  LA ROCHEFOUCAULD: 1613-1680 (La BruyÈre: 1646 (?)-1696; Vauvenargues: 1715-1747). In La Rochefoucauld we meet another eminent example of the author of one book. "Letters," "Memoirs," and "Maxims" indeed name productions in three kinds, productions all of them notable, and all still extant, from La Rochefoucauld's pen. But the "Maxims" are so much more famous than either the "Letters" or the "Memoirs," that their author may be said to be known only by those. If it were not for the "Maxims," the "Letters" and the "Memoirs" would probably now be forgotten. We here may dismiss these from our minds, and concentrate our attention exclusively upon the "Maxims." Voltaire said, "The 'Memoirs' of the Duc de La Rochefoucauld are read, but we know his 'Maxims' by heart." La Rochefoucauld's "Maxims" are detached sentences of reflection and wisdom on human character and conduct. They are about seven hundred in number, but they are all comprised in a very small volume; for they generally are each only two or three lines in length, and almost never does a single maxim occupy more than the half of a moderate-sized page. The "Maxims," detached, as we have The writer's qualifications for treating his theme were unsurpassed. He had himself the right character, moral and intellectual; his scheme of conduct in life corresponded; he wrote in the right language, French; and he was rightly situated in time, in place, and in circumstance. He needed but to look closely within him and without him,—which he was gifted, with eyes to do,—and then report what he saw, in the language to which he was born. This he did, and his "Maxims" are the fruit. His method was largely the sceptical method of Montaigne. His result, too, was much the same result as his master's. But the pupil surpassed the master in the quality of his work. There is a fineness, an exquisiteness, in the literary form of La Rochefoucauld, which Montaigne might indeed have disdained to seek, but which he could never, even with seeking, have attained. Each maxim of La Rochefoucauld is a "gem of purest ray serene," wrought to the last There is a high-bred air about La Rochefoucauld the writer, which well accords with the rank and character of the man La Rochefoucauld. He was of one of the noblest families in France. His instincts were all aristocratic. His manners and his morals were those of his class. Brave, spirited, a touch of chivalry in him, honorable and amiable as the world reckons of its own, La Rochefoucauld ran a career consistent throughout with his own master-principle, self-love. He had a wife whose conjugal fidelity her husband seems to have thought a sufficient supply in that virtue for both himself and her. He behaved himself accordingly. His illicit relations with other women were notorious. But they unhappily did not make La Rochefoucauld in that respect at all peculiar among the distinguished men of his time. His brilliant female friends collaborated with him in working out his "Maxims." Using, for the purpose, a very recent translation, that of A. S. Bolton (which, in one or two places, we venture to conform more exactly to the sense of the original), we give almost at hazard a few specimens of these celebrated apothegms. We adopt the numbering given in the best Paris edition of the "Maxims:"— No. 11. The passions often beget their contraries. Avarice sometimes produces prodigality, and prodigality avarice: we are often firm from weakness, and daring from timidity. No. 13. Our self-love bears more impatiently the condemnation of our tastes than of our opinions. How much just detraction from all mere natural human greatness is contained in the following penetrative maxim!— No. 18. Moderation is a fear of falling into the envy and contempt which those deserve who are intoxicated with their good fortune; it is a vain parade of the strength of our mind; and, in short, the moderation of men in their highest elevation is a desire to appear greater than their fortune. What effectively quiet satire in these few words!— No. 19. We have strength enough to bear the ills of others. This man had seen the end of all perfection in the apparently great of this world. He could not bear No. 20. The steadfastness of sages is only the art of locking up their uneasiness in their hearts. Of course, had it lain in the author's chosen line to do so, he might, with as much apparent truth, have pointed out, that to lock up uneasiness in the heart requires steadfastness no less—nay, more—than not to feel uneasiness. The inflation of "philosophy" vaunting itself is thus softly eased of its painful distention:— No. 22. Philosophy triumphs easily over troubles passed and troubles to come, but present troubles triumph over it. When Jesus once rebuked the fellow-disciples of James and John for blaming those brethren as self-seekers, he acted on the same profound principle with that disclosed in the following maxim:— No. 34. If we had no pride, we should not complain of that of others. How impossible it is for that Proteus, self-love, to elude the presence of mind, the inexorable eye, the fast hand, of this incredulous Frenchman:— No. 39. Interest [self-love] speaks all sorts of languages, and plays all sorts of parts, even that of disinterestedness. No. 49. We are never so happy, or so unhappy, as we imagine. No. 78. The love of justice is, in most men, only the fear of suffering injustice. What a subtly unsoldering distrust the following maxim introduces into the sentiment of mutual friendship!— No. 83. What men have called friendship, is only a partnership, a mutual accommodation of interests, and an exchange of good offices: it is, in short, only a traffic, in which self-love always proposes to gain something. No. 89. Every one complains of his memory, and no one complains of his judgment. How striking, from its artful suppression of strikingness, is the first following, and what a wide, easy sweep of well-bred satire it contains!