Englishman, Frenchman, Spaniard

I

TELL a man that the three angles of a triangle are worth two rights. If he answers, ‘Prove it,’ and, when satisfied, adds, ‘Very well; I know now how all triangles behave in all circumstances,’ he is a Frenchman. If he answers, ‘That may be more or less so, but when I come up against a triangle I will see for myself,’ he is an Englishman. And if he answers, ‘The triangle will be worth what I want it to be,’ he is a Spaniard.

I have been looking at the English, the French, and the Spaniards these twenty years. I have been looking at them, not at the facts about them. Facts are carcasses of dead ideas thought by others. I have turned away from facts, my hand on my nose.

Three nations — by which I mean three peoples fascinating to watch. No three clearer types could be found on the face of the earth. This distinctiveness of their respective natures was the first hint which I received from them as I observed their movements. What was it exactly which made them to me like three mutually independent, mutually equidistant samples of human nature?

My instinct told me that England, France, and Spain were like the three points of a psychological triangle. The ignorant, the superficial, or the ‘fact’-bound observer would talk to me about the ‘Latin’ and the Anglo-Saxon peoples; more keen-eyed persons would ask, ‘Don’t you think there is more affinity between Spaniards and Englishmen than between the French and either of them?’ My instinct answered, ‘Just as much— that is, just as little.’ And with that intimate conviction I resumed my watch.

What is the spontaneous attitude of each of these three peoples toward life? What is the spontaneous criterion which determines their actions or abstentions? This question called forth three answers, represented by three untranslatable terms: fair play; droit; honor. These words describe three psychological entities as clear to the intuition as the elm, the wolf, or aluminium.

Fair play is an instinct which manifests itself in action, and, determining action, is determined by it. The fair play of a cricket match is not the fair play of a parliamentary election. Fair play is simultaneous with action, consubstantial with it. In fact, fair play is action.

Droit — so pitiably translated (?) as ‘law’ — is an abstraction, a diagram, an idea. It is a map of the possibilities of the citizen in a world of citizens, a network of definitions and limitations drawn out beforehand. Droit is an idea. It is of the stuff of thought.

Honor is a more evasive species. The word is also untranslatable. For neither ‘honor’ nor honneur conveys what the Spanish word honor means. Honor is a subjective criterion. It is admirably illustrated in the old ballad of the Count of León. Courtiers and ladies are conversing in a gallery of the Royal Palace overlooking the yard in which can be seen the lions presented to the King of Castile by the King of Morocco. Doña Ana lets fall her glove in the lions’ cage, wishing to test the valor of the men present. The Count of León rescues the glove from the lions’ cage, but, before giving it back to its owner, he strikes the fair face of the frivolous lady with her glove in order to teach her not to play with the good name of gallant men; then, turning to the knights present, he adds, ‘ If anyone disagrees with what I have done, let him come out to the field of honor, where I shall maintain it.’ Such is the criterion of honor. Synthetic and subjective. The individual may do what he likes — violate even that supreme law of chivalry which forbids striking a woman; but he must be noble in his own subjective standards; and, as a pledge of nobility, he must be ready to give his life. Honor is, therefore, essentially individual and synthetic. It is of the nature of passion.

I mean by ‘action’ the exercise of the will, and by ‘thought’ that of the intellect. I mean by ‘ passion ’ the state in which man lets the life stream flow through him in its wholeness and spontaneity, without interfering with it.

II

Let us, then, risk an hypothesis. The Englishman is above all a man of action, the Frenchman a man of thought, and the Spaniard a man of passion. By which, of course, we do not mean that each of the types is devoid of the faculties which are typical of the other two, but merely that the typical faculty in each case rules the others and makes them serve its ends. Thus Cromwell, by no means lacking in intellect or in passion, was preëminently a man of action; Voltaire, certainly an active man and one who knew what passions are, was nevertheless a man of thought; and Saint Theresa, a prodigy of action and an intelligent woman, was nevertheless a woman whose life was lived in the realm of passion.

This submission of two of the primary human tendencies to the third has been observed in one only of our three cases — that of the Englishman. It goes in English psychology by the name of utilitarianism. This uncouth word really means that the Englishman expects fruits of action from every investment of vital energy. Thought for the sake of thinking, passion for the sake of experiencing, are mere ‘indulgences’ which the Englishman spurns. Thought and passion must yield results in terms of action. English utilitarianism, therefore, is but the direct outcome, indeed, the very definition of the type as a man of action.

