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CHAPTER XXI.
THE SPIRIT OF DESTRUCTION AND THE SPIRIT OF CONSERVATISM

How is it that the French are such vandals with regard to their country and their institutions, seeing that the love for their family, respect for their parents, and veneration for souvenirs, are such marked features in their character? The fact is that France is towed unresistingly by Paris, and that we often have to say "the French," when in reality we only mean "the Parisians."

We are accused of no longer having much respect for anything. Alas! that it should be impossible to deny such an accusation!

A country, just like a family, lives by its traditions, its souvenirs, even by its prejudices. Destroy these souvenirs, some of which serve as examples and others as warnings, destroy these traditions, and you break the chain that binds the family together, and the past, though never so glorious, has been lived in vain. Is a country less dear to her sons because of her prejudices? Do we not love to find them in a dear old mother?

Do not the very prejudices and weaknesses, the thousand little failings of our friends, often endear them to us?

Then why are we not content with France as she is? Why be always wanting to change her? Is it possible that we Frenchmen, the most home-abiding men in the world, can be attacked by this ridiculous mania for change?

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The study of the French language furnishes of itself plain proof of our spirit of destruction, and the Dictionnaire des Significations, which, is shortly to be published, and is awaited with impatience by the learned world, will show, by the history of the changes of meaning that our words have undergone, that the character of the French people can be recognized to this very day by the descriptions that were given of it two thousand years ago.

The French word benît formerly meant "blessed."

Thanks to the jokes of the old Gauls, our ancestors, it now means "silly." Our forefathers heard in church: "Benedicti stulti quia habebunt regnum cœlorum."⁷ Bénis seront les pauvres d'esprit, car ils auront le royaume des cieux. Now, in French, pauvre d'esprit means "silly," and, on their way home, the old jokers would indulge in merry remarks at one another's expense. When anyone gave proof of want of wit, he was congratulated on having his entry into the kingdom of heaven secured:

"You are stultus enough to be benedictus"; and the first adjective soon came to have the meaning of the second.

It will soon be impossible to pronounce the word fille in good society, except to express relationship.

Why are we obliged to make use of this word to designate a child of the feminine sex? Simply because the feminine of garçon began to be used in a bad sense in the seventeenth century. Before the feminine of garçon– which the French had to give up, as they will soon have to give up the word fille– they had a word which is, in the present day, a horribly coarse expression.

Such is the march of the spirit of destruction.

The Gauls have always been rich in wit, but wit often of a bantering and sarcastic kind, which disparages and covers with ridicule, and of which Voltaire was the personification.

People who eat sausages on a Friday,⁸ in France, think they are doing a smart thing, and rebelling against a form of tyranny, forgetting that Lenten fasts had originally a sanitary reason. To give rest to the stomach, such was the aim; and a French physician said to me one day: "If there were no Lent in the spring, I should order my patients to fast two or three times a week, through that season of the year."

The Talmud forbids the Jews to eat pork, because that meat is heavy and indigestible; the Koran forbids the use of wine among the Mussulmans, because of its intoxicating properties; in fact, have not all these religious edicts a foundation of common sense, and do we not give proof of common sense in conforming to them? Truly, he is but a pitiful hero – not to use a stronger term – who boasts of not following a salutary counsel, that he does not know how to appreciate, because he does not understand.

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The English, unlike us, cling to their past, and because a custom is old, that is a sufficient reason, in their eyes, for holding it sacred. I feel sure that there is not an Englishman, who does not religiously eat his slice of plum pudding on Christmas Day, let him be in the Bush, at the Antipodes, on land or on water, and no matter in what latitude.

It is a veritable communion.

The English observance of the Sunday is tyrannical, I admit, but it is an ancient institution, and, if kept in an intelligent way, should command respect.

If the people of Great Britain do not build anything in a day, they have, at any rate, the good habit of not demolishing anything in a day.

The Englishman has an innate love of old walls that recall to him a historical fact, a departed grandeur, a memory of his childhood.

I have been present at many a touching scene, that has proved to me how deeply the religio loci is rooted in the heart of every true-born Englishman.

Here is one.

An old City School, dating from the fifteenth century, had just been transplanted into one of the suburbs of London.

The new building is a palace compared with the old.