— No. 93. Old men like to give good advice, to console themselves for being no longer able to give bad examples. No. 119. We are so much accustomed to disguise ourselves to others, that, at last, we disguise ourselves to ourselves. No. 127. The true way to be deceived, is to think one's self sharper than others. The plain-spoken proverb, "A man that is his own lawyer, has a fool for his client," finds a more polished expression in the following:— No. 132. It is easier to be wise for others, than to be so for one's self. How pitilessly this inquisitor pursues his prey, "the human soul, into all its useless hiding-places!— No. 138. We would rather speak ill of ourselves, than not talk of ourselves. The following maxim, longer and less felicitously phrased than is usual with La Rochefoucauld, recalls that bitter definition of the bore,—"One who insists on talking about himself all the time that you are wishing to talk about yourself:"— No. 139. One of the causes why we find so few people who appear reasonable and agreeable in conversation, is, that there is scarcely any one who does not think more of what he wishes to say, than of replying exactly to what is said to him. The cleverest and the most compliant think it enough to show an attentive air; while we see in their eyes and in their mind a wandering from what is said to them, and a hurry to return to what they wish to say, instead of considering that it is a bad way to please or to persuade others, to try so hard to please one's self, and that to listen well is one of the greatest accomplishments we can have in conversation. If we are indignant at the maxims following, it is probably rather because they are partly true than, because they are wholly false:— No. 144. We are not fond of praising, and, without interest, we never praise any one. Praise is a cunning flattery, hidden and delicate, which, in different ways, pleases him who gives and him who receives it. The one takes it as a reward for his merit: the other gives it to show his equity and his discernment. No. 146. We praise generally only to be praised. No. 147. Few are wise enough to prefer wholesome blame to treacherous praise. No. 149. Disclaiming praise is a wish to be praised a second time. No. 152. If we did not flatter ourselves, the flattery of others could not hurt us. No. 184. We acknowledge our faults in order to atone, by our sincerity, for the harm they do us in the minds of others. No. 199. The desire to appear able often prevents our becoming so. No. 201. Whoever thinks he can do without the world, deceives himself much; but whoever thinks the world cannot do without him, deceives himself much more. With the following, contrast Ruskin's noble paradox, that the soldier's business, rightly conceived, is self-sacrifice; his ideal purpose being, not to kill, but to be killed:— No. 214. Valor, in private soldiers, is a perilous calling, which they have taken to in order to gain their living. Here is, perhaps, the most current of all La Rochefoucauld's maxims:— No. 218. Hypocrisy is a homage which vice renders to virtue. Of the foregoing maxim, it may justly be said, that its truth and point depend upon the assumption, implicit, that there is such a thing as virtue,—an assumption which the whole tenor of the "Maxims," in general, contradicts. How incisive the following!— No. 226. Too great eagerness to requite an obligation is a kind of ingratitude. No. 298. The gratitude of most men is only a secret desire to receive greater favors. No. 304. We often forgive those who bore us, but we cannot forgive those whom we bore. No. 318. Why should we have memory enough to retain even the smallest particulars of what has happened to us, and yet not have enough to remember how often we have told them to the same individual? The first following maxim satirizes both princes and courtiers. It might be entitled, "How to insult a prince, and not suffer for your temerity":— No. 320. To praise princes for virtues they have not, is to insult them with impunity. No. 347. We find few sensible people, except those who are of our way of thinking. No. 409. We should often be ashamed of our best actions, if the world saw the motives which cause them. No. 424. We boast of faults the reverse of those we have: when we are weak, we boast of being stubborn. Here, at length, is a maxim that does not depress,—that animates you:— No. 432. To praise noble actions heartily, is in some sort to take part in them. The following is much less exhilarating:— No. 454. There are few instances in which we should make a bad bargain, by giving up the good that is said of us, on condition that nothing bad be said. This, also:— No. 458. Our enemies come nearer to the truth, in the opinions they form of us, than we do ourselves. Here is a celebrated maxim, vainly "suppressed" by the author, after first publication: No. 583. In the adversity of our best friends, we always find something which does not displease us. Before La Rochefoucauld, Montaigne had said, "Even in the midst of compassion, we feel within us an unaccountable bitter-sweet titillation of ill-natured pleasure in seeing another suffer;" and Burke, after both, wrote (in his "Sublime and Beautiful") with a heavier hand, "I am convinced that we have a degree of delight, and that no small one, in the real misfortunes and pains of others." La Rochefoucauld is not fairly cynical, more than is Montaigne. But, as a man, he wins upon you less. His maxims are like hard and sharp crystals, precipitated from the worldly wisdom blandly solute and dilute in Montaigne. The wise of this world reject the dogma of human depravity, as taught in the Bible. They willingly accept it,—nay, accept it complacently, hugging themselves for their own penetration,—as taught in the "Maxims" of La Rochefoucauld. Jean de La BruyÈre is personally almost as little known as if he were an ancient of the Greek or Roman world, surviving, like Juvenal, only