C — Caractère

From the Greek word impression, engraving. It is what nature has engraved in us; can we erase it? A great question. If I have a crooked nose and two cat’s eyes, I can hide them with a mask. Have I any more power over the character nature has given me? A man born violent and impetuous presents himself before Francis I, king of France, to complain of being unfairly passed over. The prince’s face, the respectful bearing of the courtiers, the very place where he is, make a powerful impression on this man; he mechanically lowers his eyes, his harsh voice softens, he humbly presents his request; one would believe him born as gentle as the courtiers are (in that moment at least), in the midst of whom he is even disconcerted. But if Francis I understands physiognomies, he easily discovers in those lowered eyes, lit though with a somber fire, in the drawn muscles of his face, in his lips pressed one against the other, that this man is not so gentle as he is forced to appear. This man follows him to Pavia, is taken with him, is led with him to prison in Madrid; the majesty of Francis I no longer makes the same impression on him; he grows familiar with the object of his respect. One day, as he pulls off the king’s boots and does it badly, the king, embittered by his misfortune, grows angry; our man tells the king to get lost and throws his boots out of the window.

Sixtus V was born petulant, stubborn, haughty, imperious, vindictive, arrogant; this character seems softened in the trials of his novitiate. Does he begin to gain some influence in his order? He flies into a rage against a guardian and beats him senseless with his fists. Is he inquisitor at Venice? He exercises his office with insolence. Now he is a cardinal: he is possessed della rabbia papale; this rage overrides his natural disposition; he buries his person and his character in obscurity; he counterfeits the humble man and the dying man; he is elected pope; that moment gives back to the spring, which calculation had bent, all its long-restrained elasticity; he is the proudest and most despotic of sovereigns.

Drive out nature with a fork, she will still come back.

Religion and morals put a bridle on the force of nature; they cannot destroy it. The drunkard in a cloister, reduced to a demi-setier of cider at each meal, will get drunk no more, but he will always love wine.

Age weakens the character; it is a tree that yields no more than a few degenerate fruits, but they are always of the same nature; it covers itself with knots and moss, it becomes worm-eaten, but it is still an oak or a pear tree. If one could change one’s character, one would give oneself one, one would be master of nature. Can one give oneself anything? Do we not receive everything? Try to animate the indolent man with sustained energy, to freeze with apathy the boiling soul of the impetuous, to inspire a taste for music and poetry in one who lacks taste and a musical ear; you will succeed no better than if you undertook to give sight to a man born blind. We perfect, we soften, we hide what nature has put in us, but we put nothing there.

A farmer is told: “You have too many fish in this pond; they will not thrive. There are too many cattle in your meadows; the grass is running short, and they will grow thin.” It comes about after this exhortation that the pike eat half my man’s carp, and the wolves half his sheep, and the rest grow fat. Will he congratulate himself on his management? This country fellow is yourself; one of your passions has devoured the others, and you believe you have triumphed over yourself. Are we not almost all like that old general of ninety who, having met some young officers carousing a little with girls, said to them in anger: “Gentlemen, is this the example I give you?”

The word comes from the Greek for imprint, engraving. Character is what nature has engraved in us. Can we erase it? That’s a big question. If I have a crooked nose and two cat’s eyes, I can hide them behind a mask. Do I have any more power over the character nature gave me? A man is born violent and hot-tempered. Someone has unfairly been put ahead of him. He goes to complain to Francis I, king of France. The prince’s face makes a strong impression on him. So do the courtiers’ respectful behavior and the place itself. Without thinking, he lowers his eyes. His harsh voice softens. He humbly puts his request. You’d think he was born as mild as the courtiers are—at least then. In fact, he feels lost among them. But suppose Francis I knows how to read faces. He easily sees the man isn’t as mild as he has to appear. His lowered eyes burn with a dark fire. His face muscles are tense; his lips are pressed together. This man follows him to Pavia and is captured with him. They’re taken together to prison in Madrid. Francis I’s majesty no longer makes the same impression on him. He gets used to the person he respects. One day he’s pulling off the king’s boots, and doing it badly. The king, bitter about his misfortune, gets angry. Our man tells the king to get lost and throws his boots out of the window.

Sixtus V was born rash, stubborn, proud, bossy, vindictive, and arrogant. His character seems to soften during his trials as a novice. Then he gains some influence in his order. He flies into a rage at a friary’s superior and beats him senseless. He does it with his fists. As inquisitor in Venice, he treats people with insolence in his work. Now he’s a cardinal, possessed by a raging desire to become pope. That rage overpowers his natural character. He keeps himself and his character out of sight. He pretends to be humble and close to death. He’s elected pope. Calculation had bent the spring; now its long-held force springs back in full. He’s the proudest and most despotic of rulers.

Drive nature out with a pitchfork; it’ll still come back.

Religion and morality hold our natural character in check. They can’t destroy it. Limit a drunkard in a monastery to half a setier of cider with each meal. He’ll stop getting drunk, but he’ll always love wine.

Age weakens character. It’s a tree that produces only a few poor fruits. But they’re still the same kind of fruit. Knots and moss cover the tree; worms eat into it. It’s still an oak or a pear tree. If we could change our character, we could give ourselves one. We’d be masters of nature. Can we give ourselves anything? Don’t we receive everything? Try to give a lazy person energy that lasts. Try to freeze a hothead’s boiling spirit into apathy. Try giving someone a taste for music and poetry when they have neither taste nor an ear. You’ll have no more success than trying to give sight to someone born blind. We improve, soften, and hide what nature has put in us. We don’t put anything there ourselves.

Someone tells a farmer, “You have too many fish in this pond. They won’t thrive. There are too many animals in your meadows. There’s not enough grass; they’ll lose weight.” After this warning, the pike happen to eat half his carp. The wolves eat half his sheep. The rest grow fat. Will he congratulate himself on managing things so well? You’re that farmer. One of your passions has eaten up the others. You think you’ve mastered yourself. Aren’t almost all of us like that ninety-year-old general? He came across some young officers causing a little trouble with some girls. He said angrily, “Gentlemen, is that the example I set you?”