National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943 [1st ed.] 9783030541491, 9783030541507

Table of contents :
Front Matter ....Pages i-xiii
Atlases of Translations (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 1-21
Orientations: La Voce and Gobetti (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 23-61
The Twenties: Cultural Explorations and Experimentations Between Highbrow and Popular (1918–1932) (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 63-118
The 1930s: The Spaces of Culture (1932–1938) (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 119-151
Versatile Publishing Projects (1938–1943) (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 153-190
Classics Revisited (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 191-222
Conclusion (Francesca Billiani)....Pages 223-225
Back Matter ....Pages 227-258

Citation preview

National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943

Francesca Billiani

National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943

Francesca Billiani

National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943 Translated by Georgia Wall

With an Afterword by Enrico Terrinoni

Francesca Billiani School of Arts, Languages and Cultures University of Manchester Manchester, UK

ISBN 978-3-030-54149-1 ISBN 978-3-030-54150-7 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover image: © lcodacci/Getty Images, Image ID: 1149818740 This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To Γ εωργ ´ ιoς In memory of Papà and Remo Ceserani

Acknowledgements

Revisiting what has already been written is never a straightforward process. I believed it was important to make available this research to scholars working in disciplines and areas other than Italian Studies. Yet, many of the information you will find inside are primary sources, which are available for the first time in English. My heartfelt thanks go to all those who helped me writing Culture nazionali, a debt that will never be forgotten. Many other friends and scholars have continued to provide their invaluable support over a decade. I would like to mention my colleagues at the University of Manchester en masse for enduring times which were not always easy. Moreover, I would like to thank all the colleagues I did not know when I first wrote this book and whose work is cited throughout as new insights in the field. It was a great pleasure to see that what I wrote was just the tip of the iceberg (although it felt more like the whole iceberg itself was coming towards me). Moreover, during the years, I have received many invitations to talk about this book; and once again I would like to renew my gratitude to those who did take it into consideration and wanted to discuss it further. I wish to thanks Georgia Wall who has translated the book and has made me aware of inconsistencies that the Italian language can circumvent and that the English language refuses to. Enrico Terrinoni was as always incredibly helpful and easy to persuade to give the book his seal of approval. Loredana Polezzi has supported me in many ways by reading and commenting on many of my projects, and I would like to renew

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ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

my thanks to her. Francesca Orsini and Gisèle Sapiro have helped me to look beyond my own comfort zone. Christopher Rundle has also helped me by producing a parallel translation (from English into Italian) of his work on translation and Fascism. It was revealing to see how over the years I tended to gravitate more and more towards British empiricism whilst Chris managed to Italianize his own prose. I suppose this journey is what national cultures are about: not being about. One special mention to Professors Marialuisa Bignami and Mario Rubino: they wrote to me when the book came out to express their appreciation for my work. It meant a lot to me then and still does. At Palgrave, I would like to thank my editors and copyeditors and the two anonymous readers who have assessed the manuscript. Finally, I would like to say a final ‘thank you’ to Remo Ceserani. He was very generous with his time and read the original version of the book with great precision (yes I have corrected all the mistakes). To his example of an international scholar who could bring cultures together as well as to my late father and to Georgios this new book is dedicated.

Contents

1

1

Atlases of Translations

2

Orientations: La Voce and Gobetti

23

3

The Twenties: Cultural Explorations and Experimentations Between Highbrow and Popular (1918–1932)

63

4

The 1930s: The Spaces of Culture (1932–1938)

119

5

Versatile Publishing Projects (1938–1943)

153

6

Classics Revisited

191

7

Conclusion

223

Afterword

227

Bibliography

233

Index

247

ix

Abbreviations

Archives and Libraries ACS, State Archive, Rome CO, Carteggio Ordinario [Ordinary Correspondence] DAGR, Direzione Affari Generali e Riservati [General and Reserved Affairs Department] DGPS, Direzione Generale di Pubblica Sicurezza [General Directorate of Public Security] MI, Ministero dell’Interno [Ministry of the Interior] Minculpop, Ministero della Cultura Popolare [Ministry of Popular Culture] PCM, Presidenza del Consiglio dei Ministri [Presidency of the Council of Ministers] SPD, Segreteria particolare del duce [Special Secretary of the Duce] A.S.Fi, State Archive, Florence A.S.Mi, State Archive, Milan Gab., Pref., Gabinetto Prefettura [Prefecture Cabinet] Versamento [Folder] A.S.To, State Archive, Turin AB, Bompiani Archive, RCS, Milan ABUS, Bompiani Archive held at the Università Statale, Milan FGD, Fund Gian Dàuli, CGD Gian Dàuli Papers, Biblioteca Civica Bertoliana, Vicenza AE, Einaudi Archive, State Archive, Turin xi

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ABBREVIATIONS

ABe, Giunti Archive, Florence FAAM, Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori, Milan, Archivio storico Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, Fondazione Alberto e Arnoldo Mondadori, Milan FAAM, Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori, Milan, Archivio storico Arnoldo Mondadori Editore, Archivio Erich Linder ASs, Sansoni Archive, State Archive, Florence Gabinetto G.P. Vieusseux, Archivio Contemporaneo ‘A. Bonsanti’, Florence AS, Sonzogno Archive, RCS, Milan Prezzolini’s Papers, Diary, N.A. 1420, National Library, Florence

Main Journals Almanacco Bemporad Augustea Autori e Scrittori Civiltà fascista Corrente di vita giovanile Corriere padano CF, Critica fascista Educazione fascista EN, Energie Nove Gerarchia GdL, Giornale della libreria I libri del giorno Il Baretti Il lavoro fascista Il Torchio C, La Cultura La fiera letteraria L’Italia letteraria LS, L’Italia che scrive La Voce Leonardo Lo spettatore italiano Meridiano di Roma NA, Nuova Antologia Orpheus

ABBREVIATIONS

Pàn P, Pègaso Primato Quadrivio Solaria

Series Bompiani Ce, Centonovelle C, Corona GR, Grandi ritorni L, Letteraria Einaudi NST, Narratori stranieri tradotti S, Saggi U, Universale Pavese’s Works MV, Il mestiere di vivere LA, La letteratura americana ed altri saggi

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CHAPTER 1

Atlases of Translations

A Kim e a tutti gli altri… (Italo Calvino, Il sentiero dei nidi di ragno)

National Cultures and Foreign Narratives. Italy 1903–1943 was originally published in Italian as Culture nazionali e narrazioni straniere: Italia 1903–1934 in 2007. These books discuss the role translations played in shaping the Italian national textuality from the beginning of the century to the fall of the Fascist regime: 1903–1943. To this end, they reconstruct the channels, the discourses, the patterns of reception and appropriation of translations by publishers, writers, readers, intellectuals and the Fascist regime, during a period in which the aspiration to become modern was a driving force in politics and society. In the literary world, this was translated into a desire to update Italy’s literary models—both highbrow and popular—and engage in an international dialogue.1 This new version of the book upholds the same core arguments. Yet, in the decade since its publication, the very same issues and themes discussed in the 2007 version of the book have been developed in a range of scholarly approaches which question, expand and complement some of the initial assumptions and findings. In seven chapters, I argue that although the Fascist regime saw the practice of translation as an expression of unhealthy interest in foreign literatures, they did not prohibit translations, because they were an integral part of the national literary system: facilitating its renewal and the modernization of the publishing industry. Within the boundaries of the Italian national tradition, translations had a paradoxical nature: they © The Author(s) 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7_1

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expressed a potentially dissenting voice because they proposed alternative cultural, social and literary models, which were nonetheless essential to both the publishers’ and the regime’s financial survival since they could meet the demands of a growing number of readers. To make this case, the book expands the traditional chronological time frame considered to include the pre-war period, in order to account for the importance of translations prior to the Fascist period. Translations were the key literary, aesthetic and cultural phenomenon of first half of the twentieth century, for they responded to the need for identifying and theorizing structural points of contact between publishers, writers, readers and state-run institutions. This study focuses mainly on Anglo-American literature because, contrary to French, German and Russian, it was perceived as more captivating and ‘popolare’, thereby able to reach larger groups of readers. The corpus examined comprises large- and small-scale publishing houses—for instance Mondadori, Bompiani, Einaudi, Barion, Modernissima—whose distinctive models for the dissemination and reception of translations were aligned with the imperative of modernizing the field. From the beginning of the twentieth century and through two World Wars, translations and foreign literature were one of the most hotly debated issues in literary circles.2 Some saw this as a positive development, some as a negative influence on the national tradition—and some as both. The great Italian tradition of the past had lost its ascendency nationally and internationally, and reclaiming this prestige meant importing and absorbing foreign voices, rather than competing with them. Furthermore, in the 1920s and 1930s, the systematic arrival of prose in translation was a moment of transnational dialogue which impacted the organization of the publishing industry. Primarily from this transnational point of observation new literary affiliations were formed and the very idea of popular aesthetics reshaped. All this happened within the Fascist project of creating a mass culture and mass consensus.3 Whilst liberal Italy had openly promoted a competitive exchange with foreign voices, the regime strategically ignored real translations and the fascination with all things foreign, and surreptitiously took advantage of their popularity through the astute and rhetorically attuned press campaigns launched by a range of journals, such as Il lavoro fascista, Gerarchia, Augustea, the publishing industry’s Giornale della libreria, the union of authors and writers’ Autori e scrittori, diverse elite literary journals with no particular political alignment and those which reflected

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youth culture within the regime’s cultural apparatus (L’Italia letteraria, Orpheus , Corrente di vita giovanile), as well as those ostensibly supporting the regime as in the case of Primato edited by Giuseppe Bottai. Naturally such campaigns were never neutral and adopted communication strategies which can aptly be described by the attitude Torquato Accetto termed ‘dissimulazione onesta’ (‘honest dissimulation’).4 In other words, the regime, in its modernizing and xenophobic and racist expressions, allowed the importation of translations when these were of convenience to certain key agents within the literary field. It instead blocked them by means of state censorship when they became too visible an obstacle, especially after 1936 with the beginning of the decline in mass consensus and the promulgation of the racial laws in 1938. If we accept the idea of the Fascist regime as an imperfect totalitarian experiment, we can see how other cultures, and in this case the cultures expressed through translations, survived within the rigid and prescriptive doctrine of the regime.5 On the one hand, the Fascist regime officially and publicly affirmed the solidity of the national literary tradition, and on the other it turned a blind eye to the cultural institutions and publishing industry which promoted foreign voices.6 What were the consequences of all this? Translations published on a large scale challenged the uniformity of the national tradition and made it, in contrast to its traditional elitism, accessible to new groups of readers, writers and intellectuals This is not a book about the history of the regime and the history of translation within it.7 I am equally indebted to the history of publishing and the history of the regime and of its cultures, and the book is located at the juncture of these scholarly fields.8 The history of publishing has acknowledged the importance of translation for the development of the publishing industry, whilst historians have emphasized the need to pay attention to the politics of culture shaped during the dictatorship. The book has pushed the argument further by fusing these two fields. By attributing the centrality of translations to both liberal and Fascist Italy as literary, social, political and aesthetic forces, I have observed how they came to influence the cultural sphere as a whole and their impact on the understanding of literary and aesthetic matters in diverse communities. To make sense of these processes, I have identified and historicized the narratives surrounding translation practices and observed how they vary or remain stable over some fifty years. These four main narratives are: that of visibility vs invisibility of culture, that of national vs international

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tradition, that of the ‘Ancients vs Moderns’ and that of popular vs elite literature.9 First of all, visibility and invisibility were cardinal concepts in the politics of translation. When translation was carried out in a manner which guaranteed the publishers sales without being too visible, it was tolerated. Or rather, it was criticized but not ostracized. When instead the visibility of translation was potentially dangerous it was forcibly erased. The perception of being modern if engaging with foreign writing was a commonly accepted topos, as was the perception that Italian letters had to break with the national tradition to modernize. In practice, both young publishers, such as Bompiani, and those more ‘aligned’ with the regime, Mondadori for example, selected texts to be translated because they were popular, captivating and more than anything else, modern—and occasionally experimental. Publishers’ choices were motivated by political strategies as well as by tastes constructed over decades of cultural dialogues with other national traditions, as analysis of the literary journals debating foreign literatures reveals. From the avant-gardes of La Voce onwards, an anxious desire to become modern seized the majority of Italian intellectuals because they were aware of occupying a peripheral position in Europe and beyond. This sentiment was shared by the publishers. The vociani felt modern when they reflected on the engagement of writer in dialectical confrontation with the changes occurring in the book market; for the publishers of the 1920s, modernity coincided with social portraits; in the 1930s modernity corresponded both to Fascism’s aim to reshape society and its cultural programme of supporting realism in the arts as a moralizing feature. The other grand narrative running through liberal and Fascist Italy was that of nationalism. A competitive nationalism saw internationalism as potentially enriching; this was the perspective of the avant-gardes, the elites and the youth culture of the regime, the small publishers of the 1920s and, even more so, the entrepreneurial 1930s publishers. When fashioned by the elites, national culture looked to Europe as an ideal, barrierless republic of letters of which they aspired to be citizens; when fashioned by the crowds of everyday readers, foreign literature was a way to update narrative models and adopt more adventurous and realistic narrative forms. In the 1930s especially, publishers who supported the regime used ‘corrupting and dangerous’ translations as a negative example to safeguard the morality of the national tradition.

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The last narrative is that of high and low culture. As Gramsci remarked: Italy lacked a ‘tradizione nazional-popolare’ (national-popular tradition), and this gap was filled by translations.10 The necessity of shaping a fullyfledged popular culture preoccupied La Voce as it did the publishing industry as a whole. The vociani believed that their intellectual mission consisted of reformulating the logic of praxis of their generation by engaging with the structural problems affecting the public sphere and by educating large groups of readers. After World War I, the growing numbers of readers turned the lack of popular literature into an economic, rather than simply cultural, problem, and for the regime it became a political question: one which could guarantee mass consensus, from the notorious ‘andata al popolo’ in 1927 to the establishment of the Ministry for Popular Culture in 1937. In the 1930s and 1940s, elite culture was mostly ignored by the regime, whilst the major project of crafting a Fascist popular literature united publishers and readers, created new realist and adventurous reading patterns, and crucially preserved Italian culture from complete isolation as the final days of the regime approached. As expected, within such a scenario censorship played a key role, especially after 1936 and the proclamation of the Empire and later, with the racial laws against Jewish citizens. Yet what had characterized Italian censorship up to that point was a lack of systematicity. Translations were often presented to the censors only when the publisher was confident they would be approved for publication. On other occasions, publishers knew who was on the designated committee that particular day and they adapted the presentation of their book proposals accordingly (whether these people were friends or not). Banning books was the exception, not the rule. On the whole, publishers were mainly asking the regime’s censors to avoid causing them unnecessary economic damage by being as specific as possible about what was not acceptable or welcome; these transactions ought to take place before the book went into print to avoid public scandals and wasting resources. Most of the time, censorship was preventive: primarily for political reasons but also, occasionally, for aesthetic ones. As the reader reports show, translations of popular literature could be treated as second-rate texts which could be altered to fit squarely with readers’ demands. Unlike Italian novels, translations could be manipulated to suit readers’ tastes and censors’ expectations.11

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1.1 Translational Cultures and National Traditions Over a decade, translation studies has established itself as an independent discipline which has expanded the definition of translation to encompass a much wider set of theoretical and methodological frameworks.12 One key research strand addresses the relationship between national and global spheres.13 Translations have been singled out as vectors of cultural mediation which may ease communication across boundaries. Migration studies and postcolonial studies have debated the extent to which translations are instrumental in mediating across cultures in more— or less—neutral ways, and in questioning the very essence of what we consider national, or even ‘natural’ to one’s own linguistic and cultural identity and sense of belonging.14 In this regard, Paul Bandia upholds the view that African literatures and cultures allow us to move beyond a Eurocentric understanding of the literary field and of its internal power structures. Non-European cultures do not necessarily follow the same patterns which we have come to perceive as ‘normal’ and absolute. Such a theoretical shift aims at questioning enduring Western dichotomies, such as the ‘source text’ as original and target as copy; hegemonic as the colonizer and subaltern as the colonized; and the geopolitics which shape a Global North as antithetical to a putative Global South.15 Gisèle Sapiro has been at the forefront of the study of translations from a sociological point of view which privileges the publishing angle. Adopting a theoretical framework derived from sociological approaches, including that of Pierre Bourdieu, the French scholar has highlighted the importance of a sociology of translation: not only to better understand the cultural and literary dynamics regulating the circulation of texts, but also to expand the research scope to include other elements shaping the literary cultural field. The professions (agents, critics, editors as well as translators themselves) involved, a wider array of political, cultural, aesthetic, literary, economic and, crucially, publishing fields, are all aspects which cannot be neglected in any meaningful analysis of how translations shape national and particularly global book markets and facilitate the circulation of ideas. As such, a sociological approach allows for a more nuanced conceptualization of minority literature and literatures which enjoy a hegemonic position in the field, as well as of the inevitable fluctuations that govern the relative position agents and texts occupy at any given time.16

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As far as the Italian case is concerned, the project ‘Transnationalizing Modern Languages: Mobility, Identity and Translation in Modern Italian Cultures’ (2014–2017) led by Charles Burdett, Jennifer Burns, Derek Duncan and Loredana Polezzi has expanded the idea of translation to include written and visual artefacts, focusing on postcolonial, colonial and diasporic communities which are central to the understanding of contemporary Italian culture inside and outside Italy and to its articulation, essence and definition.17 In assessing the theoretical breadth and outcomes of the project, Charles Burdett, Nick Havely and Loredana Polezzi have put forward the view that through ‘translational thinking’, the national ‘continues to signify something specific and identifiable, functioning as a notion which carries historical specificity and cultural capital just as it (thankfully) fails to crystallize into any permanent and prescriptive meaning’.18 This project connected transnational communities through their shared cultural experiences, which involved negotiating their relationship with Italian culture and language, often through their memory of migration. Such an approach has, of course, questioned the idea of national literature and national traditions as monolithically defined entities in linguistic, aesthetic and political terms and has multiplied the perspectives from which we can observe those phenomena we traditionally label as ‘national cultures’. Do the questions this book asks still stand, therefore, after a decade? There is no unconditional value in any national or linguistic tradition per se. But, when we map our field of study, the national and linguistic geopolitics can still be a productive methodological approach to apply, provided that there is no absolute value attributed to them. The national and linguistic dimensions are useful when multiplied and fragmented. Such divisions can be seen working across institutional structures, editorial and publishing frameworks, or indeed audiences’ responses. If linguistic and historical specificity were to be lost and replaced by a lack of insight or lack of linguistic competence, the danger would be to think through convenient stereotypes reintroducing colonial practices in the guise of ‘novelties’: precisely the pitfall that translation studies as a discipline strives to avoid. If there is a further turn for the discipline, it might entail an attention to linguistic sensitivity, to modes of cross-cultural mediation, to historical acuity, and an emphasis on translation’s potential for resisting ideological and political oppression and deception—from below. The recent call for a ‘return’ of and to the national has perhaps granted this book’s focus on one nation’s literary culture under a repressive regime

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a new relevance, in that the detailed picture it paints of a national tradition is made intelligible only if observed from the transnational perspective offered by translations and their distribution channels. The translational and the national are evaluated with the aim of proposing a more nuanced understanding of the two, and one that can foster dialogue and reveal possible intersections across disparate scholarly fields. In the end, the title of the book remains plural: National Cultures and Foreign Narratives. I would also like to mention some new scholarly contributions which have significantly expanded and enriched the field by delving deeper into some contested moments of this history of translation. Censorship has played a major role in new research on translation practices during the regime, and I would like to cite the contributions of Mario Rubino and Natasha Barrale on German literature, Guido Bonsaver on the role of Mussolini as a censor, Giorgio Fabre on the relationship between Mussolini and Mondadori, and Caterina Sinibaldi on censorship of children’s literature.19 Scholars have also continued working on translation as a broad cultural phenomenon: Jane Dunnett and Claudio Pavese have focused in particular on American literature, and in a revised translation of his 2010 book Christopher Rundle has again highlighted the significance of an economic history of translation.20 Valuable studies on how national traditions arrived in Italy through specific agents and book series include: Anna Antonello on the translator and cultural agent Lavinia Mazzucchetti, Sara Sullam on British novels translated for the middlebrow key Mondadori ‘Medusa’ series, Anna Ferrando’s wide-ranging new exploration of translations during the regime, and the forthcoming issue ‘Nation(s) and Translation’ of Annali d’Italianistica edited by Norma Bouchard and Valerio Ferme, featuring amongst others a contribution on the economics of translation.21 An important study of the publication and reception of German literature in translation—seen as a system which works within other systems (journals, publishers, agents), thereby avoiding positions of hegemony or subalternity—was carried out by a large research group supported by the Italian Council of Research and headed by Michele Sisto, as principal investigator, in cooperation with Anna Baldini and Irene Fantappié, as co-investigators. ‘Storia e mappe digitali della letteratura tedesca in Italia nel Novecento: editoria, campo letterario, interferenza’ (2013–2018) has created a platform for a large corpus of digitized data, opening up this information to a range of audiences and scholarly interests. Digital platforms lend themselves to new forms of conceptualization of cultural and historical knowledge as well as

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to a revaluation of the relationship between national and translational at the heart of which sit translation practices. When the national picture is preserved, the granularity of its texture, punctuated by ‘otherness’, becomes evident, and the national is revealed as inevitably spurious and fractured. The book is divided in seven chapters which are organized chronologically and thematically. In Chapter 2, I define the variables, which will help drawing the map of translations in Italy during the first fifty years of the twentieth century. Firstly, we look at the dynamics and forms of cultural organization in the early twentieth-century Italian publishing industry and at the role of modernist magazines in disseminating foreign cultures. We discuss the profile and agendas of small-scale publishers, such the vociani (Giovanni Papini and Giuseppe Prezzolini) and Piero Gobetti. I argue that the early twentieth-century publishing field relied heavily on intellectual figures who wanted to enter into dialogue with international culture and use translations—published either in book series associated with specific modernist journals or as review articles in literary journals— both to modernize the Italian literary and aesthetic field and to define their intellectual identity and profile. The vociani and Gobetti played a pioneering role for they were able to act outside the more rigid rules imposed by a larger book market. Through the close scrutiny of these cultural ventures, I show how a more varied and modern milieu of young intellectuals started to emerge, which used publishing and elite literary magazines as a means of redefining their own identity not only as intellectuals, but also as intellectuals engaged in trying to transform the status quo. World War I brings to an end this first chapter. In Chapter 3, we zoom into the translation phenomenon against the background of a still undeveloped and fragmented publishing industry. Translations start becoming an integral part of publishers’ catalogues since they—more than Italian novels—can meet readers’ demands. Given the limited archival material available, the discussion follows thematic lines, centring on how the more sustained publication of translations helped shape ideas about the nature of literary texts, of national traditions, of authorship, and about the configurations of literary genres (the adventure novel for example). The chapter explores these issues from the point of view of the readers, by looking at paratextual elements, at book presentations, at articles in the popular and elite press, and at the correspondence between publishers and authors, namely that of the pioneer translatorpublisher Gian Dàuli and small Milanese publishing houses such as

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Modernissima or Alpes. The 1920s landscape is still varied, fragmented as it was in the 1910s with the avant-gardes. However, key developments start to emerge: the majority of publishing ventures begin to be concentrated around large urban centres, such as Milan and Florence. Moreover, translations have an increasingly strong presence in publishers’ catalogues because of how they speak to a larger number of readers. Exclusively in the field of translations, elite and popular novels can be published side by side, in an attempt to update traditional distribution channels and the aesthetic patterns governing the national field. Chapter 4 explores the 1930s and the role played by key publishers such as Arnoldo Mondadori in Milan in publishing translations, often in close dialogue with the regime. This decade witnessed a shift in traditional political and ideological configurations as Fascism spread across Europe. In Italy, a variety of cultural, political and social strategies were implemented in order to facilitate the absorption of the masses into the new state. Fascism’s ideal of totalitarianism; the anti-individualist ‘New Man’ and all-encompassing new civilization the regime sought to forge necessitated an ally in the book trade. New relationships between Italian and foreign culture were established: the regime’s ideology was imposed on the discourse on translations and foreign texts were methodically woven into the national fabric as ‘alien’. Although the regime did not explicitly define itself in terms of ‘autarchy’ until 1936, it was increasingly internally focused, and the privileged space translations occupied led to heated debate over ‘xenophilia’. Publishers responded to the regime’s political and cultural demands with a mix of compliance and resistance; compromise and defiance. It was in the interest of both parties to establish a peaceful coexistence. Regulated within the Fascist propaganda machine (at literary festivals, for example), which officially thought only in Italian terms, foreign novels represented an ‘aesthetic force’ which could unite and organize citizen-readers around specific reading models. As the interface of literary Italy with Europe and the rest of the world, translations were also a form of peripheral, at times subliminal, resistance to official directives, in that they introduced new and potentially subversive aesthetics and ideas. On a ‘popular’ level in particular, translation was part of the cultural project of modernity, both in terms of the integration of the masses into a new Fascist social and state order, and as a form of transnational exchange. Publishing, regardless of the political orientation of individual houses, was thus fundamentally altered: all publishers

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became tools, albeit in a versatile and variegated manner, in the regime’s totalitarian project. Chapter 5 focuses once more on the relationship between translations, publishers and the regime, using the case study of the young publisher Valentino Bompiani. In the 1930s, the regime’s popularity was at its peak. Specifically, from 1932 to 1936, the regime allowed a certain aesthetic pluralism, which progressively declined till its fall in September 1943. I demonstrate how the translation trend did not mirror the regime’s declining arch. During the 1930s publishers systematically published translations in high, low and middlebrow series, whilst continuing to engage with experimental fiction as a way of renewing the national literary and aesthetic field. Bompiani is a key example of this tendency. Established in 1929, Bompiani used translations in the 1930s and early 1940s to challenge the rigidity of the national canon and to propose alternative narrative and stylistic models for prose writing, for instance, the collective and choral novel modelled on John Dos Passos and American realism. Moreover, Bompiani was able to negotiate carefully his position in relation to the regime. Through a cautious stance which avoided the extremes of collaboration or direct opposition, Bompiani managed to dialogue with the regime whilst still publishing, well into the 1940s, experimental literature: the Americana anthology of American literature edited by writer and translator Elio Vittorini is a case study of how censorship could be circumvented. In the 1930s, across the national literary and publishing field in Italy, in spite of the regime’s totalitarian ambitions, translations provided literary models capable of portraying modernity and the new social realities which were profoundly transforming Europe. In Chapter 6, the narrative moves from Milan to Turin, the other publishing capital of the peninsula, to explore a publishing field which has much less direct contact with the regime. This autonomy of the Turinese publishers over the years becomes an attitude of resistance. The main topic of the chapter is the young Einaudi publishing house (1933–), dedicated from its inception to the publication of elite literature for a group of politically engaged and educated readers. Before scrutinizing Einaudi’s relationship with translations, we pause to consider the literary culture of Turin, and I show how translations played a key role in fostering international dialogue and political commitment. We look at the cases of the small publishers Slavia, Frassinelli and Ribet, emblematic of how cosmopolitan culture arrived in Italy in the 1920s and early 1930s. Towards the end of the book, analysis of the Einaudi

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case helps us draw some conclusions on how modern classics were treated compared with popular and middlebrow literature. Einaudi’s main series, the ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’, presented Italian readers with landmarks of European culture (Goethe, Stendhal, Thackeray, Dickens) and with the most experimental of American literature (Gertrude Stein, Edgar Lee Masters, Herman Melville); these examples were used to reflect on the national canon and tradition. In this last chapter, therefore, we end by theorizing the relationship between translations and Italian novels through the dialogic exchanges between publishers and translators, who were often leading authors and/or intellectuals of high standing in their own right, such as Cesare Pavese, Eugenio Montale, Fernanda Pivano, Luigi Berti and Carlo Linati.

1.2

Note on Sources

This research was carried out in several archives in Italy (Mondadori, Bompiani, Sonzogno, Gian Dàuli, Einaudi, the Archivio Centrale dello Stato in Rome, the Archivio di Stato in Milan, Turin and Florence). I have complemented these primary sources with a relevant sample of journals which engaged in the publication and dissemination of both highbrow and popular foreign literature. When appropriate, I have tapped into the relevant economic history and made use of any available paratextual elements. This eclectic corpus was constructed to account for as many aspects as possible of the translation phenomenon in Italy over almost half a century. The bibliography has been updated with references to the latest publication in the field. I have included works which have provided further insights and methodological developments to what was originally available in 2007.

Notes 1. For scholarly works which have discussed the issue of translations in Italy, see, in chronological order, Graff (1911), Kazin ([1942] 1952), Galleria (1954), Chase (1957), Gorlier (1966), Skard (1958), D’Agostino (1958), Norton (1962), Pivano (1961, 1964), Perosa (1965), Fernandez (1969), Carducci (1973), and Traldi (1984) as examples of thematic criticism; on the specificities of translation policies during the Fascist regime see Bonsaver (1998, 2000, 2007), Ferme (2002), Rundle (1999, 2000, 2001, 2019), Rubino (2002), Barrale (2012, 2017). On American influences

1

2.

3. 4.

5.

6.

7.

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on Italian cultures, see Diggins (1972), Nacci (1989), Dunnett (2015), Pavese (2018) as well as Cannistraro and Sullivan (1993), who detail the working mechanisms of Mussolini and Sarfatti’s relationship with European and American culture. Barzini (1931), Ciarlantini (1934), Soldati (1935), Sarfatti (1937), Cecchi (1939), and Linati ([1932] 1943) are some examples of the high levels of interest in American culture in interwar Italy. On the issue of popular consensus and the regime, see Corner’s recent study (2009). Nel 1930, Laterza published, edited by Croce, Della dissimulazione onesta (1641) by Accetto. On forms of political communication in Italy see Jacobelli (1989) and Ben-Ghiat (2001: 75). On totalitarianism, key reference texts are Arendt (1951), Brzezinski (1956), Charnitzky (1994), Schapiro (1972), and Sternhell (1994). Official ideology, mass party, secret police, monopoly of mass media, used of armed forces, control over the economy and education are universally identified as the defining traits of totalitarianism. To these features is important to add the arts’ contribution to the existence of the totalitarian state; see Stone (1998) regarding forms of state patronage of the visual arts, Ben-Ghiat (1990, 1995, 2001) on literature and cinema, Billiani and Pennacchietti (2019) on architecture. On Italian totalitarianism, Fisichella (1976) and Gentile ([1999] 2002) and for the culture produced by the regime, Tarquini (2016). Roger Griffin posits Italian totalitarianism as a pluralist, yet cogent, system which sought to incorporate all sectors of Italian social and cultural life in its grand design of hegemonic control (1998, 2007). Gabriele Turi’s seminal work on the cultural system of the regime and on its interactions with other institutions (academies, publishing houses) laid the foundations for further explorations (1980). Turi stated that the regime was a ‘Stato educatore e organizzatore’ which aimed at shaping the Italian national ‘character’ as a collective character (2002). Pier Giorgio Zunino’s work has also endorsed the idea that it is vital to study the interactions between the state and society in order to accurately evaluate the power relations, from coercion to acceptance, between Fascism and the Italian people and avoid the misleading polarization of force and consent as in the case of translations (1985: 19). Emilio Gentile has further developed these ideas in his definition of the regime as a discourse which shapes mythologies (such as those of the totalitarian state and the New Man) and deploys them to build a symbolic apparatus and a series of rituals to gain mass consensus. Totalitarianism in Gentile’s thought is the equivalent of a civic religion (2002, 2003). George Mosse has applied a similar theoretical framework for the study of Nazi Germany (1982, 1990). On these topics, see Berezin (1997) and Falasca-Zamponi (1997).

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8. On the history of Italian publishing, see Cannistraro (1975), Patuzzi (1978), Ferretti (1979, 1983, 1992, 1996), Coli (1983), Editoria e cultura a Milano tra le due guerre (1920–1940) (1983), Spinazzola (1983), Pedullà (1986), Turi (1990, 1997), Palazzolo (1993), Barile (1991), Garin (1974, 1991), Decleva (1993), Finocchi and GigliMarchetti (1997, 2000), Mangoni (1999), Ragone (1999), Tranfaglia and Vittoria (2000), Lanzillotta (2001), Braida (2003), and Valisa (2011, and online catalogue of Sonzogno. 9. Mona Baker has applied the sociological concept of narrative to analyse how translators work when expressing public discourses. Narratives are the public and private stories that ‘we live by […] and they can change in subtle or radical ways as people experience and become exposed to new stories on a daily basis’ (2006: 4). Therefore, such a narrative is ‘fully traceable to any specific stretch of text but has to be constructed from a range of sources’ (ibid.: 5). The main objective of narrative theory is to highlight the working mechanisms of the agents working within a structure in such a way as to make the public and the personal sphere interact (Whitebrook 2001: 15). 10. Gramsci (1975: 2108). 11. Specific and detailed studies of censorship are Fabre (1998, 2007, 2018), Talbot (1995, 2007), Bonsaver (2007, 2013), Bonsaver and Gordon (2005), and Billiani (2007). 12. See, for example, the third and most recent edition of the Routledge Encyclopaedia of Translation Studies by Mona Baker and Gabriela Saldanha (2019). In this third edition, the individual entries focus on the scholarly debate on every topic under scrutiny and do not simply provide a concise set of information. See also the Handbook of Translation Studies edited by Gambier and van Doorslaer (2011) and the A Companion to Translation Studies by Bermann and Porter (2014). 13. See Bielsa (2005), Sapiro (2010, 2014), Apter (2006), Cronin (2013), and Sapiro (2015) for a different geographical angle on the same question. 14. See Polezzi (2012, 2014), and Inghilleri (2005, 2017), for some leading examples of this scholarly approach. 15. On these points, see two volumes which have appeared at the same time, Bandia and Bastin (2006) and Cronin (2006). Worth mentioning also an interview with Bandia published in 2015 by Elena Rodríguez Murphy and a more recent special issue of the journal Interventions and edited by Francesca Orsini and Neelam Srivastava and focusing on translation and the post-colonial (2013). 16. See also Sapiro (2008: 158–59, 2014, 2016) and Heilbron and Sapiro (2007, 2016) for the relevance of the economic structures for the circulation of translated texts.

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17. See https://www.transnationalmodernlanguages.ac.uk for an overview of the project and of its events and findings. On the specific contribution of translation studies, see Burdett et al. (2020b: XX). 18. Burdett et al. (2020a: 9). 19. Barrale (2012, 2017), Bonsaver (2013), Fabre (2018), Sinibaldi (2016), other notable published work on comics and censorship Zanettin (2018) and on cinema and censorship Mereu Keating (2016). 20. Dunnett (2002, 2015), Pavese (2018), and Rundle (2019). 21. Antonello (2015), Sullam (2015), Ferrando (2019), and Bouchard and Ferme (2020).

References AA.VV (1983), Editoria e cultura a Milano tra le due guerre (1920–1940). Atti del convegno, Milano 19-20-21 febbraio 1981 (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Antonello, Anna (ed.)(2015), ‘Come il cavaliere sul lago di Costanza’. Lavinia Mazzucchetti e la cultura tedesca in Italia (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Apter, Emily (2006), The Translation Zone: A New Comparative Literature (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Arendt, Hannah [1951] (2017), The Origins of Totalitarianism (London: Penguin). Bandia, Paul and George Bastin (eds) (2006), Charting the Future of Translation Studies (Ottawa: University of Ottawa Press). Baker, Mona (2006), Translation and Conflict: A Narrative Account (London and New York: Routledge). Baker, Mona and Gabriela Saldhana (eds) (2019), Routledge Encyclopaedia of Translation Studies (3rd edition) (London: Routledge). Barile, Laura (1991), Élite e divulgazione nell’editoria italiana dall’unità al fascismo (Bologna: Clueb). Barrale, Natasha (2012), Le traduzioni di narrativa tedesca durante il fascismo (Rome: Carocci). ——— (2017), ‘“Noi ostinati contrabbandieri”. Lavinia Mazzucchetti, traduttrice sotto il fascismo’, in Elzbieta Jamrozik and Dario Prola (eds), Il traduttore errante. Figure, strumenti, orizzonti (Warszawa, Uniwersytet Warszawski): 67–78. Barzini, Luigi jr. (1931), Nuova York (Milan: Agnelli). Ben-Ghiat, Ruth (1990), ‘The Politics of Realism: Corrente di vita giovanile and the Youth Culture of the 1930s’, Stanford Italian Review, 8 (1–2): 139–64. ——— (1995), ‘Fascism, Writing, and Memory: The Realist Aesthetic in Italy, 1930–50’, Journal of Modern History, 67 (3): 627–65.

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——— (2001), Fascist Modernities: Italy 1922–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press). Berezin, Mabel (1997), Making the Fascist Self: The Political Culture of Interwar Italy (Ithaca, NY and London: Cornell University Press). Bermann, Sandra and Catherine Porter (2014), A Companion to Translation Studies (Oxford: Blackwell). Bielsa, Esperança (2005), ‘Globalisation and Translation: A Theoretical Approach’, Language and Intercultural Communication, 5 (2): 131–44. Billiani, Francesca (ed.) (2007), Translation and Censorship: National Contexts and Diverse Media (Manchester: St. Jerome). Billiani, Francesca and Laura Pennacchietti (2019), Architecture and the Novel under the Italian Fascist Regime (London: Palgrave). Bonsaver, Guido (1998), ‘Vittorini’s “American Translations”: Parallels, Borrowings, and Betrayals’, Italian Studies, LIII: 67–93. ——— (2000), Elio Vittorini: The Writer and the Written (Leeds: Northern Universities Press). ——— (2007), Censorship and Literature in Fascist Italy (Toronto: University of Toronto Press). ———. (2013), Mussolini censore. Storie di letteratura, dissenso e ipocrisia (RomeBari: Laterza). Bonsaver, Guido and Robert Gordon (eds) (2005), Culture, Censorship and the State in Twentieth-Century Italy (Oxford: Legenda). Bouchard, Norma and Valerio Ferme (eds) (2020), Nation(s) and Translation, Annali d’Italianistica, Volume 38 (forthcoming). Braida, Ludovica (ed.) (2003), Valentino Bompiani. Il percorso di un editore “artigiano” (Milan: Edizioni Sylvestre Bonnard). Brzezinski, Zbigniew K. and Carl J. Friedrich (1956), Totalitarian Dictatorship and Autocracy (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). Burdett, Charles, Nick Havely and Loredana Polezzi (2020a), ‘The Transnational/Translational in Italian Studies’, Italian Studies (online). Burdett, Charles, Loredana Polezzi and Barbara Spadaro (eds) (2020b), ‘Introduction’, in Charles Burdett, Loredana Polezzi and Barbara Spadaro (eds), Transcultural Italy: Memory, Mobility and Translation (Liverpool: Liverpool University Press, forthcoming). Cannistraro, Philip V. (1975), La fabbrica del consenso. Fascismo e mass media (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Cannistraro, Philip V. and Brian Sullivan (1993), L’altra donna del Duce (Milan: Mondadori). Carducci, Nicola (1973), Gli intellettuali italiani e l’ideologia americana nell’Italia letteraria degli anni Trenta (Manduria: Lacaita). Cecchi, Emilio (1939), America amara (Florence: Sansoni).

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Charnitzky, Jürgen [1994] (1996, 2001), Fascismo e scuola. La politica scolastica del regime (1922–1943) (Scandicci: La Nuova Italia). Chase, Richard H. (1957), ‘Cesare Pavese and the American Novel’, Studi americani, III: 347–69. Ciarlantini, Franco (1934), Roma-Nuova York e ritorno. Tragedie dell’americanismo (Milan: Giacomo Agnelli). Coli, Daniela (1983), Croce, Laterza e la cultura europea (Bologna: il Mulino). Corner, Paul (2009), Popular Opinion in Totalitarian Regimes (Oxford: Oxford University Press). Cronin, Michael (2006), Translation and Identity (London and New York: Routledge). ——— (2013), Translation and Globalization (London and New York: Routledge). D’Agostino, Nemi (1958), ‘Pavese e l’America’, Studi americani, IV: 399–413. Decleva, Enrico (1993), Mondadori (Turin: Utet). Diggins, John (1972), L’America, Mussolini e il fascismo (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Dunnett, Jane (2002), ‘Foreign Literature in Fascist Italy: Circulation and Censorship’, TTR: Traduction, Terminologie, Redaction, 15 (2): 97–123. ——— (2015), The ‘Mito Americano’ and Italian Literary Culture Under Fascism (Rome: Aracne). Fabre, Giorgio (1998), L’elenco. Censura fascista, editoria ed autori ebrei (Turin: Silvio Zamorani). ——— (2007), ‘Fascism, Censorship and Translation’, in Francesca Billiani (ed.) (2007): 27–59. ——— (2018), Il censore e l’editore. Mussolini, i libri, Mondadori (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Falasca-Zamponi, Simonetta (1997), Fascist Spectacle: The Aesthetics of Power in Mussolini’s Italy (Berkeley: California University Press). Fernandez, Dominique (1969), Il mito dell’America negli intellettuali italiani dal 1930 al 1950 (Caltanissetta-Rome: Salvatore Sciascia editore). Ferme, Valerio (2002), Tradurre è tradire: la traduzione come sovversione culturale durante il Fascismo (Ravenna: Longo). Ferrando, Anna (2019), Stranieri all’ombra del duce. Le traduzioni durante il fascismo (Milan: Franco Angeli). Finocchi, Luisa and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (1997), Stampa e piccola editoria tra le due guerre (Milan: Franco Angeli). ——— (2000), Editori e lettori. La produzione libraria in Italia nella prima metà del Novecento (Milan: Franco Angeli). Fisichella, Domenico (1976), Analisi del totalitarismo (Messina-Firenze: D’Anna). Galleria (December 1954), Special Issue on American Literature.

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Gambier, Yves and Luc van Doorslaer (eds) (2011), Handbook of Translation Studies, vol. 2 (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: John Benjamins). Garin, Eugenio (1974), Intellettuali italiani del XX secolo (Rome: Editori Riuniti). ——— (1991), Editori italiani tra Ottocento e Novecento (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Gentile, Emilio [1993] (2003), Il culto del littorio: la sacralizzazione della politica nell’Italia fascista (Rome-Bari: Laterza). ——— [1999] (2002), Il mito dello Stato nuovo: dal radicalismo nazionale al fascismo (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Gramsci, Antonio (1975), Quaderni del carcere, Valentino Gerratana (ed.) (Turin: Einaudi). Gorlier, Claudio (1966), ‘Vittorini traduttore e la cultura americana’, Terzo programma, 3: 152–61. Graff, Arturo (1911), L’anglomania e l’influsso inglese in Italia nel secolo XVII (Turin: Casa Editrice Ermanno Loescher). Griffin, Roger (1998), ‘The Sacred Synthesis: The Ideological Cohesion of Fascist Cultural Policy’, Modern Italy, 4 (1): 3–24. ——— (2007), Modernism and Fascism (London: Palgrave). Ferretti, Gian Carlo (1979), Il mercato delle lettere: industria culturale e lavoro critico in Italia dagli anni Cinquanta ad oggi (Turin: Einaudi). ——— (1983), Il best-seller all’italiana. Fortune e formule del romanzo di ‘qualità’ (Roma-Bari: Laterza). ——— (1992), L’editore Vittorini (Turin: Einaudi). ——— (1996), Alberto Mondadori. Lettere di una vita. 1922–1975 (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Heilbron, Johan and Gisèle Sapiro (2007), ‘Outline for a Sociology of Translation: Current Issues and Future Prospects’, in Michaela Wolf and Alexandra Fukari (eds), Constructing a Sociology of Translation (Amsterdam/Philadelphia: Benjamins): 93–107. ——— (2016), ‘Translation: Economic and Sociological Perspectives’, in Victor Ginsburg and Shlomo Weber (eds), The Palgrave Handbook of Economics and Language (London: Palgrave): 373–402. Inghilleri, Moira (2005), ‘The Sociology of Bourdieu and the Construction of the “Object” in Translation and Interpreting Studies’, The Translator, 11 (2): 124–45. ——— (2017), Translation and Migration (London and New York: Routledge). Jacobelli, Jad (1989), Croce e Gentile: dal sodalizio al dramma (Milan: Rizzoli). Kazin, Alfred (1942), On Native Grounds: An Interpretation of Modern American Prose Literature; (1952) Storia della letteratura americana (Milan: Longanesi).

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Lanzillotta, Monica (2001), La parabola del disimpegno: Cesare Pavese e un mondo editoriale (Centro editoriale e librario: Università degli studi della Calabria). Linati, Carlo [1932] (1943), Scrittori anglo-americani d’oggi (Milan: Corticelli, 2 ed. Mondadori). Mangoni, Maria Luisa (1999), Pensare i libri. La casa editrice Einaudi dagli anni trenta agli anni sessanta (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri). Mereu Keating, Carla (2016), The Politics of Dubbing: Film Censorship and State Intervention in the Translation of Foreign Cinema in Fascist Italy (Oxford: Peter Lang). Mosse, George (1982), Nationalism and Sexuality: Respectability and Abnormal Sexuality in Modern Europe; trad. (1984) Sessualità e nazionalismo: mentalità borghese e rispettabilità (Roma-Bari: Laterza). ——— (1990), ‘The Political Culture of Italian Futurism: A General Perspective’, Journal of Contemporary History, 25 (2–3): 253–68. Nacci, Michela (1989), L’antiamericanismo in Italia negli anni Trenta (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri). Norton, P. M. (1962), ‘Cesare Pavese and the American Nightmare’, MLN , 77 (1): 24–36. Orsini, Francesca and Neelam Srivastava (2013), ‘Translation and the Postcolonial’, Interventions, 15 (3): 323–31. Perosa, Sergio (1965), Vie della narrativa americana: la “tradizione del nuovo” dall’Ottocento ad oggi (Milan: Mursia). Palazzolo, Maria Iolanda (1993), ‘L’editoria verso un pubblico di massa’, in Simonetta Soldani and Gabriele Turi (eds), Fare gli italiani. Scuola e cultura nell’Italia contemporanea, La società di massa, vol. II (Bologna: il Mulino), vol. II: 287–317. Patuzzi, Claudia (1978), Mondadori (Naples: Liguori). Pavese, Claudio (2018), L’avventura di Americana. Elio Vittorini e la storia travagliata di una mitica antologia (Milan: Unicopli). Pedullà, Gabriele (1986), Il mercato delle idee. Giovanni Gentile e la Casa editrice Sansoni (Bologna: il Mulino). Pivano, Fernanda (1961), La balena bianca ed altri miti (Milan: Mondadori). ———. (1964), America rossa e nera (Florence: Vallecchi). Polezzi, Loredana (2012), ‘Translation and Migration’, Translation Studies, 5 (3): 345–35. ——— (2014), ‘Migration and Translation: Section Introduction’, in Naomi Segal and Daniela Koleva (eds), From Literature to Cultural Literacy (London: Palgrave): 79–85. Ragone, Giovanni (1999), Un secolo di libri: storia dell’editoria in Italia dall’Unità al Postmoderno (Turin: Einaudi).

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Rodríguez Murphy, Elena (2015), ‘An Interview with Professor Paul Bandia’, Perspectives, 23 (1): 143–54. Rubino, Mario (2002), I mille demoni della modernità. L’immagine della Germania e la ricezione della narrativa tedesca contemporanea in Italia fra le due guerre (Palermo: Flaccovio). Rundle, Christopher (1999), ‘Publishing Translations in Mussolini’s Italy: A Case Study of Arnoldo Mondadori’, in Susan Bassnett, R. M. Bollettieri Bosinelli and M. Ulrych (eds), Textus. English Studies in Italy, XII (2): 427–42. ——— (2000), ‘The Censorship of Translation in Fascist Italy’, The Translator 6 (1): 67–86. ——— (2001), ‘The Permeable Police State: Publishing Translations in Fascist Italy’ (Phd thesis, University of Warwick). ——— (2019), Il vizio dell’esterofilia. Editoria e traduzioni nell’Italia fascista (Rome: Carocci). Sapiro, Gisèle (2008), ‘Translation and the Field of Publishing’, Translation Studies, 1 (2): 154–66. ——— (2010), ‘Globalization and Cultural Diversity in the Book Market: The Case of Translation in the UK and in France’, Poetics, 38 (4): 419–39. ——— (2014), ‘The Sociology of Translation: A New Research Domain’, in Sandra Bermann and Catherine Porter (eds) (2014): 82–94. ——— (2015), ‘Translation and Symbolic Capital in the Era of Globalization: French Literature in the United States’, Cultural Sociology, 9 (3): 320–34. ——— (2016), ‘How Do Literary Works Cross Borders (or Not)? A Sociological Approach to World Literature’, Journal of World Literature, 1 (1): 81–96. Sarfatti, Margherita (1937), L’America, ricerca della felicità (Milan: Mondadori). Schapiro, Leonard (1972), Totalitarianism (London: Pall Mall Press). Sinibaldi, Caterina (2016), ‘Between Censorship and Innovation: The Translation of American Comics During Italian Fascism’, New Readings, 16: 1–21. Soldati, Mario (1935), America primo amore (Florence: Bemporad). Spinazzola, Vittorio (1983), ‘Scrittori, lettori e editori nella Milano fra le due guerre’, in AA. VV. (1983): 21–35. Sternhell, Zeev (1994), The Birth of Fascist Ideology: From Cultural Rebellion to Political Revolution (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Stone, Marla S. (1998), The Patron State: Culture & Politics in Fascist Italy (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Skard, Sigmund (1958), American Studies in Europe, 2 vols. (Philadelphia). Sullam, Sara (2015), ‘(Middle)Browsing Mondadori’s Archive: British Novels in the Medusa Series, 1933–1945’, Textus: English Studies in Italy, 3: 179–202. Talbot, George R. (1995), Montale’s ‘mestiere vile’: The Elective Translations from English of the 1930s and 1940s (Dublin: Irish Academic Press). ——— (2007), Censorship in Fascist Italy, 1922–43 (London: Palgrave). Tarquini, Alessandra (2016), Storia della cultura fascista (Bologna: il Mulino).

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Traldi, Alberto (1984), Fascismo e narrativa (Foggia: Bastogi). Tranfaglia, Nicola and Albertina Vittoria (2000), Storia degli editori italiani. Dall’Unità alla fine degli anni Sessanta (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Turi, Gabriele (1980), Il fascismo e il consenso degli intellettuali (Bologna: il Mulino). ——— (1990), Casa Einaudi. Libri, uomini, idee oltre il fascismo (Bologna: il Mulino). ——— (ed.) (1997), Storia dell’editoria nell’Italia contemporanea (Florence: Giunti). ——— (2002), Lo Stato educatore. Politica e intellettuali nell’Italia fascista (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Valisa, Silvia (2011), ‘Casa editrice Sonzogno: Mediazione culturale, circuiti del sapere ed innovazione tecnologica nell’Italia unificata’, in Gabriella Romani, Caesar H. Ann and Jennifer Burns (eds), Technology and the Printed Media in Italy Between 1870 and 1914 (Oxford: Legenda): 90–106. ———. https://sonzogno.cci.fsu.edu/welcome. Whitebrook, Maureen (2001), Identity, Narrative and Politics (London and New York: Routledge). Zanettin, Federico (2018), ‘Translation, Censorship and the Development of European Comics Culture’, Perspectives, 26 (6): 868–84. Zunino, Piergiorgio (1985), L’ideologia del fascismo. Miti, credenze e valori nella stabilizzazione del regime (Bologna: il Mulino).

CHAPTER 2

Orientations: La Voce and Gobetti

It was the spirit of competition that animated the eclecticism of Latin writers in relation to their Greek models, pushing them to redefine the boundaries and forms of their own literary tradition as well as their political, aesthetic and cultural identity. The ‘model’ was taken not as an invariable exemplar, but as a form of anagolon: the textual element of a discursive fabric which determined particular ways of appropriation and adaptation in the receiving culture. The same principle was true of the relationship between the early twentieth-century Italian avant-gardes and their European counterparts, who were proclaimed a source of inspiration for the renewal of the Italian national tradition. In the conquest of modernity, translations have always heralded intellectual and cultural exchange. Focusing on Florentine literary circles and the work of Piero Gobetti just prior to World War I, this chapter explores how key figures discussed, designed and introduced a publishing system which united editors and intellectuals in the aim of renewing Italian culture. The lively transnational exchange their initiatives fostered ultimately gave rise to the significant level of importation, translation and publication of foreign literature during the years of the Fascist dictatorship, as we will observe subsequently. The questions raised regarding the relationship between national and foreign traditions at the start of the twentieth century would come to symbolize the publishing and cultural campaigns which sought to legitimize—and delegitimize – translations, and their exclusion—and © The Author(s) 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7_2

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inclusion—in the forms assumed by national textuality. Exemplary of this difficult process of redefinition was the fate of the Florentine literary journal La Voce, which was launched on the 20 December 1908 and published every Thursday until 1913.

2.1

Modernity and Modernization

At the start of the twentieth century, the Italian intellectual elite experienced modernity as a surge towards new aesthetic forms and cultural structures.1 Italy’s industrial system lagged behind those of the ‘great’ European nations; England, France, Germany, giving rise to a bizarre set of circumstances. Alongside the phenomena typical of more advanced industrial systems, such as the deployment of new technologies, the expansion of the railway system, significant investment of capital in heavy industry and a united national market, Italy’s uneven economic expansion and national urbanization actually contributed to an increase in urban poverty and trade union demands became increasingly radical. It was only at the start of Giovanni Giolitti’s premiership that politicians and industrialists embraced modern industrialization. Between 1901 and 1911, the proportion of the active population employed in industry rose from 24.5 to 26.6%; correspondingly, employment in the agricultural sector fell from 59.5 to 55.4%. The urbanization of the population provoked by this more sustained development of the industrial sector leads to the growth of the urban working class and strengthened the Socialist Party (Forgacs 1990: 43–47). Specifically, a series of measures between 1900 and 1907 meant that the trade unions were recognized as official organizations, and a number of their demands acknowledged. Modernization naturally implicated a change in the philosophy of cultural practice, which was forced to adapt to the new laws and demands of the literary market. From 1901 to 1911, illiteracy decreased from 48 to 37.9%, and fell to less than 15% in the northern regions of Lombardy and Piedmont (it had been as high as 80% in the mid-1800s).2 This was related also to the substantial rise in school attendance, thanks to the education reforms passed in 1859 and 1877.3 Although up until the 1930s only 25% of the population could be deemed a ‘reading public’, the increase in literacy rates marked a shift in the consumer market: book production increased, with novels and periodicals performing particularly well, and new communication structures, such as a modern and more industrial publishing system and the daily press, became firmly established. The number of

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books published in Italy rose from 5822 in 1901 to 6935 in 1908 (it was at its lowest in 1905, with 5400 titles, and then again in 1925, with 5804), and even more dramatically to 12,153 in 1911—a figure which would remain constant until the outbreak of World War I. During the war years, book production fell from a peak of 12,593 titles published in 1914 (a peak which would only be reached again in 1932, which saw the publication of 12, 550 titles) to just 5902, but rose again to 6069 in 1919, a surge which marked the start of the Voce era.4 Up until 1920, fortunes in publishing continued to fluctuate, and the sector weathered yet another crisis. The entire publishing system was in dire need of modernization; at the turn of the century, it was hard to distinguish the role of publisher from that of typographer and Italian publishing was little more than a cottage industry, dominated by a few big names that were averse to change. The Milanese publisher Treves was an exemplary case. Founded in 1861, Treves had a winning formula in Italy: his combination of contemporary Italian and foreign literature responded to the demands of a growing middle-class (particularly Lombard) audience, a sector of the population which had increasing influence nationally. Treves favoured Italian fiction (Giovanni Verga, Edmondo De Amicis, Gabriele D’Annunzio), but featured key foreign authors (Walter Scott, Émile Zola, Leo Tolstoy, Henrik Ibsen). The publisher addressed an educated middle-class public, but in an inclusive manner which appealed also to the working classes. Vying for precisely this market, Treves’s ‘Biblioteca amena’ series had to compete with the ‘Biblioteca Romantica’ series published by Sonzogno, also founded in 1861.5 Through series like the ‘Biblioteca classica’, ‘Biblioteca classica economica’, ‘Biblioteca universale’ and ‘Biblioteca del popolo’, Sonzogno was able to reach a broad range of readers and share traditional masterpieces of world literature, but also, crucially, its famous ‘Collana rossa’ series presented readers with emergent successes; Jack London, Joseph Conrad, James Oliver Curwood,6 Arthur de Gobineau, Zane Grey, Baroness Orczy—creator of the ‘Scarlet Pimpernel’—H. Rider Haggard, Rafael Sabatini—whose novels would later be censored and even proscribed by the Fascist regime—and Carlo Foley, a publishing phenomenon in France. The publishing house would later be credited with harnessing a ‘synergy’ between Italian authors and their foreign counterparts.7 Sonzogno’s catalogue, like that of Treves, featured popular versions of the classics, the Italian sensations Pitigrilli and Mariani, the new Italian historical novel by the likes of Valerio

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Pignatelli, Alfredo Pitta, Vittorio Emanuele Bravetta, Guido Monaldi, Luigi Natoli, and foreign adventure novels, such as the celebrated Maurice Leblanc with his Arsène Lupin and Rafael Sabatini’s Scaramouche and Cesare Borgia.8 Interestingly, Antonio Gramsci would go on to cite Leblanc’s novels as examples of a typology of popular genre—the adventure mystery—capable of engaging wider sectors of readers, a genre entirely lacking in the Italian tradition (1975: III 2121). In terms of Italian bestsellers, we find Emilio Salgari’s Le tigri di Mompracem (1901), Quelle signore by Umberto Notari (1904), I divoratori by Annie Vivanti (1911) and La freccia nel fianco by Luciano Zuccoli (1913), Mimí Bluette, fiore del mio giardino by Guido Da Verona (1916) and Mití by Virgilio Brocchi (1917). Italian interpretations of the French feuilleton model of serializing novels in literary magazines had been rather timidly proposed by Vivanti, Da Verona and Zuccoli, as well as Brocchi, whose Romanzi dell’isola sonante (1911–1920) followed in the wake of the likes of Misteri di Parigi by Eugène Sue and then of Napoli by Francesco Mastriani, Le vergini folli (1907) by Guglielminetti and L’onore di Loredana (1908) by Zuccoli, and constituted a true longseller. Editors, intellectuals and writers were all equally well aware that there was an aesthetic dearth and a gap in the market, and that to satisfy readers’ tastes it was necessary to look beyond national borders. In the immediate post-war period, ownership of Sonzogno passed from the Sonzogno family to Alberto Matarelli, who embraced a series of significant publishing initiatives: the Grande enciclopedia popolare (released in separate volumes between 1912–1932), the popular novel (modern, easy to read, above all foreign) and news magazines such as Il Mondo and its forerunner Il Secolo. In Florence, the publishing capital, but also elsewhere in Italy, highbrow and popular literature flourished alongside the thriving magazine market. Bemporad specialized in children’s literature; Le Monnier in university texts linked to the Scuola Normale; Sansoni focused on schoolbooks; Barbèra at this point released only a limited number of titles per year; Carabba and Vallecchi’s magazines represented the avant-garde. The Florentine Adriano Salani, and from 1904, his son Ettore, had been one of the first publishers to introduce French and Russian novels to Italy via the ‘Biblioteca Salani’, an illustrated series of elegant volumes at accessible prices. The anticlerical socialist Giuseppe Nerbini, with his eponymously titled series, continued Salani’s work and presented the Italian readership with another new genre which would prove a raging success: detective

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fiction. Nerbini introduced Italian readers not only to Sherlock Holmes, but also to Max Dupont, presenting them alongside established authors such as Balzac, Dickens, Dumas, Gorky, Hugo, Karl Marx, Ponson du Terrail, Sue, Tolstoy, Zola and Zangwill. In 1906, Zola was the bestselling and most widely read foreign author. Already at the end of the nineteenth century, the great European novel had spread from the key centres of publishing activity throughout Italy via cheap—often hastily and inaccurately translated—editions in an effort to meet the growing demand for new titles: a feature that would characterize the Italian book industry for at least forty years.9 But in Florence, the foundations were also being laid for a broad reorganization which would transform the relationship between men of letters, the market and cultural institutions.

2.2

Questions of Culture and Identity

The progressive strengthening of publishing structures had an impact on intellectual perspectives. In 1904, at the height of a productive collaboration with the literary magazine Leonardo, musician, writer and translator Giuseppe Vannicola wrote to Prezzolini about a potential publishing project: Dear Prezzolini, […] What would you say if I asked to present all your writings on Wilde as a preface to the Ballad for a luxian [as in the publishing house lux] ‘per cent’ of the profits? Let me know. Amendola and I had already discussed during this endless winter your idea – a brilliant idea – of uniting all of our efforts in a publishing initiative. But then you knocked me for six with the Mistici series; Papini comes to me in Rome with all this ‘Cultura per lo spirito’, wanting to publish hopelessly literary things…What was I to do, poor citizen that I am – vaccinated, yes, but unfit for military service? (N. A. 1420, 1, cc. 73–74, c. 74, typewritten by Giuseppe Vannicola, Rome)

The challenge was to find a theoretical and practical solution which could form the basis of a new aesthetic and cultural system, a structure which would enable contemporary intellectuals and writers to respond to the demands of a society undergoing rapid technological development—the demands of a modern society—and afford their voices a platform at a national level, as opposed to a merely regional one. To this end, on 10

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April 1907, Giovanni Papini expressed to Giuseppe Prezzolini his firm intention to become a publisher: Dear Giuliano, Since we’re nearly there, I can tell you about it. As you can see, I’ve decided to become a publisher. There are two reasons: I need something to do and I need to earn money. I’m going to start with a small series (Cultura dello Spirito), each book – of 64 pages – will cost one lira, the titles will be a mix of writings by ancient and recent philosophers, summaries of new movements of ideas, anthologies of mystics, translations of oriental things, scientific controversies, etc. […].10 In the autumn I will start another series, a collection of foreign titles, and I would be keen to publish your translation of Swift.11

Setting up as a publisher would allow the modern intellectual to publish the works he considered truly worthy of critical and public attention (including a collection of foreign texts with a translation of the controversial social critic Swift, epitomizing Papini’s ethos) as well as earn enough to operate beyond the restrictions of existing power structures.12 When Prezzolini suggested that Papini was overly concerned with the financial element of his publishing venture, Papini hotly defended the moral commitment underpinning his ambitions: Why does my publishing initiative bring out the historical materialist in you, too? You should know that the 400 francs for the first three volumes came out of my own pocket […]. If you add to that my lack of accounting experience and the dishonesty of booksellers, you will realize that I am not going into publishing for ‘easy money’. I can assure you that this project rests on the psychological and moral principles I explained to you in my other letter […].13

The Florentine intellectual’s reasoning reflected a generational awareness that a protracted separation of the public and private spheres was not only anachronistic but also detrimental to the organization of the Italian cultural system. Accordingly, Papini cited the German publisher Diederichs as an exemplary model: He’s not just a salesman – he’s a writer who is trying to practise what he preaches, a writer who has become conscious of the exploitative nature of the publishing industry and is trying to set up a little agency that is

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different, one that could publish things no other publisher would accept. Do you think your proofreading […] conflicts with your own reflection? All in all, I would rather try and earn some money through my own business – if it comes off – than write articles for newspapers when my heart is not in it. I have no intention of abandoning my role as an educator and prophet.14

Though Papini’s venture into publishing was, in his own words, soon ‘over before it began’, the ideas at the heart of his project would be revived in La Voce’s combination of theoretical elaboration and quest for innovation in forms of cultural practice.15 The relationship of the future vociani, as the group of writers, artists and intellectuals gravitating around the magazine came to be known, with publishers was at times complex and often ambivalent. In 1908 Papini decided to move, with his wife, to Milan, attracted by the city’s promise of a network of contacts at newspapers such as the Corriere della Sera and important publishing houses like Treves. On 24 January that year, he wrote to Prezzolini, ‘I thought Treves recognized our potential, and wants to work with us. Considering that he practically owns the Italian market now, I believe we wouldn’t be doing ourselves any favours by snubbing him; we can leave him when it’s no longer advantageous’.16 Prezzolini, on the other hand, declared in La Voce that he: could not endure under any circumstances the disagreeable union and measure of humanitarian, anticlerical, radicaloid, positivist and popularized [sic] ideas, in the negative sense of the word, of the frequently dire translations that Sonzogno churns out for its customers in that famous ‘Biblioteca’ series.17

At the same time, Papini found himself in a heated argument with the Florentine Bemporad, which had refused to publish a new edition of La coltura italiana.18 Embittered and disheartened by his short experience of the new book market and the isolation of life in Milan, he returned to Tuscany. Though Papini and Prezzolini had argued with both Bemporad and Treves, they did agree to become series directors for other publishers. Papini edited Ricciardi’s ‘Scrittori mistici’ and ‘Collezione dei contemporanei’, as well as ‘Cultura dell’anima’, 1909, for Carabba (Simonetti 1982: 313 and passim).19 The latter series in particular was aimed at involving a wide readership in debates on contemporary issues. This compromise

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with institutional powers was necessary, affording them the dominant role in publishing structures required to direct the modernization of Italian culture both internally and externally. In the first instance, the book product had to be improved so as to be distinct from the current low-quality popular literature available and to offer a solid foundation for a rigorous intellectual project which could renew national cultural life and, with a strong modern ethical and aesthetic dimension, actively involve readers in the mechanisms of cultural production (Gentile 1993: 23–25; Adamson 1990). Reviewing La Voce’s first year, Prezzolini emphasized how the literary magazine succeeded in striking a balance between publishing and journalism issues and practical (moral) questions: My focus has always been, when commissioning and selecting articles, on specific topics and clearly delineated arguments, where few things were said, but consequential things, with no literary acrobatics and empty posturing. The newspaper has thus acquired a reputation for dealing with the practical issues of culture: libraries, publishers, journalism, musical institutions […]. I truly believe it is important to educate young Italians to work on precise and solid matters in which the tricks and trips of superficial writers are given short shrift.20

In ‘Che fare’, Prezzolini listed the specific areas he felt social and cultural reform should target: Town halls and local libraries; railways; schools; public libraries; newspapers; financial structures; Italian-speaking countries subject to other nations; […] to be able, when the moment comes, to propose a clear reform, to put ourselves forward, to effect a shift in opinion that causes a real change.21

La Voce explicitly called upon intellectuals to take an active role within society ‘in no uncertain terms and without material concerns, against the infinite forms of arbitrariness that prevail in newspapers and weekly magazines’.22 In an article entitled ‘I laureati al bivio’ (‘Graduates at a crossroads’), Benedetto Croce, upholding the division between aesthetic and practical activities and a definition of art as pure intuition (elaborated subsequently in Breviario di estetica, 1913), defended those who had not been attracted by the easy flattery of the practical activity of journalism, and had remained faithful to their formal education, an institution that refined

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the inner qualities of the individual.23 Shortly after, Prezzolini penned an article in two parts, ‘Il giornalismo e la nostra cultura’, which drew the opposite conclusion, defining investigative journalism as the ideal means to spread a new culture which could offer an alternative to the traditional literary column, the elitist elzeviro or terza pagina.24 As a group, the vociani intellectuals, the majority of whom were born around 1880, were keen to exploit publishing and journalism in order to grant visibility to their militancy and establish their ethical and social (rather than purely aesthetic) relevance. The challenge was to find a means of fighting an outdated national tradition that was incapable of responding to the real problems created by a modern cultural structure and an intellectual world undergoing constant transformation, a world which demanded of its intellectuals direct, concrete participation. Prezzolini condemned contemporary journalism on account of its failure to fulfil an ethical responsibility to the reader and to offer meaningful critique: ‘Once, journalists fought for a cause, they had to be coherent, they had a bond with the reader. Today that is not the case: the party man has a handful of followers, and if he wants his ideas to be heard, they have to be flavoured with lots of news’.25 The journalism that the vociani had in mind was, indeed, radical: it aimed to redevelop the nation’s artistic and literary structures by confronting the prejudice embedded in the system, namely a dangerous and deep-rooted mistrust of popular culture. Prezzolini did not hold back in his criticism of the snobbish prejudice regarding public libraries: Many believe that the public library is only for popular books, for literature for the masses; this is a gross misconception, not only because it is absurd to artificially nurture the minds of ‘uncultured’ but increasingly enlightened readers with books that represent a definitive degree of culture, but also because almost everywhere libraries are not only the source of culture for the people (minus habens ), but also for the middle class, and as such the adjective popular must be interpreted not as a description of its nature but as a cultural medium in its own right; not a form of culture reduced for mass consumption, but culture that is intrinsically popular, easy, accessible to all.26

The aim of the vociani, as stated on diverse occasions, was to reach an increasingly large public throughout the country:

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But we need the public to respond. We need to stay in touch with the public, especially with the provinces and small towns and countryside, where there is less scepticism in the air. And we need the public to accept that La Voce is six pages long, so we can say everything we have to say.27

Accordingly, after ten issues, Prezzolini wrote directly ‘Al lettore’ (‘To the Reader’), asking if the journal ought to continue publication and, if so, if the reader would support its enterprise of spreading a new type of culture. This explicit attention to the reader’s needs was another novel feature of La Voce, a reader who was no longer highly educated or aristocratic—or so the editors believed—but an ‘average lay reader’ who became an active counterpart in the dynamics of literary and social discourse. The section entitled ‘I consigli al lettore’, which usually proposed texts by the magazine’s collaborators, was one of La Voce’s most well-known features; the focus here, Prezzolini insisted, was on books that were of practical value, rather than aesthetic experiments. In his article ‘Un libro fa presto’, published on 9 November 1911, Prezzolini condemned the democratization of culture understood as an indiscriminate popularization of literary texts if this reduced the quality of literature, even though these books were the books that were the ‘most in demand. A publisher who bases his offer on easy reading won’t have trouble making a fortune. A clear, simple, short “easy learning” book, rather something intellectually challenging, is the ideal in these democratic days’. The aim of the vociani was different; they proposed ‘healthy and serious books’, offering ‘not a library of speculation, but of advice and diffusion’, in attempt to share widely ‘popular texts at affordable prices’.28 Two years later, Slataper echoed this objective: Dear Giuliano, La Voce, as I see it, also serves as a unification of spirit, rather than having an exclusively practical function. It was so Crocean in the beginning but is slowly shifting towards Gentile. We find ourselves to be religious men, men, rather than economists, artists, etc. I think that our movement won’t give rise to an artist or inventor, but a man. This is why I believe that our real commitment must be to celebrate the great civilizations, the people. A Herderian activity, in short. We can go back to the tagline ‘journal of Italian and foreign culture’.29

Informed by Gentile’s actualism and a Herderian awareness of its own historicity as a symptom of national awakening, La Voce redefined the

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concept of man and the principle of cultural internationalism on the premise of a shared ethical universalism. Following the crisis of the scholarly mission to reform high culture, it was essentially a matter of constructing what Gabriele Turi has defined as a ‘cultured intermediate class’ which could respond to the need to create unity out of national history and contemporary uncertainty (2002: 17).

