Lars Porsena of Clusium, By the Nine Gods He Swore

The Etruscans were pervasive in Central Italy, but their legacy was largely overwritten by the Romans. Three years ago we visited a recently discovered Etruscan tomb in Sarteano, and then went on the trail of Lars Porsena of Clusium.

Who were the Etruscans?

If you had asked me a couple of decades ago what I knew of the Etruscans, my answer like Gaul would have been divided into three parts. First, they lived in the area now known as Tuscany, which derives its name from them. Second, they spoke an unknown language unrelated to Latin. Third, Rome had been ruled by Tuscan kings until they heroically overthrew the last one, Tarquinius Superbus, ushering in the Republican Period. I then might have quoted a couple of half-remembered lines from Macaulay’s Lays of Ancient Rome, the part about Horatius defending the bridge that begins:

Lars Porsena of Clusium, by the nine gods he swore
That (something something something) should suffer wrong no more.

Not surprisingly, it turns out that things are bit more complicated than that.

Firstly, it is true that they started out in what is more or less modern Tuscany, although their original homeland extended eastwards into what is now Umbria, to the Tiber River and Perugia. At its widest extent their civilisation extended north into the Po Valley as far as Mantua, and to the south it reached down to Campania and Naples, so it well and truly included Rome. On that southern border they came into contact with the Greek colonies in Italy, absorbing many cultural influences.

As for the language, it is tantalising how little we know of the Etruscans’ culture, given how much we know about where they were, when they were, and what other cultures they interacted with, several of which were literate. We know that their language was indeed not Indo-European, and that it (and they) therefore probably pre-dated the migration of Aryan peoples into Europe. We also know more or less how it sounded because when the Etruscans became literate they adopted a version of the Greek alphabet, albeit written from right to left. In fact, in most of the museum exhibits I have seen, they even flipped the Greek characters into true mirror-writing, which makes it look odd indeed until you work out what is going on (note 1).

Etruscan inscription
Etruscan inscription from near Perugia, National Archaeological Museum of Umbria. Fujifilm GFX 50R camera, Fujifilm GF32-64mm R LM WR lens (click to enlarge).

But they left nothing but funerary inscriptions, and a tiny number of other documents recording religious rituals or commercial contracts, a couple of which are actually in parallel Etruscan and Latin language versions.

Finally, they left no descriptions of themselves, and the only descriptions we have are from early Greek writers, or Roman historians writing many generations later, which included the bits about the Etruscan kings of Rome. Given that Rome defined much of its early history by stories of wars in which the Etruscans were the bad guys, the traditions on which those historians – mainly Livy – were relying were probably not entirely objective. And like all such societies in that era, the great battles and glorious victories they celebrated were probably not much more than cattle raids. Finally, the Etruscan civilisation didn’t fall as such. Instead it was gradually romanised until it became indistinguishable from that of Rome, and faded away.

But it isn’t just that Etruria became Roman; some aspects of what we think of as Roman culture have Etruscan origins. It turns out that certain words which modern European languages inherited from Latin, including the English person and military, are thought to be derived in turn from Etruscan originals, so there are some distant modern echoes of that otherwise vanished language.

Chianciano and Sarteano

In June 2018 we were staying in the southern Tuscan town of Chianciano while waiting to hear whether our offer on an apartment in Umbria had been accepted. Chianciano is divided into a charming little medieval hill town and a newer town (Chianciano Terme) on the eastern slope of the range of hills that divides the Valdichiana from the Val d’Orcia. Chianciano Terme, as the name implies, is a spa town. It is mostly composed of mid-20th Century hotels catering for elderly patients who came there to take the waters for their livers. It’s a nice place and in particular the old town has some lovely views eastwards across the Valdichiana to the Umbrian hills. A particularly good place to look at the view was from the balcony of the Bar Pasticceria Centro Storico (below).

