CHAPTER XLIII
ITALY[(27)]
Italy's good fortune is that it has been left to the inspiration of the moment, a good fortune which it shares, up to a certain point, with Germany and England.
Furthermore, Italy is a country where Utility, which was the guiding principle of the mediæval republic,[1] has not been dethroned by Honour or Virtue, disposed to the advantages of monarchy.[2] True honour leads the way to the fool's honour. It accustoms men to ask themselves: What will my neighbour think of my happiness? But how can happiness of the heart be an object of vanity, since no one can see it.?[3] In proof of all this, France is the country, where there are fewer marriages from inclination than anywhere else in the world.[4]
And Italy has other advantages. The Italian has undisturbed leisure and an admirable climate, which makes men sensible to beauty under every form. He is extremely, yet reasonably, mistrustful, which increases the aloofness of intimate love and doubles its charms. He reads no novels, indeed hardly any books, and this leaves still more to the inspiration of the moment. He has a passion for music, which excites in the soul a movement very similar to that of love.
In France, towards 1770, there was no mistrust.; on the contrary, it was good form to live and die before the public. As the Duchess of Luxemburg was intimate with a hundred friends, there was no intimacy and no friendship, properly so-called.
In Italy, passion, since it is not a very rare distinction, is not a subject of ridicule,[5] and you may hear people in the salons openly quoting general maxims of love. The public knows the symptoms and periods of this illness, and is very much concerned with it. They say to a man who has been deserted: "You'll be in despair for six months, but you'll get over it in the end, like So-and-so, etc."
In Italy, public opinion is the very humble attendant on passion. Real pleasure there exercises the power, which elsewhere is in the hands of society. 'Tis quite simple—for society can give scarcely any pleasure to a people, who has no time to be vain, and can have but little authority over those, who are only trying to escape the notice of their "pacha"[(29)]. The blasés censure the passionate—but who cares for them? South of the Alps, society is a despot without a prison.
As in Paris honour challenges, sword in hand, or, if possible, bon mot in the mouth, every approach to every recognised great interest, it is much more convenient to take refuge in irony. Many young men have taken up a different attitude, and become disciples of J. J. Rousseau and Madame de Staël. As irony had become vulgar, one had to fall back on feelings. A. de Pezai in our days writes like M. Darlincourt. Besides, since 1789, everything tends to favour utility or individual sensibility, as opposed to honour or the empire of opinion. The sight of the two Chambers teaches people to discuss everything, even mere nonsense. The nation is becoming serious, and gallantry is losing ground.