Such an argument suggests a line of thought along which utilitarianism can be generalized in order to cover the other two types. Just as the Englishman, man of action, subordinates thought and passion to action, so the Frenchman, man of thought, must be expected to subordinate action and passion to thought; and the Spaniard, man of passion, will be found to subordinate action and thought to passion. French utilitarianism will, therefore, consist in exacting a yield in thought from action and passion, and Spanish utilitarianism in exacting a yield in passion from action and thought.

What each type seeks in life is the satisfaction of his main tendency. Outside this tendency the type becomes ‘utilitarian.’ But within his own tendency the type is disinterested, since, living his own life, he lives it for nothing, as we all live. Hence what is naturally disinterested in the English is action — sports; in the Freach, thought — culture; in the Spaniards, passion — contemplation.

A man of action may be thinking; a man of passion may be acting. We have, therefore, to consider nine cases which, for purposes of comparison, could be grouped in table form.

This table shows a number of symmetries and analogies. The line crossing it from the left top corner to the right bottom corner is its axis of symmetry. The three eases on this line — namely, la, 2b, 3c — are analogous. In each of these cases, the type is in his own element. They are cases of satisfaction, cases without inner strife, cases of success. They lead us to anticipate that, in each of them, the type will he found at his best. Then there are three groups of two cases each which are symmetrically placed, both in geometry and in psychology: lb and 2a; !e and 3a; 2c and 3b.

Too often parallels between any two of these three peoples fail through an insufficient understanding of the position as revealed by the above table. It is evident that a comparison between French and English action must fail, as unfair to the Frenchman, since in action the Englishman is in his element and the Frenchman out of it. Similarly the parallel between French thought and English thought is unfair to the Englishman, since in thought the Frenchman is at home while the Englishman is an uncomfortable and shy guest.

Self-control in the individual and the spirit of coöperation in the community are two psychological features of the tendency to action in the Englishman. By means of his self-control he keeps his will fit and apt to command the forces of the individual. The spirit of coöperation is a collective virtue acting in each individual for the benefit of the group. It explains the genius for spontaneous organization which is the greatest asset to the British nation. Every Englishman carries in him the spirit of the community, the living voice and inspiration of the racial group. A discourteous wag has said, ‘One Englishman, a fool; two Englishmen, a match; three Englishmen, the British Empire.’ The first term of this epigram is as foolish as it is discourteous, and yet it is not altogether without justification, as may be shown hereafter; the second term is good, in as much as a match, living example of the working of fair play, is an apt symbol of English life; as for the third, it only sins on the side of modesty: contrary to what the author of the epigram seems to think, three Englishmen are not necessary to make up the British Empire — one is enough.

While the Englishman is bent on doing things, the Frenchman seeks to understand them. His main preoccupation is with truth. He wants to see. He treats himself as an optical apparatus and often speaks and thinks of mise au point. This expression describes the operation whereby the object is placed at the best distance for vision. The Frenchman, therefore, places himself instinctively at a certain distance from life in order the better to see it. Clarity and intellectual courage are his mental virtues. No prejudice is allowed to interfere with the free working of his mind. Thought values attain in France a national scope. The natural abode of the Frenchman’s mind is in the universal and abstract. His aim consists in establishing a scheme of the world appealing to the intellect.

The Spaniard is neither moved to action nor on the watch for thought. He simply waits and contemplates. Passively letting the life stream flow through his being as on a river bed, he acquires experience by living. His virtues are spontaneity and the sense of wholeness. The ‘sense of life’ which is the subject of Miguel de Unamuno’s great work is the ruling factor in the Spaniard’s existence. It means union between life as a whole and the individual. The individual is thus the ultimate aim for the Spaniard. It takes the place which the community occupies for the Englishman and the mental scheme of the world for the Frenchman.

So much for the Englishman in action, the Frenchman in thought, and the Spaniard in passion — states in which they are each in his own element, happy and apt. All other phases are out of balance and give rise to inner conflicts due to the fact that the type is no longer in his element. The inherent symmetries which link together every two of these six cases into three groups provide a reliable criterion of comparison. The most illuminating parallels that can be made between these three peoples result from a comparison of the Englishman in thought with the Frenchman in action; the Frenchman in passion with the Spaniard in thought; and the Spaniard in action with the Englishman in passion.