2.3

‘La Voce ’ and Related Publications

A forerunner of La Voce and product of Papini’s will, Leonardo was created in Florence on 3 January 1903 and published for five years.30 The journal helped rekindle an interest in philosophy and explored new epistemological horizons; Henri Bergson and intuitionism; Peircean pragmatism, William James’s ‘freedom to believe’ and ‘will to believe’ (activism in Papini’s interpretation), which formalized the intrinsic practical purpose in any philosophical belief.31 Leonardo also ventured into book publishing, with eight special—beautifully presented and consequently, expensive—philosophical volumes, the ‘Biblioteca del Leonardo’ collection, inspired by Mercure de France publications, though Leonardo’s excessively elitist nature meant it failed to win public favour (a single edition of the magazine cost fifteen cents). Bergson’s attempt to delegitimize the cognitive power of language was represented (in the second of the ‘Biblioteca’ special volumes, edited by Prezzolini and published in 1904), but so too was the pragmatism of George Berkeley, with his ‘esse est percipi’ deliberately reformulated as ‘esse est posse percipi’, and David Hume’s philosophy of action, according to which the conditions of human existence and the determination of knowledge of reality are not absolute phenomena, but potential and relational.32 Finally, modernism as defined by Maurice Blondel was central. Insisting on the reconciliation of Christian philosophy with modern thought, the aim was to bring spiritualism back to its historicity,33 to rediscover the potential of individual action in the face of surrounding corruption. The return to the rural values of Leopardian poetics, for example, is explained in these terms. By virtue of its general interest in the Anglo-Saxon philosophy of praxis and modernist spiritualism, Leonardo offered a new ethical-spiritual perspective, inviting young intellectuals to fight academicism and to question the scientific certainties of the positivism on which the hegemony

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of the Giolittian ruling class was based.34 With Bergson of the timeless durée, of vital élan, of intuition over analysis of cognitive models on the one hand, and the pragmatism of William James, which guaranteed both speculative freedom and individual action, on the other, Leonardo marked a new interest in aspects of philosophical reflection which gave voice and depth to the spheres of individuality and irrationality that were excluded from Croce’s aesthetic and cognitive structure—though these would feature in Breviario di estetica, with art as pure intuition.35 Amidst this flurry of ideas, Leonardo published articles which promoted a broader understanding of classical and modern artists and intellectuals, such as Baudelaire, Goethe, Shakespeare, Shelley (albeit disparaged by Prezzolini for echoing a dated D’Annunzio style ‘still so dear to Borgese’), Poe and Taine. Oscar Wilde was a consistent reference, and Prezzolini, writing under the pseudonym of Giuliano il Sofista, presented H. G. Wells as an example of a modern Prometheus in dialogue with mortals.36 Papini translated and edited the philosophical works (Bergson, Berkeley, James, Boutroux and Schopenhauer), but he was also involved in editing Cervantes, Calderón de la Barca, Dostoevsky, Keats, Poe, Swift, Tolstoy, Whitman. The journal also engaged in international collaborations (Martini 1956: 276–81). Despite Leonardo’s diverse, and on occasion contradictory, range of theoretical positions and editorial initiatives, the drive to become modern, to catch up with the times, was an overriding theme, reflected in the chronological organization behind its very understanding of modernity. Modernity was interpreted both as a self-reflexive unfinished project and a historicized moment that required a new understanding of time, one which rejected the traditional sense of the past and could relate to contemporary technological changes. Leonardo’s limited circulation offered little opportunity to change practically the publishing system: a new formula was required. La Voce was a different type of literary magazine, both graphically and economically. With simple visuals and relatively cheap, more accessible prices, vociani publications offered readers a real alternative, defying the market rules imposed by traditional publishing structures. La Voce launched with a print run of 2000 copies, increasing to 2500 by the eighth issue and 5000 in 1911, whilst the largest Leonardo print run was only 500 copies—a circulation more in league with that of the Milanese 1760s periodical Il Caffè (Romagnoli 1993: XIII). Though these are not, at first glance, striking sales figures, the circulation of

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La Voce was certainly not low when compared with other newspapers published in this period, such as Marzocco (Luti 1989, in Ragone 1989: III, 491–95). The magazine could already boast 800 reader subscriptions (at ten cents) in its first year; by 1913, it had 1800 subscribers. The publishing aspirations of the Voce group, despite provoking considerable internal disagreement, were made official on 19 November 1911 with the inauguration of the ‘Libreria della Voce’.37 The ‘Libreria’ had been preceded by thirteen volumes covering a series of themes and figures in the ‘Quaderni della Voce’ (including Rudyard Kipling by Emilio Cecchi, and Arthur Rimbaud by Ardengo Soffici) and by the ‘Questioni vive’ series edited by Prezzolini.38 These publications sought to inform the Italian public on the country’s most urgent social and moral issues, such as the issues of electoral rigging in the south, dealt with by Gaetano Salvemini in Il ministro della mala vita in 1910. A glance at the index of the magazine, the ‘Quaderni’, and the ‘Libreria’ series reveals the range of topics covered, from political issues—the question of irredentism—and literary criticism, such as the volume on Kipling (who will be a popular translation choice, identified as one of the masters of the adventure genre), to contemporary novels, history and military history novels, and young adult foreign fiction. The ‘Libreria’ collection was created to broaden the reach of La Voce, and its format and objectives were distinct from the special editions proposed by Leonardo. Plain in design, with piercing and perspicacious content, this was an ethical and pedagogical series of books designed to turn readers into citizens:39 The Libreria della Voce is a cooperative; founded by a group of authors and readers with the aim of complementing the publication of the magazine ‘La Voce’ and of creating a publishing house and an independent bookshop that seeks to discern the best in book production, artistically and socially. It procures any book, in any language, at prices which are sometimes lower, often equal, never higher than the typical bookseller. […] It grants members discounts, accepts payment in instalments for its own publications […], offers discounts to subscribers of either edition (political or literary) of ‘La Voce’.40

Establishing the ‘Libreria’ as an authors and readers’ cooperative meant that authors could maintain control of the rights of their works and weren’t subject to publishers’ preferences, whilst readers were invited

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to join the social fabric of publishing. The statement of intent released by the founding members of the ‘Libreria’ specified their resolve to support the magazine and engage in a wide-reaching cultural dissemination programme that would attract rural readers, a project in keeping with the times which offered subscribers favourable conditions. Besides being a publishing house that sold its own volumes directly to, and established a dialogue with, its public, the ‘Libreria’ also offered texts from other publishers who paid La Voce a fee to advertise their products: Laterza, Carabba, Sandron. ‘Our own population of readers’ was Prezzolini’s explicit target audience; as part of this initiative, reader consultation surveys were sent exclusively to members which fostered a shared sense of identity and cultural belonging.41 This was a combination of publishing and bookselling which avoided official distribution channels, creating an alternative way to spread culture as well as generating the profits necessary to remain autonomous. Controversially, advertising generated the money La Voce needed to pay its employees. The magazine used advertising both to suggest titles to readers and to generate a source of income – it even featured an advertisement for a collector’s folder to store and display issues.42 Focusing on the act of reading in a visual and iconic way, the use of commercial advertising also satisfied the need to reach a new class of readers that were growing in number, consolidating the communication between reader and publisher. Despite these dynamic ambitions, and the vitality and variety of the Florentine editions, inexperience worked against La Voce. Inaccurate risk assessment and administrative errors meant that several publications were produced at a loss, a fact that can be deduced from contemporary internal correspondence. A range of editorial initiatives and wider activities, such as the Medardo Rosso art exhibition and various special editions, represented efforts to counter the financial issues which plagued the magazine.43 Though, true to their word, La Voce publications gave various contributors the chance to see their writing in print, often the sales of these texts failed to meet printing costs: the printing costs of Papini’s Il crepuscolo dei filosofi were so high that even though the first print run sold out completely, the magazine made no profit. In this context, competing with authors like Guido Da Verona, whose texts reached print runs of 200,000 volumes, was not sustainable (Cadioli 1990: 54–56; Simonetti 1982: 310–11). One of the reasons for the magazine’s collapse was that the Italian public were not great book buyers. Initiatives such as paying for books by

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instalments and ‘trying before you buy’ for a fortnight failed because they did not take into account the public’s inclination to read for entertainment, rather than for education. The onset of war brought a reduction in consumables and paper rationing, which restricted publishing activity and the magazine’s circulation. In these hard times, the ‘Libreria’ aggravated the magazine’s ideological crisis, a project that had been designed to unite created such resentment that Prezzolini handed over control to Papini, officially citing health reasons, but the real cause was undoubtedly internal tension.44 Although the journal formally ceased publication, Vallecchi’s intervention meant that the publishing house continued its activity and in 1918 published twenty-three titles—only seven had been released the year before. When Vallecchi assumed control of La Voce publications, Prezzolini moved to Rome where in 1919 he founded the Società Anonima Editrice La Voce (Publishing PLC), persevering in his original objective to educate Italians. Here, he set up the ‘Istituto Bibliografico Italiano’ (I.B.I.) which acted as a bridge between Italy and abroad. The I.B.I. responded to requests for ‘Italian and foreign publications, transcripts of archive cards, photographs of works of art; it provides precise bibliographical information on any subject; […] The I.B.I. also seeks to establish special libraries in Italy and abroad, and would be happy to contribute its works to the creation of such libraries’ (Simonetti 1981: XI). Through Arthur Livingstone, the I.B.I also served as an intermediary in selling the rights of Italian and foreign authors to the United States. In February 1919, Prezzolini wrote to Palazzeschi: ‘I will be the editor, endeavouring to surround myself with trustworthy professionals, people committed to the serious tasks our country, and even the world, faces – and artists who can render an elegant tribute in a way that my pen cannot. I will be director of the publishing house, which I will bring to Rome. Vallecchi will continue in Florence with Papini and Soffici’ (Simonetti and Nozzoli 1982: 78). In May of the same year, in Rome, the company was legally registered; the documents specified the tasks and duties of collaborators, subscribers and of Prezzolini himself in great detail. Next to the headquarters of the publishing house a reading room was created to allow intellectuals to meet and debate. This renewed commitment did not improve the economic fortunes of La Voce and Prezzolini abandoned the project after just one year, returning to Florence in 1920.45 Papini and Prezzolini’s position was not a naïve avant-garde act of rebellion. Both were aware that it was necessary to understand the rules of the market in order to construct a cultural space in which an alternative

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textuality could take shape and operate, a textuality that was distinct from the dominant logic of practice: modern, pragmatic and transnational. In short, the birth of La Voce represents a moment of rupture: in structural terms, because sales increased and therefore so did readers, the means of distribution changed, with the introduction of subscription initiatives and direct sales via news-stands throughout the country and not just in metropolitan centres, and the magazine was no longer self-financed, as Leonardo was, but had become a real business.

2.4

Nations and Nationalisms

Reflecting on the creation of La Voce—after the end of Leonardo— Prezzolini reveals doubts which are key to understanding the mindset of early twentieth-century intellectuals regarding institutions, including publishing, and the separate status of the work of art. I remember that there was a lot of talk of Italy and our sorry state of affairs. A painter friend of mine recounted what he had had to endure from the tasteless middle classes, and I told him how angry I was with aimless writers and cowardly publishers. […]. The country was beautiful, people were healthy, but everything was mediocre and unworthy of the past and inferior to what was happening beyond the Alps and the ocean. Everything was old […]. (Prezzolini 1964: 139–40)

The Florentine summarizes the three principles at the heart of the Voce publishing and cultural project: an intolerance of the national cultural tradition and publishing structures which were not inclined to foreign literary production; a lively interest in current French literature, and in contemporary European literature generally, as well as in American trends—two models from which to draw inspiration; above all, though, a desire to renew traditional structures which were inadequate both for what was envisaged for the future and with respect to the glorious past of the nation. In a 1905 Leonardo article ‘La coltura e la vita italiana’, Gian Falco had already argued that national culture needed to awaken from its torpor and assume a competitive and culturally ‘aggressive’ stance towards Europe. To this end, the culture of the nation must be interpreted holistically, as a whole which branched out and extended to the popular sphere rather than being limited to academia. Accordingly, Italy’s process of structural—and

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consequently cultural—restoration must be all-inclusive and begin from the foundations supporting its cultural institutions, above all schools and libraries.46 The nation exists when there is a certain level of technological and economic development, Hobsbawm wrote (2012: 10), adding that its ideal must be shared and sharable. However, as Gellner adds, whilst ‘nationalism is indeed an effect of industrial social organization, it is not the only effect of the imposition of this new social form, and hence it is necessary to disentangle it from those other developments’ (2008: 40). Italian nationalism, indeed, originated in the political and economic deadlock of the start of the century which undermined and affirmed the need to redefine a sense of national belonging. Emilio Gentile, reading fascism and futurism as manifestations of a political modernism which encourages the individual to worship his own strength and individuality, suggests that this perspective resulted in a ‘national modernism’ that, rather than being characterized by conservatism, was animated by the desire for change: the same desire which drove the nationalist, internationalist and modern vociani (Gentile 1994: 58–60). The crisis of the Giolittian system brought to light the striking social, economic and political contradictions caused by disagreements between various key sectors of society. The fragile alliances formed favoured the rise of nationalist ideologies. 1910 saw the creation of the Associazione Nazionalista Italiana (Italian Nationalist Association), with Enrico Corradini, Alfredo Rocco and Luigi Federzoni amongst its exponents; nevertheless, a hegemonic bloc of national power capable of restructuring forms of political management and social control failed to emerge (Gentile 1982: 189). Corradini produced for the first time a series of myths and ideas which would be formalized into a political ideology only later by Federzoni, Coppola and Rocco (Contarino 1982; Del Vivo 1985; Luti 1989). Corradini’s supporters, and fellow Il Regno collaborators, wanted to redeem the moral primacy of the proletarian nation, revitalizing the glorious past of Rome with the spirit of modernity and infusing classical forms with an imperialist and expansionist urgency.47 Italy would be one of the great European powers, bringing to effective completion the process of unification and expansionism thwarted by the Italian defeat at Adawa. This nascent imperialist nationalism—the antithesis of Giolittian social policy and humanitarianism—became a bulwark for the middle classes (Adamson 1993: 86–88; D’Orsi 2003: 14–15). Nationalism as La

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Voce intellectuals conceived of it rejected these dichotomies, regarding Italy’s greatness as that of a culturally modern European nation. Prezzolini criticized Corradini and his colleagues’ ideals as despotic. Although essentially ‘aristocratic’ and rather classist in political terms (not too distant from the ideals of Vilfedo Pareto, Gaetano Mosca and Robert Michels), the nationalism proposed by Prezzolini aimed to complete the failed revolution of the Risorgimento rather than emulating Imperial Rome. That is, as Caroncini suggested in response to Prezzolini’s ‘Che fare’ article, nationalism had to promote a collective conscience amongst all those agents (writers, intellectuals, teachers) who dealt with the public sphere and not, as previously, only amongst limited circles. ‘Superior’ Italy could, and should, appeal to an international community. The point of contact between these two seemingly contradictory visions lay in their motivation: the responsibility for reforming civil society was still that of the intellectual elites, who must look beyond national borders and make culture accessible to a heterogeneous public.48 Exasperated by this academicism and empty D’Annunzio-style rhetoric, the nationalism proposed by the vociani sought to expand intellectual horizons and opposed giving the middle classes a leading role.49 Nationalism was synonymous with modernity only if it brought structural renewal which would make the nation stronger through the resolution of a series of concrete problems: emigration, trade, disparity between north and south, education, etc. It was a humanist nationalism aspiring to the moral regeneration of Italians: a strong nation was the result of a common aesthetic, ethical and ideological purpose, rather than an abstract myth. The vociani’s reflections on fine art provide a clear example of this political and cultural ideology. In 1909, Soffici published a series of articles introducing Paul Cézanne’s impressionism, and in 1910 and 1911, Cubism, Georges Braque and Pablo Picasso, the primitivism of Henri Rousseau, Paul Gauguin and Fauvism, to Italian audiences.50 By stripping away decorative trappings, Soffici wrote, these artists have established a renewed contact with materiality, capturing its life force. Italian artistic tradition, on the other hand, had proved incapable of shedding ‘empty’ stylistic models. What Soffici saw in the French models he proposed as examples was a vital attention to the connection between the artist and reality; he advocated an attack on mimetic realism to achieve an anti-representational perceptive form, disparaging Italian art as excessively beholden to classical models.

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What was innovative about the nationalist discourse of the vociani was the constant negotiation of Italian cultural and identity paradigms through dialogue with the most desirable foreign models. On the one hand, the vociani sought to recover a strong image of Italy, alluding to an essence of cultural authority related to the country’s ‘glorious’ national tradition, but on the other they were sensitive to the inherent ambivalence of the concept of supremacy. Whilst politically the idea of a strong nation inherited from turn-of-the-century nationalism persisted, culturally, and on an editorial level, La Voce moved towards the redefinition of the modalities of competition, looking beyond Italy’s borders and participating in a series of transnational networks. As we will see, this preoccupation with the foreign, and with building a strong nation, will return in various guises in publishing contexts in the decades to come. The emergence of an awareness of the contingency of culture upon shifting economic and ideological power dynamics reflects both the crisis inherent in the concept of cultural authority—corresponding also to a political crisis—and the element of gnostic ambiguity in any cultural manifestation. Crucially, the vociani promoted the need to question the notion of continuous transmission of a series of values from the nation’s past into its future.

2.5 Foreign Literature: The Drive to Become Modern La Voce and related publications sought to disseminate European culture within the limitations imposed by the printing, distribution and sales conditions of that time, developing more direct and interactive forms of dialogue with the reader. In the magazine’s first issue, released on 20 December 1908, Papini declared that the renewal and consolidation of national culture also required the study of foreign culture. We are always talking about the glory of our nation, but it is the latest foreign literature that we turn to more willingly and more often than our old Italian writers. This is not just about putting Italy back in contact with European culture, but fostering a historical awareness of our own culture, which is a significant part of European culture. I am not asking for much: Nationalists no, but Italians yes!51

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The relationship with the Other was thus centred on competitiveness, a comparison of strong and weak traditions according to their potential for imitation. In what terms? In a 1909 article on impressionism, Soffici introduced Italian readers to Laforgue’s art criticism (Laforgue’s importance had already been signalled by writer and poet Guido Gozzano) and Rimbaud’s symbolism—though Soffici failed to grasp its visionary power—and, in subsequent pieces, the ‘literary’ cubism of Max Jacob and Apollinaire. The vociani saw in the symbolist movement a moment of rupture with the positivist tradition and Croce, who considered their literary expressions a recourse to mysticism and occultism.52 Ernest Delahaye published a series of four articles on Arthur Rimbaud. These writings, though purely biographical, identified the modernity of Rimbaud’s writing in its reclaimed traditional forms, such as in Le Bateau ivre, whose symbolic imagery transcended the limits imposed by reality both in terms of a sensory perception of the subject and the modalities of its representation.53 Alberto Spaini’s reading of Mistral and Soffici’s reading of Rolland were in a similar anti-elitist key, favouring a national culture that stretched beyond national borders precisely because of the crisis of Western civilization. It was in fact Soffici’s Parisian years that had catalysed his desire to break with the aesthetic and literary restrictions of an overly decadent Italian tradition to try and achieve the lyrical and autobiographical ‘document of life’ that he found in Romain Rolland. Although many vociani preferred to focus on the prominent religiosity of the French writer, Prezzolini was fascinated by the moral rigour of Rolland’s works and his contempt for Parisian academic life. Rolland therefore embodied the search for ethical commitment and rejection of academicism upon which Prezzolini’s conceptual system, as a writer, intellectual, and publisher, was based.54 Pietro Jahier translated, and wrote several articles about,55 Francis Jammes, a ‘simple’ poet who rejected classicism and experimented with alexandrine verse (Vinall 2006: 56–57). In 1911, Jahier translated Daniel Halévy’s Il castigo della democrazia (Histoire de quatre ans, 1997 –2001, Cahiers de la Quinzaine 1903) and in 1912 the first Italian version of Paul Claudel’s Partage de midi (1906), as Crisi meridiana, appeared in the ‘Libreria della Voce’. Dealing with an adulterous affair, this latter text presented the classic dilemma between earthly desire and the limits imposed by a cosmic and divine sense of justice, a point emphasized by Cecchi (Petrocchi 1984: 105 and passim). In his analysis of Claudel’s

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use of symbolism, Jahier presented a literariness that was grounded in everyday life and capable of revealing its intricate figurative meaning. Moreover, this narrative quest for a union of the real and the symbolic did not obscure the contradictions and ethical dimension of modern life. Whilst in Il Peccato Giovanni Boine linked Claudel’s modernity to his faith, the same theme of the conflict between the earthly and the divine in Partage de midi was criticized by Slataper on account of excessive linguistic complications and an exaggerated imaginative exuberance that inhibited more direct forms of communication.56 Scipio Slataper and Marcello Loewy translated Friedrich Hebbel’s Giuditta (1840) for the ‘Quaderni della Voce’ (1 November 1910).57 As with Claudel’s initial introduction to Italian audiences, the Triestine writer identified a ‘conflict of powers superior to man through man’ deployed in this tragedy. Hebbel was interpreted as a contradictory and troubled artist, a predecessor of Nietzsche with the tone of his description of the wounded ego of modern man, robbed of the powers that had been conferred by a romantic solipsism.58 Two years later, in an article which marked the centenary of Hebbel’s birth and reviewed his work in Italian translation, Scipio Slataper commented: Why is it that Italy, which until ten years ago lived – as far as German literature is concerned – on translations from the romantic period (Maffei being the penultimate exponent) and on false, often French, translations, is now starting to show its thriving independent national life not by opening its door to foreigners, but by transplanting them here. I put this reawakening of interest in Europe in the same box […] as the Tripoli enterprise; in Germany I was both pleased and saddened to realize that we know much more about them than they do about us. I am not talking about contemporary literature, in which we, like they, are, fundamentally, poor, but about our and their great works. Let’s hear it for translators, then, in all forms.59

The interest Florentine intellectuals took in France was well known, but it was part of a more general interest in European culture. Ardengo Soffici and Sergio Jastrebzoff translated Chekhov’s short stories in 1910 for the ‘Quaderni’, which also featured, in 1913, Mario Vallauri’s version of Hariscandra il virtuoso, an Indian drama in Sanskrit, and Fyodor Dostoevsky’s Crotcaia translated by Eva Kühn-Amendola, followed by Margherita Sarfatti’s translation of Le suffragiste militanti in 1914.60 Margherita Sarfatti, in a letter to La Voce dated March 10, 1909, praised

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the magazine’s grounded philosophy and the courage of its contributors to express clearly, without naiveté (in Leonardo style), their opinions, even when they risked being disruptive.61 The series of essays and writings on foreign writers included the aforementioned volumes on Rudyard Kipling and Rimbaud; Gli studi e capricci sui mistici tedeschi by Prezzolini (1912); Cubismo e oltre and Cubismo e futurismo by Soffici (1913, 1914); La modernità di Goethe, Il teatro tedesco and Federico Mistral by Alberto Spaini (1913, 1919). In 1914, volumes were published containing sixteen reproductions of works by Cézanne, Degas, Rousseau and Picasso. This was a two-way exchange, as Prezzolini controversially declared at the time, with many La Voce articles being translated and published in foreign journals: publications in the Mercure de France, Paris Journal, Les Cahiers de la Quinzaine, La Revue Critique, L’Effort in France, the Spanish Cataluña, the English The Spectator, the German Literarisches Echo, and in Finland too, in an unspecified publication, reflected the will to export the best of national cultural abroad in a mutually beneficial exchange.62 From 1907 onwards, Papini was invited to contribute sporadically to Mercure de France. The articles and prose that arose from this collaboration, above all denouncing the atrocities of the war, were published in the volume La paga del soldato in 1915. Understanding nationalism as a need to rediscover the authentic Italian tradition and liberate it from moral and artistic ‘corruption’ thus implicated a competitive awareness of other cultures, the best of foreign traditions was captured and dressed in national clothes. These new dynamics in publishing situated foreign literature within a theoretical framework in which national discourse coexisted with an understanding of art as an interdisciplinary and transnational phenomenon. This aesthetic renewal was reflected in the form and purpose of the intellectual mission in light of the renewed epistemological-ontological-aesthetic message proposed by modernity. In 1920, the year which saw the greatest number of foreign translations published in Italy,63 Gobetti praised the vociani translations as rare examples of a successful spiritual and stylistic communion between source and target text that also marked a return to the rigour of tradition: La Voce’s new collection promises something more. Without pretension or exaggerated claims, it silently promotes a return to tradition. It offers honest, serious translations. Between the published volumes I have in front

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of me (Linati’s and Rebora’s translations) there is something else: an effort to revive poetry, to recreate art and not just to translate mechanically.64

On the one hand, foreign modes of representation remained close to the expressions of the avant-garde and were therefore distant from those of the masses; on the other, they offered an ideal way to reach an ‘average’ reader and to propose a new aesthetic and ethical model. Not only translations, but the work of translators themselves must be understood as an engagement in a cultural dialogue on the part of a nation that had long lost its cultural pre-eminence, especially with regard to contemporary letters. The Florentine magazine had inaugurated a publishing structure in which writer and editor were inextricably linked; this model, adapted by Gobetti, would survive into the thirties, when avant-garde impulses were abandoned in favour of a practical attention to the rules of the market. The enduring legacy of La Voce lay instead in the conceptualization of literature as a ‘quality’ product but not an ‘elite’ one, a product which must meet the preferences of a general public through a well-defined and far-reaching publishing project. From the columns of this journal emerged a cultural proposal that had the power to transform the structure of literary and civil society via the dynamic dialogue it established with its reader. But above all it was a redefinition of the ways of using the technical tools at the disposal of intellectuals who no longer acted as individual agents but as a group, and in an age of technical reproducibility which offered the means for direct action in cultural and social spheres. Operating within a relational system of power structures still dominated by the Milanese model of Treves, the vociani sought to branch out and to stand out: to carve out a secure niche in the market for a publishing house of ideas which could relaunch the ethical, aesthetic and ideological mission of the man of letters.

2.6

Piero Gobetti on Publishing

In 1922, Piero Gobetti founded the ‘Arnaldo Pittavino & Co.’ publishing house with the printer Arnaldo Pittavino and painter Felice Casorati. Pittavino withdrew from the initiative in March 1923 after Gobetti and his father were arrested, and the company was renamed ‘Piero Gobetti

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editore’. Following a prefectorial injunction, the enterprise was transformed into a public limited company called ‘Edizioni del Baretti’ and continued to publish texts sporadically until 1929.65 World War I was over, consumption was on the rise and the transformation of the old artisan publishing structures stepped up a gear. The industry was changing: typographic workshops and old bookshops were reorganized to meet the growing demand for books and printed paper, and the Italian Association of Book Printers (Associazione tipografico liberaria italiana), which had been operating since 1869, was transformed in 1921 into the Italian Book Publishing Association (Associazione editoriale libraria italiana), with Giovanni Beltrami as president, Antonio Vallardi as vice president and Carlo Marrubini as secretary general. Gobetti joined as an independent publisher in 1923. The new association was charged with the task of coordinating the publishing industry nationally and was directed for eighteen years by Renzo Ermes. Milan was snubbed: its headquarters were established in Rome.66 Gobetti wanted to pick up where the previous generation’s programme of publishing and cultural renewal had left off. He admired Prezzolini as a reformer, educator and cultural organizer who had reformulated the tormented relationship between theory and practice in light of modernity: ‘another person who fills me with enthusiasm is Prezzolini’, he wrote to Ada Prospero in 1919, ‘the most intelligent publisher in Italy, like I told you […]. The Voce publications will be excellent’ (Prezzolini 1971: 13). He publicly acknowledged his own generation’s debt to the vociani in his 1920 article ‘Poesia ed arte’: ‘It was a victory for militant idealism over a D’Annunzio-esque superficiality and the empty indifference of the last positivists’, but he also proposed new goals.67 There were elements of the project undertaken by Prezzolini and the vociani publications that he aspired to emulate, others from which he was keen to break free. When Gobetti became one of Rivoluzione liberale’s regular contributors (1921– 1925), Prezzolini and he were soon at loggerheads over the political role of intellectuals. Prezzolini wanted to form a group of ‘Apoti’, essentially a form of intellectual self-withdrawal from militancy following the delusion of La Voce. With Fascism on the rise, the Florentine opposed direct political action, declaring that intellectuals should leave political life to focus on the instruction of the elites. Gobetti challenged this view, upholding culture as ‘action’ and civil engagement. For the Turinese, the intellectual should have an active political role in the public and cultural spheres.

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On only two occasions did Gobetti directly discuss, evaluate and analyse the role of publishing in the national cultural debate: in La cultura e gli editori, published under the pseudonym of ‘Rasrusat’ (‘destroy’ in Russian) on 5 May 1919 in Energie Nove (1918–1920), and L’editore ideale, an undated four-page essay presumably written in 1925.68 In these brief but suggestive pieces, the target of his disdain was the destructive example of Treves and his ‘Biblioteca amena’: Three quarters of Italian book production is under the jurisdictional wing of the Treves publishing house. […]. Take away Treves and the publishers that are left are lost: no yardstick, no one to copy. Treves embodies our lack of culture. Beyond structure, he lacks definitively any hint of initiative. A publisher must be a cultural organizer, a director of spiritual work, and Treves is just a printer.69

The Treves publishing model was not a complex communication system where individual agents interact with each other and form a dynamic intellectual community. For this reason, Treves was just a printer, not a ‘director of spiritual work’; the publisher was not inspired by the commitment to education Prezzolini promoted, rather, he embodied Italy’s cultural void. Treves’s public were middle-class readers who had no ‘ethical’ interests and sought merely a distraction with the likes of Amalia Guglielminetti and Luciano Zuccoli, works which offered no stimulus for critical reflection. The pockets of Luciano Zuccoli, Amalia Guglielminetti, Carola Prosperi would soon be empty and all the literary republic bankrupt if the machines in Via Palermo fell silent, at the same time the imagination (ahem!) of all of Italy’s fairer sex, from seamstresses to intellectuals, would dry up. (Gobetti 1969: 461)

To combat such ‘culturelessness’, what Gobetti promoted was, in essence, a publisher of ideas, a publisher with an intellectual agenda in the mould of La Voce who could assume an ethical-ideological role and be a cultural organizer who shared Prezzolini’s qualities: as such he must be an organizer, he can’t just be a dilettante. The modern need for unity, essential for the sharing of knowledge and a prodigious increase in literary production, requires an editor who is a thinker. […].

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A publisher has to represent an internal school of thought of which he is convinced and understands profoundly. (Gobetti 1969: 460)

Publishing must be a ‘planned’ system, the Turinese intellectual continues: Many publishing houses are born and develop out of a magazine, to complete it and represent it with a group of ideas. Stimulating magazines have always given rise to stimulating publishers. In Italy we need only cite the examples of ‘La Critica’ and ‘La Voce’. […]. Now we have new publishers, who will produce true publishing art; but they are not the students of Treves, they are called Prezzolini, Laterza and, we hope, Vallecchi, and we hope many more. (Gobetti 1969: 460 and 465)

The ideal publisher is one who takes responsibility. His decisions are based on an underlying cultural project. He organizes a school of thought; he is not eclectic, but selective: We want to support ideas, organize them, set them against each other in an infinite dialectic struggle as in the soul. And we want this unity and organicity to pervade all cultural forms. No one can be different, no one can abstain. Least of all a publisher. […] It is precisely the publisher who is the symbol of organization, the publisher has to make himself the initiator of this unity amongst the people. Commercial success will come to him this way. (Gobetti 1969: 466)

He is ‘a creator’, invested with a form of moral primacy which obliges him to take an interest in the market, but only a moderate interest, because his commitment to education must always be at the forefront.70

2.7

Gobetti and Europe: Translations

Gobetti as a publisher and intellectual built bridges between Italy and Europe imbued with a militant and interdisciplinary Europeanism; Europeanism for Gobetti meant a decisive and broad cultural openness to the contemporary. Since his first magazine, Energie Nove, the Turinese publisher had featured articles on Italian and foreign literature, including contributions on Whitman—one of the first American poets to take off in Italy—and on Yeats and Shelley.71 Representing earlier periods, Cervantes and Rabelais appeared alongside literature from Japan,

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Serbia and Poland. But above all, Russian culture, of which Gobetti was an enthusiastic promoter, expert translator and industrious publisher. Gobetti and Ada Prospero’s translations of L’abisso (published in a literary magazine in Russia in 1902) and Il figlio dell’uomo e altre novelle by successful author Leonid Nikolaeviˇc Andreev, and Allez! (1897) by Aleksandr Ivanoviˇc Kuprin, master of realism, were published as part of the ‘Biblioteca di Energie Nove’ series and by Sonzogno respectively in 1919 and subsequently by La Voce in 1921, whilst various articles on the two novelists appeared in Energie Nove. Andreev and Kuprin were, in Gobetti’s opinion, two of the most interesting Russian writers: the first on account of his ‘western’ decadence, the second for his ‘contemporary’ realism.72 Gobetti saw translating first and foremost as a process of personal explication. The link which this practice established between two individualities and distinct cultural models was a secondary process. He praised Rèbora’s work on Leonid Andreev as bucking the trend of careless translation work. In doing so, Gobetti anticipated the tendency of the following decades to privilege the work of the translator-writer over that of the simple translator as a figure capable of preserving not only the aesthetics but also the symbolic and cultural capital of the text.73 In his ‘Letteratura straniera in Italia’ column, he hailed Rèbora’s work for Vallecchi as a serious philological endeavour, highlighting the failures of his predecessors and emphasizing their reliance on French versions as opposed to the original source text: Translations are commercial speculations and give us not an Andreev but empty books, devoid of character, where the originality of the author is lost in the international French of a second-rate novel, which naturally persists in the Italian versions: an exemplary document of cultural impotence. (345)

Since, Gobetti continues, translation is an effort to explicate for oneself an author’s fantastic creation and to recreate it, developing the characteristics and possibilities it presents. It is to render the work as we feel it, but also in a way in which the author is recognized. A work of creative activity which centres on the creation of a relationship of sympathy (in an etymological sense) between two states of mind and two intuitions. (346)

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Each successful translation is a rewrite, a conscious recreation that does not betray the original but revives its stylistic value. Philological fidelity to the text is essential in accurate versions that do not detract from the original, especially when dealing with difficult languages such as Russian.74 The Turinese intellectual had a precocious awareness of the importance of translations in the cultural and aesthetic development of a nation, and he criticized Treves’s ‘Biblioteca amena’ in particular for its shoddy translations, whose sales relied on good advertising and appealing covers. Gobetti therefore summoned intellectuals to ‘get to work in this sense’ as he attacked the critics who ‘sold out’ to publishers with favourable reviews that encouraged the purchase of one book over another.75 When Energie Nove ceased publication, Gobetti embarked on a new venture, Il Baretti (1924–1928), with the same interest in foreign culture. He published articles—on the French symbolism of Baudelaire, Mallarmé and Verlaine (already known in Italy thanks to D’Annunzio, La Voce, Lacerba and Ungaretti), on Poe (first introduced by Papini), on the surrealism of Breton (a lesser-known author and rather misunderstood when compared with the symbolists), and Valéry on the French novel— forming a model trajectory which linked Flaubert, Proust, Rivière and Gide ultimately with Solaria, the Florentine modernist magazine founded in 1926. When Gobetti supplemented Il Baretti with the ‘Edizioni del Baretti’ series, his publishing initiatives ranged from science and politics to poetry and foreign literature, with translations of Hebbel (1924), already published by the vociani, Longfellow (1927–1928), Goethe (1927), anthologies of German and Catalan poets (1926) as well as a volume by Vincenti on German theatre of the 1900s (1925); the result was a cohesive and transnational cultural system. Gobetti responded in the following terms to Prezzolini’s criticism of some of his choices: Now I intend take my role as publisher seriously. I will not print less than 60 volumes a year. […] Of course, I will maintain the same selective standards: there will always be a clear distinction between what I print and what others print. But you above all, knowing what it means to be a publisher, must not be surprised if on occasion there is some disparity, some controversial decisions.76

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Italian literature had to be freed from the stifling influence of Amalia Guglielminetti, Carola Prosperi and the like to allow for the diegetic elaboration of a novel form in which a solid plot and substantial characters could respond to the demand for immediacy and realism expressed by the public. Contrary to national production, in which artistic experimentation was suffocated by ‘the chokehold of a refined civilization’s conventionalism that our writers cannot overcome’, foreign literature offered a broad narrative system and constructive perspective on reality, rather than a form of retreat into frammentismo.77,78 Gobetti closed his business, ‘Piero Gobetti Edizioni’, at the beginning of 1926. His desire to open a new publishing house in an attempt to become a truly international publisher obliged him to move to Paris on 3 February that same year. The death of the young publisher on the night of the 15 February brought an abrupt end to his ambitions. Nevertheless, the constructive perspective on national textuality that he had helped foster would endure for another twenty years, fed by foreign examples.

Notes 1. On the distinction between modernity and avant-garde, and the ‘historization’ of the avant-garde in Italy, see (Calinsescu 1987: 97; 118–19). 2. Annual illiteracy rates indicate a progressive decrease between 1861 and 1961; see De Fort (1995, in particular 39–214). On the progressive decline of the Giolittian system, see Gentile (1982: 55–67) 3. Between 1871 and 1901, the number of pupils attending primary school increased by 53%, the number of pupils attending secondary school increased by 143%, and enrolment in university courses increased by 114% (Tranfaglia and Vittoria 2000: 64–65). 4. See Chicco (1964: 6–7) for full publication figures, and Tranfaglia and Vittoria (2000: 66–69) for publication data related to the nineteenth century. 5. See Ricciardi (1985) for a full history of Sonzogno. On the history of the Treves publishing house, see Grillandi (1977), Barile (1991), Ricciardi (1985), Tortorelli (1996), Tranfaglia and Vittoria (2000: 63–129), and Turi (1997: 125–31, 159–63). 6. Sonzogno’s catalogue featured 31 of Curwood’s works in translation and 13 of Grey’s, though a total of 31 Grey titles were proposed (AS, file Zane Grey, no date., typewritten; Pagliano 2003: 65–85). 7. Taroni, N., ‘La Casa Editrice Sonzogno’, a. III, n. 4: 283–45. 8. See Prezzolini for an overview of Italian publishing in the 1920s (1923: 169–94).

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9. In 1898 in Milan, Arturo Foà founded the Agenzia letteraria italiana with the aim of protecting Italian authors and introducing foreign writers to publishers. 10. Papini planned on featuring Aristotle, Empedocles, Heraclitus, Schopenhauer, Fechner, Bergson, James, Le Roy, S. Bonaventura, Peirce, as well as volumes on New Thought, Mathematical Logic, and Non-Euclidean Geometry (Papini and Prezzolini 1966: 129, N. A. 1420, 2, cc. 13–14, c. 13). 11. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 129, N. A. 1420, 2, cc. 13–14). 12. Some of Swift’s shorter prose was translated under the title Libelli for Carabba in 1909. On the composition of Swift’s texts, see Scrivano (1999: 89). 13. Papini and Prezzolini (1966, April 15, 1907: 130, N. A. 1420, 2, cc. 20–24, cc. 20–21). 14. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 131–32, N. A. 1420, 2, cc. 20–24, c. 23). 15. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 132–33, N. A. 1420, 2, c.c 25–29, c. 25). See also Simonetti (1982: 310). 16. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 148, N. A, 1420, 2, cc. 70–71, c. 70); Papini’s letter to Prezzolini dated 9 January 1908 (1966: 144–450. 17. La Voce, ‘Le collezioni editoriali’, 7 January 1909, a. I, n. 4, La Voce: 14. 18. Written together with Prezzolini, the multiple volumes of this book explore various phases of national literary life from the first edition of 1905 to the last edition of 1927. See Adamson (1993: 80–81) on influence of the avant-garde and Leonardo on this book. 19. For Carabba, Papini edited La filosofia dell’intuizione: introduzione alla metafisica ed estratti di altre opere. Enrico Bergson, 1909; he translated Émile Boutroux’s La natura e lo spirito, e altri saggi, 1909, with a bibliographical appendix, and La filosofia delle università di Schopenhauer, 1909, to which he also penned the introduction; in 1910, he published James’s Saggi pragmatisti. Also worthy of note is the ‘Classici antichi e moderni’ series, edited for a time by Borgese, which featured Novalis, Hebbel, Pushkin, Chekhov, Gogol, Hoffmann, Longfellow, Cervantes and Unamuno in elegant and rather expensive editions. As Tranfaglia and Vittoria point out, bar Baudelaire, French literature popular at that time was not represented in the Carabba catalogue (2000:168). In 1912, Gino Carabba broke away from his father and began to publish a series that achieved a level of notoriety, ‘Italian and foreign writers’. This collection targeted a public growing in number and with expanding cultural horizons, and included oriental philosophical volumes, such as texts on Buddhist morality translated and introduced in 1912 by Paolo Emilio Pavolini. On the history of the Carabba publishing house, see Pelleriti (1997).

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20. Prezzolini, G., ‘Relazione del primo anno della Voce’, 11 November 1909, a. I, n. 48, La Voce: 202. See also the letters dated 9, 21, 24 January 1908 in Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 144). 21. Prezzolini, G., 23 June 1910, a. II, n. 28, La Voce: 343. 22. Prezzolini, G., ‘La nostra promessa’, 27 December 1908, a. I, n. 2, La Voce: 5 and Prezzolini, G. ‘ Relazione del primo anno della Voce’, 11 November 1909, a. I, n. 48, La Voce: 201. 23. Croce, B., 4 February 1909, a. I, n. 8, La Voce: 29 and Croce, B., ([1913] 1972: 17–19, 21). 24. Prezzolini, G., 28 January, a. I, n. 7, and 25 February 1909, a. I, n. 11, La Voce: 25–26 e 42. 25. Prezzolini, G., 28 January, ibidem: 25. For further details on the composition of the intellectual middle classes, see Piccone-Stella (1972: 17), and for the 1930s Vittoria (1983: 59–60) and Decleva (1997: 231–32). 26. La Voce, 5 January 1911, a. III, n. 1, La Voce: 480. Regarding the lack of public libraries and their shortcomings, see also ‘La provincia di Bari’, 27 January 1910, a. II, n. 7, La Voce: 253; ‘Le biblioteche popolari’, 5 January 1911, a. III, n. 5, La Voce: 480–81; Luigi Emery ‘La biblioteca popolare di una grande città d’Italia’ and ‘Per un più chiaro concetto di Biblioteca popolare’, 20 March 1913 and 1 May 1913, a. V, nn. 12, 18, La Voce: 1038–39, 1069; ‘Un ostacolo alle biblioteche’, 2 February 1911, a. III, n. 5, La Voce: 499 by Giovanni Boine. 27. Prezzolini, G., ‘La nostra promessa’, 27 December 1908, a. I, n. 2, La Voce: 5, in Prezzolini (1974: 241). 28. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 465) and La Voce, ‘Per andare più avanti’, 25 May 1911, a. III, n. 21, La Voce: 577. 29. 21 April 1911, N. A. 1420, 5, cc. 86–88, c. 88. See Turi (1995: 220) on La Voce and Giovanni Gentile and (2002: 17) on the intellectual middle classes. 30. Casini (2002) offers an interesting history of the journal’s various initiatives. 31. In 1910, Knud Ferlov translated Kierkegaard’s In vino veritas. The Danish philosopher wrote to Prezzolini on 14 June 1910, lamenting the provincialism of his country and suggesting that he and the vociani stay in touch in an effort to overcome the sense of cultural isolation they both faced. 32. The eight titles published were: G. Prezzolini, Vita intima, Florence 1903; G. Prezzolini, Il linguaggio come causa d’errore, Florence 1904; G. Papini, Il crepuscolo dei filosofi, Milan 1906; G. Prezzolini, Il centivio, Milan 1906; G. Papini and G. Prezzolini, La coltura italiana, Florence 1906; G. Papini, Il tragico quotidiano: favole e colloqui, Florence 1906; G. Prezzolini, Il sarto spirituale: mode e figurini per le anime della stagione corrente, Florence 1907; G. Prezzolini, L’arte di persuadere, Florence 1907.

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33. As Milanesi notes, James and Peirce represent the two souls of pragmatism: the ‘mystic’, to which Prezzolini and Papini subscribe, and the ‘methodical’ school of the reform of positivist scientism of Vailati and Calderoni (1995: 289–90). Both trends are well represented in Leonardo. See also Schram Pighi (1982). 34. Giuliano il Sofista, ‘Decadenza borghese’, 1903, a. I, n. 5: 7–8, in Frigessi (1960: 129–31), see also Adamson (1993: 80–94). 35. On the reception of pragmatism in Italy, see Santucci (1963), on Bergson and La Voce, Zambelloni (1995). 36. 29 December 1902, Prezzolini (1974: 50, N. A. 1420, 1, cc. 38–52, c. 44) and ‘L’ultimo figlio di Prometeo’, a. III, serie II, February 1905: 22–29. 37. There were other similar text-magazine publishing products such as Il Regno’s ‘Biblioteca’, the ‘Opuscoli dell’Unità’ by L’Unità and ‘Edizioni di Lacerba’ by Lacerba, but La Voce’s series was the richest and most complete. 38. The ‘Quaderni’ were based on a French model: Péguy’s Les Cahiers de la Quinzaine. Prezzolini spoke enthusiastically of the French publisher for the moral rigor and seriousness he showed in conveying his cultural message beyond national borders. La Voce’s publications, according to Prezzolini, were also ‘serious’ (Prezzolini, ‘I Cahiers de la Quinzaine’, 5 May and 4 August 1910, a. II, nn. 21 and 34, La Voce: 313–14, 369– 70 and Cardarelli, V. ‘Charles Péguy’, 7 September 1911, a. III, n. 36, La Voce: 644–46). See also Charles Péguy’s letter to Prezzolini, dated 23 April 1910 regarding the reception of Sorel (N. A. 1420, 5, cc. 14–17). 39. The first ‘Libreria’ publication was Soffici’s Lemmonio Boreo. Soffici also inaugurated the second series of the ‘Quaderni’ on 18 April 1912, after the end of the Libyan war, marking the end of first phase of the magazine’s life. The second ‘Quaderni’ series was published from 1912 to 1914 but was interrupted by the outbreak of World War I. Paper rationing also significantly reduced the productivity of the ‘Libreria’. The series only resumed regular publication in 1919, still under the auspices of La Voce, which had now moved to Rome. The fourth series was published in Florence in 1921 and ended definitively with the 58th volume. Meanwhile, Prezzolini and Salvemini had been joined by De Robertis in 1915, the figure who sparked the final split in the history of the magazine, leading to the creation of a ‘white’ La Voce which dealt purely with aesthetic (rather than political) questions and focused on the novel and poetry. 40. Excerpt from a leaflet inserted into ‘Libreria’ publications, published in Simonetti (1981: X). The legal details of the ‘Libreria’ as a company are included in Simonetti’s appendix. There is no precise date for this leaflet; the introductory and explanatory tone suggests it was distributed with the

2

41.

42. 43. 44.

45.

46. 47.

48. 49. 50. 51. 52.

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first volumes. For a detailed history of the magazine and its publications, see Simonetti (1981: VIII) and Prezzolini (1974: 9–235). Il Bollettino Biografico, which was published every month from 10 November 1910 to 1913 (via subscription only), offered reading suggestions (under the headings of ‘Nationalism’, ‘Useful books and magazine’, ‘Poetry’, ‘Cultural news’, ‘For the curious’, ‘The Italian affliction’) and gave space to different types of reviews. Advertisements for the ‘Libreria’ presented three different categories of volumes: ‘new books’ (3.50 lire), ‘literature at a low price’ (0.40 lire), and the ‘95 cents illustrated series’, a. II, n. 48, La Voce: 432. Subscribers also had the option to pay for books published in the ‘Quaderni’ collection in instalments. The subscription price for the ‘Quaderni’ was 10 lire for the whole series, regardless of the cover price of individual volumes which varied from 1 to 3 lire. Prezzolini, G., ‘Relazione del primo anno di vita di La Voce’, 11 November 1909, a. I, n. 48, La Voce: 203. Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 178 onwards). Jahier to Prezzolini, AP, vol. 5 (1911?), ‘La libreria della Voce’, N. A. 1420, 5, cc. 149–51. Economic issues exacerbated the ideological crisis: ‘1911 brought with it difficulties and doubts regarding the ‘Libreria’. Was La Voce an asset or a burden? Did it belong to Prezzolini, as its founder? To be sure, the inexperienced administrators had not done their sums well, and really it is remarkable that the enterprise survived up to the war. The editorial section was the most productive and cost effective, but alone it was not enough. There was not enough capital.’ Prezzolini (1974: 174), see also Papini and Prezzolini (1966: 275–90). From 1925, when Prezzolini moved to Paris, the Rome publications remained in the hands of Curzio Malaparte until Giuseppe Bottai officially terminated the enterprise in 1928 (Simonetti and Nozzoli 1982: 81 onwards) Leonardo, a. III, series II, October–December 1905: 143–45. Il Regno was the magazine that Corradini co-founded with Papini on November 29 1903, published until 1906, but directed by Aldemiro Campodonico from 1905. In 1914 when Papini [?] drafted the Programma nazionalista at Corradini’s request. Caroncini, A., ‘Ancora del Nazionalismo’, 21 July 1910, a. II, n. 32, La Voce: 361–62. Prezzolini, G., ‘Il Marzocco’, 1 July 1909, a. I, n. 29, La Voce: 118–19. ‘L’impressionismo e la pittura italiana’, 1, 15, 29, a. I, nn. 16, 18, 20, April 1909 and 6 May 1909, a. I, n. 21, La Voce: 61, 70, 78, 82–83. Bollettino bibliorgafico, a. I, n. 1, La Voce: 2. Rimbaud had been re-read, by Apollinaire, between 1905 and 1908 in a naturist key, in line with the vociani’s vision of contact between man and nature as the source of a new artistic vitality. See Soffici, A. ‘Guillaume

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53. 54.

55.

56.

57.

58.

59.

60.

61. 62.

Apollinaire: Les peintres cubistes’, 26 June 1913, a. V, n. 26, La Voce: 1109. There are no references to the social critique offered by cubism or Rimbaud. Rimbaud was a friend of Soffici, who translated these articles. N.A 1420, 3, from Romain Rolland, Monday 2 August 1908, cc. 55–57, c. 57; Prezzolini, G., ‘Jean Christophe’, 18 March 1909, a. I, n. 16, La Voce: 56; Bastianelli, G. ‘Romain Rolland’, 29 April 1909, a. I, n. 20, La Voce: 77–78. See, for example, Jahier, P., ‘Francis Jammes’, 23 November 1911, a. III, n. 47, La Voce: 693–94 and Jahier, P., ‘Paul Claudel’, 11 April 1912, a IV, n. 15, La Voce: 791–92. 11 April; 12 September; 17 October 1912, a. IV, nn. 15, 37, 42, La Voce: 791–92, 889–90, 914. These articles were published in the ‘Libri da leggere’, ‘Consigli del libraio’, and ‘Bollettino bibliografico della Voce’ sections. See also Vannicola, G., ‘André Gide’, 2 May 1912, a. IV, n. 18, La Voce: 801–2. ‘Hebbel is the modern man who has freed himself from the inert elements that caused him to move in the past, but who must now create, from the suffering wandering of the new law, his liberty’ Slataper, S., ‘F. Hebbel’, 13 October 1910, a. II, n. 44, La Voce: 411. Hebbel’s Il Diario e Maria Maddalena (1843) were translated respectively by Slataper and by Ferdinando Pasini and Gerolamo Tevini for Carabba in 1912. Slataper, S., ‘Giuditta di F. Hebbel’, 24 November 1910, a. II, n. 50, La Voce: 442–43. On Carabba’s publication of Hebbel’s tragedies see Angelini (1999: 105–6) Slataper, S., ‘Hebbel’, 28 November 1912, a. IV, n. 48, La Voce: 945. In an article entitled ‘L’anima moderna’ (a review of Luigi Tonelli’s volume, L’anima moderna. Da Lessing a Nietzsche, Milan, Modernissima, 1925) published in 1926 in Bonaventura Tecchi used similar words to describe the idealism of the panegyrist tragedian and his patriotic objectives: ‘a concept of superior idealism, Greek and Kantian combined, in which aesthetic beauty and moral freedom merge with love of the homeland and that of humanity’ (a. I, n. I: 40). In La Francia e i francesi nel secolo XX osservati da un Italiano (Milan, Treves, 1913), Prezzolini reiterates that national cultural life is the product of a dense network of interdiscursive relations. Soffici and Jastrebzoff also translated Chekhov’s Le tre sorelle for Carabba. Prezzolini (1960: 205–7). For example, on 18 August 1910 La Voce featured a piece entitled: ‘“Riviste raccomandate”: L’Effort: foglio bimestrale sul formato di La Voce; critica, letteratura, idee.’ See also Prezzolini, G., ‘Relazione del primo anno di vita di La Voce, 11 November 1909, a. I, n. 48, La Voce: 201–3.

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63. Including Gobetti’s own translations published within the series ‘Il libro per tutti’. 64. Gobetti, ‘Poesia ed Arte’, June-July 1920, a. II, n. 6–7: 147–50, in Gobetti (1969: 477–78). 65. Gobetti was most productive between 1918 and 1925; during these years, he created the magazine Energie Nove which was published from 1918 to the beginning of 1920 as well as Rivoluzione liberale and Il Baretti, which was first released in 1824. For further details on the publishing house and a full catalogue of Gobetti’s publications, see Frabotta (1988). 66. See Frabotta (1988: 11 onwards) for publishing figures and an overview of the publishing market between the end of WWI and the start of the 1920s. 67. EN, a. III, n. 8, August 1920, in Prezzolini (1971: 30). 68. EN, II, n. 1, 5 May 1919: 14–15; EN, II, n. 6, 25 July 1919: 127–29. 69. EN, II, n. 6, 25 July 1919: 127–29, in Gobetti (1969: 461, 463). 70. ‘Laterza, for example, is doing very well, it isn’t ripping off anyone, least of all the public, and retains its organic unity. Therefore Mr. Treves’s systems are the product of his character and personal moral convictions, not hypothetical conditions in the country. Those who are morally superior to him do better in publishing terms’ (Gobetti 1969: 465). Reflecting on the need to create his own audience, Gobetti does not neglect the issue of finance, given that ‘cultural progress is also good for finance’, and ‘if the publisher represents a school of thought he can always count on its supporters’, and in this way ‘the collaboration between reader, publisher and author is even more alive’ (Gobetti 1969: 464). See also Frabotta (1988: 34–35) and Alessandrone (1976: 145–46). 71. Sapegno, N., ‘Walt Whitman’, EN, II, n. 6 15–31 January 1919: 93. See also Meliadò (1961). 72. Andreev’s novels and theatrical writings, published in translation from the early 1920s, had enjoyed considerable success in Italy. Sonzogno published Decio Cinti’s versions of Giuda Iscariota (1919, 1932), I sette impiccati (1919, 1923, 1929) and (translated from French) Lazzaro. Il padre Vassili (1927, 1938). Clemente Rèbora translated Lazzaro e altre novella for Vallecchi (1919). Also noteworthy are: Telesio Interlandi and Boris Guerevic’s translation of Diario di Satana (1922) for Apollo, a Bolognese publishing house (retranslated for Monanni in 1932 by Cesare Castelli and G. Macchi) and Cesare Castelli’s translations of Padre Vassili, Bassi fondi, La Marsigliese published in 1922 by Avanti (Milan). L’abisso had already been translated by L. Bellini for the Roman publishing house M. Carra in 1920 (3 lire). 73. See ‘Nuove traduzioni’, Poesia ed arte, II, n. 6–7, June–July 1920: 147– 50, in Gobetti (1969: 477–81), and Gobetti, ‘Leonida Andreev in Italia’, EN, II, n. 8, 30 September 1919: 166–68, in Gobetti (1969: 345–50).

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74. Russian translations were in numerical decline in comparison with French and English texts (Frabotta 1988: 40–41); however, they remained popular with the public, as the case of Andreev indicates. See also Dino Provenzal, ‘Una vittima del dubbio: Leonida Andrejev’ (Rome: Bilychnis, Tipografia Unione editrice, 1921), and ‘Nuove traduzioni’, Poesia ed arte, II, n. 6–7, June–July 1920: 147–50, in Gobetti (1969: 479–80) on the translation of Tolstoy’s La felitcità domestica (also published by Bompiani). Gobetti found that the ‘true’ Dostoevsky was largely unknown in Italy, with the exception of a French translation/French translations by Gide which obscured the original’s stringent and objective representation of reality and favoured instead a decadent interpretation, in Il popolo romano, 3 March 1921, republished in Paradosso dello spirito russo: 95–101, in Gobetti (1969: 383–84). 75. Gobetti (1969: 464) and Gobetti, P., ‘La critica letteraria dei giorni nostri’, EN, I, n. 1, 1–15 November 1918: 7–9: in Gobetti (1969: 438–43). 76. Prezzolini, 13 December 1924, in Prezzolini (1971: 137–38). 77. ‘L’idillio della rinuncia’, L’Ordine Nuovo, 6 February 1921, in Gobetti (1969: 501–5); and Gobetti, P., ‘Scrittori italiani’, L’Ordine Nuovo, 20 March 1921, in Gobetti (1969: 517). 78. See ‘Nuove traduzioni’, ‘Poesia e arte’, II, n. 6–7, June–July 1920: 147– 50, in Gobetti (1969: 479–80); ‘Presentazione di un poeta: B. Allason’, Resto del Carlino, 28 January 1921 and Epoca, 20 February 1921, in Gobetti (1969: 496).

References Adamson, Walter (1990), ‘Modernism and Fascism: The Politics of Culture in Italy, 1903–1922’, American Historical Review, 95 (2): 359–90. ——— (1993), Avant-Garde Florence: From Modernism to Fascism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). Alessandrone, Emiliano (1976), ‘Gobetti editore’, in Umberto Morra (ed.) (1976), Per Gobetti: politica, arte, cultura a Torino 1918–1926 (Florence: Vallecchi): 137–58. Angelini, Franca (1999), ‘Slataper e Carabba’, in Gianni Oliva (ed.), La Casa Editrice Carabba e la cultura italiana ed europea tra Otto e Novecento (Rome: Bulzoni): 103–07. Barile, Laura (1991), Élite e divulgazione nell’editoria italiana dall’unità al fascismo (Bologna: Clueb). Cadioli, Alberto (1990), Le Muse e la Sirena. Gli scrittori e l’industria culturale nel primo Novecento in Italia (Milan: Arcipelago edizioni).

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Calinescu, Matei (1987), Five Faces of Modernity: Modernism, Avant-Garde, Decadence, Kitsch, Postmodernism (Durham, NC: Duke University Press). Casini, Paolo (2002), Alle origini del Novecento. “Leonardo”, 1903–1907 (Bologna: il Mulino). Chicco, Francesco (1964), ‘Indagine statistica sulla produzione editoriale italiana fra il 1886 ed il 1960. 2’, Graphicus, 10: 5–9. Contarino, Rosario (1982), Il primo “Marzocco” (1896–1900) (Bologna: Pàtron). Croce, Benedetto [1913] (1972), Breviario di estetica (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Decleva, Enrico (1997), ‘Un panorama in evoluzione’, in Gabriele Turi (ed.)(1997), Storia dell’editoria nell’Italia contemporanea (Florence: Giunti): 225–98. De Fort, Ester (1995), Scuola e analfabetismo nell’Italia del ’900 (Bologna: il Mulino). Del Vivo, Caterina (1985), Il Marzocco. Carteggi e cronache fra Ottocento e avanguardie, 1887–1913 (Florence: Leo S. Olschki). D’Orsi, Angelo (2003) ‘Un suscitatore di cultura’, in Nicola Tranfaglia (ed), L’itinerario di Leone Ginzburg (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri): 68–111. Forgacs, David (1990), Italian Culture in the Industrial Era, 1880–1990: Cultural Identities, Politics and the Public (Manchester: Manchester University Press). ——— (1975), Quaderni del carcere, Valentino Gerratana (ed.) (Turin: Einaudi). Frigessi, Delia (ed.), (1960), Leonardo, Hermes, Il Regno, vol. 1 and 2, in La cultura italiana del ‘900 attraverso le riviste (Turin: Einaudi). Frabotta, Maria Adelaide (1988), Gobetti. L’editore giovane (Bologna: il Mulino). Gellner, Ernest [1983] (2008), Nations and Nationalism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press). Gentile, Emilio (1982), Il mito dello Stato nuovo dall’antigiolittismo al fascismo (Rome-Bari: Laterza). ——— [1993] (2003), Il culto del littorio: la sacralizzazione della politica nell’Italia fascista (Rome-Bari: Laterza). ——— (1994), ‘The Conquest of Modernity: From Modernist Nationalism to Fascism’, Modernism/Modernity, 1 (3): 55–87. Gobetti, Piero (1925), L’editore ideale (edited and with a preface by) Franco Antonicelli (1966) (Milan: All’insegna del pesce d’oro). ——— (1969), Scritti storici, letterari e filosofici, Paolo Spriano (ed), vol. II (Turin: Einaudi). Grillandi, Massimo (1977), Emilio Treves (Turin: Utet). Hobsbawm, Eric J. [1990] (2012), Nations and Nationalism Since 1780. Programme, Myth, Reality (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press). Luti, Giorgio (1989), ‘Gli anni del Marzocco’, in Giovanni Ragone (ed.), Letteratura italiana, vol. III, L’età contemporanea (Turin: Einaudi): 491–95.