Chianciano
View of the Valdichiana from Chianciano. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

When the new town was being built they uncovered quite a few Etruscan tombs, and Chianciano now has a decent little museum in which to display the contents.

We have to admit though that a better Etruscan museum is in a town called Sarteano, about halfway between Chianciano and Monte Cetona, a few kilometres south.

Chianciano
Looking south from Chianciano toward Sarteano and Monte Cetona. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

As is almost always the case, the Etruscan remains around Sarteano are mostly tombs. When a few finds were turned up in the mid 19th Century, the aristocrat on whose land they were found financed some excavations which were scientific enough by the standards of the day, but proper archaeology as we understand the term had to wait until after the Second World War.

And the finds are still happening. One of the most spectacular occurred in 2003, and Lou had established that by paying a bit more on top of the price of the museum ticket, you could actually make a visit to that site on Saturday mornings. So we duly paid, and the following Saturday morning we made our way to the site following the directions given by the museum attendant (head out of town until you see a bunch of car dealers, then turn left just after the Rover sign). The road became a dirt track, then we eventually bumped to a halt in a field and got out to investigate.

Sarteano
Sarteano Etruscan necropolis. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

The first thing to say is that it is in an absolutely splendid location, augmented in this case by the fact that it was a flawless summer’s morning, with all sorts of flowers growing around, the air heavy with their scent, and resonant with the sound of bees and birds. We were standing on the broad shoulder of a range of hills that runs north-south and which separates the Valdichiana from the Val d’Orcia. Behind us to the right was the tall conical peak of Monte Cetona. Ahead, to the east we looked down into the Valdichiana which is a patchwork of fields and vineyards thrown over low rolling hills. On one such hill in the middle distance to the left was the town of Chiusi (the ancient Clusium of “Lars Porsena of Clusium“), in the distance was Lake Trasimeno, and on the distant skyline were the Apennines.

Chiusi
Chiusi from Sarteano Etruscan necropolis. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

The area appears to have been a necropolis, or burial area, and it seems to have been used for a period of several hundred years, stretching into the 1st Century AD. At one end of the excavated area is an oval structure of travertine stone which looks like a stage, which the archaeologists, plausibly enough, have decided was a stage, presumably used for pre-interment ceremonies. The entrances to the tombs are long passages cut into the hillside and lined with travertine; as the whole area is on a slope the passages can cut into the earth while being mostly horizontal themselves.

Sarteano
The “stage”at Sarteano Etruscan necropolis. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

Over the next quarter of an hour a dozen or so more visitors arrived, then there was a hallooing from a bit further down the hill which turned out to be coming from our guide. She was an archaeologist who had taken part in the 2003 excavations herself and been present at the discovery of the tomb we were about to see.

Sarteano
Sarteano: entrances to tombs. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

The tomb we had come to see is called the Tomba della Quadriga Infernale (Tomb of the Infernal Chariot) because of the frescoes. That they have survived at all is quite lucky. Some finds inside date from the early Middle Ages and suggest that it was actually used as a dwelling in that period. Or perhaps a refuge in times of war, as even by the standards of the time it can hardly have been a salubrious place to live. Then – in the 1940s, they think – grave robbers broke in and did some frightful damage to one of the frescoes. Fortunately much of the entry passage was buried by then, and the earth protected the other paintings.

We split into two groups to go in; Lou and I were in the first group. All the other people in our group were Italians, so our guide spoke in Italian, but very clearly and not too fast so we were able to follow most of what she said. Of course, we had visited the museum a couple of days earlier, so the vocabulary was familiar. You were allowed to take photos without flash, so I did, but just on my phone.

All the surviving paintings are on the left side as you go in. If there were any on the right, they might have been destroyed when the tomb was used as a dwelling in the Middle Ages. The first is what gives the tomb its name – it is a demon driving a chariot, drawn by a team of lions and griffins.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb
Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

He is heading towards the entrance of the tomb, which leads scholars to conclude that the charioteer is heading back to the world of the living after having carried a dead soul down to the underworld, in order to pick up the next passenger. This in turn leads those scholars to identify the demon with Charon, although we are more familiar with him as a boatman ferrying souls across the Styx. You can tell he is a demon, apparently, because of his large lower canine tooth, his red hair and white face. They didn’t mention the rouged cheeks and lipstick.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb
Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

Beyond the demon in the chariot is a picture of two men – one old and one young – embracing. The explanation back in the Sarteano museum had been that the younger one is the recently deceased, greeting his long-dead father in the underworld. The guide did at least acknowledge the other possibility that they were lovers – accepted enough in ancient Greece and therefore presumably possible in ancient Etruria.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb
Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

Then at the back of the tomb there was a three-headed serpent and a hippocampus or sea-horse. There was a sarcophagus at the end of the tomb which had been smashed up by one of the later intruders, and later reassembled by the archaeologists. Some human remains had been found among the bits, which on analysis had been found to be those of a male in his sixties.

Sarteano Etruscan Tomb
Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).
Sarteano Etruscan Tomb. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

There were several extraordinary things about all this. One was that the paintings had survived at all after more than two thousand years. Another was that they had survived in such good condition. And another was that we could just wander in there and look at them – no hermetically sealed system, no sheets of perspex between us and the paintings, and no ultrasonic alarms to prevent you getting too close. Although given that one lady almost backed into the charioteer before being warned off by the guide, maybe that might have been a good idea.

It was also fascinating to think that when we were first in these parts at the end of the 1990s, the tomb had yet to be discovered. Afterwards Lou and I lingered up above in the sunshine, admiring the view which – minus the odd high-speed railway line – was pretty much as the Etruscans would have seen it, and pondered how much else might be beneath our feet.

Sarteano
Sarteano Etruscan Necropolis. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).

Chiusi

Chianciano is quite close to the town of Chiusi, which as I said is the Clusium of the ancients. In the first twenty years or so of our visits to Italy, Chiusi to us was a motorway exit on the way north from Rome Airport to the Val d’Orcia in Tuscany, and a handy shopping centre and supermarket at a place called Querce al Pino, called – significantly – Centro Etrusco. If, instead of continuing towards Montepulciano you turn east towards Città della Pieve, you go through the modern town of Chiusi Scalo which is fringed by light industry and some now shabby-looking 1950s social housing.

Once we had worked out that there was more to Chiusi we paid a couple of visits to the old town, which has much to recommend it. It is pleasantly compact and neat, up on the hilltop where those Etruscans once decided to make a home. Being close to such tourist drawcards as Orvieto, Montepulciano and Pienza it has never really cracked the foreign tourist market, but in many ways this is no bad thing. One can only buy so many fridge magnets.

We have a definite tendency, when turning up in towns for the first time, to do so on unsuitable days. In this case we got a double because not only was it market day (where do they put markets? In the car parks) but also the annual feast day of St Mustiola, one of the patron saints of Chiusi. So the market had extended hours, and later when we tried to get into the duomo there was a mass going on. However we got lucky and found a parking spot and wandered around a bit.

Chiusi
Chiusi. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

We walked up to a little park which is on the site of the old acropolis and which is full of various bits of antique stonework turned up in the 18th and 19th centuries and too heavy, or not good enough, to sell to foreign collectors.

The Etruscan Museum is quite large, and worth a visit. Around the town, Etruscan and Roman remains are everywhere. Several buildings have obvious ancient stonework incorporated in their walls, and next to the duomo there is an Etrusco-Roman cistern of which the base is Etruscan and the upper part Roman. The whole thing has been converted into a bell tower for the duomo by the addition of some medieval brickwork on the top. You can climb it for excellent views of the town and the surrounding countryside.

Chiusi
Chiusi – Roman bits incorporated into a wall. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge)
Chiusi
Chiusi, the ancient cistern and medieval campanile. Nokia 6.1 phone camera (click to enlarge).
Chiusi
Chiusi: view of Lake Chiusi from the campanile. Hasselblad 501 C/M, Zeiss Distagon CF 60mm lens, CFV-50c digital back (click to enlarge).

Nearby there is the entrance to something called Il Labirinto di Porsenna of which we took a guided tour. The story of Lars Porsena’s tomb being hidden under Chiusi and protected by a labyrinth goes back a long way, being mentioned by the Roman historian Pliny the Elder. So when the “labyrinth” was rediscovered in the 1920s people were quick to make the association. The truth is a bit more prosaic: it is in fact a system of aqueducts and drains that made up the town water supply in antiquity. The townspeople put it to good use in the 1940s as air-raid shelters.

There are other signs of Etruscan influence. The main street is called Via Porsenna and I was hoping to find a “Lars Porsena Bar”, but we did not find one. We did at least eat at a little restaurant called “Osteria Etrusca” where one of the pizza toppings was called “Pizza Etrusca” and consisted of sausage and gorgonzola cheese. No doubt its authenticity is based on scholarly research, although the menu omitted any citations.

I have enough material to do a separate post on Chianciano one day. And we are not finished with the Etruscans either, because the following year we visited the town of Tarquinia in the northern part of Lazio, which has an extensive Etruscan necropolis.

note 1: In the excellent National Archaeological Museum of Umbria, in Perugia, I saw an inscription in the Umbrian language, which unlike Etruscan is Indo-European and in the same linguistic family as Latin. It used the Latin alphabet, but was written in mirror-writing like Etruscan.

A Brief Political History of the Italian Language

In Italy, when you turn on the television you will generally hear someone speaking an elegant language from the 14th Century. I would like to explore how that rather improbable state of affairs might have come about.

We should be in Italy now, but thanks to the pandemic, we cannot be. Instead, it has been a slightly bittersweet experience to have been watching the Giro d’Italia, not on Australian TV with local commentary, but over the Internet with the original Italian commentary. While I’m not particularly interested in bike racing, the scenery is wonderful, and listening to the commentary is good for one’s Italian. Before this I didn’t know that a curva gomito (“elbow curve”) is Italian for “hairpin bend”.

Watching and listening to RAI, the Italian state broadcaster, whether it be a bike race, a quiz show or the evening news, reminds one that RAI still maintains the principle that there is a “standard Italian” pronunciation and grammar, and deliberately models that standard. The Australian and British state broadcasters gave that sort of thing up long ago, and while that doubtless says something about Anglophone societies, I’m more interested in what it tells us about Italy.

Making the Italians

Every Italian knows the quote attributed to the Piedmontese scholar and statesman Massimo d’Azeglio – “L’Italia è fatta. Restano da fare gli Italiani.” (“Italy is made. The Italians remain to be made.” This is sometimes rendered more idiomatically as “We have made Italy. Now we have to make the Italians.”) That was in reference to the fact that unification in 1861 brought together a collection of very diverse populations which had not been under a single government since the fall of the Roman Empire. In fact, in political terms what had actually happened was that those diverse states had been incorporated into the Kingdom of Savoy (Piedmont), one of the less “Italian” of the states of Italy, in the sense that it had historically looked north across the Alps rather than south.

One of the principal ways in which Italian diversity was expressed was linguistic. I have read that at unification, only 2.5% of the population is estimated to have spoken what would become standard Italian, and Italy’s so-called “dialects” would actually have passed most of the tests that academic linguists require of discrete languages. So Italian dialects were not just the same language with different accents and a few funny words, but showed significant divergence – to the point of being mutually unintelligible in some cases.

Identifying and promoting a standard language would therefore have been high on d’Azeglio’s to-do list. There is an old joke among linguists about a language being a dialect with its own army and navy, so one might have expected the Piedmontese to impose their own – except that in Piedmont itself, the elite actually spoke French.

A Medieval Language

Instead, the decision was to adopt “literary Italian” as the national language. What was literary Italian? Well, it is not too broad a statement to say that in the 1860s it was essentially that of the 1300s – which is to say the language of Dante, Petrarch and Boccaccio. That’s pretty remarkable when you think about it – imagine if the English of Dickens was little changed from that of Chaucer.

Dante’s thing – later emulated by Petrarch and Boccaccio – was to write in the Florentine vernacular. I’ll talk a bit later about why that was special, but the effect was to put the Tuscan dialect at the centre of the Italian literary scene.

Certaldo
The Tuscan town of Certaldo, Boccaccio’s birthplace. Canon EOS-3 35mm film camera, 28-135mm IS lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

And so it remained – which is why Lorenzo da Ponte, Mozart’s librettist for Don Giovanni, The Marriage of Figaro and Così fan’ Tutte, wrote Italian in the 1780s that was not significantly different from that written by Dante 480 years earlier, or found on Italian TV now. This despite the fact that da Ponte came from the Veneto and presumably originally spoke that dialect.

Fast-forward to the great “making the Italians” project of the 19th Century, and the decision to adopt literary Tuscan Italian as the official language would have had obvious advantages. It was already written and understood by educated people throughout the new country, which would have made proceedings in the new parliament easier. But in addition, as education became accessible to more of the population it instantly provided a body of national literature which could be taught to youth. And it invoked great Italian names that would stoke national pride.

Of course it would have had the side effect of making the Florentines even more insufferable, but there is always a cost.

There had been a counter-proposal to choose the Roman version of educated Italian that was spoken in the higher levels of the Catholic Church, but apart from annoying the Florentines it would have lacked most of Tuscan’s advantages. Moreover I suspect that the suggestion would not have been helped by the increasingly adamant opposition to Italian unification from Pope Pius IX.

Rinsing in the Arno

New literature was written, and some existing works in regional dialects rewritten, in standard Italian. The novel I Promessi Sposi (The Betrothed) by Alessandro Manzoni was first published in 1825, and remains one of Italy’s favourites which everyone studies at school. Manzoni was a Milanese, and the novel is set on Lake Como, further north in Lombardy. Despite this Manzoni was in favour of adopting literary Tuscan Italian as the national language, and so he rewrote the book twenty years later, replacing the original Lombard idioms with Florentine ones. As he put it, he “rinsed his clothes in the Arno” (the river that flows through Florence).

Florence
Florence and the Arno. Canon EOS-3 35mm film camera, 28-135mm IS lens, Fujichrome Velvia film. Five images stitched in Photoshop (click to enlarge).

Despite consensus on a language having been achieved, the original Italian constitution did not explicitly require that there be a single Italian language, and it was not until the Fascist era that a law was passed giving primacy to standard Italian. This is not surprising, as the Fascists were particularly keen on the idea of a single language as a national unifier (or as an instrument for controlling society, if you prefer). Characteristically they overdid it, forcing Italian on non-Italian-speaking minorities such as Slovenes and the German-speaking South Tyrolese. That was a bit rich from the country that invented the term “irredentism” (see below).

The cumulative effect of all this was that by the early 1950s, more and more people (almost 90%) understood standard Italian, although a significant number (over 60%) still spoke their own dialect at home or in the community. Seventy years on, standard Italian has triumphed, and the institution that has been more responsible for this than anything else is the national broadcaster, RAI (compulsory military service was another factor, but only for men). After the war, more and more people got access first to radio and then television, and just as people used to refer to “BBC English”, there was and remains a “RAI Italian”.

Powerful evidence of this change is the experience of members of the Italian diaspora – mostly not highly-educated – who emigrated from Italy to countries like Australia after the war. One hears many reports of people who left Italy as children or young adults speaking only their local dialect, and who returned there in old age to find that they could not understand what was being said around them in the street. I have had a couple of these stories at first hand, including from my elderly barber of a few years ago, a lovely fellow called Franco who came to Australia from Sulmona in Abruzzo in the 1960s.

People value most what they fear to lose, and so nowadays one sees more interest in, and respect for, dialects and regional languages. The attitude of the authorities has gone from intolerance through tolerance to official recognition in the form of bilingual road signs in some areas. Will this be effective? It is increasingly common for younger people to use dialect, if at all, only when speaking to their grandparents’ generation.

How Different are the Italian Dialects?

One of our favourite aids to learning Italian is a TV quiz show called l’Eredità. This screens each evening on RAI 1 for much of the year, and with its genial host and cheesy dancing girls, is hugely popular especially during COVID lockdowns. And from the language student’s point of view, the formulaic nature of quiz shows is quite helpful.

The questions mix popular and “high” culture, – for example one contestant might be asked to identify which hit songs were recorded by which popular artist, while the next is given a list of literary characters and asked whether they are to be found in the pages of Dante or Manzoni. A third might be asked for the past participles of various irregular verbs (we are reassured to find that even Italians don’t always get them right).

A theme to which the program often returns is “dialetti”, in which contestants are asked for the meaning of proverbs and sayings in regional dialects. While the examples are obviously chosen for their difficulty, it is entertaining to see how some nugget of folk wisdom from – say – Calabria will baffle a person from Trentino, and the other way round as well.

When seeing such dialect phrases on the screen, one is struck by how very different they look from standard Italian – not just the vocabulary, but more fundamental aspects of language like syntax, conjugations and phonology. Some of the strangeness can presumably be attributed to the spelling – scholars and enthusiastic nationalists who devise orthographies for minority languages will generally wish to emphasise what distinguishes them from the majority language, rather than what they have in common. But it remains striking that standard Italian looks more like Spanish than it does Neapolitan.

Not only that, but it actually looks more like Latin than it looks like most Italian dialects. A recent (and very funny) Italian film is called Quo Vado, which is both good Italian and good Latin.

When I first noticed this many years ago it seemed perfectly reasonable to me. After all, Italian is derived from vulgate Latin, and is spoken in the same part of the world. But, on reflection, so are all other Italian dialects, and they are separated from Latin by the same amount of time. So why is this? Why is standard Italian so unlike regional dialects, and so similar to Latin?

It would seem that there are a few reasons, the first one being that canonical works of literature slow down the rate of change in the languages in which they are written. If you need examples in English, you have Shakespeare and, more profoundly influential, the King James version of the Bible. And in Italy, the literature that all educated people learned was written in Florentine.

Not only that, but at the time when it was elevated to canonical status by Dante, it seems that Florentine was already a rather old-fashioned Italian dialect, preserving more archaic features than others. In one of those sound shifts so beloved of historical philologists, every version of Italian other than Florentine and Corsican had already undergone some major changes. Oddly enough the result is that today a dialect that is closer than many to standard Italian – Corsican – is spoken in what is now a part of France.

The combined effect of these was that Florentine started out a bit more archaic than other dialects, and then evolved more slowly than they did.

A third reason is the association of Florentine culture with the Renaissance. The rediscovery of antiquity as a source of artistic models would have had the obvious effect of causing scholars to emphasise those elements of language that they believed to represent continuity with antiquity, and to place less emphasis on others. This occurred in all of the main European languages, even those not of Latin origin. An English, Dutch or German scholar looking to dignify their language with Latinisms would face the problem that their language was basically Germanic, and could only look for introduced vocabulary that had, or could be argued to have, Latin or Greek origins. But in Florentine Italian, scholars and enthusiasts had a great deal more Latin-derived material to work with – syntax, verb declensions and most of the vocabulary.

The first institutional attempt to “purify” any European language arose in Florence in 1583, in the form of the Accademia della Crusca, still the notional source of authority on the Italian language . “Crusca” means “bran”, and the idea was that the members – writers, philosophers and other intellectuals – would winnow out the less worthy bits of the language, and keep the better parts. The Accademia was the model for the better-known Académie Française, created in 1635 by Cardinal Richelieu – however the Accademia has managed to do its job with less pomposity and chauvinism than has the Académie.