III

The Englishman in thought is not at home. His home is in action and, while thinking, he is homesick. He is supposed to be unintelligent and inclined to be proud of it. Yet his mind, needless to say, is of the very first order. Even if we were to admit — as Englishmen sometimes seem to suggest — that the British Empire is due to a series of fits of absent-mindedness, the mind, though absent, exists, and the fits in question could hardly be those of a half-witted people. The fact is that the English have a mind but do not like to use it. They spare it for action. They do not plan beforehand, lest thought might cripple their freedom of action. They do not prejudge — that is, they do not imprison future action in present thought. The Englishman’s thought must be applied to action. It is, therefore, the brightest, not before or after action, but on that very spot of the present when thought and action touch.

His thinking, moreover, is not done in his head. ‘Brainy’ is not a word of praise in English. ‘ Clever’ is positively insulting. ’He is so clever,’ says the Englishman, and he shakes his head. When he must think, the Englishman thinks with his whole body. He emits a cloud of thought through his knees, elbows, chest, and abdomen. And the curious thing is that, unless his head meddles with it, his thought is generally sound. Sound, please notice — that is, healthy. For he judges thought, not on dialectical principles (Is it correct or erroneous?), but on vital grounds (Is it sound or unsound?). He therefore refuses to grant to all thought an equal right to expression. There are zones of thought which the Englishman does not explore, thoughts of a corrosive nature which might undermine the springs of action. The Englishman guards against such mind adventures by means of inhibitions, reservations, prejudices, and all kinds of devices which may prune thought of its more dangerous growths.

The Frenchman in action is no more at home than the Englishman in thought. He is apt to consider action as an excellent opportunity for setting problems before his mind. Hence that sense of elaborate preparation which prospective action tends to produce in him. We have seen English thought weakest before and after the spot on the present where action and thought touch and live; symmetrically, French action is at its best before and after that spot — when action, unborn, has not yet emerged out of thought, or else when, dead, it is being devoured by thought in that vulture-like operation known as criticism. Just as the Englishman judges thought not on dialectical principles but on vital grounds, so the Frenchman judges action not on vital grounds but on dialectical principles. The question debated is not so much what is to be done as how, and in the name of which principles, it is to be done.

The Frenchman, moreover, premeditates, foresees, and preregulates his action; he endeavors to catch future action in a network of present thought. The Englishman does not foresee, because he trusts action but mistrusts thought, while the Frenchman foresees, because he trusts thought but mistrusts action. Similarly, while the Englishman, by inhibitions, reservations, and prejudices, prunes thought of all the growths which might be dangerous to action, the Frenchman, by abstractions, definitions, and limitations, prunes life of all irrational elements dangerous to thought. Finally, just as the Englishman muddles through, — that is, succeeds in action while keeping a confused mind, — the Frenchman, bent on seeing everything with a clear mind, is apt to lose his temper while engaged in the throes of action.

The Frenchman in passion is not, of course, in his element. We know that as an intellectual he places himself at a distance from nature in order to look at it. Distant, he is cool. Intellectual, he is reasonable. He governs his passions, not in order to act, but because in him the hierarchy of the faculties is safely established with reason at the head. He thus remains outside his passions and watches their play, as a man the play of his favorite dogs, knowing he can always bring them back to order when he wishes. The Frenchman analyzes his passions and dissociates the animal and the intellectual factors in them, losing, however, in the process, all the imponderabilia of irrational and ineffable elements which are, perhaps, the very essence of life. He excels in the chemistry of the passions.

The Spaniard in thought presents features in symmetry with those of the Frenchman in passion. For the wholeness and the spontaneity of the man of passion check all tendencies to split and fracture the life stream. And therefore thought in the Spaniard is wholesale, integral, intuitional — a feature in contrast with the analytical and dissociated character of French passion. The Spaniard is, so to say, sunk in his thought, while the Frenchman is outside his passion. To the coolness of the French passion corresponds the human warmth of Spanish thought, which springs from the recesses of the being in which it is formed. And the intellectual consciousness which distinguishes French passion is symmetrical with the subconscious character of Spanish intuition, true form of Spanish thought.

