Trieste and the Meaning of Nowhere

A Member of the Perseus Books Group

Copyright © 2001 by Jan Morris
Map copyright © 2001 by Anita Karl and Jim Kemp

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
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Cataloging-in-Publication data for this book
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ISBN-10:  0-306-81180-4    ISBN-13:  978-0-306-81180-7
eBook ISBN: 9780786730827
First Da Capo Press edition 2002
Published by arrangement with Simon & Schuster.

From
The Collected Poems
of Wallace Stevens by Wallace Stevens,
copyright 1954 by Wallace Stevens. Used by permission of
Alfred A. Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc.

“Watching the Needleboats at San Sabba,” from
Collected Poems
by James Joyce, copyright 1918 by B.W. Huebsch, Inc.,
1927, 1936, by James Joyce, 1946 by Nora Joyce. Used by permission
of Viking Penguin, a division of Penguin Putnam, Inc.

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For
ELIZABETH
and in memory of
OTTO
9th Queen’s Royal Lancers

Jan Morris lived and wrote as James Morris
until she completed
a change of sexual role
in 1972
.

I was the world in which i walked, and what I saw Or heard or felt came not but from myself

===============

Wallace Stevens

PROLOGUE
An Angel Passes

I cannot always see Trieste in my mind’s eye. Who can? It is not one of your iconic cities, instantly visible in the memory or the imagination. It offers no unforgettable landmark, no universally familiar melody, no unmistakeable cuisine, hardly a single native name that everyone knows. It is a middle-sized, essentially middle-aged Italian seaport, ethnically ambivalent, historically confused, only intermittently prosperous, tucked away at the top right-hand corner of the Adriatic Sea, and so lacking the customary characteristics of Italy that in 1999 some 70 percent of Italians, so a poll claimed to discover, did not know it was in Italy at all.

There are moments in my life, nevertheless, when a suggestion of Trieste is summoned so exactly into my consciousness that wherever I am, I feel myself transported there. The sensation is rather like those arcane moments of hush that sometimes interrupt a perfectly ordinary conversation, and are said to signify the passing of an angel. Perhaps on Biblical grounds—something to do with the Crucifixion?—these are popularly supposed to happen at ten minutes before the hour, and it is odd how frequently they do.

For me they often signal Trieste. Ever since I arrived there as a young soldier at the end of the second world war, this city has curiously haunted me. Whatever has happened to Trieste, however much it changes, however often I go there, for more than half a century the feelings it stirs in me have remained the same, and in those moments of sudden stillness I am not simply re-visiting the place, I am re-examining myself too. When the clock stands at ten before the hour, and the unseen courier flutters over, I find myself all alone on the waterfront at Trieste, as it was long ago, and as it always remains for me.

The Adriatic is blue and silent, not a breath of wind stirring. Across the bay a small white castle stands, and the hills around are harsh. The sun blazes, but not radiantly. A desultory tug crosses the harbour; a train clanks somewhere; a small steamer belches smoke; a band plays in the distance and somebody whistles a snatch of Puccini—or is that me? The heavily pompous buildings that line the shore, spiked and pinnacled with symbolisms, seem to be deserted, as in siesta, and on the quay’s edge a solitary angler sits hunched and motionless over a float that never bobs. Flags are listless. A tram waits for passengers. The same angelic interlude that visited me at home in Wales seems to have reached Trieste too.

None of my responses to these scenes are exuberant, but they are not despondent either. I am homesick, I am thinking sad thoughts about age, doubt and disillusion, but I am not unhappy. I feel there are good people around, and an unspecified yearning steals narcotically over me—what the Welsh language, in a well-loved word, calls
hiraeth
. Pathos is part of it, but in a lyrical form to which I am sentimentally susceptible, and at the same time I am excited by a suggestion of sensual desire. The allure of lost consequence and faded power is seducing me, the passing of time, the passing of friends, the scrapping of great ships! In sum I feel that this opaque seaport of my vision, so full of sweet melancholy, illustrates not just my adolescent emotions of the past, but my lifelong preoccupations too. The Trieste effect, I call it. It is as though I have been taken, for a brief sententious glimpse, out of time to nowhere.

I AM not the first to associate the city with nowhereness. The Viennese playwright Hermann Bahr, arriving there in 1909, said he felt as though he were suspended in unreality, as if he were “nowhere at all.” Trieste is a highly subjective sort of place, and often inspires such fancies. People who have never been there generally don’t know where it is. Visitors tend to leave it puzzled, and when they get home remember it with a vague sense of mystery, something they can’t put a finger on. Those who know it better often seem to see it figuratively, not just as a city but as an idea of a city, and it appears to have a particular influence upon those of us with a weakness for allegory—that is to say, as the Austrian Robert Musil once put it, those of us who suppose everything to mean more than it has any honest claim to mean.

The very geographical situation of the city is suggestive. It always seems to be on a fold in the map, hemmed-in, hole-in-corner. A narrow coastal strip, never more than a few miles wide, is all that connects it with the body of Italy. For the rest it is closely enveloped by Slav territories: the frontier of Slovenia runs five miles from the city centre, Croatia begins ten miles to the south, Serbia, Bosnia-Herzegovina and Hungary are all within a day’s drive. Trieste is like a peninsula settlement, on a spit protruding out of western Europe into the sea of the Balkans. “The last breath of civilization,” thought Chateaubriand in 1806, “expires on this coast where barbarism starts.”

