With the formation of a new regency government in Albania under Sulejman Pasha Delvina (1884-1932) and the return of a semblance of stability in the country with the Congress of Lushnja (28-31 January 1920), the young Ernest arrived back in Shkodra to rediscover and indeed to relearn his mother tongue and the culture of his childhood in a newly independent country. His mentor, Msgr. Luigj Bumçi (1872-1945), who had served as president of the Albanian delegation to the Paris Peace Conference in 1919, introduced Ernest to some of the leading proponents of a new generation of Scutarine culture: Kolë Thaçi (1886-1941), Kolë Kamsi (1886-1960), Lazër Shantoja (1892-1945) and Karl Gurakuqi (1895-1971).
What Albania needed most after the ravages of the First World War was knowledge and to this end Koliqi resolved to set up a newspaper. Together with Anton Harapi (1888-1946) and Nush Topalli, he thus founded the opposition weekly Ora e maleve (The mountain fairy), the first issue of which appeared in Shkodra on 15 April 1923. Ora e maleve, widely distributed during the course of its ephemeral existence, was the organ of the Catholic Democratic Party which, with the support of the Catholic clergy, had won the elections in Shkodra. The following year, having gained acceptance as a rising poet among the more established literary and political figures of the age, Gjergj Fishta, Luigj Gurakuqi, Mid'hat bey Frashëri and Fan Noli, Ernest Koliqi published a so-called dramatic poem entitled Kushtrimi i Skanderbeut, Tirana 1924 (Scanderbeg's war cry), a series of odes on the Albanian national hero and other great figures of the past, composed very much in the traditions of Rilindja literature.
Political and economic life in Albania continued to be chaotic in the early twenties. When conservative landowner Ahmet Zogu (1895-1961) took power in a coup d'état in December 1924, Koliqi escaped to Yugoslavia where he was interned in Tuzla in northeastern Bosnia. He lived for five years in Yugoslav exile, three of them in Tuzla, where he spent much of his time with the leaders in exile of the northern Albanian mountain tribes. From them he learned of the ancient customs, oral literature and heroic lifestyle of the mountain peoples. These years were to have a profound impact on his academic and literary career. From 1930 to 1933, Koliqi taught at a commercial school in Vlora and at the state secondary school in Shkodra until he was obliged, once again by political circumstances, to depart for Italy.
Ernest Koliqi's solid Jesuit education enabled him from the start to serve as a cultural intermediary between Italy and Albania. In later decades, he was to play a key role in transmitting Albanian culture to the Italian public by publishing, in addition to numerous scholarly articles on literary and historical subjects, the monographs: Poesia popolare albanese, Florence 1957 (Albanian folk verse), Antologia della lirica albanese, Milan 1963 (Anthology of Albanian poetry), and Saggi di letteratura albanese, Florence 1972 (Essays on Albanian literature). In the mid-thirties he was concerned with cultural transmission in the other direction. Koliqi published a large two-volume Albanian-language anthology of Italian verse entitled Poetët e mëdhej t'Italis, Tirana 1932, 1936 (The great poets of Italy), to introduce Italian literature to the new generation of Albanian intellectuals eager to discover the world around them.
Now thirty years of age, Koliqi registered at the University of Padua in 1933. After five years of study under linguist Carlo Tagliavini (1903-1982), and of teaching Albanian there, he graduated in 1937 with a thesis on the Epica popolare albanese (Albanian folk epic). Though working in Padua, he had not lost contact with Albania and collaborated on the editorial board of the noted cultural weekly Illyria (Illyria) which began publication in Tirana on 4 March 1934. Koliqi was now a recognized Albanologist, perhaps the leading specialist in Albanian studies in Italy. In 1939, as the clouds of war gathered over Europe, he was appointed to the chair of Albanian language and literature at the University of Rome, at the heart of Mussolini's new Mediterranean empire.
