Chapter 40 (2)

I remember a French caricature aimed at some time or other against the Fourierists with their _attraction passionnée_; it represents an ass with a stick fixed upon its back, and a wisp of hay hung on the stick so that he can see it. The donkey, thinking to reach the hay, is obliged to move forward—the hay, of course, moves too, and he follows it. Perhaps the worthy animal might progress in that way, but all the same he would be made a fool of!

I will pass now to an account of how hospitably I was received by one country when another had just turned me out for no reason whatever. Schaller promised Vogt to take steps about my naturalisation—that is, to find a commune which would consent to receive me and then to support the case in the Great Council. For naturalisation in Switzerland it is essential that some town or village commune should previously agree to accept the new citizen, a regulation quite in keeping with the self-government of each canton and each little district. The village of Châtel near Morat (Murten) agreed to receive my family into the number of its peasant families for a small money contribution to the village society. This village is not far from the lake of Murten, the neighbourhood of which was the scene of the defeat and slaying of Charles the Bold, whose unhappy death and name were so adroitly used by the Austrian censorship (and afterwards the Petersburg one) to replace the name of William Tell in Rossini’s opera.

When the case came before the Great Council, two Jesuitical deputies raised their voices against me, but did nothing. One of them said that it ought to be ascertained why I was in exile, and how I had provoked the anger of Nicholas. ‘Why, but that’s a recommendation in itself!’ somebody answered, and they all laughed. Another, from far-sighted prudence, asked for fresh guarantees that in case of my death the education and maintenance of my children would not fall on the poor commune. This son in Jesus too was satisfied by Schaller’s answer. My rights of citizenship were accepted by a vast majority, and I was transformed from an upper court councillor to a peasant of the village of Châtel near Murten, _originaire de Châtel près Morat_, as the Freiburg clerk wrote on my passport.

Naturalisation, however, is no hindrance to a career in Russia. I have two illustrious examples before my eyes: Louis-Napoleon became a citizen of Thurgovie, and Alexander the Second a burgher of Darmstadt; both became emperors after their naturalisation. I am not going so far as that.

On receiving the news of the ratification of my rights, it was almost necessary for me to go and thank my new fellow-citizens and to make their acquaintance. Moreover, just at that time I had an intense craving to be alone, to look into myself, to revise the past, to discern something in the mist of the future, and I was glad of this external reason.

On the eve of my departure from Nice, I received a summons from the head of the police _di la Sicurezza publica_. He informed me that I was ordered by the Minister of the Interior to leave immediately the domains of Sardinia. This strange step on the part of the tame and evasive Sardinian Government surprised me far more than my banishment from Paris in 1850; besides, there was no sort of occasion for it.

I am told that I was indebted for it to the zeal of two or three faithful Russian subjects living in Nice, and among them it is pleasant for me to name the Minister of Justice, Panin; it was more than he could tolerate that a man who had brought upon himself the Imperial wrath of Nicholas was not only living in peace and in the same town as himself, but was actually writing articles, though aware that the Most High did not look upon this with favour. When he went to Turin, this Minister of Justice, I am told, asked the minister Azeglio, as a friend, to banish me. Azeglio’s heart, probably, had some intuition that when I was learning Italian in the Krutitsky Barracks I had read his _La Disfida di Barletta_—a novel neither ‘classical nor old-fashioned,’ though nevertheless tedious; and so he did nothing, or perhaps he hesitated to send me out because such friendly attentions should have been preceded by the sending of a Russian ambassador, and Nicholas was still sulking over the revolutionary ideas of Charles Albert.

On the other hand, the chief of police in Nice and the ministers in Turin took advantage of the suggestion at the first opportunity. Some days before I was turned out, there was a popular demonstration in Nice, in which the boatmen and shopkeepers, carried away by the eloquence of the banker Avigdor, protested, and rather audaciously too, against the suppression of the free port, talking of the independence of the duchy of Nice, and its inalienable rights. The imposition of a light customs-duty on the whole kingdom diminished their privileges, regardless of the ‘independence of the duchy of Nice,’ and its rights ‘inscribed on the scrolls of history.’

Avigdor, that O’Connell of the Paillon (that is the name of the dry river that runs through Nice), was thrown into prison, patrols paraded the streets at night, and so did the people, and both sang songs, the same songs too; and that was all. Need I say that neither I nor any other foreigner took any part in this domestic quarrel over tariffs and customs-duties? Nevertheless, the _Intendant_ pitched upon several of the refugees as ringleaders, and among them, upon me. The ministry, wishing to set an example of salutary severity, ordered me to be turned out together with the rest.

I went to the _Intendant_ (a Jesuit), and, observing to him that it was a superfluous luxury to turn a man out when he was going of himself and had his passport already viséd in his pocket, asked him what was wrong. He declared that he was as surprised as I was, and that the measure had been taken by the Ministry of the Interior without any preliminary reference to himself. At the same time, he was so extremely polite that I had no doubt in my mind that he was responsible for the whole nasty business. I reported my conversation with him to the well-known deputy in the opposition, Lorenzo Valerio, and went off to Paris.

