French & English

In the first chapter I indicated certain causes which make the patriotic sentiment less tender in England than in France. The same causes make English patriotism prouder than French patriotism.

The element of pride was once intensely strong in French patriotism. Before the Franco-German war the Frenchman was as proud of his nationality as an ancient Roman; he sincerely believed his country to be La Grande Nation, and supposed that all the other peoples of the world must be humbly conscious of an immense inferiority. France, he believed, or rather he knew, was at the head of all nations both in arts and arms, the most military of countries, the most artistic, the most scientific—in all things and in all ways the greatest, the most illustrious, the best. I remember a conversation that took place in the spring of 1870 between two Frenchmen, a German, and myself. The Frenchmen were both scholarly and thoughtful men, immensely superior to the average of their countrymen, yet the old superstition about Gallic superiority was so inveterate in them that they maintained it at all points. The German and I ventured to doubt the absolute supremacy of France in literature and art, on which our French friends fell back upon a quality which they affirmed to be beyond question, their undoubted military superiority. I remember the quiet, scarcely articulate protest of the German. He said that the military superiority of France, if put to the test then (1870) might not be quite so certain as in former times, as the Germans had made progress in the art of war. The French would not hear about the possibility of defeat; the incomparable élan of the troops, the well-known furia francese, was sure to carry everything before it.

Those were the last days of the pride of patriotism in France. Since 1870 no human being has heard any boasting of that kind from French lips.

Before 1870 all French people had the sense of perfect security within their own frontier. They might send troops abroad, but at home they felt as secure as the English in their island. The sense of patriotic pride requires that feeling of security within the frontier, as much as the pride of wealth requires the sense of security from bailiffs. When the enemy is in possession, and the national forces are manifestly impotent to drive him out, there can be no national pride. There may be infinite devotion, and the most pathetic tenderness, but “il n’y a pas lieu d’être fier.”

Since their disaster the only pride of the French has been in their self-restraint, and in the quiet perseverance with which they have reconstituted their army. Such pride as there may be in these efforts is of a subdued nature, and altogether different from the boasting of other days. It may be admitted that the national character has been immensely improved by the extinction of the old sentiment, and even the French intellect has gained by it in the clearer perception of truth, as a private misfortune often opens the eyes of a family. The change in the national character of the French has been clearly manifested by their patience and prudence on several very trying occasions. They used to be rash and light-headed, they have become cool, wary, and circumspect; at one time they were reputed to be fond of war, and were easily led into it by any temporary ruler, but to-day they look on war so dispassionately, they treat it so purely as a matter of reason, that they will resort to it only with all chances in their favour. Men of sixty say that the young men of the present day have far less of national sentiment than they had in their own youth, which may be explained by the want of aliment for national pride. A new generation has grown up, and it has grown up in humiliation. A Frenchman of twenty-five has seen Alsatia and Lorraine in the hands of the Germans ever since he knew anything of geography.

Another heavy blow to national pride in the higher classes has come from the internal, and probably final, victory of the democracy. All who belong in any way to the French aristocracy, or who aspire to belong to it, and have sympathy with it, feel as much humiliated by the establishment of republicanism as by the German conquest. The aristocracy has been doubly overthrown, by foreign armies and by the multitude of voters. A French noble cannot go to any court in Europe without meeting the accredited representative of a régime that he abhors, and he cannot enter the French parliament without seeing republicans in office. It is true that the men in office are frequently changed, but the principle that put them there does not change; they are replaced by others not less democratic.

England is free from these wounds to her pride. No foreigner occupies any English territory. To have the equivalent of the French patriotic humiliation, five or six English counties would have to be occupied by an enemy, and a huge foreign fortress and arsenal, on English ground, would be constantly threatening London. With regard to internal causes of humiliation for the upper classes, they would feel what the French gentry feel if the monarchy and the House of Lords were abolished, and the Methodist, Baptist, and Jewish religions were established equally with the Church of England. This, then, is the great difference between the English and the French in this matter of national pride. There are existing causes which make that sentiment impossible, for the present, in France; there is no existing cause to prevent it from flourishing in the minds of Englishmen.

