thousand obligations created for the most part by fear, that slayer of
the will.
So it is that lovers of tradition, still struggling to maintain
obscurantism amongst the simple and poor, and authoritative creeds
amongst the other classes, are attempting a work as difficult as it is
inauspicious. Their task will soon be unavailing, for the masses are the
true supporters or destroyers of tradition, and the masses will no
longer keep up worthless traditions the object of which is to oppose
their enlightenment and their interests.
CRITICISM
Criticism, taken in its general sense, is the free exercise of judgment.
Whether it be a question of literary, artistic, or intellectual
analysis--that is to say, the observation of the beautiful--or of
philosophy, history, or philology, experimental or exact sciences,
criticism is necessary, as it shows the value of a conception and
realisation. Now this criticism is a source of dread in many circles,
fettering the actions of many, and paralysing their wills. As against
this evil, which is too frequent nowadays, some reaction is needed; for
it is not more unwise to seek criticism as a means of advertisement than
to make a bugbear of it or shun it for fear of wounded pride.
I say that the expression of an opinion contrary to our own should not,
logically speaking, slacken our efforts, suppress our inclinations, or
lead us to hypocritical actions.
It helps us greatly against the fear of others’ criticism to force
ourselves to become our own critics--a very difficult matter, but
exceedingly profitable.
By this kind of exercise of the conscience we arrive more easily at an
understanding of the criticism we receive from without, and learn to
despise the envy and jealousy by which it may be actuated. So, too, we
may benefit by the lessons derived from an honest analysis of our own
qualities and defects.
Criticism, if sincere, only expresses what it perceives clearly. For it,
personal evidence becomes a guarantee.
But, it will be said, criticism is often the expression of severity.
Would you have it the expression of culpable indulgence? When severe, it
is an element tending towards self-control; too indulgent, it can only
foster vanity. The mission of criticism is not to determine our actions;
its duty is to judge them to its own satisfaction.
For instance, it is obvious that, in the case of writers, painters, and
musicians, the critic has only to consider the question of taste. If he
attempts to destroy what is estimable, he dishonours himself, and so
becomes useless; if he accords praise, he can only express it according
to his personal judgment.
Within ourselves, the critic of our reasoned or impulsive actions is a
spectator looking through the windows of our soul, seeing our motives as
it were from between the curtains, and for this reason unable to judge
clearly. This critic, as we know by sad experience, is not worth
listening to.
We shall be safe, however, when we are conscious of the fineness of our
achievements, the purity of our intentions, the dignity of our actions,
or the mere joy of our feelings, in permitting criticism to do its work
and pursuing our way.
This does not imply that it always answers to treat judicious criticism
with contempt.
Just as in politics, opposition is necessary for the best public
administration of the party in power, so in private life criticism is an
element in that emulation which aids us to attain the end we have in
view.
THE DANGER OF EXCESSIVE ANALYSIS
If there exist but few people who have any taste for synthesis, there
are many whose passion for analysis is pushed to the most exaggerated
limits.
Certainly, a continual examination of conscience is necessary if we
would escape both useless scruples and irrational desires; certainly, it
is good to look squarely in the face the near or remote consequences of
our actions; certainly, too, we ought to investigate in all sincerity
the secret motives which cause our acts, so that we may correct our
errors, taste the delight of well-doing, profit by the lessons of the
past, and, in short, satisfy the needs of ethical culture.
By criticising ourselves, looking inward, training ourselves in abstract
ideas, and submitting to the laws of mental attainment, we gain the
moral instinct which everyone should possess.
If, on the other hand, pushed by the desire to be strictly honest, we
analyse our actions too minutely, we shall disturb the balance of our
judgment; while, if we thus investigate the doings of others, we shall
begin to depreciate great or noble actions until, by our false
interpretation of them, we lose the power to perceive them at all.