Yet it was with profound sadness that old scholars learnt of the removal of the school from its time-honored home. If they could have had a voice in the matter, the change would not have taken place. The splendor of the new school was nothing to them; the name was the same, but it was their old school no more. On the day of the farewell ceremony in the City, I saw gray-headed men, who had come from distant parts of the country, on purpose to bid farewell to the venerable walls, to have one more look at them.

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If England, who only dates from the eleventh century, lives on her souvenirs and turns to them for inspiration, with what souvenirs might we inspire ourselves – we who have been a nation for twenty-three centuries?

There was no England when we were the terror of Rome. There was no England when our brave and generous ancestors went to battle to deliver or avenge an oppressed nation, or welcomed a poor stranger as a friend sent by the gods. There was no England when Vercingetorix made Cæsar tremble, nor was there yet an England when, eight hundred years later, the exploits of Roland were inspiring the poets of the whole of old Europe.

Ah! let us cling to our past, we who have such a glorious one! Where is the nation that can boast such another?

CHAPTER XXII.
ORDER AND LIBERTY

Obedience is the watchword of England.

The Englishman revolts only against injustice, and that but figuratively. Brought up to respect the law, it is in the name of the law that he demands redress for his grievances, and by the law that he obtains it.

Dieu et mon droit, such is his device; notwithstanding that he has rather monopolized the first, and that his definition of the second is a trifle vague, it is certain that by them he is stimulated to do great deeds.

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Take the schoolboy, for instance.

In most of the great public schools of England, the refractory schoolboy is still chastised by means of the rod, but do not imagine that punishment is administered in an arbitrary fashion. The young offender is brought to judgment. The head master hears the evidence against him, and listens to his defense. If he is found guilty of the offense with which he is charged, the head master pronounces his condemnation and the boy is corrected on the spot. He submits without a murmur. The system may be bad, but what is good about it is that it generally proves a thorough correction for the child.

Under similar circumstances, a French schoolboy would probably seize an inkstand, or the first thing he could lay hands on, and menace his judge or his executioner with it.

Do not ask me which of the two I prefer, but let me tell you that the only punishments I have any objection to are unjust or arbitrary ones, and that severe ones, administered with discretion, are generally salutary. At all events, I ask you not to believe that the young Englishman is cowardly because he knows how to endure pain, and is submissive, for a few minutes later you will see him rejoin his comrades at their play, and perform veritable acts of heroism. It almost seems to me that a child gives proof of courage in submitting to a punishment which he knows he has deserved, and that a spirit of submission to discipline is more to be commended in him than a spirit of rebellion. In resigning himself to his fate, and enduring his punishment, the English schoolboy learns to master a passion; the French schoolboy, in rebelling, allows a passion to master him. If the English system is bad, the French one must be worse.

Since I have pronounced the word rebellion, allow me to show you how differently the thing is understood in French and English schools.

Let us suppose that some privilege, which the pupils have long enjoyed, and looked upon as their right, has been withdrawn, rightly or wrongly, no matter which. What will the French schoolboys do? They will probably retire to a dormitory, there to sulk and protest vi et armis. They will barricade themselves, victual the intrenchments for a few hours, and prepare for a struggle. Rebellion has wonderful charms for them; they are insurgents, therefore they are heroes. If the cause be a bad one, that matters little, it will be sanctified by the revolution; the main thing is to play at the peuple souverain. These hot-headed youths will stand a siege as earnestly as if they had to defend their native soil; dictionaries, inkstands, boots, bedroom furniture, such are the missiles that are pressed into service in the glorious battle for liberty.

But, alas for youthful valor! it all fades before the pleadings of an empty stomach; the struggle is abandoned, the citadel forsaken, and arms are laid down. The misguided ones are received back into the fold, to be submitted to stricter discipline than ever, the heroic instigators of the little fête are, in the end, restored to the tender care of their mammas, or, in other words, expelled from the school. And for a boy to be expelled from a French lycée is no light matter, for the doors of all the others are closed to him, and the pleasure of playing at heroes for a few hours is often bought at the price of ruined prospects.