in his literary production. Bossuet got him employed to teach history to a great duke, who became his patron, and settled a life-long annuity upon him. He published his one book, the "Characters," in 1687, was made member of the French Academy in His book is universally considered one of the most finished products of the human mind. It is not a great work,—it lacks the unity and the majesty of design necessary for that. It consists simply of detached thoughts and observations on a variety of subjects. It shows the author to have been a man of deep and wise reflection, but especially a consummate master of style. The book is one to read in, rather than to read. It is full of food to thought. The very beginning exhibits a self-consciousness on the writer's part very different from that spontaneous simplicity in which truly great books originate. La BruyÈre begins:— Every thing has been said; and one comes too late, after more than seven thousand years that there have been men, and men who have thought. La BruyÈre has something to say, and that at length unusual for him, of pulpit eloquence. We select a few specimen sentences:— Christian eloquence has become a spectacle. That gospel sadness, which is its soul, is no longer to be observed in it; its place is supplied by advantages of facial expression, by inflexions of the voice, by regularity of gesticulation, by choice of words, and by long categories. The sacred word is no longer listened to seriously; it is a kind of amusement, one among many; it is a game in which there is rivalry, and in which there are those who lay wagers. Profane eloquence has been transferred, so to speak, from Matches of eloquence are made at the very foot of the altar, and in the presence of the mysteries. He who listens sits in judgment on him who preaches, to condemn or to applaud, and is no more converted by the discourse which he praises than by that which he pronounces against. The orator pleases some, displeases others, and has an understanding with all in one thing,—that as he does not seek to render them better, so they do not think of becoming better. The almost cynical acerbity of the preceding is ostensibly relieved of an obvious application to certain illustrious contemporary examples among preachers by the following open allusion to Bossuet and Bourdaloue:— The Bishop of Meaux [Bossuet] and Father Bourdaloue make me think of Demosthenes and Cicero. Both of them, masters of pulpit eloquence, have had the fortune of great models; the one has made bad critics, the other, bad imitators. Here is a happy instance of La BruyÈre's successful pains in redeeming a commonplace sentiment by means of a striking form of expression; the writer is disapproving the use of oaths in support of one's testimony:— An honest man who says, Yes, or No, deserves to be believed; his character swears for him. Highly satiric in his quiet way, La BruyÈre knew how to be. Witness the following thrust at a con He maintains that the ancients, however unequal and negligent they may be, have fine traits; he points these out; and they are so fine that they make his criticism readable. How painstakingly, how self-consciously, La BruyÈre did his literary work, is evidenced by the following:— A good author, and one who writes with care, often has the experience of finding that the expression which he was a long time in search of without reaching it, and which at length he has found, is that which was the most simple, the most natural, and that which, as it would seem, should have presented itself at first, and without effort. We feel that the quality of La BruyÈre is such as to fit him for the admiration and enjoyment of but a comparatively small class of readers. He was somewhat over-exquisite. His art at times became artifice—infinite labor of style to make commonplace thought seem valuable by dint of perfect expression. We dismiss La BruyÈre with a single additional extract,—his celebrated parallel between Corneille and Racine:— Corneille subjects us to his characters and to his ideas; Racine accommodates himself to ours. The one paints men as they ought to be; the other paints them as they are. There is more in the former of what one admires, and of what one ought even to imitate; there is more in the latter of what one observes in others, or of what one experiences in one's self. The one inspires, astonishes, masters, Less than half a century after La Rochefoucauld and La BruyÈre had shown the way, Vauvenargues followed in a similar style of authorship, promising almost to rival the fame of his two predecessors. This writer, during his brief life (he died at thirty-two), produced one not inconsiderable literary work more integral and regular in form, entitled, "Introduction to the Knowledge of the Human Mind"; but it is his disconnected thoughts and observations chiefly that continue to preserve his name. Luc de Clapiers, Marquis de Vauvenargues, though nobly born, was poor. His health was frail. He did not receive a good education in his youth. Indeed, he was still in his youth when he went to the wars. His culture always remained narrow. He did not know Greek and Latin, when to know Greek and Latin was, as it were, the whole of scholarship. To crown his accidental disqualifications for literary work, he fell a victim to the small-pox, which left him wrecked in body. This occurred almost Corneille's heroes often say great things without inspiring them; Racine's inspire them without saying them. Here is a good saying:— It is a great sign of mediocrity always to be moderate in praising. There is worldly wisdom also here:— He who knows how to turn his prodigalities to good account, practises a large and noble economy. Virgil's "They are able, because they seem to themselves to be able," is recalled by this:— The consciousness of our strength makes our strength greater. So much for Vauvenargues. |
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