Image unavailable: THE INFANTA EULALIA AND HER TWO SONS Photograph by Boissonnas & Taponier, Paris.THE INFANTA EULALIA AND HER TWO SONSPhotograph by Boissonnas & Taponier, Paris.
a better life, affording comfort in affliction, and restraining their cravings. Religious beliefs are but the poetic materialisation of moral truths. By maturing the popular mind, by improved education, the time will come—in some far-distant future—when man will need no other dogma than that natural one which is faith inhimself, without which he does not (consciously) exist.
On the day when religion shall no longer serve to govern morals, it will be useless. For many it is already a dead letter. That matters nothing in the case of those whose morality, I repeat, is based on reason; but how regrettable when it is a question of persons of inferior intelligence who, without fixed rules, are unable to attain the perception of good and evil!
Amongst certain peoples, a religion was founded by philosophers as long ago as 500 years before Christ. Did not Confucius correct the habits of his country, reform justice, and bring in prosperity, through moral training? Chief authority of a new sect, governed by the idea of rectitude in the life, he organised a state of things which continues yet.
This may happen later on in our Westerncountries; but until we have replaced the ancient creeds by a moral Ideal impressed upon all minds, it will be necessary to keep up the religious sentiment amongst the people, who have remained hitherto an unconscious force.
“Thenewspaper,” says Eugène Tavernier, “is the expression of society.” That is a rudimentary truth which has strangely lost its meaning since the Press, whose social rôle was that of an educator, gave itself up to sectarianism, and, in consequence, was no longer able to exercise, for the most part, a really moral influence.
From the fact that the Press sells itself shamelessly to its supporters, it often happens that it attacks the weak and blindly defends the strong, thus making capital out of ostracism and injustice.
Present-day morals have destroyed the original character of the newspaper. In the hands of men more concerned with their personal interests than the good of their country or the pursuit of truth, the Press has sacrificed everything to profit, for money is its object.Newspapers are bazaars where everything is sold, calumny included. And the turmoil of life has made of the journalist a purveyor of sensational news, of paradoxes which falsify the popular judgment, and information as misleading as it is swiftly obtained. The result is that in our democratic times, when everyone claims the right to give expression to his ideas, we see most journalists writing to order and playing the sorry part of impersonal machines.
Since writers worthy of the name found themselves obliged to bow to the will of these dealers in spoilt paper, many of them have refused to write for the daily papers.
Now, as journalistic over-production increases continually, and as the success of many enterprises (based on the exploitation of credulity, the fear of scandal, and excessive advertisement) is almost always in inverse ratio to integrity, hosts of ignorant men,—“men of all work”—shelter themselves behind the newspaper and make a livelihood out of their trash. The day after the Commune, Louis Veuillot said of the Press: “I have been associated with it all my life, and I do not like it. I may say that I hate it; but it belongs to the considerable class ofnecessary evils. Newspapers have become such a danger that it is necessary to create many. You cannot contend against the Press, except through its multitude. Add flood to flood, and let them drown one another, forming no more than a swamp, or, if you will, a sea. The swamp has its lagoons, the sea its moments of slumber. We will see whether it is possible to build some Venice within it....”
The daring controversialist and uncompromising fighter did not foresee that the Press, far from neutralising itself through its numbers, would, later on, create a State within a State, developed to such an extent, and so imbued with disintegrating principles, that it would become as dangerous to social groups as to individuals.
I shall be told that, since its very modest beginnings, in the time of Louis XIV., the Press was as formidable under the Revolution as later, and that all governments suffered through it. But I reply that in former times the journalist, in spite of many excesses, held his calling sacred, and that his exercise of it found an excuse in his talent and sincerity. It was a time when men of strong opinions fought beneath the same flag; in our own day we oftensee men pass from one side to the other and defend by turns diametrically opposite views.
In the critic’s domain, for instance, it was esteemed an honour to show oneself possessed of a sense of the beautiful. Men like Théophile Gautier, Sainte-Beuve, Paul de Saint-Victor, spared not their personal preferences to pay homage to talent, no matter whence it came.
Art was the first object with spirits like these. To-day, mere talkers, with some dubious interest at their back, are willing to boom any mediocrity who makes it worth their while. Everything is done with an eye to expediency. The independent artist is regarded as an enemy because he will not condescend to pay the paper’s price for praise and puffery. It is the same in politics; and whosoever, in commerce or industry, fails to sacrifice to the omnipotent god of advertisement, finds himself checkmated by rivals pushed forward at a great expenditure of bank-notes.