They manage these things differently in England. Under the same circumstances, this is what the schoolboys of old England would do. A dozen of the most influential and respectable among them would promptly form themselves into a committee, and organize an indignation meeting of all the pupils of the school. This meeting would be presided over by the captain of the school, or even by one of the masters, and the grievance would be discussed, not with any display of temper, but with the calm dignity of the free citizen. Propositions made by the boys, and duly seconded in a parliamentary manner, would be put to the vote, and the president would be charged to transmit such resolutions to the proper authorities. The meeting would then break up in a perfectly orderly manner and without a murmur, everyone going his way, like a good Republican who had just performed a civic duty of the gravest importance.

Such a meeting as this has never been interdicted by the authorities, for the very simple reason that such a meeting never endangered the good discipline of a school.

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Has it indeed fallen to our lot, to us who live under a Republic, to see a people living under a Monarchy enjoying every form of liberty; liberty of thought, liberty of speech, liberty of the press, liberty to meet together, in fact the right of grumbling in every form imaginable; to see them able to get redress for all their grievances, without having recourse to violence?

Do you remember the great manifestations in favor of the abolition of the House of Lords?

The Lords had refused to sanction the Franchise Bill – a bill which was to give electoral rights to two millions of Englishmen, who had been deprived of them up to that time. Two hundred thousand persons meet and quietly-pass through the great arteries of London. Not a voice is lifted. The immense crowd makes for Hyde Park and there divides itself into twelve groups around twelve improvised platforms. Speeches are made, resolutions passed, and the meeting breaks up in an orderly manner.

But, you will say, the police were there, of course, to see that these people did not break the law.

The police, indeed! Yes, most certainly they were there; but it was to protect the people's right of meeting, and not to hinder them, or oppose them, in the exercise of their privileges.

It was really a wonderful sight for a foreigner, to see this crowd, bent upon overthrowing the Constitution, preceded, flanked, and followed, by mounted police, whose duty it was to see that these subjects of Her Majesty were allowed to protest unmolested! And that which afforded me some amusement and more instruction still, was the sight of the Prince of Wales and some friends of his, installed on a balcony at Whitehall,⁹ and evidently there to see the fun; to see at Pall Mall windows the faces of lords, apparently much amused in watching these people, who had taken a holiday, and who, if they did not gain their point, had the satisfaction of feeling that they lived in a country where they could air their grievances freely.

The House of Lords exists still, but its members passed the Franchise Bill.

The Lords are wise persons.

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Ah! how quickly our anniversary-keepers would draw in their horns, if the Minister of the Interior spoke to them somewhat in this manner: "You wish to hold your demonstration, my friends … I beg your pardon, citizens; why, certainly! Demonstrate away, to your heart's content; there is nothing to hinder you. You want to carry a red flag about the streets? Carry it by all means – red, yellow, blue, any color of the rainbow that you like best. I will put as many policemen at your disposition as you may require to protect you in the free exercise of your rights."

How small the revolutionary would look if he were talked to in this way! How mortified he would be! But draw your sword, and he is happy. He goes about crying:

"The people are being slaughtered!"

It is the very worst course that could be adopted. The proper cure for the mania for demonstrations is not the sword, but a little cold water.

Try how many followers you will get for a standard of revolt raised with the cry:

"The people are being syringed?"

Ah! where is the Government that will have first the strength, and then the good sense, to leave the people alone, instead of doing its best to irritate them into adopting the rôle of martyr? Monarchy or Republic, what matters the name of this Government, so that it gives us what we are in search of – our liberty.

The English newspapers love to fill their columns with the sayings and doings of French Anarchists, so as to try and prove to their readers that France "is still navigating on a volcano," although they know very well that our revolutionary mountains are incapable of bringing forth even a mouse, as the ridiculous failure of the proposed Anarchist demonstration at Victor Hugo's funeral proved. The English know perfectly well that in the year 1867, thanks to the inopportune meddling of the police, there was a riot, in Hyde Park, which was likely to have proved very serious. The English know all this; but the pot always had a trick of calling the kettle black.

Our lower orders are a thousand times more intelligent than the English ones; and when the French police force cease to be the symbol, the instrument, of an arbitrary power, in order to become, in some sort, the protection of the people, our workmen will astonish the world with their good behavior, as they did on the day of our immortal poet's apotheosis.