If, taking separately each idea comprised in an abstract general notion,
each small fact composing some important action, we study such parts
analytically, we falsify their quality and quantity just as we falsify
forms observed through a magnifying glass. Trifling defects appear
enlarged and developed, and injure the beauty of the whole--the harmony
of a great idea, or the carrying out of an enterprise. I do not deny
that, to become morally great, we must imagine great things; I know well
that an action is only of value in proportion to the virtue of the end
in view; I am not ignorant of the fact that it is useful to look inward;
but I do say that too severe analysis applied to all our actions, or
those of others, as much in the case of trifles as in serious matters,
makes one unjust to his neighbour and himself, and always tends to
impair the workings of the intellect.
By scrutinising all the motives by which action has been determined, you
rob that action either of its beauty or its goodness, and you will
suffer doubly--both with regard to yourself and others.
For instance, you say to yourself: “Was I right in doing such a kind
action?” And if, in the process of deduction (whether you consider the
service useless because rendered to one not perfectly worthy of it, or
doubt beforehand of the gratitude due to you), you come to regret the
altruistic impulse on which you acted, you will at once destroy all the
pleasure you felt, and you will do wrong to the person you have
befriended by a coldness of feeling he has not deserved. Examples might
be cited indefinitely. By this excessive analysis you can transform an
act of self-sacrifice into an act of narrow egotism, an excuse into a
meanness, a certainty into an hypothesis, or a sincere affection into a
selfish pretence. This, as regards others; in regard to oneself, the
result will be great hesitation, confusion of ideas, disturbance of
thought, continual uneasiness and dissatisfaction.
I have only spoken of the misuse of analysis, for its normal use in the
mental life is useful, especially when the whole of the facts of the
case in point are taken into consideration, as they should never fail to
be.
Paulhan says: “Though analysis is to some extent necessary to all mental
action, it assumes supreme importance in certain operations of the
spirit. They are those which we see govern analytical minds lacking the
power of synthesis. Observation, the habit of noticing details, rests
mainly on analysis, and the same is true of the faculty of comprehending
the thoughts of others. Memory, too, especially the organised memory
which implies the discrimination between impressions and ideas, is also
founded on analysis; the same with criticism, the detailed and reasoned
appreciation of a work of art, science, or philosophy. Certain qualities
of the mind and even the character, again, imply the faculty of analysis
in a high degree; for instance, finesse, delicacy, the spirit of
scepticism and the love of detail.”
Granting all this, I say that excessive analysis is a danger. To be
useful, it must have the qualities of precision, delicacy, and depth,
and not those of vagueness, violence, and exaggeration.
THE LAW OF COMPENSATION
When Azaïs, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, published his
_Compensations dans les Destinées Humaines_, he stated, in principle,
this proposition: “The lot of man, considered in its entirety, is the
work of the whole of Nature, and all men are equal by their lot.”
La Rochefoucauld, long before him, said: “Whatsoever difference may
appear between fortunes, there is, nevertheless, a certain balancing of
good and evil which makes them equal.”
One sees that compensation is a principle of optimism. Whatever may be
advanced by the many makers of systems, this law is manifest amongst all
peoples as in all individuals, including those who, whilst ceaselessly
regretting their ill-fortune, yet taste, relatively, a little of the
sweetness of compensation if only in their own prudence and courage.
The law of compensation is certainly the most consoling that we can
desire, and to it all human morality is allied.
It is surprising to read these words from the pen of Droz: “The absurd
system of compensation, would have, as its result, apathy, contempt for
the troubles of others, and the most odious selfishness.” The conviction
that sorrow has joy on the reverse side, that suffering makes health
prized, that regret is doubled by memory, is no hindrance, that I am
aware of, to sharing in the griefs and joys of others.
Altruism, besides, which so many teachers practise so ill, is nothing
but the perfection of egoism, paradoxical though this may seem to some.
Nietzsche says: “An altruistic morality, a morality in which selfishness
dies, is in every case a bad sign. It is so in the case both of
individuals and peoples. We lose the best of our instincts when we begin
to fail in egoism. The instinctive selection of that which is
detrimental to us, the allowing ourselves to be deluded by
‘disinterested’ motives, is almost the doctrine of _decadence_.”