Organically it is just as isolated. Close behind Trieste, pressing down towards the sea, stands an outcrop plateau of the Julian Alps. You must cross it to get almost anywhere, and the city stands confined between its slopes and the Adriatic. It is not a genial plateau, either. It is a loveless limestone formation from which geologists have evolved the generic name of karst. The Italians call it the Car so, the Slovenians the Kras, the Croats the Krs, and in all their languages the name is onomatopoeic: the Karst is tough, flinty, pot-hole country, sparsely vegetated and riddled with caverns and underground streams. The slopes immediately above Trieste have been softened by tree-planting, but the Karst was a forbidding obstacle for travellers in the days before good roads or railways, so stony and sterile was it, and infested by bandits. Even now it suggests to me a zone of quarantine or exclusion, the sort of region that is marked with hatching or dotted lines in historical atlases.

Sometimes it has been delineated in that way, too, because historically Trieste has been decidedly ambivalent. You
need
a historical atlas here. The place began as a coastal village of Illyrians, a hazy Indo-Celtic people who traded with their immediate neighbours in fish, salt, olive oil and wine. Rome colonized it, calling it Tergeste, Venice pestered, raided and sporadically occupied it, and at the end of the fourteenth century its local rulers entrusted it to the protection of the Habsburg monarchy in Vienna. This was the making of it, because four centuries later it was the Habsburgs who brought it into the modern world. They were then achieving peace at last with their ancient enemies the Turks, and having come to rule all that corner of the Adriatic determined to make their continental empire a maritime empire too. They chose Trieste to be its main sea-outlet to the world.

In 1719 they declared the city a Free Port, granting it many civic privileges and exemptions to encourage its development. They built a new town on its shore, and eventually they made it a great deep-sea port, in effect the port of Vienna. The merchants of Trieste became the real rulers of the place, superseding the remnants of its indigenous patriciate, robustly co-existing with the Habsburg bureaucracy, and surviving three brief periods of Napoleonic occupation. Connected to its hinterland to the north by roads and railways across the Karst, Trieste prospered mightily from the trade of Austria, Hungary, Bohemia and much of central Europe. By the turn of the twentieth century it was one of the world’s great ports, a major point of connection between Europe and Asia. “The third entrance of the Suez Canal,” they used to call it; the first commercial vessel to sail through the canal, even before its official opening, was the steamship
Primo
of Trieste, and three more were present at the inaugural ceremony in 1869.

So Trieste was an imperial creation, and for a few generations it was imperially satisfied. The bill of lading “Via Trieste” was familiar wherever merchant ships sailed. This heyday did not last long, though. In 1919, at the end of the first world war, the Habsburg empire fell apart. The newly invented kingdom of Yugoslavia inherited most of its Adriatic possessions, but Trieste found itself snatched from its geography, as it were, and appended to the recently united kingdom of Italy, whose east-ernmost outpost it became—on the frontier of barbarism, politicians in Rome doubtless still thought. It was deprived of its own interior. The port of empire inevitably withered, having no obvious purpose within Italy, and the city declined into torpor—as Pope said of Vestal Virgins, and Gibbon of Ethiopia, “the world forgetting, by the world forgot.”

When in 1945 Italy in its turn was humiliated in the second world war, poor Trieste was bandied among the victors. The now Communist rulers of Yugoslavia coveted it, backed by their ideological comrades in the Soviet Union; the western Powers feared it might become a Russian outlet to the Mediterranean. For a time the place was divided between rival occupying armies—Britons and Americans in one part, Yugoslavs in another—and for a year or two it became an independent Free Territory under the auspices of the United Nations. But the antipathetic Powers of the Security Council, stymied by each others’ vetos, could never agree upon an acceptable governor for it, and so under the pressures of the Cold War the Free Territory project was abandoned. In 1954 the port-city proper was handed back to Italy, and most of its immediate surroundings went to Yugoslavia.

Nearly half a century later the Yugoslav People’s Federation disintegrated too, and so it is that today Trieste still hangs there at the end of its Italian umbilical, formally cut off from its hinterland—after those few glittering years of imperial celebrity, never yet fulfilled again.

FOR ME Trieste is an allegory of limbo, in the secular sense of an indefinable hiatus. My acquaintance with the city spans the whole of my adult life, but like my life it still gives me a waiting feeling, as if something big but unspecified is always about to happen. The streets of Trieste today are as traffic-jammed and noisy as any other European city of a quarter of a million souls, but they still strike me as half-empty even at their most crowded moments, and I feel alone there even when I am among friends. For nearly half a century the place has been part of Italy, and it is the capital both of its own eponymous province and of the much wider Friuli-Venezia Giulia region; yet to me it is still an enclave
sui generis
, where Latins, Slavs and Teutons have mingled, where artists, drop-outs, renegades, exiles and remittance-men can retreat and with luck be happy—like Browning’s man-about-town Waring, who ran away from London to escape the world’s weariness, and was last spotted with a laughing urchin on a Trieste bum-boat, hawking wine and tobacco to a passing English brig. And outsider that I am, I still see myself as part of that half-real, half-imagined seaport, so now that after all these years I am writing a book about Trieste (my last book, too) it is bound to be a work partly of civic impressionism, but partly of introspection—or self-indulgence.

“And trieste,” wrote James Joyce of this city, “ah trieste ate I my liver.” The phrase is apparently an adaptation of an Italian idiom about being ill-humoured, and also possibly a pun on the words
triste était mon livre:
but its subliminal hints—of the visceral, the surreal, the lonely, the hypochondriac, the self-centred and the affectionate—roughly approximate my own reactions.