"It would seem that nature has concealed talents and capacities in the depths of our minds of which we have no knowledge: the passions alone can bring these into day, and give us more certain and perfect views than art can afford."
"We arrive quite new at the different ages of life; and often want experience in spite of the number of years we have lived."
"It is being truly virtuous to be willing to be always exposed to the view of the virtuous."
Some maxims are too subtle; and among such is to be ranked the celebrated one, "That we often find something in the misfortunes of our best friends that is not displeasing to us." Taking this in its most obvious sense it merely means, that no evil is so great but that some good accompanies it. Our own personal misfortunes even bring, at times, some sort of compensation, without which they would be intolerable. Regarded more narrowly, it appears that Rochefoucauld meant that we are ready to look upon the sorrows of our friends as something advantageous to ourselves. This, in a precise sense, is totally false, where there is question of real affection and true friendship. There is an emotion, however, of a singular description that does often arise in the heart on hearing bad news. The simple-minded Lavater, in his journal, was aware of this. He mentions that, on hearing that a friend had fallen into affliction, he felt an involuntary emotion of pleasure. Examination explains to us the real nature of this feeling. The human mind is adverse (we talk of the generality of instances, not of exceptions,) to repose: any thing that gives it hope of exercise, and puts it in motion, is pleasurable. The consciousness of existence is a pleasure; and any novelty of sensation that is not personally painful brings this. When Lavater heard that his friend was in affliction he was roused from the monotony of his daily life. Novelty had charms: he had to tell his wife to set out on a journey for the purpose of seeing and consoling his friend. All this made him conscious of existence, gave him the hope of being useful, caused his blood to flow more freely, and thus even imparted physical pleasure; and, indeed, I should be apt to reduce the essence of this emotion to mere physical sensation, occasioned by an accelerated pulsation, the result of excitement. It may be, and it is, right to record this sensation in any history of the human mind; but it ought to be appreciated at its true value as the mere operation of the lower part of our nature for the most part, and, added to that, pleasure in the expectation of being of use.
This sort of anatomy of mind, when we detect evil in the involuntary impulses of the soul, resembles the scruples felt by an over-pious person, who regards the satisfying hunger and receiving pleasure in eating a dry crust as sin. Dissecting things thus, it becomes difficult to say what is a misfortune. It is a misfortune to lose one's child; so natural and instinctive is the sorrow that ensues that, perhaps, no other can be purer. If a friend lose a child, if we loved that child also, the misfortune becomes our own, and our sympathy may be perfect. If the child promised ill, the pain we feel from our friend's grief may be mitigated by the sense that it is ill-founded, and even that we may derive benefit from the loss lamented: not being blinded by parental passion, we may rejoice in the alleviations foresight and reason present to us. To call this selfishness is to quarrel with the structure of human nature, which is based on personal identity and consciousness. Passion enables us to throw off even these, sometimes, and totally to amalgamate our interests with those of another. But this is, indeed, of rare occurrence.
We may remark, also, that even in those instances in which the mind does recognise benefit to arise from the misfortune of a friend, and feel involuntary self-gratulation, we regard this as a crime or a vice, and reject it as such, showing the power of disinterestedness over selfishness by dismissing and abhorring the feeling.
The Fronde was the soil in which the "Maxims" had root: better times softened their harshness, and inspired better and higher thoughts. But the younger life of Rochefoucauld was spent in a society demoralised to a degree unknown before—when self-interest was acknowledged as the principle of all; and the affections alone kept a "few green spots"—rare oases of beauty and virtue—amidst the blighted and barren waste of ambition and vice. Usually public revulsions give birth to heroism as well as crime; and war and massacre are elevated and redeemed by courage and self-devotion. But, in the time of the Fronde, there were no very great crimes, and no exalted actions: vice and folly, restless desire of power, and an eager, yet aimless, party spirit, animated society. Hence the mean opinion Rochefoucauld formed of human nature; and the very subtlety and penetration of his intellect occasioned him to err yet more widely in his conclusions. To adopt a maxim of his own, he erred, not by not reaching the mark, but going beyond it. Not that he went so far as his followers. Dry Scotch metaphysicians, men without souls, reduced to a system what he announced merely as of frequent occurrence. They tell us that self-interest is the mover of all our actions: Rochefoucauld only says "self-interest puts to use every sort of virtue and vice." But he does not say that every sort of virtue, or even vice, in all persons is impregnated with self-interest, though with many it is; and there are a multitude of his remarks which display a thorough appreciation of excellence. The maxims themselves are admirably expressed; the language is pure and elegant; the thoughts clearly conceived, and forcibly worded.
Besides the maxims, Rochefoucauld wrote memoirs of various periods of the regency of Anne of Austria and the wars of the Fronde. Bayle bestows great encomium on this work: "I am sure," he says, "there are few partisans of antiquity who will not set a higher value on the duke de la Rochefoucauld's memoirs than on Cæsar's commentaries."[30] To which remark the only reply must be, that Bayle was better able to dissect motives, appreciate actions, and reason on truth and falsehood, than to discover the merit of a literary work. "Rochefoucauld's memoirs are still read:" such is Voltaire's notice, while he bestows great praise on the maxims. The chief fault of the memoirs is the subject of them,—the wars of the Fronde,—a period of history distinguished by no men of exalted excellence; neither adorned by admirable actions nor conducing to any amelioration in the state of society: it was a war of knaves (not fools) for their own advancement, ending in their deserved defeat.
[20]Mémoires de Gourville.