The "Characters" of Jean de La Bruyère

by Jean de La Bruyère

(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 spite[532] 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.) Menalcas[533] 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-chair[538] 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.