3. Chapter III: Why The Americans Show So Little Sensitiveness In
Their Own Country, And Are So Sensitive In Europe
The temper of the Americans is vindictive, like that of all
serious and reflecting nations. They hardly ever forget an
offence, but it is not easy to offend them; and their resentment
is as slow to kindle as it is to abate. In aristocratic
communities where a small number of persons manage everything,
the outward intercourse of men is subject to settled conventional
rules. Everyone then thinks he knows exactly what marks of
respect or of condescension he ought to display, and none are
presumed to be ignorant of the science of etiquette. These
usages of the first class in society afterwards serve as a model
to all the others; besides which each of the latter lays down a
code of its own, to which all its members are bound to conform.
Thus the rules of politeness form a complex system of
legislation, which it is difficult to be perfectly master of, but
from which it is dangerous for anyone to deviate; so that men are
constantly exposed involuntarily to inflict or to receive bitter
affronts. But as the distinctions of rank are obliterated, as
men differing in education and in birth meet and mingle in the
same places of resort, it is almost impossible to agree upon the
rules of good breeding. As its laws are uncertain, to disobey
them is not a crime, even in the eyes of those who know what they
are; men attach more importance to intentions than to forms, and
they grow less civil, but at the same time less quarrelsome.
There are many little attentions which an American does not care
about; he thinks they are not due to him, or he presumes that
they are not known to be due: he therefore either does not
perceive a rudeness or he forgives it; his manners become less
courteous, and his character more plain and masculine.
The mutual indulgence which the Americans display, and the
manly confidence with which they treat each other, also result
from another deeper and more general cause, which I have already
adverted to in the preceding chapter. In the United States the
distinctions of rank in civil society are slight, in political
society they are null; an American, therefore, does not think
himself bound to pay particular attentions to any of his fellow-citizens, nor does he require such attentions from them towards
himself. As he does not see that it is his interest eagerly to
seek the company of any of his countrymen, he is slow to fancy
that his own company is declined: despising no one on account of
his station, he does not imagine that anyone can despise him for
that cause; and until he has clearly perceived an insult, he does
not suppose that an affront was intended. The social condition
of the Americans naturally accustoms them not to take offence in
small matters; and, on the other hand, the democratic freedom
which they enjoy transfuses this same mildness of temper into the
character of the nation. The political institutions of the
United States constantly bring citizens of all ranks into
contact, and compel them to pursue great undertakings in concert.
People thus engaged have scarcely time to attend to the details
of etiquette, and they are besides too strongly interested in
living harmoniously for them to stick at such things. They
therefore soon acquire a habit of considering the feelings and
opinions of those whom they meet more than their manners, and
they do not allow themselves to be annoyed by trifles.
I have often remarked in the United States that it is not
easy to make a man understand that his presence may be dispensed
with; hints will not always suffice to shake him off. I
contradict an American at every word he says, to show him that
his conversation bores me; he instantly labors with fresh
pertinacity to convince me; I preserve a dogged silence, and he
thinks I am meditating deeply on the truths which he is uttering;
at last I rush from his company, and he supposes that some urgent
business hurries me elsewhere. This man will never understand
that he wearies me to extinction unless I tell him so: and the
only way to get rid of him is to make him my enemy for life.
It appears surprising at first sight that the same man
transported to Europe suddenly becomes so sensitive and captious,
that I often find it as difficult to avoid offending him here as
it was to put him out of countenance. These two opposite effects
proceed from the same cause. Democratic institutions generally
give men a lofty notion of their country and of themselves. An
American leaves his country with a heart swollen with pride; on
arriving in Europe he at once finds out that we are not so
engrossed by the United States and the great people which
inhabits them as he had supposed, and this begins to annoy him.
He has been informed that the conditions of society are not equal
in our part of the globe, and he observes that among the nations
of Europe the traces of rank are not wholly obliterated; that
wealth and birth still retain some indeterminate privileges,
which force themselves upon his notice whilst they elude
definition. He is therefore profoundly ignorant of the place
which he ought to occupy in this half-ruined scale of classes,
which are sufficiently distinct to hate and despise each other,
yet sufficiently alike for him to be always confounding them. He
is afraid of ranging himself too high -still more is he afraid
of being ranged too low; this twofold peril keeps his mind
constantly on the stretch, and embarrasses all he says and does.
He learns from tradition that in Europe ceremonial observances
were infinitely varied according to different ranks; this
recollection of former times completes his perplexity, and he is
the more afraid of not obtaining those marks of respect which are
due to him, as he does not exactly know in what they consist. He
is like a man surrounded by traps: society is not a recreation
for him, but a serious toil: he weighs your least actions,
interrogates your looks, and scrutinizes all you say, lest there
should be some hidden allusion to affront him. I doubt whether
there was ever a provincial man of quality so punctilious in
breeding as he is: he endeavors to attend to the slightest rules
of etiquette, and does not allow one of them to be waived towards
himself: he is full of scruples and at the same time of
pretensions; he wishes to do enough, but fears to do too much;
and as he does not very well know the limits of the one or of the
other, he keeps up a haughty and embarrassed air of reserve.
But this is not all: here is yet another double of the human
heart. An American is forever talking of the admirable equality
which prevails in the United States; aloud he makes it the boast
of his country, but in secret he deplores it for himself; and he
aspires to show that, for his part, he is an exception to the
general state of things which he vaunts. There is hardly an
American to be met with who does not claim some remote kindred
with the first founders of the colonies; and as for the scions of
the noble families of England, America seemed to me to be covered
with them. When an opulent American arrives in Europe, his first
care is to surround himself with all the luxuries of wealth: he
is so afraid of being taken for the plain citizen of a democracy,
that he adopts a hundred distorted ways of bringing some new
instance of his wealth before you every day. His house will be
in the most fashionable part of the town: he will always be
surrounded by a host of servants. I have heard an American
complain, that in the best houses of Paris the society was rather
mixed; the taste which prevails there was not pure enough for
him; and he ventured to hint that, in his opinion, there was a
want of elegance of manner; he could not accustom himself to see
wit concealed under such unpretending forms.
These contrasts ought not to surprise us. If the vestiges
of former aristocratic distinctions were not so completely
effaced in the United States, the Americans would be less simple
and less tolerant in their own country -they would require less,
and be less fond of borrowed manners in ours.