Without going so far as this master of aphorisms, I say that egoism
cannot be opposed to altruism, and that the law of compensation does
not create reprehensible egoism--that which consists in thinking of
oneself only.
Egoism is useful; it is legitimate when it is an action only concerning
ourselves and not prejudicial to others. Of this very egoism comes the
moral philosophy of compensation, for the quest of happiness is
fundamentally the utmost possible mitigation of evil. Let us hear
Emerson: “The same dualism underlies the nature and condition of man.
Every excess causes a defect; every defect an excess. Every sweet hath
its sour; every evil its good. Every faculty which is a receiver of
pleasure has an equal penalty put on its abuse. It is to answer for its
moderation with its life. For every grain of wit there is a grain of
folly. For everything you have missed you have gained something else;
and for everything you gain you lose something.”
It is quite certain that the ambitious man who has gained power and who
rules a nation has greater responsibilities than the humble artisan. If
he break his promises, if his ideas be not realised, he falls, betrayed,
despised, abandoned, while the worker goes on with his task with the
satisfaction of duty done. In what concerns the real blessings of man
all are alike, taking into consideration class and accompanying
circumstances. Wealth cannot prevent death from entering the dwelling;
poverty knows the joys of the deepest affection. When a great tyrant
arises, the strength of the people to resist increases tenfold;
punishment lies close to reward. All conditions are in the human soul.
To come under the law of compensation is not to be able to escape one’s
destiny. The acceptance of evil is the assurance of better things
through moral effort. The sensualist suffers through his sensations, the
sage rejoices in his wisdom. And everywhere is the soul untiring in the
quest of what is good, right, and just. It must have life, though it
find life amid the worst misery and the lowest of decay.
For this reason the doctrine of Nemesis is eternal. Every action entails
reaction, every sorrow and every joy has its degree in the social scale.
The man born rich will suffer more through the misery created by ruin
than the poor man whose pockets are always empty. One has nothing to
envy the other.
“No man had ever a point of pride that was not injurious to him,” says
Burke. Fear is the punishment of the unjust. The law of compensation is
not that of indifference, for, without the moral sense no excuse is
found for error, and there is no satisfaction for a fault grown to a
habit.
The belief that a grief will be compensated for by a joy will bring no
comfort to the spirit, unless the soul assert itself.
We must in every circumstance assert our “_I_,” keep our conscience on
the alert, and look to the nature of our own soul to find compensation
for inequality of condition. Let the rich man receive the rich; if I am
poor, I will take the poor to my heart.
The love of those above me in fortune and power cannot prevent my love
from being what it is; my little sorrows and joys will be neither
heavier nor less sweet than the griefs of the rich and their triumphs.
Regarded so, the law of compensation is the finest element in the
formation of character.
THE AUTHOR AND HER BOOK
The foregoing pages must inevitably arouse in the reader’s mind a
curiosity to know more of the author. It is rarely that a princess of
Royal blood sets down in writing, and publishes for all the world to
read, her personal views of the established institutions of civilisation
and the inherent virtues and vices of mankind, and when those views
prove to be the very antithesis of what might be expected from one born
and bred in the restricted atmosphere of a European Court, curiosity is
still further whetted. The broad socialism--using the word in its widest
sense--which characterises the Infanta Eulalia’s views of life would
have been a surprising product of any Royal House; emanating as it does
from the Royal House of Spain it is no less than amazing, as King
Alfonso’s action in regard to this book (which we deal with later)
further shows.