The English have a motive for pride which is unknown to their French neighbours. They are the leading nation in a family of nations. They feel superior to the Americans of the United States by antiquity and by priority of civilisation, and they believe themselves to be their superiors in culture and in manners. Besides these differences, which may be more or less imaginary, it is obvious that aristocratic Englishmen must look down upon American democracy, since they look down, impartially, upon all democracies. The English living in England have a superiority of position over their own colonies, and are surprised to learn from Mr. Froude that a high degree of civilisation is to be found at the Antipodes. There are two opposite ways of thinking about the colonies that give equal aliment to the pride of an Englishman. He may have something like Mrs. Jameson’s first impression of Canadian society, as “a small community of fourth-rate half-educated or uneducated people, where local politics of the meanest kind engross the men, and petty gossip and household cares the women,” and in that case the superiority of England must be incontestable, or he may adopt the views of Mr. Froude, and then reflect what a great thing it is for England to be the first amongst the highly-civilised English-speaking communities. He is, besides, under no necessity to cross the ocean for subjects of comparison. He feels himself easily superior to the Scotch and Irish, and until recent agitations he had almost forgotten the very existence of the Welsh. All Scotch people know that the English, though they visit Scotland to admire the lochs and enjoy Highland sports, are as ignorant about what is essentially national in that country as if it were a foreign land. Ireland is at least equally foreign to them, or was so before the burning question of Home Rule directed attention to Irish affairs. This ignorance is not attributable to dulness. It has but one cause, the pride of national pre-eminence, the pride of being the first amongst the English-speaking nations of the world.

Patriotic pride derives constantly renewed strength from a certain mental habit, which may grow upon a nation as it frequently does upon an individual. A man may get into the habit of despising, he may get into the habit of rating what others possess and what others do at an estimate below the truth. It is an indirect way of exalting without over-estimating himself, and therefore is pleasing to natures that are neither boastful nor vain, yet are firmly tenacious of pre-eminence. Now, although the English are said to be a deferential people, and have, no doubt, the habit of deference for certain distinctions, they are at the same time an eminently contemptuous people, even within the limits of their own island. Their habit of contempt is tranquil, it is without vaunt and without vanity, but it is almost constant, and they dwell with difficulty in that middle or neutral state which neither reverences nor despises. Consequently, when there is not some very special reason for feeling deference towards a foreigner, the Englishman is likely to despise him. The same mental habit causes the English, as a nation, to underrate habitually the strength and intelligence of other nations, without much overrating their own. The common Englishman thinks nothing of the French navy, hardly believes that the French can build or manage a ship of war, although the French navy is, in reality, the second in the world, and a good second; but the English do not overrate their own navy, on the contrary, they are very much alive to its deficiencies and defects. The common Englishman under-estimates French wealth, he does not think much of wealth that can be expressed in francs, yet at the same time he does not over-estimate the wealth of England. This tendency to despise others is shown in a peculiarly dangerous way by the English when they go to war. At such times they almost invariably under-estimate the strength of the antagonist and the difficulty of the enterprise, thus imposing needless hardships on the inadequate little force that begins the war.

The habit of despising and under-estimating is shown by the English, not only with regard to other nations, but in face of the natural forces themselves. They are very averse to taking precautions against danger, they have to be forced to it by law, and when the law is made, it is likely to become a dead letter. A notorious instance of this is the eternal inadequacy of the provision for saving life every time a ship founders. It is, in all things, strongly characteristic of Englishmen to apply to every great or little thing they have to do the minimum of necessary effort. This is only another expression of their tendency to despise an opposing force.

The French, on the other hand, are generally less disposed both to the feelings of respect and contempt. They look upon the world with an easier indifference, not much respecting anybody or anything, but they are ready enough to acknowledge the merits and qualities of people and things that are not the best. The French are severe critics only where there is great pretension; they regard ordinary, unpretending people and things with a good-humoured indulgence. When there is much pretension, their levelling instinct makes them ready debellare superbos. It is a remarkable proof of the substantial strength of Victor Hugo’s reputation that a man of such immense vanity, such prodigious pretension, should have been able to get himself taken at his own estimate in France. Napoleon III., although he had at his disposal the theatrical machinery of imperial state, was never able to win any real deference.

If the French are not contemptuous, it may be asked what is their feeling towards other nations, what is the form that national hostility takes in their case? When an Englishman despises, how does a Frenchman express international antagonism? The answer has been already given by Prince Bismarck in a celebrated speech. He said that the French hated their neighbours, that they hated the English and Italians as they hated the Germans. That is an accurate account of French sentiment towards neighbouring countries, except that, for the present, the hatred of the foreigner is more actively directed against Germany. The most trifling international incident is enough to awaken furious animosity in the French press against the English or the Italians. This may be a reason why the French cannot form durable alliances, especially with their neighbours. Their present attempt to ally themselves with Russia may be more fortunate, precisely because Russia is not a neighbour.