Koliqi's strong affinity for Italy and Italian culture, in particular for poets such as Giosuè Carducci, Giovanni Pascoli, and Gabriele D'Annunzio, may have contributed to his acceptance of fascist Italy's expansionist designs. Though few minor Albanian writers, such as Vangjel Koça (1900-1943) and Vasil Alarupi (1908-1977), were genuine proponents of fascism, some did see a certain advantage to Italian tutelage despite their general opposition to foreign interference in Albanian affairs. Ernest Koliqi and all other intellectuals of the period were forced at any rate to come to terms in one way or another with the political and cultural dilemma of Italy's growing influence in Albania and, on Good Friday 1939, with its military conquest and consequent absorption of the little Balkan country. As much of an Albanian nationalist as any other, Koliqi, now the country's éminence grise, chose to make the best of the reality with which he was faced and do what he could to further Albanian culture under Italian rule. Accepting the post of Albanian minister of education from 1939 to 1941, much to the consternation of large sections of the population, he assisted, for instance, in the historic publication of a major two-volume anthology of Albanian literature, Shkrimtarët shqiptarë, Tirana 1941 (Albanian writers), edited by Namik Ressuli and Karl Gurakuqi, an edition to which the best scholars of the period contributed and which has been unparalleled in Albanian up to the present day. In July 1940 he founded and subsequently ran the literary and artistic monthly Shkëndija (The spark) in Tirana. Under Koliqi's ministerial direction, Albanian-language schools, which had been outlawed under Serbian rule, were first opened in Kosova, which was reunited with Albania during the war years. Koliqi also assisted in the opening of a secondary school in Prishtina and arranged for scholarships to be distributed to Kosova students for training abroad in Italy and Austria. He also made an attempt to save Norbert Jokl (1877-1942), the renowned Austrian Albanologist of Jewish origin, from the hands of the Nazis by offering him a teaching position in Albania. From 1942 to 1943, Koliqi was president of the newly formed Institute of Albanian Studies (Istituti i Studimevet Shqiptare) in Tirana, a forerunner of the Academy of Sciences. In 1943, on the eve of the collapse of Mussolini's empire, he succeeded Terenc Toçi (1880-1945) as president of the Fascist Grand Council in Tirana, a post which did not endear him to the victorious communist forces which 'liberated' Tirana in November 1944. With the defeat of fascism, Koliqi fled to Italy again, where he lived, no less active in the field of literature and culture, until his death on 15 January 1975.
It was in Rome that he published the noted literary periodical Shêjzat / Le Plèiadi (The Pleiades) from 1957 to 1973. Shêjzat was the leading Albanian-language cultural periodical of its time. Not only did it keep abreast of contemporary literary trends in the Albanian-speaking world, it also gave voice to Arbëresh literature and continued to uphold the literary heritage of prewar authors, many dead and some in exile, who were so severely denigrated by communist critics in Tirana. Ernest Koliqi thus served as a distant voice of opposition to the cultural destruction of Albania under Stalinist rule. Because of his activities and at least passive support of fascist rule and Italian occupation, Koliqi was virulently attacked by the post-war Albanian authorities - even more so than Gjergj Fishta, who had the good fortune of being dead - as the main proponent of bourgeois, reactionary and fascist literature. The 1983 party history of Albanian literature refers to him in passing only as "Koliqi the traitor."
Ernest Koliqi first made a name for himself as a prose writer with the short story collection Hija e maleve, Zadar 1929 (The spirit of the mountains), twelve tales of contemporary life in Shkodra and in the northern Albanian mountains. His comparatively realistic approach and his psychological analysis of human behaviour patterns did not find favour with all the established writers of the period, many of whom were still languishing in the sentimentality of romantic nationalism. The book nonetheless sold well and was much appreciated by the reading public at large. Hija e maleve contains short stories revolving around the basic theme of 'east meets west,' of the confrontation of traditional mountain customs such as arranged marriages and tribal vendetta with modern Western ideas and values. Though less autobiographical than Migjeni's short story Studenti në shtëpi (The student at home), the tales are a direct reflection of the quandary in which Koliqi, like most other Scutarine intellectuals who had studied abroad in the twenties and thirties, found himself upon his return to the wilds of northern Albania. At the beginning of the tragic story Gjaku (The blood feud), the young and idealistic teacher Doda asks, "Is there anything on earth more wonderful than bringing civilization to a people suffocating in darkness and ignorance?", but he himself is soon constrained by loyalty to his family to cleanse his honour and avenge the murder of his brother. Other tales tell, for instance, of a folk musician using his talents to woo a Shkodra maiden; of murder and blood feuding among the mountain tribes; of an 'ugly duckling' transformed by the spirits of the mountains into a fair maiden and of the subsequent disillusionment of her boyfriend; of a manhunt by the gendarmes which is confounded by loyalties and obligations under tribal law; of the spell of the supernatural cast upon an outlaw; and of Scanderbeg. The spirits of the mountains are ever present in the mind of the writer and add an aura of the supernatural to many of the tales.