The Englishman in passion is hindered by his self-control and by his group sense. Group sense is the corollary of his genius for spontaneous organization, which presupposes the existence of the group. That is why all English collective virtues are, so to say, ‘refracted’ on crossing the racial border, just as a ray of light is broken when it passes from air to water. Selfcontrol and the group sense penetrate deep into the life stream of the individual Englishman, canalizing it toward the mills of social service, dividing it into all kinds of currents and subcurrents. The life stream in the Englishman is, therefore, neither spontaneous nor homogeneous. The pressure of the group forces on individual passions the stamp and color of the group. It drives underground all those passions which resist the group action. Thus, under the armor of self-control, the strong passions of the Englishman live a secluded life — if anything, stronger for their seclusion.

Just as the Englishman keeps off passions for fear of lowering his value as a unit in the group team, so the Spaniard keeps off action lest through action the group enslave him as an individual. His apparent laziness, his passivity, his indifference, his contemplation, are but forms of a selective instinct which evades all action dangerous to individual liberty. It is, therefore, an instinct in strict symmetry with English self-control. So that, to the pressure inward wherewith the group enslaves the Englishman and drives deep trouble into his life stream, corresponds the pressure outward which the Spanish individual exerts on the group, depriving it of its order and efficiency. Spanish actions are ultraindividualistic, just as English passions are ultra-collective. (Hamlet and Don Quixote might be considered as the two characters which personify this contrast. Hamlet — despite incomprehensive critics — is a man of action. Hs swift decision in everything but the main problem he has to solve is evident. But he feels the strong pressure of the group in the tradition which bids him avenge his father. He is sick with group pressure. Don Quixote is a man of passion — a lover, a reader of books — who goes out and imposes his own individual visions on the outside world. He is mad with an excessive individual pressure outward, which he exerts on the world.) Under Spanish indifference, stores of human energy are accumulated by time, and now and then the feat, the exploit, is accomplished when they are released. Similarly, under the cold crust of self-control, the heat of English passions rises unseen, and now and then bursts into exceptional flames. Thus the true symmetrical types of the great Spaniards of action — Hernán Cortés, Balboa, Pizarro — are the great English poets — Shakespeare, Shelley, Byron — rising above English calm as the eonquistadores rise above Spanish indifference. The true parallel of the English genius for spontaneous organization, which guarantees the full life of the group, is Spanish spontaneity of the passions, which guarantees full life to the individual.

Faithful to action, the Englishman is empirical. Faithful to thought, the Frenchman is theoretical. Faithful to passion, the Spaniard is individualistic. The first rules his life by moral-social standards; the second by intellectual principles; the third by individual experience. The Englishman’s virtue is wisdom; the Frenchman’s is reason; the Spaniard’s serenity. A gap between standards and behavior is covered by a bridge of fiction called hypocrisy. Hypocrisy is, therefore, an English vice. Yet it can be generalized by extending it to other than moral standards. English standards are moral; so is English hypocrisy. French standards are intellectual; so is French hypocrisy. Spanish standards are of the passions; so is Spanish hypocrisy. The Englishman feigns when he does not behave; the Frenchman when he does not understand; the Spaniard when he does not experience. But, as hypocrisy is proportional to the strength of the group, the three hypocrisies differ in intensity as well as in quality.

IV

The structure of the community is aristocratic in England, bourgeois in France, and popular in Spain.

In the people of action, the community is spontaneously organized in a natural hierarchy. The aristocracy is not a self-appointed leading and privileged class, but the outcome of a traditional evolution. All Englishmen rejoice in their aristocracy. When the Duke of Devonshire gives his daughter in marriage, all English homes enjoy the taste of wedding cake; when the Duke of Richmond rides with his hounds, all Englishmen blow their horns.

French social structure is built on a theoretical conception of intellectual order. It is superimposed rather than grown, architectural rather than natural. Rather than a nation, France is a state. The French hierarchy rests on an intellectual criterion. Not pedigree but intelligence is what gives prestige and authority to men. The respect and public admiration which are bestowed in England on dukes and princes go in France to membres de l’Institut.

In Spain there is an instinctive rebellion against all social structure. So far as there is a social structure, it is based on the all-pervading influence of the popular element in the country. The standard in England is the aristocrat, and so English charwomen do their best to dress like duchesses; in France, the bourgeoisie, and every Frenchwoman dresses like a bourgeoise; in Spain, the people, and when a Spanish duchess wants to look smart she imitates the dress and manners of a Seville cigarette maker.