Valerio made a savage attack upon the minister in his interpellation, and demanded the reasons for my deportation. The minister was disconcerted, denied any influence of the Russian diplomacy, threw everything upon the report of the _Intendant_, and meekly concluded by saying that if the ministry had acted too hastily and imprudently it would with pleasure alter its decision.

The opposition applauded; consequently, _de facto_, the prohibition was withdrawn, but though I wrote to the minister he made no answer. I read Valerio’s speech and the answer to it in the newspapers, and resolved to go simply to Turin on the return journey from Freiburg. That I might not be refused a visa, I went without a visa; on the Swiss border of Piedmont, passports are not examined with the savage zeal of French gendarmes. In Turin I went to the Minister of the Interior: I was received by his deputy, who superintended the superior police, Count Pons de la Martino, a man well known in those parts, clever, crafty, and devoted to the Catholic party.

His reception surprised me. He said to me everything I had meant to say to him; something similar had happened to me in one of my interviews with Dubbelt, but Count Pons far outdid that.

He was a very elderly, thin, sickly-looking man of most unprepossessing appearance, with malicious, sly-looking features, rough grey hair, and a rather clerical aspect. Before I had time to say a dozen words in regard to the reason of my asking for an interview with the minister, he interrupted me with the words:—

‘Why, upon my word, what doubt can there be about it?... Go to Nice, go to Genoa, stay here—only without the slightest _rancune_ ... it was all the doing of the _Intendant_ ... you see, we are still learning our business, we are not accustomed to legality, to constitutional order. If you had done anything contrary to the law, there is a law-court for that; then you would have no cause to complain of injustice, would you?’

‘I quite agree with you, I should not.’

‘Instead of that _they take_ steps which cause irritation ... and excite an uproar—and without any need whatever!’

After this speech against _himself_, he hastily snatched up a piece of paper with the ministerial imprint, and wrote: _Si permette al Sig. A. H. di ritornare a Nizza e di restarvi quanto tempo credera convienente. Per il ministro S. Martino—12 Giulio 1851._ ‘Here, take this to provide for all possibilities, though you may rest assured that you will never need it. I am very glad, very glad indeed, that we have settled this business with you.’

As this was equivalent, in the vulgar tongue, to ‘Go, and God bless you,’ I left my Pons, smiling at the thought of the face of the _Intendant_ at Nice; but Providence did not favour me with the sight of it—he had been transferred.

But to return to Freiburg and its canton: when, like all mortals who have been in Freiburg, we had listened to the celebrated organ and driven over the celebrated bridge, we set off for Châtel, accompanied by a good-natured old man, the treasurer of the Freiburg canton. At Murten the prefect of police, a vigorous man and a radical, asked us to stay with him, telling us that the village elder had charged him to send word beforehand of our arrival, as he and the other householders would be very much disappointed if I came without letting them know; and they were all in the fields at work when I arrived. After walking about Morat or Murten for a couple of hours, we set off, and the prefect with us.

Near the elder’s house several old peasants were awaiting us, headed by the elder himself, a tall, venerable, grey-headed, and rather bent but muscular old man. He stepped forward, took off his hat, held out his broad, strong hand to me, and saying, ‘_Lieber Mitbürger ..._,’ delivered a speech of welcome in such Swiss-German that I did not understand a word of it. It was possible to make a rough guess at what he could say to me, and therefore, reflecting that if I concealed that I did not understand him, he would conceal that he did not understand me, I boldly answered him:—

‘Dear Citizen Elder, and dear fellow-citizens of Châtel! I am come to thank you for giving a refuge to me and my children in your commune, and putting an end to my homeless wandering. I, dear citizens, did not leave my native land to seek another; I loved the Russian people with my whole heart, but I left Russia because I could not be a dumb, inactive witness of oppression. I left it after exile pursued by the ferocious despotism of Nicholas. His powerful arm, which has reached me everywhere where there is a king or a lord, is not long enough to reach me in your commune! Without fear I put myself under your protection, as in a haven where I can always find peace. You, citizens of Châtel, you a handful of men, you taking me amongst you, have been able to arrest the lifted hand of the Russian Emperor armed with a million bayonets. You are stronger than he! But you are strong only through the free republican institutions that have been yours for ages! With pride I enter into your commune, and hurrah for the Helvetian Republic!’

‘_Dem neuen Bürger hoch! Es lebe der neue Bürger!_’ answered the old men, and warmly pressed my hand; I myself was somewhat agitated!

The village elder invited us into his house.