Tregtar flamujsh, Tirana 1935 (Flag merchant), Koliqi's second collection of tales, offer themes similar to those in the first collection. The narrative in this volume of sixteen short stories is more robust and the psychological insight reminiscent at times of Sicilian author Luigi Pirandello (1876-1936) with whom Koliqi was no doubt acquainted. The stories in Tregtar flamujsh are considered by many to rank among the best Albanian prose of the prewar period. A quarter of a century later, Koliqi also published a short novel, Shija e bukës së mbrûme, Rome 1960 (The taste of sourdough bread). This 173-page work revives the theme of nostalgia for the homeland felt by Albanian immigrants in the United States. Not devoid of political overtones, the novel was little known in Albania during the dictatorship.
The literary production of Ernest Koliqi was by no means restricted to prose. Rare is the Albanian writer not tempted by the poetic muse. Gjurmat e stinve, Tirana 1933 (The traces of the seasons), is a verse collection composed for the most part during Koliqi's years of exile in Yugoslavia. It is the philosophical return to the poet's native Shkodra set forth in different emotional seasons, an entwinement in the form of Albanian folk verse and Western European symbolism. Symfonija e shqipevet, Tirana 1941 (The symphony of eagles), is prose poetry on historical and nationalist themes reminiscent of his earlier Kushtrimi i Skanderbeut (Scanderbeg's war cry). Koliqi's final volume of verse entitled Kangjelet e Rilindjes, Rome 1959 (Songs of rebirth), was composed again in his refined Gheg dialect and published with an Italian translation.
During the Stalinist period, Ernest Koliqi was judged in Albania much more for his political activities than for his literary and cultural achievements. Modern critics in Albania, having themselves survived half a century of Stalinism, should tend now to be more understanding of and sensitive to the compromises writers and intellectuals have often been forced to make under extremist regimes. As a literary and cultural figure, Ernest Koliqi was and remains a giant, in particular for his role in the development of northern Albanian prose. Literary production in Gheg dialect reached a high point in the early forties from every point of view - style, range, content, volume - and much credit for this development goes to publisher, prose writer and scholar Ernest Koliqi. The northern Albanian dialect as a refined literary medium and indeed Scutarine culture in general had achieved a modest golden age, only to be brought to a swift demise at the end of the Second World War.
Shuk Dija set off slowly in the direction of Arra e Madhe. A light breeze from the hills across the Kir river had begun to give relief from the heat of that July afternoon. The alleys and the walls were still broiling even though the sun was now low. He had no problem with the heat for he had just gotten up from an afternoon nap. He washed and refreshed himself at the well. So much time had passed since he had been able to enjoy the well water of Shkodra, water so sweet that it was the source of many a legend. He dressed carefully, aware that many people would be observing him from behind doorways and through the slats of Venetian blinds.
Shuk Dija was on his way to Arra e Madhe to pay someone a return visit.
Upon his arrival in Shkodra, after many years of absence, numerous relatives, friends and well-wishers had dropped by. Returning such visits had always been a nuisance to him, yet this time, it was a pleasure to visit his distant relative Shaqe, because he had spent so much time with her as a child. They had had a lot of fun at her house, out in the yard. The longer one is away from the sites of childhood games, the more these sites are wrapped in reverie and the greater is the desire to see them again. From the very first days of Shuk's return, every corner and every object, from the smallest nooks and crannies of the house itself to the farthest streets and alley, evoked in him long-forgotten memories, and filled him with dreams and impressions, some pleasant and others nostalgic, yet all of them somehow new and strange to him.
Strolling with the lazy steps of a passerby who has plenty of time on his hands, he observed everything with particular interest. The walls and gardens of the neighbouring houses were all familiar. Yes, he could remember them, but in his memory they had all been vague and enveloped in a golden mist, like some legend, and this had made them all the more enticing. Even now, seeing objects with his very own eyes as he passed among them after so many years of absence, he discovered their new and unexpected charms: the slanting facade behind the leafy mulberry tree, the garden wall with heavy clusters of fragrant honeysuckle, and the alleys full of shade and mystery. Everything evoked in him recollections of fine verdant parks and landscapes, and made him want to run barefoot over the grass.
He fell into a daydream, oblivious to the curious glances of those watching him from the doorways.
