You know that I have often listened to old men, and you ask me for anecdotes. Here are some I have from Mr. de Ch., whose loss you announced a few months ago in one of the articles in your obituary record. “He was a man and a mind of the old literature,” these three words painted him entire.
He used to tell us that, while studying law, he had long lived in a furnished lodging house kept by a former valet of Mr. Arouët the father. This man told him that, when he went into young Arouët’s room in the morning before he rose, he found him “sitting up, occupied with his verses, his face animated, his eye blazing” (I quote faithfully) “his head, neck, shoulders, arm, and hands wrapped in his woolen blanket.” That was his bed mantle.
I heard a former vicar general of the diocese of Meaux say that the great Bossuet used the same attire when he worked in his study in the morning before daylight and had no other dressing gown.
It was doubtless a habit the young poet had from school and Bossuet from the seminary. Our men of letters of the moment show less fidelity to their first education. Among the youngest and the least established in dignity, one would not find a single one who, even in the privacy of his bedroom and in the transports of his inspiration, did not take care to drape himself with greater richness and better taste. It is true that these qualities shine less in their writings, which in the system of compensations makes a kind of balance, but through an unfortunate counterweight.
He never treated [as] enemies any but those he had been unable to charm (win over). The desire to please...
He had a carriage for... and horses that were ugly, to soften men of letters. How thin they were! They were veritable bones that he thus gave pale envy (criticism) to gnaw, preferring to amuse envy rather than irritate her. But she was not put off the scent; he was hissed at and bitten by her: unable to accuse him of ostentation, she accused him of avarice.
—For ill rumors outlive opinions. One goes on repeating out of habit, for a long time, what one no longer believes, and the lie (if I may express myself so) is more tenacious of life than error, which it sows after losing it.
He had seen this injustice arise... Imputation... His life has denied it in vain: people still burden his memory with it.
—Voltaire kept this childhood habit until the end of his youth, and (what has been little remarked) he retained throughout his life, in society and in affairs, a very strong impression of the spirit of his first masters. Impetuous as a poet and polished as a courtier, he knew how to be insinuating and cunning as a Jesuit. No one has observed more carefully, but with greater art and measure, the famous maxim he so often mocked, “to make oneself all things to everything.” He took especial care to handle men of letters gently. In his life, in his mind, and in his manners there was grace, charm, flattery, condescension, suppleness, something caressing, and sometimes a brusque impetuosity. That is to say, there was in him something of the courtier, the man of the world, the poet, and the Jesuit. He needed to please even more than to dominate, and took more pleasure in bringing his charms into play than his strength.
—This man of whom it has been so well said that the fineness of his taste could have taken the place of all morals for him.
—This man who keeps the attention of two kinds of excellent minds, very different from one another, perpetually occupied. I mean those who, reading him every day, impose upon themselves, in an invincible manner, the necessity of loving him; and those who, no longer reading him but observing the influences his mind has spread, make it an act of equity, a rigorous obligation, and a duty to hate him.
Impartial equity favors his merit but is disastrous to his renown.—Nothing can ever harm him but impartial equity; and it is not esteem that one can withhold from him, but the enthusiasm his charms inspire that can make him dangerous. For enthusiasm comes to him from his faults, his aberrations, and esteem from his reason, his great sense.
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The Notebooks of Joseph Joubert, Volume I · Book Mode · Diotimos