Postscript: Irredentism, Fascism and minority languages.

When the unified Kingdom of Italy was proclaimed in 1861, substantial chunks of territory with Italian-speaking populations were not yet part of it as they remained under Austrian rule. These were the modern regions of Veneto, Trentino-Alto Adige and Friuli-Venezia Giulia, plus some parts of what are now Slovenia and Croatia such as the Istrian peninsula. They were referred to by Italian nationalists as le terre irredente, or “the unredeemed lands”. The idea that people speaking the same language should have their own country, and that political boundaries should match linguistic ones, thus came to be called “irredentism”. The term came back into vogue for a while in the 1990s, as eastern European countries re-drew their boundaries (or, in the former Yugoslavia, went to war with each other) after the fall of the Soviet Union.

Rovinj
Rovinj in Croatia, originally an Italian-speaking part of the Venetian empire called Rovigno. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, CFV-50c digital back, Zeiss Sonnar CF 150mm lens. Two images, stitched in Photoshop (click to enlarge).

With the defeat of Austria-Hungary in World War 1, Italy made a bid for those territories in the Treaty of Versailles, even the German-speaking South Tyrol. President Woodrow Wilson, whose grasp of the geography of that part of the world seems not to have been very strong, agreed with Italy, and so it came to pass- apart from the bits that went to the newly created state of Yugoslavia. Shortly after that, the Fascists came to power in Italy, and as we have seen, started forcing Italian onto their minority populations. In the South Tyrol, a particularly unpleasant Fascist called Ettore Tolomei drew up a list of measures that included preventing children being given German names, and creating new Italian placenames for towns, mountains and rivers that had never had them. Most of those confected names are still officially gazetted, albeit now alongside the original ones. As I said, it was a bit rich coming from a government that had spent the previous seventy years complaining about the rights of oppressed Italian speakers under foreign rule.

The picture below was taken in the town of Seis in the South Tyrol, and as you can see it doesn’t look very Italian, despite also having the Italian name of Siusi.

Seis
Seis. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, 6×6 rollfilm back, Zeiss Planar C 80mm lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

This photograph is of Schloss Prösels nearby – again, not a very Italian name, and not a very Italian-looking scene.

Schloss Prösels
Schloss Prösels. Hasselblad 501 C/M camera, 6×6 rollfilm back, Zeiss Sonnar C 250mm lens, Fujichrome Velvia film (click to enlarge).

The Fascists also relocated some non-Italian groups into monoglot Italian areas. Readers of Eric Newby’s Love and War in the Apennines may recall that this was how his wife-to-be Wanda, a Slovene, came to be living in the middle of Italy.

With the fall of Fascism and the creation of the Italian Republic in 1946, the new constitution actually contained, in its Article 6, recognition of the rights of linguistic minorities. Article 6 was largely ignored for fifty years though, and relief for German and French speakers from oppressive laws only came about as a result of pressure from the Austrian and French governments. Only in the late 1990s did the Italian Parliament actually pass any laws giving practical effect to Article 6, and resentment still persists. I quickly discovered, when visiting the South Tyrol, that attempting to engage the locals in Italian was not a good idea – and as I speak hardly any German, English turned out to be a better choice.

The political fortunes of Fascism had an unlikely effect on the Italian language. The Fascists did not like the (curious, to the ears of English speakers) Italian use of the feminine-gender third person singular pronoun Lei as the polite form of address to people of either sex. They thought it unbecoming for manly chaps such as themselves to call each other, in effect, “she”. So good Fascists started using the second-person plural voi as the polite form, as with the French use of vous and the English you. In other circumstances, that change might have stuck. But after the war there was a general updating of people’s CVs to show that they had never actually been fascists at all, really. So the Lei form suddenly became “correct” again, as it remains.