It comes about then that, in a free state, a privileged class, generally recruited from amongst the quasi-intellectual of the “flash-in-the-pan” type, is able to place itself above the law because, in many cases, slander is—or so it appears—a means of instructing or amusing the public.
Not long ago, when the Press was censored, people cried out at the abuse of power; but when it was given freedom to express even destructive opinions, it hastened to turn this freedom into licence. And, in fact, to-day the evil has become so great, through the falsity and baseness of the subject-matter, that the least well-informed reader, seldom though he may look at a paper, knows beforehand the stuff that will be served up to him, whether as regards politics, art, science, or the small change of public scandals.
The intrusion of advertisement, too, is such that the man whose article is published is often the one who pays. In this way, the Lie, in a thousand different forms, is retailed every hour of the day to the poor deluded reading public.
In order that the Press may fill the rôle of educator of the people, leader of the masses, it must adhere to a political, social, and moral ideal, frankly sincere, and with a personal sense of the beautiful.
The opinions of honest, enlightened minds, freed from the snare of time-serving, would be offered to society, instead of such as corruptindividual aspirations or bring a ferment of confusion into the different social spheres.
But, to make that possible, every newspaper should be, first of all, an enterprise possessing considerable capital, supplied by independent shareholders, uncompromising, honourable men, whose fortune would be an element making for success.
Established on a solid and lasting foundation, the Press, in spite of differences of opinion, would become an admirable organ of instruction, such as would waken the intellect, but not satisfy morbid curiosity.
For the spread of thought, selection of the best information from all sources must be considered, not extortion and satisfaction of depraved taste.
When the Press becomes genuine, writers of merit of all kinds will bring to it the tribute of their observation, ideas, and workmanship. When that day comes, the newspaper will be entirely free with regard to political and social groups and private individuals alike, since it will be a common enterprise of good men—men well informed, worthy of their office, and fit for the accomplishment of sound, honest, and praiseworthy work.
Moralityis a metaphysical quality by the help of which our practical actions are justified, and which in most cases constitutes restraint. Morality is a science, say some; morality is an art, say others; for many idealists it remains arevancheof reason, and M. Rodrigues sees in it the will which binds itself and which we bind. “Individual liberty,” he says, “if it exists, only plays a part on the second plane; in practice it signifies little when humanity in its entirety is considered. Bound to an organism, and still more to society, the psychological or moral consciousness, when it draws inspiration from within itself, finds there in effect what itsmilieuhas placed there. It expresses a system of representations, to the forming of which it has in itself contributed but a small part.... Morality, too, has undergone an evolution parallel in all points to that of science.”
Yes, truly, morality, like everything which touches on conduct, social laws, rites, traditions, ancestral prejudices, the need of freedom, the right of the individual, undergoes continual evolution according to the conditions of a community. We are to-day far from the morality which, according to Kant, is legislation on the part of the reasonable being, enjoining upon all persons the same duties.
According to the morality of Epictetus, resting on the idea of liberty, “man may free himself of all dependence with regard to other men and to Nature, and raise himself to absolute freedom, distinguishing between the things which rest on him and those which do not, and despising the latter as immaterial”; according to the ethics of Epicurus, pleasure is the sovereign good of man, and all our efforts should tend towards its attainment, provided that pleasure consist as much of the satisfaction of the heart and mind as of the senses, but modern morality has become sectarian, and differs according to class.
The principle ofbourgeoismorality is to preserve the unity of the community without any consideration for the liberty of the individual; thebourgeoisfamily being a sort of commercialassociation, it confines its morality to the idea of a duty which is, above all, the protection of the interests of the community. It is a morality which is quite beside the point, and which has no intrinsic value.
The principle of aristocratic morality is to preserve for the glory of its escutcheon all the splendour it deems requisite. It does not trouble itself as to the means by which that escutcheon gains in radiance, because it has made a virtue of its pride. The superadded adornments trouble it with no pangs of conscience, because for it duty consists in the integrity of appearances. This morality is not, in the main, more false in conception than that of thebourgeois; it is the guardian of appanage as the other is the guardian of selfish interests.
The morality of Courts consists in preserving tradition intact, and it does not hesitate to sacrifice individuals to the Cause which is one, unchangeable, and imperative. It is thus a morality extraordinary, having authority above right and outside duty.