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Martini, Carlo (1956), La Voce: storia e bibliografia (with preface by Giuseppe Prezzolini) (Pisa: Nistri-Lischi). Meliadò, Mariolina (1961), ‘La fortuna critica di Walt Whitman in Italia’, Studi americani, VII: 43–76. Milanesi, Vincenzo (1995), ‘William James, il pragmatismo italiano e La Voce’, in Diana Rüeschand Bruno Somalvico (eds), La Voce e l’Europa: il movimento fiorentino de La Voce: dall’identità culturale italiana all’identità culturale europea (Rome: Presidenza del Consiglio dei Ministri, Dipartimento per l’Informazione e l’Editoria): 288–304. Pagliano, Graziella (2003), ‘L’avventura americana in Italia: Curwood e Grey’, in Gabriella Pagliano (ed.), Presenze femminili nel Novecento italiano: letteratura, teatro, cinema (Naples: Liguori): 65–86. Pelleriti, Carmela (ed.), (1997), Le edizioni Carabba di Lanciano. Notizie e annali 1878–1950 (Manziana: Vecchiarelli). Petrocchi, Francesca (1984), Casati e Cecchi negli anni della Voce. In appendice carteggio (1906–1943) (Rome: Bulzoni). Piccone-Stella, Simonetta (1972), Intellettuali e capitale nella società italiana del dopoguerra (Bari: De Donato). Prezzolini, Giuseppe (1923), La coltura italiana (Florence: La Voce). ——— (1960), Il tempo della Voce (Milan-Florence: Longanesi-Vallecchi). ——— (1964), L’italiano inutile (seconda edizione) (Florence: Vallechi). ——— (1966), Storia di un’amicizia 1900–1924, vol. I 1900–1924; vol. II 1925–1956 (Florence: Vallecchi). ——— (ed.) (1971), Gobetti e ‘La Voce’ (Florence: Sansoni). ——— (1974), La Voce 1908–1913. Cronaca, antologia e fortuna di una rivista (Milan: Rusconi). Ricciardi, Massimo (1985), La casa editrice Sonzogno (Milano: Fabbri). Romagnoli, Sergio (1993), ‘Un secolo di stampa periodica in Italia (1815– 1915)’, in Simonetta Soldani and Gabriele Turi (eds), Fare gli italiani. Scuola e cultura nell’Italia contemporanea, (Bologna: il Mulino), vol. II: 305–40. Santucci, Antonio (1963), Il pragmatismo in Italia (Bologna: il Mulino). Schram Pighi, Laura (1982), Bergson e il bergsonismo nella prima rivista di Papini e Prezzolini il Leonardo, 1903–1907 (Sala Bolognese: A. Forni, stampa). Scrivano, Riccardo (1999), ‘Carabba, Papini, gli scrittori vociani’, in Gianni Oliva (ed.) (1999), La Casa editrice Carabba e la cultura italiana ed europea tra Otto e Novecento (Rome: Bulzoni): 87–96. Simonetti, Carlo Maria (ed.) (1981), Edizioni della Voce (Florence: Giunta regionale Toscana, La Nuova Italia). ——— (1982), ‘Papini “editore”’, in Sandro Gentili (ed.), Giovani Papini, Atti del convegno di studio nel centenario della nascita (Firenze, 4–6 febbraio 1982) (Milan: Vita e Pensiero): 307–22.

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Simonetti, Carlo Maria and Anna Nozzoli (1982), Il tempo de ’La Voce’:editori, tipografi e riviste a Firenze nel primo Novecento (Florence: Nuove edizioni Vallecchi). ——— (ed.) (1997), Storia dell’editoria nell’Italia contemporanea (Florence: Giunti). Tortorelli, Gianfranco (1996), “L’Italia che scrive” 1918–1938. L’editoria nell’esperienza di A. F. Formiggini (Milan: Franco Angeli). Tranfaglia, Nicola and Albertina Vittoria (2000), Storia degli editori italiani. Dall’Unità alla fine degli anni Sessanta (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Turi, Gabriele (1995), Giovanni Gentile. Una biografia (Florence: Giunti). ——— (2002), Lo Stato educatore. Politica e intellettuali nell’Italia fascista (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Vinall, Shirley (2006), ‘Symbolism and Latinity: Anthologie-Revue de France et de l’Italie and its diffusion of French literature in Italy’, The Italianist, 26 (1): 32–91. Vittoria, Albertina (1983), Le riviste del duce (Turin: Guanda). Zambelloni, Franco (1995), ‘La Voce e Bergson: un caso ambiguo di cosmopolitismo’, in Diana Rüesch and Bruno Somalvico (eds) (1995): 272– 87.

CHAPTER 3

The Twenties: Cultural Explorations and Experimentations Between Highbrow and Popular (1918–1932)

I have sent Radiosa Aurora (Burning Daylight) by Jack London to the typist and I have started work on his Smoke Bellow [sic]. […]. The first tells the story of a rough and hardy prospector who, having made his fortune in Alaska [sic], returns to the civilized world where the frenetic and superficial life profoundly disgusts him, destroying his body and morale, whilst in the second text it is a feeble young man who goes to Alaska and discovers a new physical and spiritual strength […]. After Smoke Bellow my aim is to translate Conrad’s Nostromo for you, where I fear it will be necessary to make more cuts than I’d envisaged, to eliminate the purely descriptive pages and ensure it is in keeping with the character of the series. Regarding Tallone di Ferro: I know about the socialist nature of this novel, but I reserve the right to examine whether it might be possible, by cutting the pages of pure propaganda, to make a presentable job, because the second half of the book is very strong: I would say, actually, quite spectacular.1

In this long letter to the owner of Sonzogno, Alberto Matarelli, dated 13 November 1927, translator Gastone Rossi not only offers an overview of contemporary bestsellers; he summarizes the textual dynamics that rendered translations a key literary phenomenon in 1920s Italy. The reason behind this flurry of interest is apparently quite simple: foreign novels, more so that Italian ones, attracted the curiosity of a broad social spectrum of readers who were keen to explore new and compelling textual models. On this point, Gramsci would suggest in the early 1930s that ‘a © The Author(s) 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7_3

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study of Sonzogno’s publishing activity over a number of years would provide a picture of the variations that have occurred in the popular taste of the public; such a study would be interesting but difficult, […]. Perhaps an examination of the catalogue would yield some results’, and reveal how ‘the sentimental tear-jerker novel must have fallen entirely into oblivion’.2 Capturing a widespread yearning for cultural and aesthetic regeneration, already in 1913 Alberto Spaini had written to La Voce from Berlin hinting at a possible revival of the magazine. Though the Triestine writer hoped that a new Voce would have a clear nationalist orientation, and thus release his native literature from its current chokehold, he emphasized that such a revival would have to come to terms with Italian literature’s general debt to European culture. Spaini also claimed that he was pleased that academic articles aimed at a limited audience, such as his own on Thomas Mann, could no longer be published in the new magazine, heralding the turning point towards the popular which occurred in the 1920s: a new national, popular culture had to be created for the ‘common’ reader, and it was foreign novels which would nourish such a culture.3 In his preface to Il neosofista e altri scritti, the Europeanist Massimo Bontempelli, a champion of the novecento movement, accused his generation of an excessive intellectualism which would only delay the longawaited reconstruction of Italian culture after the trauma of World War I. Bontempelli expressed faith in a Fascism which, imbuing politics with an imperialist drive, would restore the prestige that Italy had traditionally enjoyed in Europe. ‘And I am convinced’, he concluded, ‘that the best tools to affront all of these tasks are we, the new writers and artists, anti-academy, pro-Europe’.4 In the first issue of Critica fascista, 15 June 1923, Giuseppe Bottai discussed how the ‘positive crisis’ of Fascism would revitalize culture and society.5 Prezzolini reiterated that same year in La coltura italiana that ‘publishers have come to the point of granting writers a monthly salary to ensure they meet production targets […]. In this competitive market, companies feel the need to spread their publications more widely, multiplying sales points and looking for every means possible to reach the furthest audience, with catalogues, newspaper adverts, new book organizations, financial incentives for booksellers’.6 Bemoaning the lack of Italian popular literature, Prezzolini concluded that Italy’s main problem was its inability, in comparison with other European nations, to construct a middle-class reading audience.

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In the article ‘Stile e tradizione’, published on 15 January 1925 in Il Baretti (a. II, n. 1), Eugenio Montale condemned the absence of an Italian ‘national-popular’ narrative dimension accessible to the general public, commenting that, ‘we do not have, and perhaps we will never have, a literature which is at once civilized, cultured, and popular; this is why we do not have a middling intellectual class; a widespread general level of knowledge that is without “peaks”, but without gaping holes’ (1966: 16). Foreign translations compensated for the lack of a ‘quality’ popular culture which could satisfy the demand for modernity and cultural renewal: a desire expressed by many and recognized already in 1925 by diverse intellectual communities.7 It was precisely this quest for synergy between different intellectual communities, no longer exclusively the domain of the spheres of highbrow literature but now a ‘paraliterary’ project, which led to the questioning of the national canon and related notions of cultural authority, centrality and marginality, and to the development of new identity profiles of publishers, writers, intellectuals, and readers. And at the centre of it all were the ‘controversial’ translations of compelling foreign novels. From the beginning of the 1920s, foreign literature was ostensibly ostracized in discourses on Italian identity and the national literary tradition. As we will see in this chapter, in reality, the foreign acted as an invisible force, not only challenging the aesthetic, literary and cultural discourses perceived as dominant (from frammentismo to prosa d’arte and magic realism), but also proposing stylistic, aesthetic and narrative alternatives. A similar point of view emerged in Critica fascista in relation to the political commitment of the new Fascist art and culture: ‘Now, God willing, things are changing and many Italian writers, also due to the pressure of their French, English and German counterparts, from time to time leave their fanciful worlds to participate more actively in life in the town squares and streets. […]. Kipling is imperialist, Shaw is an anarchist, France is communist and Barrès nationalist, Hauptmann is a social democrat and Romain Rolland a pacifist-internationalist, Bourget is a conservative Catholic and Mann a socialist. The factions have been drawn. Responsibilities have been assigned. Agnosticism is no longer of our times’.8 In a key, comprehensive overview of the literary novelty of the decade, American literature, published in Pègaso, Aldo Sorani defined it as a ‘protest, born of this soil and surrounding world, but against this soil and surrounding world, a literature of non-acceptance, criticism and

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on occasion a full abdication of all things American’.9 At the dawn of European fascisms and in the twilight of avant-garde anxieties, foreign literature offered a possibility to reconfigure the relationship with the reader and institutional power; if the literature of the ‘crisis’ had to be tolerated, the literature ‘of and for’ the population of ‘reader-citizens’ had to be readable. In Rome as in Berlin, Moscow or Paris, the 1920s were pervaded by an air of crisis, a crisis of modernity and of the aesthetics of the avantgarde. The inevitable confrontation was with the reactionary ideology of totalitarian regimes, in an age of modern technical reproducibility which had deprived art of its autonomy and had aestheticized politics. Now modernity needed to descend from the refuge of the ivory tower of passive consent and engage with the popular. Publishers became leading players in this aesthetic, political and ideological reconfiguration. In its own attempt to aestheticize the strategies of the politicization of the masses, Fascism formulated a new aesthetic of the popular, premised on the connection between art and life, between subject and object, to bridge the gap between culture and society. A Fascist culture, as envisaged by Bottai and Critica fascista, would in this way be successfully achieved, since ‘Fascism-culture, which, as we have seen, integrates rather than suppresses Fascism-action is the foundation of Fascism-State’.10 The publishing system and the system of the regime both, contradictorily, in the name of ‘popular modernity’, legitimized translations, which were only ostensibly excluded from the Fascist project of instilling nationalism in the masses: translations which were in fact read, discussed and published.

3.1 Large-Scale and Small-Scale Publishing in Italy in the 1920s The original Fascist movement was a jumble of coalitions: nationalists, monarchists, squadristi, syndicalists. Collecting these fragments, Fascism was born with an eclectic soul, a feature which influenced many cultural policies. Until 1929, this ‘reforming’ totalitarianism was largely concerned with the desire to modernize the country from within in order to strengthen Italy’s international standing and avenge the shame of the loss of the colonies.11 From 1922 to 1925, the regime went through a vulnerable phase of political, economic and ideological consolidation which ended with the assassination of Matteotti in 1924 and the promulgation of the 1925

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and 1926 fascistissime laws: the Fascistization of state structures and civil society began in earnest. In his famous 1923 ‘Forza e consenso’ article, Mussolini declared that enforced consent was neither stable nor total, and it thus was necessary to mould citizens’ morals to obtain unwavering support rather than a fickle consensus. As is well-known, explicit coercion became a widespread tactic from 1936 onwards12 ; up until the Spanish Civil War, however, the broader Fascist project focused on organizing the forms of individual thought and the profile of cultural institutions, including publishing.13 In 1924, the regime joined forces with industry in general, and with publishing in particular. Franco Ciarlantini became director of the Fascist party’s Press and Propaganda Department (Ufficio Stampa e Propaganda del Partito nazionale fascista) and one of his first acts was to write to publishers to reassure them that the party would not have an official publishing house.14 From Milan, Mondadori responded: Dear Ciarlantini, I have received your letter, and I thank you. I am very pleased to hear, as you can imagine, of your intention to raise book-related issues in parliament. You will do the nation, and the industrialists whose businesses are based on bookselling, a great service.

Ciarlantini replied a few months later from Rome: It is highly likely – I tell you this in strict confidence – that the ‘IMPERIA’ initiative will be abandoned and that the party will not have an official publisher. In my opinion, and I believe my opinion will prevail, the party will need to call upon the services of different publishers on a case-by-case basis, in the way it deems most appropriate, and to promote the spread of Fascist ideas through diverse publications without a party label. […] Tomorrow, yourself, Bemporad, Hoepli, Laterza, Vallardi, Paravia, and so on, will publish the books we consider necessary to share with Fascists, we will choose them carefully and, if we need a significant quantity, we will request favourable conditions with the legitimate expectation on each occasion that we can reach a mutual agreement on the print run. (FAAM, FAM, file Ciarlantini, Ciarlantini to Mondadori, 25 May 1924, typewritten and FAAM, FAM, file Ciarlantini, Ciarlantini to Mondadori, Roma, 6 December 1924, typewritten)

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In the same year, Ciarlantini published Imperialismo spirituale. Appunti sul valore politico ed economico dell’arte in Italia, a text in which he proposed an aggressive policy of Italian cultural expansion abroad in all sectors of artistic production. Between 1924 and 1927, notably in Mondadori’s speech about the publishing crisis delivered at the Fascist Institute of Culture and the promulgation of the Labour Charter of 1927, the publishing industry collectively and vehemently bemoaned a literary crisis, attributing the sorry predicament of the book in Italy to a lack of readers and raw material. To overcome the ‘crisis’, the country needed radical and immediate restructuring from below (libraries, bookshops, new and more efficient distribution channels for books in Italy and abroad), and more appropriate outputs, which could gradually introduce the habit of reading to this public.15 Both the Fascist party and publishers, therefore, were concerned with the forms of book presentation and the dynamics of book distribution.16 The period up to 1929 was one of international stabilization as well as of strong internal capitalist recovery. Consequently, economic policy in these early years favoured productivity, aiming to boost the output of national capitalist enterprises and encourage export. The focus was on establishing a process which would strengthen and progressively transform existing economic structures, primarily through the creation of a corporate system. Foreign policy in the 1920s saw Mussolini present on the international stage and anxious to create and regulate relationships with various European and non-European countries (Albania, Greece, Turkey, Hungary, [ex-]Yugoslavia, Africa), all this whilst avoiding excessive friction with Great Britain and the United States. Internal and external strategies alike favoured the expansion of the Italian book market and translations. In his editorial ‘Panorama 1929’ released on the first of January, therefore, Bottai’s question as to whether the Fascist revolution was complete was practically de rigueur. The answer was affirmative: the time had come to get citizens used to life in the revolution, and this was the new ‘existential-political’ task Fascism would assume.17 At the end of the decade, Mondadori wrote to Alessandro Chiavolini, the Duce’s private secretary, regarding the relationship between publishers and the regime: Dear Commendatore, I have even seen in a bookshop people buying Remarque’s volume and…a French dictionary!

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In any case, I would like to highlight the ramifications of such a widespread distribution of a text in French, and of the language itself, for the public and Italian publishing; once again, we see that to find interesting books it is necessary to seek out foreign editions and the snobbery regarding reading that pervades the Italian public is further ingrained, increasing the import of foreign volumes to the detriment of our own authors. […]. Publishing cannot remain in this state of affairs any longer, but here is where political directives that are beyond my power come into play. You know that you can fully count on me and my publishing company; I would be grateful therefore if you could ask our Duce for instructions, and I will follow them with utmost prudence. (ACS, SPD/CO, 9 October 1929, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

3.2

The Cultural Geography of Translations

Until the early 1930s, foreign literature in Italy, and in particular popular bestsellers, benefitted from this attitude of economic and cultural laissezfaire. The regime was preoccupied with formalizing ties with, and forms of control over, institutions of high culture (Vittoria 1983: 65–66). Focusing on the visual arts and exploring the model of state control imposed on institutions during these years, Marla Stone finds that ‘With a hybrid form of state patronage, Italian fascism became the force able to rationalize contrary aesthetic languages – as well as opposing views of life’ (1998: 7–8, 24). This assertion is also applicable to the case of foreign literature, predominantly popular literature, an interest notably absent from the nationalist-protectionist concerns of the early years of the regime when it was in engaged in other, more urgent, issues. Although it still lagged behind the rest of Northern Europe, the progressive transformation of Italian publishing from its artisan origins to a veritable industry following the process of modernization initiated at the end of World War I became tangible. And, in 1926, with Ciarlantini as president, the new Fascist National Federation of Industrial Publishers (Federazione nazionale fascista degli industriali editori) was founded, which would definitively replace its antecedent the Italian Publishers’ Association (Associazione editoriale libraria italiana) in 1929.18 Up until the much-lamented literary crisis of 1927, the publishing industry went through highs and lows, but continued to grow, and its geographical layout shifted. Tuscany and Rome became less influential as their bases of financial support dwindled, whilst the Milan-Turin axis

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became increasingly central.19 With few exceptions—Abruzzo is particularly noteworthy—the bulk of foreign publishing was concentrated in the north-west.20 The national level of literacy was rising; 26.6% of the population had been illiterate in 1921, but by 1936 this figure had fallen to 21.5%. These figures mask the uneven progress made, however: in the south of the country, 50% of the population was still illiterate compared with less than 25% in the north, and rates of illiteracy were higher for women than for men.21 In response to this growth in potential readers and the industrial reorganization of publishing structures, the publishers themselves exhibited originality and resourcefulness. They diversified proposals for texts and series, and gradually expanded their networks of collaborators to include various intellectuals and experts, consultants, cultural mediators and literary agents, forming cohesive interpretative communities. These initiatives quickly came to fruition, resulting in quality products, increased production and a specialization in a genre system which corresponded to the new aesthetic configuration of reading tastes. Small publishing companies eager to carve out their own, larger, share of the market had to be in a position to offer a more sophisticated book product in terms of typography and content. Before examining the translation market, a brief look at the figures. From 1920 to 1926, Italian publishing production settled at around 6336–6341 volumes, reaching 8154 between 1927 and 1929.22 Between 1922 and 1945, a total of 227,000 titles were published. The first signs of a publishing revival were already visible in the mid-twenties and production peaked in the interwar period between 1930 and 1933 (with 11,951 titles published in 1930, 12,192 in 1931 and 12,550 in 1933), dropping by about 1000 titles to 11,431 in 1934. Output settled at around this figure until 1938, before decreasing again in the war years.23 From 1922 to 1945, the percentage of literature titles, out of the total number of books published annually, was on average 21% (at its lowest, at 17.99%, in 1928, and highest, at 29.73% in 1945).24 Again, out of the total number of volumes published, the percentage of narrative fiction titles increased from 3.78% in 1919 to 9.06% in 1925, reaching 12.21% in 1930 before falling to 8.35% in 1938. Precisely because the structure of the Italian publishing market remained fluid, paying attention to the so-called minor, but nonetheless culturally versatile and experimental publishing initiatives, is revealing, and out of the many small publishing models sprouting from

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the lack of a dominant power centre, Modernissima, founded in Milan in 1920 by Gian Dàuli, is particularly significant. Milan was the city of publishing where large and small publishers made their name, including Giuseppe Morreale, with his collections of French, Russian, Scandinavian, Spanish, German and English writers: series which featured novels such as Jack London’s La storia di un cane (usually published with the alternative title Il richiamo della foresta), which was translated by Antonio Calitri and included a preface by Giuseppe Prezzolini, in 1926, and Conrad’s Tifone (1927) and La follia di Almayer (1930), translated by Tito Diambra. Diambra’s version of La follia was praised alongside the 1926 Modernissima edition, translated by Lorenzo Gigli, by Eugenio Gara in I libri del giorno on account of its rare level of accuracy.25 The same is true of the Corticelli titles published between 1922 and 1932 which featured various translations of English adventure stories. The ‘Record’ series offered an eclectic mix: Le porte dell’inferno by Arnold Bennett, Erewhon by Samuel Butler, Sotto gli occhi dell’Occidente, Lord Jim and Fino all’estremo by Conrad, Confessioni di un mangiatore d’oppio by Thomas De Quincey, Tormento d’anime by Vladimir Lidin, Il popolo dell’abisso by Jack London, La freccia nera, St. Yves, Le avventure di David Balfour, Il signor di Ballantrae and Il riflusso della marea by Robert L. Stevenson, and La macchina del tempo and L’amore e il signor Lewisham by H. G. Wells. Sperling & Kupfer’s catalogue was similarly rich; ‘Narratori nordici’ was inaugurated in 1929 with Thomas Mann’s Disordine e dolore precoce. Cane e padrone (Unordnung und frühes Leid, 1926 and Herr und Hund. Ein Idyll, 1919),26 translated by Lavinia Mazzucchetti.27 With Giacomo Prampolini as a translator, this Milanese publishing house translated prolifically from Danish, Finnish, Flemish, Dutch and Swedish. Amongst the most productive minor publishers engaged in the same translation project, Bàrion, Bietti and even Franco Ciarlantini’s Alpes are particularly noteworthy. Between Bietti’s ‘Biblioteca internazionale’, ‘Biblioteca réclame’, ‘Biblioteca russa’—featuring emigrant writers—and ‘Biblioteca novissima’ series, we find authors like Bennett, Blasco Ibàñes, Chesterton, Conrad, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, France, Gorky, Klabund, Kuprin, Lagerlöf, London, Mann (La morte a Venezia), Maugham, Poe, Prévost, Shaw, Stevenson, Stowe, Turgenev, Villiers de l’Isle and Wilde.

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Bàrion’s offer was equally wide-ranging; the small Sesto San Giovanni publishing house Attilio Bàrion set up in 1908 made its name translating a range of foreign literature in the twenties and early thirties (Brambilla 1997: 19–20), including the first Italian version of Mann’s Buddenbrooks saga (1901), translated by Annie Lami in 1930. In the ‘Le migliori opere di tutte le letterature’ collection Ariosto, Dante, D’Annunzio, D’Azeglio, De Sanctis, Deledda, Giusti, Leopardi, Manzoni, Nievo and Tasso sat alongside Conrad, Dumas, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Flaubert, France, Galsworthy, Gaxotte, Hugo, Kipling, Ibáñez, London, Mann, Nordau, Kipling, Sienkiewicz, Stendhal, Tolstoy, Vautel, Wells, Zola, Zangwill, Wodehouse, at four lire or less per single volume. Notable, too, on account of its exotic inclination, is the catalogue of the Milanese publisher Monanni, whose ‘Nuovissima collezione letteraria’ featured amongst other volumes Maxim Gorky’s La Spia. Romanzo della rivoluzione russa (three editions), La Madre. Grande romanzo di vita russa (two editions) and Confessione, as well as the only Italian versions of texts such as La Metropoli. Romanzo di costumi americani by Upton Sinclair, La conquista del paradiso and Il Drago Imperiale. Romanzi storici cinesi by Judith Gautier, Il Figlio del Silenzio. Romanzo dell’antica Grecia and La torre dei popoli. Romanzo Babilonese by Han Ryner, Gli affari sono affari. Commedia by Ottavio (Honoré) Mirabeau, Al limite estremo and Sanin. Romanzi russi by Michele Artzybascev, La sposa illegittima. Romanzo by Henry Kistemaeckers and Humus. Romanzo della Russia d’oggi by Lydia Sejfulina. The series also offered a new, unabridged version of Kuprin’s La Fossa. Romanzo di vita russa. In the Rome area, the Stock publishing house owned by Alberto Stock was particularly active; Stock’s publishing venture began in 1922 with a translation of Shelley’s Prometeo liberato. In the somewhat peripheral region of Abruzzo, Vecchioni in L’Aquila had a dynamic approach and the ‘historic’ catalogue of the Lanciano-based Carabba was especially rich, ranging from a new version of Louisa May Alcott’s Piccole donne and Piccoli uomini in 1920 to William Blake’s Canti in 1923 as well as works by Gogol, Hoffmann, Dostoevsky, Goncharov, Turgenev, Robert Browning, Chekhov, France, Otto Ludwig, Kuprin, Bulgakov, Flaubert, Francis Brett Harte, Selma Lagerlöf, Maurois, Bunin, Afanas’ev, Kästner, Wilde, Hawthorne, Longfellow, Pushkin and Keats (1920–1941). What was the common objective that drove these diverse editorial initiatives? Gian Dàuli, in his introductory note to a historical novel about Franz Schubert’s life written at the beginning of the twentieth century by

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the French music critic Théodore Gérold and published by the Milanese publisher Aurora, explains to the reader the purpose of the series but also offers a form of manifesto of the pioneering spirit animating and informing the work of small-scale publishers in the 1920s, whose: single objective is to offer to the general public, who go to the cinema and find in this ‘seventh art’, as Gabriele D’Annunzio has called it, complete fulfilment of their intellectual needs for knowledge and aesthetic pleasure, every bit of information, monitored and regulated, related to the historic characters that the screen – adjusting and exaggerating as necessary – has introduced to them and made them love. (Théodore Gérold, Angeli senza Paradiso, 1934: 9)28

Historical novels were published to respond to the tastes of a modern public, a public of cinemagoers. D’Annunzio, speaking as a voice of literary authority endorsed the cinema as a means of mass communication capable of rendering elite works more accessible to the population. Implicitly, translations too were a way of proposing and legitimizing a ‘new entertainment’ which could, through the enjoyable habit of reading, educate the public.29 Publishing houses which were officially allied with Fascism and direct supporters of the regime’s nationalistic ideals also engaged with the project of a people’s modernity. These included Ciarlantini’s Alpes (founded in 1921, presided over by Arnaldo Mussolini and active until the 1930s) and Augustea, set up in 1925 in Rome; the numerous translations of novels by Chesterton, Conrad, Brontë and Galsworthy— not to mention classic works—published by these enterprises apparently disproving their nationalistic principles.30 The principles of nationalist propaganda and their practical application often diverged, though, as Aldo Sorani reveals with a reference to Galsworthy, one of the publishing phenomena of the twenties, in his review of the ‘obscene’ D. H. Lawrence: ‘I assure you that there is more perversion and sexual deviance in a Galsworthy novel than in Lady Chatterley’.31 Allusions to a modern, and not necessarily moral, lifestyle also appear in the presentation of another bestseller, published by Sonzogno; ‘Maurizio’ Leblanc, with his ‘Arsenio’ Lupin who, ‘in his magnificent fight against high society…recalls the most daring and brilliant adventure story heroes, in a modern and turbulent environment’ (Gli otto rintocchi della pendula, 1933, first edition). Foreign literature reveals the contradictions in publishing practice, and in the regime’s approach.

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3.3

Authorial Functions and National Textuality

The end of World War I had given rise to a new international aesthetic configuration. In Europe, in a way not dissimilar to the North American model, the genre system inevitably expanded; the mystery novel and the romance genre stood out in terms of popularity, with thrillers, comedy, family sagas, science fiction, adventure stories and travel writing also prominent. Although foreign bestsellers remained rather sporadic in sales terms, the visibility of foreign authors and how they were experienced, especially within reading circles in metropolitan centres, was of paramount importance to publishers and the public in the formalization of new aesthetic paradigms.32 In Italy, the translation craze generated a broader system of genres and created new authorial functions—Conrad, London, the adventure story, the ‘realist’ novel. This fashion became a means of reproducing a certain extranational textuality.33 The author, as a singular entity, disappeared, opening up space to the notion of writing and collective authorship; or rather, of a shared and shareable textuality. Dàuli wrote (presumably in the early thirties, given his reference to the Bompiani ‘authors’ Körmendi and Cronin): It is undeniable that the formal and substantial qualities of a book, in turn, influence public choice; the author’s name, the literary genre it belongs to, the quality of its content, format, cover, the book launch, an intrinsic or merely formal link with other works of the same type (series), the shrewd, all out advertising campaigns of an intelligent publisher, all play a role in a book’s success. Be it an original text of intrinsic art value or detective fiction, the author’s name is of undeniable importance. In terms of the former, we need only mention Körmendi’s five novels and the four by Cronin, all great successes; when it comes to detective fiction, just look at the endless sequence of Wallace books – as popular as ever, despite the poor quality of the majority of the stories. But how far can we count on an author’s name? The trajectory of each author, and of course I refer here to modern and recent writers, must be carefully followed (my emphasis) […], and abandoned as soon as it becomes obvious that the public is beginning to lose interest. (FGD, CGD, 11.63, cc. 3–4, without date, typewritten)

Translations were a literary phenomenon that engaged different interpretative communities, very much linked to the current ‘aesthetic moment’, as the following examples illustrate.

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Representations of the quest for identity in modernist terms, as proposed by Conrad, or in a more popular perspective, by London, were placed second to an interpretation of these texts as adventure stories which were capable of capturing the interest of an anonymous common reader. As Dàuli explains: ‘There is a spirit of adventure, of action, of life lived dangerously in authors like London, Conrad, and Kipling, that matches the state of mind of new Italians and can help prepare young people for the “strenuous life” these new times dictate’.34 With a view to cultivating a popular and adventurous aesthetic taste, censorship edits were often related less to political demands than they were to the new aesthetic parameters dictated by textual phenomenology. Conrad’s Nostromo was deemed acceptable after one hundred and twenty pages were cut so as to eliminate a perceived excess of descriptive passages that interrupted the text’s rhythm. Cutting London’s Martin Eden meant the story was ‘lighter, with a taut plot, avoiding the excessive digressions of the original (especially in the first half)’,35 and Dàuli’s version of Le avventure di Pickwick was undertaken in the same spirit; the translator explains in his preface that his aim was to render the text more readerfriendly, ‘without taking anything away from its essential beauty, and all that remains for me to do is to hope that my version will help more Italians access a masterpiece that cheers the spirit in a way no other has done, that makes one smile and laugh and desire simple, good things’ (Dàuli, G. pref.). Given this mutual interest in updating Italian letters, the pact between publisher, translator, and reader intensified, introducing more dynamic reading models quite spontaneously. And even the great canonical classics of the European novel could be manipulated when necessary. Despite the growth of the lower-middle classes, it was the increasingly urbanized ‘modern and technological’ middle class that remained the key target audience. Publishers addressed an urban reader who was finally able to enjoy a sense of escape, of remaining safe within a familiar space perhaps imbued with an exotic flavour. According to a reader’s report on H. Rider Haggard and the series inspired by the adventures of Allan Quatermain, what made the novels Child of Storm (1913, Figlia dell’uragano translated in 1939) and Queen of the Dawn: A Love Tale of the Old Egypt (1925, Regina dell’alba) ‘publishable’ was precisely the mix of mystery, adventure and love in exotic settings: the Africa of Zulu villages in the first case, and a decadent Egypt of the Pharaohs in the second. To guarantee a place on the market, translator and author Alfredo

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Pitta does not fail to mention the absolute superiority of the white race.36 Far from abstract formal refinement and excessive sobriety, the popular aesthetic was based on quotidian realities dosed with exoticism, which is why translations promoted a sort of grass-roots aestheticization capable of appealing to a base of reading practices which different classes of readers shared, and the regime appropriated this aspect.

3.4

Publishers and Readers

In such a jagged and fragmented publishing field, coherence was imposed by the agents who populated it as they defined their aesthetic and ideological identity as well as cultural practice. The profile of Giuseppe Ugo Nalato, who went under the pseudonym of Gian Dàuli, is exemplary in this respect.37 Pioneer publisher, polyglot, writer, traveller, and translator from English, Dàuli wanted Italy to compete on a European level and to eradicate the country’s sense of cultural marginality. His most ambitious project was ‘Scrittori di tutto il mondo’ for Modernissima, a series which did not achieve the success anticipated and was bought in 1932 by Enrico Dall’Oglio for Corbaccio. Corbaccio had launched its own popular series, ‘I corvi’, in 1928 to which Dàuli had also contributed, describing it as ‘“a modern, universal” series for “a perfectly conscious and oriented public”’ (original edition). The renewed ‘I corvi’ featured important texts such as the first edition of Joyce’s Gente di Dublino (Dubliners, 1914, translated by Annie and Adriano Lami in 1933) and Figli e amanti (Sons and Lovers, 1913) by Lawrence, translated by Alessandra Scalero (1933); the avantgarde was represented by Mann, Döblin, Céline and Zweig, alongside a range of crime fiction. This indefatigable pioneer publisher also worked on the Delta and Dauliana initiatives to publish affordable editions of European literature and was the director of English literature series for other publishing houses (‘Il genio anglossasone’ for Stock and ‘Anglia’ for the Ancona-based Lucerna), whilst translating the works of Maugham and Chesterton for Bietti and Alpes, respectively. Dàuli’s sustained cultural commitment rested on a firm conviction that: […] the most effective means for populations to understand each other is to follow each other’s literary production, which seems, everywhere, in recent years, to have acquired a new, faster and more vibrant rhythm. This rhythm guides our responsibility to recommend new texts; we will offer the Italian public the most significant foreign volumes, where possible

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simultaneously to the release of the original, where not, soon after. This speed will not compromise the quality of the translations; we have a group of zealous, hardworking, and conscientious translators who are all highly competent in their respective fields. We will regularly purchase the copyrights of foreign works, but these sacrifices will be rewarded if we manage to break the long tradition of being the latecomers to the international market of artistic and spiritual works, waiting for a nod from France, England, or Germany or worse, relying on second-hand versions. Thanks to us, the Italian reader will be kept up to date on the literary scene with the promptness and accuracy that befits a member of a great European nation. […] and in the future, we are sure, he will appreciate and cherish this collection as a guiding light of his culture, which will also offer him two new Italian writers every year via the annual ‘Modernissima’ competition. [Programme in the appendix to Jack London, Il pianto di Ah Kim, (translated from English by Tullio Silvestri) 1929 n. 23 of the Jack London Opere complete series (edited by G. Dàuli) (first edition)]38

By publishing the best international texts in accessible editions and setting up a writing competition which rewarded Italian talent, Dàuli sought to contribute to the spread of a healthy sense of Italian identity; only a clear, unified national tradition could survive direct confrontation with foreign traditions without being undermined. Moreover, the Italian reader would in this way become part of a community of readers, ideal citizens, united by their shared pan-European literary heritage. In a preface to Dostoevsky’s (Dvojnik, 1845) Il sosia, translated by S. Osser in 1929 and published by the Milanese publishing house Delta (priced at two lire), Dàuli explains that this series presents ‘the most significant authors and the works of greatest spiritual value, offered to the public in refined and comprehensive translations which effectively relate the sensibility of artists who are seen as culturally, traditionally, and racially distant to the sensibility of our Latin spirit’.39 The publisher’s ideal reader must preserve his own Latin sensibility without being afraid to relate to cultures that appeared distant not only in terms of tradition and civilization, but also in terms of ‘race’. Both the regime and intellectuals invoked the rhetoric of the superiority of the Italian race on several occasions to endorse translations through an ostensible delegitimization. Dàuli also emphasizes that his editions are not popular ‘in the common and ordinary sense that this adjective has acquired, but as a work of effective dissemination, undertaken with the objective of offering even the

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most disadvantaged intellectual the right conditions to obtain profound spiritual gratification’.40 The series sought to act as a tool for the creation of new canons of modern literary taste, a sort of vademecum, and a means of cultural renewal ‘codified’ by unofficial genre norms, but defined by the publisher’s habitus and contemporary taste. The concept of the ideal reader was translated into a real-life figure: a white-collar worker keen to explore new literature, who accesses texts through particular channels which were distinct from those of popular publishing or highbrow literary magazines. In another preface, to a volume of Galsworthy’s works, Un devoniano (Modernissima, 1928), Dàuli explains that the public are interested in works which sketch out the anxieties of modern life. He reiterates how foreign literature can help engender a renaissance of the novella, a genre debased or disregarded by Italian writers: ‘the novella, especially in Italy, has been so ruined by hirelings and is held in such poor esteem by readers to the point that public disinterest in this art form has become a widespread cliché’. The publisher’s concluding reference to his collection as capable of orienting the tastes of readers simultaneously towards Europe and Italian production encapsulates both the ‘designs’ behind the spread of foreign literature in Italy in this period and the practical dynamics of publishing, which was based on a competitive dialectic between the familiar and the alien. Dàuli’s position combined the nationalist and antagonistic Europeanism of the vociani, discussed in the previous chapter, with Gobetti’s more forward-thinking reformist perspective. Despite Dàuli’s ambitions and the rhetoric of ‘national supremacy’, the Modernissma catalogue combined modern and popular, classic and canonical texts in an attempt to meet the needs of a public that already had an ample choice of well-established authors and was interested in new letters.41 It is not unsurprising, therefore, that between 1924 and 1926 the Milanese publisher Giuseppe Morreale published translations of Conrad and London in a single series, and subsequently all of Svevo’s texts: from Senilità 1927, Una vita 1930, La coscienza di Zeno 1930, to Novella del buon vecchio e della bella fanciulla, ed altri scritti, with a preface penned by Montale, in 1929. Ciarlantini ‘mixed’ erotic novels with Moravia’s Gli indifferenti, Conrad, Chesterton, Stevenson, Galsworthy and the first Italian version of Wuthering Heights (La tempestosa). Across the board, series became notably more expansive, in both geographical

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and literary terms: ‘Scrittori francesi’, ‘Scrittori russi’, ‘Scrittori americani’, ‘Scrittori scandinavi’, ‘Scrittori spagnoli’, ‘Scrittori tedeschi’ (with several translations of Mann), ‘Scrittori inglesi’, as well as ‘Scrittori italiani contemporanei’ and ‘Scrittori per ragazzi’; this true fusion of the highbrow and popular is all the more remarkable given the limited range of influence and action of such a small-scale publishing house. In general, the publishers of the 1920s saw in foreign literature— be it classic or contemporary, popular or highbrow—the foundations of modernity. In Antonio Baldini’s preface to the first edition of Schnitzler’s La signorina Elsa (1926), translated by Mario Benzi two years after the German-language original was published, the reader is informed that the protagonist ‘is practically a vivid and meaningful symbol of the modern young woman, in her flesh and in her ideals, in her incurable antitheses, in her longing for something which she no longer has inside and, almost tragically, she cannot find elsewhere’. This masterpiece of Central European fiction, in a cheap mass-market edition, presents Elsa as a universal symbol of the generational conflicts sparked by European modernism. It seems to be the modernity of Schnitzler’s psychology which attracts the reader, though the writer also hints, in more appealing tones, at the desires ‘in her flesh and in her ideals’. Similarly, as Corrado Pavolini suggests in a review published in 1920 in L’Italia che scrive, Chekhov’s sophisticated and deeply penetrating dramas and short stories portray collective ‘moods’, rather than individual psychological ‘types’.42 The ‘editorialized’ message of the foreign text becomes a collective one in so far as it facilitates identification processes between new figures of readers who share a similar aesthetic taste and diegetic model. Texts which were modern were discussed above all because they were foreign, and as such could be inscribed in any transnational canon, given that they could be proposed as a reflection of unresolved social and moral contradictions as well as part of the cultural heritage of modern European readers. In the preface to her translation of Teresa by Schnitzler (Milan, 1929, Modernissima), Sibilla Aleramo writes: ‘It’s a rare catastrophe, but how it plays out is remarkably familiar; the routine, banal, everyday tale of our times, of thousands of women left to their own devices, […], in one of the big cities, anywhere today’ (ibid.: 10).43 A book must speak directly to the reader’s intimate morality, rather than to a broad public sphere which could interpret more heterodox messages. It is the text’s ‘symbolic capital’ that creates a moment of transnational identification in that it

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parallels Italy with any modern metropolis, even if they remain ‘different’. Indeed, ‘Schnitzler is more realistic than Proust, and at the same time less elegantly sceptical, less disenchanted. He still retains a moral passion; a hope, in spite of everything, of salvation’, explains Aleramo, ‘unlike Proust, not of a limited elite through art, but of the whole human race’ (ibid.: 11). In terms of editorial strategy, therefore, highbrow art was out: the new modern aesthetic had to engage different classes of readers, not just the usual limited circle of cultural initiates. As well as being presented and sold as ‘accessible and universal’, foreign texts enjoyed a certain ‘ideological’ immunity. This was true even of those texts whose perspective on certain topics did not respect the parameters of the regime’s morals, and Schnitzler’s treatment of the ‘mystery of maternity’ was a case in point: no one prior to Schnitzler has dared to depict, with such clear force, the ferocious yearning for annihilation, […], by which women rebel against nature, reject being an instrument of life, then the transition to love, the subdued acceptance, the rapture and ultimately, the sole but tremendous solace, that the child is hers, hers alone. (ibid.: 11–12)

At the other end of the receptive spectrum, as Carlo Linati comments in Corriere della Sera regarding Lion Feuchtwanger’s Süss, l’ebreo (1925), there are the works which ‘keep us gripped until the very end. And these pages remain etched in our minds, like those of a masterpiece’ (first edition). The objective of ‘capturing’ the readers’ attention was shared by both highbrow and more middlebrow publishers. As well as literary masterpieces, the public wanted ‘fashionable’ novels that could quench their thirst for adventure.

3.5

Trends and Models

Publishers addressing a popular audience offered foreign titles in line with the trend imposed by a series of generic models, in particular adventure stories and realist novels, and several new reading models. The following pages provide some examples. During this period, Henrik Ibsen’s plays were popular with both newer readers and more elite, traditional audiences on account of their incisive portraits of the middle classes and their skeletons in the closet: consider the clear allusion to Ibsen’s Nora in Sibilla Aleramo’s Una donna (1906).

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In 1917, following a performance of A Doll’s House at Turin’s Carignano theatre, Gramsci wondered how Italian souls could remain indifferent to the play’s acerbic social criticism and the intellectual questions it raised. He answered his own question with the simple explanation that this story belonged to another culture and aesthetic consciousness. Despite the psychological complexity of Ibsen’s characters, slaves of a universal compromise, they remained Nordic, foreign, to ‘Italian-centric’ behaviour and aesthetic models.44 Just under two decades later, however, Gramsci was forced to reformulate the terms of his question, because A Doll’s House now corresponded perfectly to Italian urban audiences’ tastes and sensibilities. There had been a dramatic shift in the canons of aesthetic taste, and the limits of acceptance of foreign culture.45 The mixture of classics and modern texts and flexible narrative topoi responded as much to market demand as they did to new middle-class critiques, informed by increasingly eclectic and international tastes, and unbeholden to generic forms. The self-righteousness of bourgeois theatre was a literary topos which, in its versatility, resurfaced in many foreign bestsellers, not least in the Anglo-American crime fiction novels which Lorenzo Montano (following an idea of Luigi Rusca) transformed into a market triumph for Mondadori.46 At the same time, for obvious and opportunistic political reasons, a group of home-grown imitators of the genre was quickly formed, with Alessandro Varaldo and his novel Settebello (1931) at the helm. In detective fiction, the domestic merges with the public sphere, each cancelling out the subversive potential of the other. Detective fiction was, for the middle classes, simultaneously thrilling— the crime offered an escape from routine order—and reassuring, as that same order was restored with the culprit’s capture. Gramsci also deliberated the success of detective fiction and popular literature more broadly, ultimately concluding that in modern times the issue takes on different tones, because of how the forced rationalization of daily life impacts increasingly on the middle and intellectual classes (ibid.: 2133). The excessive formalization of existence imposed by predetermined social and moral conducts matched the increasingly limited space for adventure or mystery within ‘reassuring’ domestic walls: adventure and mystery which subversive foreign novels could provide (ibid.: 2132). In these years, German literature was also systematically inserted into the catalogues of Italian publishers thanks to the work of eminent Germanists such as Alberto Spaini and Lavinia Mazzucchetti. Spaini and Mazzucchetti contributed to the Modernissima series as well as Sperling

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& Kupfer’s ‘Narratori nordici’ and ‘Pandora. Voci di tutti i popoli’ collections.47 A review of the Italian version of Thomas Mann’s Disordine e dolore precoce (Sperling & Kupfer, 1929) in L’Italia che scrive praises Mazzucchetti as the translator for reaching a perfect harmony between a very modern immediacy and a formal impeccability, between the text’s depth of feeling and originality of its structure.48 The decision to publish the writer’s lesser-known works first, in order to satisfy both the interest of writers familiar with Mann and the demand of newer readers who had yet to read his texts, generated a stimulating gallery of reading paradigms. Only after reading these writings, suggested the literary critic Caprile, would readers be ready to approach the true ‘poetic creations’ of Mann’s great classics. In other words, in a context which remained chaotic, the idea of what constituted a classic within a potential European canon was being redefined through foreign models that inserted the ‘modern’ classic taste of the highbrow Florentine literary journal La ronda into a wider circuit, proposing some of the same readings in cheaper, poor-quality translations.49 Publishers’ catalogues featured masterpieces of nineteenth-century European literature, mimetic and psychological realism and national chefs-d’oeuvre alongside avant-garde masterworks and responses to the crisis of bourgeois society which prior to that point had appeared only in literary magazines: La Voce and later Lo spettatore italiano, La fiera letteraria, Pègaso, Pan and Il Convegno. Conrad’s Gioventù, for example, translated by Henry Fürst, was published in three instalments spanning the final three issues of Lo spettatore italiano.50 Cecchi commented in his article ‘L’ultimo romanzo di Conrad’, published some months prior, that Conrad was a familiar name in Italy well before the Nouvelle Revue Française (N.R.F.) translations.51 The fate of London, present in both popular and more highbrow cultural circuits, was similar. Here is Dàuli again on the reception of this novelist: Regarding London, I can confirm, as I wrote previously regarding the ‘Modernissima’ title, that I have translated ‘Le memorie di un bevitore’ together with Salvatore Rosati [celebrated Anglicist], the friend I spoke to you about, I believe, when we saw each other here in Rome. The novel will first be serialized in ‘Lavoro d’Italia’. I have also translated other London titles, specifically ‘La peste scarlatta’, which will also be printed as an appendix to the ‘Rassegna Italiana’, and I will edit a new collection of selected works, just like the one that Casa Secchioni (Aquila) has recently

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released. (FGD, GDC, envelope Jacchini E. 1939, Ermanno Marcellina to Gian Dàuli, Rome, 28 February 1927, typewritten)

In Solaria, in the famous ‘Corsivo d’apertura’, Leo Ferrero affirmed the magazine’s distance from national stylistics and its ideological proximity to Europe, without taking away anything away from the Italian tradition; the means to rediscover national identity and tradition was precisely through contact and dialogue with European cultures. Ferrero asked not only why Italian writers did not know anything about Europe, but also why they did not, on any profound level, know Italy, addressing his readers directly with this question. Italians did not look beyond national borders, he proposed, because they lacked the moral stature and awareness of their own tradition necessary to support such a cultural challenge. In response, the Europeanism of Solaria, and of Ferrero, envisaged the European tradition that Italy should enter into as a crossroad of influences, a shifting range of literary models which would become heritage of a supranational community: models which were, at the same time, particular and universal.52 In 1929, Emilo Cecchi took stock of the translation situation in a long article for Pègaso: When we think about it for a moment the inevitability of translation is obvious. […]. We can cite André Gide and André Thérive’s long letter as one of the most recent signs of this interest (N.R.F., September 1928), as well as Il Torchio investigation (September 30, 1928 and subsequent issues), echoed by the Tribuna. Gide, who represents Europeanizing literary tendencies to say the least, considers primarily how the quality of translations can be improved. The Milanese periodical, without denying the quality of translated versions, is concerned that too indiscriminate a propagation may affect the tastes of our public and the conditions of our rather fragile literary market. Whilst writers and journalists debate, the publishers plough on undaunted, announcing new collections; new translations, and ‘complete works’ of whoever is deemed to be the latest success from overseas or the other side of the Alps. (‘Del tradurre’, a. I, n. 1, January 1929: 93–94)

Cecchi answered the questions proposed in a survey conducted a year earlier by Il Torchio. Settimanale Fascista di Battaglia e di Critica (Milan 1926–1929).53 The xenophobic tones of this Milanese literary magazine

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depicted the ‘translation invasion’ as a phenomenon which was contaminating and weakening the Italian cultural system. Its editors, accordingly, openly advocated a defensive protectionist campaign which could reduce the harmful influence of this foreign fashion. The debate shifted quickly, predictably, to a hard-line stance against the publishers who were to blame for the success that foreign texts enjoyed. The young Torchio contributors proposed publishing quotas: Italian print runs should mirror those of translated texts (5000 copies). In addition, to put a stop to the shameful state of affairs, it was necessary to create an official register of translators and regional government commissions which would check works proposed by individual publishers. In such a climate of exacerbated opposition, preventive censorship was proposed as a means of protection against the ‘translation infection’. Gherardo Casini himself participated in the debate, bucking the trend by arguing that it was Italian writers who ought to identify appropriate stimuli and examples in foreign literature so as to be more appealing and more competitive in commercial terms, in Italy and in Europe.54 The discussion ended with a request for an increased ‘awareness’ on the part of publishers (Arturo Rossato’s position), writers and translators of their own cultural role. That said, censorship should focus more carefully on the quality control of publications (Camillo Traversi). By and large, the general consensus was that there was a universal need to shrug off servile attitudes marked by a passive provincialism (Nicola Moscardelli).55 In 1929, Augustea also discussed the ‘sense of the foreign’ in writers, with prominent intellectuals and writers weighing in on the debate: Salvator Gotta, Raffaele Calzini, Guido Da Verona, Ugo Falena, Gherardo Gherardi, Giuseppe Villaroel, Adriano Tilgher, Clarice Tartufari, Fausto M. Martini and Anton Giulio Bragaglia. Individual discrepancies notwithstanding, the general school of thought was that the merits of foreign letters required careful consideration and evaluation. Yet again, there was a strong cry of encouragement for Italian writers to explore forms of competitive imitation of foreign literature with a view to renew national writing. The rhetoric of the vociani, focused on affirming national superiority in order to achieve international recognition, had returned in a ‘Fascistized’ version. Salvator Gotta, amongst others, credited the Fascist revolution with opening up the doors of foreign markets to Italian authors, where they could finally be appreciated. International recognition would only be

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achieved, however—key rhetorical pause—when national critics acknowledged the merit of Italian writers, without descending into futile debate: a patent boilerplate which was nonetheless signed even by Martini. Everyone (with the foreseeable exception of Da Verona) agreed on moderating the invective against writers of every other nationality, given that the cultural primacy of Italy was irrefutable.56 The debate continued with contributions from Antonio Borgese, Grazia Deledda, Lorenzo Gigli and Corrado Pavolini (brother of the future Minister Alessandro), who reiterated that the only way for Italian writers to be valued beyond national borders was to support them with a united critical front at home. Margherita Sarfatti, as one of the debate’s final contributors, championed an open, non-provincial cultural exchange; anything less would only weaken the stature of Italian writers. Various contributors pointed out the centrality of the publishing industry in the overall balance of these transnational exchanges. Responding to Fabietti’s Pègaso article on translations, Leone Ginzburg also commented on the success of foreign writers, London in particular. His perspective on the dynamics of the spread of foreign literature echoed Dàuli’s conception of the ‘popular’: The craze for ‘complete works’, which imperturbably presents us with yet another ‘all of London’ or ‘all of Galsworthy’ or even ‘all of Ramón Gomez de la Serna’ is just a temporary phenomenon of cultural stabilization. Twenty years ago, every child around the world, except here, was reading Il richiamo della foresta: the book only got to us, after a lot of fuss, in 1924. We must face the fact that […] our audience has had to ‘get up to speed’, and at such a pace that there have been certain ‘jams’. Now, the latest Galsworthy or Thomas Mann novel will be available in Italian just a couple of years after being published in English or German, and our market will absorb it normally. (‘Ancóra del tradurre’, P, a. IV, n. 2, February 1932: 235)57

Addressing an ideal community of readers united by their lack of knowledge of foreign literature, and hinting precisely at Dàuli’s London translations, Ginzburg went as far as calling the interest that foreign fiction aroused as ‘feverish’, indicating a typical characteristic of the Italian intellectual elite: the appeal of, and fascination with, the foreign. Italian intellectuals felt themselves to be in a semi-peripheral position in relation to the ‘great’ and canonical European cultural tradition. This craze was attributable to Italy’s tardy self-presentation in Europe, but also

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in America. A mea culpa from Ginzburg to writers ‘of great worth’— renowned in Europe and worldwide—whose existence could no longer be ignored as part of a common cultural heritage and as citizens of an ideal first national, then ‘supranational’ community, into which Italian writers should finally be welcomed. Despite warning of the unchecked proliferation of translated works and the possible damage that this frenzy could inflict on the quality of literature, Ginzburg spoke of a phenomenon of ‘cultural stabilization’ which would lead to a better understanding of the literary climate developing in Europe. The publishing market could only benefit from the variety of different types of reception and reading. Foreign texts, classics included, became vehicles of quotidian modernity, even when they stood alongside products of the avant-garde. National pride, nationalism and modernity united to form a long-awaited path of cultural and aesthetic renewal. In 1932, Piero Rèbora, brother of the poet Clemente and a celebrated translator of English texts, reviewed the aesthetic configuration of the tastes of the Italian public in an attempt to explain the lack of success of Italian novels in England and summarized the literary atmosphere of the late twenties and early thirties: We now know some psychological and stylistic reasons behind the scant appeal of our contemporary literature in England. A lack of objective narrative and observation skills, unhealthy egocentrism, obsolete erotic obsession, and linguistic and stylistic chaos mean that many of our books are sunken in a lyrical impressionism which irritates an Italian and confounds a foreign reader. […] We need European books, not trite, provincial verismo. No Italian writer could enjoy the explosive popularity of several Spanish, American, French and German authors in the English world. […] can we say that today’s picture is rather different? In some ways, I would say yes, at least given that in recent years Italian book production has increased and improved. Literary awards and greater public interest have helped stimulate the production of numerous volumes of quality contemporary prose; some of it is very readable. (Rèbora, ‘Libri italiani ed editori inglesi’, LS, a. XV, n. 3, March 1932: 69–70)

The typical evanescent and elitist stylistic features of prosa d’arte bore the English reader who is accustomed to solid, full-bodied narratives with a diegetic construction rooted in eighteenth-century Defoe and Fielding. Compared with contemporary European production, Rèbora explains, the antiquated and redundant erotic obsession that was the legacy of

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D’Annunzio and Da Verona revealed, in its outdated provinciality, only the backwardness of Italian letters.58 Indeed, this insistence on lyrical impressionism and the linguistic chaos of Italian prose—rooted not in real life, but in ‘provincial verismo—reflected precisely Italy’s lack of an inspiring national (rather than regional) literary language, and of a solid popular narrative tradition. This lacuna frustrated Italian and foreign readers alike since, crucially, it did not match modern literary tastes.59 Envisaging a hypothetical encounter between the Italian and AngloSaxon traditions, the critic hoped that Italian writers would finally make linguistic and stylistic decisions which aimed at creating less convoluted, more ‘readable’ writing.60 And so it was that the insistent and, in a certain sense, sudden, arrival of modern European literary masterpieces became a literary and market phenomenon. Be it classic texts, avant-garde writing or novel series, publishers wanted to offer products that related to a middle-class worldview and linguistic competence. As vast a range as possible of accurate translations was published so as to eliminate the most marked class distinctions between the highbrow and the popular. English titles, aiming to recover realism and a richness of plot,61 were the most common. American literature also burst onto the publishing scene, and the popularity of German writing was more systematically affirmed. Adventure stories became the most popular genre, although a certain interest in Russian and French literature persisted.

