FURTHERMORE
The Italians aren't even macho any more
PETRONELLA WYATT
During Mussolini's occupation of Libya there was a joke going around London din- ner parties (I heard this from my father, who, while never in Libya, attended a respectable number of London dinner par- ties). It went thus: What is the definition of an Abyssinian virgin? Answer: A goat that can run faster than an Italian soldier. As jokes go, one has to concede, it is not up there with the greats, but it illustrates rather well the dilemma of modern Italy.
There is nothing left of the Italian but his stereotype. This is evident in the row over the Fenice opera house in Venice. Federico Zeri, an Italian art critic, has told newspa- pers that he doubts it will be restored at all. Conservation is not Italy's strong point. The list of its neglected treasures is as long as the Catalogue aria. Cultural heritage receives only 0.18 per cent of the Italian state budget.
The British middle classes affect to find this very shocking. It would not happen here, they say, not while Jocelyn Stevens has breath in his body. This is the nub of the problem. We expect every middle-class Italian to be Jocelyn Stevens or John Julius Norwich — I do not mean physically, of course. In other words, we expect him to be the custodian of Western culture. Most Italians, however, are as little concerned with culture as Mussolini's goat-chasing soldier.
And why should they be otherwise? We make the error of confusing modern Italy with the ancient Roman Empire. Every Milanese banker is expected to display a level of learning and sophistication appro- priate to a descendant of Tacitus and Cicero. But the modern Italian is very far from being the heir of Tacitus and Cicero. He is, in fact, descended from the slaves of these men, or from a ragbag of barbarian invaders such as the Goths and the Franks.
Since Roman times, with the exception of Renaissance Tuscany, Italy has failed to distinguish herself — that is, apart from when she was under a foreigner. Nothing becomes the Italians so much as occupa- tion. Before unification, it was the Habs- burg monarchy that brought a semblance of order to northern Italy. Lombardy and Venetia, which were under Austrian rule, made up the most prosperous parts of that country. By contrast, in Piedmont, which was governed by the indigenous House of Savoy, half the population was illiterate. What of the south? In 1847 the writer Luigi Settembrini claimed that conditions there were worse than in Turkey. This was not surprising: the population was descended from Arabs, Spaniards and Moors. When Napoleon named himself King of Italy he excluded this area. Even Cavour did not want the new unified nation to extend beyond the port of Ancona.
Only a negligible number of Italian fami- lies today can trace themselves back to the Romans, and even these connections are dubious. I once met a man who claimed to be a direct descendant of Brutus. When asked to prove it, he replied that it was an `oral tradition'. Many aristocrats are virtual arrivistes elevated by King Victor Emmanuel II. How absurd, then, to expect Contessa Tutti-Ignorami to patronise the arts (rather than to patronise a couturier), or Prince Massimo Talkalotti to take an avid interest in grand opera. These people are café society, or rather Café Hag society — that is, café society without much of a kick in it.
For this is the brutal truth: I said earlier that the Italians had nothing left but their stereotype, but they are in danger of losing even that. I know. I have been going to Italy for nearly 20 years, and in that time it had always been the same. Feminism went unacknowledged. Most Italians, like Mar- cello Mastroianni's character in La Dolce Vita, knew only three English phrases: `How are you?' I love you' and 'Where is your hotel?'
This could mean the end of rag day as we know it.' On a recent trip, however, I overheard two young men talking in a café. They spoke the words TUomo New'. What did they mean? Lamberto Dini, Italy's newest Prime Minister, has been described as a centrist technocrat. This makes him a bit like Mr Blair. Was his government wooing women, in particular vengeful Italian wives? Instead of female quotas, was this a case of compulsory male emasculation?
This would be bad enough, from the visi- tor's point of view. An Italian male without amore is like a cigar which is not a Havana —rather a waste of time. Unless they can flatter and flirt — or sing — what is the point of them? It is not their intellect, or their conservational skills. But I was to dis- cover something even more depressing. Many Italians seem quite content to be l'Uomo New.
L'Uomo New even appears to have a leader, though he could not be called charismatic. He is a bachelor of 40 who lives in Rome. I shall not name him here, but a branch of his family claims to be descended from the great Fabius Maximus (d. 203 BO. It is, of course, an 'oral tradi- tion'. The scion of this house told me that he was writing a book. It would be Italy's first guide to New Manhood.
One chapter, he explained, would argue for men's right to cry — Italians do have a tradition of sobbing, but only while perform- ing arias. Another would be devoted to wash- ing. The Roman told me how he cleaned his clothes by stamping on them in the shower. There would, however, be no advice on how to get a job. The goal of Italy's New Man is to be supported by a woman (whether she is old or new is of no importance as long as she rakes in the chips like a croupier). L'Uomo New is essentially idle.
I asked the Roman when his book was being published. He looked surprised: 'I won't write it. I never do.' This, one suppos- es, was something to cling to. He had iden- tified what in the modern Italian is perhaps the only salient characteristic left over from the ancients — the courage to be lazy. The great Fabius Maximus was in charge of the Roman forces during much of the second Punic War and was famous for his skill at not fighting it. Not for nothing was he nick- named `Cunctator', which means the delay- er. But Fabius was made a consul five times. To return to the Fenice, that art crit- ic was right — it will not rise again this mil- lennium.
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