But whatsoever constitutes the quality deemed essential, whether it be the commercial and industrial stability of thebourgeois, the true or false splendour of the nobleman’s escutcheon, or themore or less artificial halo of the Court, it is none the less true that class morality is daily obliged to yield to circumstances and bend to conditions.
Being one of the manifestations of human action, morality is necessarily subject to the law of living according to such and such an epoch. It has to adapt itself to change. For this reason personal interest, selfishness, pride of birth, and the idea of being above humanity must all, in spite of their rules, conform to new conceptions of altruism and idealism, for there is no moral finality.
To speak truly, every individual bears the moral sense within himself, but he has to remember that the sanction of moral judgment is one of the most important factors of civilisation and progress, and cannot be dissociated to-day from the scientific element.
Nothing leads men more astray than to let them believe that certain persons or certain things injurious to society are desirable.
The personal interest of the merchant is not adapted to the artisan’s life conditions; an escutcheon is not a thing to be coveted by the worker; and the right called “Divine” diminishes in no degree the right of a people. On thecontrary, class morality is hostile to the new moral ideas answering to new social needs; this is the reason why its value has depreciated, because humanity is making a constant effort towards an ideal which it creates and changes according to the difficulties of the way, and because the straight road leads to righteousness.
“Itis easy, in the world, to live after the world’s opinion,” says Emerson; “it is easy in solitude to live after our own; but the great man is he who, in the midst of a crowd, keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude.”
In this logical rounding of his thought, the master has given us a rule of conduct based on self-confidence, the result of vigorous mind-training and the exchange of opinion.
Every slave to public opinion lives irresponsibly, because he fails to possess his own soul, is incapable of inward control, and unable to arrive at an independent view.
To be checked by public opinion means the abandonment of mental effort, the surrender of the “I”; it means resigning oneself to become mere reflection, a nonentity.
Not to everyone is it given to be able tobrave public opinion; only a few have the force to throw off social conventions.
One of the conditions permitting of contempt of public opinion is to have no need of anyone, both from the point of view of material existence and of moral status. I am not speaking of those on whom fortune has smiled from their birth, but of the great majority who, lacking firmness of character and matured personality, obey blindly as circumstances dictate.
What is public opinion if not a collection of incongruous judgments turned to general use, rules followed from force of custom, hypocritical virtues, lies in disguise? And why should not I hold to my own private view, in spite of current opinion, if, in the consciousness of pure intention, wisdom in action, I show forth in my conduct the precepts guiding my life?
Is public opinion responsible for my mistakes? Am I less good, less just, less loyal because unshackled by imitation, lack of originality, and affectation? Why, then, should I deprive myself of honest happiness for fear opinion should turn against me?
Why should I bow to circumstances which I have not created? Why, once more, should I not be myself?
The desire for general approbation is a sign of weakness, a defect of the mind and conscience. It is allowing someone else to know your duty better than yourself and force upon you preconceived notions, neutral, limited ideas of action and thought.
Woe betide those who fall under such influence. They resign themselves to an existence of mental wretchedness, painfully dragging out their days in hesitation and spiritual cowardice, never able to realise that public opinion has no moral worth, but, though varying according to country, conditions, and training, is nevertheless intolerant, mean, and arbitrary everywhere.
The careless judgments given by public opinion always assume too much, and are not the result of harmony between conduct and principle on the part of those who form them. We should show ourselves fearlessly for what we are, speak our own language with sincerity, express our thought directly to-day, to-morrow, the day after to-morrow. Even if we contradict ourselves on certain points, that is but a proof of our readiness to be better, more just. To be true to oneself is the great secret of personality, and prevents all fear of our neighbour.
A matured, steadfast spirit, a sound brain given to meditation, a conscience sharpened by training, constitute a character which can afford to despise public opinion, and command an entrance for itself to all the paths of life.
This state of individualism does not imply systematic opposition to the customs of the day. It is not hostile to society, but it enables one to shake off the yoke of public opinion, and assert with sweetness his personality.
Prejudices, or preconceived opinions adopted at random, subsist indefinitely. Like creeds, they are a malady of weak minds which unquestioningly accept relative moral laws, formulas which the reason cannot admit, and errors which live and propagate faster than truths.
Those are persons without judgment or discernment who profess to do as all the world does, because they have not the force to form an independent opinion, undergo the discipline of thought, examine their own actions, and confess the absurdity of their own weaknesses.