England is a political but not a social democracy; France is both a political and a social democracy; Spain is not a political democracy, but she is the most democratic of the three in actual life. English political life is built on liberty, but neglects equality and has no conception of fraternity.¹ French political life is built on equality, but tends to overregulate liberty and to understand fraternity as a theoretical idea rather than to feel it as a cordial fact. Spain is such a fanatic about individual liberty that she is unable to evolve the adequate conditions for ensuring it, and her sense of equality is so profound that it amounts to cordial fraternity.

Politics are regulated in England by ethics, economics, and fair play; in France by intellectual creeds and theories; in Spain by the free play of individual ambitions judged by the remainder of the nation in virtue of dramatic standards. In England an increase in the income tax or a private scandal may ruin a political career. In France a lively episode of the cherchez la femme type would, if anything, add distinction to a public man, but a difference in political creed will suffice to drive anyone from office. In Spain a prominent man, a prohombre, has an inherent right to appear on the political stage whether he is a good or a bad statesman, just as in a novel the hero and the villain are equally interesting for the reader.

A parliamentary debate in England is like a cricket match. Good humor and coöperation on both sides; enjoyment of good batting and bowling, whatever side be the winner; and an all-round respect of the wigged umpire, the Speaker — so called, of course, because he is the only member who does not speak. The parliamentary system is run for business and not for ideas and opinions. In France, on the contrary, ideas matter in themselves and business must wait till the battle of principles has been fought out. It is a fierce battle, in which arguments are hurled with fury and seek the political death of the adversary. Yet the passion of French debates is not an original source of energy — it is the by-product and waste of intellectual strife. In Spain a parliamentary debate is a show.

The English language is an empirical chaos. Words are monosyllabic; for the present, tense of the man of action, leaves no room for more. Verbs, nouns, adjectives, have all one shape, which means that the Englishman does not prejudge their function and meaning before actual use calls for them. By themselves, moreover, words have not much personality, and it is the phrase accent and stress which give them their true value, just as society gives his true value to the Englishman. The language is led by the upper classes. Hence its chaotic spelling and mannerisms. The language of poetry and letters is artificial, and popular language has no value. English has but one vowel, a cloud of a vowel which remains indefinite and changeable, ever ready to compromise, as reserved and reticent as the Englishman himself, and so successful in the art of dodging that it can remain unrevealed for several syllables, hidden behind screens of consonants — for instance, in the word ‘particularly,’ which is pronounced ‘p’t’c’l’ly.’

The French language is a black-andwhite image of Latin. Every Latin word, in passing into French, collapses like an opera hat, losing its mass, color, and relief. Most words, whatever their vowels in Latin, take a French shape dominated by the letter e, the middle vowel, the vowel without color or mass, the vowel which suggests moderation and measure. Thus all the Latin words of the honor family pass into eur endings, — couleur, douleur, — forms which suggest moderation and measure; all except amour, in which case, of course, moderation and measure would be evidently out of keeping. French grammar is rigid. It does not admit inversions. It follows strictly its own rules. The literary language differs from the language of the people, but less than in the case of England. The ruling form in France is the language of the middle classes, and the immense majority of Frenchmen write it well.

The Spanish language is spontaneous, energetic, and popularly led. It retains the mass and the color of the Latin, but makes it more luminous by dropping the m endings and by increasing the number of full vowels, particularly o and a. It is rebellious to rules, apt to produce its sentences synthetically rather than in logical order, and contemptuous of grammar. Its most exquisite flowers of poetry are often grown on pure popular soil.

Art begins as a passion; it is formed and refined by the intellect and consumed and absorbed by society and convention. Spanish art is therefore strongest in its first impulse — inspiration; French art in the middle phase — formation; English art in the last phase — actual production and consumption. Subconscious in Spain, art is conscious in France and self-conscious in England. Purely æsthetic in Spain, it is apt to take on intellectual prejudices in France and ethical prejudices in England. In Spain it is free and individualistic; in France it is classified in ‘schools’ and ‘generations’; in England it is aristocratic and conventional.

Religion is in Spain an individual passion, and the Spaniard is apt to absorb into his being the divine beings he worships. In France religion is mainly a school of thought, often leading to incredulity; in England, mostly an ethical force devoted to social service. Individual and concrete in Spain, it is abstract and universal in France, national and racial in England. The world is covered with English churches and English churchyards, so that Englishmen, no doubt, when the parting signal comes, sail in English coffins and land at last in an English eternity which is but another dominion beyond the seas of death.

The man of action; the man of thought; the man of passion — so different and yet so identical. Their existence is a brilliant proof of the delightful imagination of the Divine Artist.