Part 6

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, the destruction 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

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.

THE DANGER OF EXCESSIVE ANALYSIS

If there 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 mental life 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.

THE LAW OF COMPENSATION

When Azaïs, at the beginning of the nineteenth century, published his _Compensations 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 of _decadence_.”

Without going so far as this master of aphorisms, I say that egoism cannot be opposed to altruism, 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 what concerns 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 of compensation 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.

THE AUTHOR AND HER BOOK

The foregoing 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 to liberal 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 her throne 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. To them, 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 the _Reina Maria Cristina_, 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 proposed call, 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.