It is not to be denied that minds trained by mental gymnastics have little to say to prejudices. Their judgment being independent, they require perfect freedom of action, and they cannot permit a host of trifling considerations to hinder them in their way of living and thinking.
Prejudices—a form of mental aberration—are a standard by which the least intelligent claim to estimate the capacities of others. And those prejudices which proceed from stupid customs, absurd fears, silly superstitions, have led to the most annoying assertions.
It is a matter of general belief, for instance, that the number 13 is unlucky, that the song of a black bird is a sign of death, that three lights bring misfortune; and the belief is not less general that persons of high birth are inevitably lacking in great intelligence. It has been decided once for all that they are unfit for intellectual work, and capable only of being pleasant company, as superficial as useless. If these persons take up any intellectual pursuit, be it the publishing of books, or devoting themselves to art, they are misjudged, there is an outcry at the unreality, the gross impossibility; for it has been decided that high birth should be a patent of incapacity.
Prejudice thus destroys beforehand the proof of intelligence and tarnishes reputation. At the same time, in the form of conventional, generally-received opinions, it overawes timid spirits.
It is in frivolous society that prejudicesare most ineradicable. They creep into conversation, obtrude themselves in all their bareness and ugliness into the midst of chatter and compliments.
Even if some strong personality appears, and disposes of some prejudice, it shoots up again directly the disturber is gone. Born of folly and fear, prejudices are parasitic plants whose roots are in the brain, and which are transmitted, like an heirloom of ignorance, from one century to another.
Prejudices, so numerous in these days, fall foul of everything: art, science, law, the liberty of the individual, conscience, truth.
Is it not regarded as a fact, in certain circles, that the Jew is incapable of fine intelligence? Now, for the last twenty-five years dramatic art has given the lie flatly to such an assertion. Has not the man of science, in spite of every proof of his capacity, been attacked by prejudiced people who see in him an insulter of the Divinity?
Is not the education of the people regarded in many cases as a danger to society? Is not the creation of new laws, designed for ensuring the rights of all, considered monstrous? Now that human consciousness hasdeveloped, now that the will is being trained to righteousness, now that personal responsibility has entered our life conditions, and moral education has become rational, it is really strange to see people who claim intelligence, and who pass for well informed, accept the absurd prejudices in vogue.
Women, it must be said, are for the most part hostile to progress. Through heredity, through habit, they take up prejudices with a fervour that deludes their superficial minds. Two pernicious elements, jealousy and envy, conduce to this. Prejudiced men are no less dangerous, for, being incapable of thinking for themselves, and not willing to think through others, they are unable to correct their own errors.
My conclusion is that all slaves of prejudice should be compelled to live together, separated from the living and thinking world, until the day comes when, being no longer satisfied with themselves, they will begin to be endurable to others.
Judgmentis the faculty of discrimination in ideas, of establishing a connection between the state of our conscience and reality. But as conscience varies according to the nature of social situations, it does not seem possible to apply a fixed rule to judgment, though it always requires affirmation. Whatever be the degree of judgment one possesses, one cannot exercise it in the case of others without first applying the precept, “Know thyself”—an ancient utterance which has lost a little in value since it has been handed down, without sincerity, from generation to generation. This precept is, nevertheless, held in honour by the finer spirits, for it is obvious that the appeal to our conscience should be placed above all others. Without this, as Nicati says, “the man who forgets to examine himself, and whose personality is effaced thereby, counts forless than the inert matter whose very resistance constitutes personality.”
He who lives according to his conscience, and after his own moral laws, may be satisfied. When he comes to judge himself, he knows that his life has been passed in the observance of his own personal principles.
We must, then, seek in ourselves a standard of judgment, remembering the beautiful words of Thomas à Kempis: “Turn thine eyes unto thyself, and beware thou judge not the deeds of other men. In judging of others, a man laboureth in vain, often erreth, and easily sinneth; but in judging and discussing of himself, he always laboureth fruitfully.”
Nevertheless, in self-judgment, it is right to apply severely to ourselves the rules of reason and virtue so far as our own nature permits. It is to be noted that witty people, or those with a good memory, are not the most capable of clear and profound judgment. Assimilation is prejudicial to reflection; memory is not thought.
When our own ideas are clear to us, we shall not judge others without due study of their reasons for what they do, the motives by which they have been governed, the circumstances which may have influenced their estimateof good and evil. Thus our attitude will be more kindly, and we shall avoid all the evils springing from injustice and false judgment.
