The Human Race

by Louis Figuier

The weakness of instruction in France becomes still more apparent by comparison with that of other nations. Traverse all Switzerland, and in every house you will find a small library. In Prussia it is a most rare matter to find a person who cannot read; in that country instruction is obligatory. In Austria every one can read. In Norway and Denmark, the lowest of the peasantry can read and write their language with accuracy; while in the extreme north, in Iceland, that country given up to the rigours of eternal cold, which is, as it were, a dead spot in nature, prints are numerous. We need not say that the English and Americans are far in advance of the French as regards instruction. Nay, more, all the Japanese can read and write, as also all the inhabitants of China proper.

Let us hope that this sad condition of things will change, when, in France, gratuitous and obligatory instruction has become the law.

Uninstructed and unambitious of learning, timid artisan and plodding husbandman though he be, the Frenchman has yet one ruling virtue. He is a soldier; he possesses all the qualities necessary for war—bravery, intelligence, quickness of conception, the sentiment of discipline, and even patience when it is called for. If in 1870 a combination of deplorable fatalities forced the French to yield to the dictates of a people, who even yet wonder at their victory, the reputation of the French soldier for bravery and intelligence has in no way suffered by this unforeseen check. The day for revenge upon the barbarians of the north will come sooner or later.

Another peculiarity of the French nation is their spirit of criticism and satire. If, in the days of Beaumarchais, everything in France closed with a song, nothing at the present day is complete without a joke.

There is nothing which the French spirit of satire has not turned to ridicule. In the art of the pencil it has created la charge, namely, the caricature of what is beautiful, and the hideous exaggeration of every physical imperfection; on the stage it has introduced la cascade, a public parody bringing before the audience in an absurd manner, history, literature, and men of distinction; in the dance, it has given birth to the obscene and nameless thing which is composed of the contortions of fools, and which with strangers passes as a national dance.

The French woman is perfectly gifted in what concerns intelligence; she possesses a ready conception, a lively imagination, and a cheerful disposition. Unfortunately, the burthen of ignorance presses sorely upon her. It is a rare thing for a woman of the people to read, as only those of the higher classes have leisure, during their girlhood, to cultivate their minds. And yet even they must not give themselves up too much to study, nor aspire to honour or distinction. The epithet bas bleu (blue stocking) would soon bring them back to the common crowd—an ignorant and frivolous feminine mass. Molière’s lines in Les Femmes Savantes, which for two centuries have operated so sadly in disseminating ignorance throughout one half of French society, would be with one voice applied to them.

With this ill-advised tirade, persons who think themselves perfectly right, stifle the early inclinations of young girls and women, which would induce them to open their minds to notions of literature, science, and art.

A question was once put forward whether we should permit our young women to share the education which the University affords to young men. We are speaking of the courses which were to have been held by the college of professors, according to the plans proposed by M. Duruy. But this attempt at the intellectual emancipation of young girls was very soon suppressed. Being barely tolerated at Paris, these courses were soon interdicted in the departmental towns, and woman soon returned to the knee of the church, or, in other words, was brought back to ignorance and superstition.

This want of instruction in the French woman is the more to be regretted, since, to an excellent intellectual disposition, she adds the irresistible gifts of grace and physical charms. There is in her face a seduction which cannot be equalled, although we can assign her physiognomy to no determinate type. Her features, frequently irregular, seem to be borrowed from different races; they do not possess that unity which springs from calm and majesty, but are in the highest degree expressive, and marvellously contrived for conveying every shade of feeling. In them we see a smile, though it be shaded by tears; a caress, though they threaten us; and an appeal when yet they command. Amid the irregularity of this physiognomy the soul displays its workings.

As a rule, the French woman is short of stature, but in every proportion of her form combines grace and delicacy. Her extremities and joints are fine and elegant, of perfect model and distinct form, without a suspicion of coarseness. With her, moreover, art is brought wonderfully to assist nature.