This was, perhaps, the
beginning of the dead-set against La Rochefoucauld. It encouraged
Rousseau, a century later, to talk of "ce triste livre," and to
declare, in the true romantic spirit, that "Bad maxims are worse than
bad acts." There have always been, and always will be, people who
experience a sort of _malaise_, an ill-defined discomfort, as though
they sat in an east wind, while they read La Rochefoucauld. This is
particularly true of Englishmen, who resent being told that "Our
virtues are often only our vices in disguise," and who also, by the
way, are constitutionally impatient of the French genius for making
what is ugly, and even what is detestable, pleasing by the surface of
style.
There is an element of unmercifulness in the candour of La
Rochefoucauld which is distressing to sentimentalists. But this was
characteristic of the age, which looked upon compassion as a frailty,
as a break-down of noble personal reserve. He shall speak on this
matter for himself--
"I am little sensible of pity, and if I had my way, I would avoid it
altogether. At the same time, there is nothing I would not do to
relieve an afflicted person: and I believe as a matter of fact that
one ought to go so far as to express compassion for the misfortunes of
such a man, since the unhappy are so stupid that compassion does them
more good than anything else in the world.
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