XXXII
I had got thus far on my journey when I was obliged to dismount hastily. I should not have drawn attention to this incident if I were not conscientiously bound to inform those people who might like to adopt this mode of travelling, of the little inconveniences connected with it, after having dilated so much on its immense advantages.
Most windows not having been originally invented for the novel purpose to which I have put them, architects fail to give to them the comfortable shape and turn of an English saddle. No furthur explanation will, I hope, be needed to enable the intelligent reader to understand the painful reason which compelled me to dismount. I got off my horse somewhat painfully, and walked round my room several times in order to restore the circulation, and in the meanwhile I reflected on the strange medley of pains and pleasures which strew the path of life, and on the fatality which makes man the slave of the most trivial circumstances.
I hastened to remount my horse, having first provided myself with a cushion of eiderdown. I should not have dared to have done such a thing a few days before for fear of being hooted at by the horse soldiers, but, the night before, having met at the gates of Turin a party of Cossacks, who came in from the borders of Lake Méotides and the Caspian Sea mounted on similar cushions, I thought I might safely adopt the custom without offending against the laws of horsemanship, for which I have the greatest regard. Freed from the painful sensation which I have left to the reader’s imagination, I was able to abandon myself entirely, and without fear of disturbance, to the thoughts of my journey.
One of the difficulties which worried me most, because it touched my conscience, was to decide whether I should be doing right or wrong in leaving my Fatherland, half of which had itself already abandoned me. This step appeared to me to be too important to be decided hastily. While reflecting on that word “Fatherland,” I perceived that I had no very clear idea as to its meaning—of what does my Fatherland consist? Is it a collection of houses, of fields, and rivers? I can hardly believe this! Perhaps my family or my friends constitute my Fatherland; but they on the other hand have already left it. I have it! It is the government—but that also is changed. Good Heavens! where then is my Fatherland?
I passed my hand over my brow, in a state of inexplicable perturbation of mind, so ardent is the love of one’s country within us! The regret I felt at the bare thought of leaving mine, brought home its reality to me so strongly that I would have remained on horseback all my life sooner than have given up, before having got to the bottom of the difficulty.
I soon perceived that love of one’s country is made up of various combined factors, such as the attachment from childhood to persons, locality, and forms of government. It only now remains to consider how these three elements, each in its own way, make up the idea of a Fatherland.
The love of our fellow-countrymen generally depends on the government, and is simply the feeling of the power and happiness which it gives us in common; for real affection is limited to the family, and to the small number of individuals by whom we are immediately surrounded. Everything which interferes with custom or facility of intercourse turns men into enemies. The dwellers on either side of a mountain range cherish unfriendly thoughts towards each other; the inhabitants on the right bank of a river fancy themselves much superior to those on the left bank, and the latter, in their turn, feel contempt for their neighbours. We see this disposition even in large towns intersected by rivers, in spite of the bridges which join their banks. Difference of language further widens the breach between men under the same government: the very family in which our tenderest affections are centred is often scattered over the Fatherland, and continually suffers change in its constitution and number, and it may even seek a home in foreign lands. And thus we may conclude that the love of Fatherland dwells exclusively neither amongst our fellow-countrymen nor in our family.
Locality also contributes its full share to the attachment we feel for our native land. Here we come across a very interesting point. It has been always noticed that of all peoples, those who dwell in mountainous countries are most attached to their homes, and that wandering nations generally live in large plains. What is the reason of this difference in the attachment of these peoples to their homes? If I mistake not, it lies in this: that mountainous scenery possesses strongly marked features, which are totally absent in a level country. The latter resembles a plain woman, whom we cannot love in spite of all her good qualities. What remains, indeed, of his countryside to an inhabitant of a village in a forest, when, after the passage of an enemy, the village is burnt and the trees cut down? In vain the wretched man scans the long straight line of the horizon for some well-known landmark as a souvenir—there is none. Every point of the compass offers the same uniform aspect, the same features. That man is of necessity a wanderer, unless the government restrains him; but his dwelling place has a restraining influence over him; his country will be anywhere where the power of government extends, and he can never have more than half a Fatherland. The dweller in the mountains is attached to the objects which he has beheld from infancy, and which have palpable and indestructible forms: from all points in the valley he sees and recognises his field on the mountain side. The noise of the torrent, as it rushes seething among the rocks, never ceases; the footpath, which leads to the village, winds round a block of changeless granite. In his dreams he beholds the outlines of the mountains which are imprinted on his heart, just as, after looking for some time at a window, one still sees it when one’s eyes are shut; the picture engraved on his memory becomes part of himself and is never effaced. In short, remembrance attaches itself to locality, but it must have an object of prehistoric origin and of apparently infinite durability. Old buildings and bridges, everything that bears the appearance of grandeur and antiquity can in a measure take the place of mountains in one’s affection for locality; but, nevertheless, the heart is most deeply moved by the monuments of nature. In order to give Rome a name worthy of her, did not the Romans call her the City on the Seven Hills? Habits once formed can never be destroyed. The aged mountaineer has no affection for the streets and squares of a large town, and the inhabitant of a town can never become a mountaineer. This accounts for one of the greatest authors of our time, who had most cleverly described the deserts of America, finding the Alps insignificant and Mt. Blanc much too small.
The share of the government is clear—it is the basis of our Fatherland, and produces reciprocal attachment among men and strengthens the love of locality. Government alone by the recollection of good fortune or past glory can attach men to their native land. If the government is good, then the Fatherland is strong; if it becomes unjust, the Fatherland sickens; if it changes, the Fatherland dies. Then we have a new Fatherland, and each is free to adopt it or to choose another.
When all the population of Athens left that city trusting to the word of Themistocles, did the Athenians abandon their country? did they not rather carry it with them to their ships?
When Coriolanus … Good Heavens! what a discussion I am engaged in; I forget that I am on horseback at my window.