Our own conscience is not always in the ascendant. We often yield to weakness, and it is only just that our knowledge of the limitations of the human will should move us to indulgence towards our fellow-men.
Such indulgence consists in recognising our own weaknesses, and in not condemning others for what we consider their errors.
The first condition for judging clearly and soundly is the constant attention to our mental life, acknowledging to ourselves our own changes of mood, ceaselessly fighting the enemy within us.
From the altruistic point of view, we should picture to ourselves the person to be judged in the circumstances which have prompted his action—difficult though it be to perceive the differences between characters and shades of feeling—according to the numberless cases in which such action takes place. This is the reason why historians, in the act of composition, so often pass false judgments on the past. In their desire to make the characters live again, to call up vanished scenes, they becomepartisans, loving or hating those whom they have never known. Purely in deference to their own opinion, they fail in tolerance and indulgence. They do not estimate the worth of men of past days according to the moral tone of the epoch in which they lived; they judge of a society as a whole in the light of isolated documents, so that the men of vanished ages cut but a poor figure in their eyes to-day.
Now, the truth is that men are no greater now than in the other ages of the world. Removed from our own time by twenty-two centuries, the heroes of Plutarch remain as noble as our heroes of to-day; and in the domain of science, religion, and philosophy we have but changed names without changing at all in judgment and logic, without modifying the conditions of happiness or the outward signs of courage, and without developing the human “I.”
Thefear of ridicule is a terrible and powerful weapon in the eyes of many people. Cleverly handled by those who are slaves to custom and fashion, this fear of ridicule often prevents our obeying our true feelings, and leads us to act against our own interests.
Many persons whose social position is uncertain, or whose moral force is but little developed, have their days embittered by the thought of “what people will say.”
If these persons could only comprehend that nothing which issimpleandsincerecan be ridiculous, if vanity and amour-propre would permit them to understand that criticism is inevitable, that it increases self-confidence in well-balanced people, and in many cases helps us towards the end we wish to attain, they would not only cease to fear the observation of others, but no longer wish to suppress the personality of a neighbour.
They would say with Emerson: “That which I ought to do concerns my personality, and not what people think I ought to do.”
They would remember these words of La Bruyère’s: “‘We must do as others do’ is a suspicious maxim, signifying nearly always ‘We must do wrong’ as soon as it extends beyond the purely outward things which result in nothing, and which depend upon custom, fashion, and manners.”
A modern thinker, under the veil of anonymity, remarks wittily: “If one wishes to be in good society, even with those who are not of it, need one give up being oneself? Good society, pushed to this excess, is only folly and trickery. What on earth have you done with your amour-propre on these occasions? Dare to say what you think, if youdothink.” I add to this: Dare to do what seems to you good, useful, and sensible; flee preconceived opinions, do not let yourself be influenced by the ideas of others, keep your independence in the face of new suggestions, convince yourself of your own value, call your perceptions into play, suppress your self-love—in a word, get rid of the fear of ridicule, which, carried to excess by people, has spoilt fine careers, ruined thenoblest hopes; destroyed for one his dawning happiness, for another possible fortune. Why this mean respect forwhat is done, and absurd fear ofwhat is not done? Why this foolish imitation, this holding back of your real self? Why don’t you eat and drink what you like? Why spoil your behaviour in public by hypocrisy? Where is the sense of this perpetual dressing up of things which ties you down to convention not in keeping with the real impulses of your heart and mind?
There is so much fear of ridicule in the world that one may see a man miss an interview which might be morally or materially useful to him because he is afraid to appear unfashionably dressed, because he has not the latest hat, or the shoes which snobbism has decreed the correct thing.
Women, in whom the fear of ridicule is so strong, so intimately linked with the taste of the moment, will willingly risk their health rather than go down in the estimation of others.
If, for example, fashion decrees thin summer clothing, a woman will brave bronchitis and the after-effects to wear it; and she acts in a similar spirit with regard to winter fashions,because it is not the right thing to think with one’s own mind, feel with one’s own heart, or live according to one’s own means, nerves, or senses!
This passive life by rule is a curious thing, and Montaigne was right—for folly belongs to all periods—in thus speaking of it for his own epoch: “In some sort all the opinions we have are taken on authority, or on credit, ... Everyone is richer than he thinks, but we go about borrowing and seeking; it suits us better to make use of others than of ourselves.... We neither essay nor know our own faculties; we invest in those of others, and let our own lie idle....”
