Cadorna in Cadore

ALONG with Generals Ruzsky, Brussilov, Von Woyrtz and Von Hoetzendorf struggling over the fields and walls of Przemysl, Przasnysz, Szczebrzeszyn (this place is real, and figured in the fighting in South Poland), and Krasnyslaw, we have had and have — glory be! —General Cadorna fighting bravely and, at this writing, quite successfully, in Cadore. Paradoxical as it may seem, the horrors of war were considerably reduced by Italy’s entrance into the conflict, if we take into account the suffering inflicted on the alphabet.

Though we sigh to think of the waters of Garda stained with blood, the ear is at least soothed by the recurrence of the lake’s name in the dispatches. Udine, Isonzo, Palmanova, Roveredo — there is balm in the very words. In this war of languages as well as of nations, the speech of Italy plays the part of the soothing Red Cross nurse.

But now here we have General Cadorna. Why is he called Cadorna, and Von Hoetzendorf called Von Hoetzendorf? By the same token, why Szczebrzeszyn and why Cadore? We say that these words belong to different languages, and represent the verbal preferences of two very different peoples. But what is the influence, impulse, or composition of soul which leads Poland to produce Przasnyszes, and which results in Udines and Palmanovas on the sunny side of the Alps?

The Pole, the Russian, and — well, the Englishman with his Twickenham Court and the American with Schenectady and Skaneateles, says that the tendency to soft sounds in speech results from inbred vocal indolence. The Italian softens everything because his mind is soft. So the prickly-tongued Northerner says. But the old Romans were not a soft race. They were a thoroughly hard lot. Yet Roma, Umbria, Volaterræ, Lucania — they are surely soft and pleasing words. Some of our savagest western Indians had the softest and most musical names, but those rather tame fellows of the Maine woods left their part of the map corrugated with jawbreakers.

The mystery is unsolved; but we at least have a proof in the Italians, and a no less marked proof in the Poles, Russians, Magyars, and Czechs, that a tendency of speech one way or the other emphasizes itself as the generations go on. The inhabitants of Italy have been softening things a little more and a little more since the days of the Romans. The French softened their speech too until it became the fashion to nasalize; and then nothing would do but that every sound should come through the nose, until all the rest of the world was in despair.

We have the softening tendency in our own speech. We have cut out the gh’s, and the ch’s; through is thru, and tough is tuff, and cough is coff. The Englishman says Chumley for Cholmondeley, and even we Yankees say Wooster for Worcester. If the English had Szczebrzeszyn, they would undoubtedly call it Sebbs. But in all this we have not yet the courage of our indolence. Suppressing the superfluous or refractory letters in the mouth, we still leave them on the printed page.

Herein the Italians are braver than we. The courage of writing Cadorna instead of Caddornaugh, and coming out honestly with Cadore, instead of trying to sophisticate the place with some such orthography as Keaydoghreay, augurs well for a heroic prosecution of their campaigns.