We went in, and sat down on benches at a long table on which there was bread and cheese. Two peasants dragged in a bottle of terrific size, larger than those famous bottles which are snugly stored away for whole winters in our old-fashioned houses in some corner by the stove, filled with home-made liqueurs and cordials. This bottle was covered with basket-work, and full of white wine. The village elder told us that this was the local wine, but that it was very old, that he remembered the bottle for over thirty years, and that this wine was only drunk on very special occasions. All the peasants sat down with us to the table except two, who were busy with the cathedral-like bottle. They poured wine from it into a large jug, and the village elder poured it from the jug into the glasses; there was a glass before every peasant, but he brought me a grand crystal goblet, observing as he did so to the treasurer and the prefect: ‘You must excuse me on this occasion; to-day we offer the cup of honour to our fellow-citizen; you are old friends.’

While the elder was filling the glasses, I noticed that one of the company, dressed not quite like a peasant, was very restless, mopping his face, turning crimson, and seeming ill at ease; when the village elder proposed they should drink my health, he leaped on his feet with the courage of despair, and addressing me began a speech. ‘That,’ the elder whispered in my ear with a significant air, ‘is the citizen teacher in our school.’ I stood up.

The teacher spoke not Swiss but German, and not simply but on the model of particularly famous orators and writers: he referred both to William Tell and to Charles the Bold (what would the Austrian and Russian stage censorship have done?—perhaps they would have called them William the Bold and Charles Tell), and at the same time did not forget the less new than expressive comparison of bondage with a gilded cage from which the bird will still strive to be free. Nicholas caught it hot from him; he ranked him with very disreputable persons from Roman history. I almost interrupted him at that point to say, ‘Don’t insult the dead,’ but, as though from a presentiment that Nicholas would soon be among them, held my peace.

The peasants listened to him, craning their wrinkled sunburnt necks and putting up their hands to their ears like sunshades; the treasurer had a little nap, and to conceal the fact was the first to praise the orator.

Meanwhile the village elder was not sitting idle, but zealously filling up glasses and preparing toasts like the most practised master of the ceremonies—‘To the Confederation!’ ‘To Freiburg and its radical government!’ ‘To President Schaller!’

‘To my kindly fellow-citizens of Châtel!’ I proposed at last, feeling that the wine, though its taste was not strong, was far from weak in its effects. All rose to their feet.... The elder said: ‘No, no, _lieber Mitbürger_, a full glass, as we drank a full glass to you.’ My venerable friends were becoming expansive, the wine was warming them up.... ‘Bring your children,’ said one. ‘Yes, yes,’ others chimed in; ‘let them see how we live: we are simple people, they will learn no harm from us, and we shall have a look at them.’

‘Certainly!’ I answered, ‘certainly!’

Then the village elder began apologising for the poorness of their reception, saying that it was all the treasurer’s fault, that he ought to have let them know two days beforehand, that then it would have been very different, they might have provided a band, and that they would have welcomed and escorted me with gun-shots. I very nearly said to him, _à la_ Louis-Philippe: ‘After all, what has happened?—only one peasant more in Châtel.’

We parted great friends. I was rather surprised that I had seen not one woman or girl, nor even one young man. It was a working day, however. It is noteworthy, too, that to a festivity so unusual for them the pastor had not been invited.

I felt greatly indebted to them for that. The pastor would certainly have spoilt it all; he would have delivered a stupid sermon, and with his decorous propriety would have been like a fly in a glass of wine which must be removed before you can drink with pleasure.

At last we were seated again in the treasurer’s little carriage, or rather chaise; we took the prefect to Morat, and set off for Freiburg. The sky was covered with storm-clouds; I felt sleepy and giddy. I tried not to go to sleep: surely it cannot be their wine? I wondered with some contempt for myself.... The treasurer smiled slyly, and then himself began dozing; drops of rain began falling, I covered myself with my overcoat, must have fallen asleep ... then woke up at the contact of cold water.... The rain was pouring in bucketsful, black storm-clouds seemed striking fire from craggy heights, far-away peals of thunder came rolling over the mountains. The treasurer was standing in the hall laughing loudly and talking with the host of the Zöringer Hof.

‘Well,’ the host asked me, ‘it seems our simple peasant wine is very different from the French, eh?’

‘Why, can we have arrived?’ I asked, emerging drenched from the chaise.

‘There’s nothing strange in that,’ observed the treasurer; ‘what is strange is that you have slept through a storm such as we have not had for a long time. Did you really hear nothing?’

‘Nothing!’

Afterwards I found out that the simple Swiss wines, which do not taste at all strong, acquire great strength with age and act powerfully on those unaccustomed to them. The treasurer avoided telling me this on purpose; besides, even if he had told me I could not have refused the peasants’ good-natured hospitality and their toasts, still less could I have ceremoniously moistened my lips and made difficulties. That I did the right thing is proved by the fact that when a year later, on my way from Berne to Geneva, I met the prefect of Morat at the station, he said to me: ‘Do you know how you acquired great popularity among our Châtel peasants?’ ‘No!’ ‘To this day they tell with proud self-satisfaction how their new fellow-citizen, after drinking their wine, slept through a storm and drove in a downpour of rain from Morat to Freiburg, knowing nothing about it.’

And so that is how I became a free citizen of the Swiss Confederation and got drunk on Châtel wine.[75]