Yes, truly, the fear of ridicule is one of the worst shortcomings of education, for it destroys character, leads all our impulses towards folly, and often incites to irreparable wrong.
How many marriages which might have been happy are prevented because of difference in fortune, age, or birth! The fear of ridicule brings a disintegrating element even into the quest after happiness, which is a law of Nature.
It is the same with the fear of ridicule as with morality; everyone should base hisindividual action on some good to be gained, get rid of all constraint—in a word, be himself without depending on custom and outward circumstances; preserving the balance between his conscience, trained by experience and reason, and his personal faculties.
Moralcourage is that energy of character which leads us to confess and uphold what we think and believe. This quality, one of the rarest in man, is nevertheless indispensable to whomsoever uses his faculties in any public capacity, whether he be a statesman, a soldier, an artist, or a writer; that is to say, everyone who has to take responsibility, making nothing of opinion or criticism.
I have often heard it said that moral courage corresponds to physical development. That is true, provided that the physical development be attended by good health. We often see men insignificant in appearance gifted with moral courage which athletes lack. It is because, in spite of their physical slightness, these men possess health so robust as to save them from mental weakness and give them perfect balance.
But there is something besides. Although there is still much to learn about character, it is certain that we can cultivate the moral courage which springs from instinct and temperament by the choice of our own ideas and actions.
Never has the need of character-forming made itself felt so much as in our days. Character is becoming rare because intellects are in disorder. Dilettantism kills reason, æstheticism strays without direction through the mind, ready-made opinions take the place of thought, and the caprice of the moment serves for moral or material interests and weakens the will.
The sign of the individual, the dominant feature of his personality, is character, and character gives birth to moral courage. Dr. Ferrand says: “Character assumes considerable importance in the life of the individual and in the life of all the natural or social groups which individuals form amongst themselves; it is, accordingly to Smiles, one of the greatest motive powers in the world. By the unity of direction which he impresses upon all his actions, the man of character is not only master of himself, though that is much, but he bears naturally upon the activity of others, and
Image unavailable: THE INFANTA EULALIA AND HER TWO SONS Photograph by Boissonnas & Taponier, Paris.THE INFANTA EULALIA AND HER TWO SONSPhotograph by Boissonnas & Taponier, Paris.
draws them after him, as a mighty ship draws into its track all the craft it encounters in its course.”
There is yet another consideration. By the side of the intellectual element, by which we estimate our thoughts and actions, there is feeling; that is, the sensibility which modifies the judgment and enlightens the deep thought determining our responsibility. He who obeys feeling, when the latter is not subject to the control of thought, commits many errors of judgment and lets himself be guided by moods which may lead him into injustice and breach of trust. Let us not forget that justice is truth applied to the things of life. Now, it is precisely the absence of this idea of justice in the modern consciousness which brings us daily face to face with a sort of failure in moral courage, both as regards attack and defence.
Politics during the last few years have furnished us with sad examples of this weakness; letters and the arts have also given us instances, and they are very regrettable from every point of view.
Literary and musical criticism is to be noted particularly for many lapses; scienceitself is not exempt from dealings which reason disapproves, and it is not even to lack of education that this shortcoming is due. And we find this lack of moral courage in communities which have blindly turned liberty to a revolting slavery.
Consider parliaments, study castes, look closely at groups of individuals served by opinion, and you will see that real characters worthy to inspire the good, the beautiful, and the true are overwhelmed in the host occupied in ruining the popular conscience.
Individual moral courage is what makes the greatness of a people. This form of courage tends to disappear more and more, because everyone is losing the idea of his own responsibility, and, inspired by selfishness, troubles himself not at all to make justice and virtue respected.
How few men we see use their authority to repair an error, punish a lie or any villainy whatsoever! Weakness, hesitation, doubt, lack of initiative, indifference, have taken the place of moral courage, and that through the lack of character-training. As Emerson says: “No change of circumstances can repair a fault ofcharacter.... What have I gained ... if I quake at opinion, the public opinion, as we call it; or at the threat of assault, or contumely, or bad neighbours, or poverty, or mutilation, or at the rumour of revolution, or of murder? If I quake, what matters it what I quake at?”
Each of us, then, should in his own sphere of action become conscious of what is right, and not hesitate to struggle, even to the detriment of his private interests, against all false judgment attacking honour, every opinion concealing baseness, every action which is an insult to reason and to the liberty of the individual.
