I may not appear to be a very great patriot, but, nevertheless, I am.
Yet I am unable to make my Spanish or Basque blood an exclusive
criterion for judging the world. If I believe that a better orientation
may be acquired by assuming an international point of view, I do not
hold it improper to cease to feel, momentarily, as a Spaniard or a
Basque.
In spite of this, a longing for the accomplishment of what shall be for
the greatest good of my country, normally obsesses my mind, but I am
wanting in the patriotism of lying.
I should like to have Spain the best place in the world, and the Basque
country the best part of Spain.
The feeling is such a natural and common one that it seems scarcely
worth while to explain it.
The climate of Touraine or of Tuscany, the Swiss lakes, the Rhine and
its castles, whatever is best in Europe, I would root up, if I had my
say, and set down here between the Pyrenees and the Straits of
Gibraltar. At the same time, I should denationalize Shakespeare,
Dickens, Tolstoi and Dostoievski, making them Spaniards. I should see
that the best laws and the best customs were those of our country. But
wholly apart from this patriotism of desire, lies the reality. What is
to be gained by denying it? To my mind nothing is to be gained.
There are many to whom the only genuine patriotism is the patriotism of
lying, which in fact is more of a matter of rhetoric than it is of
feeling.
Our falsifying patriots are always engaged in furious combat with other
equally falsifying internationalists.
"Nothing but what we have is of any account," cries one party.
"No, it is what the other fellow has," cries the other.
Patriotism is telling the truth as to one's country, in a sympathetic
spirit which is guided and informed by a love of that which is best.
Now some one will say: "Your patriotism, then, is nothing but an
extension of your ego; it is purely utilitarian."
Absolutely so. But how can there be any other kind of patriotism?