French & English

by Philip Gilbert Hamerton

In the years 1886 and 1887 the author contributed a series of seven articles to the Atlantic Monthly, which bore the title of the present volume, and are in great part absorbed in it. The book, however, is essentially new, as it contains much more matter than the articles, and the chapters are either hitherto unpublished or rewritten in a less desultory order.

This work is not intended to be historical. It only professes to compare the French and English of the second half of the nineteenth century.

PREFACE

It may be taken as typical of the author’s intentions that he has felt uncertain which of the two nationalities he would put first in the title, and that the question has been decided by a mere consideration of euphony. If the reader cares to try the experiment of saying “English and French,” and “French and English” afterwards, he will find that the latter glides the more glibly from the tongue. There is a tonic accent at the beginning of the word “English” and a dying away at the end of it which are very convenient in the last word of a title. “French,” on the other hand, comes to a dead stop, in a manner too abrupt to be agreeable.

The supercilious critic will say that I am making overmuch of a small matter, but he may allow me to explain why I put the Frenchmen first, lest I be accused of a lack of patriotism. This book has not, however, been written from a patriotic point of view; it is not simply an exposition of the follies and sins of another nation for the comparative glorification of my own, neither is it an example of what Herbert Spencer has aptly called “anti-patriotism,” which is the systematic setting down of one’s own countrymen by a comparison with the superior qualities of the foreigner.

I should like to write with complete impartiality, if it were possible. I have at least written with the most sincere desire to be impartial, and that perhaps at the cost of some popularity in England, for certain English critics have told me that impartiality is not patriotic, and others have informed me of what I did not know before, namely, that I prefer the French to my own countrymen.

It seems to me that the best patriotism does not consist in speaking evil of another country, but in endeavouring to serve one’s own. There are many kinds of service. That of a writer is above all things to tell the truth and not to deceive his countrymen even when they wish to be deceived. If he fails in veracity he is guilty of a kind of treachery to his own country by giving it erroneous ideas or fallacious information. Such treachery may become serious when the subject of the volume is international. When public writers are patriotic in the old narrow and perverse meaning of the term, that is to say, when they are full of gall and injustice, when they systematically treat the foreigner as a being who has neither rights, nor merits, nor feelings, then, whether intentionally or not, they are urging their own nation on the path that leads to war. When they endeavour to write truly and justly about the foreigner, with a due consideration for his different position and a fair recognition of his rights and feelings, then they are favouring the growth of a conciliatory temper which, when a difficulty arises, will tend to mutual concession and to the preservation of peace. Is it better or worse for England that she should maintain peaceful relations with her nearest neighbour, with that nation which, along with herself, has done most for liberty and light? That question may be answered by the experience of seventy years.

I have no illusions about friendship between nations. There will never be any firm friendship between England and France, and a momentary attachment would only cause me anxiety on account of the inevitable reaction. All I hope for and all that seems to me really desirable is simply mutual consideration. That is possible, that is attainable; in the higher minds of both countries (with a few exceptions) it exists already. If it existed generally in the people it would be enough to prevent bloodshed. Any difficulty that arose between the two countries would be met in a rational temper and probably overcome without leaving rancour behind it. This has actually been done on one or two recent occasions with complete success, a result due to the high patriotism of the statesmen on both sides. A lower and more vulgar patriotism would have aroused the passion of chauvinisme which puts an end to all justice and reason.

Whatever the spirit of justice may lead to in the correspondence of statesmen, it is a sad hindrance to effect in literature. I am fully aware of this, and know that, without justice, a more dashing and brilliant book might easily have been written. Just writing does not amuse, but malevolence may be made extremely entertaining. What is less obvious is that justice often puts her veto on those fine effects of simulated indignation which the literary advocate knows to be of such great professional utility. It is a fine thing to have an opportunity for condemning a whole nation in one terribly comprehensive sentence. The literary moralist puts on his most dignified manner when he can deplore the wickedness of thirty millions of human beings. It is ennobling to feel yourself better and greater than thirty millions, and the reader, too, has a fine sense of superiority in being encouraged to look down upon such a multitude. Justice comes in and says, “But there are exceptions and they ought not to be passed over.” “That may be,” replies the Genius of Brilliant Literature, “but if I stop to consider these I shall lose all breadth of effect. Lights will creep into my black shadows and I shall no longer appal with gloom. I want the most telling oppositions. The interests of art take precedence over commonplace veracity.”

The foreigner may be effectually dealt with in one of two ways. He may be made to appear either ridiculous or wicked. The satire may be humorous, or it may be bitter and severe. The French, with their lighter temperament, take pleasure in making the Englishmen absurd. The English, on their part, though by no means refusing themselves the satisfaction of laughing at their neighbours, are not disinclined to assume a loftier tone. It is not so much what is obviously ridiculous in French people that repels as that which cannot be described without a graver reprobation.