In monarchies the principal branch of education is not taught in
colleges or academies. It commences, in some measure, at our setting out
in the world; for this is the school of what we call honour, that
universal preceptor which ought everywhere to be our guide.
Here it is that we constantly hear three rules or maxims, viz., that
we should have a certain nobleness in our virtues, a kind of frankness
in our morals, and a particular politeness in our behaviour.
The virtues we are here taught are less what we owe to others than
to ourselves; they are not so much what draws us towards society, as
what distinguishes us from our fellow-citizens. Here the actions of men
are judged, not as virtuous, but as shining; not as just, but as great;
not as reasonable, but as extraordinary. When honour here meets with
anything noble in our actions, it is either a judge that approves them,
or sophist by whom they are excused.
It allows of gallantry when united with the idea of sensible
affection, or with that of conquest; this is the reason why we never
meet with so strict a purity of morals in monarchies as in republican
governments.
It allows of cunning and craft, when joined with the notion of
greatness of soul or importance of affairs; as, for instance, in
politics, with finesses of which it is far from being offended.
It does not forbid adulation, save when separated from the idea of a
large fortune, and connected only with the sense of our mean condition.
With regard to morals, I have observed that the education of
monarchies ought to admit of a certain frankness and open carriage.
Truth, therefore, in conversation is here a necessary point. But is it
for the sake of truth? By no means. Truth is requisite only because a
person habituated to veracity has an air of boldness and freedom. And
indeed a man of this stamp seems to lay a stress only on the things
themselves, not on the manner in which they are received.
Hence it is that in proportion as this kind of frankness is
commended, that of the common people is despised, which has nothing but
truth and simplicity for its object.
In fine, the education of monarchies requires a certain politeness
of behaviour. Man, a sociable animal, is formed to please in society;
and a person that would break through the rules of decency, so as to
shock those he conversed with, would lose the public esteem, and become
incapable of doing any good.
But politeness, generally speaking, does not derive its origin from
so pure a source. It arises from a desire of distinguishing ourselves.
It is pride that renders us polite; we are flattered with being taken
notice of for behaviour that shows we are not of a mean condition, and
that we have not been bred with those who in all ages are considered the
scum of the people.
Politeness, in monarchies, is naturalised at court. One man
excessively great renders everybody else little. Hence that regard which
is paid to our fellow-subjects; hence that politeness, equally pleasing
to those by whom, as to those towards whom, it is practised, because it
gives people to understand that a person actually belongs, or at least
deserves to belong, to the court.
A courtly air consists in quitting a real for a borrowed greatness.
The latter pleases the courtier more than the former. It inspires him
with a certain disdainful modesty, which shows itself externally, but
whose pride insensibly diminishes in proportion to its distance from the
source of this greatness.
At court we find a delicacy of taste in everything — a delicacy
arising from the constant use of the superfluities of life, from the
variety, and especially the satiety, of pleasures, from the multiplicity
and even confusion of fancies, which, if they are but agreeable, are
sure of being well received.
These are the things which properly fall within the province of
education, in order to form what we call a man of honour, a man
possessed of all the qualities and virtues requisite in this kind of
government.
Here it is that honour interferes with everything, mixing even with
people's manner of thinking, and directing their very principles.
To this whimsical honour it is owing that the virtues are only just
what it pleases; it adds rules of its own invention to everything
prescribed to us; it extends or limits our duties according to its own
fancy, whether they proceed from religion, politics, or morality.
There is nothing so strongly inculcated in monarchies, by the laws,
by religion and honour, as submission to the prince's will; but this
very honour tells us that the prince never ought to command a
dishonourable action, because this would render us incapable of serving
him.
Crillon refused to assassinate the Duke of Guise, but offered to
fight him. After the massacre of St. Bartholomew, Charles IX, having
sent orders to the governors in the several provinces for the Huguenots
to be murdered, Viscount Dorte, who commanded at Bayonne, wrote thus to
the king:
[1]
"Sire, among the inhabitants of this town, and your
majesty's troops, I could not find so much as one executioner; they are
honest citizens and brave soldiers. We jointly, therefore, beseech your
majesty to command our arms and lives in things that are practicable."
This great and generous soul looked upon a base action as a thing
impossible.
There is nothing that honour more strongly recommends to the
nobility than to serve their prince in a military capacity. And, indeed,
this is their favourite profession, because its dangers, its success,
and even its miscarriages are the road to grandeur. Yet this very law of
its own making honour chooses to explain: and in case of any affront, it
requires or permits us to retire.
It insists also that we should be at liberty either to seek or to
reject employments, a liberty which it prefers even to an ample fortune.
Honour therefore has its supreme laws, to which education is obliged
to conform.
[2]
The chief of these are that we are permitted to set a
value upon our fortune, but are absolutely forbidden to set any upon our
lives.
The second is that, when we are raised to a post or preferment, we
should never do or permit anything which may seem to imply that we look
upon ourselves as inferior to the rank we hold.
The third is that those things which honour forbids are more
rigorously forbidden, when the laws do not concur in the prohibition;
and those it commands are more strongly insisted upon, when they happen
not to be commanded by law.