The Frenchman is impressionable, excitable; but he is gentle, and easy to govern. The Parisians never raised any riots that could not be traced to the want of tact, or the malice, of the Government; and we all know that if M. Thiers had not been so bent upon putting down a small revolution, he would not have stirred up a large one; the Commune would have been nipped in the bud at the Buttes-Chaumont on the 18th of May, 1871. The harmless folk who were looking after the famous cannons would have been only too pleased to go home.

A nation does not learn the proper use of freedom in a day. It does not understand at first sight that obedience and respect for the law are two virtues indispensable to everyone who wishes to get on tolerably under a democracy; it is for the Government to teach it its lesson. To do this properly, an authority is wanted which shall be vigilant, while making itself felt as little as possible.

This liberty should be the monopoly of no one, but the privilege of each and all. Every time our police officers pounce upon a red flag and tear it up, every time they suppress a Catholic school, or force open the doors of a convent, the fruits of many a month's lessons are lost. We go back; but the cause of the white or red flag is advanced.

Why is Roman Catholicism perfectly powerless in England, politically speaking?

Because Protestant England allows the Romanists to open as many churches, schools, and convents as they please.

All that England demands from those who live on her hospitable soil is respect for her laws. Monarchs exiled by their subjects, and Communists, Nihilists, Socialists, exiled by their monarchs, may jostle one another in her streets any day; the individual liberty of the revolutionary subject being held as sacred as that of the ex-monarch.

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Our neighbor's eccentricities are but the natural fruit of liberty; and these same eccentricities, which amuse us so much, in England pass unnoticed. Everyone does as he pleases, and thinks it quite natural that others should do the same. I have seen young girls on tricycles make their way through a crowd, without an unpleasant remark or a joke being indulged in at their expense. The men made way, and allowed them to pass without remarking them more than if they had been on horseback.

Do not fear the abuse of liberty; among an intelligent race, good sense will always take the upper hand.

Liberty is sure to lead to a few excesses; but it does not suffer because of them.

Take England again.

English religious liberty is in no wise in danger because the law tolerates, nay, protects, the rowdy proselytes of the Booth family. True religion may suffer, but not religious liberty.

The right of association is not in danger because a philanthropic club has been formed at Ashpull, in Lancashire, by men who subscribe to defray the costs when one of their number is fined for ill-treating his wife.¹⁰

No, no, these eccentricities do but prove the vital force of England.

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There is no need to penetrate deeply into French and English life, to study the tempers of the two nations. The streets of London and Paris furnish the observer with ample materials every day.

In the month of April, 1891, I was one day on the top of the Odeon omnibus. In the Boulevard des Italiens some repairs were going on, and at the corner of the Rue de Richelieu there was such a crowd of carriages as to cause a block. The question then arose, who was to pass first, those who came from the Madeleine or those who came from the Bastille. An altercation soon arose between the drivers, and that in a vocabulary which I will spare my readers. Meanwhile, the string of carriages lengthened, and the matter was becoming serious. At last up comes a police officer who gets the situation explained to him, forthwith enters into a discussion with the drivers, and tries to make the Madeleine party understand that it is their place to give way. He might as well have talked to the pavement. A hubbub uprose on all sides enough to make one's hair stand on end. Everybody was in the right, it seemed, and the poor police officer, tired of seeing his parliamentary efforts so fruitless, withdrew, saying: "Very well, then, do as you please; I'll have nothing more to do with it" (sic). About a quarter of an hour later, we turned into the Rue de Richelieu.

And now here is a scene which you may witness every day in any part of London.

In every spot where the traffic is great, you will see a policeman. He is there to regulate the circulation of the vehicles, and protect the foot passengers who may wish to cross the road. In the discharge of this duty, all that he has to do is to lift his hand, and, at this gesture, the drivers stop, like a company of soldiers at the word "halt!" Not a murmur, not a sign of impatience, not a word. When the little accumulation of foot passengers has safely crossed, the policeman lowers his hand, and everything is in motion again.

How many times, as I have looked on at this sight, which to the English appears so natural, have I said enviously to myself: "If these English people are free, if they are masters of half the world, and of themselves into the bargain, it is because they know how to obey!"

I know the favorite explanation of these striking contrasts: the temperaments are different; the blood does not circulate in English veins with so much impetuosity as it does in French ones. This is true, though only to a certain extent. But be not deceived; it is the difference which exists between the education of the two races that is the real solution of the problem.