These various avocations fill up the moments of life to such a degree, that there is no time for recollection, and for counting the years that insensibly fly away. A man declines, decays, is bent under the load of years, and he has not once thought of it.
Rather let us say, there is no old-age at Babylon, for men of this kind: A perpetual Youth runs through their life; the same agitations in the heart, the same dullness in the soul, and the same void in the mind. Youths of twenty-five and of sixty, march with an equal pace to the same end. The desires, eagernesses, sallies, excesses are the same. All forgetful of themselves, still go on; and death alone is capable to stop the career of these decrepid youths.
It is remarkable, that one day, one of those young old men, bethought himself to make reflections. “When a man (said he) is come, like me, to a certain age, he does not fully live, he dies by degrees, and he ought successively to renounce whatever does not suit his state. There are things that become nobody, which however are connived at in youth; but which make an old man ridiculous. What business have I now with this costly furniture, these splendid equipages, with this table served with so much profusion? Am I excusable for keeping a mistress, whose luxuriousness will not fail to ruin me in the end? does it become me to appear still in those places, where licentiousness carries inconsiderate youth? I will forsake a world for which I am no longer fit, and will embrace that peaceful and retired life to which my declining age invites me. What I shall retrench from my expences, I will give to my nephew, who is coming; into the world, and should set out with some figure. Since I am dying by degrees, so by degrees he ought to inherit.”
This resolution being taken and well taken, a friend of his comes to visit him, sees him thoughtful, asks the reason and learns his design. “What, (says he to him) have you not still spirit enough to withstand reason? She knocks, and it is going to be opened! what do you mean? Reason may be of use to a young man, to curb the fury of his passions; but must be fatal to an old one, in totally extinguishing the little relish he has left for pleasures. What a fine sight will it be, to see Plutarch’s morals, Nicole’s essays, and Pascal’s thoughts lodged in thy brain, close by Bocace’s novels, La Fontaine’s tales, and Rousseau’s epigrams! Believe me: Reason is good only for those, who have cultivated it long ago; heads made like ours cannot suit it. Our maxims and reason’s are too contradictory; and instead of regulating, it would throw all into disorder and confusion.”
“But (replied our new convert) dost thou know what thou art doing with thy extraordinary eloquence? never was so much reason used to prove, that we must act against reason. Come, let us go, my dear marquis, a free supper waits us at the ... where the nymph, thou knowest, will compleat my conviction: From thence we will go to the ball. Tomorrow, champagne at your cousin the countess’s, and lansquenet, at our friend the President’s.”
CHAP. VII.
The Itchings.
We walked toward the south. On this side, Giphantia ends in a point, and forms a little promontory, from whence there is a large prospect. This promontory is covered all over with a plant, whose boughs descend and creep every way. This is the production of the second Kernel. The plant never bears either leaves or blossoms, or fruit: It is formed by an infinite number of very thin small fibres, which branch out of one another.
View carefully the fibres (says the Prefect to me.) Dost thou see at their extremity, little longish bodies, which move so briskly? They are small maggots, which this plant breeds; whether vegetation, carried beyond its usual bounds, produces them; or whether there comes at the extremity of the fibres, a sort of corruption, by which they are engendered. In time, these maggots waste away so as to become invisible: But withal they get wings, and growing flies, they disperse themselves over the earth. There, they stick fast to men, and cease not to infest them with a sting given them by nature. And as the tarantula, with the poison which she leaves in the wound she has made, inspires an immoderate desire to leap and dance, just so these small insects cause, according to their different kinds, different Itchings. Such are the itch of talking, the itch of writing, the itch of knowing, the itch of shining, the itch of being known, with a hundred others. Hence, all the motions, men put themselves into, all the efforts they make, all the passions that stir them.
The sensation they feel on these occasions, is so manifestly such as we are describing, that when any one is seen in an uncommon agitation of body or mind, it is very usual to say, What fly stings? what maggot bites? Though nothing can be seen, it is perceived that the cause of so many motions is a stinging: A man often finds it by experience, and knows what it is owing to.
When once men are troubled with these restless prickings, they cannot be quiet. He, for instance, that is stung with the itch of talking, is continually discoursing with every body, correcting those that do not need it, informing those that know more than himself. His visage opens, lengthens, and shortens at pleasure: He laughs with those that laugh, weeps with those that weep, without sharing the joy of the one, or the grief of the other. If by chance he gives you room to say any thing, speak fast and stop not; for, in an instant, he would begin again, and take care not to be interrupted. Never does he lend an ear to any one; and even when he seems to hold his tongue, he is still muttering to himself. He despises nothing so much as those silent animals, who hear little and speak still less; and he thinks no men more worthy of envy than those, who have the talent of drawing a circle of admirers, of raising the voice in the midst of them, and of saying nothings incessantly applauded.