3.6 Texts, Bestsellers and Readers: The Adventure Novel in the Realm of the Imagination Have you ever noticed that in Italy there is absolutely no literary magazine which offers ‘adventure stories for grown-ups’? These magazines, in addition to novels over numerous episodes, contain novellas and short complete novels. In this way a whole genre of adventure literature has been created; so far in Italy we are only familiar with the longer works (i.e. novels) and shorter works have been completely ignored, even though they are often even more interesting because the action is more fast-paced and intense. (AS, file Rossi, Rossi to Matarelli Rome, 10 November 1932)

Like Ginzburg and Rébora, Gastone Rossi points out here, to Alberto Matarelli, the gap in the publishing market: a gap which Mondadori

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would fill with its serialized novels. The translator implicitly bestows upon the adventure novel genre the honour of being the favourite of Italian adult readers. On 16 May 1926, Rossi had also explicitly asked Matarelli to translate works by Conrad and London, the standard-bearers of the ‘action novels’ that were missing in the Italian genre system (ibid.). Similarly, Bemporad informed the London literary agency Curtis Brown that the publishing house was primarily interested in: 1. Books of global interest: historical-political, expeditions, etc. 2. High-quality detective fiction. First-rate adventure stories for young adults. 3. Novels of contemporary life and historical fiction (ABe, file Curtis and Helicon 1926–1932, Bemporad to Curtis Brown Ltd, Milan, 25 January ****, typewritten). The most significant undertaking of Dàuli’s Modernissima was the publication of a series of Jack London translations which began with Il richiamo della foresta in 1924; Zanna Bianca, Il tallone di ferro, Martin Eden, Il figlio del sole all followed and the series, priced fairly affordably at five lire per volume, comprised over twenty titles in total. Although this particular initiative was not greeted with commercial success and was subsequently abandoned, London’s novels would be amongst the first American bestsellers and would eventually be published by all the Milanese publishing houses. According to Gramsci, citing Jacques Rivière in N. R. F., the adventure novel is ‘a grand representation of dramatic and psychological actions’ which could consequently attract a large public.62 The adventure novel privileges content whose raison d’être lies precisely in the close relationship between art and life that it represents. London, Dàuli writes, ‘primordially addresses our hearts and conscience, rather than our mind and imagination’.63 What appealed about these novels was not simply their entertainment factor; the publisher continues ‘We perhaps will first offer Italian readers at least one of his social novels, a translation of Tallone di ferro, which seems very relevant to life today’.64 Current affairs cannot, and must not, be distinguished from social criticism, according to Dàuli’s preface to Quando Dio ride (Modernissima, Milan, 1926): In the post-war years Italy was flooded with such a deluge of home-grown and foreign short stories that the audience became sick of them – not only

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of the quantity, but of the poor quality. Our writers, generally lacking rich or meaningful life experiences, wanted to impose a type of modern novella which was nothing more than an inconclusive news report, a collection of events, impressions, moods that never amounted to an actual story, and rarely revealed an artistic personality. In our author, on the other hand, we have a powerful individuality, as a man and as a creator, who dominates reality and draws from it a vast conception of life, and this is what makes art; we find, in other words, the world of reality relived through a romantic interpretation, a perfectly woven plot and a sharpness of vision that recalls the classic storytellers. This is why we see London as one of those rare, agile, obvious writers who communicates with our desire to know and to feel. (ibid.: 9)

But above all, as with Pavese’s Melville, for Italian readers Jack London embodies the typical American writer who is first and foremost an adventurer, an explorer of remote and wild worlds.65 These novels, like those of the lesser-known James Oliver Curwood—a journalist for Denver’s News Tribune and Arctic explorer—or, in the Western genre, Zane Grey, through their representation of the relationship between man and nature generate epic narratives which go beyond the rules of civil coexistence in urban society. The female protagonists, the companions of the pioneers and adventurers, also make their voices heard in their quest for liberation from social bonds (albeit within the limits of the constraints of a patriarchal society).66 These translations implicitly propose alternate behavioural models—the law of survival faced with nature’s indomitable brutality—to those of order and obedience imposed by the regime.67 Regarding London, his narrative technique and commercial success, Emilio Cecchi wrote in 1928: ‘Just note how his narrative process is essentially cinematographic: abstract plot twists with elementary solutions that do not relate to the central thread’.68 These criticisms were echoed in a review of the version of Radiosa aurora Dàuli translated for Modernissima.69 Given the author’s predilection for an ‘elementary’ narrative technique and disconnected sequences, as yet another London text was released (as part of the Modernissima series), Cecchi mused over the reasons behind the success of London’s ever-growing fame and fortune: Is Jack London worthless, and his fame just hype? We wouldn’t say that; and were all his works like this, or at least the majority, such as Richiamo della foresta, it would be more difficult to question his originality. Overall,

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however, his success is that of an author who has translated the creations of true poetry into a common, ‘serial’ form, which will always be temporary […]. (Cecchi 1962: 384)

But who are the ‘true poetry’ exemplars Cecchi has in mind? Stevenson with his Ariosto-esque transparency of imagination and powerful, elegant language; Kipling with his heavy but authentic sense of discipline […]; Conrad, who, in a desperado in Sidney [sic] or in Singapore sees the only thing that matters, artistically: a human reality […]. (Cecchi 1962: 383)

Even as he refuses to acknowledge the reasons for London’s success— precisely the interlocking narrative structure of apparently disconnected sequences that he scorns—Cecchi cites the other leading exemplars of this ‘genre’: Conrad, Stevenson and Kipling. It was Corticelli who, in 1927, began publishing Kipling’s opera omnia which had reached Italy through various elite channels. Cecchi in the ‘Quaderni della Voce’, and Serra in his eponymous essay, had introduced the writer’s work to ‘cultured’ circuits, and within a few years, he was a bestseller, thanks to the boom of the ‘adventurous’ genre. Conrad and London, together with Stevenson, became the classic adventure novelists with their appealing mix of strong, unpredictable narratives and characters with psychological depth. Much the same was said of Conrad, who combined exoticism and a sense of adventure with everyday life. As Pavese put it: ‘The South Sea is truly for Conrad the place of the soul’,70 that mythical space where reality’s polysemy is revealed, and becomes the driving force of narration. Conrad’s sea is not the ‘foreign’ place of titanism we find in Moby Dick, but the ‘elsewhere of memory’ (ibid.: 199), characterized as a unique, symbolic place, of inevitable return, of youth and destiny. This is because, Pavese continues in his diary, ‘tales now will come from not writers who “know human nature”, having made significant psychological discoveries, but from those who have real life experience, who have been through things which inform the rhythm and cadence of the narrative. […] Conrad is disorientating, like the South Seas’ (MV, 22 March 1947, 2000: 330). In this slow transformation of the dynamics of aesthetic and narrative taste through contact with the foreign, the adventure novel offered by

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Conrad’s modernism, with its sense of distance and historical truth, was a product which could also cater for popular tastes. In the seventies Calvino, as editor of the Einaudi ‘Centopagine’ series which presented the short stories of famous nineteenth-century writers, would say of Stevenson’s The Pavilion on the Links, another classic and popular success: ‘[…] it is not so much the secret nucleus of this story – which, as often happens, has more than one – but its mechanism which grips so firmly the reader: unswervingly captivating despite the juxtaposition of ideas for different tales which Stevenson starts then drops’.71 Calvino explains in the same introductory note that Stevenson’s story is a ‘game’ of demystification with the reader which provokes a thirst for adventure. Adventure novels suspend notions of domestic, familiar spaces; this is a genre predicated on distance.72 The highbrow Conrad and Stevenson and the more popular London together became models of adventure fiction, and the relationship they portrayed between civilization and primitivism lost its connotations of an investigation of the repressed to assume the tone of an exploration of unknown worlds. In the 1920s the regime, whose roots lay precisely in the modernist experiences of the early twentieth century—futurism, revolutionary syndicalism, avant-gardism—did not block narrative experimentation, but adapted it to its own political designs, which still at an experimental stage.73

3.7

The Novel Debate: The Realist Novel and the Public Sphere

The genre which supported the adventure novel was the realist novel, loosely defined. Throughout the 1920s, realist writing was an expression of the anxieties triggered by the crisis of bourgeois democracy and its unitary-mimetic vision of reality. In 1926, Ardengo Soffici, as part of a critical inquiry into fascist art launched by Critica fascista, reiterated that the concept of realism should be accompanied by the adjective ‘synthetic’. This term served to indicate that fascist art, which was both modern and traditionalist, was not limited to the mimetic representation of reality, but sought to capture its essence and universalize its message.74 Foreign literature, too, did not appear as an ‘explicitly representational’ model of realism; its eclectic reception proposed ‘models of realism’ which developed in response to the needs of various groups of readers. The term realism was often synonymous with aesthetic novelty and social rebellion,

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as we see in Aldo Sorani’s assessment of how young American literature derived its importance from the material it has provided for novels, short stories, melodramas, especially cinema, material which has affected popular imagination throughout the world. It is inspired by that enterprising and rich modern world of the cities which are still flavoured with the free and rich and open life of the vast surrounding country. (Young, S., ‘La letteratura americana e le sue ‘sezioni’’, P, a. IV, n. 6, June 1932: 677)

In an Orpheus editorial, a young Luciano Anceschi also encouraged writers to go beyond the autobiographic genre conceived in terms of Weltanschauung, or as an artistic application and narrative solution. Narratives ought to privilege a representation of reality that was unmediated by a subjective prism but offered a direct perception of the surrounding world.75 The public favoured grand social frescoes, which came from Weimar or the American provinces; the modernist dimension of the city as a labyrinth of exploration for the wandering flâneur was reinterpreted as a portrait of modern life in its cold and tragic everydayness. Faced with a new urban, urbanized dimension, the duty of avant-garde-modernist subjectivism was to capture a reality devoid of psychological deformations.76 In the Berlin of Döblin’s tales, for example, social contradictions emerged from a detached observation of facts and their intrinsic lack of logic. Of the portrait that Döblin offers of German society in Berlin Alexanderplatz,77 Enrico Rocca wrote in Pègaso: Wait: if you look closely, you can still get a tiny drop of truth: this is a popular book, the characters that crowd it are, to put it bluntly, common, they speak common, they think common, they act common. […]. It is certainly a highly original work, completely different from the expressionist solutions Döblin has previously sought shelter in, and from the new objectivity he has chanced upon. (‘“Berlin Alexanderplatz, die Geschichte vom Franz Biberkopf”, by Alfred Döblin’, P, a. II, n. 5, May 1930: 638, 640)

The aesthetics of the Neue Sachlichkeit movement, in the paintings of George Grosz and Otto Dix, but also in the literature of Alexander Döblin, Robert Musil, Hermann Broch and the Mann brothers (1918– 1933) were essentially pragmatic expression and a strong anti-bourgeois sentiment78 ; characteristics not dissimilar to those the regime envisaged

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for Fascist art, especially in the 1930s.79 Compared with bestselling Italian popular literature (the likes of Pitigrilli, Umberto Notari and Mario Mariani), foreign literature seemed to be immune to the taste for easy eroticism and scandal: less exposed, therefore, to criticism of a moralistic nature and focused on objective ‘investigations’ of the contemporary social reality.80 In 1931, Monanni launched a bold new series, ‘I bassi fondi’, with the declared aim of forewarning and hence forearming the reader against the crimes threatening contemporary society: ‘As Justice pursues the criminals, it is the duty of the writer to denounce them and the common danger they represent’.81 1930 saw the publication of Babbitt (1922) by the American Nobel Prize winner Sinclair Lewis, translated by Liliana Scalero as part of the ‘Writers of the World’ collection,82 and in 1932 Corbaccio published Alessandra Scalero’s version of Nuova York (Manhattan Transfer, 1925) by John Dos Passos.83 Lewis was the first author Cesare Pavese translated for Bemporad at the start of his career as an Americanist. Il nostro Signor Wrenn (Our Mr Wrenn, 1931) was followed, on Pavese’s return from enforced internal exile in Calabria, by Il 42º parallel (The 42° Parallel, 1935) and Un mucchio di quattrini (Big Money, 1937), respectively the first and third parts of the USA trilogy—this time for Mondadori.84 The USA trilogy (1938) and Manhattan Transfer feature multiple protagonists, and the writer follows his characters’ lives in different social situations, recounting their few triumphs and numerous hardships. In his second essay on the novelist, Pavese wrote ‘Dos Passos is a unique artist. Instinctively, he avoids almost any thesis in the narration of his major works […]. From his own mouth comes no criticism or design on the story, Dos Passos is happy to listen to his heroes. And sometimes he even rather cockily mocks the weaknesses or idiocies of hot-headed revolutionaries’.85 There were two reasons the American writer particularly appealed to Pavese: his political discourse and his experiments in narrative technique, especially in parts of Film-Giornale which are […] short reflections on capitalist hypocrisy and rhetoric, on the grave disorientation of the middle-class world during and after the war. Of course they are not art, but in certain choices, in certain arrangements, the merciless criticism they offer matches that of any iamb or epode. (ibid.: 112)

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Dos Passos did not describe the ideological value of modernity, nor explain its significance in terms of protest against the inequalities of the capitalist system; these ideas emerged almost naturally in the objectivity of the narrative. If Dos Passos was the writer who best described the unresolved tensions of modern American society, then Lewis’s Babbitt was the prototype of the average American.86 Lewis was an author who generated fierce debate: he was defended by Aldo Sorani, who drew comparisons between Lewis and Zuccoli, as an expression of a different culture, but criticized by Linati for the simplicity of his narrative solutions.87 Carlo Linati ridiculed the outlook of the American businessman that G. F. Babbitt embodied: the epitome of the cultural homogenization of the New World. Lewis’s character symbolized the uncritical adaptation of the individual in situations in which he finds himself living through opportunistically accepted necessity, rather than by choice. His ultimate attempt to ‘metaphorically’ escape to an authentic existence fails, but there are no tragic consequences: life goes on in Zenith exactly the same way as it does elsewhere. Linati, as usual, missed Lewis’s fundamental point: the refusal, not the acceptance, of the American way of life and myth of success at any price.88 The tragedy behind a reality universally recognized as ‘normal’, and the importance of a provincial dimension as opposed to the alienating effects of the city, did not escape Pavese. He commented in a letter to Chiumminato: ‘[…] what is missing in Babbitt is a construction, the construction of a harmonious whole […], his essence is the expression of a world which observes, smiling, the horrible awkwardness, especially in moral terms, of the inevitable life’.89 Going beyond the aesthetic innovation of Lewis’s novel, Pavese understood its merit in terms of social criticism: ‘I must add here that I like Babbitt also for another reason, but not an aesthetic reason. It is the most complete portrait of contemporary America in its entirety: through customs, language, culture, actions, in short, all life’.90 Indeed, America’s obsession with money and leisure was one of the arguments most exploited by Italian anti-Americanism to denigrate the US economic system and lifestyle. In Orpheus , Cappelli also praised this realistic portrait of the crisis of American society, which expressed in modern terms the impetus of Lewis’s anti-bourgeois revolt. Realist writing was synonymous with social criticism, which was why Gide’s critique of the middle classes remained unconvincing: its vision was too idealistic and individualistic, lacking in a sense of realism and collectivity. In the realist-social novel, readers must

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be able to identify as part of an anonymous collective with whom they share a certain reading habit, particularly as far as social expectations were concerned.91 In an article entitled ‘Aspetti dell’americanismo’ published in Franco Ciarlantini’s very Fascist Augustea (which also featured a column on world literature, ‘Come scrive il mondo’), the critic Francesco Bruno made a similar point: ‘The real difference between Europeanism and Americanism is that the first polarizes its strength and its capacities for social palingenesis in the individual, whilst the second aims to confer upon the anonymous masses, the community, the true civil mission of an industrious population’. In an earlier article, Bruno had also spoken of Europeanism as a synonym of cultural modernization from which Italy should not be excluded given that it was naturally, and had been historically, an important part of Europe.92 Americanism’s many faces and facades became evident in Emilio Cecchi’s famous account of his travels in the United States and Mexico in 1930–1931 and later, in America amara (1939), of the year he spent as a professor at the University of Berkeley, California in 1938. Cecchi’s writings were a mix of keen insight and strong prejudice; he was fascinated by America’s greatness, by its economic and industrial development, in short, by the same idea of modern culture which fascinated young scholars and writers.93 The hackneyed contrasts of the skyscrapers of New York with the towers of San Gimignano and the emergence of a certain diffidence towards the New World belie the meticulous research behind this travel diary and the author’s intellectual interest in a country that was, yes, ‘messy’, but at the same time, precisely because of its striking diversity when compared with the cultural and social realities of Italy, appeared multifaceted and fascinating. Cecchi’s attitude towards America, like that of Cesare Pavese and Elio Vittorini, was contradictory and ambivalent; seizing certain elements that appealed to him as a man and a scholar, such as the refusal of the image of the citizen offered by Babbitt or enthusiasm for the Fordist economic model.94 He admired Edgar Allen Poe on account of his vicinity to French symbolism and recognized the significance of Melville, the whaler who was so far from the traditional image of a writer, but had been capable of producing the masterpiece Moby Dick; Cecchi (like Pavese, but not Vittorini) understood the symbolic weight of this text and was astonished that Melville’s compatriots saw him as a children’s writer. The Florentine critic did not appreciate Lewis (Pavese also tempered his initial

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enthusiasm for Lewis), but esteemed Faulkner for his ability to render a sense of restlessness, of the physical and mental breakdown of modern man and the transformation of everyday life (the family ties of As I Lay Dying ) into a monstrous reality. The American way of life puzzled Cecchi: American women with their independence were far from Poe’s heroines; American universities were ‘neither very philological nor academic’ compared with Italian institutions. He did not see the link between the new, industrial, shape of America and issues of economic profit and exploitation, let alone the sense of alienation of individuals working in these ‘super-efficient’ factories. He wrote of Ford’s empire that ‘a complex of this magnitude is not merely a masterpiece of industrial engineering, but an economic, political and social system. For Upton Sinclair and the C. I. O., these are prisons. Christ, though, these prisons work, produce, and have produced for forty years’ (Cecchi 1939: 36). Gramsci, on the other hand, highlighted the social protest enacted by the American novelists and their heavily criticized realism—by Babbitt’s ‘American way of life’—in the context of the negative effects of Fordism.95 If these writers were second-generation naturalists, their reception was very similar to that of their predecessors. Upton Sinclair’s exemplary La metropoli was essentially presented as a portrait of American society and its corruption: The life, the deeds, the opulence of New York billionaires as if penned by Zola. Sinclair’s works are infused with a sense of a redemption, but here the author limits himself to portraying the life of the rich in such a way that the reader sees and condemns its immoral and criminal side. Our new edition has been completely rewritten based on the most recent American edition revised by the author, who has granted us the right to publish his other, very interesting, works in Italy. (first edition)

Sinclair, a new, modern Émile Zola, describes the social reality of an asyet-undiscovered United States but adopts a positive, stimulating manner. Despite this positivity, the volume’s presentation to the reader is carefully managed so as to highlight the immoral sides of American society, recalling the corrupt French society captured by Zola in the second half of the nineteenth century.96 Unlike the Italian prosa d’arte or elzeviro, these novelists—albeit with mixed results—addressed an imaginary community of readers that were

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not defined by locality and, thanks to the sense of social cohesion they generated, enjoyed great commercial success. American literature was protest literature: it spoke to the masses, and it sold, supported in America by a modern distribution system that could generate bestsellers. Italy still lacked such publishing structures and the book market was still too regional, too provincial, as Sorani describes: I’ve been told that a Harold Bell Wright first edition can have a print run of two million copies. For a serialized novel in a magazine, he will receive at least fifty thousand dollars; then the novel will be released as a single volume; finally, the author will get large sums for film rights. These books aren’t sold only in bookshops, but in drugstores, department stores, station news-stands, hotels, everywhere. They are evidently written with skill and demonstrate a remarkable capacity to satisfy the pseudo-serious aspirations of the general public. (Young, S., ‘La letteratura americana e le sue ‘sezioni’’, P, a. IV, n. 6, June 1932: 680)

But what type of realism captures public interest and guarantees commercial success? One which derives its methods from ‘Zola or the Russian writers; a heavy, methodical, detailed, faithful, obstinate realism; an almost “inconsistent” realism whose overall effect is nonetheless powerful and impressive’ (ibid.: 681), because, again, it creates textual communities that span class boundaries, and truly national publishing systems. Gramsci ascribed Italian readers’ preference for foreign texts to the fact that Italian literature was incapable of creating a dialogue between the ruling elite and the subordinate classes. Foreign texts successfully crafted communication channels between different groups of readers; hence they sold well.97 Americanism proposed a new model of realism that could transform, via a common language, literary towns into a literary nation— or as Pavese would put it, a form of realism that went from the Mid-West to Piedmont. Another very popular genre was the ironic and sarcastically realistic humorist novel98 : Monanni published London and Upton Sinclair as well Wodehouse’s ‘entertaining caricatures of modern Anglo-American life. Adventurers, freeloaders, Piccadilly’s modern picaros, journalists, boxers, failed artists, industrial entrepreneurs who fail hundreds of times only to soldier intrepidly on’ (review Secolo-Sera, 22 December 1931). The English humorist tradition was simplified for the common reader: deprived somewhat of its bite. But even a ‘softened’ form of humour

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can—must—launch a sharp social critique, and one author who did so was Wells, who had: Verne’s exuberant imagination with some of Poe’s influence, an openminded avant-garde spirit, an often desperate quest to solve life’s most complex social problems, an intolerance for all things insincere and pulpy; he is said to be unlike any other English contemporary writer, more from the other side of the Atlantic than across the Channel. The insights and the wonders of these extraordinary tales lie in that satirical spirit which mocks society throughout and reveals its errors and dangers.

And in Italy: …as the war went on and we faced the sad days of Caporetto, I thought it important that he were known in Italy, in an Italy which seemed to me dead in a spiritual and religious sense. We, too, need to rouse a religious conscience, to awaken a spiritual sensitivity that can resolve the countless ethical and moral problems connected to social life. I said to myself: it is not enough to believe, to follow the teachings of the Church; to deny everything, declaring oneself a freethinker, is a useless and empty vaunt, in that having no religion is the hardest of all religions. (Preface, L’arma di un vescovo, Milan, Sonzogno, 1919: 7–10)

From as early as 1919, Dàuli’s lucid evaluations heralded the reasons behind the success of Anglo-American literature, presenting it as alternative aesthetic and social paradigm to the national models which were no more than the last vestiges of an outdated canonical tradition and bore little relation to contemporary Italian life. Compared with Italian literary production, foreign literature appeared more popular and closer to real life and, as we have seen, was largely tolerated by the regime—despite transmitting ideologically dissonant messages—on account of its ability to satisfy the literary needs of the public. Italian audiences’ desire for escapist entertainment was met by adventure novels (the popular novels of London and Conrad, the epics of Grey and Curwood and Stevenson’s and Kipling’s more elite texts), whilst interest in the social novel shifted towards American and English writing, at the expense of French literature. For this reason, in September 1929 Mondadori wrote to Mussolini about the tastes of the average reader:

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The general public, that is the public of millions and millions of readers who populate the five continents of the world is subject, like all crowds, to strange collective phenomena. We can say that all readers are after a particular genre which changes every year or so, every five years say. Whilst in the immediate post-war period we saw romantic novels and generally socalled ‘luxury’ reading fly off the shelves, for some time now readers have been looking elsewhere. (ACS, SPD/CO, 15 September 1929, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

The publisher goes on to cite historical novels, Sarfatti’s Dux (which sold as many as 25,000 copies in 1926 and was in its seventeenth edition by 1938), biographies of ‘great men’, the ‘Scie’ series edited by Enrico Piceni (who was also Mondadori’s press office manager), but he also mentions ‘another category of books enjoyed by the restless modern reader’, that is, ‘the adventurous and detective novels which have invaded the American, English and French book markets’. Thus, foreign bestsellers brought another reading model to Italy, one which could seduce and satisfy the modern reader with the promise of transporting him away from everyday Italian life.

3.8

Book Quality, Pricing and Visibility

In an essay reviewing Italian publishing activity, ‘Il libro, l’editore, l’autore e il pubblico’, Dàuli charged publishers with the task of offering the public affordable texts.99 The general public, the middle and working classes, had to get used to reading. To dispel once and for all the notion that Italians did not read, books needed to be cheaper: a book of 300, 400, 500, even 600 pages, with an illustrated cover, should cost two lire, not ten, and this was a task for populist publishers such as Nerbini and Sonzogno. From the late 1910s onwards, a central concern of the publishing industry was how to achieve a balance between the quality and price of translations, a common lament of readers and critics alike. Publishers and readers wanted neither elitist nor popular editions, but ‘something inbetween’. Publishers took great care to ensure that source texts came from the countries of origin rather than base their translations on French editions, a practice which broke with the traditional perception of cultural and economic dependence on France.

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In fact, current opinion is […] that translating from the French version works in other languages constitutes no violation of intellectual property rights. Indeed, as you know, apart from English texts, almost all Russian works have been translated from French. This is according to the principle you rightly recall that translating a version owned by a French publisher, rather than the original, has no legal implications for the French publisher. The basis of this principle is the first Berne Convention of 1886 (which remained applicable until 1914 when the Berlin Convention of 1908 became law), which established that ‘lawful translations are protected as original works. Therefore, they enjoy the protection stipulated in articles 2 and 3 regarding their unauthorized reproduction in the countries of the Union’. (AS, file Rossi, Rossi to Matarelli, Rome, 20 November 1927, typewritten)

Translators were paid less if their translations of English novels were based on the French version rather than the English original, an incentive to obtain copies in the original language.100 Dàuli’s translations, including the titles comprising the popular Delta collection which cost only two lire a piece, were presented as the most faithful to the original, without additional editing or linguistic interference from the French version.101 L’Italia che scrive commented positively on this initiative: Superb idea, excellent translators, a good selection of authors, elegant presentation and a product that successfully offers everyone, at a modest price, less than the cost of a cinema ticket, the possibility to create their own small library. (Kociemski, L., LS, a. XII, n. 7, July 1929: 222)

A good book could therefore be the ideal substitute for a ticket to the cinema, the newest form of mass entertainment. This collection’s aim was to enable the average reader to build a small library at two lire per volume, at a time when the average price of a supposedly ‘light-hearted’ Italian title ranged from nine lire (in 1920) to eleven (between 1928 and 1930), whilst translations ranged from two lire for cheaper popular texts to eleven for the stylish Slavia volumes. A good translation cost as much as a highquality Italian title, between ten and twelve lire, but more than a poorquality Italian novel, such as the Salgari stories published by Sonzogno, priced at five and a half lire.102 Whilst Dàuli’s series stood out on account of the quality of the translations, Monanni’s edition of London’s famous novel Il vagabondo prompted the following evaluation:

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We must commend Monanni’s excellent initiative, introducing an elegantly presented collection of foreign writers at a very modest price. The public cannot fail to appreciate the work behind this series, spurring the publisher to develop his project and make further improvements, especially in terms of reviewing the translated versions, since at the heart of the translations offered by this small publishing house and other popular editions is a great respect for the reading public and for culture in general.103

Alongside the accurate translations offered by Dàuli and Monanni, there were also marketing successes of dubious quality, such as Pareto Momigliano’s 1927 version of Conrad’s Lord Jim for Corticelli.104 The challenge lay in proposing foreign literature to the Italian public in a way which satisfied the audience’s need for linguistic clarity and skill, a particularly difficult task for Slavic languages. Despite the efforts of publishing houses such as Slavia with ‘Il genio russo’ and the popularity of Russian literature, poor-quality translations continued to circulate. That same year, critics also lamented the shortcomings of Olga MalavasiArpshofen’s translation of Oblomov for the Bologna-based Cappelli105 : After sixty years of waiting, we finally have an Italian version of Gonciaroff’s famous novel which unfortunately deserves all the criticism it has received, given the arbitrary cutting of entire chapters in order to reduce the original 657 pages to just 286. The publisher’s admirable objective of offering a series of affordably priced and elegantly presented famous novels in this case is a miserable failure. The ‘only translation’ of this novel could have been published unabridged as a two-volume edition to the benefit of publisher and public alike; as it is, what we have is the ‘only adaptation’, which does the translator no credit […]. (Kociemski, L., LS, a. XI, n. 8, August 1928: 216, in 16°, lire 4, 95)

L’Italia che scrive reviewers often found themselves signalling inaccuracies, especially when the language of the source text was considered to be difficult. Amongst the many voices denouncing slovenly translations, columnist Antonio Bruers’ 1932 claim that it would be more accurate to speak of a crisis of highbrow, rather than popular, literature was particularly significant.106 The new industrial mentality was damaging to publishing in that specific skills were no longer respected, Bruers went on, with publishers churning out collections that all looked and cost the same.

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No more slapdash ‘Salgari’-style volumes: sophisticated editions which reflected the artistic value of the original were the only way forward. Translations became a way of bringing together different and distant cultures. Above all, accurate translations were a way of circumventing proto-autarchic obstacles, as Montano pointed out to Mondadori: ‘I don’t think I am telling you anything new if I maintain that the quality of the translations has a significant impact upon success. If detective fiction is as yet not widespread here, this is due, mainly, as you know, to poor translations’.107 At the end of the 1920s, there was a perceptible change in the standpoint of power structures: the problem was to monitor, punish and legitimize, as translator Rossi explained to Matarelli: As agreed, I am sending you the translation of Jack London’s novel ‘Il Tallone di Ferro’. I have cut some of the notes, which often are not very interesting, and I have removed a sonnet by Oscar Wilde (p. 96) which is offensive towards the Pope. Apart from that the translation is unabridged. (AS, file London, Rossi to Matarelli, Rome, 20 February 1929)

A few years later, in a letter from Mondadori to Mussolini’s muchtrusted personal secretary Alessandro Chiavolini dated 30 November 1932, the terms of the ‘foreign literature’ question were made explicit. The issue for publishers was twofold: this was a political concern, in that the widespread diffusion of foreign literature meant it was related to the Fascist project of constructing a popular culture, but also an economic one, as translations could help replenish the coffers of a publishing industry continually requesting bailouts. The letter also explained why translations had become a point of discussion between the state and the publishing industry. Mondadori wrote: Dear Commendatore, As you are the valued means through which I carry out my duty of reporting to the Duce any significant considerations of the publishing trade; a trade which, on occasion, has political connotations and is, in any case, amongst the most important industries as far as the nation’s spiritual activity is concerned, allow me to consult you once more. (ACS, SPD/CO, 30 November 1932, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

Literary concerns aside, this letter summarized the questions that would be resolved in the 1930s: cultural and economic dependence on French

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translations, the inability of Italian literary production to meet the demands of the general public, the need to improve the quality of the translations on offer, prompt publication of foreign works to capitalize upon their topicality, collaboration with the regime and mutually beneficial clarification of censorship terms. The publisher made no mention of any danger related to translation practice; this was an issue beyond the remit of these initial plans for the exploitation of a literary trend which, already at the end of the 1920s, occupied a central space in the Italian and Fascist rhetorical system. Mondadori strategically underlined how contact with other cultures could enrich the Italian language and its literature, an assertion that would become a banner in his battle to defend translations. Translation presented no threat to Italian; rather, it offered the possibility to enhance and develop the language’s natural expressive potential, as Rèbora argued in L’Italia che scrive. We might say that the tables at this point were yet to turn: collective taste passively conditioned the regime’s decisions, and only when persuasion is replaced by ‘cultural’ coercion do we see a shift in the regime’s stance and an attempt to curb the trend for all things foreign. The key innovation of this period, during which support for Fascism was at its peak, was the possibility to dialogue systematically with other countries with accuracy. Modernity, the present, became an obsession for young Italian writers and intellectuals who were determined, in Leone Ginzburg’s words, to ‘get up to speed’.

Notes 1. AS, file Rossi, Rossi to Matarelli, Rome, typewritten. For more details on the censorship of this novel (1931, 1932) and its theatrical adaptation, see Fabre (2007: 55, footnote 45). 2. Gramsci (1975: III 2125, Q. 21 (XVII), 1934–1935), (II: 95). 3. Prezzolini (1960: 577–79). Two years later, Spaini published an important contribution raising awareness of the German writer, ‘Thomas Mann’, NA, 1915: 46–55. 4. Written in 1920, published by Mondadori in 1929 (12–13). 5. La Direzione, ‘Proponimento’, CF, a. I, n. 1: 2. See also Guido De Luca, ‘La battaglia per la cultura’, CF, a. IV, n. 16, 15 August 1926: 305–06. Albertina Vittoria maintains that during the years in which the regime consolidated its power, the role played by intellectuals within cultural institutions was purely formative and non-coercive,

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6.

7.

8. 9.

10.

11.

12.

13.

14.

15. 16. 17.

as evidenced by Gentile’s initiatives: l’Istituto Fascista di Cultura, the magazine Educazione fascista and l’Enciclopedia italiana (1983: 62–63). Prezzolini (1923: 9, 47, 60). On the evolution of this text, which explicitly addressed ‘middle-class, and average’ readers in its final version and not the ‘highbrow’ audience of the first draft, see Biondi (2003: 35–55). Montale later made the same point in a post-war article focusing on Fascism and literature (‘Il fascismo e la letteratura’, 16 June 1945, AF: 20–25). Giusso, L., ‘Letteratura fascista’, a. IV, n. 13, 1 July 1926: 247. A monthly magazine set up in 1929 under the direction of Ugo Ojetti; in 1931, it was acquired by Treves and ceased publication two years later. Cfr. ‘Panorama de la Littérature américaine di Regis Michaud’, P, a. I, n. 1, January 1929: 127. ‘Fascismo e cultura’, CF, a. VI, n. 23, 1 December 1928: 442; on this point see also Nasti, A., ‘Realismo e politica europea’, CF, a. VI, n. 16, 15 August 1928: 307–8. In a Critica fascista article published in May 1925, Bottai described the nature of Fascist art—art which linked theoretical abstraction with real life—as well as the new objectives of the Fascist movement: to strengthen and coordinate existing structures rather than create new ones. At the core of this political and cultural project was, of course, the Gentile school reform (‘Il problema culturale e scolastico del fascismo’, a. III, n. 9: 163–66). Mussolini, B., ‘Forza e consenso’, Gerarchia, a. II, n. 3: 801, in Mussolini (1930: 125–30). The main challenge was the establishment of a corporate state, as an alternative to the existing models of the socialist or liberal state (‘I limiti di un consenso’, CF, 15 April 1928, a. VI, n. 8: 141–42 and ‘Ancora dello Stato Corporativo’, CF, 15 June 1928, a. VI, n. 12: 221–22), cfr. Palla (1991). ‘No more thuggery, politics must become an “art of government”’ (Mussolini, B., ‘Preludio al “Machiavelli”’, Gerarchia, a. III, n. 4, April 1924: 205). Ciarlantini was a member of parliament from 1924 until his death in 1940, and director of the Press and Propaganda department between 1923 and 1924. For a more detailed biography, see Elisabetta Lecco’s entry on ‘Ciarlantini, Francesco (Franco)’, in Dizionario Biografico degli italiani (1981: XXV 214–16), and Tortorelli (1992: 121–24). Ciarlantini (1929: 3, 27–28). Cfr. de Luca, G., art. cit, CF, a. IV, n. 16, 15 May 1926: 305–6. CF, a. VII, n. 1: 1–2. In his report, Ciarlantini proposed creating a list (organized by city, including smaller rural centres) of the categories of people who could find Italian books interesting and who new books should be aimed at; the lower middle classes were one of the key

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18.

19.

20.

21.

22.

23. 24.

105

targets of this propaganda manoeuvre. As part of the aim of systematic book distribution, great importance was attributed to prudent use of newspaper advertising, again related to the rhetoric of visibility (1929: 16–18). On the development of the publishing industry, see Ragone (1999: 112– 13), Decleva (1993: 225–98), and Pedullà (1997: 348–56). For more information on various publishing associations, see Petrocchi (1997), Pedullà (1986: 20–28), Tortorelli (1992: 120–21). The laws of 18 March 1926 and 12 June 1931 fulfilled the Italian Society of Authors and Publishers’ demands that the copyrights of translations and authors’ rights be recognized and protected. For further details on copyright laws, see Tranfaglia-Vittoria (2000: 241–42). When the Corporations were established in 1934, publishers were part of the ‘Corporazione della carta e della stampa’ steered by Antonio and Giovanni Vallardi, Arnaldo Mondadori and Renzo Ermes Meschina. ‘L’attività editrice italiana’, GdL, a. XXXVII, n. 3, 15 February 1924: 68–70. This 1924 overview, which covered, significantly, all Italian publishers, proposed Milan as Italy’s publishing capital, suggesting that Turin would not be able to sustain the same pace of industrial development. Cfr. Marchesini (1993: 11–13). It was at the end of the 1920s that migration intensified, particularly from the countryside to the metropolitan centres. In 1927 and between 1929–1942, urban migration reached highs that would only be seen again during the ‘economic boom’ of the 1950s–1960s. Cfr. De Fort (1995: 30). Palazzolo (1993: 287) reports slightly higher figures, but with no significant difference in the overall gradual decline. For further details on female literacy compared with male literacy, see Marchesini (1993: 9, 14 and onwards). Contrary to the regime’s assertions, statistics indicate that the rate of increase in literacy slowed between 1921 and 1931 and stalled entirely between 1931 and 1951. See Marchesini ‘Città e campagna nello specchio dell’analfabetismo’: II, 15, in Soldani and Turi (1993). The decrease in illiteracy during the 1920s was, in any case, less than that recorded in the two decades prior (1901–1911 saw a decrease of 10.6%, 1911–1921 of 9.7%, 1921–1931 of 8.5%). On the investment in education to combat illiteracy, see Klein (1986: 29). Figures deduced from Santoro (1994), Livolsi (1983), and Borruso (1983). Rundle reports an average of 6637 titles between 1926 and 1930 (2019: 44). Cfr. Chicco (1964: 6), Pedullà (1997: 345–46), and Santoro (1994: 316–20). In 1922, there were 208 translations from French, 76 from English, 89 from German and 53 from other languages; in 1923, 177 from French,

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25.

26.

27. 28.

29.

46 from English, 79 from German and 57 from other languages; in 1924, 243 from French, 123 from English, 102 from German and 76 other languages; in 1925, 182 from French, 89 from English, 108 from German and 70 from other languages. For the following years, only the total is given: 1926 (582), 1927 (584), 1928 (444), 1929 (717). Rundle offers similar totals (2019: 50–53, 56). In the same period, the data for other countries indicate around 12,000 translated volumes for England, 8600 for the United States, 9000 for France and 25,000 for Germany, numbers much higher than in Italy (from GdL). I libri del giorno, March 1926, a. IX, n. 3: 148–49. This magazine, offering primarily book reviews, was founded by Treves in 1918 with E. Brunetti as editor-in-chief. These titles were followed by Il podere (Vieras mies tuli taloon, 1937) by Finnish author Mika Waltari (1942), and range of German writers, Carlo e Anna by Leonhard Frank, Jons e Erdme by Hermann Sudermann, Le orecchie del signor marchese by Jakob Wassermann, Le nozze di Magdeburgo by Gertrud von Le Fort (1939), La morte del piccolo borghese by Franz Werfel, Il parroco della vigna fiorita by Felix Timmermans, Il ritorno di Casanova by Arthur Schnitzler, amongst others; 25 titles were published in total (cfr. Oliva, Catalogo storico Sperling & Kupfer 1899– 1989, 1989: 205–7). It was only in 1941 that the Minculpop banned the reprinting of Mann’s Disordine e dolore precoce, on account of ‘the current position of Mann regarding the German government’ (A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 156, categ. 044, reference file ‘Sperling & Kupfer’). For political, not racial, reasons Fabre (1998: 330). Lavinia Mazzucchetti was also Mondadori’s resident Germanist. Cfr. Mangini (2000) and Barrale (2017). Dàuli comments on the productive relationship between Italian writing and translations, especially as far as small-scale publishing houses are concerned: ‘Italian books benefit from the growing popularity of translations because it is foreign publications that enable many small publishers to survive, others to grow. Without translations many new publishing houses would have already disappeared’ (FGD, CGD, b. 13.6, c. 7, without date, ms). Dàuli offered precise recommendations for publishing strategies: ‘News and exotica. They can sell very well, preferably in a series, provided one has all the necessary equipment for what I’d call practically instantaneous production and all the extras (photographs, drawings) that increase their current relevance’; ‘Series of novels. Initially it would perhaps be best to run parallel series: to publish a series of books and a series of novels released in installments, with an appropriate price difference’; ‘The best and safest initiative which will set a clear ‘tone’ for the publishing house would be a series, as I have already suggested, which presents secret

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30. 31.

32.

33.

34. 35. 36.

107

memoirs and famous lovers […]’ (FGD, CGD, b. 11.63, cc. 11–12, without date, ms). On the popularity of the volumes published by Alpes in LS and on the reviews of these texts, see Tortorelli (1992: 132, n. 31). Sorani, A., ‘Incontri con D. H. Lawrence’, P, a. IV, n. 6, June 1932: 707. Dàuli found Corbaccio’s comments on the ‘publishing’ popularity of Lawrence illuminating: ‘Before concluding, and whilst I remember, I beg you not to force me to abandon the infamous Lawrence, a project which as you know has already cost me dear. I am determined to publish Lawrence, with or without support, before someone from the big publishing houses realizes how exceptional this author is, and, as I think I have already told you, I am prepared, despite the risk of sequestration, to publish even ‘Lady Chatterley’. Besides, given its impressive reception abroad, I do not believe this book could really be banned’. (FGD, Corbaccio to Ugo Nalato [Gian Dàuli], Milan to Rome, 17 November 1932, typewritten). The Italian bestsellers were: Mammiferi di lusso (1920) by Pitigrilli, Il giornalino di Gian Burrasca (1920) by Vamba, Storia di Cristo by Papini (1921), Le scarpe al sole by Paolo Monelli (1921), La Velia by Bruno Cicognani (1921), Il mestiere di marito by Lucio D’Ambra, Mussolini by Giorgio Pini (1926), Dux by Margherita Sarfatti (1926), Piccolo alpino by Salvator Gotta (1926), Ma che cosa è questo amore by Achille Campanile (1927). Giocandi usefully defines a bestseller in Italy as a text whose print run exceeded 10–15,000 copies (for the period 1860–1918) or 20,000 (for the period 1818–1945) within 7–10 years (1990: 13). When Il Torchio criticized Sozogno for publishing too many foreign authors, the publisher replied that he would have gladly avoided London, had his novels and those of his peers not been precisely those that the public wanted to read (a. III, n. 29, 15 July 1928: 3). FGD, CGD, envelope 13.6, pp. 10–11, without date, ms. AS, file Rossi, Rossi to Matarelli, Rome, 30 April 1928, typewritten. AS, file Pitta, Alfredo Pitta to Matarelli, 1 June 1932, Milan, typewritten. See also AS, file Pitta, Pitta to Matarelli, 11 October 1930, typewritten and file Pitta, Allan Quatermain series, January 1933, typewritten. On the distorted but widespread image of foreign literature as a repertoire of exotic themes, see G. Rodolfo Cervello on the ‘incredibly provincial’ Il Torchio, ‘I negri e la letteratura’, Recensione a Paul Morand, Magie noire, Grasset, Paris, 1928, Il Torchio, a. III, n. 33, 12 August 1928: 3. Although foreign literature, broadly defined, was accused of immorality, its appeal to the general public, and especially to female readers was noted; ‘women prefer them in their dreams, but we can’t speak of a black threat like in America’. Monanni published the popular Chinese novels

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37.

38.

39.

40. 41.

42.

43.

by Judith Gautier, daughter of Théophile Gautier, and Han Ryan’s books set in ancient Greece and Babylon. For more information on Dàuli, see the monograph by David (1989) which is the most comprehensive of the few works dealing with this figure. The competition offered a 20,000 lire first prize and a 5000 lire runner-up prize (‘Frecciate’, Il Torchio, a. III, n. 27, 1 July 1928: 3). Responding to Il Torchio’s critique that he relied excessively on translations, Dàuli reiterated his firm intention to publish Italian authors (Morselli, Tozzi, Baldini, Bragaglia, Albertazzi, Lipparini, Tonelli, Giorgieri-Contri, Mori) but admitted he was forced to prioritize foreign texts (regardless of their literary value, which was not in any doubt) for financial reasons. Dàuli, preface to f. Dostoevskij Il sosia (translated by S. Osser) 1929, Delta, Milan (first edition). This novella had previously been published by Carabba (1926) and would be republished by Bietti (1932), Slavia (1933), and the Bologna-based La Vigna (1933). Editors’ note prefacing the first edition of Il pianto di Ah-Kim, n. 23 in the series ‘Scrittori di tutto il mondo’, 1929. Correspondence between Bemporad and the London-based literary agency Curtis Brown reveals the dynamics, and aesthetic criteria, which governed the exchanges between international agents and editors: “JUDE THE OBSCURE” by Thomas Hardy: this author is, as you probably know, one of our greatest writers. We think that his work should therefore interest an Italian public. “DUSTY AMBER” by Rosamond Lehmann: This book is one of “The Book-of-the-Month Club’s” selections. “PRIVATE SECRETARY” by Alan Brener Schultz: ‘this is a new book that has just been published and has already attracted a great deal of attention’ (ABe, fasc. Curtis and Helicon, (illegible signature) Curtis Brown Ltd to Bemporad, Londra, 12 August 1929, ds). Rather surprisingly, Bemporad declined the London agency’s offer of the translation rights to Hemingway’s Fiesta (ABe, file Curtis and Helicon [illegible signature], Curtis Brown Ltd to Bemporad, London, 11 November 1929, typewritten). Pavolini, C., ‘A. Cécof, Lo zio Vania, LS, a. III, n. 6, June 1920: 90. See also Stefano Landi, ‘Di Cécov e di Verga’, Lo spettatore italiano, 15 June 1924, a. I, n. 4: 378–83. See also Carlo Marchetti’s review of La jeunesse déchainée (Es ist Zeit), by Otto Flake (Les Editions du Siècle, 1932), in Orpheus , a literary magazine managed by Nando Ballo and Pietro Tronchi and based in Rome between 1932 and 1938 (February 1933, a. II, n. 2: 20–21).

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44. The Milanese publishing house Facchi’s version of A Doll’s House (1879) in 1922 was the first of many Ibsen translations. In 1926, Ojetti described the Norwegian playwright as having ‘saved theatre from trite bourgeois verismo; he, Ibsen, made theatre once again the kingdom of the ideal, of will, of freedom, of active morality!’ (Ojetti 1928: 222). 45. Gramsci (1975: III 2122). 46. Pseudonym of the Jewish publishing agent Danilo Lebrecht, the editor responsible for Mondadori’s detective stories. Following the promulgation of the racial laws, Lebrecht was forced to emigrate to London, where he continued his work. 47. See Giusti (2000) on the reception of German literature, especially on Spaini (ibid.: 234–42), who translated Schnitzler, Kafka, Döblin and wrote a signifcant essay on Thomas Mann: ‘La maturità di Thomas Mann’, Lo spettatore italiano (1924, a. I, n. 2: 152–54). 48. Caprile, E., LS, a. XIII, n. 4, April 1930: 105–6. La montagna incantata was published in the Modernissima series in 1932, then reprinted in 1935 and 1937 by Corbaccio. 49. Cecchi’s article, ‘R. L. Stevenson’, La ronda, a. II, February 1920: 110–16, was a bona fide introduction of this author to the Italian public, which Cecchi complemented with some translated short works. Chesterton, Ludwig and Shaw were also translated by Cecchi for the magazine, whilst Linati worked on Yeats and Joyce. See Pupino for an analysis of the magazine and its attempts to update Italian literature (2003: 102–24). 50. 15 August–1 September, a. I, n. 2–3: 131–43; 15 September–1 October 1924, a. I, n. 10–11: 257–72, and 15 October 1924, a. I, 2, n. 6: 359–73. Cfr. Modena (1995: 35–48) on the magazine. 51. Lo spettatore italiano, 1st quarter, a. I, n. 21, June 1924: 262–66. 52. Ferrero, L., ‘Corsivo d’apertura’, Solaria, a. I, n. 1, January 1926: 3 and Ferrero, L., ‘Perché l’Italia abbia una letteratura europea’, a. III, n. 1, January 1928: 32–40, cfr. Adamo (2000: 66–68). 53. ‘Referendum’, Il Torchio, a. III, n. 33, 12 August 1928: 3 and a. III, n. 40, 30 September 1928: 4. 54. Il Torchio, a. III, n. 36, 2 September 1928; a. III, n. 37, 8 September 1928; and Rundle (2019: 65–71). 55. Il Torchio, a. III, n. 38, 16 September 1928: 4; a. III, n. 39, 23 September 1928: 4. 56. ‘Il senso dell’estero negli scrittori’, Augustea, 1929, a. V, n. 6, 169–72, and ‘Il senso dell’estero negli scrittori. ‘Collaboratori’, 1929, a. V, n. 7: 201–4; ibid., n. 8: 233–34. 57. Dàuli translated Galsworthy in 1928 and 1929 for Corbaccio, who had exclusive rights, whilst in 1939 Vittorini’s version was published as part of Mondadori’s ‘Medusa’ series. Costantino Granella, in Corriere

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58. 59. 60.

61.

62. 63. 64.

65. 66.

67.

padano, lamented the stylistic shortcomings of the translations of another newcomer on the Italian scene, Gómez de la Serna, an indicator of the widespread and heinous mania of following the latest foreign trend without any philological scruples (23 February, a. VI: 3). Cfr. Germanist B., Tecchi’s perspective in ‘I gusti dei lettori’, Augustea, a. V, 1929: 270–71. See also ‘Preoccupazioni letterarie americane’, 1929, Augustea, a. V, n. 4: 121. See also the review published in ‘Panorama di letteratura italiana’ by Crémieux in Paris of Titta Rosa’s ‘Letteratura italiana vista da un francese’, Corriere padano, a. VI, 4 May 1928: 3 and Reggio, E., ‘Perché la letteratura italiana non è popolare in Europa’, NA, 1 October 1930: 298–351. The literary journal 900, which played a key role in introducing foreign writers from Joyce to Woolf to Italian audiences, had rejected realism in no uncertain terms (Bontempelli, M., ‘Giustificazione’, n. 1, 1926). Gramsci (1975: III 2134). Dàuli, April 1924, Jack London, pref. Il richiamo della foresta (Milan, Modernissima: 6). Ibid.: 21. ‘These Jack London books, like those of Upton Sinclair, Giuseppe Conrad, Bernardo Combette, H. G. Wells and Israele Zangwill, belong to an exceptional category of literature; they are the books of a tormented generation which experienced the great tragedy of men crushed by the current economic order – or disorder – that led us to the World War’ (ibid.: 29). On 20 February 1931, 160 Modernissima and 790 Monanni editions of Il tallone di ferro were sequestrated following a governmental order—a rare occurrence at this point in time; cfr. A.S.Mi, Pref., Gab., 1° versamento, cart. 423, reference file “Libro di Jack London intitolato « Il Tallone di ferro»”, cited in Fabre (2007: 55). When Pavese was looking for a publisher for Moby Dick, Cajumi advised him to propose it to Bemporad’s young adult series. I refer here to novels such as Isobel, Fiore del Nord, L’onore delle grandi nevi (Isobel. A Romance of the Modern Trail, 1913, translated by Laura Alvaro, 1931, n. 49; Flower of the North: A Modern Romance, 1912, translated by Alfredo Pitta, 1931, n. 51; The Honour of the Big Snows, 1911, translated by G. Taddei, 1931, n. 56; but also Decio Cinti’s 1938 translation of The Naulakha by Rudyard Kipling, cfr. Pagliano (2003: 74–80). Regarding Italian readers’ interests, the London-based publishing agency Curtis Brown notes: ‘“RED MEXICO” by Francis McCullagh: This is a book with a direct and intense appeal to Catholic readers, and it is also a strong indictment of the Bolshevist regime, two factors which we

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68. 69. 70. 71. 72.

73.

74.

75. 76.

77. 78.

111

think make it eminently suitable for the Italian market. “NEW WORLDS TO CONQUER” Richard Halliburton: an extremely entertaining travel account. The author follows in the steps of the old Spanish conquerors of South America, climbs to the top of Popocatepetl, swims the Panama Canal and has other adventures. The book is beautifully illustrated’ (ABe, file Curtis and Helicon, Curtis Brown Ltd to Bemporad, London, 13 December 1929, ds). In 1932, according to Rossi’s letter to Matarelli, the average reader’s tastes did not seem to have greatly changed, nor had the reception of ‘realist’ works: ‘We could not expect otherwise, considering that the feverish rhythm of modern life certainly does not predispose the spirit to reading long introspective analyses and complicated psychological studies. Proof of this is also found in the literary field, in the great success enjoyed by certain travel, war, and adventure books’ (AS, file Rossi, Rossi to Matarelli, Rome, 10 November 1932, typewritten). Cecchi, ‘Jack London’ (1962: 383). Review of Radiosa aurora (Burning Daylight ), I libri del giorno, a. IX, n. 6, June 1926: 318. From the preface to Conrad’s La linea d’ombra (1917), in LA (1990: 187). Calvino (1973: VI). For younger readers, foreign classics were often presented with ‘adventurous’ colonial novels to ‘limit the danger’ they represented, see Scotto di Luzio (1996: 253–92). On these points, see Adamson (1993) on the Florentine avant-gardes, Mosse (1990) on futurism; and Stone (1998) for the regime as patron of the arts. Martini reiterated the need for art to return to its national origins, whilst Oppo maintained that with an awareness of Italian art as an order and discipline, one could also look to Europe. Cf., ‘Per un’arte fascista’, a. V, n. 3, 1 February 1927: 43–44; ‘Arte fascista. Arte italiana’, ibid.: 44. ‘Significato dell’autobiografismo’, a. II, n. 4–5, May–June 1933: 1–5. D’Amico, S. ‘Sonetti di G.G. Belli’, P, a. III, n. 7: 124–25, in reference to the writer Kästner. After noting an excessive succession of bad novels, in 1928 Titta Rosa, in the Corriere padano, impelled writers to overcome a certain lingering romanticism and instead portray contemporary society (Corriere padano, 16 February 1928: 3). Translated in 1931 by Spaini for Modernissima. On 29 October 1933 L’Italia letteraria published ‘Neorealism made in Germany’, a comprehensive review of the historical and social contradictions fuelling this narrative trend and its technical-narrative, stylistic, and linguistic objectives. The authors discussed were Kästner, Döblin, Fallada, Zweig, Werfel, Roth, Frank and Tügel (a. IX, n. 44: 3). See

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79.

80.

81.

82.

also Bartolucci, A. P. ‘Lettere berlinesi’, Corriere padano, a. VI, 3 May 1928: 3. Ben-Ghiat (2001: 104–7) speaks convincingly of the regime’s ‘selective’ cultural appropriation in various artistic fields, cinema in particular, in the 1930s. We can extend this period of ‘selective’ appropriation to the 1920s, at least as far as literature is concerned. A Mondadori reader’s report interestingly compares the degree of ‘acceptability’ of Italian and foreign writers and their ‘humorous’ elements: ‘Very briefly, the novel is fun. It is absurd, crazy, has extraordinary situations and is written in a rather futuristic style. A book that can certainly appeal to the general public. Perhaps a little too daring in moral terms. Appropriate cuts should be made in the translation. But as, of course, the immoral elements are the most appealing and well-written, they must be replaced with something clean, yes, but funny. The portrait of modern Spain is quite interesting. Translation recommended for the novelty offered by the book, given the new style of printing. In certain points it is very funny, in others rather cheap. Implausible but appealing. If I had to compare it to one of our own humorists, I would put it somewhere between Pitigrilli and Guareschi’ (FAAM, FAM, file negative reviews P-R, Enrique Jardiel Poncela, ‘Espérame en Siberia, vida mia!’—Humorous novel, Milan, without date, typewritten). The author was a Spanish journalist and playwright who moved to Hollywood in the 1930s. From the first edition of Jack London, ll vagabondo delle stelle, Sonzogno, 1931, translated by Tullio Tulli. The author chosen to inaugurate the series was the contemporary French novelist Guy de Teramond, and titles by the same author were announced as forthcoming: Venduta. Romanzo della tratta delle bianche, I drammi della cocaina, Le gesta dei ricattatori, Dancings!, Romanzo dei danzatori mondani, La regina delle ladre. Sonzogno and Stem also both published versions of the sensationalist novels of this very fashionable author. See Valentino Piccoli, ‘Babbitt o l’uomo standard’, CF, a. X, n. 23, 1 December 1932: 456–57, and Giacomo Lumbruso ‘Sinclair Lewis’, Il lavoro fascista, 1 February 1931. Also interesting is Aldo Sorani’s identification of the ‘pragmatism’ of this literature: ‘What matters most is that he has shown that his art is made of a living substance, derived from a meticulously observed reality, nourished by facts and not, shall we say, by Freudian ‘complexes’; it tends to portray practical scenes and solid characters’ (Sorani, A., ‘Sinclair Lewis’, P, a. II, n. 12, December 1930: 738). Sorani attributed Lewis’s success to his diegetic objectivity which avoided psychological investigation and much-abhorred Freudism. At the same time, he also pointed out that despite the modernity of Lewis; this author described American situations and social injustice which did not

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83.

84.

85. 86.

87. 88.

89. 90. 91.

92. 93.

113

relate to Italy: almost a sort of memento mori for readers this side of the Atlantic. 1930, the year Lewis received the Nobel prize for literature (European recognition of this American author) also marked Pavese’s critical debut, with the publication in La Cultura of his essay on Sinclair Lewis ‘Un romanziere americano, Sinclair Lewis’ (n. 11, 1930: 906–27). Cfr. Scalero, A., ‘Nuovi orientamenti della letteratura italiana’, NA, 16 January 1930: 253–347. Other important titles in this series were Il pozzo della solitudine and La stirpe di Adamo by Radclyffe Hall, Sotto il sole di satana by George Bernanos, Viaggio al termine della notte by Céline. As for every author he translated, the young Pavese wrote an essay for La Cultura, ‘John Dos Passos e il romanzo’ (January–March 1933, n. 1: 162–73). ‘Esperimento e tradizione’, La Cultura, January–March 1933, n. 1, in LA (1990: 113). Margherita Sarfatti praised American writers and intellectuals, especially Sinclair Lewis, on account of their modern commitment to society (Cannistraro-Sullivan 1993: 381). Linati, C., ‘Babbitt compra il mondo’, NA, 16 October 1929: 345; Sorani, A., ‘Sinclair Lewis’, P, a. II, December 1930: 738–43. On the spread of American models of behaviour, consumerism, a more relaxed attitude to sexuality, and on the financial independence of women, see de Grazia (1992: 201–33). On, and in defence of, American women as victims of society, see also Alberto Spaini, ‘Femminismo in America e altrove’ (CF, a. VI, n. 13, 1 July 1928: 248–49) and Margherita Sarfatti’s travel memoir L’America, ricerca della felicità (1937: 205–16). Pavese Lettere I, 1966, 12 January 1930: 105. Pavese ibid.: 106. ‘Recensione a Ann Vickers, Treves-Treccani-Tuminelli’, Orpheus , 1933, a. II, n. 4–5, May 1933: 27–37, Castellani, E., ‘Fallimento di Gide’, Orpheus, a. II, n. 4–5 May 1933: 6–10. Bruno, F., Augustea, 1929, a. V, n. 13: 390 and Bruno, F., ‘Concetto di europeismo’, Augustea, 1929, a. V, n. 8: 199–200. Cecci’s articles on American literature and culture were published in the volume Scrittori inglesi e americani, Mondadori, Milan, 1935; on the American studies of Praz, see Cronache inglesi e americane, 1951. Ettore Lo Gatto, on the other hand, in his travel writings on Soviet Russia, praised the women who engaged in labour that was, traditionally, exclusively undertaken by men and had become ‘tovarišˇc’ (1932: 185–93). On travel in Russia, see also Corrado Alvaro, I maestri del diluvio, Milan, Mondadori, 1935, and Enrico Emanuelli Racconti sovietici, Milan, Ceschina, 1935.

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94. Alicata’s review of La Ruota, 1940, criticized Cecchi’s failure to offer meaningful social criticism (Alicata 1968: 56–9). 95. Gramsci (1975: III 2153–181, Q. 22 [XXII], 1934). 96. We find similar references to significant moments of social palingenesis in the prefaces of the Monanni editions of London’s Tallone di ferro and Il vagabondo delle stelle as well Gorky’s La Spia and La Madre, or to the meticulous portraits of the reality of everyday poverty, for example in Artzybascev’s Al limite estremo and Sejfulina’s Humus. Continuing the ‘realist’ theme, an LS review compared Vittorini’s version of The Forsyth Saga to Zola’s naturalist saga Les Rougon-Macquart (Rosati, S., LS, a. XXII, n. 11–12, November–December 1939: 284). 97. Gramsci (1975: III 2116–120). 98. In 1922, translator Antonio Rossi presented a selection of ‘popular’ Poe short stories in attempt to introduce the oft-overlooked humoristic side of this writer to Italian audiences. Rossi’s preface pointed out that the translation and reception of Poe to date had been influenced by the ‘serious’ French versions and Baudelaire’s equally ‘serious’ choices (Perdita di fiato, 1922: 10–11) [‘Il demone della perversità’, ‘Gli occhiali’, ‘Il 1002 racconto di Sherazade’, ‘La sfinge’, ‘Sei stato tu’]. 99. FGD, CDG, envelope 11. 6, pp. 5 and 11. 62: cc. 1–4, without date, typewritten. The print runs of popular books ranged from a minimum of 20,000 to a maximum of 130,000–150,000, whilst other genres were between 1000 and 5000. This position was also supported by the regime, which recognized the economic and cultural problems caused by the excessively high cost of books (Ciarlantini 1929: 5–7). 100. Regarding the published London novels which raised this very question, in addition to ‘Martin Eden’, the following titles have been translated directly from the English: 1. ll figlio del Sole; 2. L’Avventura; 3. Il Lupo dei Mari. As far as the author’s three other novels you have published are concerned, the situation is as follows: ‘Il Signore della Foresta’ is partly from French and partly from English (I was able to get hold of the English original after I had finished the translation from the French copy, and so I rewrote the pages that were too far from the original). ‘Occhio Rosso’ and ‘La Peste Scarlatta’ on the other hand have been translated from French. 101. Cfr. ‘Presentazione a Il ponte di San Luis Ray di Thornton Wilder’ in David (1989: 183); the publisher guarantees the same reliability for American versions.

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102. Briefly, as regards the prices of foreign literature, UTET volumes ranged from nine to eleven lire, Bietti volumes from four to six, Sonzogno volumes from four to seven lire and fifty cents and Carabba volumes were priced at around five lire (from GdL, various years). 103. From an advertisement on the back cover of Simpilicissimus (1668) by Hans von Grimmelshausen in Corriere della Sera (9 March 1930). These volumes were priced at four lire in Italy and five abroad, an increase which did not discourage overseas readers. The 1929 translation was by G. Del Chiaro, whilst the first edition in 1928, for Corbaccio, was by Dàuli and Dienne Carter. 104. ‘The tragic, vivid, moving, imaginary and true story of Jim in a translation which, alas, does not reflect the glorious original’ (Pavolini, C., ‘Joseph Conrad. Lord Jim’, Milan, Corticelli, 1927, LS, a. X, n. 8, August 1927: 183). 105. Lo Gatto’s 1928 translation of Oblomov would be republished as part of Einaudi’s ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’ in 1938, whilst in 1933 Giorgio Leblanc’s version was published by UTET. 106. ‘Crisi editoriale’, LS, a. XV, n. 6, June 1932: 165. 107. FAAM, FAM, file Montano, Milan, 25 September 1929, typewritten.

References AA.VV (1983), Editoria e cultura a Milano tra le due guerre (1920–1940). Atti del convegno, Milano 19-20-21 febbraio 1981 (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Adamo, Sergia (2000), ‘La casa editrice Slavia’, in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (2000): 53–98. Adamson, Walter (1993), Avant-Garde Florence: From Modernism to Fascism (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press). Alicata, Mario (1968), Scritti letterari (Milan: il Saggiatore) Barrale, Natasha (2017), ‘“Noi ostinati contrabbandieri”. Lavinia Mazzucchetti, traduttrice sotto il fascismo’, in Elzbieta Jamrozik and Dario Prola (eds), Il traduttore errante. Figure, strumenti, orizzonti (Warszawa: Uniwersytet Warszawski): 67–78. Billiani, Francesca (ed.) (2007), Translation and Censorship: National Contexts and Diverse Media (Manchester: St. Jerome). Biondi, Mario (2003), ‘Il libro uno e trino. “La cultura italiana” (1906– 1927)’, in Cosimo Ceccuti (ed.), Prezzolini e il suo tempo. Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Studi (Florence: Le Lettere): 35–112. Bontempelli, Massimo [1931] (1934), Novecentismo letterario (Florence: Nemi). ——— (1938), L’avventura novecentista: selva polemica 1926–1938 (Florence: Vallecchi).

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Borruso, Edoardo (1983), ‘Aspetti della nascita dell’industria culturale’, in AA.VV (1983): 78–86. Brambilla, Cristina (1997), ‘Attilio Bàrion: l’impegno nella divulgazione delle edizioni popolari’, in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (1997), Stampa e piccola editoria tra le due guerre (Milan: Franco Angeli).: 18–27. Calvino, Italo (1973), ‘Nota introduttiva’ to R. L. Stevenson, Il padiglione sulle dune (Milan: Rizzoli): III–IX. Cannistraro, Philip V. and Brian Sullivan (1993), L’altra donna del Duce (Milan: Mondadori). Cecchi, Emilio (1939), America amara (Florence: Sansoni). ——— (1962), Scrittori inglesi e americani, 2 voll. (Milan: il Saggiatore) (Lanciano: Giuseppe Carabba 1935). Chicco, Francesco (1964), ‘Indagine statistica sulla produzione editoriale italiana fra il 1886 ed il 1960. 2’, Graphicus 10: 5–9. Ciarlantini, Franco (1929), La situazione dell’editoria italiana (Rome: Tipografia del Senato). David, Michel (1989), Gian Dàuli, editore, traduttore, critico, romanziere (Milan, Vicenza: Banca Popolare Vicentina). De Fort, Ester (1995), Scuola e analfabetismo nell’Italia del ’900 (Bologna: il Mulino). De Grazia, Victoria (1992), How Fascism Ruled Women. Italy, 1922–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press). Decleva, Enrico (1993), Mondadori (Turin: Utet). Fabre, Giorgio (1998), L’elenco. Censura fascista, editoria ed autori ebrei (Turin: Silvio Zamorani). ——— (2007), ‘Fascism, Censorship and Translation’, in Francesca Billiani (ed.) (2007): 27–59. Giusti, Luisa (2000), ‘Aspetti della ricezione della letteratura tedesca moderna in Italia negli anni Venti-Trenta’, in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (2000): 226–59. Gramsci, Antonio (1975), Quaderni del carcere, Valentino Gerratana (ed.) (Turin: Einaudi). ——— (2011), Prison Notebooks, Joseph A. Buttigieg (ed. and translated) (New York: Columbia University Press). Klein, Gabriella (1986), La politica linguistica del fascismo (Bologna: il Mulino). Livolsi, Marino (1983), ‘Lettura e altri consumi culturali negli anni ’20-’40’, in AA.VV. (1983): 61–77. Mangini, Giorgio (2000), ‘Lavinia Mazzucchetti, Emma Sola, Irene Riboni. Note sulla formazione culturale di tre traduttrici italiane’, in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (2000), Editori e lettori. La produzione libraria in Italia nella prima metà del Novecento (Milan: Franco Angeli): 185–225.

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Marchesini, Daniela (1993), ‘Città e campagna nello spettro dell’alfabetismo’, in Simonetta Soldani and Gabriele Turi (eds), Fare gli italiani. Storia e cultura nell’Italia contemporanea, 2 voll., vol. 1 (Bologna: il Mulino): 9–41. Modena, Anna (1995), ‘“Convegno”, Europa’, Autografo, XI (30): 35–48. Montale, Eugenio (1966), Auto da fé. Cronache di due tempi (Milan: il Saggiatore). Mosse, George (1990), ‘The Political Culture of Italian Futurism: A General Perspective’ Journal of Contemporary History, 25 (2–3): 253–68. Mussolini, Benito (1930), Tempi della rivoluzione fascista (Milan: Alpes). Oliva, Roberta (ed.) (1989), Catalogo Storico Sperling & Kupfer: 1899–1989 (Milan: Sperling & Kupfer). Ojetti, Ugo (1928), Cose viste (vol. IV) (Milan: Treves). Pagliano, Graziella (2003), ‘L’avventura americana in Italia: Curwood e Grey’, in Gabriella Pagliano (ed.), Presenze femminili nel Novecento italiano: letteratura, teatro, cinema (Naples: Liguori): 65–86. Palazzolo, Maria Iolanda (1993), ‘L’editoria verso un pubblico di massa’, in Simonetta Soldani and Gabriele Turi (eds), vol. II: 287–317. Palla, Marco (1991), Fascismo e stato corporativo: un’inchiesta della diplomazia britannica (Milan: Franco Angeli). Pavese, Cesare (1966), Lettere 1924–50, 2 voll., Italo Calvino and Lorenzo Mondo (eds) (Turin: Einaudi). Pedullà, Gabriele (1986), Il mercato delle idee. Giovanni Gentile e la Casa editrice Sansoni (Bologna: il Mulino). ——— (1997), ‘Gli anni del fascismo: imprenditoria privata e intervento statale’, in Gabriele Turi (ed.) (1997), Storia dell’editoria nell’Italia contemporanea (Florence: Giunti): 341–82. Petrocchi, Francesca (1997), ‘Il sindacato nazionale fascista di autori e scrittori’, in Scrittori italiani e fascismo. Tra sindacato e letteratura (Rome: Archivio Guido Izzi): 11–120. Prezzolini, Giuseppe (1923), La coltura italiana (Florence: La Voce). ——— (1960), Il tempo della Voce (Milan-Florence: Longanesi-Vallecchi). Pupino, Angelo R. (2003), Ragguagli di modernità. Fogazzaro, Pirandello, La Ronda, Contini, Morante (Rome: Salerno). Ragone, Giovanni (1999), Un secolo di libri: storia dell’editoria in Italia dall’Unità al Postmoderno (Turin: Einaudi). Rundle, Christopher (2019), Il vizio dell’esterofilia. Editoria e traduzioni nell’Italia fascista (Rome: Carocci). Santoro, Marco (1994), Storia del libro italiano (Milan: Editrice Bibliografica). Sarfatti, Margherita (1937), L’America, ricerca della felicità (Milan: Mondadori). Scotto di Luzio, Adolfo (1996), L’appropriazione imperfetta. Editori, biblioteche e libri per ragazzi durante il fascismo (Bologna: il Mulino).

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Stone, Marla S. (1998), The Patron State. Culture & Politics in Fascist Italy (Princeton: Princeton University Press). Tortorelli, Gianfranco (1992), ‘Editoria e fascismo: lettere di Franco Ciarlantini ad Angelo Fortunato Formiggini’, Padania, VI (11): 119–33. Tranfaglia, Nicola and Albertina Vittoria (2000), Storia degli editori italiani. Dall’Unità alla fine degli anni Sessanta (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Vittoria, Albertina (1983), Le riviste del duce (Turin: Guanda).

