in feeling and
intelligence, that we are sure to make a mistake if we judge merely of them
by what they appeared in their early youth. Some were pious, wise, and
learned, who have been spoiled by the favours fortune bestowed on them,
and are so no longer;562 others began their lives amidst pleasures, and
devoted all their intelligence in their pursuit, but, being no longer in favour,
they now are religious, wise, and temperate.563 These latter commonly
become great men, who may be relied upon; their honesty has been tried by
patience and adversity; they, moreover, show great politeness, which they
owe to the society of ladies, and display in every circumstance, as well as a
spirit of order, thoughtfulness, and sometimes lofty capacities, acquired by
study and the leisure of a shattered fortune.
All menʼs misfortunes proceed from their aversion to being alone;
hence gambling, extravagance, dissipation, wine, women, ignorance,
slander, envy, and forgetfulness of what we owe to God and ourselves.
(100.) Men are sometimes unbearable to themselves; darkness and
solitude unsettle them, and throw them into a state of imaginary dread and
groundless terror; at such a time the least harm that can befall them is a
lassitude of everything.
(101.) Idleness is the mother of listlessness, and chiefly induces men to
hunt after diversions, gambling, and company. He who loves work requires
nothing else.

(102.) Most men employ the first years of their life in making the last
miserable.
(103.) There are some works which begin with the first letter of the
alphabet and end with the last; good, bad, and indifferent things are all
inserted; nothing of a certain nature is forgotten; and these, though made up
of far-fetched jokes and affectations, are called “sports of wit.”564 The same
kind of sport also rules our conduct; a certain matter once commenced must
be finished, and we have to go on till the end. It would have been much
better to alter our plan or entirely to drop it; but it is far more odd and
difficult to proceed with it, and therefore we go on, and are stimulated by
contradiction; vanity encourages us, and takes the place of reason, which
abandons and leaves us. Such eccentricity is even carried on in the most
virtuous actions, and often in some of a religious nature.
(104.) To do our duty is an effort to us, because when we do it we only
perform our obligations, and seldom receive those eulogies which are the
greatest incentive to commendable actions, and support us in our
enterprises. N ... loves to make a display of his charity, so he is appointed a
superintendent of a charity-board, and a steward to its revenues, whilst his
house becomes a public office for the distribution of them;565 his doors are
open to all clergymen or to Sisters of Charity;566 and every one sees and
talks about his liberality in relieving the poor. Who would dare to imagine
N ... was not an honest man, unless it were his creditors?
(105.) Géronte dies of mere decrepitude, and without having made the
will he intended to make for those last thirty years; as he died intestate,
about half a score of relatives share his estate among them. For a long time
he was only kept alive through the care taken of him by his wife, Asteria,
who, though young, always attended on him, never let him go out of her
sight, nursed him in his old age, and at last closed his eyes. He has not left
her money enough to rid her of the necessity of taking another old man for a
husband.
(106.) When people are loth to sell or give up their posts and offices,
even when in extreme old age, it is a token they are possessed of the notion
that they are immortal; or if they think they may die, it is a sign they love
nobody but themselves.567
(107.) Faustus is a rake, a prodigal, a free-thinker, as well as ungrateful
and passionate; yet his uncle Aurelius neither hates him nor disinherits him.

Frontin, his other nephew, after twenty years of acknowledged honesty
and of blind complacency for the old man, never gained his favour; and the
only legacy left to him is a small pension, which Faustus, the sole heir, has
to pay him.
(108.) Hatred is so lasting and stubborn, that reconciliation on a sick-
bed certainly forebodes death.
(109.) We insinuate ourselves into the favour of others, either by
flattering those passions which animate them, or by pitying the infirmities
which afflict their bodies; and this is the only way by which we can show
our regard for them; hence the healthy and those who do not desire
anything, are less easy to be swayed.
(110.) Want of vigour and voluptuousness are innate in man and cease
with him, and fortunate or unfortunate circumstances never make him
abandon them; they are the fruits of prosperity or become a solace in
adversity.
(111.) The most unnatural sight in the world is an old man in love.
(112.) Few men remember that they have been young, and how hard it
was then to live chaste and temperate.
The first thing men do when they have renounced pleasure, through
decency, lassitude, or for the sake of health, is to condemn it in others. Such
conduct denotes a kind of latent affection for the very things they left off;
they would like no one to enjoy a pleasure they can no longer indulge in;
and thus they show their feelings of jealousy.
(113.) It is not the dread of one day wanting money which renders old
men avaricious, for some of them have such a large quantity of it that this
cannot make them uneasy; besides, how can the fear disturb them of being
in want of the common necessities of life when they are old, since by their
own free will they deprive themselves of these to satisfy their avarice.
Neither do they wish to leave great riches to their children, for they
naturally love nobody better than themselves; moreover, there are many
misers who have no heirs. Avarice seems rather an effect of age and of the
disposition of old men, who as naturally give themselves up to it as they did
to pleasure in their youth, or to ambition in their manhood. Neither vigour,
youth, nor health are needed to become a miser; nor is there any necessity
for people hurrying themselves, nor for those who hoard being in the
slightest degree active; a man has nothing to do but let the money lie in his

coffers, and deny himself everything; this is not very difficult for old
people, who must have some passion or other because they are men.568
(114.) There are some people who dwell in wretched houses, have
hardly any beds, are badly clad and worse fed; who are exposed to all the
severity of the seasons, deprive themselves of the society of their fellow-
creatures, and live in continual solitude; who grieve for the present, the
past, and the future; whose lives are a perpetual penance, and who have thus
discovered the secret of going to perdition by the most troublesome way: I
mean misers.
(115.) The remembrance of their youth remains green in the heart of old
men; they love the places where they lived; and the persons with whom
they then began an acquaintance are dear to them; they still affect certain
words in use when they first began to speak; they prefer the ancient style of
singing and dancing; and boast of the old fashions in dress, furnishing, and
carriages; they cannot bring themselves to disapprove of those things which
served their passions, and are always recalling them. Can any one imagine
these old men would prefer new customs and the latest fashions, which they
do not adopt, and from which they have nothing to expect, which young
men have invented, and which give them, in their turn, such a great
advantage over their elders?
(116.) An old man who is careless in his dress, or else overdressed,
increases his wrinkles, and looks as senile as he really is.
(117.) An old man is proud, disdainful, and unsociable if he is not very
intelligent.
(118.) A courtier of a ripe old age, who is a sensible man and has a good
memory, is an inestimable treasure; he is full of anecdotes and maxims; he
knows a good many curious circumstances of the history of the age, which
are never met with in books; and from him we may learn such rules for our
conduct and manners which can be depended upon, because they are based
on experience.569
(119.) Young men can bear solitude better than old people, because their
passions occupy their thoughts.
(120.) Though Philip570 is rather old, he is over-natty and effeminate,
and only cares for little dainties; he has studied the art of eating, drinking,
sleeping, and taking exercise, and scrupulously observes the smallest rules
he has prescribed for himself, which all tend to his comfort; even a mistress,
if his system allowed him to keep one, could not tempt him to break them;

he is overburdened with superfluities, to which he is so accustomed that he
cannot do without them. He thus increases and strengthens the ties which
bind him to life, and employs the remainder of it in making its loss more
grievous. Was he not already sufficiently afraid of dying?
(121.) Gnathon571 lives for no one but himself, and the rest of the 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.) Clito572 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 potages574 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 familiar576 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 injunction578 to prevent the sale of
an office579 or some stocks, in using the privilege of pleading in certain
cases580 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 gossip582 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 parliaments587 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 clodhopper591 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.

XII.
OF OPINIONS.

(1.)
N OTHING 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: infatuation599 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 person600 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.
(11.) If men were not more like bears and panthers than men, if they
were honest, just to themselves and to others, what would become of the
law, the text and the prodigious amount of commentaries made on it; what
of petitions and actions,601 and everything people call jurisprudence? And
to what would those persons be reduced who owe all their importance and
pride to the authority with which they are invested for seeing those laws
executed? If those very men were honest and sincere, and had no
prejudices, the wrangles of the schoolmen, scholasticism, and all
controversies would vanish. If all men were temperate, chaste, and
moderate, what would be the use of that mysterious medical jargon, a gold-
mine for those persons who know how to use it? What a downfall would it
be for all lawyers, doctors, and physicians if we could all agree to become
wise!

We would have been obliged to do without many men great in peace
and war. Several arts and sciences have been brought to a high degree of
exquisite perfection, which, so far from being necessary, were introduced
into the world as remedies for those evils only caused by our wickedness.
How many things have sprung up since Varroʼs602 times, of which he
was ignorant! Such a knowledge as Plato or Socrates possessed would now
not satisfy us.
(12.) At a sermon, a concert, or in a picture gallery, we can hear in
different parts of the room quite contrary opinions expressed upon the very
same subject; and hence I draw the conclusion that in all kinds of works we
may venture to insert bad things as well as good ones; for the good please
some and the bad others; and we do not risk much more by putting in the
very worst, for it will find admirers.
(13.) The phœnix of vocal poetry rose out of his own ashes, and in one
and the same day saw his reputation lost and recovered. That same judge so
infallible and yet so decided—I mean the public—changed his views
regarding him, and either was, or is now, in error. He who should say to day
that Q ... is a wretched poet would pronounce as bad an opinion as he who
formerly said he was a good one.603
(14.) Chapelain was rich and Corneille was not; La Pucelle and
Rodogune deserved a different fate;604 therefore, it has always been a
question why, in certain professions, one man makes his fortune and
another fails? Men should look for the reason of this in their own whimsical
behaviour, which, on most important occasions, when their business, their
pleasures, their health, and their life are at stake, often makes them leave
what is best and take what is worst.
(15.) The profession of an actor was considered infamous among the
Romans, and honourable among the Greeks: how is it considered amongst
us? We think of them like the Romans, and live with them like the Greeks.
(16.) It was sufficient for Bathyllus to be a pantomimist to be courted by
the Roman ladies; for Rhoe to dance on the stage, or for Roscia and
Nerina605 to sing in the chorus to attract a crowd of lovers. Vanity and
impudence, the consequences of being too powerful, made the Romans lose
a taste for pleasures secretly and mysteriously enjoyed; they were fond of
loving actresses, without any jealousy of the audience, and shared with the

multitude the charms of their mistresses; they only cared to show they loved
not a beauty nor an excellent actress, but an actress.606
(17.) Nothing better demonstrates how men regard science and
literature, and of what use they are considered in the State, than the
recompense assigned to them, and the idea generally entertained of those
persons who resolve to cultivate them. There is not a mere handicraft nor
ever so vile a position, that is not a surer, quicker, and more certain way to
wealth. An actor lolling in his coach607 bespatters the face of Corneille
walking on foot. With many people learning and pedantry are synonymous.
Often when a rich man speaks and speaks of science, the learned must
be silent, listen, and applaud, at least if they would be considered something
else besides learned.
(18.) A certain boldness is required to vindicate learning before some
persons strongly prejudiced against learned men, whom they call ill-
mannered, wanting in tact, unfit for society, and whom they send back,
stripped in this way, to their study and their books. As ignorance is easy,
and not difficult to acquire, many people embrace it; and these form a large
majority at court and in the city, and overpower the learned. If the latter
allege in their favour the names of dʼEstrées, de Harlay, Bossuet, Séguier,
Montausier, Wardes, Chevreuse, Novion, Lamoignon, Scudéry, Pellisson,608
and of many other personages equally learned and polite; nay, if they dare
mention the great names of Chartres, Condé, Conti, Bourbon, Maine, and
Vendôme,609 as princes who to the noblest and loftiest acquirements add
Greek atticism and Roman urbanity, those persons do not hesitate to reply
that such examples are exceptional; and the sound arguments brought
forward are powerless against public opinion. However, it seems that
people should be more careful in giving their decisions, and at least not take
the trouble of asserting that intellects producing such great progress in
science, and making persons think well, judge well, speak well, and write
well, could not acquire polite accomplishments.
No very great intelligence is necessary to have polished manners, but a
great deal is needed to polish the mind.
(19.) A politician says: “Such a man is learned, and therefore not fit for
business; I would not trust him to take an inventory of my wardrobe;” and
he is quite right, Ossat, Ximenes, and Richelieu610 were learned, but were
they men of ability and considered able ministers? “He understands Greek,”

continues our statesman, “he is a pedant,611 a philosopher.” According to
this argument an Athenian fruit-woman who probably spoke Greek was a
philosopher, and the Bignons and Lamoignons612 are mere pedants, and
nobody can doubt it, for they know Greek. How whimsical and crack-
brained was the great, the wise, and judicious Antoninus to say: “That a
people would be happy whose ruler was philosophising, or who should be
governed by a philosopher or a scribbler.”613
Languages are but the keys or entrance-gates of sciences, and nothing
more; he that despises the one slights the other. It matters little whether
languages are ancient or modern, dead or living, but whether they are
barbarous or polite and whether the books written in them are good or bad.
Suppose the French language should one day meet with the fate of the
Greek and Latin tongues; would it be considered pedantic to read Molière
or La Fontaine some ages after French had ceased to be a living language?
(20.) If I mention Eurypilus, you say he is a wit.
You also call a man who shapes a beam a carpenter, and him who builds
a wall a bricklayer. Let me ask you where this wit has his workshop, and
what is his sign? Can we recognise him by his dress? What are his tools? Is
it a wedge, a hammer, an anvil? Where does he rough-hew or shape his
work, and where is it for sale? A workman is proud of his trade; is
Eurypilus proud of being a wit? If he is proud of it, he is a coxcomb, who
debases the natural dignity of his intellect, and has a low and mechanical
mind, which never seriously applies itself to what is either lofty or
intellectual; and if he is not proud of anything, and this I understand to be
his real character, then he is a sensible and intelligent man. Do you not
bestow the title of “wit” on every pretender to learning and on every
wretched poet? Do you not think you have some intelligence, and if so, no
doubt a first-rate and practical one? But do you consider yourself, therefore,
a wit, and would you not deem it an insult to be called so? However, I give
you leave to call Eurypilus so, and this ironically, as fools do, and without
the least discrimination, or as ignorant people do who console themselves
by irony for the want of a certain culture which they perceive in others.
(21.) I do not wish to hear anything more about pen, ink, or paper, style,
printer, or press! Venture no more to tell me: “Antisthenes, you are a first-
rate author; continue to write. Shall we never see a folio volume of yours?
Speak of all the virtues and vices in one connected and methodical treatise,
without end,” and they should also add, “without any sale.” I renounce