Traditionis a link of the present with the past, the transmitting of legendary memories from century to century—memories based on real facts, exaggerated or deformed by the popular mind in quest of the ideal.
Traditions of pagan or religious essence are multiform. In most cases they denote blind reverence, unconscious veneration for creeds turned into customs; they are a sign of the passivity of the human mind, whose chief weakness is superstition.
Whether as regards action or thought, tradition appeals to the special organisation of certain temperaments of a primitive order, or which are purely dogmatic.
The desire to maintain tradition implies uncontrolled deference to custom together with the need for moral or sectarian order, and for this reason it is detrimental to the gradual change of thought on which progress depends.
In all ages of the world, since the period when oral narration was handed down from generation to generation, traditions have been accepted as truths. Now, that which was truth at the exact moment when a certain thing occurred is no longer truth after a long lapse of time, because of changes with regard to the original fact and the false interpretations put upon it by the crowd.
Locke says with much truth: “A man worthy of belief bringing testimony of a thing known to him affords a good proof; but if another man equally worthy of credence testifies on the report of that man, his witness is weaker; while that of a third who attests a hearsay is still less to be considered; so that in truths that come by tradition each degree of remoteness from the original source weakens the force of the proof; and in proportion as a tradition passes successively through more hands, it has ever less force and evidence.”
This is the reason that traditions, from whatsoever source they come, constitute false propositions all the more dangerous because to many they appear incontestable. After Christianity was established, tradition had all the value of an idealism capable of inspiring individual action;under different aspects it induced respect for great moral acts, linked up more closely familiar ties (the festival of Christmas—Noël or Yule—is a case in point), it cemented friendships, gave value to the idea of good rewarded and evil punished, created an atmosphere of justice and fear, inward joy and hope.
But with time, as the sense of personality developed and social friction became more frequent, it came about that traditions were divided into different camps, some being simply a consolation for the afflicted, others becoming authoritative in the hands of priests and judges. Centuries passed, changing names and beliefs, modifying desires and interests; then tradition weakened and altered in character and significance.
Even in our own day, however, many ancient traditions are rigorously observed both in town and country. Still, as the social movement has become more accentuated, more conscious, they have so weakened that they are more like a list of festival days in the calendar than anything else. In spite of castes which, by holding together, still maintained tradition, the evolution of the masses gradually brought about, through force of circumstances, thedestruction of such as was useless. This is good because, I repeat, tradition is hostile to progress in that it makes error in the guise of custom predominate over science and altruistic duty.
The weakening of pagan or religious traditions is very noticeable to-day. For instance, the observance of the anniversaries of the dead is falling into desuetude. One scarcely sees, except in the Latin countries where civilisation is backward, the relatives in deep black coming at a fixed date to mourn their dead from midnight to midnight. This traditional custom, besides, has lost so much of its ancient solemnity that the mourners do not hesitate to dance and feast directly the time of forced grief is over. This anomaly is frequent in Spain nowadays. As soon as the “accessories” of the tradition disappear, the tradition itself will vanish in its turn.
Go through the villages and you will note the disappearance of numbers of customs to which the inhabitants were slaves not long ago. Where, to-day, are the processions in the open fields, the patronal festivals, the inquiries at fountains, all the traces of ancient beliefs? Where, as in Rome in times past, is the lachrymatory, in which, on days of funerals, everyone collected his tears?
Man, as he grows conscious of his forces, his rights, throws off a 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, 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.
Ifthere 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 mentallife 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.
WhenAzaïs, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, published hisCompensations 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 ofdecadence.”
Without going so far as this master of aphorisms, I say that egoism cannot be opposed toaltruism, 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 whatconcerns 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 ofcompensation 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.
Theforegoing 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 toliberal 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 herthrone 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. Tothem, 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 theReina MariaCristina, 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 proposedcall, 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.
TheReina Maria Cristinaarrived in New York late in the night of the 18th of May.
In the morning, the U.S. dispatch-boatDolphin, 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 theDolphinexpected theReina Maria Cristinato 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 theDolphinsaluted the Infanta with twenty-one guns, and then followed in the wake of the cutter sent for her by the Spanish frigateIsabel, on board of which she was received with Royal honours. While on the cruiser, a delegation from the Spanish colony in NewYork 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 tocelebrate 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 Washingtonen routefor 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: