Fortezza Bastiani was neither imposing with its low walls nor beautiful in any way. Its towers and ramparts weren’t picturesque. Absolutely nothing alleviated its starkness or recalled the sweet things of life. Yet Drogo gazed at it, hypnotized as on the previous night from the base of the gorge. And an inexplicable ardor penetrated his heart.
As newly commissioned officer Giovani Drogo makes his way to the mysterious fortress on the mountainous northern border of his homeland, he is unable to imagine what lies ahead. When he chances upon Captain Ortiz who is heading in the same direction, he is surprised to hear that the older man has already spent eighteen years at the Fortezza, and speaks of it in less than glowing terms. And yet, as the structure finally comes into view, the young lieutenant is struck by a strange attraction. He also notices, in the captain’s face, a curious mix of joy and sadness. The complicated motion he observes on this day, is one he too will succumb to.
The Stronghold, the best known work by Italian journalist and writer Dino Buzzati (1906–1972), is a tragic tale of how easily youthful ambition and dreams of glory can be lost to the slow erosion of time. Travelling a fine line between the realistic and the fantastic, this novel is a slow, steady march toward an ending as inevitable as it is unexpectedly unkind. When Drogo first arrives, he quickly learns that Fortezza Bastiani’s glory days are long gone. Young soldiers tend to volunteer simply because two years at this bleak outpost count for four, effectively jumpstarting their military careers. But something’s wrong. Drogo did not volunteer, he was assigned. He argues that a mistake has been made, he requests a release from his commitment. His superior responds with apparent empathy, encouraging him to stay for a mere four months for appearances’ sake. Then something can be arranged, a visit to the fort’s doctor to receive a diagnosis that will assure his reassignment. Four months in, however, he will decide to stay. He will have fallen under the spell of the fortress, the towering mountain range that cradles it and its proximity to that vast unknown desert where an enemy may well lurk, preparing to strike. The possibility of glory is a powerful drug.
Through Drogo’s mind passed the memory of his city, an indistinct image—streets thunderous under the rain, plaster statues, dampness in barracks, dreary bells, faces weary and haggard, endless afternoons, attics dirty with dust.
Here, however, the vast mountain night was advancing, clouds in flight over the Fortezza, miraculous omens. From the north, from the invisible north behind the walls, Drogo felt that his own destiny was pressing.
Buzzati skillfully balances finely drawn scenes—Drogo’s first return to the city, the excitement and speculation when figures are perceived moving out of the distant mists of the frontier, or an ill-fated expedition to mark the boundary—against the passage of months and years and decades. An aching, sorrowful mood rests over the stark beauty of the harsh landscape that so captivates the men who dedicate their careers to this mostly forgotten frontier. And, as much as we know his fate is sealed, it is difficult not to feel for the young man with the confidence of a whole life ahead of him as he ultimately finds himself following the pattern of the other officers who spend their entire careers walking the halls and ramparts of the isolated fort, caught up in the swell of self-importance, routine, and vague purpose.
Originally published in 1940 as Il deserto dei Tartari, the novel was widely praised, relieving the doubts and insecurities that had dogged its author throughout the creative process. Although Buzzati was drawing on some of his own experiences covering conflict and inspired in part by his appreciation for Kafka’s The Castle, this work is not an explicitly political. The country is never named, nor is the neighboring land of desert. The enemy exists primarily in the minds of the soldiers. The questions it raises, the author suggests, about “hope and the life that passes fruitlessly” are existential in nature. Yet, when the first English translation by Stuart Hood appeared in 1952, the chosen title, The Tartar Steppe, encouraged readers to understand it in relation the Cold War and fear of the USSR. Meanwhile, in Italy, it would come to be seen as a critique of fascism. The novel’s openness to interpretation is indicative of its strength as a timeless and recognizable fable, one that can apply to both the personal and political.
This new translation by Lawrence Venuti—now with a title reflecting the original title the author wanted—attempts to allow for the historical interpretations without losing the humanist qualities earlier readers connected with. It also leaves intact some Italian greetings and terms, to situate the narrative in a particular culture and add a “political edge” in certain scenes. Otherwise, Venuti aims to adopt an English that would be accessible to a broad anglophone audience. His Afterword is quite illuminating, deepening an appreciation of Buzzati’s aims, this fine novel’s reception over the years and his approach to translation. It is one of two works by Buzzati recently added the New York Review of Books Classics catalogue.
The Stronghold by Dino Buzzati is translated from the Italian by Lawrence Venuti and published by NYRB Classics.
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