everything that either was, is, or will be a book! Beryllus swoons when he
sees a cat,614 and I on beholding a book. Am I better fed or warmer clothed;
is my room sheltered against northern blasts; have I so much as a feather-
bed,615 after having had my works for sale for more than twenty years? You
say I have a great name and a first-rate reputation: you may just as well tell
me that I have a stock of air I cannot dispose of. Have I one grain of that
metal which procures all things? The low pettifogger616 swells his bill, get
costs paid which never came out of his pocket, and a count or a magistrate
becomes his son-in-law. A man in a red or filemot-coloured dress617 is
changed into a secretary, and in a little time is richer than his master, who
remains a commoner whilst he buys a title for hard cash. B ...618 enriches
himself by some waxwork show; B ... by selling some bottled river-
water.619 Another quack620 arrives with one trunk from the other side of the
Pyrenees; it is scarcely unpacked when pensions rain on him, and he is
ready to return whence he came with plenty of mules and cartloads full of
property. Mercury is Mercury,621 and nothing else; and as gold alone cannot
pay his go-betweens and his intrigues, he obtains, moreover, favour and
distinctions. To confine myself to lawful gain, you pay a tiler for his tiles
and a workman for his time and labour; but do you pay an author for his
thoughts and writings? and if his thoughts are excellent, do you pay him
liberally? Does he furnish his house or become ennobled by thinking or
writing well? Men must be clothed and shaved,622 have houses with doors
that shut close; but where is the necessity of their being well informed? It
were folly, simplicity, stupidity, continues Antisthenes, to set up for an
author or a philosopher! Get me, if possible, some lucrative post which may
make my life easy, enable me to lend some money to a friend, and give to
those who cannot return it; and then I can write for recreation or indolently,
just as Tityrus623 whistles or plays on the flute; Iʼll have that or nothing, and
will write on those conditions; I will yield to the violence of those who take
me by the throat and exclaim, “You shall write!” I have the title of my new
book ready for them: “Of beauty, goodness, truth, ideas, of first principles,
by Antisthenes, a fishmonger.”
(22.) If the ambassadors of some foreign princes624 were apes who had
learned to walk on their hind-legs, and to make themselves understood by
interpreters, it could not surprise us more than the correctness of their
answers, and the common sense which at times appears in their discourse.

Our prepossession in favour of our native country and our national pride
makes us forget that common sense is found in all climates, and correctness
of thought wherever there are men. We should not like to be so treated by
those we call barbarians; and if some barbarity still exists amongst us, it is
in being amazed on hearing natives of other countries reason like ourselves.
All strangers are not barbarians, nor are all our countrymen civilised; in
like manner every country is not savage,625 nor every town polished. There
exists in Europe, in a large kingdom, a certain place in a maritime province
where the villagers are gentle and affable, and, on the contrary, the
burgesses and the magistrates coarse, with a boorishness inherited from
their ancestors.626
(23.) In spite of our pure language, our neatness in dress, our cultivated
manners, our good laws and fair complexion, we are considered barbarians
by some nations.
(24.) If we should hear it reported of an Eastern nation that they
habitually drink a liquor which flies to their head, drives them mad, and
makes them very sick, we should say they are barbarians.
(25.) This prelate seldom comes to court, lives retired, and is never seen
in the company of ladies: he neither plays grand nor little primero,627 is not
present at feasts or spectacles, is not a party man, and does not intrigue; he
is always in his diocese, where he resides, devotes himself to instructing his
people by preaching and edifying them by his example; spends his wealth
in charity, and wastes away through doing penance; he is strict in the
observance of his duties, but his zeal and piety are like those of the apostles.
Times are changed, and in the present reign he is threatened with a higher
clerical dignity.628
(26.) Persons of a certain position, and members of a profession of great
dignity, to say no more,629 should understand that they are not to gamble,
sing, and be as jocular as other men, so that the world may talk about them;
if they see them so pleasant and agreeable, it will not be believed that they
are elsewhere staid and severe. May we venture to hint that by acting in
such an undignified manner they offend against those polished manners
upon which they pride themselves, and which, on the contrary, modify
outward behaviour and make it suit any condition of life, cause them to
avoid strong contrasts, and never show the same man in these various
shapes as a compound of eccentricity and extravagance.

(27.) At a first and single glance we ought not to judge of men as of a
picture or statue; there is an inner man, and a heart to be searched; a veil of
modesty covers merit, and a mask of hypocrisy covers wickedness. Few
there are whose discernment authorises them to decide; it is but gradually,
and even then, perhaps, compelled by time and circumstances, that perfect
virtue or absolute vice show themselves in their true colours.
(28.) A Fragment.... “He said that the intelligence of this fair lady was
like a diamond in a handsome setting,” and, continuing to speak of her, he
added: “Her common sense and agreeable manners charm the eyes and
hearts of all who converse with her, so that they do not know whether to
love or to admire her most; she can be a perfect friend, or produce such an
impression that her admirers feel inclined to transgress the bounds of
friendship. Too young and healthy-looking not to please, but too modest to
affect it, she esteems men only for their merit, and believes she has only
friends; her vivacity and sentiment surprise and interest us, and though she
knows perfectly the delicacies and niceties of conversation, she sometimes
suddenly makes some happy observations, which give a great deal of
pleasure and need not be answered. She speaks to you like one who is not
learned, who is not certain of anything, and wants to be informed; and she
listens to you as a person who knows a great deal, highly values what you
say, and on whom nothing of what you say is lost. Far from pretending to be
witty by contradicting you, and by imitating Elvira, who had rather be
thought sprightly than a woman of sense and sound judgment, she adopts
your thoughts, thinks they are her own, enlarges on them, and embellishes
them; and makes you pleased you have thought so correctly and expressed
yourself better than you believed you did. She shows her contempt for
vanity in her conversation and in her writings, and never employs
witticisms instead of arguments, for she is aware that true eloquence is
always unaffected. If it is to serve any one and to induce you to do the
same, Arténice leaves to Elvira all pretty speeches and literary phraseology,
and only tries to convince you by her sincerity, ardour, and earnestness.
What she likes above everything is reading, as well as conversing with
persons of merit and reputation, and this not so much to be known to them,
as to know them. We may already commend her for all the wisdom she will
have one day, and for all the merit she will have in time to come; her
behaviour is without reproach; she has the best intentions, and principles
which cannot be shaken, and are very useful to those who, like her, are

exposed to be courted and flattered. She rather likes to be alone, without,
however, altogether shunning society, and indeed without even being
inclined to retirement, so that perhaps she wants nothing but opportunities,
or, as some would call it, a large stage for the display of all her qualities.630
(29.) The more natural a handsome woman is, the more amiable she
appears; she loses nothing by being not in full dress, and without any other
ornaments than her beauty and her youth. An artless charm beams on her
countenance and animates every little action, so that there would be less
danger in seeing her adorned in splendid and fashionable apparel. Thus an
honest man is respected for his own sake, independent of any outward
deportment by which he endeavours to give himself a graver appearance
and to make his virtue more apparent. An austere look, an exaggerated
modesty, eccentricity in dress, and a large skull-cap, add nothing to his
probity nor heighten his merit;631 they conceal it, and perhaps make it
appear less pure and ingenuous than it is.
Gravity too affected becomes comical; it is like extremities which join
one another, and of which the centre is dignity; this cannot be called being
grave, but acting the part of a grave man; a person who studies to assume a
serious appearance will never succeed. Either gravity is natural, or there is
no such thing, and it is easier to descend from it than to attain it.
(30.) A man of talent and of good repute, if he is peevish and austere,
frightens young people and gives them a bad opinion of virtue, as they are
afraid it requires too much austerity, and is too tiresome. If, on the contrary,
he is cheerful and easily accessible, his example is instructive to them, for it
teaches them that men may live happy, do a good deal of work, and yet be
serious without giving up decent diversions; he thus is an exemplar they can
follow.
(31.) We should not judge of men by their countenance; but it may serve
to make a guess at their character.
(32.) A clever look in men is the same as regularity of features among
women; it is a kind of beauty which the vainest endeavour to acquire.
(33.) When a man is known to have merit and intelligence, he is never
ugly, however plain he may be; or if even he is ugly, it leaves no bad
impression.632
(34.) A good deal of art is needed to return to nature; a good deal of
time, practice, attention, and labour to dance with the same freedom and
ease we walk with; to sing as we speak; to throw as much vivacity, passion,

and persuasion in a studied speech to be publicly delivered as in one which
we sometimes naturally use, without any preparation, and in familiar
conversation.
(35.) They who without sufficient knowledge have a bad opinion of us,
do not wrong us; they do not attack us, but a phantom of their own
imagination.
(36.) Some trifling regulations have to be followed in certain places,
some duties have to be fulfilled at certain times, and some decorum has to
be observed by certain persons, which could not be divined by the most
intelligent people, and which custom teaches without any trouble: we
should, therefore, not condemn men who omit these things, as they have not
been taught them, neither should we decide their characters by the shape of
their nails or the curl of their hair; if we do form such a judgment we shall
soon find out our error.
(37.) I doubt whether it be lawful to judge of some men by a single
fault, or if extreme necessity, a violent passion, or a sudden impulse prove
anything.
(38.) If we wish to know the truth about certain affairs or certain
persons, we should believe the very opposite of the reports circulated about
them.
(39.) Unless we are very firm and pay continual attention to what we
utter, we are liable to say “yes” and “no” about the same thing or person in
an hourʼs time, induced to do this merely by a sociable and friendly
disposition, which naturally leads a person not to contradict men who hold
different opinions.
(40.) A partial man is exposed to frequent mortifications; for it is as
impossible for his favourites always to be happy or wise as for those who
are out of his favour always to be at fault or unfortunate; and, therefore, he
often is put out of countenance either through the failure of his friends, or
some glorious deed done by those whom he dislikes.
(41.) A man liable to be prejudiced who ventures to accept an
ecclesiastical or civil dignity is like a blind man wishing to be an artist, a
dumb man who would be an orator, or a deaf man desiring to judge a
symphony; these are but faint comparisons imperfectly expressing the
wretchedness of prejudice. Besides, prejudice is a desperate and incurable
disease, contaminating all who approach the patient, so that his equals,
inferiors, relatives, friends, and even the doctors abandon him; it is past

their skill to work any cure if they cannot make him confess what is his
disease, and acknowledge that the remedies to heal it are to listen, to doubt,
to inquire, and to examine. Flatterers, rogues, and slanderers, those who
never open their mouths but to lie or to advance their own interests, are the
quacks in whom he trusts, and who make him swallow all they please; they
thus poison and kill him.
(42.) Descartesʼ rule never to decide on the slightest truth before it is
clearly and distinctly understood is sufficiently grand and correct to extend
to the judgment we form of persons.
(43.) Some men have a bad opinion of our intellect, morals, and
manners; but we are well revenged when we see the worthless and base
character of their favourites.
On this principle a man of merit is neglected and a blockhead admired.
(44.) A blockhead is a man without enough intelligence to be a
coxcomb.
(45.) A blockhead thinks a coxcomb a man of merit.
(46.) An impertinent man is an egregious coxcomb; a coxcomb wearies,
bores, disgusts, and repels you; an impertinent man repels, embitters,
irritates, and offends; he begins where the other ends.
A coxcomb is somewhat of an impertinent man and of a blockhead, and
is a medley of both.
(47.) Vices arise from a depraved heart; faults from some defect in our
constitution; ridicule from want of sense.
A ridiculous man is one who, whilst he is so, has the appearance of a
blockhead.
A blockhead is always ridiculous, for that is his character; an intelligent
man may sometimes be ridiculous, but will not be so long.
An error in conduct makes a wise man ridiculous.
Foolishness is a criterion of a blockhead, vanity of a coxcomb, and
impertinence of an impertinent man; ridicule seems sometimes to dwell in
those who are really ridiculous, and sometimes in the imagination of those
who believe they perceive ridicule where it neither is nor can be.
(48.) Coarseness, clownishness, and brutality may be the vices of an
intelligent man.
(49.) A stupid man is a silent blockhead, and is more bearable than a
talkative blockhead.