[Gian Rinaldo Carli, Della patria degli italiani, “Il Caffè”, n. 2, 1765.]
The coffeehouses are to the cities what the intestines are to the human machine; namely, channels by which nature brings to completion one of its most important functions, because these channels contain for a short while substances which would disrupt the entire physiological system, if they were to any degree forced into the blood circulation. Now, the coffeehouses digest gamblers, loafers, gossips, rogues, novelists, doctors, comedians, musicians, impostors, pedants and other such types that would easily penetrate society, to its great harm, if not collected in such excreting vessels. However, at least during certain hours of the day, the coffeehouse run by Demetrius is totally different: for, although some stranger may sometimes walk in, this place is usually full of learned and witty persons, whose discussions and meditations are dictated by their love for truth and for the public good, which, as Pythagoras asserted, are the only two things that raise man to the level of gods.
The other day, an Unknown, whose presence and physiognomy expressed that dignity which can only emanate from confident and sensitive souls, entered this coffeehouse, and, after having done what politeness requires, sat down and ordered a coffee. Unfortunately, there happened to be next to him a certain Alcibiades, a man as self-assured and self-contented as the others are full of doubts about him and discontented with him: by all accounts, a vain, biased, and long-winded talker. He stares at the Unknown with a smug smile of superiority and then inquires if he is a foreigner. The Unknown sizes him up from head to foot in a flash and with gracious ease answers, “No, not at all.” “Are you then Milanese?” pursued the other. “No sir, I am not Milanese,” he added. At this response, Alcibiades expresses surprise, and with reason, for everyone else was startled by the turn of the dialogue.
Now, after the surprise had subsided, and after he had sincerely avowed that he was confused, Alcibiades sought an explanation. “I am Italian,” answered the Unknown, “and an Italian in Italy is never a foreigner, just as a Frenchman is not a foreigner in France, an Englishman in England, a Dutchman in Holland, and so on.” The Milanese man tried in vain to sustain his position, by pointing out the universal custom in Italy of labeling as a 'foreigner' anyone not born and not residing within the walls of a particular city; but the Unknown interrupted him and added openly: “Among other prejudices in Italy, there is also this one, nor do I marvel at it, except that when I see it espoused by cultured persons, who with reflection, with reason, and with common sense should by now have triumphed over ignorance and barbarism. This may be called an irrational characteristic that renders the Italians inhospitable and inimical to their own kind, and as a consequence, causes the stagnation of art and science and places great obstacles in the achievement of national glory, which is ill served when the nation is divided into many factions and schisms. “It is no great honor”, he proceeded, “to the Italian ethos that, at all times, one encounters persons convinced of being, by nature and nationality, different from their neighbors, and who call one another foreigners, as if there were as many foreigners in Italy as there are Italians.”
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