[Reader-list] Voltaire on Character

[ARNAB CHATTERJEE]

CHARACTER.
[From the Greek word signifying Impression,
Engraving.—It is what nature has engraved in us.]

Can we change our character? Yes, if we change our
body. A man born turbulent, violent, and inflexible,
may, through falling in his old age into an apoplexy,
become like a silly, weak, timid, puling child. His
body is no longer the same, but so long as his nerves,
his blood, and his marrow remain in the same state his
disposition will not change any more than the instinct
of a wolf or a polecat. The English author of “The
Dispensary,” a poem much superior to the Italian
“Capitoli,” and perhaps even to Boileau’s “Lutrin,”
has, as it seems to me, well observed.

How matter, by the varied shape of pores,


Or idiots frames, or solemn senators.


The character is formed of our ideas and our feelings.
Now it is quite clear that we neither give ourselves
feelings nor ideas, therefore our character cannot
depend on ourselves. If it did so depend, every one
would be perfect. We cannot give ourselves tastes, nor
talents, why, then, should we give ourselves
qualities? When we do not reflect we think we are
masters of all: when we reflect we find that we are
masters of nothing.

If you would absolutely change a man’s character purge
him with diluents till he is dead. Charles XII., in
his illness on the way to Bender, was no longer the
same man; he was as tractable as a child. If I have a
wry nose and cat’s eyes I can hide them behind a mask,
and can I do more with the character that nature has
given me?

A man born violent and passionate presents himself
before Francis I., king of France, to complain of a
trespass. The countenance of the prince, the
respectful behavior of the courtiers, the very place
he is in make a powerful impression upon this man. He
mechanically casts down his eyes, his rude voice is
softened, he presents his petition with humility, you
would think him as mild as (at that moment at least)
the courtiers appear to be, among whom he is often
disconcerted, but if Francis I. knows anything of
physiognomy, he will easily discover in his eye,
though downcast, glistening with a sullen fire, in the
extended muscles of his face, in his fast-closed lips,
that this man is not so mild as he is forced to
appear. The same man follows him to Pavia, is taken
prisoner along with him and thrown into the same
dungeon at Madrid. The majesty of Francis I. no longer
awes him as before, he becomes familiar with the
object of his reverence. One day, pulling on the
king’s boots, and happening to pull them on ill, the
king, soured by misfortune, grows angry, on which our
man of courtesy wishes his majesty at the devil and
throws his boots out the window.

Sixtus V. was by nature petulant, obstinate, haughty,
impetuous, vindictive, arrogant. This character,
however, seems to have been softened by the trials of
his novitiate. But see him beginning to acquire some
influence in his order; he flies into a passion
against a guardian and knocks him down. Behold him an
inquisitor at Venice, he exercises his office with
insolence. Behold him cardinal; he is possessed della
rabbia papale; this rage triumphs over his natural
propensities; he buries his person and his character
in obscurity and counterfeits humility and infirmity.
He is elected pope, and the spring which policy had
held back now acts with all the force of its
long-restrained elasticity; he is the proudest and
most despotic of sovereigns.

Naturam expellas furea, tamen usque recurret.


Howe’er expelled, nature will still return.


Religion and morality curb the strength of the
disposition, but they cannot destroy it. The drunkard
in a cloister, reduced to a quarter of a pint of cider
each meal will never more get drunk, but he will
always be fond of wine.

Age weakens the character; it is as an old tree
producing only a few degenerate fruits, but always of
the same nature, which is covered with knots and moss
and becomes worm-eaten, but is ever the same, whether
oak or pear tree. If we could change our character we
could give ourselves one and become the master of
nature. Can we give ourselves anything? do not we
receive everything? To strive to animate the indolent
man with persevering activity, to freeze with apathy
the boiling blood of the impetuous, to inspire a taste
for poetry into him who has neither taste nor ear were
as futile as to attempt to give sight to one born
blind. We perfect, we ameliorate, we conceal what
nature has placed in us, but we place nothing there
ourselves.

An agriculturist is told: “You have too many fish in
this pond; they will not thrive, here are too many
cattle in your meadows; they will want grass and grow
lean.” After this exhortation the pikes come and eat
one-half this man’s carps, the wolves one-half of his
sheep, and the rest fatten. And will you applaud his
economy? This countryman is yourself; one of your
passions devours the rest and you think you have
gained a triumph. Do we not almost all resemble the
old general of ninety, who, having found some young
officers behaving in a rather disorderly manner with
some young women, said to them in anger: “Gentlemen,
is this the example that I set you?”
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