CHAPTER 4

The 1930s: The Spaces of Culture (1932–1938)

Telegram (Milan, 15 January 1938) PLEASE SEND IMMEDIATELY TO THE DIRECTORATE FOR ITALIAN PRESS WITHIN MINISTRY FOR POPULAR CULTURE A COMPLETE LIST OF FOREIGN WORKS PUBLISHED BY YOUR COMPANY AND LIST OF PLANNED TRANSLATIONS STOP REGARDS GHERARDO CASINI. (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop)

With this urgent telegraph sent out to the heads of all publishing houses in 1938—the same year that the Commission for the Purging of Books was established—the regime sought to limit a ‘schizophrenic’ surge in translations.1 What happened during this decade to justify such pressure? The 1930s were a key juncture in which the ideology of the regime was imposed on translation discourses and foreign texts were methodically woven into the national fabric. Although the regime did not explicitly define itself in terms of ‘autarchy’ until 1936, it was increasingly internally focused, and the privileged space translations occupied led to heated debate over ‘xenophilia’.2 The fact that foreign texts had previously been somewhat marginalized was not the result of a precise aesthetic, literary or ideological programme, however; but of the uneven organization of the book trade nationally. The Fascist ideal of totalitarianism; the anti-individualist ‘New Man’ and all-encompassing new civilization the regime sought to forge necessitated an ally in the book trade. Publishers responded to the regime’s political and cultural demands with a mix of

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compliance and resistance; compromise and defiance. It was in the interest of both parties to establish a peaceful coexistence. This decade witnessed a shift in traditional political and ideological configurations as Fascism made its influence felt across Europe. In Italy, a variety of cultural, political and social strategies were implemented in order to facilitate the absorption of the masses into the new state. New relationships between Italian and foreign culture were established. Amidst the rituals and indoctrination processes of the regime, foreign literature acquired a multifaceted, mediating role. Regulated within the Fascist propaganda machine (at literary festivals, for example) which officially thought only in Italian terms, foreign novels represented an ‘aesthetic force’ which could unite and organize citizen-readers around specific reading models. As the interface of literary Italy with Europe and the rest of the world, translations were also a form of peripheral, at times subliminal, resistance to official directives, in that they introduced new and potentially subversive aesthetic paradigms and ideas. On a ‘popular’ level in particular, translation was part of the cultural project of modernity, both in terms of the integration of the masses into a new Fascist social and state order, and as a form of transnational exchange. Publishing, regardless of the political orientation of individual houses, was thus fundamentally altered: all publishers became tools, albeit in a versatile and variegated manner, in the regime’s totalitarian project. Fascism tolerated foreign literature as far as it could be accommodated within its hegemonic plan for the construction of a culture for a population that had to be taught how to ‘think fascist’. When the regime found itself obliged to exert greater ideological and political pressure on cultural institutions, controls were enforced more rigorously. Institutions of high culture, the Accademie, and Gentile’s Enciclopedia Italiana project secured the concrete involvement of a few intellectuals, but commercial publishing was tied up in a broader cultural venture which extended beyond both the regime and the nation.3

4.1

Translations and Renewal

The period prior to Fascism had been one of intense editorial activity, particularly as far as translations were concerned, which continued to sustain an industry expanding in qualitative and in quantitative terms.4 The modernization of the book trade consolidated a cultural system in which translations, representing a noteworthy proportion of literature

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destined for ‘mass’ readership, strengthened links between publishers, translators, writers and—indirectly—the regime itself. The small but significant population increase between 1921, the year of the first census,5 and 1951 altered the dynamics of literary society. Of the smaller publishing enterprises persisting after the mid-1930s,6 many were incorporated into the publishing giant Mondadori, which enjoyed a privileged relationship with the regime.7 This was a new phase in the history of Italian publishing, and consequently in the ‘history’ of translations. With political ties to the regime, Mondadori began to dominate the publishing world as Bompiani, founded in 1929 after a rather acrimonious split (and after Valentino Bompiani’s short spell at Unitas, a publisher specializing in schoolbooks and literature), concurrently strengthened its position in the market. Einaudi was set up in 1934, and for the next thirty years would be the definitive ‘cultural’ publisher. Employing a collective-propagandist discourse and mobilizing the various book fairs, Fascism’s aim was to organize the book industry in a way which would consolidate the internal market and spread Italian culture abroad.8 Following the onset of the Great Depression in 1929, the process of industrial restructure was overseen by the new Institute for Industrial Reconstruction and foreign policy became more aggressive. The regime’s objective was to create a protected market,9 whereby the publishing industry enjoyed substantial ‘structural’ subsidies as well as access to topup funding for specific projects or book series. These initiatives were complemented by the State Book Scheme, which prescribed the use of one single book in every primary school across the country. This libro unico di testo was designed to indoctrinate young minds with Fascist ideals and was printed exclusively by Mondadori. 1935 was another decisive year. Following the Italian invasion of Ethiopia on 3 October, the regime’s increasing diplomatic isolation was cemented by the imposition of a range of economic sanctions: Italy was subject to a full arms embargo, prohibited from accessing international finance and from importing or exporting goods deemed war related. On 23 March 1936, at the second assembly of the National Council of Corporations, Mussolini announced the need for autarchy (a policy which would be enforced with progressive intensity from 1937 onwards). The international situation became yet more tense with the start of the Spanish Civil War a few months later and on 18 November Mussolini and Hitler recognized Franco’s government as the only legitimate one in Spain. On 6 November 1937, Italy joined the Anti-Comintern Pact, a prelude to

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the 1939 Axis powers. These years saw the campaign against translations reach its peak prior to the outbreak of war. Translations accounted for 47.53% of Mondadori’s production in the mid-1930s. The ‘Medusa’ series had the largest circulation of up to 20,000 copies with reprints; the average publisher’s output was closer to 1000–1500 units. In 1926, approximately 6300 texts were published compared to 10,000 in 1940. Production peaked between 1932 and 1933, with the publication of around 12,000 volumes, of which 7–12% were novels. In real terms, this meant the number of novels published went from 617 in 1926 to about 1000 in 1939 and reached almost 1500 between 1933 and 1935. 1936 saw the smallest proportion of fiction titles published (7.29%); only in 1928 had this figure been lower (6.53%).10 Settling at around 11,500, the publishing output in Italy between 1931 and 1940 still lagged behind English and German production (16,000 and 23,000, respectively). Translations reached an average of just over 1000 per year, peaking at 1295 in 1933 and dropping to 705 in 1939; figures higher than in the 1920s which reflected the structural and managerial shake-up of the publishing industry and Mondadori’s strengthened position.11 The average price for an Italian volume at the start of the 1930s was 10–12 lire; cheaper foreign titles cost 5–6 lire whereas more prestigious titles were generally priced at around 10, though some of the volumes in Mondadori’s sophisticated ‘Biblioteca Romantica’ series cost as much as 20 lire, such as Goethe’s Guglielmo Meister and Austen’s Orgoglio e prevenzione. Italy was confirmed as the country which translated the most within Europe, and translations were from English, then from French and German. The issue was as much one of balancing ‘imported’ and ‘exported’ texts as it was managing the visibility of foreign texts on the market: for the regime, a question of propaganda rather than economics. In a speech at the Publishers Federation meeting in Rome on 12 June 1931 (subsequently printed in the Giornale della libreria) Bemporad reasoned that: Translations are almost always priced much more economically than Italian books of the same genre. There are plenty of translations of historical, scientific and cultural works, as well as authors who have achieved ‘classic’ status, but the bulk of translated texts are current fiction; novels, crime fiction, or literature which gives some insight into the life and mentality of other cultures. The market success of such translations indicate that they

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respond to a contemporary demand which our own production cannot satisfy. This wave of translations began with Jack London, because our readers found nothing similar in home-grown texts.12

Responding to an article by the secretary general of the Publishers Federation and director of the Giornale della libreria, Carlo Marrubini, Arnoldo Mondadori declared that foreign translations accounted for no more than 10% of the output of his publishing house and that he was pleased to have succeeded in ‘encouraging Italian writers to cultivate the genres which appeal to contemporary Italian readers and dominate the markets of other countries’, quoting Panzini, Borgese, Damerini and Prezzolini as examples of ‘biographical fiction’ alongside Ludwig and Fülop-Miller. As in the 1920s, a simple conclusion was drawn. To counter the invasion of translations, Italian authors just had to learn to ‘come up with the goods’: texts with high symbolic capital which would be consistent sellers like those from abroad.13 A similar stance was adopted by the journal itself. In an article published on 18 November 1933, Marrubini firmly rejected the idea of a closed and protectionist State—rather, it was the duty of the totalitarian State to enforce strategies which would break down intellectual barriers between classes and nations.14 In Critica fascista Vitaliano Brancati argued that it was precisely Italy’s late national unification that had hindered the development of Italian realist prose, lamenting that only in the past decade had literature sought to respond to modern readers’ tastes.15 The publishers and the intellectuals, writers and translators who gravitated steadily towards particular publishing houses, together with the reading public, all contributed to the construction of a parallel culture to that imposed by the regime, in a gesture of passive (or active, depending on one’s perspective) acceptance, in an attempt to affirm their identity and intellectual primacy as an interpretative community, and to survive the dictatorship. To begin with, the regime tolerated translations as a prospective remedy to the perpetual state of crisis of an impoverished publishing industry, leading to a collective consensus that was supported by economic interests. The reader would benefit from reading versions that were faithful to the original text and gain access to the modern masterpieces which up until then had been the reserve of the cultural elite, or else poorly translated in cheap versions. For the regime and publishers alike, the target of this accessible foreign literature was a lay reader able

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to recognize a carefully selected quality product; up to this point, therefore, Fascist policy regarding translation was largely continuous with what had gone before.

4.2

Propaganda and Xenophilia, Real or Imagined

The extensive publication of translations of foreign fiction raised controversy. Officially condemned as dangerous in aesthetic and political terms, their potential to positively or negatively influence the construction of the Italian literary and national character was not to be ignored. These were the years in which the regime established the grammar of its cults and its cultural mythology through propaganda, and ample space was given to the symbolic representation of the myth of the nation and national character. Specifically, from 1927 onwards, there was a shift in the propaganda strategy from ‘agitation to integration’; to more indirect means, a subtle ‘facistization’ of everyday life.16 The great success of ‘foreign’ epics and historical novels can be considered an example, as in 1935: Sienkiewicz’s Quo Vadis , Wallace’s Ben Hur, Bulwer Lytton’s The Last Days of Pompeii, to name but a few, confirm that the public still want stories that transport them away from the worries of everyday life to the great epochs of human history and enable them to relive the passions, characters and events of a grandiose past. (AS, file Agenzia Letteraria Internazionale, March 25 1935, Angelo Treves to Sonzogno, Milan, typewritten)

In order to simultaneously sustain and minimize the presence of foreign literature, a twofold propaganda strategy was adopted: on an iconic level, a clear message aimed to catch readers’ eyes, whilst interventions on the text ‘in circulation’ were made only when there was a risk of incongruity between its discourse and representation. Casini, for example, did not criticize translation per se, but opposed the inclusion of an excessive number of translations within one series because it highlighted a foreign presence and risked overshadowing Italian texts.17 When Mondadori presented to the Duce two of his most significant initiatives, the ‘Palma’, a popular series dedicated to foreign literature, and the ‘Romantica’, which brought together classics emblematic of a certain national tradition, he wrote18 :

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Your Excellency, I have the honour of presenting you with the first six volumes of the ‘Biblioteca Romantica’, a series we are currently launching throughout Italy with the aim of incorporating the very best of foreign literature into Italian writing, following the example of the great Italian literati of the past: Cesarotti, Monti, Foscolo. The titles featured in the series have been translated by the finest writers in Italy today; they were asked to transform the most significant modern foreign literature into Italian works. In this way, we dare to hope that access to these masterpieces will be exclusively via Italian models. (ACS, SPD/CO, 16 July 1930, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

In the early 1930s, Mondadori’s explicit aim was to exploit the financial potential of foreign translations, and the consequent increase in readers this promised.19 Aimed at an educated public, the texts published in the ‘Romantica’ series were carefully presented and promoted to avoid controversial interpretations which could antagonize the regime and compromise sales. To refer to the age of Romanticism, Mondadori argued—the literary counterpart of the Risorgimento—was to dialogue with the great Italian writers of the past and thus place the Italian and European intellectual traditions on a par, and would enable ideas to filter through literary models that were presented as the heritage of an international imaginary. The sense of belonging to an ‘ideal’ nation, a sentiment that had brought Italians together during the Risorgimento, would lead to the conquest of modernity. Ugo Foscolo, for example, no longer represented the struggle against tyranny, but the glory of a Fascist nation which had begun to forge its identity in the Romantic age, when the ideal of national unity gained momentum amongst the population. Simultaneously, the authors cited, Foscolo in particular—traveller, exile and translator of Sterne’s Sentimental Journey—represented not just an openness to the foreign, but also the idea of a national literary tradition that could be reinforced by symbolic appropriation of foreign models. Mondadori presented his collection of foreign literature to Mussolini in terms of national pride, with the aim of legitimizing the status of his publishing house and defending the generally cautious outlook of the publishing establishment. Two years later, in relation to the ‘Palma’ popular series, he reiterated the significance of foreign translations for his publishing house in financial terms:

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This time it is above all due to a question of finance that I consider it appropriate to present a new initiative of mine, ‘La Palma’, to the Duce. With a title released each month, subsequently fortnightly, these quality Italian translations of modern foreign novelists are intended to relieve our book market of the considerable tax that it pays abroad each year for purchase of foreign books. Consider that the importation costs related to France alone, which in 1926 was about two million Italian lire, today is almost four million: money which leaves the border every year to satisfy a useless snobbery, to the detriment of our literary dignity and of our economy. (ACS, SPD/CO, 30 November 1932, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

Here Mondadori reframed the problem of translation as economic issue; the growing market demand for novels should be met by Italian publishers, rather than by the importation of French translations or, worse, by the publication of the originals. As with the more highbrow ‘Romantica’ series, the idea of the ‘foreign’ was no longer connoted as wholly negative, but was linked to the exotic.20 In both cases, the continued emphasis was on the direct relationship between art and life which broke down class barriers and thus ensured a wider dissemination of the texts. Following a survey conducted by the Lavoro fascista in December 1932 on the reading tastes of the general public, Mondadori deduced the criteria for a new series of translations, the ‘Medusa’; these would be texts that ‘from a moral point of view can be accessed by everyone, or can easily be made to do so with some skilled retouching’.21 Mondadori and Mussolini thus strived to make the most of a phenomenon that saw public taste increasingly oriented towards the format of the bound novel which could cross ‘classed’ distinctions between ‘highbrow’ and ‘popular’. The recurring international crises of the regime, first with the Spanish Civil War and then the annexation of Ethiopia, intensified both the its sense of isolation and its propaganda drive22 ; the translation question became a veritable Janus, and the need to resolve the ‘translation deficit’—to balance the volume of incoming texts with the number Italian texts exported abroad—became more urgent than ever.23 1937 was a crucial year for Italian book production.24 The cyclical crisis returned and was the focal point of heated debate in the new bibliographic review journal, Il libro italiano.25 Minister Bottai, denying the state of crisis, argued that the general population was exhibiting a new sensitivity towards book products, thanks to a more extensive dissemination network

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of information (cinema, radio, sports and travel).26 The monthly journal of the Authors and Writers Union, Autori e scrittori, also weighed in on the debate.27 A point on which both sides were in agreement was that the problem of excessive translations was related to the more general issue of the instability of the Italian book industry which had to rely on ‘foreign’ products to survive. Publishers, authors and intellectuals were divided into two camps; those who criticized translations as unpatriotic, and those who justified their presence in the light of the lack of a national literary consciousness. Things standing thus, even the regime came to acknowledge that Italian readers preferred foreign books because of a lack of quality ‘home-grown’ popular literature.28 1938 witnessed a flourish of editorial autarchy and a more explicit campaign against translations. On 12 September 1938, the Commission for the Purging of Books began its review of the entire catalogue of works, ‘Italian and foreign translations’ published since 1914.29 Earlier that year, in a speech entitled ‘The Purging of Italian Culture’ given on February 3 at the Leonardo da Vinci Institute in Florence, Gherardo Casini (the co-director, together with Bottai, of Critica fascista since 1930) blamed the excess of translations not on the publishers but on a rather ill-defined defeatist culture of crisis which, he suggested, had had Italy in its grip for some time. The solution was not to prohibit translations (as Ettore Valerio had proposed), but to rediscover ‘italianità’, the Italian spirit, thus freeing the nation from cultural dependence on foreign things.30 An excess of protectionist zeal would limit Italian literary exportation, an established aim of the regime’s cultural policy.31 In conclusion, the primary goal was to consolidate publishing structures for the diffusion of the popular novel—municipal libraries, radio, cinema and newspapers—a position shared by both Ciarlantini and Mondadori. Mondadori had reacted swiftly to the shifting relationship between the regime and the publishing industry. In a letter dated 18 January 1938 addressed to the Minister for Popular Culture, Dino Alfieri, the Milanese publisher defended translations by stressing that despite copyright, translation and publication expenses, the high profit margin of foreign works benefitted not only Italian writers, but also printers and papermakers. The £176,935,95 spent on the translation rights of foreign works, as well as benefitting the Italian writers involved in the translations, has created work for several million Italian workers: printers, papermakers, producers of canvas, card and other primary materials etc. (ACS, SPD/CO, 18

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January 1938, envelope n. 509.568/2, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

The publisher reiterated that the increase in Italian translations would reduce the amount of French translations in circulation nationally and would benefit both the Italian economy and morale32 ; he petitioned for a ‘filter of European thought through the Italian language and spirit’, or an implicit censorship, justified by the cardinal values of the national tradition: […] translations have helped to limit the importation of original volumes, bringing not only economic but also spiritual benefit. The reason is twofold: by reading the works of German, English, American and even French authors in Italian, rather than in French as was the norm, these literary products of foreign civilizations are filtered through Italian thought, and because the translator or the Italian publisher knows how to present these works with appropriate nuances, and associations lacking in the original. In other words: today we read in Italian, in excellent translations, the same books that a few years ago were read in French translations. […] in the field of economic autarchy, no industry has been as successful as ours in ensuring the possibility of such vast production against such a modest import of ‘raw material’. (ACS, SPD/CO, 18 January 1938, envelope n. 509.568/2, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’)

Despite Mondadori’s captatio benevolentiae in his petition for state funding and the acknowledged importance of foreign literature in broadening the Italian literary spectrum, the translation question, particularly in the field of popular literature, was one that neither the autarchic regime nor the publishing market could ignore.33 At the end of the 1930s, the solution to this visible and pressing concern lay not simply in more nationalistic propaganda or tighter controls, but in an implicit agreement between the regime and publishers which focused on the dissemination of Italian works abroad and the ‘controlled’ importation of foreign ones into Italy. Already in 1938, Mondadori could boast of several channels which favoured the diffusion of Italian literature abroad, having stipulated agreements with publishers in France (Albatross), Germany (Bruckmann), Holland (Meulenhoff), Poland (Warsaw Ksiaznica-Atlas) and Hungary (Athenaus). The following year these relationships came into their own when the Milanese publisher released, in four volumes, its Antologia della

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letteratura italiana for foreign readers, compiled by Giuseppe Zoppi, a professor of Italian at Zurich’s Polytechnic University.34 For attention of the Royal Embassies, Via representatives of the ‘Dante Alighieri’ society, acquaintances in the profession, publishers and booksellers, we have obtained lists (official and confidential) of Italian teachers (Italian and foreigner) in universities and schools all over the world. […] We have also sent a copy of the essays to the most important foreign booksellers (approximately a hundred) to assist with the diffusion of the volume. Now, we would welcome a specific action from this Ministry which cannot fail to be effective. If, through official channels, you could reach the heads of high schools and, in particular, Italian teachers abroad, the successful diffusion of these volumes will be assured. Zoppi’s anthology is part of the task of spreading Italian culture abroad that this publishing house has been committed to for some time, as evidenced by the series of Italian works translated into foreign languages and published by foreign publishers, as well as L’INTRODUZIONE ALLA CULTURA ITALIANA by Prof. Baccini, published by the Berlin Fascio. (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, 10 July 1939, from Mondadori and Ottaviano Armando Koch, Milan, typewritten)

Although the regime’s official position was hard-line (as exemplified in a speech given by Minister Dino Alfieri to the Chamber of Fasci and Corporations on 13 May 1939), for the two years preceding the outbreak of war at least, common sense and shared interests dictated that a balance be maintained between this outwardly uncompromising stance and an invisible tolerance.35 In practice, the regime joined forces—albeit not always amicably—with publishers.36 Foreign works which were so successful that they could not be dismissed as aesthetic or cultural phenomena (Gone with the Wind being a primary example) were carefully positioned by the latter within a national literary space. American bestsellers were even cited as a model in a competition for Italian writers: Regarding that initiative which pursues the noble aim of promoting the creation of literary works which can compete with the best foreign literary production, it is with great pleasure that I feel I can confirm that its success is assured. Bearing in mind the rules of the competition brief, which invite contenders to present texts of a significant length, along the lines of ‘Gone with the Wind’, the number of manuscripts presented to date - 25 novels and 5 biographies - can be considered remarkable. (FAAM,

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FAM, file Minculpop, 7 December 1939, Ministry, Head of Cabinet to A. Mondadori, Rome, typewritten)

As at the beginning of the century with the radical avant-gardes, affirmation of the moral primacy of the national tradition could not be absolute but was forced to rely on compromised rhetorical formulae. On 13 April 1940, Mondadori wrote to Casini to inform him that the German magazine Bund had dedicated a monographic issue entirely to contemporary Italian literature. This international recognition was a clear reflection of the successful dissemination of Zoppi’s anthology. In view of the increasingly tense climate, on 13 September 1940, the publisher sought to defend translation from the consequences of excessively restrictive measures ‘regarding Italian culture, but also regarding our national heritage which, now more than ever, must be at its most powerful if we are to prepare for impending expansions in the world’.37 On 26 September 1940, Mondadori launched its new ‘Specchio’ series based on an idea proposed by Arnoldo Mondadori’s son, Alberto Mondadori, and Arturo Toffanelli. The publisher’s political manipulation of the aesthetic configuration of the texts was in line with the regime; in a letter to Casini, Mondadori suggested that this new series would serve the Fascist cause in that it would introduce the Italian public to writers which had previously been misrepresented and were in fact ‘incredibly Italian […], a typical expression of our time, the authors that I have grouped together in the “Specchio” have achieved remarkable success through the publication of their works in this new series reaching - I believe - considerable and unprecedented sales figures’.38 When compared to foreign text sales, the figures cited were laughable, but they justified the publisher’s request for the regime’s assistance in publicizing this initiative which would enable (the otherwise impossible) widespread dissemination of Italian novels.39

4.3

Points of View: Intellectuals and the Regime

In the 1930s, debate in both political and more general journals centred on the relationship between art and politics. Specifically, how could art naturally become Fascist, and a tool for portraying the life of the nation?40 In his summary of ‘Dieci anni di educazione fascista’, Ernesto Codignola reaffirmed the political value of culture and concluded that strengthening Italy’s intellectual resources was necessary to counter future challenges; indifference towards the surrounding reality was not admissible when

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culture was conceived as a dynamic phenomenon which engaged the intelligentsia in real life. This conviction was shared by Gherardo Casini, who judged artwork as a reflection of the artist’s participation in the collective life of the masses culturally raised by Fascism.41 As observed in the dialogue between the regime and the publishing establishment, debate in journals interpreted the problem of ‘foreign literature’ in relation to the Italian tradition—to be defined and safeguarded in Fascist terms—and to the demands of modernity, which required contact with other traditions. Ugo Ojetti and Giuseppe Bottai’s discussion in Critica fascista offers one of the most incisive considerations of the matter.42 Ojetti was dismissive of those who, in the name of modernity, privileged any ‘exotic flavour’—Gide, for example—at the expense of the established canonical voices of Dante, Petrarch, Machiavelli and Vico. Such an outlook served only to cultivate an ignorance of the national tradition and favoured an ephemeral and transitory culture. Bottai, on the other hand, affirmed the need to know what was happening in the wider world, contesting that knowing ‘does not necessarily mean accepting; it can mean rejecting, reacting, putting our own criticism into circulation’ (ibid.: 393). In 1933, in Critica fascista, Ugo D’Andrea defended Russian literature whilst condemning European and American writing on aesthetic grounds: This discourse becomes more difficult where literature is concerned. In the quest for literature with a broad social background, for narrative works that convey the drama of our time and render us part of the masses, I see nothing but Russian literature. But literature, in Russia, has always had a social foundation. European and American literature - the likes of Lewis, Joice [sic], Remarque, Huxley, Lawrance [sic] and other authors who have recently risen to fame - bears none of the engagement of the other arts, it does not renew its content, but seems infected by the disease of individualism […] worse, by a bizarre and lucid frenzy of dissection and dismemberment of the individual. (‘Politica e arte nella rivoluzione’, CF, a. XI, n. 5, 1 March 1933: 83)

Russian literature had a collective purpose of reforming society which could be made to coincide with the holistic palingenesis envisaged by the regime.43 Modernity, even foreign modernity, was acceptable when revised within the regime’s theoretical frame, which interpreted the solution of the relationship between art and politics in the union of art and reality. For D’Andrea, the foreign bestsellers Lewis, Joyce, Remarque, Huxley and Lawrence were indistinguishable; their writing and genre

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could not convey the shared drama of ‘our time’.44 Young Italian writers, however, were not looking for literary models which merely portrayed the ‘reality of the masses’, and in European and American literature they saw a new means of engaging with the inability to find one’s place in a new society, or a struggle against the dismemberment and dissection criticized by D’Andrea. The realism offered by these writers was neither mimetic nor de-personalizing, but a social portrait with the individual at its centre. In June 1927 in I libri del giorno, it was precisely Huxley that Piero Rèbora had cited in his review of Palazzechi’s Lasciatemi divertire, identifying a common detached and ironically critical attitude towards contemporary society (A. X, n. 6: 328–30). Mutatis mutandis, even the young editors of the Orpheus journal, in a dispute with La ronda and Vincenzo Cardarelli, defined art as a necessarily social phenomenon which could not be expressed in solipsistic isolation of the autobiographical self. ‘Our dynamic realism, therefore, morally, reveals this continual and concrete problem: that is, being determined by necessary relationships with life, in which it must continue’, young writers declared in Orpheus in 1933 in response to an inquiry by Il Saggiatore.45 That same year, from an equally authoritative platform, L’Italia letteraria, Antonio Valenti spoke not of fascist art, but of a collective fascist spirit which could be translated into art; occurring spontaneously, this process left space for subjectivity because, unlike in Russia, it was not institutionally imposed.46 In 1934, Valentino Bompiani initiated his ‘Invito Editoriale’, an editorial campaign to promote the concept of a social and collective ‘Italian novel’. In the press campaign that followed, this collective novel was presented as an expression of the warm, social Italian national character, in contrast to the introverted Nordic temperament. If European literature of the crisis presented a man tormented by Freudism, oscillating between the individualistic ‘psychologism’ of Proust and the collectivist ‘documentarism’ of Dos Passos, the Italian collective novel would reestablish the concept of verismo as a reflection of the spirit of a healthy humanity animated by a shared perspective on reality and society: in this sense, not far from the ideals of Fascist art. Bompiani’s public stance thus echoed the rhetoric of the regime regarding the relationship between Italy and Europe, once again rooted in the established tradition of La Voce, of a healthy nationalist competition which recognized the importance of foreign literature for the renewal of the novel itself: the genre par excellence for relating and uniting the nation.

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The ‘Invito Editoriale’ sparked further debate: Bontempelli, for example, opposed the verismo of the collective novel, whilst others, such as Chiarini, considered it an expression of the social conscience of Fascism. Generally the idea of the collective novel was supported by the majority; despite its reference to foreign individualism (Proust, Joyce, Döblin), there was the conviction that in its Italian incarnation the novel would be able to represent the very soul—anti-individualistic, objective, modern and social—of Fascist art. Some, however, interpreted it as a failure of Fascist art, which was unable to carve out its own novel form and with Italian writers incapable (unlike their foreign counterparts) of engaging with real life. The collective novel, envisaged by a publisher of so many foreign texts, did fit with the project of constructing a national popular culture, but it looked beyond national borders to foreign models to do so.47 Correspondence between Vittorini and Piceni, head of the Mondadori press office until October 1935, reveals how some aspects of this question played out unofficially: Dear Piceni, […] Just regarding a few of those cut sentences (except the especially characteristic one you picked out which does need to go back in), I would be very grateful if you would let me leave it as it stands, at least in those passages where Lawrence lets himself get too carried away with his passion for insistent repetitions which in Italian sound like D’Annunzio at his very worst, whilst in English, you can imagine, they resonate quite differently. English literature is so dry that Lawrence’s dampness (which definitely borrows heavily from pre-war French and Italian writers) seems fresh, but bringing his damp insistence into one of those original languages risks making Lawrence seem a much older writer than he actually is. Don’t get me wrong, when I say cutting, I am thinking of the instances when Lawrence, for example, describes something (the horse’s eyes, let’s say) with five adjectives, and every time he names that thing, he feels obliged to repeat all five adjectives. In these instances, I would just repeat one adjective, and a different one each time. (FAAM, FAM, file Vittorini, 6 May 1933, Florence, ms)

Vittorini’s arguments in this letter echo the various elements of the debate surrounding the Italian novel: the importance of English literature from a translation perspective, the desire to ‘overcome’ D’Annunzio via the English example or, more accurately, to bend the translation to meet

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the demands of a new national literary language. The Lawrence that Vittorini wants to propose to the reader is to be different from the original, deliberately re-written by the translation, and must avoid any echo of D’Annunzio; any ‘antiquated’ interpretation of prose writing, striving instead for simplification. Extracting the ‘bare bones’ of the writing in this way has an almost moral obligation of remaining distinct and distant from the traditions that preceded it—prosa d’arte, the elzeviro, lyricism, Vocestyle expressionism—to reach its natural conclusion in the reconstruction of the ‘novel form’. Consider also that Mondadori reprinted the complete works of Verga, the master of verismo and epic poet of ‘la vita rusticana’ in 1931, and that the initiative was supported by Bottai. Vittorini’s proverbial infidelity as a translator became the stylistic counterpart to the recovery of a link between life and literature. Piceni’s reply is interesting: Dear Vittorini, Thank you for your letter dated 6 May. I fully understand your point about Lawrence’s insistent repetition. However, because ‘Medusa’ is an educational, realist collection rather than a popular entertainment series, we have decided to publish only unabridged and faithful translations. We want readers to have an accurate idea of the characteristics of individual authors, with all their strengths and weaknesses. (FAAM, FAM, file Vittorini, 10 May 1933, Milan, typewritten)

In denying the popular appeal of the ‘Medusa’ series and defining it as an ‘educational collection’, Piceni recalls Italian reviewers in the 1920s and their battles for greater philological rigour in translation and better editorial planning in order to avoid the cyclical book crises. Piceni insists on the quality and fidelity of translations: Vittorini on the urgency of adapting texts to a new style of prose. For Piceni, the aim is to introduce an artistic tradition as a whole into Italy, whereas Vittorini has a different way of conceptualizing narrative: a realism imbued with an evocative lyricism in which a select adjective means more than a D’Annunzio-style ornamental deluge. Only in 1937, in Critica fascista, was the form of the new Fascist culture outlined clearly. It was to have a ‘political’ rather than a purely aesthetic soul, understood as a social commitment and a response to the needs of the new Italian population: ‘The life of the book has gone from being the life of individual scholars and select groups to the life of society,

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of all society, of the masses. It spreads in multiple directions. Its traditional home; the school, the library, must be connected to the institutions in which society is organized, to instil an awareness of the prestige of the book in all young people’.48 On the ‘enlightened’ Fascist side, foreign literature was brought into the debate which, accordingly, from 1937 shifted its focus to the concept of Italian popular culture (and its lack thereof). Educating the population meant making more ‘authentic’ culture accessible; culture which related to everyday life rather than to the academies49 : Culture (especially literature) is not popular. It is still disconnected from life. It cannot speak to the people. This explains the decline, or rather the lack of the novel, of a book for Italian people. It explains why even today, in Italy, the circulation of the best Italian titles is always small in comparison to certain foreign books. […] We are still missing a solid grounded culture; above all, we lack a healthy literature which reflects the new life of the Italian people: dynamic rather than academic, less metaphysical, less abstract in theme and in matter, and much more human, full of real and humble and modest life. (Leoni, E., ‘Fascismo e cultura-Rendere popolare la cultura’, CF, a. XVII, n. 4, 15 December 1938: 56)

A section of official culture was therefore prepared to acknowledge national literature’s failure to assume a popular dimension, and to act accordingly to assert a new Italian culture. Armando Carlini, for example, denied that xenophilia was an issue, upholding that the universalism of fascism overcame ideological or nationalist differences; ‘the world of the educated goes beyond any national divisions’.50 There was, however, a concrete problem that remained within national boundaries and in everyday reading, that had to be addressed by official channels. From 1938 onwards the life of all citizens was to be brought under tighter control: foreign textuality had to be in some way censored.

4.4

Censorship in Publishing: Some Examples from the Contemporary Literary Scene

The history of Fascist censorship has been extensively explored by Giorgio Fabre, who sums up book censorship in this decade accordingly:

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In the 1930s, book censorship was a tale of progressive concentration: from the hands of individual prefects and the Ministry of Home Affairs, it gradually became a singular body, the press office of the head of the Government, which then became the Ministry for Popular Culture.51

Censorship had been in operation since the early 1930s, most notably with the infamous circulars of 3 April (9532/442) and 16 April (8941/442) 1934,52 which obliged publishers to request authorization for the publication of foreign translations. An ‘explicitly’ preventative censorship was introduced. On 13 November 1934, protocol N. A. I. 47 from the Press and Propaganda bureau informed the Publishers Federation that the text presented must be ‘the definitive version ready for release’, although in some cases only the drafts were examined.53 In practical terms, bar a few exceptions, publishers were expected to send texts in some form to the bureau for approval prior to publication. The problem at this point, therefore, was not so much of an issue as to overly impact the work of publishers and did not affect pre-existing translations. On 11 June 1936, Alfieri succeeded Mussolini’s son-in-law Ciano as the Minister for Press and Propaganda and with a circular dated the 30 October of that year (n. 308/Div. III) ordered prefects to review the drafts of volumes to be published. Mondadori’s proposal of the novel Traumgefährten (1936) by Leonhard Frank, a German but non-Jewish writer, is exemplary54 : Since it is, nevertheless, a bold book (in terms of morality), undeniably indecorous, but at heart an articulate and healthy tale, before undertaking the expenses of purchasing rights, the translation (which, given the extreme difficulty of the text, must be entrusted to an established Italian writer), and production, I am writing to ask you if it would be possible for you to consider the original German text which I include here for approval, with potential adjustments of certain phrasing to be agreed once the translation has been drafted. (FAAM, FAM, file Ministero della Stampa e Propaganda, 6 April 1936, from Mondadori to the Ministry, Milan, typewritten)

The text was rejected, not only for its offensive morality, but because it contained so many real-life crime episodes that they could not just be cut. But what happened before the 1934 clampdown?55 Occasional targeted clampdowns such as in the cases of Gorky, Hemingway and London on the one side, censorship processes tended to be much more subtle, as evidenced in this letter from Piceni to Mondadori dated 23 January 1933:

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Dear Sir, I have received your letter regarding Camiere gentiluomo and have taken note, but I must reiterate my point that at the time when I approved its inclusion in the ‘Palma’ series, the precedent had been set by texts such as Ex moglie, Il negro irresistibile, and in particular Nell’artiglio dei negrieri, in which rape scenes were very much part of the order of the day; indeed it was I, of my own initiative and in counter-current to popular opinion, that decided to cut them. In any case, going forward, I will be vigilant - regarding French and English novels; other languages are beyond my remit. In the meantime, I have given instructions to suspend the translation of Deval’s Marie galante. That is all regarding the ‘Palma’. Moving onto the ‘Medusa’, and again remaining within my field of competence in Franco-Anglophone production, I must request precise instructions: given that this is a cultural series, and since world literature today deals with the most daring sexual questions, to avoid liability it seems I would be forced to remove Huxley’s texts (such as Brave New World) from the series, all of Lawrence’s books, etc.; Colette is also very bold, not to mention, I repeat, some of the German authors, for whom I decline any responsibility. (FAAM, FAM, file Piceni, typewritten)

In this case of self-censorship, it is difficult to distinguish between official higher orders and Piceni’s personal ‘moralism’. The fact remained that the public had developed a taste for the erotic-sentimental novel (a category which hardly describes Huxley’s dystopia) to the point that removing the genre from the market would be a serious economic and social blunder. The popularity of the ‘foreign novel genre’ was such that eliminating it from the Mondadori catalogue would cause severe economic damage to the publisher; more broadly, not publishing Huxley and Lawrence would place Italy in a peripheral position relative to the great European nations and the young ‘America’. Once again playing a game of double entendre, Mondadori presented his Raccolta antologica to Ciano in 1935, a collection of unpublished writings by Italian and foreign authors who had contributed to Mondadori’s catalogue over the previous twenty-five years. In response, the Minister promised to give precise instructions to newspapers to enable them to handle the matter.56 Up to 1937, bar a 1934 initiative—aimed at Solaria and its circulation of 700—which banned the publication of foreign short stories or novels in serial form in newspapers, censorship was put into place only when works were deemed to have an explicit ‘subversive’ element.57

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Even allowing for several famous cases, book bans were generally rare. There were two notable Mondadori examples occurring before the 1934 circular: the banning of Remarque’s Niente di nuovo sul fronte occidentale (Im Westen nichts Neues, 1933) and Adrienne Thomas’s Caterina va alla guerra (Katrin weird Soldat, 1930), translated by Enrico Rocca and reviewed by Bonaventura Tecchi in the widely-read Gazzetta del popolo (8 January 1932) attracted particular attention. Both texts were published as part of the series ‘I romanzi della guerra’ and were publicly branded as defeatist for their anti-nationalist spirit. Mondadori’s predictable letter to Mussolini regarding the latter case reveals the unofficial rules that governed book censorship: Works we intend to publish always undergo a scrupulous in-house examination. Whenever we have doubts of any kind, we do not hesitate to bother the highest authorities to obtain a positive or negative opinion. (‘Report to S. E. Leandro Arpinati on the book ‘Caterina va alla guerra’ by Adrienne Thomas, translated by Enrico Rocca’, ACS, SPD/CO, 15 March 1932, envelope n. 1871, reference file 528.771)

Lamenting the indecision of the powers that be who had approved the text only to subsequently ‘pull back’, severely upsetting the company’s balance sheet, the publisher continues, ‘in the brief days in which the book [Caterina va alla guerra] was able to freely circulate, the book was greeted by popular acclaim and favourable reviews’. Listing a series of positive reviews published in Fascist newspapers, including Il lavoro fascista, Mondadori argues that the artistic value of the work and its encouragement of personal sacrifice for the nation are sufficient enough reason for the ban to be revoked. Germanist Alberto Spaini had praised the novel for its elegant style but had also foreseen potential issues with its pacifist tone and suggested moderate editing to prevent the risk of it being censored.58 Prior to 1937 there was also no distinction in censorship terms between foreign and Italian texts. This was to change, however, after 27 May of that year when the Ministry of Press and Propaganda became the Ministry for Popular Culture. On 25 March 1938, another circular was issued with the aim of regulating the publication of foreign texts; from 1 April onwards publishers were obliged to present authorization requests, including the text in the original language (translation drafts were optional), directly to the Ministry, which assumed sole responsibility for approving translation proposals. Purely scientific treatises and works universally recognized as classics did not require prior approval.59

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This was once again a preventative measure, but the process was a more specific and centralized one compared with that instituted by the decrees of 3 and 16 April 1934. Consequently, there was an increase in the number of banned texts. Corbaccio was, famously, hit particularly hard, with twelve of its publications being banned in April 1938 (including titles by Feuchtwänger, Thomas Mann, believed to be Jewish, and Schnitzler); on 23 June ten Mondadori titles (once again Feuchtwänger, together with Wassermann and the Mann and Zweig brothers) were also added to the list.60 Corbaccio sent letter of protest to the Minculpop on 23 May of the same year, citing seven reasons why the ban should be reversed. Mussolini responded immediately, ordering that the publisher be reimbursed (albeit only partially) for the economic damage sustained. Of the points raised by Corbaccio—financial loss, the free circulation of German Jewish authors in Germany, the success of the texts, the coherence of their content with the regime’s principles—his final argument is the most significant here: ‘All the aforementioned books, without exception, have been translated worldwide and are universally considered masterpieces of world literature. Some have been awarded the highest literary honour imaginable: a Nobel Prize’. The universal value of modern texts was one of the strategies adopted most frequently by publishers and Fascist propaganda alike to legitimize the publication of otherwise unpublishable translations. Censorship in this way was a tool used to regulate the symbolic heritage available to readers and served at times to legitimize texts which were considered part of a shared European heritage. In a series of articles, the Giornale della libreria proclaimed ‘the precautionary examination of which texts are appropriate or not for translation is the exclusive responsibility of the publisher’, who must weigh up the ‘intrinsic value of the work, its commercial value, its moral value’,61 suggesting subsequently ‘oportet ut scandalia eveniant ’.62 Hence Mondadori’s complaint to Casini on 10 May 1938 following the rejection of his proposal for a daring popular novel as part of the ‘Palma’ series: Dear Sir, (Gherardo Casini) I have been informed by the Prefecture of Milan that the Ministry has blocked the reprinting of a novel from the Palma collection: no. 108, Gaber von Vaszary’s Un incontro a Parigi. The volume is on sale throughout Italy in the German edition published by Rowohlt of Berlin,

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whilst our version was heavily edited to remove any potentially scandalous expressions […]. However, what I would like to draw your attention to today is the fact that when we met you kindly promised us that you would also explain the reasons behind any censorship of volumes. We asked this of you in order to help us propose appropriate edits and modifications, and above all to enable us to regulate forthcoming publications. […]. If short novels like the aforementioned cannot be published; if this means we are to return to a period of rigidity regarding the publication of popular entertainment fiction, when we believed we had reached an agreement on this, I really do not know what I have to do. (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, Mondadori to Ministry, Milan, typewritten)

Mussolini and several key publishing houses had a shared interest publishing foreign literature which nevertheless had to be presented to the reader in the ‘appropriate’ guise; this was a mutual agreement from which neither party could withdraw. On 18 October 1938, Mondadori drew Alfieri’s attention to the reduced number of translations he had published over the past year. Your Excellency, I allow myself therefore to request a certain flexibility in approving our translation proposals. The collaboration with this Ministry is greatly appreciated, but we believe that if you could institute a more flexible approach and, as far as possible, some parameters which we would promptly implement, rather than rejecting proposals without explanation, it would certainly be of great advantage to us, and all the more valued considering our efforts to satisfy the particular demands of the Ministry of Education regarding textbooks. (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, Mondadori to Ministry, Milan, typewritten)

The modus operandi of translation censorship, when considered at the intersection of different institutional and institutionalized powers, was not exclusively prohibitive. In this respect, closer examination of the internal readers’ reports relating to various publication proposals reveals the conscious and commercially aware self-censorship undertaken by publishers. Examples from the Mondadori archive illustrate well the element of resourcefulness on the part of translators and editors in this self-censorship, indicating what was possible and what was not. Piceni’s review of Antoine Prévost, for example, offers a veritable list of ‘publishability’:

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Prévost’s most recent novel, Fébronie, proposed by Foà, has already received favourable reviews in France. It seems that he is enjoying a second literary youth in his seventies. The book could fit well in the ‘Palma’ (underlined in red), please find below a list of pros and cons: Cons 1. The novel is a bit short: around 300,000 letters 2. The plot is shaky, feeble, even. Pros 1. We could get around the shortness of the book - Foà have offered to include some short stories as part of the deal 2. Despite the weak plot, Prévost is a magnificent narrator and I would say the book engrosses the reader from start to finish. 3. Prévost’s name is still very popular - he is well known even in less cultured circles. (FAAM, sezione Segreteria editoriale estero, series Pareri di lettura – negative reviews 1932–1947, file P-R, Prévost, Fébronie, reader: Piceni, without date, Milan, typewritten)

Since the 1920s publishers and translators had resorted to arbitrarily cutting elements of texts which could be considered improper, but without disturbing the aesthetics of the writing by ‘signalling’ these omissions to the reader, and with no distinction between quality literature and pulp fiction. Translations could be edited more freely, as they had to be adapted to current trends and to meet the regime’s articulated taste for immediacy, fluency and captivating (and appropriate) themes. In other cases, publishers’ self-censorship was in line with the contemporary literary scene, so for Remarque, who had already been banned: Regarding the dangers, let’s say, of this quite short-sighted censoring: from a non-bourgeois perspective, I would say the novel is a very moral one, but from a hypocritical conventional viewpoint it would be scandalous. Robby, the sympathetic protagonist, spends his time in the Café International, a meeting place for local prostitutes and these female friends of his go about their business quite naturally. Compared with Marisa Ferro’s girls or Moravia’s Roman ladies, they are highly respectable and very endearing working women, arousing pity rather than disgust in their modest misery and indifference, and the book is quite the opposite of ‘exciting’ and indecorous…but we know that it is a real sticking point of the censorship guidelines that ‘those women’ must not be mentioned, even if we are talking about the poignant maternal love of a woman like Rose, who

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lets herself be beaten and exploited by a nasty villain. I for one believe that Remarque would not consent to an ‘expurgation’ of his work which would ruin it indefinably, reducing it to a banal affair between a shabby veteran and a fading young woman…[…]. Given the discretion of the author, who avoids any names, specifics etc., the book will definitely enter Italy en masse via French translation. It remains to be seen if our censorship board would rather turn a blind eye in order to avoid giving the French a financial boon. I think it unlikely, given that Remarque’s name is so well known. R.’s narrative technique is too good to make ‘cuts’: everything is so intertwined that…it would have to be the author himself that sterilizes it, making the necessary sutures. No translator can, given the very personal tone of his style. (FAAM, sezione Segreteria editoriale estero, series Pareri di lettura – negative reviews 1932–1947, file P-R, Remarque, Three Comrades, without date, Milan, typewritten)

Or, for Charles Pettit McIlvaine, a central figure in the US evangelical movement: The book is new and amusing, at least. But it is so ironic that I would not hesitate to define it as irreverent for any scholar or believer. It ridicules everything: family, faith, places of worship, justice, etc. Negative. E. P. (FAAM, FAM, sezione Segreteria editoriale estero, series Pareri di lettura – negative reviews 1932–1947, file P-R, Charles Pettit McIlvaine, Petal of the Rose, reader, Enrico Piceni, typewritten and ms, final section)

Censorship became part of the discourse regarding the regulation of the aesthetic, ideological and textual powers which shaped both the public and private spheres. Jewish authors aside, amongst the list of unsuitable themes, the following were to be avoided at all costs: offense to or undermining of the Church, common morality, romanità (Wallace’s Ben Hur, for example, was blocked in July 1938 for its anti-Roman sentiment)63 ; sex scenes, adultery, suicide, abortion, bohemian lifestyles (hence the rejection of Amirol a ferjek almodoznak [Ciò che sognano i mariti] by Gabor Vaszary in November 1941), positive references to enemy countries, ‘uncomfortable’ historical events, inappropriate references to Italian politics, English colonialism, any intimate representation of the female body (labour pains, for example), and any generic indication of an ‘antiItalian’ spirit. Given that these were all rather interesting topics, they could not be completely eliminated from the literary scene; national literature would not be able to fill such an aesthetic void without serious

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economic, social and political repercussions.64 The editor therefore had to understand what could be disguised, how, and to what extent, and the parameters of judgement were not so much related to political danger as to respectability. To conclude with some examples from Bompiani and Mondadori in the years of ‘heated’ censorship enforcement: Bompiani’s proposal for a translation of The Importance of Living (Lin Yutang, 1937) was authorized, but a page and a half had to be deleted (line 13ˆ, pp. 425–26). In the case of Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat, it was simply a matter of removing a passage on Sicilian fishermen on p. 16 (from line 3ˆ to line 12ˆ). Heroes (1939) by human rights activist Millen Brand required a new preface explaining that the novel actually referred to unemployed American ex-servicemen. Journeyman (1935) by Caldwell was rejected for racial reasons, as was Adventures of a Young Man (1939) by Dos Passos, this time (predictably) for communist sympathies and anti-Italian sentiments. Strange Interlude by O’Neill, translated by Montale, was also rejected due to an excess of erotic scenes.65 In the war years: Mondadori’s request on 13 April 1942 for permission to translate the Swedish writer Berit Spong’s Wolken Über Harnevi (Nuvole su Harnevi, correct title Spelet på Härnevi, 1938) was authorized, ‘provided the final suicide is somehow eliminated; the fate of the protagonist could, we suggest, be left suspended by a skilful translator’. On 29 May 1942, Mondadori succeeded in reversing a ban, and La divina avventura. I crociati (Gło´sni Krzyz˙ owcy, 1935) by the Polish writer and resistance fighter Zofia Kossak-Szczucka, was authorized 1944, ‘on the condition that some rather crude elements be tempered and the nationality of the two false knights pushing for the massacre of the Jews of the Rhine cities be disguised’.66 On 8 June of the same year, Mondadori complained that whilst he had been denied permission to publish a novel set in Egypt, John Knittel’s El Hakim. Romanzo dell’Egitto d’oggi (El Hakim: Roman aus dem heutigen Agypten, 1936), a Corticelli proposal, had been accepted.67 Within individual publishing houses, what was acceptable was determined not only by political criteria, but also the oscillations of personal taste, the formation of a certain habitus within a specific knowledge field. A letter in the archive related to Caldwell’s Il piccolo campo (God’s Little Acre, 1933, translated by Vittorini in 1940) from readers in Pistoia dated 27 February 1941 laments the ban on this novel when there are works in circulation which pose much greater threats to common morality.

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Cronin’s The Stars Look Down (1935), another bestseller, is referenced in a reviewer’s note on Hatter’s Castle (1941): ‘The Radio is currently promoting a film based on the novel Le Stelle. The wording of this unlikely promotion could be a good technique to imitate in an application for authorization. ‘Le Stelle’, the radio declares, ‘presents or reveals the true face of England’. Something similar (highlighting it as ‘taboo’) could be used to present the novel to the Ministry and - in the blurb - to the public’.68 With World War II looming, hierarchical control and regulatory sanctions became increasingly vigorous. Nevertheless, between the institutional powers of the field on the one hand, and the characteristic intrinsic textuality of translations on the other, there was space for evasion and resistance. Given the presumed inability of the masses to independently reformulate their cognitive models without proper guidance, publishers were compelled to be at the vanguard of reader education, which reached into the most intimate spaces of the private sphere.

Notes 1. It is Rundle’s hypothesis that this telegram was sent to all publishers (2019: 119). From 1936 onwards, book production was monitored by the ‘Book Division’ (Divisione libri - Divisione III) of the Directorate of the Italian Press, directed by Gherardo Casini and comprising 40 readers whose task was to examine texts suggested by prefectures as well as new titles. 2. Cf. Gentile, G., ‘L’ideale della cultura e l’Italia presente’, Civiltà fascista, a. III, n. 2, February 1936: 65–82 and Bastianini, G., ‘Il Fascismo e i valori della civiltà europea’, Civiltà fascista, a. IV, n. 12, December 1937: 879–89. 3. Cf. Morandi, M. M., ‘Cultura a propaganda: dove sta l’equivoco’, CF, a. XV, n. 13, 1 May 1937: 225–27; Usellini, G., ‘“Armi” di propaganda’, CF, a. XV, n. 15, 1 June 1937: 271–72. 4. For comprehensive publishing figures of the period see Tranfaglia-Vittoria (2000: 299–300); for information on pricing and editions see Albonetti (1994: 98 onwards), Patuzzi (1978: 21; 35–36) and Pedullà (1997: 360–61); on the relationship between prose and poetry see Giovannuzzi (1999). 5. The rate of illiteracy was reduced by 10%, but as Marchesini (1993) demonstrates, the regime’s efforts in this regard can largely be considered inconsequential.

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6. For a list of publishers operating in the period, see Ciarlantini, F. ‘Gli editori Italiani nel Decennale’, GdL, a. XLV, n. 44, 28 October 1932: 253–82. 7. For example, Alpes, Corticelli, Frassinelli, Modernissima, Slavia and Stock. 8. In a GdL article reporting on the Paris international publishing conference between June 21 and 25, 1931, Ciarlantini reviewed the issue of the translation trade balance, defining Italian publishing as ‘international’ (GdL, ‘Il Congresso Internazionale degli Editori’, a. XLIV, n. 27–28, 4– 11 July 1931: 217–18). On 24 October 1931, Marrubini reiterated that Italian publishers needed to increase the quantity of popular fiction sold, which would be fundamental to establishing and maintaining a good relationship with the regime (GdL, ‘Editori, Librai e la disciplina di vendita’, a. XLIV, n. 43, 24 October 1931: 293–94). 9. Mondadori and Ciarlantini had both, respectively, already proposed an element of state intervention to combat the book crisis; see Mondadori, A., ‘Il libro e le sue finalità politiche, culturali ed economiche’, Ciarlantini, F., ‘Editori, autori e librai’, Gerarchia, n. 1, 25 January 1923: 46–48. 10. As Rundle reports, between 1930 and 1935 the proportion of translations within the total number of books published rose from 19.19 to 47.53%, a figure which remains stable until 1941 before falling to 27.52% following the introduction of quotas (2001: 159). Cfr. Livolsi (1983: 63), Pedullà (1997: 374–75), and Santoro (1994: 318). 11. For further statistics in relation to translation and comparison with the situation in other European countries, see Rundle (2019: 50–53). CF reports the following figures, taken from the Index Translationum, the international database of translations initiated in 1932, for translations into Italian: 1932 (443), 1933 (699), 1934 (661), 1935 (818), 1936 (273). The number of Italian texts ‘exported’ in translation was as follows: 1932 (114), 1933 (149), 1934 (171), 1935 (178), 1936 (101) (Sanminiatelli, B., ‘Per la diffusione del libro’, CF, a. XV, n. 18, 15 July 1937: 311–12). See also Pedullà (1997: 358–62), and Borruso (1983: 86). 12. Bemporad, E., ‘La traduzione di libri stranieri in Italia e di libri italiani all’Estero’, GdL, a. IX, n. 27–28, 4–11 July 1931: 224–26. 13. Marrubini, C., ‘Il libro straniero in Italia. Soggezione o superiorità’, GdL, a. XLIV, n. 24, 13 June 1931: 193, and Mondadori, A., ‘Il libro straniero in Italia’, GdL, a. XLIV, n. 43, 24 October 1931: 226. 14. Cfr. GdL, a. XLVI, n. 46: 233–34, and Marrubini, C., ‘Traduzioni e tradimenti’, GdL, a. XLVII, n. 25, 23 June 1934: 161–62. 15. Cfr. ‘La prosa nell’Italia moderna’, CF, a. XI, n. 7, 1 April 1933: 132– 33 e Carella, D., ‘Nostro realismo’, ibid.; 133–34, Casini, G., ‘Elementi politici di una letteratura’, CF, a. XI, n. 9, 1 May 1933: 161–62; Sofia, C., ‘Il nostro tempo’, CF, a. XI, n. 10, 15 May 1933: 189, and FAAM,

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19. 20.

21. 22.

23. 24.

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FAM, file Rocca, Mondadori to Enrico Rocca, a literary critic for Il lavoro fascista, Milan, 6 February 1933, typewritten. Cfr. Pompei, M., ‘Assistenza e Propaganda’, CF, a. X, n. 6, 15 March 1932: 106. Casini, G., ‘La letteratura, che allegria!’, CF, a. VIII, n. 1, 1 January 1930: 10. Cfr. Borgese’s letter as the editor of the series to Mondadori in which he makes the same points, FAAM, FAM, fasc. Borgese, Borgese to Mondadori, Milan, 10 July 1933, typewritten. NB: The ‘Romantica’ was an initiative of Borgese’s, and in many ways anticipated the ‘Medusa’. Cfr. FAAM, FAM, file Rocca, Mondadori to Rocca, Milan, 6 February 1933, typewritten. In a letter dated 3 October 1932, Corrado Alvaro even proposes a translation of Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr Jekull and Mr Hyde as an ‘adventurous and fantastic’ nineteenth-century English classic for the ‘Palma’ (FAAM, FAM, file Alvaro, Corrado Alvaro to Mondadori, Rome, typewritten). FAAM, FAM, file Rocca, Mondadori to Rocca, Milan, 6 February 1933, typewritten. Cfr. Ciarlantini, F., ‘La diffusione del libro italiano all’estero’, L’Italia letteraria, a. IX, n. 40, 1 October 1933: 1. On 24 January 1934, Il lavoro fascista announced the first series of ‘Dizioni di poesia’ (organized by the Rome-based section of the Authors and Writers Union), a series which aimed to bring to mass readership the best of Italian poetry. Pirandello and Alvaro were featured amongst the 120 writers, as were the as-yet unknown Paola Moretti, Nino Burrascano and Vittorio Malpassuti. On 30 June 1934, Il lavoro fascista shared the surprising news that all the masterpieces of Italian literature were to be translated into Russian (Cernjak, A., ‘Tutti i capolavori della letteratura italiana tradotti in russo’). In response to English objections to the war with Ethiopia, Mussolini launched a propaganda campaign against Great Britain which was sustained until the regime’s collapse. Nevertheless, Dino Alfieri’s initiative of securing the display of Italian books in London’s famous Selfridges, granting a greater visibility to Italian literature, was commended (FAAM, FAM, file Stampa e propaganda, Milan, typewritten). Cfr. Rundle (2019: 113–16) and Autori e scrittori, a. I, n. 6–7, October– November 1936: 29. On 27 May 1937, the Ministry of Press and Propaganda became the Ministry for Popular Culture. Emphasis was no longer on forms of propaganda, but on the construction of a culture which would involve the entire population. That year writers and publishers also participated in a referendum which posed the question ‘Is there a book crisis?’ The conclusion was that

4

26. 27.

28.

29.

30. 31.

32.

33.

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popular literature was not in a state of crisis, and the continued success of translation sales was cautiously acknowledged. Il libro italiano, part I, a. I, n. 8, August 1937: 181–83. ‘Il libro e la cultura del popolo’, Il libro italiano, part I, a. 1, n. 1–6, 20 June 1937: 5. Cfr. Samminiatelli, B., Franchi, R., ‘Il convegno per la diffusione del libro a Firenze’, ‘Librerie e librai’, Autori e Scrittori, a. II, nn. 6–7, June– July 1937: 9–10. Similar problems were discussed at the Authors and Writers Union Congress of that year, which proposed publishing lists of translations and a Translators Register [Albo dei traduttori] in order to regulate the number of translations. Cremonese, P., ‘Il confessore del pubblico’, Il libro italiano, part I, a. I, nn. 9–10, September-October 1937: 228–31. Fascist positions ranged from outright condemnation as per Il Tevere or Il Popolo d’Italia, to reflections based on economic concerns or the question of Italian identity cf. Dèttore, U., ‘Letteratura e traduzioni’, Meridiano di Roma, a. II, n. 51, 19 December 1937. ACS, MCP, envelope 56, reference file ‘Produzione libraria italiana’ and ‘Riunione di una Commissione per l’esame del problema delle traduzioni’, GdL, a. L, n. 1, 2 January 1937: 2, and ibid., ‘Il III Congresso Nazionale degli Autori e Scrittori in Napoli’: 4–7, on translation specifically: 5; and Rundle (2001: 88–99). ‘Il convegno per la diffusione del libro a Firenze’ ‘Per la diffusione del libro’, Autori e Scrittori, a. II, n. 6–7, June–July 1937: 11–12. Cfr. ‘Della diffusione del libro italiano all’estero’, GdL, a. LI, n. 13, 26 March 1938: 97–111, ‘Sul Congresso internazionale degli Editori’, GdL, a. I, n. 14, 2 April 1938: 105–19, ‘Il discorso di S.E. Galeazzo Ciano alla riapertura della Camera dei Deputati, GdL, a. LI, n. 50, 10 December 1938: 349, ‘La Commissione di bonifica libraria’ and ‘I premi letterari agli editori’, ibid.: 350. From 8 million in 1928 to less than 2 million in 1938 (ACS, SPD/CO, 18 January 1938, envelop n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’). ACS, SPD/CO, 18 January 1938, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’, cfr. ‘Possibilità ed avvenire della diffusione all’estero del libro e della cultura italiana’, in which Mondadori also includes a detailed list of commercial agreements with various foreign editors (ACS, SPD/C.O, 18 January 1938, envelope n. 509.568, reference file 509.568/2, subfile ‘Mondadori’). Cfr. ‘Libro e Cultura Popolare nel discorso di S.E. Dino Alfieri alla Camera dei Fasci e delle Corporazioni’, Il libro italiano, parte I, a. III, n. 5: 269–75.

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35. Cfr. Mancini, G., ‘Significato della biblioteca popolare nel tempo fascista’, Il libro italiano, part I, a. III, n. 2, February 1939: 61–66; Fattori, B., ‘Libro e cultura popolare’, part I, a. III, n. 3, March 1939: 151–54. On Italian reading habits see Barone and Petrucci (1976) and Betri (1991). 36. The Writers and Authors Union drew up a new statute in 1934 which strengthened the hitherto more relaxed relationship between artists and the Union. 37. FAAM, file Minculpop, Mondadori to Casini, Milan, typewritten. 38. FAAM, file Minculpop, Mondadori to Casini, Milan, typewritten. See also Billiani (2007: 138–40). 39. Copies sold figures and print runs were in fact rather modest considering that the print run of a crime fiction novel could reach around 400,000 copies: Baldini, A., Beato fra le donne (31.1.1940, print run of 3878, copies sold 3878, 1940 reprinted), Civinini, G., Vecchie storie d’oltremare (31.1.1940, print run of 4931, copies sold 2749, returned 2182, reprinted in 1940), Pavolini, A., Scomparsa d’Angela. Racconti (31.1.1940, print run of 3885, copies sold 2747, unsold 1138, 1940) Bernari, C., Quasi un secolo (6.3.40, print run of 3868, copies sold 1899, unsold 1969, 1940), Manzini, G., Rive remote (6.3.1940, print run of 3014, copies sold 1979, unsold 1035, 1940), De Angelis, R.M., Oroverde (29.3.40, print run of 1900, copies sold 1738, unsold 162, 1940) Comisso, G., Felicità dopo la noia. Racconti (25.4.40, print run of 1928, copies sold 1726, unsold 202, 1940), Malaparte, C., Donna come me. Fantasie (2913, print run of 1643, copies sold 1270, 1940). Aleramo, Barilli, Bontempelli, Buzzati, Cecchi, Dessi, Emanuelli, Moravia were other authors featured. The series only began to include poetry in 1942 with collections by Cardarelli, Quasimodo and Ungaretti (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, typewritten). See also Billiani (2007: 138–40). 40. Cfr. Chiarini (1936: 25–33, 35) and the debate in Orpheus on the form and nature of a national art (‘Posizioni’, a. II, n. 3, April 1933: 1–2). 41. Cfr. Codignola, E., ‘Dieci anni di educazione fascista’, CF, a. XI, n. 2, 15 January 1933: 36–38; ibid., a. XI, n. 4, 15 February 1933: 68–69; ibid., a. XI, n. 5, 1 March 1933: 98–100. Casini, G., ‘Tempo del popolo’, CF, a. XI, n. 15, 1 August 1933: 281–82. 42. The articles which formed the crux of the debate were Michele Barbi’s ‘Lettera di Michele Barbi’ published in P in 1932, Bottai’s response, ‘Questo nostro tempo’, CF, a. X, n. 18, 15 September 1932: 341–43, and Ojetti’s letter, ‘Italianità e modernità’, CF, a. X, n. 19, 15 October 1932: 392–93, with Bottai’s response in the footnotes (392). 43. Cfr.‘Situazione del romanzo’, CF, a. XI, n. 15, 1 August 1933: 290 on the crisis of the Italian novel, and Barbaro, U., ‘Letteratura russa a volo d’uccello’, L’Italia letteraria, 22 February 1931: 6, on the merits of Russian literature as a model of literature for the masses.

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44. Silvio Benco had positively reviewed Remarque in P as an example of quality popular literature, ‘Erich Maria Remarque, Im Westen nichts Neues ’, a. I, n. 10, October 1929: 503–8, whilst Cecchi denied that Lawrence’s sensuality was obscene, even in Lady Chatterley, ‘D.H. Lawrence, La Volpe, La Coccinella’, a. I, n. 11, November 1929: 635–38. 45. ‘Appunti per la definizione di un atteggiamento’, a. II, n. 9, November 1933: 4 and Tronchi, P., ‘Intenzioni’, Orpheus , a. II, n. 2, February 1933: 1–3. Cfr. Enzo Paci, ‘Cenni per un nostro “clima”’, a. II, n. 2, February 1933: 3–7, Valenti, A., ‘Fascismo letterario’, L’Italia letteraria, a. IX, n. 43, 22 October 1933: 1. 46. Valenti, A., ‘Fascismo letterario’, L’Italia letteraria, a. IX, n. 43, 22 October 1933: 1. 47. Cfr. Medusa, ‘Il romanzo novecento’, Corriere Adriatico, 7 April 1934, ‘Passaggi a livello. Ancora del romanzo collettivo’, Tribuna, 19 April 1934. Among the debate’s many participants were Evola and Moravia, who spoke of a realist and heroic novel that could recount the epic of modern society. 48. Bottai, G., ‘Il libro e la cultura del popolo’, CF, a. XV, n. 17, 1 July 1937: 295; cfr. Nasti, A., ‘Piagnoni della cultura’, a. XV, n. 7, 1 February 1937: 97–9; and the response of Valilutti, S., ‘Problemi della cultura del Fascismo’, a. XV, n. 10, 15 March 1937: 151–52. 49. ‘Educazione e cultura popolare’, CF, a. XV, n. 16, 15 June 1937: 273–75. 50. ‘Cultura e Civiltà’, CF, a. XV, n. 19, 1 August 1937: 334–36. 51. Publishers were requested to submit three copies of their proposals: one to the press office of the head of the government (at that time Ciano), one to the Direzione generale di Pubblica Sicurezza (the Directorate of Public Security), and a third which was kept by the prefecture for the corresponding press office to review, cfr. Fabre (1998: 22–28). 52. Modified with the subsequent, more detailed circular A.I. 47 of 3 June. 53. A copy of the protocol is conserved in the Sonzogno Archive in Milan. 54. Frank was included on the list of prohibited authors in 1942, cfr. Fabre (1998: 476) 55. Fabre (2007: 49–55). 56. FAAM, FAM, file Ministero della Stampa e Propaganda, Mondadori to Ciano, 27 April 1935 and 3 May 1935, Milan to Rome, typewritten. 57. For a complete list, see Decleva (1993: 183–84). The first books were banned in September 1933: Bohème ’900 by Ronald Dorgelès and Lederer’s Storia di una notte and La signorina Giorgio, translated by Barbara Allason, for featuring a suicide and an abortion. They had been intended for publication as part of the ‘Palma’ series. Cfr. Rundle (1999). 58. FAAM, FAM, file Spaini Spaini to Mondadori, Rome, 27 April, typewritten.

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59. No. 1135, 25 March 1938 ACS, MI, DGPS, DAGR, Massime b. S4 b. 103 A (provv.) f. S4 B5 ‘Traduzione e diffusione nel Regno di opere di autori Stranieri’, in Fabre (1998: 32, n. 1), cf. Fabre (2007: 27–28) for the measures undertaken prior to this point. 60. In 1938, three Arnold Zweig volumes edited by Mondadori were prohibited, but the French and German editions remained in circulation (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, Mondadori to Gherardo Casini, Milan, 14 May 1938, typewritten). 61. ‘L’autarchia editoriale e le traduzioni’, GdL, a. LI, n. 5, 29 January 1938: 33. 62. C. M., ‘Le traduzioni’, GdL, a. LI, n. 16, 16 April 1938: 121, cfr. Rundle for details of the campaign (2001: 108–23). 63. A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 33, categ. 044, reference file T.E.L publishing house. 64. A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 154, categ. 044, reference file Genio publishing house. 65. In order: A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 78, categ. 044, 23 January 1939, reference file Bompiani publishing house; A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 78, categ. 044, 5 May 1939, reference file Bompiani publishing house; A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 78, categ. 044, 20 June 1939, reference file Bompiani publishing house; A.S.Mi, cart. 78, categ. 044, 20 December 1939 and 6 February 1940, reference file Bompiani publishing house; A.S.Mi, cart. 282, categ. 044, 2 February 1942, reference file Bompiani publishing house. On Montale’s translation practices, see Bozzola (1991) and Marcenaro (1991). 66. A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref., 2° versamento, cart. 282, categ. 044, reference file Mondadori publishing house. 67. A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 282, categ. 044, reference file Mondadori publishing house. 68. AB, file Caldwell, without date, typewritten, and AB, file Cronin, without date, typewritten.

References Albonetti, Pietro (ed.) (1994), Non c’è tutto nei romanzi. Leggere romanzi stranieri in una casa editrice negli anni ‘30 (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori). Barone, Giulia and Armando Petrucci (1976), Primo: non leggere. Biblioteche e pubblica lettura in Italia dal 1981 ai giorni nostri (Milan: Marzotta). Betri, Maria Luisa (1991), Leggere, obbedire, combattere: le biblioteche popolari durante il fascismo (Milan: Franco Angeli).