A knowledge of the Infanta’s life will enable the discerning reader to
detect the influences which have laid open her mind to liberal and
democratic ideas, fostered her remarkable independence of thought, and
given her the moral courage to express her well considered opinions. She
was little more than a baby when the revolution which dethroned her
mother, Isabella II., sent them both in exile to France. It was in
September, 1868, that Queen Isabella, who had been living in a fool’s
paradise at Lequetio, on the Biscay coast, enjoying sea-bathing, at last
realised that Spain would no longer tolerate her rule, for Admiral
Topete, in command of the squadron in Cadiz Bay, hoisted the flag of
revolt. All Spain was waiting for this spark, which kindled a fire not
easily to be extinguished. The Battle of Alceola followed, when Serrano,
representing the Revolution, defeated Pavia, who defended the tottering
regime, and the road to Madrid was open. Isabella heard of Alceola five
days after the fight, i.e. on the 29th September, 1868. Soon after, the
news reached her of the unanimous rising of Madrid, the deposition of
the Bourbon dynasty, and the formation of a provisional Government. She
realised then that there was nothing left for her to do but to cross the
frontier into France. The abdication of her throne in favour of her son
Alfonso took place some years later. In France she first resided at the
Castle of Pau, then in Paris, in the Pavillon de Rohan, an annexe of the
Tuileries fronting on the Rue de Rivoli. During the winter of 1868-1869
she bought a house in the Avenue du Roi de Rome (now the Avenue Kléber),
named it the Palace of Castile, and dwelt there till her death.
At that time, the authoress of “The Thread of Life,” the Infanta
Marie-Eulalie-Françoise d’Assise-Marguerite-Roberte-Isabelle-Françoise
de Paule-Christine-Marie de la Piedad, to mention a few of the many
names bestowed on her, was three and a half years old, having been born
in Madrid on the 12th of February, 1864. Two and a half years later, the
little girl’s education was entrusted to the Ladies of the Sacred Heart,
whose famed institution in Paris stood in the Rue de Varenne. There she
remained until she was thirteen and a half. During her stay at the
Convent of the Sacred Heart, no distinction was made between her and the
other pupils, the nuns governing the institution being no flatterers of
Royalty, accustomed as they had been, for years to educate the daughters
of the highest families. To them, the Infanta Eulalia was an ordinary
boarder.
While she was still at school, her brother, Alfonso XII., begged his
mother, the ex-Queen, to let Eulalia return to Spain, for the young girl
was his favourite sister. So to Spain the little princess went, and
although, to one of her nature and upbringing, Court life must have been
stiff and unpleasant, she remained in Spain until after her brother’s
death in 1885.
Her homes in Spain were the Escorial and La Granja, and she lived the
usual life of a Spanish princess. Of that life nothing need be recorded
here. The history of the Infanta Eulalia may be said to begin, for the
readers of her book, with her marriage on March 6th, 1886, to Prince
Antoine-Louis-Philippe-Marie, Infante of Spain, Duc de Galliera. After
her marriage, the Infanta Eulalia again took up her residence in Paris.
She has since spent most of her life in France and in England. In the
latter country she frequently visited her sister-in-law, the Comtesse de
Paris, and many English friends during the London season, being on one
occasion the guest of Lord and Lady Clifford of Chudleigh at Ugbrooke.
The year 1893 is a memorable one in the life of the Infanta Eulalia, for
it was then that she visited, in company with her husband, Cuba and the
United Stales. In Cuba, one of the remnants of the old Spanish
Empire--and that, too, soon to be torn away--they were received and
entertained with much pomp and ceremony, in accordance with the
requirements of Spanish etiquette. In America, most democratic of
countries, they mingled freely with the people, and the contact
doubtless stirred in the Infanta’s mind those liberal ideas concerning
men and things which have brought her into such worthy prominence.
While in Cuba the royal visitors were entertained with a bull-fight, six
bulls having been imported for the occasion from Spain, and a garden
party was given in their honour by Captain-General Rodriguez Arrico at
his summer residence, Los Molinos, the party being attended by all the
chief officials and the élite of Havana society. The Royal guests also
visited the Asylum Beneficencia Domicilirria, were present at a
performance at the Albizu Theatre, attended a great military review, and
a ball at the Casino Español. On May 15th they sailed for New York on
the _Reina Maria Cristina_, having been serenaded the night before by
the firemen and volunteers of Havana.
