BRITISH PHILOSOPHY AND FRENCH SENSITIVENESS.
British philosophy!
Why not _English Philosophy_?
The difference is enormous. If I were to publish a treatise on the
English philosophers, Bacon, Locke, Stuart Mill, Herbert Spencer,
Frederic Harrison, etc., I should call my work: "A Study of English
Philosophy." But if I said to you that the English, not having succeeded
in regaining Khartoum, contented themselves with regaining the road to
England, I should add, that is British philosophy.
You would not say, "History of British Literature," you say, "History of
English Literature."
There is something serio-comic about the word "British," or something
chauvinistic. You would be right in saying "British army, British
soldiers." The lady who fills the newspapers with her outcries against
the few nudities exhibited in the Academy every season, is known only by
the name of "British Matron."
An Englishman only calls his fellow-countrymen "Britons" when he is half
laughing at them. When he says, "We Britons," he is not quite serious;
on the contrary, when he says, "We Englishmen," his face reflects the
feeling of respect with which the sound of his name inspires him.
The "English public," is good society; the "British" public means the
common run of mortals in the United Kingdom.
British philosophy! that philosophy that makes us like what we have when
we cannot have what we like; that philosophy taught by that good mother,
and incomparable teacher, whose name is Necessity.
Alas, we French people do not possess this kind of philosophy. I wish we
did. As a matter of fact, we are the most absurdly sensitive,
thin-skinned people on the face of the earth. We do not know how to take
a kick, much less, make use of it. I mean a kick in the figurative
sense; the one that leaves no trace, and does not prevent us from
sitting at our ease.
But, if the Englishman knows how to take it, do you believe he feels it
the less for that? Be not deceived on the point. He exercises control
over himself. He does not give it back on the spot, but stores it up,
rubs the injured part, applies a little cold cream, if necessary, and
awaits the moment when he will be able to return it with interest. Such
is the difference between the two men. To my mind, the Englishman is the
more intelligent of the two.
Success turns our heads in France, reverses discourage and demoralize
us; we know neither how to profit by victory, nor put up with defeat. In
victory, we see only glory; in defeat, only disgrace.
Thus we are led to make war to serve dynastic interests; we go to the
Crimea for the English, who do not go to Germany for us; we set the
Italian nation on its feet, and to-day, see it, in its profound
gratitude, preferring Germany to ourselves.
* * * * *
Criticism exasperates instead of benefiting us, and even occasionally
amusing us. We hate our enemies, instead of being grateful to them for
the good they do us; for if we owe part of our success to our friends,
we owe a still greater part to our enemies.
There are two ways of causing an animal to advance--whether that animal
be an artist, a writer, or a prime minister--first, by kind
encouragements ... in front; secondly, by something less pleasant ... on
the other side.
I firmly believe the second process to be the more efficient of the two.
It is only indifference that kills; in religion, in love, in politics,
in literature, in everything.
Christianity came out of the Roman arenas, English Protestantism out of
the Smithfield fires; and many a demagogue owed his success, under the
Second Empire, to the few months' imprisonment at Ste. Pelagie that the
Imperialist judges were silly enough to condemn him to.
Enemies? Why, they are our fortune. When I hear a man spoken of after
his death as never having had any enemies, as a Christian I admire him,
but I also come to the conclusion that the dear fellow must have been a
very insignificant member of the community.
If you do something new, you make enemies of all the red tapeists; if
you do something intelligent, you make enemies of all the fools; if you
are successful, you make enemies of all the army of failures, the
misunderstood, the crabbed, and the jealous; but these little outbursts
of hatred, one as diverting as the other, are really so many
testimonials in your favor.
If you send in your application for some vacant post, and you succeed in
obtaining it, you may be sure that there will be but one candidate who
will consider that the election was made according to merit; yourself.
The rest will cry out in chorus that your luck is something wonderful.
Luck! What a drudge this poor word is made of! The privations you have
imposed upon yourself, and the long nights that you have devoted to
work, are _luck_. _Luck_, as a great English moralist puts it, means
rising at six in the morning; _luck_ means spending tenpence when you
earn a shilling; _luck_ means minding your own business and not meddling
with other people's.
The Englishman knows that it falls to everyone's lot to be criticised,
and he makes up his mind to endure it. He even has a certain admiration
for those who criticise and rally him, if the operation is performed
with a little dexterity. Violent criticism is the only kind he has a
contempt for. "The fellow loses his temper," says he; "he is a fool, who
proves that his cause is a bad one;" and he goes on his way unconcerned.
So, while, in Paris, a Republican and a Bonapartist, who meet on the
Boulevards, will look daggers at each other; a Liberal and a
Conservative, who meet in Pall Mall, will shake hands and go and dine
together amicably. They both know that it is all humbug. After dinner,
they repair to the House of Commons; one takes his seat on the left, the
other on the right of the Speaker, who ought rather to be called the
_Spoken to_, since everyone addresses his remarks to him, but he very
rarely opens his lips.
Never any insults in this Parliament. You will never hear any such
phrase as "the honorable member has lied," but rather, "the honorable
member has just made a remark which is scarcely in accordance with
strict truth." These euphemisms are the soul of the English language,
the outcome of the cool British temperament. Violent language has not
the least power to move an Englishman to wrath--it rather excites his
pity. In an English club, two members who had called each other "liars,"
would find their names promptly struck off the roll, and there would be
an end of the matter. In France they would fight a duel.