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Billiani, Francesca (ed.) (2007), Translation and Censorship. National Contexts and Diverse Media (Manchester: St. Jerome). Borruso, Edoardo (1983), ‘Aspetti della nascita dell’industria culturale’, in AA. VV (1983), Editoria e cultura a Milano tra le due guerre (1920–1940). Atti del convegno, Milano 19-20-21 febbraio 1981 (Milan: Fondazione Arnoldo e Alberto Mondadori): 78–86. Bozzola, Sergio (1991), ‘Note su Pavese e Vittorini traduttori di Steinbeck’, Studi novecenteschi, XVIII (41): 63–101. Chiarini, Luigi (1936), Fascismo e letteratura (Rome: Istituto Nazionale Fascista di Cultura). Decleva, Enrico (1993), Mondadori (Turin: Utet). Fabre, Giorgio (1998), L’elenco. Censura fascista, editoria ed autori ebrei (Turin: Silvio Zamorani). ——— (2007), ‘Fascism, Censorship and Translation’, in Francesca Billiani (ed.) (2007): 27–59. Giovannuzzi, Stefano (1999), Tempo di raccontare: tramonto del canone lirico e ricerca narrativa, 1939–1956 (Alessandria: Edizioni dell’Orso). Livolsi, Marino (1983), ‘Lettura e altri consumi culturali negli anni ’20–’40’, in AA. VV (1983): 61–77. Marcenaro, Giuseppe (1991), Un’amica di Montale. Vita di Lucia Rodocanachi (Milan: Camunia). Marchesini, Daniela (1993), ‘Città e campagna nello spettro dell’alfabetismo’, in Simonetta Soldani and Gabriele Turi (eds) (1993), Fare gli italiani. Storia e cultura nell’Italia contemporanea, vol. 1, (Bologna: il Mulino): 9–41. Patuzzi, Claudia (1978), Mondadori (Naples: Liguori). Pedullà, Gabriele (1997), ‘Gli anni del fascismo: imprenditoria privata e intervento statale’, in Gabriele Turi (ed.) (1997): 341–82. Rundle, Christopher (1999), ‘Publishing Translations in Mussolini’s Italy: a Case Study of Arnoldo Mondadori’, in Susan Bassnett, R. M. Bollettieri Bosinelli and M. Ulrych (eds), Textus. English Studies in Italy, XII (2): 427–42. ——— (2001), ‘The Permeable Police State. Publishing Translations in Fascist Italy’ (PhD thesis, University of Warwick). ——— (2019), Il vizio dell’esterofilia. Editoria e traduzioni nell’Italia fascista (Rome: Carocci). Santoro, Marco (1994), Storia del libro italiano (Milan: Editrice Bibliografica). Tranfaglia, Nicola and Albertina Vittoria (2000), Storia degli editori italiani. Dall’Unità alla fine degli anni Sessanta (Rome-Bari: Laterza). Turi, Gabriele (1995), Giovanni Gentile. Una biografia (Florence: Giunti).

CHAPTER 5

Versatile Publishing Projects (1938–1943)

Bompiani was founded in 1929; the publisher’s first commercial success came with the release of Cesare Zavattini’s Parliamo tanto di me which became one of the year’s bestsellers. It was seen as a modern publishing house concerned with current affairs, aided in part by the success of foreign titles such as Giacomo Prampolini’s version of René Fülöp’s Il volto del bolscevismo (1932), which featured a preface penned by the controversial Curzio Malaparte.1 Some of the most important publishing initiatives took shape during the war years: the Dizionario letterario delle opere e dei personaggi (1947) which grouped together the leading exponents of the Italian cultural world and aimed to offer a summa of modern culture, and the famous Americana collection (originally banned), an anthology which presented the fruits of the intense period of exploration of American literature undertaken by Pavese and Vittorini, along with Cecchi, Linati, Praz, Soldati and several other translators who remain largely unknown.2 Bompiani was a halfway house between Mondadori and Einaudi and sought to publish quality books for a diverse audience: its focus on American and English literature, rather than French, reflected the lengthy modernization process discussed in previous chapters. At Bompiani, translations mirrored social modernity and artistic and literary experimentation. The need to carve out a role within the market pushed the Milanese publishing house towards a distinctive policy which set it apart

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from those publishing houses focused on subtly resisting the impositions of the regime. Indeed, Bompiani’s project presupposed a progressive expansion of potential audiences and a need—which became particularly evident in the final years of the regime—for alternative publishing strategies which reflected modern culture; ‘to go beyond, if not survive’ Fascism. On 10 June 1944, one of the most prolific English to Italian translators, Carlo Izzo, wrote to Bompiani, clarifying the contemporary situation and inviting the publisher to establish a clear and unique editorial line at the dawn of a new era: ‘I would like to offer exemplary translations, and so should you […]. Nowadays in Italy there are millions of translators and thousands of publishers. One has to stand out’.3 How could Bompiani stand out ideologically, aesthetically, and culturally? By offering precisely the type of interdisciplinary cultural project that the vociani envisaged. The publishing house was at the centre of an intellectual community: Valentino Bompiani and Elio Vittorini surrounded themselves with a network of talented translators who were also writers, intellectuals or university professors: Pavese, Montale, Moravia, Savinio and Alvaro, Praz, Banfi, Zavattini, Bo and Cecchi, Lo Gatto, Pintor, Izzo and Camerino. Collaboration was fundamental to the design and development of Bompiani’s ‘quality’ book products and popular bestsellers, whilst translations rekindled debate on the novel form.

5.1 The Milanese Publishing Scene from the Late 1930s to the War Years The 1936 census no longer included a question regarding the population’s degree of literacy: presumably the regime wanted to conceal the fact that literacy rates showed no significant increase. Between 1932 and 1941, annual editorial production was registered at around 10,000 units and then fell to around 6316 in the following four years. After an initial drop in literary production between 1941 and 1942, the following three years saw literature increase proportionally in the total number of published volumes, reaching a peak of 29.73% in 1945 compared with 20.74% in 1932, giving us an average of around 22% for the period 1932– 1945. Translations progressively decreased from 912 in 1936 to 555 in 1941.4 The average print run for a novel was around 2000 copies; print runs of 5000 were rare and 20,000 sold copies would afford the author bestseller status. In the 1930s, twenty works exceeded 50,000 copies,

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seventeen of which were published before 1936. Until 1943, the bestselling text was Giorgio Pini’s Mussolini which far exceeded the 300,000 copies sold of Mimì Bluettte fiore del mio giardino by Guido Da Verona. The Commission for the Purging of Books was active between 1938 and 26 July 1940 and its staff were divided into two groups: those dealing with Italian books were on permanent contracts and a monthly salary of £1000, whilst those responsible for foreign authors were paid £100 and were hired on an ad hoc basis.5 From 1940 onwards, attempts were made to impose translation quotas—an initiative which sparked protest amongst publishers. Only in 1942 did the regime, at this point on the brink of collapse, succeed in imposing a quota that limited foreign texts to a maximum of 25% of a publisher’s output.6 Bompiani’s dialogue with the regime did not focus exclusively, nor openly, on the question of foreign literature but on the need to ‘build’ a culture for the people. In a letter dated 8 October 1940 to Alfieri’s successor as the Minister for Popular Culture, Alessandro Pavolini, in which Bompiani explained his latest publishing proposal, the ‘Un’ora’ series, he claimed his role as a publisher and as a citizen was to restore a level of dignity to popular literary production in terms of content and presentation. Once again, the agreement between Fascism and its institutions was a ‘visual’ phenomenon; a necessary bit of political theatre. National book production and public reading were seen as a key interest rather than a mere pastime in that the visibility of titles, on a national and international level, could have dangerous, hidden implications—particularly when the export of Italian titles abroad came into play.7 In a simple quid pro quo, Bompiani and Pavolini committed themselves to the task of ensuring a ‘healthy’ culture reached the masses whilst ‘negotiating’ censorship rules to publish titles such as Americana, which we will discuss presently. As Italy’s visibility on the international political stage increased, this relationship between Italian and foreign literature in the construction of cultural power structures was revealed in more explicit terms in an article on African colonial literature: ‘Literature, as everyone knows, is the most powerful and tenacious contributor to political action. Political genius creates empires; literature must inspire and nourish the colonial spirit, the imperial spirit. It is enough to think of Kipling’s work: the very powerful imperial function that Kipling’s texts performed’. Kipling had been one of the great publishing success stories of the 1920s, propagandistically re-framed to support politically aligned art and expansionist ambitions.8

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In a letter dated 16 January 1941, Minister Alessandro Pavolini wrote to Mondadori agreeing to act in accordance with all the ‘limitations and caution’ they had agreed upon and reassured the publisher that he had made appropriate provisions to ensure that: […] the examination of foreign works which have already been presented by various publishers to the Ministry proceeds promptly as recommended by the president of the Federation [of publishers], Vallechi, and I can assure you the current reviews will be completed as quickly as possible. (FAAM, FAM, file Minculpop, 18 January 1941, Pavolini to Mondadori, Rome, typewritten)

In May 1941, the situation was as follows: The distribution of foreign books is based on the principle of reciprocity, whilst the translation of works by authors from enemy countries or who exhibit political beliefs which contradict our own is prohibited, with the exception of classic texts or scientific/technical works. (GdL, ‘Il libro nella relazione del bilancio del Ministero della Cultura Popolare alla Camera’, a. LIV, n. 18, 3 May 1941: 83)

In 1942, Amadeo Tosti signed a list of 893 names of Italian and foreign authors, amongst which Jewish authors featured prominently, whose works were ‘unwelcome’ in Italy.9 Gide’s works had been sequestrated in 1937, Huxley’s in 1940, whilst ‘Paul’ Dos Passos, Thomas Mann, John Steinbeck, Virginia ‘Wolff’ and Woolf, and ‘Jacob’ Wassermann featured on the new list of banned authors. In that same year Pavolini amended the censorship laws to enable the confiscation of translated titles which had been published prior to the war and introduced a new screening process and quotas for translations of literary, political, philosophical and scientific works which had been exempt from previous regulations. For example, whilst Schnitzler’s Girotondo (La Ronde, 1897) had been sequestrated in 1940 the Italian versions of his other works remained in circulation. The circular (no. 23148) issued on 24 April 1943 banning the publication of detective novels set publishers on edge as it directly affected their most popular product and the bulk of their translations; it was now only a matter of months before the fall of the regime.10

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Compromise and Resistance

Issues between Bompiani and the Fascist regime did not arise over the publication of foreign literature per se but were related to specific texts and sectors that could be considered ‘dangerous’ for the people. This danger varied according to the social class and educational level of the target reader; in 1942, children’s literature was deemed to merit particularly close observation on account of its vulnerable audience, as evidenced in the following statement issued by Directorate for the Italian Press, Division IV (Direzione Generale della Stampa Italiana, Divisione IV) in 1942: Following a review undertaken by the Commission for children’s literature, the Ministry points out that the problem, in itself frustrating, represented by such a large number of translated foreign titles is exacerbated by the mediocrity characterizing the vast majority of these works which are often held in low esteem even in the countries in which they were originally published. We have also discovered that almost all of these texts have been adapted, reworked, rewritten with amendments that are as radical as they are arbitrary. This is highly inappropriate; not only are we dealing with poor-quality literature which is of no educational value or benefit to young Italians, but such editing is to the detriment of works by genuine artists. In these cases, the respect commanded by such important literary figures should prohibit any editing.

Upon the basis of these considerations and in accordance with the recommendations of the relevant advisory bodies, the Ministry declares that: 1) Only translations—or reprints—of foreign children’s literature with evident unique and indisputable artistic merit (and which, of course, reflect the spiritual climate in which young Italians are raised) may be published. These works must, in essence, integrate and enrich all that our own writers offer; 2) Translations must be presented in parallel editions which feature the original text—in full or relevant extracts—in order to put a stop to manipulative editing which essentially produces arbitrary counterfeits. When it is not possible to reproduce the original in its entirety, this must be

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clearly indicated—also as a guarantee for the reader—and communicated in advance with all the relevant details to the Ministry; 3) Two—or at the most, three—translated editions of any foreign work are more than sufficient: a luxury version, a more affordable version, a popular version. Currently we have cases of fifteen or twenty versions of the same book: this puts national book production in a state net of inferiority, despite its merits. The Ministry will review the various existing versions or new proposals and grant permission to those which it deems offer the highest artistic and editorial quality according to the relevant category (luxury or affordable). It is therefore in publishers’ interests to clearly define the criteria guiding their production in line with the three categories mentioned above. Italian publishers, who aware of the need of a radical cleansing of the literature our young people will read and are, as always, keen to collaborate with the regime’s efforts to improve the educational tools of the next generation, are invited to carefully consider the above regulations. (FDG, file Ministero della Cultura Popolare to Publishers of Children’s literature; 6 August 1942, a copy was also sent for reference to the Prefects (I prefetti del Regno) and the Fascist National Federation of Publishers, Rome, typewritten)

Bad translations and manipulative and arbitrary editorial interventions were prohibited, officially; only translation proposals of rather vaguely defined works of note which promised to enrich the cultural heritage of Italian youth would be authorized. Publishers were advised that only three translated versions of any text could be printed, but there were no clear guidelines as to the actual distinction between these categories in terms of cost and, interestingly, the penultimate paragraph neglects to mention the ‘popular’ category entirely. Publishers could carry on translating, even within the ‘dangerous’ sector of literature which addressed young minds, providing they did so accurately and prudently. In other words, in 1942, the regime did not try to totally eliminate Italian ‘esterophilia’, but to present itself as the ‘guarantor’ of the country’s spiritual life. Bompiani had launched a series of books for children, ‘Libri d’acciaio’, which included Erich Kästner’s Emilio e i detectives: romanzo per ragazzi and Antonio e Virgoletta (1932),11 La classe volante (1934) and Emilio e i tre gemelli (1936), all translated by Lavinia Mazzucchetti, and Fabian (1933),12 translated by Carlo Coardi.13 On 10 May 1933, Kästner’s

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books were amongst those burned in Berlin’s Opera Square by university students on account of their ‘moral decay’ (in 1942 his name would appear on Tosti’s list).14 As Ludovica Braida explains, the contemporary publication of Bompiani’s ‘Libri scelti’ series, which featured political and historical volumes in line with the regime’s politics—such as the anti-Bolshevik Giudizio sul bolscevismo by Gaetano Ciocca (1933) and La minaccia del commercio rosso by Hubert Knickerbocker (1932, Der rote Handel lockt 1931), as well as Arnaldo Frateili’s account of the impact of Nazism, La Germania in camicia bruna (1937)—served to counterbalance the exceptions granted to children’s literature. Publishing under Fascism was often an integrated system in which the producer of a certain textuality (the translator, the publisher, the writer) filtered, adjusted, and disguised what could reach the reader. When these various agents did not act shrewdly, the regime’s censors intervened.15 Although the potential danger foreign culture represented increased as the ongoing international conflict intensified, the new Minister made concrete gestures of goodwill towards the Bompiani publishing house and its initiatives. Pavolini took care to specify, for example, that his reservations regarding the publication of Americana were related ‘to the current situation’; he did not refuse outright to grant permission for its publication but instructed Bompiani to postpone the volume’s release until ‘a more appropriate moment’, and offered to purchase copies of the collections of classics to offset the financial damage this delay would cause.16 After the Americana anthology was banned in 1941, Emilio Cecchi was invited to write a ‘negative’ preface to the volume in which the distinctive aesthetic and ideological characteristics of American literature were outlined and thus officially disregarded, enabling its publication in 1942 Cecchi’s introduction was designed to counterbalance Vittorini’s accompanying commentary on the various periods of American literature featured in the anthology: the foreword deliberately clashed with the objectives of the anthology which was in fact a sort of meta-novel, a polyphony of the voices of new and previous generations of Americanists which revealed the inherent contradictions in the discovery of America. In a letter to Vittorini addressing doubts he had expressed about Americana, Cecchi identified two types of target readers of this anthology:

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That just leaves your objection to the note at the opening of the first commentary with both of our names. I don’t think we actually need that note. (And I had never thought about it). My name appears in the volume as prefacer, yours as editor and translator; it is obvious that we both had a hand in the commentaries: that is, it is obvious to an informed reader and a lay reader won’t care. (AB, file Cecchi, 30 September 1942)

Correspondence between the pair reveals the intricate dynamics of the propaganda strategy and editorial rationale behind the publication of Americana.17 Cecchi is aware that his preface would not change the opinion of either type of reader: an ‘informed’ reader would not be led astray by the conflicting positions of the two critics and would still be able to form an independent opinion, whilst an ‘ordinary’ lay reader would only be interested in the text itself, rather than the accompanying critical interpretations. Compromise agreed, publication guaranteed, status quo unaltered: because both types of readers had known this literature for decades and were too ‘used’ to it to be conditioned. The censored anthology would assume an ideologically neutral value which did not affect its literary, cultural or aesthetic meaning and guaranteed it a prominent position in the space occupied by American literature. In this episode, we see a careful, but not autocratic regime which did not fear foreign competition if it could benefit from it. Only a regime aware of how foreign literature functioned as an integral part of culture for and of the ‘people’ as well as the collective imagination could tolerate the revised anthology. Fascism’s aesthetic subversion of the 1920s had become propaganda: on this point Pavolini could not be misunderstood. Out of the American authors, it was only really the second-generation naturalists who were openly opposed. Whilst for young Italian scholars these writers represented the most obvious and uproarious examples of a break with the national tradition (though this acclaim would fade rather quickly), for censors and propaganda agents they were an easy target, given the stark contrast between their thematic repertoire and official (and unofficial) Fascist moral values. In the case of an author like Steinbeck, who was widely translated, opinions varied on the level of threat his novels represented and the amount of cutting they required. Cecchi wrote to Bompiani that he was in favour of publishing In Dubious Battle for the text’s marked anti-communism, whilst Montale declared he had ‘deliberately suppressed any mention of communism’ in his translation.18 Here we see two of the most significant Americanists in Italy

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taking different tacks: Cecchi read Steinbeck’s book as a denunciation of communism, whereas Montale ensured he eliminated any direct references to communism, given that Steinbeck ‘more often refers to it as “the radical party”’ (ibid.). Selective editing became a precautionary measure that could determine the positive or negative fate of a text: editorial work in the 1930s consisted in part of modifying passages of texts which would not be appreciated by the authorities.19 Let’s consider some practical examples of such editing on new bestsellers and classic texts. According to the anonymous reader report of Cronin’s Hatter’s Castle (1931) translated by Aldo Camerino and Carlo Izzo in 1946 with the title Il castello del cappellaio and published as part of the ‘Letteraria’ collection, it was not so much the abortion mentioned in the text which risked arousing ‘censorial’ misgivings, as it was unintentional, but the suicide at the end of the novel.20 The proposed conclusion was typical of the aesthetic compromise selective editing could offer: ‘a few lines could be sacrificed and perhaps a few words could be replaced’, in a way which would enable the reader to understand the ‘true’ ending and balance the need to respect artistic integrity as well as the censorship rules. Censorial woes also afflicted works with ostensibly little subversive potential, as we see in the case of Geoffrey Chaucer’s I racconti di Canterbury (The Canterbury Tales ): the text was blocked in 1943 due to an increasingly Anglophobe climate, only to be published again in 1946 in the ‘Letteraria’ series.21 Similarly, Carlo Izzo’s translation of Robinson was subject to careful scrutiny.22 In addition to the progressive spread of Anglophobic sentiments, publishing houses had to act with the utmost caution when publishing foreign material to avoid obvious contradictions.23 Different publishers undertook different survival strategies: some, including Bompiani, Sozogno and Sperling & Kupfer vigorously selfcensored their catalogues, others, like Einaudi, carefully balanced the subversive potential of the foreign text by publishing classics whose copyrights had expired and which did not have a contemporary appeal, as we will see in the following chapter. It was primarily a matter of establishing the potential contemporary interpretation of any political message in the original text. Spaini wrote to Einaudi on 31 July 1941 regarding the translation of one of Schiller’s works which dealt with the Dutch Revolt for the new series ‘Scrittori di storia’:

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My Dear Einaudi, After hesitating for three months, I must finally declare that the Schiller text [The history of the Dutch Revolt, ed.] is untranslatable. To avoid offending the Church, Germany, the Kingdom, the Empire, the Army and the Navy, I have had to make so many cuts that practically only the title remains – and that is already remarkably heretical. I’m sorry to renege on this, but I am now convinced that ultimately the book would be unpublishable. (AE, file Spaini, typewritten, partially cited in Mangoni 1999: 22, n. 69)

And again, on 6 November 1941, Spaini to Einaudi: Dear Einaudi, Today I sent the Ministry my report in favour of publishing ‘Volk ohne Raum’. I suggested cutting only the discussion of the Italian intervention in the war of 1915 (pp. 1029–1030) and, as necessary, the passage regarding a massacre carried out by the Portuguese between p. 1169 and p. 1194 […] please alert the translator to act with utmost prudence here and to cut any dangerous phrases. Otherwise we’ll all be in trouble, you, him, and me. (AE, file Spaini, typewritten)24

Einaudi encouraged its translators in particular to consider whether and how they could avoid dangerous misinterpretations, suggesting ‘selfcensorship’, a survival tactic, was an act of ‘personal responsibility’, undertaken by the translator forced to contend with the omniscient eye of the censorship authorities.25 The vociano had expressed the same reservations in another letter in which he mentioned the opportunity to introduce Italians to Schiller’s prose, but also its potential political implications (26 February 1938): […] I thought about translating ‘The history of the Dutch Revolt’ by Schiller, of introducing perhaps the most interesting aspect of a poet who is largely unknown in Italy; the prose writer, the moralist and politician who even in his doctrinal activity exhibits a Dionysian fervour […]. Schiller is undoubtedly a democrat and a republican, in that book he is fascinated by the idea of a population fighting against tyranny for their freedom, but in all this there is nothing of the nineteenth century or the Spring of Nations […]. For all these reasons the book is very readable, and I have thought for many years it would be nice to translate it. But then I think, at the end of the day it’s still a history book, even if Schiller is the author: is there an audience for this kind of text? A question for the publisher! We could

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also do a nice Hoffman volume – a collection of various short stories, in particular that ‘Principessa Brambilla’ which Borgese wanted to include, as I advised, in the ‘Romantica’ series, and I don’t know what happened there. Kleist’s stories (short novels) would make another great collection, if I remember well, I think they may have been translated fifteen years or so ago, but I can’t think who by. Let me know what you think of all of this […]. (AE, file Spaini, ms)

Hoffman was a more desirable translation option than Schiller, avoiding the risk of offending the various state powers listed along with the Church, but also any accusations of propagating ‘anti-authoritarian’ spirit.26 In the case of Einaudi, a preventative and censorship was negotiated through less ‘safe’ channels.27 It was Mario Alicata who was in charge of Einaudi’s Rome office—where several key executives had moved in 1942—and who worked personally with Bottai, the Primato editorial team, and Casini himself.28 On 29 January 1942, he wrote to the Turin office: In this regard have been told by my friend Gaeta that Croatian literature in translation would be very welcome, and they have some very good writers. It seems that Mondadori has struck gold with a novel by Mile Budak (Ognijste) which I’ve heard is excellent: you should get in touch with Dante Di Serra (R. Legazione Italy-Bratislava) to see what you can find either by Budak or another Croatian writer, for example Ivo Andriic who I know is very good. (AE, file Alicata, 29 January 1942, Alicata to Einaudi, Rome, typewritten)

As texts which were in some way linked to the current political situation of the nation were now too risky, it was obviously wiser to look elsewhere, in allied countries, Alicata reiterated a month later, citing his conversation with Casini regarding the ‘Universale’ series: ‘With friendly references to Coppola, however, he advised me to continue publishing primarily our own classics, and writers from friendly and neutral countries, and to insert other authors carefully, without advertising. He made a real point about not publicizing these authors’.29 On 20 March 1942, Gaeta, with whom Alicata was on friendly terms, ensured that permission was granted to reprint a translation of the ‘lesbian and Jewish’ Gertrude Stein, provided that it was clearly stated that this was a reprinted edition (though a reprint of the anti-Napoleonist

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Rémusat, despite the discerning editorial amendments discussed above, was prohibited for unspecified ‘extra-ministerial’ reasons).30 A similar situation occurred two months later on 22 May 1942. Alicata explained to Einaudi that he had asked for Jung’s volume to be sent to the Accademia; he was relying on the Ministry’s rather ignorant readers overlooking the scientific and cultural relevance of this work.31 On 4 September 1942, Einaudi confessed to Alicata his well-founded apprehension that once the publishing house definitively lost its internal Ministry contacts, their requests for authorization would increasingly encounter a certain ‘coldness’: ‘I am getting more and more worried about not being granted ministerial authorization. My impression is that since the usual, regular contact we have with Ministry officials has decreased, they consider our proposals rather coldly’ (AE, file Einaudi, cited in Mangoni 1999: 139). Regardless of whether or not individual texts were granted clearance from the censorship authorities, the point to note is that, both for Bompiani and Einaudi, surviving the Fascist regime meant carefully gauging the correct cultural, aesthetic and political position to assume at any given point. Often, this was a delicate balance between engaging in some level of dialogue with the regime, explicit forms of self-censorship, and the accurate calculation of the symbolic capital of a given text and its exchange value within the field. The presentation of a text could be a determining factor in preventing and circumventing censorship, even for texts usually considered to be ‘classics’; here Alicata is reporting back to the Einaudi headquarters in Turin on one of his Ministry meetings: I spoke with Perrone from the Children’s Literature Department. COPPERFIELD must be examined to see if it can be included in the list of ‘recommended’ books and translations for libraries, for educational and other reasons, which the Ministry is preparing. This applies to books we could potentially publish in an ‘adult’ series, but which children may read. Of course, in that case we need only request authorization from Division III (Tosti). (AE, file Alicata, 24 October 1942, Alicata to Einaudi, Rome, typewritten)

At the end of 1942, the choice of title, selective editing, careful presentation and the name of an aesthetically and politically acceptable translator as guarantor (such as Cecchi for Americana) all helped increase the

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chances of a publishing request being authorized. Once again, Alicata at Einaudi provides a clear insight into these procedures: For Stevenson’s EPISTOLARY I think you would be ill-advised to submit the two books to the Ministry, it would be better to present the selected translation directly in due course. Giving the examiner such a vast amount of material means he may be confused or pick up precisely on passages that may not be included in the translation. If you agree on this, I would certainly entrust Cecchi with the translation: let me know what I should offer him. The same can be said for Brâtome, I think: presenting the complete text would almost certainly mean rejection, whilst a translation which has already excluded the most obscene passages should not raise too many issues. Please let me know your thoughts on this, and if you agree, let me know if you want me to sort out a translator. (AE, Alicata to Einaudi, fasc. Alicata, Rome, 20 November 1942, typewritten)

In the final years of the war, the regime adopted a stricter censorship policy. A law was passed on 18 January 1943 to check and limit translations. On the 8 February Gaetano Polverelli replaced Alessandro Pavolini as the Minister for Popular Culture and a few days later the Directorate for the Italian Press sent out a report which specified the aim to limit ‘the invasion of translations of foreign works inflating our market, often disrespectful to Italy, almost always mediocre, in order to enable the regeneration of a healthy national production’,32 whilst on other fronts measures were somewhat ‘relaxed’. The same report continues as follows: The innumerable translations of mediocre or less than mediocre books are already subject to severe scrutiny in order to eliminate all disruptive elements. This revision has a political function. But the political nature of these books is considered also, and above all, in those areas that ostensibly seem distant from the political field: in everything that reflects a particular orientation for the key issues with which the regime is concerned; be it religious beliefs or the health of the institution of the family; love for one’s country or the nobility of honest work; a sense of community or the disciplined, tenacious spirit which is the foundation of a Fascist education…[…] of the 60% of foreign works proposed for translation or reprinting that were rejected, only 8% can be said to be of good quality. (Cesari, [ACS, file Minculpop, envelope 29, 15 February 1943] 1978: 95, 97–98)

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On 29 April 1943 Camillo Sbarbaro wrote to Einaudi condemning these translations as ‘immoral and intolerable’ even on an aesthetic level, therefore proposing again the same terms that publishers had been using since the twenties: Dear Einaudi, I confirm I have received from Vieusseux ‘La Peau de chagrin’ [de Balzac, 1831, ed.] (one of the very first editions) and I have already started work on the translation. Some sentences will have to be softened, also from an artistic perspective (in the first pages there’s a sort of ode to suicide): provided you agree, of course. We will definitely need to include some explanatory footnotes. (AE, file Sbarbaro, 29 April 1943, typewritten)

Despite the time that had passed, publishing rhetoric seemed to have remained largely unchanged. In a letter to the Ministry for Popular Culture dated 24 May 1943, Bompiani promised, contrary to his actions up to that point, to give greater prominence to Italian authors (but clearly did not).33

5.3

Bompiani’s versatile collections

Unlike Einaudi and Mondadori, Bompiani had no dedicated foreign literature series. Foreign authors were instead published alongside Italian writers in thematically organized collections. Foreign literature was particularly prominent in eight series: ‘Letteraria’ (1930–), ‘Romanzi storici’ (1932–1938), ‘Grandi ritorni’ (1938–1963), ‘Pantheon letterario’ (1940–1969); ‘Pantheon teatrale’ (1941–1955), ‘Corona’ (1942–1949), ‘Centonovelle’ (1943–1966) and ‘La zattera’ (1943–1945).34 Conceived as a wide-ranging series whose titles would appeal to diverse audiences, the long-running Letteraria’ was Bompiani’s first series. It was launched in 1930 with Vita e morte di Adria e dei suoi figli by Bontempelli and Giro lungo per la primavera by Borgese, two titles which distinguished the collection as one focused on reconstructing the novel genre. In that first year three Italian titles were featured, whilst in 1931 John Erskine appeared with Lancillotto e suo figlio translated by Giacomo Prampolini and in 1932, three out of the six titles published were foreign texts. Commercial success came with Silvino Gigante’s translation of the Hungarian writer Ferec Körmendi’s Un’avventura a Budapest (A Budapesti Kaland, 1932) which was reprinted thirteen times.35

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1933 was a great year for foreign writers who comprised seven of the eleven titles published; from this point Italian and foreign titles were more or less balanced in number.36 What is striking about this series is its mix of multiple genres and narrative typologies: from the bestsellers of Körmendi, Lehmann and Cronin to André Malraux existential-political novel La condizione umana (La condition humaine, Prix Goncourt in 1933), translated in 1934 by Arturo Ferrarin through the most promising Italian authors: Alvaro, Brancati, Cardarelli, Cecchi, Moravia, Savinio and Vittorini. Out of many significant releases, it is particularly worth noting the 1937 publication of Moravia’s L’imbroglio, L’uomo è forte by Alvaro in 1938, Incontri d’amore and Itinerario italiano by Alvaro, as well as La mascherata by Moravia, Conversazione in Sicilia by Vittorini, Lettere di una novizia by Piovene in 1941, and in 1943 Gli anni perduti by Brancati and Casa “la vita” by Savinio. Like the small-scale publishers of the 1920s, but with an increased critical and aesthetic awareness, Bompiani combined foreign titles with Italian texts to generate the productively competitive paradigm that had been sought since La Voce. In terms of balancing genres and subgenres, enduring sellers and short-lived trends, highbrow and popular literature; of balancing compromise with resistance, Valentino Bompiani proved to be a skilled publisher. Alongside the ‘Letteraria’, the year of the celebrations for the tenth anniversary of the regime, 1932, saw the launch of ‘Romanzi storici’, which would be replaced in 1938 by the ‘Grandi ritorni’ series, managed initially by Enrico Radius, with twenty-one foreign titles out of thirtythree published. The documentary titles which featured in this series were all first editions: together with Napoleon’s biographical memoir and Vittorini’s famous translation of Defoe’s A Journal of the Plague Year (1722, GR, 1940), La peste di Londra, we also find Manzoni’s Storia incompiuta della rivoluzione francese and Magalotti’s Lettere odorose; unconventional choices which marked Bompiani as a publisher who could offer something beyond the parameters of the traditional literary canon:37 You should already know the books featured in the ‘GRANDI RITORNI’ collection, but you don’t because they haven’t been reprinted for decades, or they weren’t translated clearly and fluidly, or they were published as weighty, expensive tomes that were impractical and unaffordable. In the ‘GRANDI RITORNI’ collection, an exclusive selection of hitherto unknown authentic masterpieces of narrative literature is presented

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alongside memoirs, biographies and other dynamic, illuminating and unprejudiced documentary narratives.38

Bompiani essentially lists here the characteristics commonly attributed to foreign literature: documentary aim, affordable price, being part of the common heritage of a growing public of readers. Consider also this anonymous reader report of Cazotte’s Il diavolo in amore (Le diable amoureux, 1765), translated by Cesare Gardini, Bompiani’s translation consultant (GR, 1939): A novel which, beneath the apparent frivolity, is full of hidden meanings and summarizes that nineteenth-century mania for the fantastic and the cabalistic; so important was it to be rationalistic that it was good taste to appear as much of an infidel as was possible […]. Cazotte’s book is one which, in order to be appreciated, requires a palate familiar with all the most delicate literary morsels: it possess all the exquisite elegance of the era in which it was born. (AB, file Cazotte, typewritten)

Cazotte’s work ought to appeal to the contemporary public because of its sense of mystery, its ambiguous message and the psychological depth of ostensibly superficial characters who in fact possess a complex and multifaceted inner richness. The reader’s report defines it as a ‘cabalistic novel’ whose rich and polymorphic narrative fabric will grip readers. Born at the start of the collapse of the regime in 1943, in a period of extreme economic difficulty, the ‘Centonovelle’ presented internationally acclaimed short stories, including Balzac, Keller, Mörike, Barbey d’Aurevilly, De Coster, Flaubert, Kleist, Maupassant, Musset and Villier de l’Isle-Adam.39 Titles for these series were chosen with the aim of offering ‘solid literature which can claim a space even in more frenetic days […] of daily life’.40 Like Bompiani’s other series, ‘Centonovelle’ proposed largely unknown Italian and foreign texts: Each of these high-quality volumes of modern design is presented and interpreted by specialist experts and artists. Selected prose is featured alongside complete works. The fidelity and elegance of eminent writers guarantees first-class translations. And in the great race between nations, Italy, the first country to engage in such project, will not fail to affirm the value of its long tradition [back cover of Centonovelle].

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As a publisher Bompiani privileged an eccentric range of texts, genres and media, a close link between Italian and foreign literature, but above all, experimentation, be it in the form of new titles or reinterpretations of classic titles. But which readers did Bompiani have in mind? And where did the publisher see this project in relation to highbrow and popular culture, Italian tradition and foreign modernity?

5.4

Comparing Translators

Bompiani relied on a group of expert translators, fulfilling Vittorini’s wish that Americana be produced solely by translator-writers, but also the broader aspiration for the creation of a collaborative network of the country’s brightest intellectual forces which could prepare Italians for the entry of new currents of thought (which were yet to arrive in Italy or had only trickled through in the various ways discussed thus far), en masse after the war.41 Eugenio Montale was one of Bompiani’s key collaborators,42 though he always maintained a rather disinterested stance in his work as a translator. Indeed, Vittorini tended to prefer translations by writers who, despite being ‘less authoritative’ as translators, offered more ‘appealing’ interpretations.43 For example, although the aesthetical tone of the classic Russian writer Turgenev’s work meant it could not promise a large readership, the quality of the text required an ‘expert stylist’ who could extract the poesy of the original and at the same time infuse the source text with his own poetic material.44 Similarly, in a letter to Carlo Emilio Gadda: Dear Carlo Emilio, Thank you for letting me know that you intend to resume working on Arnim’s play on Monday. But please, this time, do finish it. Yours is the only chapter missing from the Teatro tedesco. […] It would be an insult to our friendship, to the esteem in which you are held by Bompiani, and to the all the readers of Il mondo com’è in Narratori Spagnoli. Besides, it should bring you great satisfaction to know that your version will be like Ugo Foscolo’s translation of Sterne. You say that the fee agreed almost two years ago no longer corresponds to today’s cost of living. But increasing your remuneration would not be an issue for the publishing house. Ask for yourself. (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988, 30 October 1942: 392–93)

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Inscribing the name of a writer on a translation was a form of quality assurance that helped to create a loyal audience who could read the foreign text with the stylistic model of the Italian prose of the translator in mind. Versions which minimized stylistic redundancies and aestheticization continued to be favoured: Dear Izzo, There is another job to do: the translation of Cronin’s ‘HATTER’S CASTLE’. The Gollancz edition is 636 pages: too long. Someone who worked for us a while ago examined the book and indicated some cuts in pencil. I am not sure if they are actually the passages which most need cutting, but the book must be reduced to five hundred pages to match our other titles and eliminate all the nineteenth century stylistics and rhetoric, which will only enhance its artistic value. (AB, file Izzo, 25 November 1943, typewritten)

‘Authorial’ boundaries, when it comes to translations, are particularly blurred, so much so that they are easily violated to reshape works according to the dominant artistic trends of the moment, not only in ideological terms: to make a work generically ‘more suited to its audience’s needs’, to ‘improve’ the original prose, and to introduce caesuras to ‘prune’ the stylistic indulgence which now seemed passé. On 22 January 1944, following the collapse of the Fascist regime, Carlo Izzo wrote to Bompiani regarding Hatter’s Castle: But this is not about reviewing a book, but rather to share my opinion from a publishing perspective. And from this point of view, this seems to me a work that will certainly be appreciated by the public. It has an appeal, certainly not a very modern one, which the narrative sustains throughout. […]. A few minor details can easily be edited, I would say practically instinctively. But I do not think it is advisable to make excessive cuts. (AB, file Izzo, typewritten)

Vittorini intervened frequently and controversially in the translators’ work,45 but violations of the original were justifiable when they helped meet the desire expressed by the public for ‘narrative dynamism’. Even a ‘great’ classic such as Jonathan Wild could be modernized, cut and manipulated if this intervention makes the prose better adapted to the needs of an increasingly varied target audience.

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Competing with Einaudi

The most obvious competition in the publishing world in 1942 was between Einaudi’s ‘Universale’ series and Bompiani’s ‘Corona’. Both were presented as new, sophisticated versions of the pioneering ‘universal’ series of the early twentieth century, with updated content, and featuring numerous foreign novels for the modern public. The increase in ‘universal’ series—those deemed suitable for all types of readers—was widely discussed. For the ‘Corona’, a selection of readings ‘crowned’ as indispensable in every reader’s cultural development as stated on the back cover of each title, Vittorini claimed he was inspired by the ‘Universale Sonzogno’. A growth in the reading public and the desire to further expand the market had encouraged publishing houses to reintroduce old series in a new format that, despite the publisher’s promises, did not prove popular, but was modern and sophisticated.46 That said, it is important to bear in mind that publishing in the war was concerned with exploring alternative solutions which could reduce the production and sales costs of a book. The reintroduction of universal series was a phenomenon justified as an evolution of the publishing market (which prompted several publishing houses to choose this format to offer the reader both classic and modern texts) as well as a key means of shaping, on the one hand, a Fascist popular culture, but, on the other, a culture which could also go beyond its limits; as stated the columns of Primato: ‘In the collection of foreign writers presented in its first 20 volumes, ‘Corona’ now includes Melville’s latest story, La storia di Billy Budd, and a picturesque adventurous narrative by Nicola Ljescov, Il viaggiatore incantato. [….] ‘Corona’ will also offer selected operettas edited according to the most modern tastes; in short, the series will experiment with the ‘fundamentals’ of elite and exclusive culture to see if they have any relevance to wider audience’.47 In a letter dated 4 May 1942, Corrado Alvaro, one of the publishing house’s writer-translators, protested that the plan for the series as it stood seemed too abstract and, therefore, likely to be of limited use to readers.48 It was Vittorini’s intention, as editor, that the collection should be of a popular nature; ‘popular’ not merely in the sense of a form of culture aimed at the people, but one that would act as a stimulus for reflection and invitation to read different literature. Although he claimed that the ‘Universale Sonzogno’ was the model for his various collections, the reader of the ‘Corona’ was in fact the result of a long process of upheaval

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which had dramatically affected the publishing sector and altered relationships between writers, intellectuals and the book market. Comparing the ‘Corona’ with the ‘Universale Sonzogno’ enables us to track the change that had taken place in the reception of foreign literature. Vittorini envisaged a reader who he could help develop, one located at an intermediate stage between the ‘Universale Sonzogno’ and the ‘Corona’. The former relied on popular bestsellers, the only titles which were really successful, not because of their affordable prices but also due to the variety of texts on offer. The volumes Vittorini presented, on the other hand, sought dialogue with a more ‘versed’ readership (significantly, the series was also more expensive than the Sonzogno—each title was priced at fifteen lire) for whom reading was a continual discovery; a ‘Corona’ reader was one who desired more than just popular bestsellers, a reader who had become ‘conversant’, and would continue to develop his ‘familiarity’, with an increasingly broad and diverse spectrum of publishing proposals.49 Many of the texts selected by Vittorini, such as García Lorca’s Nozze di sangue (Bodas de sangre, 1932), or Valéry’s Gli incanti (Charmes, 1922), both published in 1942, were not expected to be immediately successful. On 23 January 1945, Camillo Sbarbaro wrote to Bompiani advising him against harking back to naturalism by translating Zola or Goncourt and proposed instead the Bergsonian critic, Albert Thibaudet, who had written an influential essay on Flaubert (1922).50 Along with nineteenth-century literature, neglected Italian and European texts from the eighteenth century featured prominently in the ‘Corona’. The Italian eighteenth century had been the heyday of the experimental novel (prior to its codification by the Manzonian model), which was represented in the series by Ugo Foscolo’s Il gazzettino del bel mondo and Didimo Chierico e altri racconti, La gazzetta veneta by Gasparo Gozzi, Lettere dall’Inghilterra by Gasparo Angiolini, and a largely unknown novella by Goethe, La bella genovese (Die Novelle des Prokurators ).51 Ample space was also granted to nineteenth-century Italian texts at the margins of canonicity; Delle cinque piaghe della santa Chiesa by Antonio Rosmini, L’eredità by Mario Pratesi, and even the Piedmontese scapigliatura movement, with Le ‘figurine’ by Giovanni Faldella, were included alongside the lesser-known works of canonical authors such as Alessandro Manzoni’s Storia della colonna infame and Giacomo Leopardi’s Memorie della mia vita. Under Vittorini’s direction, the ‘Corona’ maintained an experimental editorial line which affirmed modernity as a renewal of narrative forms

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and a diversification of the literary canon. An editorial published on 1 July 1942 and entitled ‘Libri ed editori’ compared the difference in spirit of the Milanese and Turinese initiatives: […] the Einaudi collection is imbued with the grand ideas of the best nineteenth-century literature, whilst a more avant-garde taste, focused on a reinterpretation of the ‘page’ which is simultaneously more candid and more sophisticated, is evident in Bompiani’s Corona. […]. To cite just a few recent examples: two translations of Guerra e pace and two versions of Sokolov’s Placido Don have just been released simultaneously as we are told that three different reprints of Confessioni di un italiano are about to be published. […]. Is this really necessary? Would a single edition not suffice, especially given these hard times, and the paper shortage? What benefits are there for the publishers? (‘Corriere delle lettere’, Primato, a. III, n. 13, in Mangoni 1977: 342–44)

Einaudi’s ‘Universale’, launched in 1942 with Le ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis , was the brainchild of Carlo Muscetta but drew on the talents of the entire publishing house and became an effective means of expanding Einaudi’s circle of contributors and connecting with prominent national literary figures.52 The first volume was followed by fifty-six Italian titles and thirty-two foreign works, including the Antologia di Spoon River, translated in 1943 by Fernanda Pivano. On 27 October 1941, Muscetta, who was to be editor-in-chief of the series, wrote to Einaudi listing the criteria according to which ‘Universale’ texts would be selected: famous works by famous authors, their lesser-known works, obscure titles that deserve to be well-known. Predominant percentage of writers […] significantly more foreign rather than Italian. As for contributors, I thought that to make it clear that the Bibl. Univ. is not popular except in its ultimate aim, we would do well to employ some translators that have already made quite a name for themselves, and engage with newspaper editors or prominent art critics and journalists to ensure it is widely and assiduously and promoted (AE, file Muscetta, typewritten, cited in Mangoni 1999: 109, n. 155, and 118, n. 187).

Thus the objective was to reach a pseudo-popular audience,53 to advertise widely well-known titles which would pave the way for more obscure texts that would appeal to an educated reader.54

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Einaudi’s and Bompiani’s respective series reflected not only their distinct ‘tastes’, but an increasingly intense rivalry between the two publishing houses which often resulted in the unnecessary waste of resources at a time when means and materials were scarce.55 As Leone Ginzburg observed from Abruzzo, this competition damaged, rather than stimulated, the market: […] I bought a ‘Corona’ title, La storia di Billy Budd, and I must be honest with you, the collection is (outwardly) much more attractive, given that the price is practically the same (I know the booksellers in L’Aquila complained about how much it cost, especially given the modest external appearance). P.S. The tone of the collection, however, is snobbish and amateur.

Ginzburg’s tone did not do Bompiani’s series justice. La storia di Billy Budd by Melville (1891, translated by Montale in 1942 for the ‘Corona’) was a stylistically accurate version and representative of the ‘aesthetics’ prevalent in the reception of American literature in Italy. Melville, who embodied the sophistication of the great American tradition—no longer seen as a threat to Italian national heritage—had been one of the most productive literary discoveries of 1930s Americanism, undermining the sense of superiority which had skewed the European perspective on the American tradition. Ginzburg overlooked the significance of the personal stamp Vittorini impressed on the ‘Corona’, which was that of a writer-translator-publisher whose creation was founded on careful literary research, critical analysis and literary experimentalism; characteristics which did not however escape Pavese, who was particularly enthusiastic about the initiative.56 Pavese and Vittorini shared a common vision of publishing as a communication system in which elite and popular literature could co-exist, each part of a transnational dialogue which updated classic texts and rendered them universal. Here is Ginzburg again, this time addressing Einaudi: I spotted Bompiani’s new ‘Corona’ volumes in L’Aquila. The amateur tone (in the most elegant sense of the word) of the latest collection has become increasingly evident; […]. It amused me to see how they tried to beat you to it with ‘Figlia del capitano’ […]. I must say, though, that the rapid sequence of ‘Corona’ releases has impressed me: even the booksellers, judging from the little I have seen, must be taking a real interest. (AE, file Ginzburg, 12 November 1943, typewritten)

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The Turinese intellectual implicitly acknowledges Bompiani’s advantage over Einaudi up to this point in terms of the speed with which volumes were published and their appeal to various different audiences. Alexander Pushkin’s La figlia del capitano (Kapitanskaya Dochka, 1836), translated by Bruno del Re in 1937 for ‘Corona’, was in every respect more appealing to the public; presented in a limited-edition format for an attentive and curious reader. The two series were in direct competition for the simple reason that they both spoke to the educated lay reader that Einaudi, commenting on a translation of Stevenson’s Treasure Island, described to Muscetta: ‘I think it has turned out to be a very appealing book, and that more demanding readers will enjoy it as much as those who are simply looking for good story that is told well and this, for a “Biblioteca Universale”, seems to me to be an important prerequisite’.57

5.6

Modernity Above All

With his usual critical acumen, Vittorini wrote from Florence to Bompiani on 7 June 1938 with a series of reader reports related to various Steinbeck novels: I must admit that after reading these texts I was a little doubtful of the writer’s genuine value. One of the books, To a God Unknown, is full of the secret and mysterious meaning of life, Lawrence-style; another, In Dubious Battle, is purely realistic like any Lewis or Dreiser novel; another, Cup of Gold, is almost as romantic as a Walter Scott, and finally Tortilla Flat is just as picaresque as Gil Blas . The curious thing is that Steinbeck seems to be quite at home in all four genres, and VERY MUCH SO in Tortilla Flat. (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 28–29 ; Vittorini 1985: 89)58

The four novels cited belonged to the literary genres that had populated Vittorini’s translations and personal readings since the 1920s. The comparison of To a God Unknown to Lawrence, in terms of a generic poetic affinity, is therefore unsurprising, as is the mention of Dreiser and Lewis, in the light of the young writers’ shared aspiration to return to realism. The same goes for the parallel with historical novels, such as Walter Scott, and the concluding reference to the genres which had dominated the 1920s literary scene: adventure-picaresque, Gil Blas style, and adventure-fantasy, à la Stevenson. Later in the same letter Vittorini

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proposes translating for Bompiani Tortilla Flat, since it is similar to Of Mice and Men with its ‘hint of picaresque’.59 The semantics of the definition of ‘novel’ must be interpreted in a rather broad sense, as Vittorini clarified in a letter dated 2 August 1939 to Ettore Lo Gatto60 : The lay reader who explores literature of a different culture, such as Russian writing, wants most of all to understand its particular spiritual characteristics, the core values related to its history, its mentality, its specific way of life. […]. We would like these foreign perspectives to be a sort of novel of literary experience, which we can contemplate as insiders rather than as outsiders; which can give us, in a word, the spirit of a given culture. […] I am sure that you will understand the requirements that our research has revealed; we need to give our audience useful and new works which respond less to encyclopaedic ambitions and more to a spiritual curiosity and human need. (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 178)61

The publishing project that Vittorini and Bompiani conceived gave preference to works which, despite being relatively unknown, fitted within a system of aesthetic values that matched the expectations of the general public. The discussion of the ‘novel’ form continued between Bompiani and various collaborators when Carlo Izzo, one of the English-language translators, proposed translating Dickens: Dear Bompiani, I am re-reading Dickens for pleasure and I had an idea I wanted to share with you. An entire Dickens novel, for a contemporary reader, is long, not always interesting, often mawkish. On the other hand, however, many of the pages retain a wonderful freshness. What would you say to an anthology-style ‘complete Dickens’? (AB, file Izzo, 28 March 1943, Venice, typewritten)

Bompiani replied on 8 April 1943 and rejected the possibility of interfering with the texts of other authors, an inviolable entity, imposing here a limit on the frequent selective editing to which foreign titles were subject. A Dickens novel was fine for an Einaudi reader, he went on, but not for the Bompiani public, who were accustomed to a faster narrative pace and themes with a more obvious contemporary relevance.62 One novel which did meet these criteria, on the other hand, was E le stelle stanno a guardare, translated by Coardi in 1936 for the ‘Letteraria’:

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The abundance and the variety of the scenes opening up before one’s eyes is incredible, memorable, related with an accomplished mastery. Out of all the 68 chapters there is not a single descriptive passage exceeding 15 or 20 lines, and yet we see the places, we recognize them almost as if we knew them, we see people clearly: we hear them speak and we couldn’t imagine them speaking in any other way. (AB, file Cronin, typewritten)

Cronin’s Gran Canaria (Grand Canary, 1933), translated by Carlo Coardi in 1937 for the same series, was presented in similar terms; the swift progression of the narrative infuses the text with literary value. The reviewer’s description of the characters featured in the novels also emphasizes the significance of the psychological affinity of the protagonist with the mentality of modern society. A broad variety of topics deemed of modern relevance were covered, from the delicate intimacy of novels such as Millen Brand’s Nebbia (Outward Room, 1937, translated in 1939 by Carlo Coardi, L),63 to Una nota in musica (A Note in Music, 1930) and Invito al valzer (Invitation to the Waltz, 1932) by Rosamond Lehmann (both translated by Coardi in 1934 and 1935, respectively, L), both centred on a woman’s troubled personal development; to children’s books such as Navi sul cielo by Gunnar Gunnarson, translated by Gianni Puccini and Vittoria Nobile (1943, L), to the epic sagas of everyday life in the Il diluvio, and the trilogy Pietroburgo, Varsavia, Mosca (Vor der Sintflut, and Petersburg, Warschau, Moskau 1930–1931) by Shalom Asch, a Polish Jew who had become American by naturalization in 1920, translated by Angelo Treves (1935–1944, L).64 The back cover of Daniel Defoe’s La peste di Londra, translated by Vittorini for the ‘Grandi ritorni’ (1940) described the novel as ‘a valuable model of a dry, robust, direct style which renders the scenes more powerfully’. The ‘Grandi Ritorni’ featured explicitly documentative and biographical texts whose symbolic capital could be carefully adjusted in response to contemporary political configurations. It was also easier to justify the publication of ‘authentic’ historical texts, rather than a novel, to the censorial authorities. In the autarchic 1938, Napoleon’s Il contromemoriale di Sant’Elena portrayed a different leader ‘in a new perspective which elevated him to a myth’65 ; the British enemy had gaoled a hero and nullified his ‘historic’ greatness. In 1933, on the other hand, prior to the outbreak of war, Le avventure di Sidney Reilly (The Adventures of Sidney Reilly, 1933) by Sidney Reilly (the model for Ian

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Fleming’s James Bond), translated by Alfredo Bassi for the ‘Primi Piani’, was presented as a condemnation of communism and a eulogy to the British Secret Service. Foreign bestsellers which dealt with war, in particular, had to be a ‘reliable’ source of information for the reader. Texts reporting on the military history of allied countries were considered useful and legitimate—a prime example is Hino Ashihei’s Orzo e Soldati (Mugi to Heitai, 1938), set during the Second Sino-Japanese war and translated by Luciano Fabbri for the ‘Letteraria’ in 1940. The book had sold five million copies in Japan alone and was thus considered a strong advocate of the principle of self-sacrifice for one’s homeland; its success, according to one Italian critic, was down to the ‘sincere and direct’ narrative style.66 The texts included in Bompiani’s various series proposed a renewed understanding of realist narration which would lead to the reconstruction of the form of the novel; fruit of the disintegration of nineteenthcentury literary journalism, of vociano experimentalism and frammentismo through prosa d’arte and the rediscovery of a thematic repertoire which drew its material from the observation of modernity. Realism conceived in this manner retained the characteristic lyrical element of the Italian tradition but was transformed through the use of the short form and thematic choices which were excluded from the traditional canon. The ‘general’ public’s delayed discovery of European fiction inspired a constant ‘competitive’ comparison with national literary production. During these years Bompiani published Moravia’s portraits of the middle classes, the Alvaro of L’uomo è forte, Incontri d’amore, Itinerario italiano, the Piovene of Lettere di una novizia, the Vittorini of Conversazione in Sicilia, the Brancati of Don Giovanni in Sicilia and Gli anni perduti, but also the debut novels of Anna Maria Ortese and Paola Masino Angelici dolori and Monte Ignoso, respectively.67 Foreign literature, as opposed to Italian writing, was understood, read and studied as literature which addressed the general public because the textual models it proposed were more accessible in aesthetic and ideological terms. Unusually, in the second issue of Primato, an anonymous contributor went beyond the usual comments on the threat of the moral corruption of the American tradition to compare it to national literary production.68 Such a presence would invite, first of all, consideration from the point of view of general cultural history […].

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For us it has a clear episodic value, which is rightly valued, but should not be overestimated […] as it not only affects the literary field in a practical sense, i.e., technically, but its influence spreads beyond literature in obvious and in more subtle ways, to habits and tastes in general. To comprehend the breadth and intensity of the emergence of American literature in Europe we simply have to remember the tools at its disposition, from the cinema, which has a mass audience and particular appeal even to the most demanding literary critic, to the literature and news publications – in a certain sense born of an implicit rejection of the culture of literary magazines – that have progressively shaped the preferences of the average lay reader. Moreover, the singular phenomenon of the spread of American literary taste was able to take advantage […] of that statis, that is, of that ‘silent zone’ […]. We should not misinterpret this silence as an indication of bewilderment, or a lack of vitality. Indeed, in writers destined to assume pre-eminent positions, this was an indication of research, […]. On this basis, it should be clear why we attribute an episodic, yet positive, value to certain facts: value on account of a contribution, which our experience is destined to assimilate, but from which it will draw its own conclusions. […]. (‘Oltre il silenzio’, Primato, a. I, n. 2, 15 March 1940, in Mangoni 1977: 180–82)

The author concludes by reiterating that it is crucial that modern writers understand their mission as one of spiritual renewal. Likewise, the official stance on American literature in 1940 did not reject American literature per se but warned against getting ‘carried away’ and called for careful critical consideration. The subtle line between acceptance or rejection mirrored the increasingly blurred boundary separating high culture from popular culture. Other cultural traditions were not rejected, provided their presentation and public reception were appropriately ‘regulated’. From Bottai’s Primato, therefore, came an invitation to read foreign literature, to use it as a model for getting out of the ‘silent zone’ and to draw one’s ‘own conclusions’. Primato also made clear its stance on the publication of translations generally and translations of American literature in particular: That said, we are not against translations: quite the opposite. Indeed, we would like to see more translations, of different genres, published promptly but also carefully selected and presented. The translation of American literature is too disorganized, and there are too many titles. We see too many publishers crowding round one author and struggling to translate many

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unnecessary volumes into Italian. What we see happening with Steinbeck or Caldwell recalls what happened years ago with London. […]. Our publishers cannot seem to get out of that very provincial habit of buying second-rate horses, presenting them as thoroughbred colts – and themselves as expert breeders (broadly speaking, based on the reports of the N. R. F.) […]69 What is required, therefore, is a more rigorous selection criteria when it comes to light-hearted popular fiction, and a greater focus on political, historical and scientific foreign literature which could constitute a solid ‘block’ to launch on the international market. It will sound like heresy, but the fact is an Italian publisher will not conquer the foreign market with original works alone; we need high-quality translations which are produced promptly and come out before the French or English versions. (‘Libri in valigia’, Primato, a. I, n. 16, 15 October 1940, in Mangoni 1977: 187–88)

American literature and its translations were assigned an episodic and practical—we might say almost parenthetical—value in relation to Italian letters, an aspect of Italian literary history which is often overlooked due to the mythological value attributed to the transient phenomenon of Americanism. American literature only acquired mythical status after the war, when Italian culture needed such an ideological construction in response to Fascism. If, however, we want to talk in terms of myth, the most pertinent definition here is that proposed by Paul Ricoeur, that is a ‘symbolic function’ which promises cognitive discovery, an ‘opening towards new worlds, towards possible worlds which transcend the limits of our current world’ (Ricoeur 1960: 5). Foreign literature, and American authors above all, represented a mythological construction that allowed writers and intellectuals, activists and state officials to develop their own theoretical, editorial and cultural political conceptualizations beyond ‘current’, autarchic literary models. The limits of this process of experimentation, which were often flexible, were the censorial and autarchic restrictions imposed by the regime, which would be transcended only after 1945.

Notes 1. Together with Signorsì by Liala (1931), Le sorelle Materassi (1934) by Aldo Palazzeschi, Sancta Maria (1936) by Guido Milanesi, Nessuno torna indietro (1938) by Alba De Céspedes, Saper amare (1939) by Nino Salvaneschi and Ricordi di scuola (1940) by Giovanni Mosca.

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2. The philosophical section was edited by Antonio Banfi, English literature by Cecchi and American literature by Vittorini. 3. AB, file Izzo, 10 June 1944, Izzo to Bompiani, Florence, typewritten. 4. See Rundle for detailed figures (2019: 53 and 180–93). 5. ACS, Minculpop, Gab., 13 January 1940, envelope n. 56, reference file ‘Produzione libraria italiana’ and 12 February 1940 for guidelines on dealing with Jewish authors, ibid. See Rundle (2019: 136–45, 149– 57) and Fabre (1998: 207–26) on the progressive strictness of regime’s censorship measures. 6. Cfr. ACS, PCM/Atti, 10.10. 1942, Minculpop, 1942–1943, envelope n. 59, reference file ‘Disegno di legge concernente la disciplina libraria’. Rundle reports that Mondadori suffered a decrease in authorized translations from 48 to 25% (2001: 141). 7. ACS, Minculpop, Gab., 8 October 1940, envelope n. 258, reference file ‘Valentino Bompiani editore’. 8. Rossi, V. G., ‘Sulla letteratura africana (Quella da fare)’, Primato, a. I, n. 16, 15 October 1940: 4, e Baldi, S., ‘Critica delle letterature straniere’, Primato, a. I, n. 20, 15 December 1940: 11. 9. Predictably there were many versions before this final edition; see Fabre (1998: 157–73, 276–80 and 360–74) for further details. 10. Cfr. Rundle (2001: 137–40). 11. Emil und die Detektive, 1929, Pünktchen und Anton, 1931; reprinted in 1941, featuring drawings by the famous illustrator Walter Trier and 17 photographs; Fabian. Die Geschichte eines Moralisten 1932; Das fliegende Klassenzimmer 1933, (1934 reprinted in 1941); Emil und die drei Zwillinge 1933. 12. In a review of Fabian published in Orpheus , Carlo Marchetti highlighted the realistic setting and natural, convincing narration of the book (‘Kästner. Fabian – Die geschichte eines Moralisten’, a. II, n. 1, January 1933: 26–27). 13. See Caputo (2003: 160–75) for further details on this series. 14. Polastron (2006: 170). Other authors popular in Italy whose titles were thrown onto the flames were Heinrich Mann, Ernst Gläsner, Emil Ludwig, Erich Maria Remarque and Stefan Zweig. 15. Cfr. Braida (2003: 44–5). 16. Cfr. ACS, Minculpop, Gab., 5 March 1941, envelope n. 116, reference file ‘Valentino Bompiani editore’. On the censoring of this volume see also D’Ina and Zaccaria (1988: 39–40) Bonsaver (2003: 176 and XX), Fabre (1998: 294 n. 1), and Rundle’s different interpretation (2001: 142–47). 17. On 29 September, 1942, Vittorini wrote to Cecchi and complained about the removal of a citation of Melville in his commentary, a missing addition of a passage from an article on London, and the fact the analysis of Ludwig Lewisohn, another author who will feature on Tosti’s list,

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19.

20.

21.

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remained unchanged. Cecchi’s reply, inviting Vittorini to leave things as they are, was significant: ‘A bit of Lewisohn is not the end of the world, after all, Jewish academic and history books live on undisturbed: this winter Hoepli produced a second edition of Berenson, for example. And Lewisohn, in the piece on Carther, even expresses some sympathy for totalitarian regimes if you want to see things as they are’ (AB, file Cecchi, 30 September 1942, Vittorini to Cecchi, Milan to Rome, and Cecchi to Vittorini, Rome to Milan, Vittorini 1985: 225–26). D’Ina and Zaccaria (1988, 31 March 1940: 36) and 14 November 1932, Rome: 32). Already on 16 July 1938 Vittorini, writing from Florence to Bompiani, had defined Caldwell’s and Cain’s texts as ‘magnificent’ but ‘unfortunately all requiring censoring’ (Vittorini 1985: 91). Reprints of Steinbeck’s texts La battaglia (In Dubious Battle, 1936) translated by Montale in 1940 and Furore (The Grapes of Wrath, 1939) by Carlo Coardi in 1942 for Bompiani’s ‘Letteraria’ series were proscribed because they did not conform to common morality (Caldwell’s Il piccolo campo, translated in 1940 by Vittorini for the same collection also met the same fate in 1941), whist the Pulitzer-prize winner Uomini e topi (Of Mice and Men, 1937), translated in 1938 by Pavese, and Pian della Tortilla (Tortilla Flat, 1935) translated by Vittorini in 1939 were reprinted without issues. Steinbeck was the only author to be translated by the three great writer-translators Montale, Pavese and Vittorini, see Bozzola (1991) for a linguistic and stylistic analysis of the work of Pavese and Vittorini as translators. AB, file Cronin, without date, ms. This selective ‘editing’ did not always guarantee publication, but it was one of the safest ways to get around the stricter censorship measure. For further insights, see Greco’s exploration of the various versions of Garofano rosso (1983), and Bonsaver (2003). The book published in London in 1931 was published by Bompiani in 1946. The reader reports of this novel which feature a date are from 1938. Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales had already been published by Carabba in 1923 with the title Le favole di Canterbury, classics for children, translated by Ester Danesi Traversari. See also Bompiani’s letter to Vittorini, 21 September 1942, in which the publisher explains why he rejected Ayala, Hume and Bloy, specifying that it is now necessary to ‘check word by word’ every text to avoid erroneous publishing strategies, financial losses or any ‘hint of suspicion on the [Corona] series’ (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 126, see also Vittorini’s letter to Carlo Bo, Sestri Levante dated 13 May 1942, Vittorini 1985: 192). In a letter dated 25 September 1942 regarding the same texts, Vittorini wrote to Cosimo Cherubini, head of Bompiani’s Rome office, suggesting selective editing as the most opportune strategy to pursue: ‘If

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24.

25.

26.

27.

28.

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you cast your eyes over Hume’s manuscript, you will see the cuts that I have made with my own hand, in parts even with a paintbrush to obscure the original text: an unforgivable sin on the living flesh of a writer who has been in the pantheon of classic writers for over two centuries’ D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 130); a necessary evil in 1942. According to a letter dated 14 November 1941, Alicata had tried to convince Moravia to translate this text for Einaudi (Mangoni 1999: 121, n. 198). When Vittorini learned that two previously accepted titles, such as the Antologia della Ronda and Antologia della Voce, respectively), had now been prohibited he commented to Cherubini: ‘But are you sure that these exclusions come from the Ministry? Some of these books have been considered classics for so long (Procopio, Il racconto di Cloe di Meredith, Le figlie di fuoco di Nerval, etc.) that I refuse to believe it’ (Vittorini 1985, 6 June 1942: 199). See also Vittorini to Bilenchi on 24 February and 6 March 1942, in Vittorini (1985: 180, 185, 217). The Tale of Chloe (1879) was translated by Berti in 1944 for the Corona collection. Spaini had recommended Grimm’s text for publication as part of the ‘Corrente’ series. Laterza had similar issues with Madame De Staël’s De L’Allemagne (Fabre 2007: 35–36). The publication process of Madame de Rémusat’s memoirs (translated by Marco Lombardi in 1942 for Einaudi’s ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’ series) is typical of Einaudi’s self-censorship measures. See AE, file Camerino, 14 July 1941, 23 July 1941, 2 August 1941, 29 December 1941, 31 December 1941. On censorial misunderstandings related to the ‘wrong’ ideological perspective, such as the erroneous reading of Gide as anti-Bolshevik, see Fabre (2007: 38–43). On the reader makeup and the structure of the ‘translation service’ at Minculpop see Fabre (2007: 36–37). As Mangoni notes, both of these publishing houses could not take advantage of the security offered by the State Book Scheme and so they were more exposed to market fluctuations. On the relationship between Einaudi and the Publishers Federation, Vallecchi and Bottai see Mangoni (1999: 114, n. 171). Alicata joined the Communist Party in 1940, was arrested by the Special Tribunal for the Defense of the State in 1942, and released in 1943, when he began working for the Italian resistance movement as co-editor of Il lavoro italiano and editor of Unità during the Nazi occupation of Rome. AE, file Alicata, Rome, typewritten, in Mangoni (1999: 123). On 15 January 1942, in Popolo d’Italia, Goffredo Coppola had attacked publishers who continued to publish texts written by authors belonging to enemy nations. Though the real target was Leone Ginzburg, by then deprived of his Italian citizenship on account of being Jewish, and his translation of War and Peace, this episode triggered a chain reaction which

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30. 31.