Previous to the departure of the Infante and Infanta from Cuba, the
people of Washington, New York, and Chicago, who had been preparing for
the visit, were thrown into a state of anxiety by a rumour that the
Infanta might not, after all, visit the United States owing to
ill-health. Representatives of the newspapers, who called upon the
Spanish Minister, Señor Murugua, were told that the Royal lady dreaded
the burden of the social functions arranged for her entertainment in the
cities she was expected to visit; she had read of the “lionising” of the
Duke of Veragua, the lineal descendant of Christopher Columbus, and a
noted breeder of bulls for the arena, who had preceded her, and she
shrank from the fatigue that would accompany the round of pleasure
prepared for one of her rank. The Spanish Court considered that, as the
Infanta had been invited by Act of Congress to be the guest of the
nation, as representative of the Queen-Regent of Spain, she ought to be
received with the honours due to her exalted position. But, when it was
learned that the President of the United States refused to return her
proposed call, great was Spanish indignation, and it was at one time
feared that she would return direct to Spain from Havana. However, the
person most concerned disregarded the diplomatic hubbub and left for the
States, as already stated.
The _Reina Maria Cristina_ arrived in New York late in the night of the
18th of May.
In the morning, the U.S. dispatch-boat _Dolphin_, bearing the
representative of the President of the United States, was seen to be
lying at anchor just outside Sandy Hook, on the New Jersey coast. It
would seem that the _Dolphin_ expected the _Reina Maria Cristina_ to
move into the bay, while the latter awaited the former outside the bar.
Etiquette had again crept in. Finally, an understanding was reached
through the mediation of the Spanish consul, for it was explained that
it was impossible for the Infanta to enter a foreign port in any ship
but a Spanish man-of-war, whereupon the _Dolphin_ saluted the Infanta
with twenty-one guns, and then followed in the wake of the cutter sent
for her by the Spanish frigate _Isabel_, on board of which she was
received with Royal honours. While on the cruiser, a delegation from the
Spanish colony in New York came to welcome her, and to pay her its
respects. The ceremony was of the briefest and most formal kind, the
visitors being introduced by her chamberlain, the Duc de Tamames.
Shortly afterwards, she landed at Jersey City, and entrained thence for
Washington.
The Infanta arrived at the capital at eight o’clock the same evening,
being met at the station by Secretary Gresham, representing the
President of the United States, and by Assistant Secretaries Quincy and
Adee, who, after welcoming the nation’s guest, conveyed her in the
President’s state carriage to the Arlington Hotel. Next day, she called
on the President at the White House, and two hours later her call was
returned by Mrs. Cleveland and the wives of the members of the Cabinet.
During her brief and enjoyable stay in Washington, the Infanta devoted
most of her time to sight-seeing, and visited the home of George
Washington at Mount Vernon, on the opposite side of the Potomac. The
President and Mrs. Cleveland gave a dinner in honour of Her Royal
Highness, and Sir Julian Pauncefote’s ball at the British Embassy to
celebrate Queen Victoria’s birthday was honoured by the Infanta’s
presence. During her sojourn in the capital, she attended St. Matthew’s
Church. She naturally was besieged by callers from the Embassies and
Legations, as well as by people prominent in social circles of the
capital.
On May 25th she left Washington _en route_ for New York, and at Jersey
City was greeted by committees of the citizens of New York and of the
Spanish residents, the principal officers of the Spanish warships in
port, and the Spanish consul. On reaching New York she was welcomed by
the Mayor (the Hon. Thomas F. Gilroy), and afterwards escorted to the
Savoy Hotel. In reply to the address delivered by Mayor Gilroy the
Infanta said:
“I am delighted with the graciousness of the pleasant reception you have
tendered me. In fact, my welcome has been so hearty and spontaneous that
I am confused, and hardly know what to say.”
Her round of pleasure was to begin on the very evening of her arrival.
While dining, she was greeted with the strains of Spain’s “Royal March”
from a band stationed on the Piazza, while a group of New York
Spaniards cheered vociferously, and clamoured for her appearance. She
graciously showed herself on the balcony. When, just as she was
returning to the dining-room, she was asked at what hour she desired to
go to the theatre, her answer, as recorded by an American journalist,
was:
“From nine to ten, to show myself to the people who have been so kind to
me; but I should so like to be back at ten o’clock, for I am very tired,
and I would like to come home and go to sleep.”