The following anecdote shows how ready the English are to acknowledge
their little _failings_.
I was speaking of the English spirit of colonization one day at a
lecture, and in the course of my remarks on the subject, I took the
liberty of saying, not without a slight touch of satire:
"When John Bull makes colonies, it is for the good of the natives."
"For their goods!" cried a jolly Briton from the gallery.
He evidently thought me too indulgent. By the manner in which my
interrupter was applauded, I judged that he had properly seized and
expressed the general feeling of the audience.
* * * * *
It is in adversity that the Englishman is to be admired. If he is
defeated, he puts a good face upon it; he accepts his defeat, and makes
the best of it. "I have proved that I can fight," he says; "why should I
fight a hopeless battle?" If the door must give way to the burglars, he
does not wait for them to break it open, he opens it himself; if he
cannot save his furniture, he saves his door; it is so much gained.
* * * * *
It is thanks to this practical philosophy that, on the day after an
election, you see all the newspapers express their satisfaction at the
result. The winning side has always gained a more brilliant, more
decisive, victory than ever, in spite of the enormous difficulties that
had to be overcome. The losing side invariably gains a moral victory,
and this is proved by _a + b_.
When, after the defeat at Majuba Hill, England abandoned the conquest of
the Transvaal, a feat which would have been mere child's play to her,
but which would probably have aroused some indignation in Europe, Mr.
Gladstone announced that, after all, the Boers were only fighting for
their independence, and it was not seemly for generous England to annex
by force a country that wished to be free, and had given such proof of
valor.
A little masterpiece in its way, this speech!
* * * * *
What a strange, ungrateful animal is man! What respect he has for his
conquerors! What contempt for those he can conquer! When he speaks of
the lion that devours him, or the eagle that tears his flesh, he is
ready to take off his hat to them; when he speaks of the donkey that
renders him great service, or of the goose that furnishes him a good
dinner, a pen to write with, and a bed to lie on, he cannot sufficiently
express his contempt.
Do you remember, dear American friends, how, some four years ago, a
certain Lord Sackville, British minister in Washington, was given
twenty-four hours to leave the country? Never had John Bull been
administered a better kick before. Did he go to war with America? Oh,
no. The prime minister of England declared that you could not expect
"gentlemanly manners from American politicians," and John Bull was
satisfied, and he set about bullying little Portugal about some South
African bit of territory.
* * * * *
When the Englishman meets with his superior, he is ready to admit it. If
he be jealous of him, he will not expose himself to ridicule by showing
it. He does not shun the prosperous man, he cultivates his acquaintance.
He is not necessarily a schemer for that; where there is no meanness
there is no scheming. He acknowledges all the aristocracies; the
aristocracy of birth, the aristocracy of money, and the aristocracy of
talent; and I only blame him for one thing, which is that he has much
less admiration for the third of these than for the other two. At a
public dinner, in England, you may see in the places of honor, on either
side of the chairman, one or two lordlings, then the wealthy guests ...
then, but much farther down, the literary men, artists, and other small
fry.
We French people have not the bump of veneration very much developed, it
is true; but we have an admiration, approaching veneration, for talent
and science, and the same Frenchman who takes no notice of a duke, will
turn to get a second look at a great literary man or a savant. The
commonplace Englishman, who humbles himself before a village squire, or
a big banker, takes his revenge when he meets the schoolmaster who, in
France, would be a _professeur_, but who, in England, were he a double
first of Oxford, an ex-scholar of Balliol College, goes through life by
the name of _schoolmaster_; rinse your mouth quickly.
In England, social disparity excites no jealousy. On the contrary, the
noble and the wealthy are popular.
In France, we have given up admitting superiority since our walls have
been ornamented with the announcement that _all_ Frenchmen are brethren,
free men, and equals. This rage for equality degenerates into jealousy
of all superiority. In fact, the French are all equal to their
superiors, and most of them superior to their equals. As soon as
superiority clearly manifests itself, in political life, in literature,
in the fine arts, anywhere, it is ostracized.
* * * * *
I was talking one day with a Frenchman, who still massacres the English
language, although he has lived in this country more than twenty years.
In the course of conversation I named a compatriot of ours. "Now,
_there_ is a man," said I, "who speaks English admirably."
"Admirably?" cried he, "well, yes, he does ... like the rest of us."
This is a truly French retort.
* * * * *
Jealousy is the commonest and most characteristic failing of the French.
With us, jealousy is not only the stamp of mediocrity, as it is
everywhere else; it is a malady that our greatest men have been tainted
with. The acrimonious and contemptible polemic that Bossuet and Fenelon
engaged in, the implacable hatred of Voltaire toward Rousseau, are but
two instances of it; the history of French literature abounds with
others. Our Parisian newspapers are daily filled with polemics and
personalities.
In England, everyone minds his own business, and does not trouble
himself about what his neighbor says or does.
* * * * *
May I be allowed to make another comparison here?
If the Englishman is less jealous than the Frenchman of the success of
his fellow-creature, it is because he often does not attribute it to the
same causes.
The Englishman maintains, rightly or wrongly, that a man owes his
successes far more to his character than to his talent. If I am not
mistaken, it was Thomas Carlyle who laid down this rule of British
philosophy.
This philosophical proposition is very comforting to the misunderstood;
to hint to a man that he is less talented than another, is to vex him;
on the contrary, to tell him that he has less shrewdness, is almost to
pay him a compliment.