32. 33. 34.

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lead to internal disagreement between Muscetta and Alicata and the Turin office. For a more detailed account, see Mangoni (1999: 121–30). Mangoni (1999: 136–37, n. 253). AE, file Alicata, 22 May 1942, Alicata to Einaudi, Rome, partially cited in Mangoni (1999: 136, n. 252). Jung’s Io e l’inconscio was published in 1948 in the ‘Saggi’ collection. Cesari (1978: 95). ACS, Minculpop, Gab., 24 May 1943, envelope n. 116, reference file ‘Valentino Bompiani editore’. Vittorini worked primarily on the Corona and Pantheon series, on the America section of the Dizionario, and was also actively involved in the organization of the Lettararia, Centonovelle, Grandi ritorni and the ‘bellicose’ Zattera series. On 22 May 1943, Bompiani wrote a long letter to Vittorini detailing his duties at the publishing house, in particular regarding the ‘Corona’ and ‘Pantheon’ series, which ranged from checking cover designs to liaising with the press. For further details on Vittorini’s role and move from Mondadori to Bompiani, see Ferretti (1992: 29–68). In the 1930s and 1940s, Baldini & Castaldi, founded in Milan in 1897, specialized in publishing Hungarian writers in translation: L’anima di Anna Kadar, L’angelo dell’inferno, L’uomo nudo, Sposi amanti, Tutto per l’amore, Una donna del secolo, La menzogna, Inquietudine, L’autunno del cuore by Miháli Földi, 1933, 1934, 1935, 1937, 1938, 1939, 1940, 1941; L’anima si spegne, L’uccello di fuoco, Il generale, La città che cammina, Vita serena (authorized only after three passages between pp. 64, 65–66, and 76–78, which were deemed too bleak had been cut, A.S. Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, cart. 282, categ. 044, 21 March 1942, reference file Baldini & Castoldi casa editrice) by Lajos Zilhay, 1933, 1934, 1939, 1942; La camera sul Danubio by László Bús Fekete, 1936; Anna Edes by Dezsö Kosztolányi, 1937; Ci sarà un domani by Zoltán Nagyiványi, 1938; Rapsodia ungherese by Zsolt von Harsànyi, 1940; Tentazione by Zsigmond Móricz, 1940; Lei (O), La fidanzata impossibile by Gabor Vaszary, 1940, 1941; Miraggio by Renèe Erdös, 1941; L’amante del sogno Sándor Márai, 1941; Incontro all’isola Margherita Sándor Hunyady, 1942; Passione magiara by Berend J. Miklósné, 1942; La rosa d’oro by László Passuth, 1942; Belvedere, La signora dell’isola, Via del cervo by Gusztáv Rab, 1942; Pagine scelte by Iúlia Szekely, Dal tramonto all’alba by Palma Nader, 1943; Tempesta sulle alpi by Bella Medveczky, 1944, authorized after two examinations on account of the excessive amount of love idylls (A.S.Mi, Gab. Pref., 2° versamento, cart. 282, categ. 044, 16 March 1942, reference file Baldini & Castoldi casa editrice), and a Romanian novel, Sirena nera by Ion Bart, 1942. All these novels belonged to the ‘neo-bourgeois’ genre of literature particularly in vogue during this

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37.

38.

39. 40.

41. 42.

43.

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period. Eastern European literature, which had always featured in this small-scale publisher’s catalogue, was published more systematically in the war years. Connoisseur of Eastern European literature Enrico Castoldi had joined Baldini & Castaldi in 1932 and the turn to foreign authors hitherto excluded was his initiative, aimed at relaunching the publishing house. Baldini & Castaldi’s greatest Italian success was Salvator Gotta. 1934 (5/10); 1935 (3/7); 1936 (4/9); 1937 (4/8); 1938 (5/9); 1939 (5/8); 1940 (7/15); 1941 (9/22); 1942 (4/12); 1943 (1/10); 1944 (4/8); 1945 (7/18), for a comprehensive table detailing all the series see Longoni (2003: 82–85). In a letter to Bompiani dated 13 April 1939 regarding an anthology of Russian plays, Lo Gatto highlights the need for clear advertising and graphic design so as to address a broader public unlikely to be familiar with the themes discussed (AB, file Lo Gatto, Lo Gatto to Bompiani, Rome to Milan, typewritten). [Back cover]. Bompiani wrote to Vittorini on 20 August 1941: ‘You have to dig out for me, as discussed, some narrative texts from the last forty years or the nineteenth century for the ‘Grandi Ritorni’. But you have to get onto it quickly because Einaudi and Longanesi have thrown themselves into that genre and if we do not make a move all the best things will have already gone. And the reports must come from other collaborators. Please do me this favour of dealing with it quickly (AB, file Vittorini, 20 August 1941, typewritten). In 1943, four Italian titles were published, in 1944 four Italian and six foreign, and in 1945 only seven foreign titles. Francescutti (1996: 100 [leaflet included the first titles of the series, unnumbered pages]). For a precise account of the figures related to these series, see Longoni (2003: 82–85) D’Ina and Zaccaria (1988, 5 May [Florence 1940]: 38, also in AB, file Vittorini, Vittorini (1985: 102). Montale translated for Bompiani Steinbeck’s La battaglia (L, 1940) Dorothy Parker’s Il mio mondo è qui (L, 1941). He worked on Americana and Teatro spagnolo (edited by Vittorini) in 1941 and 1942 as well as on Narratori stranieri (edited by Carlo Bo) in 1942. On 26 November 1941, Vittorini reiterated to Bompiani: ‘Don’t worry if Landolfi has asked Lo Gatto to translate 250 pages of the Russian anthology. His contract obliges him (Landolfi I mean) to review and correct all translations. Besides, he can only rely on Lo Gatto and Küfferle. In any case I know he has kept aside 500 pages for himself and you can be sure that I will keep a constant eye on his work (Vittorini 1985: 170). In 1946 Bompiani published Turgenev’s L’orologio, which had previously translated by Giaime Pintor, and Primo amore (Pervaia liubov’, 1860) translated by Bruno Del Re and edited by Rinaldo Küfferle.

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45. Izzo replied to Vittorini on 25 October 1942: ‘Fielding: on the other hand, I would say, what is more characteristic than the syntax of a writer? If we imagined the translator were a pianist, would you want me to use the same technique for Bach and for Casella? I did take into consideration your comments, but I had already finished the first part when you came to Venice, the second half should be less taut. However, Jonathan Wild is not a book for your average reader. But, if I can do so without any disasters, I will speed up the pace a little more’. Regarding Chaucer, however, he commented: ‘The translation works well, it is very lively, and I am sure you will like it. Anyone can read it’ (AB, fasc. Izzo, 25 October 1943). The History of the Life of the Late Mr Jonathan Wild the Great (1743) was translated by Izzo in 1943 for the Corona. Tom Jones (1749) was excluded, even from the Narratori stranieri tradotti, as it was deemed too long-winded and outdated for the modern public (AE, file Berti, 23 September 1939, typewritten). 46. Competition between Einaudi and Bompiani also affected the number of texts published, as a letter dated 31 October 1942 from Vittorini to Bompiani reports (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 134–38). 47. Vice, ‘Il problema delle “Universali”’, ‘Corriere delle lettere’, Primato, a. III, n. 12, 15 June 1942, in Mangoni (1977: 340–42). 48. D’Ina and Zaccaria (1988: 159–60). As well as a writer and a journalist, Alvaro was at various points the editor of Il Resto del Carlino, Correire della Sera and Il Mondo, and frequented nonché frequentatore del salotto romano di Margherita Sarfatti’s Rome salon. On Alvaro’s exploration of Turkey and Russia, his debts to Weimar Germany and his position with regard to the regime and censorship, see Ben-Ghiat (2001: 143–47). 49. Vittorini wrote to Bompiani: ‘Now I think of it, Stendhal’s De l’amour would be a good title to include in the “Corona” […]. However, we would need to eliminate some of the outdated digression which would seem ridiculous to today’s reader who is not a Stendhal aficionado’ (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988, 12 March 1942: 132). On the subject of archetype ‘Corona’ readers, Vasco Pratolini, writing to Vittorini on 30 March 1942, defined the series’ audience as ‘average’, adding however that whatever the publisher offered to such a reading profile had to have a contemporary meaning: best achieved by a combination of Italian and foreign writers representative of modern literary tastes. Moravia, too, in a letter dated May 1942, congratulated Bompiani on the series but highlighted a ‘rather undemocratic’ tone which distinguished it from previous collections (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988: 74–75). 50. AB, file Sbarbaro, from Savona to Milan, typewritten. Albert Thibaudet was featured in the 1946 anthology Prospettiva della letteratura francese edited by André Gide.

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51. There was no mention of Genova (or any other city) in the original title: a liberty taken by the translator, identified only as C. M. 52. In April 1940 in La Ruota Muscetta controversially promoted a return to De Sanctis, to a morally committed literature that engaged with reality (‘De Sanctis o la letteratura come vita morale’, a. I, III, n. 1, April 1940, in Serpa (1976: 10–20), on the relationship between the magazine and Einaudi, see Turi (1990: 110–13). 53. See a letter from Einaudi to Luigi Russo dated 13 July 1939 cited in Mangoni (1999: 107, n. 149) in which he speaks of a possible ‘Universale’ for a popular audience. 54. On Einaudi’s attempts in the early 1940s to establish itself as a publishing house nationally, including the acquisition of Garzanti, see Mangoni (1999: 85–86). 55. The publishing house was focusing almost all of its energy on the new series, which interfered with the Narratori stranieri tradotti, and above all with the Saggi; the latter no longer had the advantage of being the publisher’s only cross genre series (Mangoni 1999: 177). 56. Lettere II, 1966, 16 July 1942: 427. 57. AE, file Muscetta, 18 December 1942, typewritten. 58. See also Alicata’s review on the Meridiano di Roma (1939) which praises a lucid objectivity imbued with a human solidarity (‘Introduzione a Steinbeck’, Alicata 1968: 215–19). 59. It is important to remember that Vittorini and Pavese had translated Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders, respectively, which abound with typical elements of the picaresque genre. Pavese apparently refused to translate In Dubious Battle (15 January 1940), which was subsequently entrusted to Montale. An LS review of La battaglia echoed Vittorini’s description of Tortilla Flat: ‘…and the impressionistic approach does not inhibit a sensitive and profound insight into the psychology of the characters. But his human understanding runs throughout the book like an arpeggio, revealing itself between comic lines, performing sleights of hand with a hint of picaresque’ (LS, a. XXIII, n. 2, February 1940: 43). 60. Vittorini had expressed similar ideas when he worked for Mondadori to Luigi Rusca, one of the company’s directors since 1928 and an open antifascist: ‘Dear Dr. Rusca, In reply to your letter dated 17 of this month, I can tell you that I found T. F. Powys an excellent and subtle writer with charming humour. However, the short story collections The house with the echo and No printed plumage appear to me to be too delicate and evanescent, in their almost apologetic brevity, to attract the interest of the general public. This leaves us with the two novels, which have the same subtle humour, but also a solid and tangible plot which will grip the reader to the end. Of the two I feel Unclay is artistically finer and more

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62.

63.

64. 65.

66. 67. 68.

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suited to the ‘Medusa’, but I have not yet finished reading it’ (FAAM, FAM, file Vittorini, 19 July 1937, ms). Aldo Camerino, under the pseudonym of Marco Lombardi, and Carlo Izzo wrote to Vittorini on 12 July 1942 regarding a volume on Elizabethan literature they were editing: ‘Dear Vittorini, we have studied the list of Elizabethan writers. Our impression is that a key reagent is missing. Something more of the bloody and “grim” (Cecchi) quality of the period should be evident […] given that it is a text for the uninitiated reader’ (AB, file Izzo). AB, file Izzo. Another Bompiani project which ultimately failed to see the light of day, again translated by Camerino, was The Twentieth Century Novel. Studies in Technique which ‘practically offered a complete history of the modern novel’ (D’Ina and Zaccaria 1988, 21 April 1943: 93–94). This novel’s central theme is madness, with all the situations that can be related to it, so much so that the reader’s report suggested ‘they must, however, be included (as far as possible, it is understood) because they are essential elements of its unique fabric’ (AB, file Brand, 29 June 1937, Carlo Coardi, typewritten). On the censorship of Lehmann in 1940s Francoist Spain see Hurtley (2007: 70–73). AB, fasc. Hudson Lowe, first edition, translated by Emilio Radium, 1938. The same could be said of Il diario di Samuel Pepys (The Diary of Samuel Pepys, 1659–1669) described as ‘a document the English would gladly do without; home truths when they need most to wrap themselves up in their threadbare respectability. However, it has a double value: of testimony and confession’ (AB, file Pepys, first edition). Cfr. Gerarci, F., ‘Il carceriere di Napoleone e le sue disavventure’, Il Giornale d’Italia, 30 March 1938, and Venturini, L., ‘Il contromemoriale di Sant’Elena’, Il Popolo d’Italia, 15 March 1938. Settanni, E., Corriere di Napoli, 31 January 1942. On Alvaro and Moravia’s relationship with the Bompiani publishing house, see Turchetta (2003: 86–121) and Zaccaria (2003: 122–43). A ‘note’ in the Arnoldo and Alberto Mondadori Foundation archives addressed to the president (Bottai?) reviews the magazine’s profile and purpose, concluding that in order to keep up with the times more space and attention should be given to translations and the sections on foreign literature (FAAM, FAM, file Primato, Milan, 28 March 1940, typewritten). This is an explicit reference to Solaria, which followed the N. R. F. closely. Conrad was one of the many authors featured in the French literary magazine before being introduced or rediscovered in Italy.

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References Alicata, Mario (1968), Scritti letterari (Milan: il Saggiatore). Ben-Ghiat, Ruth (2001), Fascist Modernities. Italy 1922–1945 (Berkeley: University of California Press). Bonsaver, Guido (2003), ‘Fascist Censorship on Literature and the Case of Elio Vittorini’, Modern Italy, 8 (2): 165–86. Bozzola, Sergio (1991), ‘Note su Pavese e Vittorini traduttori di Steinbeck’, Studi novecenteschi, XVIII (41): 63–101. Braida, Ludovica (ed.) (2003), Valentino Bompiani. Il percorso di un editore “artigiano” (Milan: Edizioni Sylvestre Bonnard). Caputo, Francesca (2003), ‘“Libri secci, precisi, misurabili, oppure tutti arbitrari”. Le collane per ragazzi del catalogo Bompiani (1929–1972)’, in Ludovica Braida (ed.) (2003): 160–75. Cesari, Maurizio (1978), La censura nel periodo fascista (Naples: Liguori). D’Ina, Gabriella and Giuseppe Zaccaria (eds), (1988), Caro Bompiani: Lettere con l’editore (Milan: Bompiani). Fabre, Giorgio (1998), L’elenco. Censura fascista, editoria ed autori ebrei (Turin: Silvio Zamorani). ——— (2007), ‘Fascism, Censorship and Translation’, in Francesca Billiani (ed.): 27–59. Ferretti, Gian Carlo (1992), L’editore Vittorini (Turin: Einaudi). Francescutti, Alessia (1996), ‘Italo Calvino. L’avventura di un editore’, Studi novecenteschi, XXIII (51): 75–106. Greco, Lorenzo (1983), Censura e scrittura, Vittorini, lo pseudo-Malaparte, Gadda (Milan: il Saggiatore). Hurtley, Jacqueline (2007), ‘Tailoring the Tale. Inquisitorial Discourses and Resistance in the Early Franco Period (1940–1950)’, in Billiani Francesca (ed.) (2007), Translation and Censorship. National Contexts and Diverse Media (Manchester: St. Jerome): 61–92. Longoni, Anna (2003), ‘“Come i gatti sui tetti”. Un percorso attraverso il catalogo Bompiani (1929–1972)’, in Ludovica Braida (ed.) (2003): 72–85. Mangoni, Maria Luisa (ed.), (1977), Primato, 1940–1943 antologia (Bari: De Donato). ——— (1999), Pensare i libri. La casa editrice Einaudi dagli anni Trenta agli anni Sessanta (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri). Polastron, Lucien X. (2006), Libri al rogo. Storia della distruzione infinita delle biblioteche (Milan: Sylvestre Bonnard). Turchetta, Giovanni (2003), ‘Alberto Moravia diventa un autore Bompiani (1934–1937)’, in Ludovica Braida (ed.) (2003): 86–121. Turi, Gabriele (1990), Casa Einaudi. Libri, uomini, idee oltre il fascismo (Bologna: il Mulino). Ricoeur, Paul (1960), La symbolique du mal (Parigi: Aubier).

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Rundle, Christopher (2001), ‘The Permeable Police State. Publishing Translations in Fascist Italy’ (PhD thesis, University of Warwick). ———. (2019), Il vizio dell’esterofilia. Editoria e traduzioni nell’Italia fascista (Rome: Carocci). Serpa, Rosanna (1976), Antologia della rivista La Ruota. Con indice ragionato (Naples: Guida). Vittorini, Elio (1985), I libri, la città, il mondo. Lettere 1933–1943, Carla Minoia (ed.) (Turin: Einaudi). Zaccaria, Giuseppe (2003), ‘Bompiani e Alvaro: un rapporto esemplare’, in Ludovica Braida (ed.) (2003): 122–37.

CHAPTER 6

Classics Revisited

I am now, like you, convinced that there is only one object of study for us: Life. (Gabriele D’Annunzio, Il piacere)

6.1

Setting Precedents: Slavia, Frassinelli, Ribet

In the dynamic 1920s Turin publishing scene, the ventures of Slavia, Frassinelli and Ribet were forerunners of the ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’ (NST) series launched by Einaudi in 1938—the brainchild of Pavese and Ginzburg.1 The NST included new editions of translations which had originally been published by these three small publishing houses. Compared to Milan, publishing in Turin was rather highbrow. Popular texts were almost entirely excluded; the focus was on elegantly presented classics which also had to be accessible to the target audience: the educated middle-class reader. Slavia was founded on 26 January 1926 by the revolutionary exsyndicalist, journalist and translator, Alfredo Polledro, and was active until 1935.2 It was characterized by the aim to promote Slavic, and more generally, pan-European culture in Italy in a revised vision of Gobetti’s enlightened Europeanism. Polledro was a Russian to Italian translator and the publishing house became renowned for the Russian authors in translation it presented in its ‘Il genio russo’ series, a collection marked by the same philological meticulousness that would distinguish the editions Leone Ginzburg edited for Einaudi.3 ‘Il genio russo’ was soon followed © The Author(s) 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7_6

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by the inauguration of the ‘Il genio slavo’ series in 1929 (which featured translations of Polish, Czech, Serbian, Croatian, Bulgarian and Hungarian literature as well as Chekhov’s complete works, translated by Zino Zini), and a series dedicated to Russian writers dealing with the theme of emigration, ‘Scrittori russi dell’emigrazione’.4 The young Polledro’s clear cultural vision complemented Dàuli’s popular culture project: ‘By creating multiple opportunities of productive exchange and contact for our national culture, “Il genio slavo” will also play its own small, but nonetheless significant, role in raising Italy’s international profile along with that of the brilliant achievements of our people’.5 Of course, the project’s European ambitions had to bend to the dictates of the regime’s totalitarian discourse of the supremacy of one nation and one race over all others. Necessary political concessions aside, the translators hired by Slavia were the leading intellectuals of the day. In addition to Polledro’s own handiwork, we find translations by Ada Prospero, Ettore Lo Gatto,6 Riccardo Küfferle and Zino Zini in a wide-ranging collection which includes adventure fiction, social portraits and a variety of classic texts; sixty volumes spanned Dostoevsky to Tolstoy through Turgenev, Gogol and Chekhov.7 It was precisely this diversity which led the Giornale della libreria to present the series as ‘The most interesting, elegant and affordable collection of narrative writing and plays which ought to feature in every library, family, and home’ (1931). Rather than expressing an aesthetic configuration linked to a well-defined genre system, a formalization of the dominant aesthetic taste of the ‘cultured classes’, the collection combined the interdisciplinarity of the vociani with a modernity interpreted in highbrow and popular terms, and with the European tradition more generally. In an article entitled ‘Classicità del Dostoevskij’, Ginzburg wrote: ‘Now it is important, we believe, to show that Dostoevsky’s classicism is not classicism at all, but has a character of authentic greatness which is much closer to our own spiritual world’.8 The path of cultural growth envisaged by the intellectual from Turin abstracted the classics’ universal values and interpreted them as modern heritage. The eclectic and experimental mix of classics which characterized the Milanese series presented in the 1920s was also evident in the rationale behind the Slavia catalogue: ‘Out of the great Russian writers of the previous century, Turgheniev is certainly the lesser-known in Italy – it is Tolstoj, Dostojevskij and Cechov who enjoy, without a doubt, the widest renown; however, if ‘Slavia’ is able to publish Turgheniev’s complete works in

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the near future, we are convinced he will soon become one of our most popular foreign novelists’.9 In L’Illustrazione italiana in 1932, Leone Ginzburg lamented the fact that Turgenev’s Nido di nobili (1859) was the author’s bestselling work (because ‘it is just a love story’); he felt that Memorie d’un cacciatore (1852) merited greater acclaim, given this collection’s powerful arguments against serfdom. Ginzburg suggested that the translator’s cuts and stylistic choices misleadingly shifted the focus to the facts of the social context, rather than the historical and ethical evil the novel depicted.10 At the same time, there was a growing interest amongst Italy’s intellectuals, teachers, writers and educated middle-class public in the Soviet model and the realities of post-revolutionary Russia. Exemplary in this respect are the preface to the first volume published in ‘Il genio russo’ in 1928, Ettore Lo Gatto’s translation of Goncharóv’s Oblomov (1858),11 and Lo Gatto’s contribution to the U.R.S.S. 1931 volume (Anonima romana editoriale, Rome, 1932), which argued that the Russian intellectuals’ propaganda campaign caused them to lose sight of the creative value of a work of art; art became merely a means of indoctrination, Lo Gatto maintained, whilst the subjective reasoning behind the art was as essential to the writer’s role as any social and historical commitment (ibid.: 195–205).12 The translations of classics were greeted promptly with widespread praise, even by the provincial Il Torchio. The publication of modern Russian novelists was however deemed inappropriate: these writers were the standard-bearers for Bolshevism, such a burning issue that it was feared the reader would have difficulty viewing the text with the necessary ‘objectivity’. The publication of Oblomov and other Bolshevik writers on 22 July that same year sparked further controversy. In response to Il Torchio’s attacks, Polledro argued that his choices had been based on the ‘rigorous’ exclusion of any tendentious or propagandistic work which was not simply ‘objectively artistic’, and that only works with a confirmed literary value which could significantly enrich the Italian spiritual outlook in the long-term had been included. The publisher concluded by affirming that it was the ethical and aesthetic right of Italian readers to be kept updated at all times on what was published beyond national borders.13 Another publishing venture of note in Turin during these years is that of the Frassinelli publishing house, owned by the typographer Frassinelli, with Franco Antonicelli as an associate. Between 1932 and 1935, Frassinelli published a ‘Biblioteca europea’ series, a testament to

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intellectual and literary nonconformism.14 Frassinelli’s and Polledro’s respective initiatives marked a return to the anarchist-socialist tradition which had done well in Italy at the beginning of the century. Frassinelli’s ethos was perhaps that which most closely corresponded to the future NST15 : Riso nero (Dark Laughter, 1925) by Sherwood Anderson,16 Dedalus (Daedalus. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, 1916) by Joyce, Moby Dick (1851) by Melville, translated by Cesare Pavese in 1932 and 1933, L’armata a cavallo (1926) by Isaak Babel, translated by Renato Poggioli—following Ginzburg’s recommendation—in 1932, La luna dei Caraibi e altri drammi marini, L’imperatore Jones (South Sea Tales, 1893) by Stevenson, translated by Ada Prospero in 1932, Le avventure di Huckleberry Finn (1884) by Mark Twain, translated by Luigi Berti in 1934, Il processo (1925) by Kafka, translated by Spaini in 1933,17 and Il principe Otto (Prince Otto, 1885) by Stevenson, translated by Enzo Giachino in 1936.18 Frassinelli privileged experimental works which broke with traditional narrative frameworks and the conventional thematic repertoire: Babel, Joyce, Melville, Twain, Anderson and Kafka. The contradictions of American provincial life, the revolutionary force of Babel, Moby Dick’s mythical power, the sense of mystery and oppression of power in Kafka’s works, and the great adventure novel already proposed by the small-scale Milanese publishers of the 1920s. An interesting anecdote related to the publication of Anderson is emblematic of the objectives of this publishing venture. Anderson was the second ‘stop’ in Pavese’s ‘discovery’ of America, a novelist whose short story collection Winesburg, Ohio (1919) continued from the Midwest the ‘village revolution’ initiated by Theodore Dreiser (1902). In 1932, Pavese sent Riso Nero to Arrigo Cajumi, at that time editor-in-chief of La Cultura, who rejected the text, stating that he preferred books which were perhaps artistically inferior, but more politically and socially engaged.19 As Pavese’s dedicatory letter to the publisher reveals, even the publication of the translation by Frassinelli was controversial and called into question the integrity of the Italian publishing industry, which had shown little interest in Anderson before he became a ‘fashionable’ writer.20 L’armata a cavallo by Babel was an equally contentious text. In 1932, a young Emilio Castellani attributed the text’s modernity to a direct narrative technique which, immune to frammentismo and intimist digressions, gripped the reader and created a convincing effect of diegetic

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density and agility.21 Frassinelli’s series was an ideal narrative collection, a training gym. As Ginzburg commented a few years later, in reference to Babel: ‘[…] he can offer a dignified introduction to this series, which features some of the most dynamic nineteenth-century classics and contemporary authors, authors who are not simply European, but European in a manner which attracts the attention of us as Europeans’.22 Cultured Europeanism was not understood generically as a ‘competitive’ opening towards other cultural experiences with the lifeblood to revive Italian culture, but as a collection of narrative models to be rewritten in order to update the Italian literary panorama. This publishing venture was brought to an end with the arrest of Franco Antonicelli in 1935 (though a few titles were still released in 1936), together with other members of the ‘Giustizia and Libertà’ group led by Vittorio Foa, and the editors of La Cultura, who had impressed an anti-fascist stamp on the publishing house. The echoes of this experience would resonate even in 1941, as evidenced by an anonymous letter sent to the Ministry for Popular Culture: A certain Frassinelli, a typographer-publisher from Turin, started a series of volumes which are very well-presented but whose content is really quite toxic. They are predominantly Russian translations. […]. There is one book which is particularly disgusting, ‘L’Armata a Cavallo’ by the Jew Isacco [sic] Babel. […]. The young student who made me aware of this book said it is very widely read and discussed amongst young people and was amazed that the regime allowed works of this nature to circulate so easily. […]. I send you this text […] it could give you an idea just how right I am in pointing out the political danger, but above all the moral corruption, that the volumes of this typographer (could he be a Comintern agent?) are spreading amongst the people and particularly the younger generations. (ACS, Minculpop, L’armata a cavallo, 28 September 1941, envelope n. 138, reference file L’armata a cavallo, [Padova])23

This letter was forwarded with an accompanying note which specified to the Duce that ‘the text in question was published in 1932 and is out of print. Frassinelli has not published any books by Russian authors since that period’.24 In 1941, therefore, not only was it still possible to read Frassinelli’s publications, but there appeared to be no particular danger in doing so, judging by the neutral tone of the Ministry’s response.

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Before we consider the NST, it is worth taking a brief look at Ribet, a small-scale ‘marginal’ venture in Turin in this period whose contemporary literature was infused with a European outlook. Founded in 1927 by Mario Gromo, who was greatly informed by Gobetti’s work, together with the three Ribet typographer brothers, the Ribet publishing house (renamed Fratelli Buratti in 1929) printed a series entitled ‘Scrittori contemporanei’.25 In this collection, reflections on the crisis of realism and on the novel form were presented together with translations and works by the Solaria writers. Ribet’s formula for literary renewal was a hybrid combination of narrative structures inspired by a plurality of stylistic voices and narrative codes. From 1928 onwards, the ‘Scrittori contemporanei’ featured emerging Italian writers such as Angioletti, Ramperti, Persico, Buratti, Cacumi, Cominetti, Viscardini, Comisso, Franchi, Grande, Gromo, Montale, Loira, Raimondi, Pavolini, Sbarbaro, Solmi, Titta Rosa and Viscardini. Ribet’s plans for a ‘Biblioteca straniera’ collection, which was never published, included a range of authors (young, established, controversial) from Europe and the Americas, many of whom were as yet unknown in Italy: Victor Auburtin, Eduardo Barrios, Alexander Blok, Otto Erich Hartleben, Aldous Huxley, Heinrich Mann, Schnitzler, V. A. Sollogub, Jerome K. Jerome, Alexander Kuprin and Ramón del Valle-Inclán. What we can trace in these ‘minor’ ventures is a common desire for literary renewal through the reclamation of traditional elements—from Italian and foreign classics—and through a relationship with those foreign literatures which combined classicism with modernity. The release of Melville’s latest book and the first three volumes of the ‘I contemporanei’ series, inaugurated with Pavese’s Paesi tuoi in 1941, was greeted as follows by Aldo Camerino: To the publisher Giulio Einaudi, […] I have seen Melville’s new book on the shelves, and I am happy that it has been translated. And I have read the first three volumes of the new ‘contemporanei’, which seem to me to be very well done. It is a rather (forgive me) ‘tendentious’ initiative, but there’s no harm in that. Einaudi is a ‘brand’, a good sign. (AE, file Camerino, 6 April 1942, ms)

Einaudi wrote back denying that the series was ‘tendentious’ and sent Camerino the two latest volumes of the series as evidence (AE, file

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Camerino, 11 April 1942, typewritten). Their misunderstanding is interesting—for Camerino, being ‘tendentious’ was no sin for a publishing house if it was a mindful response to the cultural and aesthetic behaviour of readers and writers, as he tries to explain in his reply: And thank you for the two ‘Contemporanei’, which I will enjoy reading: convinced that Stuparich is a short story writer, rather than a novelist. As far as ‘tendentious’ is concerned, well, that is a discussion in its own right. What I basically meant is that one can clearly identify a selective reasoning. And that this does not tend to an eclecticism but does lead to many exclusions. […]. To conclude (so to speak): a collection in which the Ed. is concerned with impressing his own distinctive style (as Alicata would agree, I believe) and in his choices reflects what could also be called Europeanism. In short: writers who adhere to things […] I mean: a book, many people would agree, really matters when its content seems worth translating. Not stylistics in a 1920-1935 manner, but a constructive aspiration. (AE, file Camerino, 13 April 1942, typewritten, partially cited in Mangoni 1999: 65–66)

Translation is considered from a generational perspective. The eclecticism of the avant-garde must be transformed into a range of choices, into new, shorter forms; exemplary was the charged brevity of the tales in Pavese’s Dialoghi con Leucò. If new generations of authors want to write in a European narrative style which merits translating, encouraging this healthy, ‘constructive’ ambition will help eliminate the gratuitous stylistics of the elzeviri. Within the publishing house itself, correspondence between Pavese and Alicata reveals how preference was accordingly granted to the short novel form as a stylistic and narratological choice inclined towards essentiality: Einaudi’s idea of limiting ourselves to ‘short novels’ seems a good one to me, as it will exclude any weakness for the Omnibus – which still brings with it, and quite openly, a lot of historicism and sociology – from our agenda. I would interpret ‘short novel’ primarily as a stylistic definition. As it stands I do not really follow the plan of reprinting forgotten or rare books that aren’t narrative literature in a strict sense – I believe this would compromise the logic of the series. […]. I would say the same for foreign works. (28 April 1941, Lettere I, 1966: 390)

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And so it was that the first novel in the ‘I contemporanei’ series was Pavese’s bleak and candid Paese tuoi which marked a return, in a new guise, to the author’s ‘Americanist-realist’ explorations of the 1930s.

6.2 Einaudi’s Selection Criteria for Its ‘Narratori Stranieri Tradotti’ Series The years between 1934 and 1938 were difficult ones for the Turin publishing house. Pavese was internally exiled to Calabria in 1935, Ginzburg was imprisoned between 1934 and 1936 (and then internally exiled in Pizzoli, in Abruzzo, from 11 June 1940 to 25 July 1943). Upon their release, the publishing house launched itself into an exploration of new cultural horizons in which translations of fiction played a key role. Pavese signed a permanent contract with Einaudi and was tasked with translating English texts (approximately 2000 pages a year), revising the drafts of other English to Italian translators, reviewing and compiling reader reports on unpublished Italian and foreign works; the entire corpus of Anglo-American literature was placed in his hands, whilst Ginzburg resumed Slavia’s publishing project, with nineteenth-century Russian literature at the forefront. As Einaudi declared in 1939 in the Fascist periodical, Il libro italiano: ‘The work of my publishing house, including in the field of foreign literature, is undertaken with a profound awareness of the needs of our culture’.26 In 1934, the ‘Problemi contemporanei’ series was launched. The twenty-nine titles featured (the series was published until 1944) aimed to highlight the problems of contemporary society; the first volumes by Ruggiero, Cabiati and Wallace were dedicated to the Great War and the 1929 economic crisis. 1935 saw the inauguration of the ‘Biblioteca di cultura storica’, a collection which hinted at the European interests of the publishing house in 1939 with the release of La formazione dell’unità europea by Christopher Dawson. This interest was cemented by various new series created between 1936 and 1939: the ‘Saggi’—launched in 1937 with La crisi della civiltà (1919) by Huizinga, and La cultura americana e l’Italia by Angelina la Piana, and immediately followed by Gertrude Stein’s Autobiografia di Alice Toklas (1933), Kipling’s Qualcosa di me (1915), Pater’s Mario l’epicureo (Marius the Epicurean, 1885) and La morte, la carne e il diavolo by Praz, together with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky – the NST; the ‘Biblioteca di cultura scientifica’ (1938); the ‘Nuova raccolta di classici annotati’, and we may also cite ‘i Poeti’, which

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included one foreign poet, Rainer Maria Rilke (though the total number of volumes published in this period remains relatively low—see Chapter 3 for the exact figures). A similar tangle of interests emerged in the NST. Numerically French and English literature prevailed, with sixteen and fourteen titles respectively (more than half of the entire series), followed by Russian (eleven titles), German (six), American (four); there was one title each of Spanish, Czechoslovakian, Polish and Scandinavian literature. In the period which concerns us, up until 1945, thirty-one volumes were published, eight of which were English, seven French, five Russian, four German, four American, one Spanish, one Czech and one Swedish. The NST reflected the Italian publishing panorama in the 1920s and early 1930s; French literature was a constant presence, German and Russian literature were on the rise, English fiction, particularly the Victorian novel, was a major player, and American literature too was becoming increasingly popular. On average, four novels were published per year until 1947, with 1941 and 1944 being the most productive years; there was a constant increase throughout the war period which continued up to 1947, when the number of titles fell significantly. Volumes continued to be released sporadically until the series was officially terminated in 1962.27 In total, from the series’ first title, I dolori del giovane Werther, to its last, Cime tempestose, fifty-five volumes were featured over twenty-four years. Title selection was greatly informed by personal tastes; in this very period Pavese was developing his reflections on the novel form in Mestiere di vivere. Ginzburg’s philological and historiographical rigour recovered the classics as models to reconceptualize the present, whilst Pavese sought endlessly in writing a missing contact with realia. For the former, the classics were heritage to be conserved, for the latter, to be transformed. Einaudi, moreover, proposing a topical classicism, avoided getting directly involved in the Fascist aestheticization of popular art as he writes in a letter to Mario Alicata at the company’s Rome office: I see the ‘Biblioteca Classica Universale’ as sort of a cradle of culture which brings together all the new and rediscovered texts which are fundamental to the construction of our own culture, and which readers of our other collections are already familiar with. But I also see it as an experimental series which can give a flavour of classic authors, and strands of the culture they represent, which could become important enough to be honoured

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in our current collections (Narratori Stranieri Tradotti, Scrittori di Storia, Saggi). I say classic because here in Turin we will set up a parallel Biblioteca Moderna Universale where we intend to do the same for contemporary works: to capitalize upon those great Italian and foreign works which are not worthy of Lo Struzzo [one of the most prestigious series], and cultural texts which do not quite have the rigour we require for the Biblioteca di Cultura Storica e Scientifica e Economica e Politica e Filosofica. (AE, file Einaudi, 27 October 1941, Turin, typewritten, cited in Mangoni 1999: 110–11, n. 163)

At Einaudi, the historicity of the classics was quite synonymous with modernity. There was no explicit desire to make the publishing house anti-fascist; rather, it aimed to be a ‘neutral zone’, with the works it published assisting in the development of Italian culture precisely through a focus on recovering its historicity. On 8 May 1939, Giulio Einaudi wrote to Umberto Morra about the texts the NST would feature: ‘it should include, in addition to the classics, only writers whose excellence is universally recognised’.28 Einaudi’s project exemplifies a reorganization of literary society and the book market which will succeed in ‘going beyond’ Fascism thanks to the dialogue it established with Bottai’s Primato and the productive interaction it sustained between strategy, writing, and literary theory: a stance which was as much about ‘agreeing to disagree’ in order to survive (‘il coraggio della concordia’ ) as it was keeping pace with the times and crossing the boundaries delimited by official culture. Let us look now at the writers who form the corpus of authors featured in the NST and consider the target reader of elite publishing under Fascism.

6.3

Thresholds: Readers and Prefaces

The words of the NST’s prefacers make evident the intention of the series to de-provincialize Italian culture. The collection was launched with Goethe’s I dolori del giovane Werther (Die Leiden des jungen Werther, 1774) translated by Alberto Spaini, who was already a well-respected translator. Spaini’s letter to Einaudi below reveals his doubts regarding this volume:

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Dear Sir, […] this in relation to your letter. But I have considered at length the idea of translating the ‘Werther’ and I am not at all convinced. I have reread it carefully and I find it a very outdated book and, above all, not at all typical of Goethe. […]. It is so exclamatory! I am not sure if we, dedicated Proust readers, would be able to find the momentum required to translate his melancholy periods…I wonder therefore if a translation of, for example, the ‘Wanderjahre’ might be more appropriate, and closer to our ethos – the full collection has never been translated into Italian. (AE, file Spaini, 6 August 1937, typewritten)

The Goethe text would seem too emotional and old-fashioned, the translator explains, for the literary tastes of this generation and of future Einaudi readers, and it would give the wrong impression of the new series. In his reply, Giulio Einaudi clarifies his vision of the collection: In asking you to translate ‘Werther’ for my collection, I was thinking primarily of the intellectual loyalty of the public of all countries to this book, which you perhaps dismiss too easily. Though if you are keen to translate the ‘Wanderjahre’, I am happy for you do to so. (AE, file Spaini, 9 August 1937, typewritten)

Spaini’s fears of the Proustian sensibility of the Italian reading public were overruled, and Werther helped launch the NST with a clear focus: to reacquaint young Italian intellectuals with a European classic. Despite the success enjoyed by German literature in the 1920s, deciding to inaugurate the collection with Goethe was significant in ethical, rather than stylistic-narrative, terms. The musicologist Massimo Mila, one of Einaudi’s resident Germanists, held that as a link between the Enlightenment and romanticism, Goethe symbolized the renunciation of Croce and the intellectual model proposed by the Neapolitan philosopher: a philosophy abstract from reality and indifferent to political influences, avowedly extraneous to the dialectics of historical progression. Einaudi’s Italians, on the other hand, must revisit the Ancient vs Moderns debate and identify its significance in terms of the explorer, of an Odyssean figure, of a traveller discovering reciprocally unknown cultural worlds. For the Einaudi group, overcoming Crocean thought—a crucial step in these years—was achieved through a carefully considered recovery of historicism. The intellectual, and therefore the publisher, must base his actions on the contingent fact and distance himself from abstract, transcendent and supposedly ‘pure’ categories. The answer to Spaini’s question as to

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why it was necessary to offer another edition of a text which was already so famous was obvious: Einaudi wanted both to propose a new theory and method of interpreting the classics—in the light of an understanding of translation as a rewriting of models perceived as canonical within the European literary tradition—and to reject a domestic tradition which sought to deny historical development, and which presented Fascism as a historical parenthesis. The new version had to highlight the contemporary relevance of an epistolary novel, I dolori del giovane Werther, the model for Le ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis , which (before Manzoni became the formal model for the Italian novel) hymned civil freedom; again, here we have Spaini writing to Einaudi: […] we agreed that our Werther has to have a poetic-popular character and not a cultured-literary one, right? As for the title, ‘I dolori del giovane Werther’ [The Sorrows of Young Werther], it seems to me the most beautiful thing in the whole book, it has such a rococo flavour, it’s got that strong presentiment of neoclassicism already, so ironic and sentimental: no, Einaudi, we’re not changing the title. (AE, file Spaini, 19 May 1938, ms)

This emphasis on the poetic-popular character of the work alludes to the same aspiration that we have observed in Bompiani (amongst others) of creating a new popular culture which blurs the traditional distinction between the highbrow and the prosaic day-to-day.29 Comparing the NST edition of the novel with previous versions in a review for Oggi on 17 June 1939, Pintor concluded, ‘This contemporary version has instead been translated very intelligently. Spaini has achieved a balance between a flowing and rather sustained style, which avoids both affected archaisms and modern brusqueness’.30 A well-executed translation was a means of communicating in a carefully gauged code which eschewed linguistic harshness and corresponded to the sensitivities of the general public. Italian culture must open up to Europe, at the same time retaining its own traditions and proposing an interpretation of ‘Europeanism’ that had barely changed since the times of La Voce. In 1943, Le affinità elettive (Die Wahlverwandtschaften, 1809) was the second novel Massimo Mila translated for Einaudi and once again, he stressed in his preface a desire to make the text relevant to a broader, contemporary audience: ‘The essential purpose of this translation is to save from the limbo of the so-called “classics” a work which – at least

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in the first of its two halves – we may call one of the most surprising “first fruits of the modern novel”’. Mila associated the text’s ‘readability’ with its temporal construction, since only a fundamentally revised version, with language which matched the capabilities of the average reader, would appeal to a wider public: This is also true of Ottilia – we feel that Goethe grasped what is substantially the essence of the modern novel: the sense of time. […]. In those quick glimpses which bring two distant times together in a single story, the real protagonist of each narrative is revealed, time, understood as a Bergsonian ‘duration’, measured through events, or rather, through the development of inner life. […] Le affinità elettive holds its own, from a stylistic point of view, in the tradition and the history of the modern novel from which the undisputed halo of classicism would have hurriedly excluded it’. (pref.: X–XI)

Le affinità elettive was not only a ‘canonical’ classic but contained the quintessence of the modern novel: the temporal construction of history brought back to the dimensions of consciousness. The translator-prefacer wanted the public to be able to read Le affinità elettive as a novel which focuses on the time of conscience, the very time brought to light by Montale’s rediscovery of Svevo, the vociani’s interpretation of Bergson, Pirandello’s international success, Solaria, but also by the ‘popular’ translations of foreign classics. The publisher’s task was that of constructing a canon with porous margins. In ideological terms, this ambition of Einaudi’s was not dissimilar to Ginzburg’s objectives when he discussed the tardy arrival of London in Italy, or Vittorini’s suggestions (in the light of the enduring appeal of D’Annunzio’s style) in 1933, when he was working for Mondadori: Dear Piceni, […] With things being the way you say they are (i.e. Corbaccio etc.) the only thing to do is to translate Plum. Serp. It’s still a great novel, despite all its shortcomings (shortcomings which will no doubt delight that half of our public which would still prefer D’Annunzio-esque stylistics to a beautiful short story collection). Another option would be Kangaroo (set in Australia: the bush, Sydney, desert by the sea) but there’s too much dialogue and not enough narrative; it wouldn’t have much appeal. If it’s a full-length proper novel we want, you’re right, after Sons and Lovers

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there’s only Plum. Serp. So I don’t have any other suggestions. […]. (FAAM, FAM, fasc. Vittorini, 25 February 1933, Florence, ms)

In a letter dated 16 March 1939 to Luigi Berti, who translated the first Italian edition of Henry Esmond, Pavese offers a portrait of the Einaudi reader: The preface to ‘Esmond’ you sent is a true critical essay which would be fine for a periodical like ‘Letteratura’. For the ‘Narratori’ public it is too difficult and too long. In the volumes that you have already received you’ll have seen that we use the following format: a brief historical-aesthetic introduction which guides the reader to a correct interpretation of the text, with a short list of his works. […]. Please don’t be offended, therefore, that I am asking you to rewrite this plainly, with the clear phrasing you use in correspondence with me or to address your ‘Nazione’ readers. (AE, file Berti, typewritten, in Mangoni 1999: 29–30)

Einaudi readers have the right to ask questions and receive answers: not only as individuals, but as a group, as an imaginary community which would ideally shape literary culture. The Florentine periodicals seemed to have run their course, with the appearance of new type of target reader who must be guided ‘to a correct interpretation of the text’ by a new figure whose role within the publishing system had been cemented: the intellectual. The most exemplary Einaudi preface was Pavese’s introduction to his translation of Le avventure e sventure della famosa Moll Flanders (The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll Flanders, 1722)—Einaudi frequently proposed the entire manuscript to his translators as a model translation—in which he briefly explains the novel’s context and its key literary and aesthetic qualities. The preface reflects Pavese as an artist and writer, but more importantly, he communicates to the reader the profound universal meaning of the novel. The aim of the preface, as in the 1920s, was to universalize the symbolic capital of the text and transport it beyond its national borders to create a sort of aesthetic universalism which unites disparate and geographically distant interpretative communities and textual characters. The preface to Esmond, in this first Italian edition, should have a similar purpose, as Pavese explains to the translator:

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Dear Berti, We are not there yet. The biographical information is excellent: you just need to add, in brackets, the years the various books cited were released, just to help orient the reader, and alter the last sentence a little because it is unduly harsh, focusing only on the text’s shortcomings. But the preface is obscure, very obscure. Abstract terms abound, it is full of images which will leave our average reader – that is, the reader who has not yet read ‘Esmond’ – dazed and sceptical. […] What surprises me most is your sudden adherence to hermeticism […]. I aspire to reach many readers, and not just for commercial reasons – something I don’t think you would object to, either. However, you have to adapt your language and discuss in clear terms the reactions any reader might have to this text; the effect it had on you and why you would encourage other readers to read a masterpiece like ‘Esmond’. Remove the possibilities for misunderstanding (historical or aesthetic), state the book’s artistic merits without insistence or pomposity: these are the principles any preface to the volumes in my ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’ should follow. You, dear Berti, can write something much more human and Tuscanly clear. (AE, file Berti, 3 April 1939, typewritten; see also Mangoni 1999: 30, n. 96 for the possible attribution of this letter to Ginzburg)

Berti’s original preface fell short because it does not explain Thackeray; it does not act as a medium for transcultural, trans-aesthetic and transnational communication. Pavese attacks hermeticism and any writing which does not express in frank terms ‘the reactions any reader might have’; redundant stylistics must be replaced by prose which is ‘more human’. The foreword should update and, above all, historicize the classics, as Lidia Storoni Mazzolani, the translator of Viaggi di Gulliver (Gulliver’s Travels, 1729, revised 1735) writes: ‘Dear Mr. Giulio Einaudi, Please find enclosed a redrafted preface which I hope is better […] trying to stress the universal and contemporary relevance of the book, rather than the historical aspects which will only be of interest to scholars’.31 A translation of Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels by Formiggini was first published in 1931; although the translator’s work showed a level of diligence, Papini wrote in an article that same year, it was not based on the English original. Papini also noted that Swift’s book had hitherto been read exclusively as a children’s book and that the satirical element had been ignored; he invited the public to ‘interact’ with the translated text to extrapolate its meaning.32 Re-framing a text which was already famous in a different guise was a way of claiming its topicality and historicity and of subtracting it from Crocean abstract aesthetics.

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In a letter dated 30 May 1939, Einaudi asked Spaini, in his preface to E. Th. A. Hoffmann’s La principessa Brambilla (Die Prinzessin Brambilla, 1820), to ‘explain’ the work in a simple and interesting manner to contemporary Italian readers who weren’t inclined to the fantastical: ‘As far as the preface is concerned I ask you to draw upon your experience as a journalist. Hoffman is always a little disconcerting for our public: primarily, we have to introduce people to his whimsical spirit and show them its poetry’.33 Spiritual distance can be rendered insignificant when successfully brought within the borders of national (though not claustrophobically canonical) textuality, such as that of Gozzi’s forgotten eighteenth-century fairy tales which ‘exceed the conventional parameters of taste’: But this country of ours, and our art, are both so rich, so versatile, full of so many different souls that they can nourish the most diverse spirits and tastes – Goethe’s classicism, Hoffmann’s romanticism. It would be a happy state of affairs, though, if some Italian readers, via Principessa Brambilla, found their way back to Gozzi’s forgotten fairy tales. Then we could truly say that E. Th. A. Hoffmann’s homage to Italy has achieved its goal. (pref.: XI).

The fantasy tradition had been revived more recently in the works of Bontempelli, Buzzati and Landolfi, but following the experimental phase of the 1920s, the late 1930s marked the start of a more conventional phase, a sort of retreat to ‘Victorian’ literature, or at least so it must appear.

6.4

English Literature: We Victorians?

In 1938, the first translation of an English text to be published was Defoe’s Moll Flanders, followed by Dickens, Thackeray, Butler, Meredith, Stevenson, Hardy and Swift. The works selected span most of the Victorian era (1837–1901), from Swift and Defoe, and Dickens’ La storia e le personali esperienze di David Copperfield (The Personal History, Adventures, Experience and Observations of David Copperfield the Younger of Blunderstone Rookery, 1850), to Hardy and Butler’s Così muove la carne (The Way of All Flesh, 1903). Again, these were non-canonical choices— the original versions were considered and sold as popular novels, rather

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than ‘classics’. Surprisingly, the truly successful Victorian narrative developments, from the ‘sensational novel’ to the female novel were not featured—even George Eliot and ‘Mrs’ Elizabeth Gaskell were excluded. Together with Defoe, some classic Dickens appears not only in the NST—Pavese translated La storia e le personali esperienze di David Copperfield in 1939—but also in the notes of Mestiere di vivere, in Pavese’s reflections on going beyond naturalism to achieve a new novel form: I, in fact, have stated the contrary (preface to David Copperfield: ‘fantasy, which is pure construction’). Fantasy is not the opposite of intelligence. Fantasy is intelligence brought to establishing relationships of analogy, of significant implication, of symbolism. I have said that only fantasy can construct, because only fantasy can escape the tyranny of a real slice of life, of a natural occurrence, and replace the laws of reality (which is absence of construction, so much so that it has no beginning and no end) with fairy tales, stories, and myth, which are constructions of intelligence. (MV, 10 July 1942: 241; translation by Alma Elizabeth Murch, This Business of Living, 1961)

Key to Pavese’s theory on overcoming realism-naturalism, fantasy is both a moment of selection, since it promotes the creation of bonds which do not depend on a cause-effect determinism, and a catalyst for other possible manifestations of reality. Dickensian imaginative acrobatics multiply characters and stories without betraying the coherence of the vast expanse of English fiction anchored to a solid ‘need for construction’.34 Fantasy is not simply lyrical introspection, but irony, too: ‘Great modern art is always ironic, just like ancient art was religious. […]. Irony does not require a jest (just as consecration does not require liturgy), images must simply be constructed according to a rule which surpasses them or dominates them’.35 As with Defoe and Stein, Pavese sees in irony a constructive principle around which the narrative can be developed. A note in Mestiere on 15 May 1944 reads: Have you ever pondered on the fact that those who originated the Italian novel – seeking in despair for fluent narrative prose – are primarily lyric writers – Alfieri, Leopardi, Foscolo? La Vita, I Frammenti di Diario and Il Viaggio Sentimentale are the sediment of imaginative minds entirely given up to illuminating flashes of lyrical eloquence. And the first successful novel

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– I Promessi Sposi – is the maturity of a great lyric writer. This must have left traces upon our narrative standard. On the other hand, think of English or French novels of the eighteenth century and Spanish works in the seventeenth: there, the prose of the novel was born without a spark of imagination, as in nineteenth-century Russia. (MV: 280, Murch 1961: 246)

An exemplary translation, therefore, which avoided exaggeratedly ornamental stylistics à la D’Annunzio, rendered this foreign novel popular and appealing. The model of great foreign traditions would help liberate the Italian novel from its excessive lyricism; the traditional prolixity of Italian prose could be avoided through translation techniques which enhanced the linguistic and stylistic essentiality of English-language writing. A review of Pavese’s version of David Copperfield, for example, praised the translator’s ability to capture the panache, humour and agility of Dickens’s writing.36 At this time, Thackeray was even more celebrated than Dickens and that year also saw the publication of The History of Henry Esmond (1852), translated by Luigi Berti, who had previously worked for La Cultura. The tone of the correspondence between Einaudi, an anonymous editor (probably Pavese), and Berti stands out when compared with similar exchanges between the publisher and the writer-translators, who were afforded greater freedom in their translations. In the letter below Einaudi explains his reasoning to Carlo Linati, who was also Mondadori’s and Bompiani’s English and American literature consultant: It would have been easier to explain to you in person, at our first meeting, why I wanted to put only your name on the title page […]. It comes down to this: when the title page has the names of two translators, a famous name and an unknown one, people think ‘The new name did the translation, it’s just endorsed by the famous name’. But I want the public to recognise and appreciate a Carlo Linati version: this is why I had you contribute. The literary personality of the translator has been a key feature of the ‘Narratori stranieri tradotti’ to date: hence collaborative translations are impossible, or at least they cannot be presented as such. So please explain to your employee that I have nothing against her. (AE, file Linati, 31 January 1940, typewritten)

Einaudi distinguishes two types of translators, treating them differently and granting them distinct interpretative liberties, though the final result

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must still be unabridged and philologically correct, based solely on original or authorized editions. Berti, for example, is advised in a letter dated 24 August 1938 not to use the past historic tense, but the historical present, for the dialogues in Esmond (a stylistic choice also adopted for Moll Flanders ). The translator replies: Dear Mr. Einaudi […] As you will have noticed, I have faithfully replicated the English text, keeping dialogues in the present to correspond to the past historic that Thackeray himself used. I had thought about putting it all in the past historic but given that the present tense functions as a historical present, I thought it would alter that sense of autobiographic report that the text retains when converted to the third person. What do you think? N. B. The revisor requests that you reconsider the historical present in the captions, which often seemed to him inappropriate. (AE, file Berti, 2 September 1938, typewritten)

Berti’s reassurance of the translation’s fidelity to the original, though addressed to Einaudi, passed first through Pavese’s hands; we can confidently assume that Pavese added the ‘N. B.’, implicitly criticizing the translator’s choice to preserve the autobiographical element and the pseudo-objectivity of the narrative. Pavese’s reflections in this period on autobiography and narrative voice confirm the trend towards the substitution of the first person with the third in the diegetic fabric. A rather eccentric choice, The History of Henry Esmond appears almost to have been proposed to the Italian public as an ironic reinterpretation of the historical novel genre, with a modern sensibility which assumed the satirical tone of everyday life. 1943 witnessed the publication of a new version of Stevenson’s Treasure Island, one of the successes of the previous decade, translated by Piero Jahier as L’isola del tesoro. Like Moby Dick and Gulliver, Stevenson’s novel was not presented as a children’s book, but as a work in which literature meets real life. In his preface, Jahier wrote ‘There is, in this story, a poetry which is more chaste and powerful than any other because it is ordered and required by the narrative, rather than as an end unto itself: the poetry of an ordinary man, who life has made a poet’ (pref.: VIII). Pavese, too, saw in Stevenson a potential solution to the art-life dilemma, because his writing succeeded in reconciling the two apparently contradictory poles of his Weltanschauung: ‘verismo’ and ‘aestheticism’, Verga and D’Annunzio, ‘realism’ and ‘symbolism’:

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This means that R. L. S. enters English narrative prose with an exotic charm, a lesson in the style of the French naturalists, the choice of the exact, irreplaceable word, the sense of colour, sound, essential nuances […]. This, we believe, remains the most authentic and productive fruit of true aestheticism, and the discipline of this clear, artisan, sober, and ‘functional’ writing is, as we see it, worth much more than the pseudo-scientific inquires of a Zola or the mystical-heroic inebriation of D’Annunzio and the like. (‘Robert L. Stevenson’, 27 June 1950, L’Unità, in LA 1990: 192)

Stevenson’s ‘functionalism’ combines a taste for adventure—the subjective aspect of the narration and the objective adherence to the reality of the story—whilst maintaining an exquisite level of craftsmanship, a sobriety and clarity typical of the classics. On 17 July 1942, Lidia Storoni Mazzolani wrote to Einaudi expressing doubts regarding her own abilities as a translator: Dr Giulio Einaudi, I see that you considered my first draft to be ‘sufficient’ – an apt description of my own skills, but not suitable for a book as important or valuable as Gulliver […]. Swift really needs Cecchi or Praz, but I have tried to follow your instructions: to illuminate the reader with the essential information. (AE, file Storoni Mazzolani, typewritten)

On 24 July, it was Pavese himself who penned a reply to the scrupulous translator: Dear Madam, […] I would like you instead – as you see, I am open about these things – to revise your preface. Everything you have there is fine, but all in all it seems to me that something is missing: perhaps a hint of the true, expressive reality of the book, an attempt to explain the ‘myth’ of this fantastic journey more deeply, rather than a simple here the author ironizes that and lambasts this. Am I being clear? I want the reader to have an idea of the rhythm, the temporality of the narrative, of the modern flavour of this pure fantasy. Its satirical nature – for us – is the least important element. I know what I am asking is not easy, as I recognise I am not expressing myself clearly; but I am sure that when you yourself review these pages (enclosed here) you will feel that there is a lot of historical interpretation – too much literary information, in essence, and not enough naïve enthusiasm. See what you can do, making a few adjustments, additions, try to

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view the book from a certain distance rather than in a historical context; indulge me. (AE, file Storoni Mazzolani, typewritten)

Pavese’s own Gulliver is no longer a social satire but a mythological journey. In Swift’s character, Pavese saw also his own personae, returning from his extensive wanderings through the unknown to his own land, which is now also unfamiliar. The protagonist is forced to believe what happens in Lilliput in order not to lose contact with a reality which is no longer material, but rests on his own interpretations. This structural ambiguity of Gulliver had led Ginzburg to propose it for the ‘Saggi’, but, as we have seen, the text’s literary-mythical contribution was privileged over its satirical nature. It would be wrong, however, to assume that social satire was absent in a series which also featured Meredith’s L’egoista (The Egoist, 1879), translated by Maria Giartosio de Courten in 1941, a work that merges psychological introspection with a critique of the role of women in Victorian society. In his Essay on Comedy (1897, delivered as a university lecture in 1877), the novelist cites directly the comic tradition of Molière and Congreve to launch a defence of women, and The Egoist blends humour and a stylistic baroque, a dark prose fiction, to represent modern life as a comedy of manners and the challenges of being a woman in Victorian society. Meredith was an interesting choice for two reasons; firstly, in the eyes of the Italian reader, he offered an example of a stimulating combination of prose and poetry (to a generation of writers concerned with this dilemma), and secondly, on account of his proximity to the modernism of Woolf and Joyce who had featured so prominently in Solaria. Echoing the anti-Victorian sentiment and awareness of the end of an era that we find in Meredith, Samuel Butler also featured in the collection. In Così muore la carne, first translated into Italian by Enzo Giachino in 1939 (Erewhon had been translated in 1928 by Titta Rosa for Corticelli), the Victorian anti-Bildungsroman becomes a thesis novel: a bitter caricature of the present. The prefacer indicates potential similarities between Butler’s novel and Joyce’s work—introduced just a few years prior to the Italian public—on account of the autobiographical element of both texts, symbolic of a universal destiny in irremediable decline. Butler, like Thackeray and Meredith before him, depicted the social compromise of a culture. Albeit not an ostensible intervention, publishing novels portraying the progressive loss of traditional values and public and private

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reference points, at a time when there was ample choice available—particularly as far as the classics, which did not entail the same copyright obligations, were concerned—implicitly invites reflection on the nature of active transformations in society and on the role of the individual. Hardy’s Il sindaco di Casterbridge (The Mayor of Casterbridge, 1886) was the last of the Victorians, translated by Aldo Camerino under the pseudonym of Marco Lombardi in 1944. Pavese, however, seems not to appreciate this rather eccentric inclusion, criticizing author of the more famous Tess of the D’Urbervilles (1981) and Jude the Obscure (1896) for the excessive ‘imaginativeness’ of this text and its ‘haughty, Oxonian tone’ which is incapable of breathing life into the ‘melodramatic’, stereotyped characters.37 Is he not leaving literature behind, on a quest for the ‘real’, as ‘the Americans’ seem to do?

6.5

American Literature Beyond the Canon

The American literature featured in the NST primarily reflects Pavese’s outlook. Steinbeck and Dos Passos were not included, not because they weren’t considered classics, but because Pavese now held a different view of American literature which was less concerned with a novel’s subversive potential or contemporary relevance and was more attentive to structural issues.38 Translations of American literature were limited to Gertrude Stein’s Tre esistenze (Three Lives, 1909; translated 1940), Herman Melville’s Benito Cereno (1855; translated 1940) and Pierre, o delle ambiguità (Pierre: or, the Ambiguities, 1852; translated 1941) and Henry James’s Ritratto di signora (The Portrait of a Lady; translated 1942). In the ‘Saggi’, as mentioned previously, we find the Autobiografia di Alice Toklas (The Autobiography of Alice B. Toklas, 1933; translated 1938) by Stein and in the ‘Universale’, the Antologia di Spoon River (Spoon River Anthology, 1915; translated 1943) by Edgar Lee Masters, translated by Pavese and Fernanda Pivano respectively. Once again, these were unusual choices which did not correspond to the canonical idea of American literature (or at least, to the widespread image of the American literary tradition in Italy), favouring instead writing which was challenging, or ambiguously Anglo-Saxon as in the case of James, or which sacrificed a gripping plot for the representation of real figures, like Stein. Presenting Henry James and Gertrude Stein together meant seeking a commonality in traditions, as Pavese (1990: 154) explained, and to

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present another image of American literature which is not antithetical, but close to Italian literature. Predictably, given the contemporary European rediscovery of the writer, Melville featured prominently. Pavese had translated Moby Dick in 1932 for Frassinelli, but it was the authoritative Cecchi who wrote in 1939, in the Corriere, of Melville’s ‘great return’, referring in particular to the publication of works as yet relatively unknown. Einaudi had to determine which of the writer’s works would be most successful, and beat Bompiani to the draw: Dear Berti, Typee has already been translated into Italian and I don’t think Omoo would attract many readers, but I am fascinated by Pierre, which I’d not heard of before Emilio Cecchi mentioned it in a ‘Corriere’ article, and which I can’t find in any of the catalogues I have to hand. […]. I have no way of knowing if Bompiani has set eyes on it: I could only ask him outright, and it seems indiscreet to do so immediately after he very politely dismissed the idea of publishing The Way of all Flesh because I already had it in press. (AE, file Berti, 30 May 1939, typewritten)

Pierre wasn’t just difficult to get hold of; in an increasingly tense political atmosphere, it would also be a challenge to publish a text which ‘the American Puritans hastened to forget, that the Anglo-Saxons, in general, have never heard of’.39 Perhaps surprisingly, Pierre was not censored and was published in 1941, but internal issues did arise. Pavese wrote to Berti: Dear Berti, I have noticed, following the first feedback I gave you, that you have made an effort to make the prose of your translations snappier. Now, however, as you know, the objective of my Narratori collection is to offer translations which are as faithful to the original as possible, above all to preserve its stylistic value. As you will see in the examples that I have enclosed, your text strays, especially in passages where the stylistic value is key, too far from Melville’s. Why simplify the complex baroque constructions (e.g. those related to the rose and sinuosity and unyieldingness); why abolish those meticulously dropped adjectives and adverbs; why impoverish, vulgarize, the conceptual images so characteristic of Pierre? (AE, file Berti, 3 June 1941, typewritten)

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Rejecting the enclosed suggestions of an anonymous revisor (in actual fact, Pavese again), Berti wrote controversially to Einaudi: Dear Einaudi, […] I do not agree at all with what he says about my supposed vulgarization or impoverishment of Pierre’s conceptual images; the revisor and I have a very different sense of what translation is and how it should be done, and this is the result. […] Therefore I cannot give you carte blanche, as you request, in the meticulous task of revision, […], precisely because I do not agree, for example, with how Pavese translated both Moby Dick and Benito Cereno. (AE, file Berti, 5 June 1941, typewritten)

Pierre was revised with some acknowledgement of the translator’s requests, but for Einaudi, Pavese wanted to preserve the depth and complexity of Melville’s writing and to propose an image of America which was refined and cultured, not barbaric and ruminative like that offered by Vittorini. The preface highlights the challenging nature of this text which, in its semantic and linguistic ambiguity, anticipated the future works of Faulkner, O’Neill, Anderson and James (pref.: VIII). In 1940, Pavese had translated Melville’s Benito Cereno, a development in his career as an Americanist which marked a concrete shift in his perspective; American literature was now interpreted in a more solid and constructive theoretical and narrative frame. Central to Benito Cereno is the mythical, symbolic sea: As in the voluminous Moby Dick, in the short and perfect Benito Cereno the sea is much more than a setting: it is the visible face, infinitely rich in analogies, of the arcane reality of things. […] the sea is here the only form in Melville’s eyes that can accurately embody the dark and ironic demonic core of the universe. (pref.: VII, in LA 1990: 92)

Pavese seems to launch a critique of his own development as a writer. To go beyond naturalism, it is not sufficient to create an image that is a ‘fantastic creation’; such an image must have a universal validity that spans different temporalities. Moby Dick is an ‘absolute’ masterpiece in this sense, and despite its brevity and consequent differences, so is Benito Cereno. Just as in Moby Dick the whale’s whiteness was set against the misery and corruption of American society and the despotism of power, in Benito Cereno the description of the traditions and the decadence of old Spain

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are symbolic of the ignorance of power and the ambiguity of reality (pref.: VII). Here, too, the boundary between truth and fabrication is blurred; as with Moll Flanders, the novel is a site of hermeneutic and gnostic instability. Melville’s modernity and the nuanced atmospheres of his prose writing appeal to Pavese in that he shares a similar vision of the world. Time seems irrelevant to the narrative; the sequence of events is almost irrelevant as the whole story focuses progressively on the mythical figure of Don Benito. Gertrude Stein was Einaudi’s other key player, with the NST featuring the novel Tre esistenze, and the Autobiografia di Alice Toklas in the ‘Saggi’. The American writer in voluntary exile in Paris blended two cultural traditions in her texts and in 1938 Pavese no longer saw Stein as a response to ‘the need to modernize’ which had driven his approach to the writers he had previously translated, but the embodiment of a union of two worlds, two cultural traditions. The prefaces to Benito Cereno and to Stein’s texts are exemplary narrative and cultural analyses. In the Autobiografia, the issue of distinguishing author and character is a strategy to escape the contradiction between life and art and to go beyond a ‘naturalistic’ factual logic. Multiple perspectives and narrative voices create a mirror in which the artist, reflecting herself, becomes something other than herself. According to Pavese, Stein revolutionizes the format of the autobiographical novel since the identity of the author, narrator and character is concealed and is no longer the key feature. It is not the apparent realism of the narrative that attracts Pavese, but the intersection of different points of view, a possible solution to the issue of naturalism. This game of refractions continues even in the narrative structure of the novel: ‘That this Autobiografia was written not by the protagonist but one of the characters is not simply a narrative trick, but the mark of a whole style. A reader may think they hold a simple collection of anecdotes or memoirs of milieus or an attempt to recount an unusual spiritual education’.40 Crucially, the multiple perspectives presented in the text (that of the real author, Gertrude Stein; fictitious author, Alice Toklas; Alice as a character; Gertrude as a character) enable the author to draw on the symbolic richness of reality, showing the various angles through which a singular phenomenon may be observed, revealing it to be simultaneously unique and multifarious. It is precisely this line of thought that will lead to Pavese’s theory of an art aimed at expressing ‘realism’s wealth of experience and symbolism’s depth of feeling’.41

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Nothing is more essential when beginning a work of art than ensuring you have a richly productive standpoint. The simplest, most direct way of doing so is to draw on your experience of something a little unusual and sufficiently far-off, then work on the realistic complexity of associations that it offers. But there is a technical method of constructing a standpoint, which consists of arranging various spiritual planes, various times and angles, various realities, and deriving from them intersecting crosscurrents, a game of illusions, a wealth of implications that you can devote all your energies to developing as you please. (MV, 4 April 1941: 221; Murch 1961: 193)

The symbolic potential of every perceptible reality allows the narrator to go beyond a mimetic rendering and establish a two-way relationship between an inextricably linked subject and object: objectivity retains a potential charge which subjectivity, in its creative fantasy, can discover and reinvent. Stein’s text is an autobiography in all respects, but it is also something completely different, because the author and the narrator correspond imperfectly. Whilst with Defoe, a master of the genre and a novelist much loved by Stein and Pavese alike, the pseudoautobiographical form was a means of grasping the ultimate meaning of the characters’ existence, twentieth-century literature proposed a more critical understanding of subjectivity. Compared with the Autobiografia, Tre esistenze has a more traditional narrative structure, a collection of three separate stories recounting the lives and deaths of Lena, Melanchta and Anna. Once again, the issue is how to go beyond naturalism through a narrative structure which first deconstructs reality into its most basic blocks only to rearrange them into a logical structure. The reality of literature, rhythmically articulated through the creation of language which becomes in itself one of the book’s unifying themes, must be more authentic than the reality of a strict naturalism: ‘This world, variously configured in three stories, each reflecting the temperament of its eponymous protagonist, has a recurring motif, rhythm almost, in the quiet natural death of all three’.42 In 1942, Carlo Linati, despite being keen to translate Lawrence’s works (whose copyrights were owned by Corticelli and Mondadori), opted instead for James’s Ritratto di signora; an author who, like Stein, embodies the union of different traditions. Linati proposes some cuts to the novel to make it more ‘appealing’ which are rejected by the publisher.43 Henry James was not a new name in Italy, but in 1942 this novel could be considered dangerous, Einaudi writes to Linati:

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Dear Linati, After much discussion we have finally been given permission to publish Ritratto di signora. Authorization was granted ‘exceptionally’, on the condition, though, that the translation is preceded by a comprehensive and convincing preface with a clear Italian spirit, that is, one that can enlighten the common reader. However, it must be submitted to the Ministry for approval. This means that the preface, which I am sending back to you, must be altered to meet ministerial directives. (AE, file Linati, 24 February 1942, typewritten)

It seems that the preface was able to determine the publication of this text, difficult to class as dangerous. Linati’s foreword was transformed into a eulogy to James’s ‘Italian spirit’ which borders on the absurd, typified in his opening declaration that ‘[…] one of the main reasons I wanted to translate this long novel by Henry James is the fact that a large part of it takes place in Tuscany’ (pref.: VII). Of course, the pseudo-propaganda of the preface was merely a necessary rite of passage and would not have fooled an Einaudi reader. Linati manages to briefly indicate the technical reasons behind the choice of text: the novelty in terms of the story’s diegetic pace, the fine psychological play, particularly in relation to the theme of American artists in Europe. He also points out that he wanted to avoid domesticating the text and had kept his translation as close to the original as possible, including ‘the pages of worldly psychology which may seem, to today’s reader, long-winded’ (pref.: VIII). Finally, a brief mention of Edgar Lee Master’s Spoon River Anthology (1915), translated by Fernanda Pivano for the ‘Saggi’. Masters represents a new way of writing poetry, a break with traditional metres, closer to the lives and needs of ordinary people. Though Pavese didn’t translate the Anthology himself, he identifies its technical and thematic novelty in his essay on Masters, ‘La grande angoscia americana’.44 The American poet reduced the theme of destiny to the terms of everyday life, a strategy employed by Pavese in his Dialoghi con Leucò, and one which will characterize the neorealist poetry of the post-war period. Pavese dubs the American writer ‘The poet of destinies’, explaining that death, for Masters, ‘is the decisive moment which violently uproots one image from a forest of personal symbols and welds it, nails it forever to the soul’.45 Elevating Masters’ typical ‘grey’ American province to an Olympian universe of Homeric gods, Pavese recognizes its universal

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relevance: those regional roots are profoundly symbolic of the human condition which unites all—the rich and the poor, the content and the unhappy, the winners and the losers—in death. Even after death these souls are pummelled by a desperation to live, for at its heart this is a novel of life, not death, presenting tragic souls, not clinical cases: symbols of a society no longer able to ‘think in universal terms’. The American literary tradition is placed alongside Europe’s own, not in a competitive comparison, nor less a revolutionary moment, but as a resource; a style and narrative model to be studied and imitated. Masters’ text, rejected by the censorial authorities in their dying breath, was translated in secret, marking the end of an era.

Notes 1. It is important to bear in mind that classics ‘universally recognised as such’ were excluded from censorship measures as stipulated in the Ministry of Popular Culture circular no. 11.35 dated 26 March 1938 (Fabre 1998: 32; 2007: 28). 2. The publishing house promised to ‘publish foreign authors unabridged’, whilst ‘Il genio russo’ offered the first dedicated series of unabridged complete works. The price of each volume varied from about six to eleven lire, with two-volume editions costing as much as twenty-five lire, whilst Milanese texts cost an average of four lire (figures deduced from GdL advertisements 1925–1934). On the translation of European classics and their relationship with national culture see Vignola, B., ‘L’arte del tradurre’, I libri del giorno, a. IX, n. 7, July 1926: 347–48. 3. See Adamo (2000: 53–98) and d’Orsi (2000: 102–6). The postcards Ginzburg sent to Einaudi during his period of internal exile in Pizzoli in Abruzzo are a testament to his philological precision (AE, file Ginzburg) and Mangoni (2004). 4. On 27 April 1942, Garzanti requested permission to publish Dostoevsky’s Giornale di uno scrittore, which appears to have been granted on the condition that the preface emphasized how ‘Panslavism – of which Dostojewski is a staunch supporter – still threatens Europe under the guise of communism’ (A.S. Mi, Gab. Pref. 2° versamento, fasc. 282, categ. 044, reference file, Garzanti casa editrice). 5. GLI EDITORI, Programma, in I. A. Gonˇcarov, preface and notes by E. Lo Gatto, 1928, I: x. 6. Lo Gatto published two key articles in the Nuova Antologia entitled ‘La letteratura narrativa sovietica negli ultimi anni’ (1 August 1927: 332–64) and ‘L’Italia nelle letterature slave’ (16 October 1929: 427). Lo Gatto was the director of the Italian Institute for Eastern Europe (Istituto per l’Europa Orientale), the Rivista di Letterature Slave, the Slavist journal Russia (1920, together with Giovanni Maver), and a Professor at the Universities

6

7.

8. 9. 10. 11.

12.

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of Rome and Naples. He was also a good friend of Bompiani. Lo Gatto was editor-in-chief of Polledro’s ‘Scrittori slavi’ series which published a total of ten titles. His works include: I problemi della letteratura russa, 1921 and Saggi sulla cultura russa, 1922, for Ricciardi (Naples); Poesia russa della rivoluzione, 1924, for Stock (Rome); Massimo Gorkij, 1924, for Formiggini; Studi di letterature slave, 3 voll., 1925, 1927, 1931, and Storia della letteratura russa, 8 voll., 1927–31, Pagine di storia e di letteratura russa, 1928, Dall’epica alla cronaca nelle Russa soviettista, 1929, Note di storia e di letteratura russa, 1931 for the Anonima romana editoriale; La letteratura russa, 1928, Cremonesi di Roma; La letteratura soviettista, 1928, and Vecchia Russia, 1929, for the Institute for Eastern Europe. See also Ginzburg and Zuccaro’s essays on the writer and on translation in ‘Oblamov tradotto’, ‘Gonˇcarov’, La Cultura, VIII, fasc. 4, 1929: 239–40 and IX, fasc. 12, 1930: 989–99, in (2000: 163–75). As D’Orsi points out, this initiative also enjoyed a level of commercial success due to its subscription purchase system which put readers in direct contact with the publisher and granted them access to the first editions of works which would be fundamental to generations of young readers, including Delitto e castigo, I Demoni, I fratelli Karamazov (2000: 102–3). Slavia also published a collection entitled ‘Occidente’, edited by Alfredo’s brother Luigi, which offered ‘unpublished masterpieces’ by Conrad and Ramón Pérez de Ayala as well as the first Italian translation of Anderson’s Solitude. The price was around six lire per volume, lower than titles in the Russian literature collections which were priced at eleven or twelve lire. Ginzburg, L., [1931, x, fasc. 2]: 96–99, in 2000: 190. Kociemiski, L., LS, a. XI, n. 8, August 1928: 215. Ginzburg, L., ‘Turgenev cinquant’anni dopo’, C, LX, n. 42, 1933, in (2000: 188). Lo Gatto first introduced Goncharóv to Italy in 1924 with an article entitled ‘Gli scrittori della rivoluzione’, Lo spettatore italiano, a. I, n. 11, May 1924: 64–68. Lo Gatto was nostalgic about the disappearance of traditional Russia and sceptical about the impending shift to a new way of living based on the European and American industrial model (13–15). He was in many ways conservative (as was Cecchi), observing Russia through the rosetinted glasses of a foreign traveller. On this aspect, see also Mosca (Milan: Giacomo Agnelli, 1934), Narratori sovietici, translated from Russian by Ettore Lo Gatto (Rome: De Carlo, 1944), La letteratura russa 3, updated and revised edition (Rome: Cremonese, 1944), Gli artisti italiani in Russia (Milan: Libri Scheiwiller). ‘Frecciate’, a. III, n. 27, 1 July 1928: 3, and a. III, n. 30, 22 July 1928: 3.

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14. On the success of the collection, consider this prompt response from the authoritative LS: ‘This means that the so-called book crisis in Italy must be reconsidered, and that the Italian public intends to encourage and fully reward any noble effort to enrich Italian letters with faithful translations that meet the readers’ artistic standards’ (Kociemski, L. ‘Fjodor Dostojevskij. I Demoni (Bjesy), first unabridged edition with a commentary by Alfredo Polledro’, LS, a. XI, n. 3, March 1928: 72). 15. As D’Orsi observed, Ginzburg himself did not translate any titles for this series, despite its clear similarities with the future Einaudi (2003: 85). 16. Also presented to the public in the Corriere padano, Cecchini, G. F., ‘Sherwood Anderson’, a. VI, 28 April 1928: 3. 17. This was one of the few texts which were translated in Italy before it became available in France, but it is important to remember that only elite, ‘exclusive’ cultural circles would have accessed it, particularly in Turin (d’Orsi 2000: 128). See also Giovanni Necco’s review, ‘Il Processo di Franz Kafka’, L’Italia letteraria, a. IX, n. 48, 26 November 1933: 7. Spaini’s translation of America (Amerika, 1927) was blocked by the censorial authorities in 1935, to be republished only in 1945 by Einaudi. 18. In his overview of culture in Turin Norberto, Bobbio highlights that it was Frassinelli, and not Mondadori, who first published (in 1933) translations of two volumes of Walt Disney’s Avventure di Topolino (1977: 63). 19. In letters dated 25 July and 27 September 1930, Pavese reiterates to Cajumi that he is overlooking the strong social and political commitment of Lewis’s and Anderson’s respective narratives (Lettere I, 1966: 139–40, 155–56). In a letter dated 22 February 1931, we find a draft outline of a future (April 1931) article on Anderson (Pavese, Lettere I, 1966: 193–55; 180). 20. See Pavese’s letter dated May 1932 in which he controversially dedicates his translation of Anderson to Carlo Frassinelli (?) (Lettere I, 1966: 210). Mario Praz voiced the opinions of the literary establishment, who spared no criticism of Anderson, a writer certainly more refined and complex than Lewis. In a 1933 article entitled ‘Parodia di Riso nero’ the critic used the word ‘ridiculous’ to describe the attitude of the white man, the intellectual, who observes and judges the wild and the primitive—in this case personified by the black man—according to limits of his own forma mentis, entirely neglecting the perspective of the Other and running the risk of creating absurd and grotesque narrative situations (1951: 194–95). 21. ‘Isacco Babel, L’armata a cavallo’, translated by Renato Poggioli, Frassinelli, 1932, Orpheus , a. II, n. 1, January 1933: 22–24. 22. Ginzburg, L., ‘L’armata a cavallo’, a. IV, n. 10, 1932, P, 1932: 504–6, in (1964: 340). 23. Isaac Babel was on Tosti’s list.

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24. ACS, Minculpop, Gab., L’armata a cavallo, envelope n. 138, reference file ‘L’armata cavallo’ [Rome], 5 October 1941. 25. See D’Orsi (2000: 107–8) on the relationship between publisher Ribet and Gobetti. 26. Einaudi, G., ‘Esperienze di un giovane editore’, Il libro italiano, a. III, n. 3, March 1939: 172. 27. In brackets the number of foreign titles published each year of the series: 1938 (3); 1939 (3), 1940 (3); 1941(5); 1942 (4); 1943 (4); 1944 (5); 1945 (4); 1946 (4); 1947 (4); 1948 (0); 1949 (2); 1950 (2); 1951 (1); 1952 (3); 1953 (0); 1954 (0); 1955 (1); 1956 (1); 1957 (2); 1958 (1); 1959 (2); 1960 (0); 1961 (0); 1962 (1). 28. Letter cited in Turi (1990: 85). 29. Cfr. Cajumi to Einaudi, 21 July 1938, and Einaudi to Cajumi, 1 August 1938, AE file Cajumi, in Mangoni (1999: 31, note 98). 30. Pintor, G. ‘Werther italiano’, in Pintor (1965: 15). 31. AE, file Storoni Mazzolani, 19 August 1942, typewritten. 32. Papini (1932: 77–97). 33. AE, file Spaini, typewritten. 34. MV, 6 November 1943: 269. 35. MV, 26 February 1942: 234–35. 36. Bronzini, G., LS, a. XXIII, n. 1, January 1940: 16. 37. MV, 23–24 June 1940: 189–90. 38. Mangoni (1999: 63 onwards). 39. AE, file Berti, 8 June 1939, ms and AE, file Berti, 29 March 1940, typewritten. 40. ‘Esperimenti e stile’, in LA (1990: 153). 41. MV, 14 December 1939: 166; trans. Murch (1961: 146). 42. ‘La tragica misurabiltà della vita’ (preface), in LA (1990: 156–57). 43. AE, file Linati, 13 November 1939, typewritten and AE, file Linati, 16 November 1939, typewritten. 44. ‘La grande angoscia americana’, 12 March 1950, L’Unità, in LA (1990: 71). 45. ‘Il poeta dei destini’, November 1931, C, in LA (1990: 66–67).

References Adamo, Sergia (2000), ‘La casa editrice Slavia’, in Luisa Finocchi and Ada Gigli Marchetti (eds) (2000), Editori e lettori (Milan: Franco Angeli): 53–98. Bobbio, Norberto (1977), Trent’anni di storia della cultura a Torino: (1920– 1950) (Turin: Cassa di Risparmio di Torino). D’Orsi, Angelo (2000), La cultura a Torino fra le due guerre (Turin: Einaudi).

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——— (2003), ‘Un suscitatore di cultura’, in Nicola Tranfaglia (ed.), L’itinerario di Leone Ginzburg (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri): 68–111. Fabre, Giorgio (1998), L’elenco. Censura fascista, editoria ed autori ebrei (Turin: Silvio Zamorani). Ginzburg, Leone and Domenico Zuccaro (eds) (2000), Scritti (Turin: Einaudi). Lo Gatto, Ettore (1932), U.R.S.S. 1931 (Rome: Anonima editrice romana). Mangoni, Maria Luisa (1999), Pensare i libri. La casa editrice Einaudi dagli anni Trenta agli anni Sessanta (Turin: Bollati Boringhieri). ——— (2004), Leone Ginzburg. Lettere dal confino 1940–1943 (Turin: Einaudi). Papini, Giovanni (1932), Ritratti stranieri, 1908–1921 (Florence: Vallecchi). Pavese, Cesare (1952), Il mestiere di vivere. Diario 1935–1950 (Turin: Einaudi), (2000) new edition, Marziano Guglielminetti and Laura Nay (eds) (Turin: Einaudi). ——— (1961), This Business of Living. A Diary 1935–1950, translated by Alma Elisabeth Murch (London: Peter Owen). ——— (1962, 1990), La letteratura americana ed altri saggi (Turin: Einaudi). ——— (1966), Lettere 1924–50, 2 voll., Italo Calvino and Lorenzo Mondo (eds) (Turin: Einaudi). Pintor, Giaime (1965), Il sangue d’Europa (Turin: Einaudi). Praz, Mario (1930), La morte, la carne e il diavolo (Milan: La cultura). ——— (1951), Cronache letterarie anglosassoni, Cronache inglesi e americane, vol. 2 (Rome, Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura). Turi, Gabriele (1990), Casa Einaudi. Libri, uomini, idee oltre il fascismo (Bologna: il Mulino).

CHAPTER 7

Conclusion

All that remains is for us to ask: What were the key narratives framing discourses within and on translation in these forty years of Italian cultural history? First of all, translations represented a break with tradition and a moment of cultural opening. From the restless vociani onwards, the vast majority of Italian intellectuals were driven by a desperate need to become ‘modern’, conscious of their marginal position compared with that of the great European cultural centres. This was a sentiment shared by the publishers. The vociani felt themselves to be modern when they conceived of intellectual commitment as dialectically addressing the structural changes of the market; for the publishers of the 1920s, modernity was a social portrait, a photographic snapshot; the 1930s were ostensibly characterized by the official, autarchic modernity of Fascist propaganda, but consistently throughout these different phases, to modernize signified to profoundly renew national culture through contact with foreign traditions, a process which would ultimately promote a literary ‘return to realism’ and an increased awareness of the extended boundaries of the Italian national tradition. Another central narrative of these years was that of nationalism and the nation. In its ‘competitive’ version, Italian nationalism accepted the foreign as a means of enhancing domestic cultural heritage as we see with La Voce, and even with the alliance between publishers and the regime and

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its use of ‘corrupt’ translations to safeguard the ‘morality’ of Italian literature. The cultural elite envisaged themselves as European citizens, with the culture of the nation a crucial part of this vision of Europe without geographical borders; for the population at large, foreign novels were a means of enriching their reading models with realistic adventure stories. The third major narrative relates to popular culture. The need to construct a popular culture along precise ideological lines governed the strategies of several publishing groups from La Voce onwards, who all sought to create forms of propaganda capable of effecting a ‘going to the people’. The vociani believed that their intellectual mission consisted of re-establishing the practical mindset of their own generation by engaging with the structural issues of the public sphere which would allow them to educate a broad range of readers. The publishers of the 1920s, instead— as Gian Dàuli explains—saw their cultural mission as one of presenting reading material which could establish an inter-class dialogue and eliminate the generic divide between the highbrow and the popular to rebuild a more complex system of literary genres: one which was consistent with the evolution of the book market and the new role of the intellectual. In the 1930s and 1940s, it was popular literature, with its rich aesthetic diversity, nourished by translations, which united the public and publishers whilst undermining the parameters imposed by what was theoretically official culture. One example, to conclude. On 13 May 1943 Luigi Rusca, co-director of Mondadori, and Alberto Mondadori, Arnoldo’s eldest son, and at that time—together with Aldo Borletti—vice president, found themselves debating which texts and translators should be included in a second ‘Biblioteca Romantica’ collection. Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer, Dumas, translated by Montanelli, and George Sand, translated by Sibilla Aleramo were all mentioned in their correspondence. Later in the same letter, regarding their ambition to reorganize the publishing house’s various existing series and survive the war years, Alberto Mondadori wrote to Rusca: PALMA REPRINTS – To replace detective fiction, I Gialli, and the various periodicals sold at news-stands, we have decided to reprint a collection of 12 of the best Palma titles – I enclose here a sample cover. The covers will feature images of Italy’s finest actresses. The first titles we would like to publish, which should not present any issues in terms of gaining higher authorization, are the following: – Zaugg, Jean Lioba, [1936, Ed.]

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– Wolff, Una donna coraggiosa [Wolff, Victoria, 1934, Ed.], Andreas, Uno di troppo a bordo [1937, Ed.], - Kellerman, Il nastro azzurro [1939, Ed.], – Holland, Camilla Bauer aviatrice [1935, Ed.], – Lichnowski, Delaide [1937, Ed.]. We have also requested permission for the following texts: – Bromfield, Ventiquattr’ore [unpublished, Ed.], – Ebermayer, Il caso di Giorgio Claasen [1936, Ed.], – Norris, Canto d’amore [1935, Ed.], – Parrott, Amanti estranei [1934 Ed.], – Rinehart, Io ti difendo [1935 Ed.], – Swinnerton, Notturno [already published in Turin in 1925 by Giani with a preface by H. G. Wells, and then in 1936 by Mondadori, Ed.1

In 1943, Rusca and Mondadori saw translation as an important cultural phenomenon which could guide publishing strategies even beyond Fascism. And so it would be, because the contradictory tastes of Italian readers, characterized simultaneously by an autarchic curiosity and a fascination with foreign literature, remained intact, right through and beyond the end of the regime, thus playing a key role in the affirmation of Italian cultural identity. Hybrid and fragmentary, of course.

Note 1. FAAM, FAM, file Rusca, from Alberto Mondadori to Rusca, Arona, 13 May 1943, typewritten.

Afterword

Translation always involves departures as well as nòstoi. Rather than a proper journey, it is in fact a shift in time-space, a parallactic triangulation where sources and targets run after each other as in a game of hide and seek. Translation is then rupturing but also healing, for, as Stephen Dedalus says in the ninth episode of Ulysses, ‘where there is a reconciliation … there must have been first a sundering’.1 This book is too, in many ways, about wounds still waiting to be healed. The treatment of some of the cultural contradictions of the Fascist regime in Italy, at least as far as translation policies went, wisely and naturally warns us against comfortable simplifications, and this is what the work you have just finished reading explains right from the first pages. Such policies involved a curious mix of repression and tolerance, as if to suggest a deeper truth about what translation really is and what it really does. Translation is an attempt to accept and integrate, but it also prompts us to be selective at times, even aggressive when confronted by a foreign text. There is no need here to invoke Steiner’s fourfold model of translation, involving trust, aggression, incorporation and restored parity,2 for in the processes of semiotic transfers, negotiating is obviously everything. Translation acts not only as a modality of semiotic exchange but rather as the potential for the modification of past and future paradigms through the unknown agency of cultural contacts; and this seems to apply to any age or social structure, even ones generally deemed to be reluctant to welcome the Other. Translation means, at a very basic level, replacing © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7

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silences with sounds, and to look at how it functioned in the hands of a regime known for its sceptical hostility towards the foreign is perhaps the best of lens through which a whole history of cultural relations can be appraised in new ways. The book investigates a time in history when some European national cultures were being shaped in unprecedented ways, Italy being a paramount case study in this; and literature, its reception and its discourses are crucial spaces to test such a process. Overall, the whole concept of what a modern nation had to be was at stake. The dialectics between nationalism and internationalism was at the core of the intellectual debate. Another country where national culture was being moulded in those very years was Ireland. There a ‘dual tradition’,3 as it has been called, was at work in what we call the Celtic Revival, imagining or restoring new cultural bases which could be of use in the attempt to reshape the modern nation along new paradigms. In 1922, a few months after the Anglo-Irish Treaty which put an end to the war of independence in Ireland, when another terrible beauty was born, what is still probably the first great novel of the modern nation, Joyce’s Ulysses, came out, in Paris. Its protagonist is of Hungarian origins and his family were Jewish. At some stage in the book, a nationalist character challenges him regarding what we would now call his ‘national identity’, and a number of funny misunderstandings occur. The passage is worth quoting: – – – –

But do you know what a nation means? says John Wyse. Yes, says Bloom. What is it? says John Wyse. A nation? says Bloom. A nation is the same people living in the same place. – By God, then, says Ned, laughing, if that’s so I’m a nation for I’m living in the same place for the past five years. So of course everyone had a laugh at Bloom and says he, trying to muck out of it: – – – –

Or also living in different places. That covers my case, says Joe. What is your nation if I may ask, says the citizen. Ireland, says Bloom. I was born here. Ireland.4

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As this excerpt reveals, the whole shaping of the concept of nation revolves around the contradictions of identity, a tricky term semantically disjointed from its derivative adjective, ‘identical’. Now, according to some sort of visionary pataphysical etymology it is interesting to see the word ‘nation’ as proceeding in apostolic succession from the word ‘imagination’; and that the two terms are indeed linked has been fully explained by Anderson in his valuable book.5 The truth is, in Blakean spirit, that anything existing in terms of culture was at some stage and in some way dreamt or imagined. When Fascism saw and used the practice of translation as expressing an unhealthy interest in foreign literatures, they were indeed dreaming of a nation to be, founded on principles alien to an internationalist view of the relations between countries, such as the one Joyce (and Bloom) fostered. It is also true, though, that by focusing on translation as one of the most important vehicles of cultural exchange, Fascism was in fact giving it a crucial role, and a role which it had entertained even before the pre-war period, when translations were indeed responding to an urgency: identifying, locating and conceptualizing crucial ‘points of contact’, as Billiani calls them, between the various actors in the cultural scene (publishers, writers, readers and so on). Perhaps, what was lost on the Fascist regime’s idea of translation was that translation inheres in our human nature prior to becoming a feature of cultural interactions. We translate ourselves all the time, that is, we change; and, accordingly, the products of our ‘cultural identity’ change as well, all the time. The link between translation and time is too strong a bond to be overlooked, as is the connection between ‘what we are’ and ‘when we are what we are’. Fascism and other totalitarian regimes forgot to pay too much attention to this natural changeability of human beings and of their all-too-human cultural products. In England, it was George Orwell who discussed such complex dialectics between nationalism and nationalism in terms of affinity and differences, when he wrote, in ‘England your England’, that Patriotism is usually stronger than class-hatred, and that is ‘always stronger than any kind of internationalism’.6 He, a national internationalist, was not being defeatist. Rather, he was acknowledging the very truth that an internationalist feeling such as that which seems in line with the idea of not having to hate the foreigner—and accordingly with the love for other cultures and literature, also in and through translation—is always rooted in some sense of belonging. This is of course as an imaginary construct as the idea of a nation is, but it is perceived as an ancestral truth, so to

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speak; and, to belong to a place also means, through culture, to belong to a linguistic space. This is all in contrast with the main existential teaching of translation, which can be summarized in the simple axiom: we do not own our words. Any concept of propriety or property, in fact, cannot be too easily applied to immaterial domains such as sound, thought, intentions, aspirations. The words we use might well be fallaciously considered to be our own property, but this proprietorship will not last long. Once heard or read, and then interpreted, words start belonging to others, to near or distant hearers and readers we may never know anything of. Words belong to users as much as to producers, and this is so because they never reach the other in the same shape as that which they had when their semiotic journey had started. In the transit between dialoguing subjects, words also change because their meanings change. Their intentions are subject to modifications connected with the ineluctability of interpretation, that is, the unavoidable process of unveiling and revealing which enables us to add new significance to old texts, rendering them anew all the time. And, if this is true of the common texts or words we use every day in order to negotiate our relational lives out of our own solitudes, it is all the more true when we are talking of the ‘points of contact’ between national cultures as established by the practice of translation and its cultural systems. This is why many writers of the first decades of the twentieth century, rather than confining themselves to a nationalistic view of their own national cultures based on the idea of a ‘national literature’, preferred to escape that very prison house, ending up fleeing literature tout court — or rather literature as a bourgeois domain, as Gabriele Frasca has it.7 This was, at a closer look, another attempt at modernizing, opposite to the xenophobic tendencies of totalitarian regimes, which nonetheless used those very racist expressions instrumentally as the sign of an imagined new modernity based on what they thought was a solid version of the past. In affirming the firmness of the national literary tradition with the inclusiveness of exclusion, a regime such as the Fascist one also wished to look modern, but to do so, it had to undermine the very idea of modernity being based on a rejection of the solidity of national cultures, adumbrated by the internationalist inclination of many modernist writers. Translation allows, as I suggested, to break and repair, to close and open at the same time, and this was understood also by the regime in Italy, though the deeper existential implications of such an outlook were not. To accept the foreign in order to strengthen some ‘domestic cultural heritage’ was a spurious, albeit optimistic, approach to the complexity of

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the cultural transfer through the invisible changeable spaces made visible by the act of translating. Translation prompts us to escape ‘the prisonhouse of language’,8 for a prison is always a maze, and what translation does is to teach us that from this labyrinth, be it a national culture or a national literature, we can still flee, linguistically, and culturally. To translate is in fact to put down airy walls and there is nothing outside translation. We are all translators, we translate ourselves continuously. We are all Estragons, extractors of the ethereal, fumbling in the dark; but that darkness is the ultimate space of the Other where we can eventually find ourselves in the end. Enrico Terrinoni

Notes 1. Joyce, James (1992), Ulysses, Declan Kiberd (ed.) (London: Penguin): 247. 2. Steiner, George (1975), After Babel. Aspects of Language and Translation (Oxford: Oxford University Press). 3. Kinsella, Thomas (1995), The Dual Tradition: An Essay on Poetry and Politics in Ireland (Manchester: Carcanet). 4. Joyce (1992: 430). 5. Anderson, Benedict (1991), Imagined Communities: Reflections on the Origin and Spread of Nationalism (New York: Verso). 6. Orwell, George (2000), Essays (London: Penguin): 146. 7. Frasca, Gabriele (2013), Joyicity (Naples: Edizioni d’If). 8. Jameson, Fredric (1972), The Prison-House of Language: A Critical Account of Structuralism and Russian Formalism (Princeton: Princeton University Press).

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Index

A Adventures of a Young Man, 143 Affinità elettive (Le), 202, 203 Agenzia letteraria internazionale, 124 Agenzia letteraria italiana, 52 Alcott, Louise May, 72 Aleramo, Sibilla, 79, 80, 148, 224 Alfieri, Dino, 127, 129, 136, 140, 146, 147, 155, 207 Alicata, Mario, 114, 163–165, 183, 184, 187, 197, 199 Alighieri, Dante (society), 129 Allason, Barbara, 58, 149 Alpes, publishing house, 9, 76, 107, 145 Alvaro, Corrado, 113, 146, 154, 167, 171, 178, 186, 188 America amara, 95 Americana, 11, 153, 155, 159, 160, 164, 169, 185, 217 Anceschi, Luciano, 92 Andreev, Leonid, 49, 57, 58 Antologia di Spoon River, 173, 212 Antonicelli, Franco, 193, 195

Apollinaire, Guillaume, 42, 55 Armata a cavallo (L’ ), 194, 195, 220 Arpinati, Leandro, 138 Artzybascev, Michele, 72, 114 Asch, Shalom, 177 Ashihei, Hino, 178 Associazione editoriale libraria italiana, 46, 69 Associazione nazionalista italiana, 39 Associazione tipografico-libraria italiana, 46 Auburtin, Victor, 196 Augustea, 2, 84, 95, 109, 113 Augustea, publishing house, 73 Aurora, publishing house, 73 Autobiografia di Alice Toklas (L’ ), 198, 212, 214 Autori e Scrittori, 2, 127, 146, 147 Avventura a Budapest (Un’ ), 166 Avventure di Huckleberry Finn (Le), 194 Avventure di Pickwick (Le), 75 Avventure di Sidney Reilly (Le), 177

© The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2020 F. Billiani, National Cultures and Foreign Narratives in Italy, 1903–1943, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-54150-7

247

248

INDEX

B Babbitt , 93, 94 Babbitt, G.F., 94–96 Babel, Isaac, 194, 195, 220 Baldini, Antonio, 79 Baldini & Castoldi, publishing house, 184, 185 Ballo, Nando, 108 Banfi, Antonio, 154, 181 Barbèra, publishing house, 26 Barbi, Michele, 148 Baretti, Edizioni, 46, 50 Baretti (Il ), 50, 57, 65 Bàrion, Attilio, 72 Bàrion, publishing house, 71, 72 Barrios, Eduardo, 196 Barzini, Luigi Jr., 13 Bassi, Alfredo, 178 Battaglia (La), 182, 185, 187 Baudelaire, Charles, 34, 50, 52, 114 Bemporad, Enrico, 145 Bemporad, publishing house, 29, 67 Ben Hur, 124, 142 Benito Cereno, 212–215 Bennett, Arnold, 71 Benzi, Mario, 79 Bergson, Henri, 33, 34, 52, 54, 203 Berkeley, George, 33, 34 Berlin Alexanderplatz, 92 Bernanos, George, 113 Berti, Luigi, 12, 183, 194, 204, 205, 208, 209, 213, 221 Biblioteca amena, 25, 47, 50 Biblioteca europea, 193 Biblioteca Romantica (Mondadori), 122, 224 Biblioteca Romantica (Sonzogno), 25 Bietti, publishing house, 71, 76, 108, 115 Blake, William, 72 Blasco Ibàñez, Vicente, 71 Blok, Alexander A., 196

Blondel, Maurice, 33 Bloy, Léon, 182 Bo, Carlo, 154, 182, 185 Bohème ‘900, 149 Boine, Giovanni, 43, 53 Bollettino bibliografico (Voce), 55, 56 Bompiani, publishing house, 2, 121, 153 Bompiani, Valentino, 4, 11, 12, 58, 74, 121, 132, 143, 154, 155, 157–161, 164, 166–176, 178, 181, 182, 184–186, 188, 202, 208, 212, 213, 218 Bond, James, 178 Bontempelli, Massimo, 64, 110, 133, 148, 166, 206 Borgese, Giuseppe Antonio, 34, 52, 85, 123, 146, 163, 166 Borletti, Aldo, 224 Bottai, Giuseppe, 3, 55, 64, 66, 68, 104, 126, 127, 131, 134, 148, 149, 163, 179, 183, 188, 200 Boutroux, Émile, 34, 52 Bragaglia, Anton Giulio, 84, 108 Brancati, Vitaliano, 123, 167, 178 Braque, Georges, 40 Brave New World, 137 Breviario di estetica, 30, 34 Brocchi, Virgilio, 26 Broch, Hermann, 92 Bromfield, Louis, 225 Brontë, Emily, 73 Bruers, Antonio, 101 Bruno, Francesco, 95, 113 Bund, 130 Burrascano, Nino, 146 Butler, Samuel, 71, 206, 211 Buzzati, Dino, 148, 206

C Cabiati, Attilio, 198

INDEX

Cain, James M., 182 Cajumi, Arrigo, 110, 194, 220, 221 Calderón de la Barca, Pedro, 34 Caldwell, Erskine, 143, 150, 180, 182 Calitri, Antonio, 71 Calvino, Italo, 91, 111 Calzini, Raffaele, 84 Camerino, Aldo, 154, 161, 183, 188, 196, 197, 211 Carabba, publishing house, 26, 29, 36, 52, 56, 72, 108, 115, 182 Cardarelli, Vincenzo, 54, 132, 148, 167 Carlini, Armando, 135 Carne, la morte e il diavolo (La), 198 Carter, Dienne, 115 Casini, Gherardo, 53, 84, 124, 127, 130, 131, 139, 144–146, 148, 150, 163 Casorati, Felice, 45 Castellani, Emilio, 113, 194 Castello del cappellaio (Il ), 161 Castoldi, Enrico, 185 Caterina va alla guerra, 138 Cazotte, Jacques, 168 Cecchi, Emilio, 13, 35, 42, 82, 83, 89, 90, 95, 96, 109, 111, 148, 149, 153, 154, 159, 160, 164, 165, 167, 181, 182, 188, 210, 212, 213, 219 Céline, Ferdinand, 76, 113 Centonovelle (Ce), 166, 168, 184 Cervantes Saavedra de, Miguel, 34, 48, 52 Cézanne, Paul, 40, 44 Chaucer, Geoffrey, 161, 182, 186 Chekhov, Anton P., 43, 52, 56, 72, 79, 192 Chesterton, Gilbert Keith, 71, 73, 76, 78, 109 Chiarini, Luigi, 133, 148 Chiavolini, Alessandro, 68, 102

249

Chiumminato, Antonio, 94 Ciano, Galeazzo, 136, 137, 147, 149 Ciarlantini, Franco, 13, 67–69, 71, 78, 95, 104, 114, 127, 145, 146 Cime tempestose, 199 Cinti, Decio, 57, 110 Ciocca, Gaetano, 159 Ciò che sognano i mariti, 142 Civiltà fascista, 144 Civinini, Guelfo, 148 Claudel, Paul, 42, 43, 56 Coardi, Carlo, 158, 176, 177, 182, 188 Codignola, Ernesto, 130, 148 Colette, 137 Coltura italiana (La), 29, 53, 64 Comisso, Giovanni, 148, 196 Conrad, Joseph (Teodor Józef Konrad Nał˛ecz-Korzeniowski), 25, 71–75, 78, 82, 90, 91, 98, 101, 111, 115, 188, 219 Contromemoriale di Sant’Elena (Il), 177, 188 Convegno (Il ), 82, 147 Coppola, Goffredo, 39, 163, 183 Corbaccio, publishing house, 76, 93, 107, 109, 115, 139, 203 Corona (C), 166, 171, 172, 174, 175, 182–184, 186 Corradini, Enrico, 39, 40, 55 Corrente di vita giovanile, 3 Corriere Adriatico, 149 Corriere della Sera, 29, 80, 115 Corriere di Napoli, 188 Corriere padano, 110–112, 219 Corticelli, publishing house, 71, 90, 101, 115, 143, 145, 211, 216 Crepuscolo dei filosofi (Il ), 36, 53 Critica fascista (CF), 64–66, 91, 104, 123, 127, 131, 134 Croce, Benedetto, 13, 30, 34, 42, 53, 201

250

INDEX

Cronin, Archibald J., 74, 144, 161, 167, 170, 177 Cultura e gli editori (La), 47 Cultura (La) (C), 113, 194, 195, 208, 219 Curtis Brown, 88, 108, 110 Curwood, James Oliver, 25, 51, 89, 98 D D’Ambra, Lucio, 107 D’Annunzio, Gabriele, 25, 34, 50, 72, 73, 87, 133, 134, 203, 208, 209 Dall’Oglio, Enrico, 76 Dauliana, publishing house, 76 Dàuli, Gian (Giuseppe Ugo Nalato), 9, 12, 71, 72, 74–78, 82, 83, 85, 88, 89, 98–101, 106–110, 115, 192, 224 Da Verona, Guido, 26, 36, 84, 85, 87, 155 Dawson, Christopher, 198 De Angelis, Raoul Maria, 148 de Ayala, Pérez, Ramón, 219 de Balzac, Honoré, 166 De Céspedes, Alba, 180 Dedalus. Ritratto dell’artista da giovane, 194 Defoe, Daniel, 86, 167, 177, 206, 207, 216 de Gobineau, Arthur, 25 De l’Allemagne, 183 Delahaye, Ernest, 42 Deledda, Grazia, 72, 85 Del Re, Bruno, 175, 185 Delta, publishing house, 76, 77, 100, 108 de Luca, Guido, 103, 104 Del Valle-Inclán, Ramón, 196 de Maupassant, Guy, 168 de Mirabeau, Honoré, 72 de Quincey, Thomas, 71

de Rémusat, Claire-Elisabeth Gravier de Vergennes, 164, 183 De Sanctis, Francesco, 72, 187 De Staël, Madame, 183 de Teramond, Guy, 112 Dèttore, Ugo, 147 Dialoghi con Leucò (I ), 197, 217 Diambra, Tito, 71 Diario di Samuel Pepys (Il ), 188 Diavolo in amore (Il ), 168 Dickens, Charles, 12, 27, 72, 176, 206, 208 Disney, Walt, 220 Disordine e dolore precoce, 71, 82, 106 Divina avventura. I crociati (La), 143 Dix, Otto, 92 Dizionario letterario delle opere e dei personaggi, 153 Döblin, Alfred, 76, 92, 109, 111, 133 Dolori del giovane Werther (I ), 199, 200, 202 Dorgelès, Ronald, 149 Dos Passos, John, 11, 93, 94, 113, 132, 143, 156, 212 Dostoevsky, Fyodor, 34, 43, 58, 71, 72, 77, 192, 198, 218 Dreiser, Theodore, 175, 194 Dumas, Alexandre, 27, 72, 224 Dux, 99, 107

E Editore ideale (L’ ), 47 Educazione fascista, 104 Egoista (L’ ), 211 Einaudi, Giulio, 2, 12, 91, 121, 153, 161–166, 173–176, 183, 184, 186, 187, 191, 196–205, 208–210, 212–214, 216–220 Einaudi, publishing house, 11, 115 E le stelle stanno a guardare, 176 Eliot, George, 206

INDEX

Emanuelli, Enrico, 114, 148 Energie Nove (EN), 47–50 Erewhon, 71, 211 Erskine, John, 166 Essay on Comedy (An), 211

F Fabbri, Luciano, 178 Fabietti, Ettore, 85 Falco Gian (Papini), 38 Faldella, Giovanni, 172 Falena, Ugo, 84 Fallada, Hans, 112 Faulkner, William, 96, 214 Fébronie, 141 Federazione nazionale fascista degli industriali editori, 69 Federzoni, Luigi, 39 Ferlov, Knud, 53 Ferrarin, Arturo, 167 Ferrero, Leo, 83, 109 Ferro, Marisa, 141 Feuchtwanger, Lion, 80 Fielding, Henry, 86, 186 Fiera letteraria (La), 82 Fiesta, 108 Figlia del capitano (La), 174, 175 Figlia dell’uragano, 75 Figli e amanti, 76 Flake, Otto, 108 Flaubert, Gustave, 50, 71, 72, 168, 172 Fleming, Ian, 178 Foà (agency), 141 Foà, Arturo, 52 Foa, Vittorio, 195 Földi, Mihaly, 184 Ford, Henry, 96 Formiggini, Angelo Fortunato, 218 Formiggini, publishing house, 205 Foscolo, Ugo, 125, 169, 172

251

France, Anatole, 71, 72 Frank, Leonhard, 106, 112, 136, 149 Frassinelli, Carlo, 193, 194, 220 Frassinelli, publishing house, 11, 145, 191, 193–195, 212, 220 Frateili, Arnaldo, 159 Fratelli Buratti, 196 Fülöp-Miller, René, 123 Fürst, Henry, 82

G Gadda, Carlo Emilio, 169 Gaeta, 163 Galsworthy, John, 72, 73, 78, 85, 109 Gara, Eugenio, 71 García Lorca, Federico, 172 Gardini, Cesare, 168 Garofano rosso, 182 Garzanti, publishing house, 187, 218 Gaskell, Elizabeth, 206 Gauguin, Paul, 40 Gautier, Judith, 72, 108 Gaxotte, Pierre, 72 Gazzetta del popolo, 138 Genio anglossasone (Il), 76 Genio, publishing house, 150 Genio russo (Il), 101, 191, 193, 218 Genio slavo (Il), 192 Gente di Dublino, 76 Gentile, Giovanni, 53, 144 Gerarchia, 2, 104, 145 Gérold, Théodore, 73 Gherardi, Gherardo, 84 Giachino, Enzo, 194, 211 Giartosio de Courten, Maria, 211 Gide, André, 50, 56, 58, 83, 94, 131, 156, 183, 186 Gigante, Silvino, 166 Gigli, Lorenzo, 71, 85 Gil Blas , 175

252

INDEX

Ginzburg, Leone, 85–87, 103, 174, 183, 191–195, 198, 199, 203, 205, 211, 218, 219 Giornale d’Italia (Il), 188 Giornale della libreria (Gdl), 2, 105, 106, 115, 122, 123, 139, 145, 147, 150, 156, 192, 218 Giornale di uno scrittore, 218 Giro lungo per la primavera, 166 Giuditta, 43, 56 Gläsner, Ernst, 181 Gobetti, Piero, 9, 23, 44–51, 57, 58, 78, 191, 196, 220 Goethe, Johann Wolfgang von, 12, 34, 50, 122, 172, 200, 201, 206 Gogol, Nikolay V., 52, 72, 192 Gomez de la Serna, Ramón, 85 Goncharov, Ivan A., 72 Goncourt (Premio), 167, 172 Gorky, Maksim, 27, 71, 114, 136 Gotta, Salvator, 84, 107, 185 Gozzi, Gasparo, 172, 206 Gramsci, Antonio, 5, 14, 26, 63, 81, 88, 96, 97, 103, 109, 110, 114 Gran Canaria, 177 Grandi ritorni (GR), 166–168, 177, 184, 185 Granella, Constantino, 110 Grey, Zane, 25, 51, 89, 98 Gromo, Mario, 196 Grosz, George, 92 Guerra e pace, 173 Guglielminetti, Amalia, 26, 47, 51

H Haggard, Rider H., 25, 75 Halévy, Daniel, 42 Halliburton, Richard, 111 Hall, Radclyffe, 113 Hardy, Thomas, 108, 206, 211 Hartleben, Otto Erich, 196

Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 72 Hebbel, Friedrich C., 43, 50, 52, 56 Hemingway, Ernest, 108, 136 Henry Esmond, 204 Heroes , 73, 93, 143 Hitler, Adolf, 121 Hoepli, publishing house, 67, 182 Hoffmann, E.T.A., 52, 72, 205, 206 Hugo, Victor, 27, 72 Huizinga, Johan, 198 Huxley, Aldous, 131, 132, 137, 156, 196 I Ibsen, Henrik, 25, 80, 81, 109 Illustrazione italiana, 193 Incontro a Parigi (Un), 139 Interlandi, Telesio, 57 Invito al valzer, 177 Isola del tesoro (L’ ), 209 Istituto Bibliografico Italiano (IBI), 37 Italia che scrive (L’ ) (LS), 79, 82, 100, 101, 103 Italia letteraria (L’ ), 3, 111, 132, 146, 148, 149, 220 Izzo, Carlo, 154, 161, 170, 176, 181, 186, 188 J Jacob, Max, 42, 156 Jahier, Piero, 42, 43, 55, 56, 209 James, Henry, 212, 214, 216, 217 James, William, 33, 34 Jammes, Francis, 42, 56 Jean Christophe, 56 Jerome, K. Jerome, 196 Jonathan Wild, 170, 186 Journeyman, 143 Joyce, James, 76, 109, 110, 131, 133, 194, 211, 228, 229, 231

INDEX

Jung, Carl Gustav, 164, 184 K Kafka, Franz, 109, 194, 220 Kästner, Erich, 72, 111, 158, 181 Keats, John, 34, 72 Kierkegaard, Søren, 53 Kipling Rudyard, 35 Kipling, Rudyard, 35, 44, 65, 72, 75, 90, 98, 110, 155, 198 Kistemaeckers, Henry, 72 Kleist von, Wilhelm, 163, 168 Knickerbocker, Hubert, 159 Knittel, John, 143 Kociemski, L., 100, 101, 219 Körmendi, Ferec, 74, 166, 167 Kossak-Szczucka, Zofia, 143 Küfferle, Rinaldo, 185, 192 Kühn-Amendola, Eva, 43 Kuprin, Alexander I., 49, 71, 72, 196 L Lacerba, 50, 54 Lady Chatterley’s Lover, 73, 107, 149 Laforgue, Jules, 42 Lagerlöf, Selma, 71, 72 Lami, Adriano, 76 Lami, Annie, 72, 76 Lancillotto e suo figlio, 166 La Piana, Angelina, 198 Laterza, publishing house, 13, 36, 48, 57, 67, 183 Lavoro fascista, 2, 112, 126, 138, 146 Lavoro italiano, 183 Lawrence, David Herbert, 73, 76, 107, 131, 133, 134, 137, 149, 175, 216 Leblanc, Giorgio, 115 Leblanc, Maurice.. See Lupin Arséne Lebrecht, Danilo (Montano, Lorenzo), 109

253

Lederer, Joe, 149 Lehmann, Rosamond, 108, 167, 177, 188 Lemmonio Boreo, 54 Le Monnier, publishing house, 26 Leonardo, 27, 33–35, 38, 44, 52, 54, 55 Leopardi, Giacomo, 72, 172, 207 Les Cahiers de la Quinzaine, 44, 54 Letteraria (L), 161, 166, 167, 176, 178, 182 Lewisohn, Ludwig, 181, 182 Lewis, Sinclair, 93–95, 112, 113, 131, 175, 220 Libri d’acciaio, 158 Libri del giorno (I ), 71, 106, 111, 132, 218 Libro italiano (Il ), 126, 147, 148, 198, 220 Lidin, Vladimir, 71 Literarisches Echo, 44 Livingstone, Arthur, 37 Lo Gatto, Ettore, 113, 115, 154, 176, 185, 192, 193, 218, 219 Lombardi, Marco, 154, 161, 183, 188, 196, 197, 211 London, Jack, 25, 63, 71, 72, 74, 75, 77, 78, 82, 85, 88, 89, 102, 110–112, 114, 123, 136, 146 Longanesi, publishing house, 185 Longfellow, Henry Wadsworth, 50, 52, 72 Lo spettatore italiano, 82, 108, 109, 219 Lowe, Hudson, 188 Lucerna, publishing house, 76 Ludwig, Emil, 72, 109, 123, 181 Lumbruso, Giacomo, 112 Lupin, Arséne, 26, 73 M Machiavelli, Niccolò, 131

254

INDEX

Magalotti, Lorenzo, 167 Malaparte, Curzio, 55, 148, 153 Malpassuti, Vittorio, 146 Mann, Heinrich, 181, 196 Mann, Thomas, 64, 71, 82, 85, 103, 109, 139, 156 Manzini, Gianna, 148 Manzoni, Alessandro, 72, 167, 172, 202 Marchetti, Carlo, 108, 181 Mariani, Mario, 25, 93 Mario l’epicureo, 198 Marrubini, Carlo, 46, 123, 145, 150, 187 Martini, Fausto M., 84, 85 Marzocco, (Il)l , 35, 55 Masino, Paola, 178 Masters, Edgar Lee, 12, 212, 217 Matarelli, Alberto, 26, 63, 87, 88, 102, 103, 107, 111 Matteotti, Giacomo, 67 Maugham Somerset, William, 71, 76 Maurois, André, 72 Maver, Giovanni, 218 Mazzucchetti, Lavinia, 8, 71, 81, 82, 106, 158 McCullagh, Francis, 110 McIlvaine Petitt, Charles, 142 Medusa, 8, 110, 122, 126, 134, 137, 146, 149, 188 Melville, Herman, 12, 95, 171, 174, 181, 194, 196, 212, 214 Memorie di un cacciatore, 193 Mercure de France, 33, 44 Meredith, George, 183, 206, 211 Meridiano di Roma, 147, 187 Meschina, Renzo Ermes, 105 Mestiere di vivere (MV), 90, 199, 207, 215, 221 Miklósné Berend, Jùlia, 184 Milanesi, Guido, 54, 180 Millen, Brand, 143, 177

Mimì Bluette fiore del mio giardino, 26, 155 Ministero della Cultura Popolare (Minculpop), 156, 158 Ministro della mala vita (Il ), 35 Moby Dick, 90, 95, 110, 194, 209, 212–214 Modernissima, 2, 9, 56, 71, 76–79, 81, 82, 88, 89, 109–111, 145 Molière, 211 Mondadori, Arnoldo, 10, 68, 81, 93, 98, 102, 103, 105, 109, 110, 113, 123–128, 130, 134, 136–140, 143, 145, 146, 148, 149, 153, 156, 163, 166, 184, 187, 188, 208, 220, 224, 225 Mondadori, publishing house, 2, 4, 67, 87, 102, 103, 121, 122, 150, 216 Mondo (Il ), 26, 186 Montale, Eugenio, 12, 65, 78, 104, 143, 150, 154, 160, 169, 174, 182, 185, 187, 196, 203 Montano, Lorenzo, 81, 102, 115 Morand, Paul, 107 Moravia, Alberto, 78, 148, 149, 154, 167, 186, 188 Morreale, Giuseppe, 71, 78 Morreale, publishing house, 71, 78 Mosca, Giovanni, 180 Moscardelli, Nicola, 84 Muscetta, Carlo, 173, 175, 184, 187 Musil, Robert, 92 Mussolini, 107, 155 Mussolini, Arnaldo, 73 Mussolini, Benito, 104 N Nalato, Giuseppe Ugo (Dàuli Gian), 76, 107 Narratori stranieri tradotti (NST), 12, 115, 183, 186, 187, 191, 194,

INDEX

196, 198–202, 205, 206, 208, 212, 214 Nebbia, 177 Nerbini, Giuseppe, 26, 99 Nerbini, publishing house, 27 Nido di nobili, 193 Niente di nuovo sul fronte occidentale, 138 Nordau, Max, 72 Nostromo, 63, 75 Nota in musica (Una), 177 Notari, Umberto, 26, 93 Nouvelle Revue Française (N.R.F.), 82, 83, 88, 180, 188 Nuova Antologia (NA), 103, 110, 113, 218 O Oblomov, 101, 115, 193 Occidente, 219 Ojetti, Ugo, 104, 109, 131, 148 O’Neill, Eugene, 143, 214 Oppo, Cipriano Efisio, 111 Orczy, Baroness, 25 Ordine Nuovo (L’ ), 58 Orpheus , 3, 92, 94, 108, 113, 132, 148, 149, 181, 220 Ortese, Anna Maria, 178 Orzo e soldati, 178 P Paci, Enzo, 149 Paesi tuoi, 196 Palazzeschi, Aldo, 37, 180 Palma (Romanzi della), 124, 125, 137, 139, 141, 146, 149, 224 Pan, 82 Papini, Giovanni, 9, 27–29, 33, 34, 36, 37, 41, 44, 50, 52, 53, 107, 205, 221 Paradosso dello spirito russo, 58

255

Pareto, Vilfredo, 40 Parker, Dorothy, 185 Partage de midi, 42, 43 Pater, Walter, 198 Pavese, Cesare, 12, 93, 95, 97, 153, 174, 182, 187, 194, 196–199, 204–217, 220 Pavolini, Alessandro, 148, 155, 156, 165 Pavolini, Corrado, 79, 85, 108, 115 Pavolini, Paolo Emilio, 52 Peau de chagrin (La), 166 Pègaso (P), 65, 82, 83, 85, 92 Péguy, Charles, 54 Pian della Tortilla, 182 Pianto di Ah Kim (Il ), 77 Piccoli, Valentino, 112 Piccolo campo (Il ), 143, 182 Piceni, Enrico, 99, 133, 134, 136, 137, 140, 142 Pierre, o delle ambiguità, 212–214 Pintor, Giaime, 154, 185, 221 Piovene, Guido, 167, 178 Pirandello, Luigi, 146, 203 Pitigrilli, 25, 93, 107, 112 Pitta, Alfredo, 26, 76, 107, 110 Pittavino, Arnaldo, 45 Pivano, Fernanda, 12, 173, 212, 217 Poe, Edgar Allan, 34, 50, 71, 95, 96, 98, 114 Poggioli, Renato, 194, 220 Polledro, Alfredo, 191–194, 218, 219 Polverelli, Gaetano, 165 Poncela, Jardiel Enrique, 112 Popolo d’Italia (Il ), 147, 183, 188 Prampolini, Giacomo, 71, 153, 166 Pratesi, Mario, 172 Praz, Mario, 113, 153, 154, 198, 210, 220 Prévost, Antoine F., 71, 140, 141

256

INDEX

Prezzolini, Giuseppe, 9, 27–38, 40, 42, 44, 46–48, 50, 51, 53–56, 58, 64, 71, 103, 104, 123 Primato, 3, 163, 171, 173, 178–181, 186, 200 Principe Otto (Il ), 194 Principessa Brambilla, 163, 205, 206 Processo (Il ), 194 Prosperi, Carola, 47, 51 Prospero, Ada, 46, 49, 192, 194 Proust, Marcel, 50, 80, 132, 133, 201 Pushkin, Alexander S., 52, 72, 175 Q “Quaderni” della Voce, 35, 43, 90 Quasimodo, Salvatore, 148 Quatermain, Allan, 75, 107 Quo Vadis , 124 R Rabelais, François, 48 Racconti di Canterbury (I ), 161 Radiosa aurora, 63, 89, 111 Rasrusat, 9, 23, 44–51, 57, 58, 78, 191, 196, 220 Rèbora, Clemente, 49, 57 Rèbora, Piero, 86, 132 Regina dell’alba, 75 Regno (Il ), 39, 54, 55 Reilly, Sidney, 177 Remarque, Erich Maria, 68, 131, 138, 141, 142, 149, 181 Resto del Carlino, 58, 186 Ribet, publishing house, 11, 191, 196, 220 Ricciardi, publishing house, 29 Richiamo della foresta (Il ), 71, 85, 88, 89, 110 Rimbaud Arthur, 35 Rimbaud, Arthur J.N., 42, 44, 55, 56 Ritratto di signora, 212, 216

Rivière, Jacques, 50, 88 Robinson Crusoe, 187 Rocca, Enrico, 92, 138, 146 Rocco, Alfredo, 39 Rolland, Romain, 42, 56, 65 Ronda (La), 82, 109, 132 Rosati, Salvatore, 82, 114 Rosmini, Antonio, 172 Rossato, Arturo, 84 Rossi, Antonio, 114 Rossi, Gastone, 63, 87, 102, 107, 111 Roth, Joseph, 112 Ruggiero, Amerigo, 198 Ruota (La), 114, 187 Rusca, Luigi, 81, 187, 224, 225 Ryner, Han, 72

S Sabatini, Rafael, 25, 26 Saggi (S), 184, 187, 198, 199, 211, 212, 214, 217 Salani, Adriano, 26 Salani, publishing house, 26 Salgari, Emilio, 26, 100, 102 Salvaneschi, Nino, 180 Salvemini, Gaetano, 35, 54 Sand, George, 224 Sansoni, publishing house, 26 Sarfatti, Margherita, 13, 43, 85, 99, 107, 113, 186 Savinio, Alberto, 154, 167 Scalero, Alessandra, 76, 93, 113 Scalero, Liliana, 93 Schnitzler, Arthur, 79, 80, 106, 109, 139, 156, 196 Schopenhauer, Arthur, 34, 52 Scott, Walter, 25, 175 Scrittori contemporanei, 196 Scrittori di tutto il mondo, 76, 108 Scrittori russi dell’emigrazione, 192 Sejfulina, Lidia, 72, 114

INDEX

Serra, Renato, 90 Shakespeare, William, 34 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, 34, 48, 72 Sienkiewicz, Henryk, 72, 124 Signorina Elsa (La), 79 Signorina Giorgio (La), 149 Sinclair, Upton, 72, 96, 97, 110 Sindaco di Casterbridge (Il ), 211 Slataper, Scipio, 32, 43, 56 Slavia, publishing house, 11, 100, 101, 191, 192, 198, 219 Soffici, Ardengo, 35, 37, 40, 42, 43, 54, 56, 91 Sofista (il) Giuliano, 9, 27–38, 40, 42, 44, 46–48, 50, 51, 53–56, 58, 64, 71, 103, 104, 123 Solaria, 50, 83, 109, 137, 188, 196, 203, 211 Soldati, Mario, 13, 153 Sollogub, V.A., 196 Sonzogno, publishing house, 25, 49, 57, 64, 73, 100, 115 Sorani, Aldo, 65, 73, 92, 94, 97, 107, 112, 113 Spaini, Alberto, 42, 44, 64, 81, 103, 109, 111, 113, 138, 161–163, 183, 194, 200–202, 205, 220, 221 Sperling & Kupfer, publishing house, 161 Steinbeck, John, 143, 156, 160, 161, 175, 180, 182, 187, 212 Stein, Gertrude, 12, 163, 198, 207, 212, 214–216 Stem, publishing house, 112 Stendhal, 12, 72, 186 Sterne, Laurence, 125, 169 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 71, 78, 90, 91, 98, 109, 146, 165, 175, 194, 206, 209, 210 Stock, Alberto, 72, 76, 145, 218 Stock, publishing house, 72

257

Storia di Billy Budd (La), 171, 174 Storia di una notte (La), 149 Storia di un cane (La), 71 Storia e le personali esperienze di David Copperfield (La), 206, 207 Storoni Mazzolani, Lidia, 205, 210, 221 Stowe Beecher, Harriet, 71 Strange Interlude, 143 Sue, Eugène, 26, 27 Süss, l’ebreo, 80 Swift, Jonathan, 28, 34, 52, 205, 206, 210

T Taine, Ippolyte, 34 Tallone di ferro (Il ), 88, 102, 110, 114 Tartufari, Clarice, 84 Tecchi, Bonaventura, 56, 110, 138 T.E.L., publishing house, 150 Tempestosa (La), 78 Teresa, 79 Tevere (Il), 147 Thackeray, William Makepeace, 12, 205, 206, 208, 209, 211 Thérive, André, 83 Thibaudet, Albert, 172, 186 Thomas, Adrienne, 138 Tilgher, Adriano, 84 Timmermans, Felix, 106 Titta Rosa, Giovanni, 110, 111, 196, 211 Toffanelli, Arturo, 130 Tolstoy, Leo N., 25, 27, 34, 58, 72, 192, 198 Tom Jones , 186 Torchio (Il ), 83, 107–109, 193 Tosti, Amedeo, 156, 159, 164, 181, 220 Traversi, Camillo, 84

258

INDEX

Tre esistenze, 212, 214, 216 Treves, Angelo, 124, 177 Treves, publishing house, 25, 29, 47, 51 Tribuna (La), 83, 149 Tronchi, Pietro, 108, 149 Tulli, Tullio, 112 Turgenev, Ivan, 71, 72, 169, 185, 192, 193, 219 Twain, Mark, 194, 224 U Ultime lettere di Jacopo Ortis (Le), 173, 202 Ungaretti, Giuseppe, 50, 148 Unità (L’ ), 54, 210, 221 Unitas, publishing house, 121 Universale Einaudi (U), 171, 173, 187 Universale Sonzogno, 171, 172 Uomini e topi, 182 U.R.S.S., 193 V Vagabondo delle stelle, 112, 114 Vailati, Giovanni, 54 Valéry, Paul, 50, 172 Vallardi, Antonio, 46, 105 Vallardi, Giovanni, 105 Vallardi, publishing house, 67 Vallecchi, Attilio, 37, 49, 57, 183 Vallecchi, publishing house, 26, 37, 48 Vaszary, Gabor, 139, 142, 184 Vecchioni, publishing house, 72 Verga, Giovanni, 25, 134, 209 Verlaine, Paul, 50 Viaggi di Gulliver (I ), 205

Vico, Gian Battista, 131 Villaroel, Giuseppe, 84 Villiers de l’Isle Adam, Auguste, 71 Vincenti, Leonello, 50 Vita e morte di Adria e dei suoi figli, 166 Vittorini, Elio, 11, 95, 109, 114, 133, 134, 143, 153, 154, 159, 167, 169–172, 174–178, 181–187, 203, 214 von Grimmelshausen, Hans, 115 von Le Fort, Gertrud, 106 W Wallace, Edgar, 74, 124, 142, 198 Waltari, Mika, 106 Wassermann, Jakob, 106, 139, 156 Wells, H.G., 34, 71, 72, 98, 110, 225 Werfel, Franz, 106, 112 Whitman, Walt, 34, 48, 57 Wilde, Oscar, 27, 34, 71, 72, 102 Wodehouse, P.G., 72, 97 Woolf, Virginia, 110, 156, 211 Y Yutang, Lin, 143 Z Zangwill, Israel, 27, 72, 110 Zavattini, Cesare, 153, 154 Zini, Zino, 192 Zola, Émile, 25, 27, 72, 96, 97, 114, 172, 209 Zoppi, Giuseppe, 129, 130 Zuccoli, Luciano, 26, 47, 94 Zweig, Arnold, 150 Zweig, Stefan, 76, 139, 181