While he was abroad, sitting alone at a table in a café amidst the din of a big city, he used to think about Shkodra, his thoughts flying home on the wings of his imagination. He would find himself roaming the streets, entering a reclusive garden and stepping on the green grass. "Imaginary journeys," he called them, those visionary walks through the distant town of his birth. Now, after several years of absence and longing, reality proved to be just as beautiful as his dreams.
All of a sudden, he awoke from his thoughts and said to himself:
"Have I lost my way?"
He looked to the left and right to get his directions, trying to find the way as he had remembered it as a child.
"Oh, it's back there, behind me..."
And indeed, he had passed by the little side alley. He hurried back, found the passageway, and arrived at a gate, dark and scarred by the weather. The cobblestones in front of it were worn, too, with weeds growing thick among them.
He knocked at the gate, as if he were knocking at the magic entrance to the lost world of his childhood.
He could hear the echo of clogs coming across the courtyard. A ruddy, oval-faced housemaid then opened the door. She blushed awkwardly for a moment, as she had never met him before and scurried off in the direction of the house. Abandoning her clogs at the foot of the stairs, she scuttled up the steps to inform the lady of the house of his arrival.
Amused by the maid's insipid behaviour, Shuk closed the door behind him and headed slowly towards the staircase. With what delight he looked around him! The yard was exactly as it had been the last time, except for a stone wall which now partitioned it from the neighbouring yard, where a fence had once been. The house was freshly painted and remodelled somehow, but he could see no other changes. The same open veranda with the wooden stairs, the window frames with iron bars. Everything was as it had been in the past.
Shuk's eyes fixed on the little gate leading to the garden around the back of the house, when a woman's voice echoed from the veranda:
"Oh, Shuk! Come on up!"
There, at the top of the stairs, was Shaqe with her hands behind her back, trying hurriedly to undo the white apron she was wearing. He went up, embraced her, and entered the living room.
Here, too, everything was as it had been.
Shaqe, sitting across from him, began to speak:
"You wouldn't believe it. I swear to God, I did not recognize you a few days ago when I went over to see you. It's amazing how the years pass! I remember how tiny you were. I can still see you playing in the garden. My God, you gave me a hard time when you were little! Do you remember why? You would bring all the kids from the neighbourhood over here... Do you remember when you used to come and spend the night here? Lush, may his soul rest in peace, used to talk about you a lot when you were abroad."
Lush was her late husband.
Shuk was delighted and had a smirk on his face, but gave no reply. The sound of Shaqe's voice had stirred something at the bottom of his heart, reviving memories of the past and of long-forgotten joys. He closed his eyes and plunged into the memories, all of his years away from Shkodra vanishing as if they had never existed. Once again he was that restless little child eagerly hopping around in fun and games.
"Oh, Shuk, poor Lush was so attached to you! As I said, not a day went by without his mentioning your name... Lin was still at school... and when Lush passed away, I had to take him out and send him to work at the market."
Lin was her son.
"How I wish that you could have been at Lin's wedding last year! I kept saying to everybody: 'What a shame that Shuk won't be attending the wedding.' It was a marvellous reception. And he couldn't have found himself a better bride! But, where... where is she? Come on in now! Shuk is a good friend of ours. You don't have to get all dressed up."
Shaqe rose to see if the young woman would enter. From where he was sitting, Shuk attempted to have a look at the garden, through the window. Its view was not obscured, but from where he was sitting he could see only part of it, and the giant fig tree, whose branches now reached up to the windowsill.
Oh, that garden... the verdant playground of our childhood...! Shuk had not seen it for ten years, but he remembered every corner of it - all the trees and shrubs, every bit of grass. Even the tiniest things bore memories.
While he was abroad, it was this garden which grew green every spring in his heart.
"Here, this is Lin's bride."
Shaqe interrupted his thoughts when she returned with the young woman.
They all sat down and talked. Shuk said a few words here and there, just enough to cover over silence and nostalgia, so that his absent-minded behaviour should not be misunderstood. All the while, as they stared he looked at the bride out of the corner of his eye.
She was not unusually pretty, but there was a warmth which emanated from her face and which made her immediately attractive.
She was dressed in a native costume: shiny, black breeches, a silken blouse, a red apron, a necklace of medallions on her breast, and a string of small gold coins in her hair. She kept her eyes to the ground, looking at the white handkerchief she was holding in her hands which were adorned with many shining rings. From time to time, she would look up, but when her eyes met his, she would lower her head at once, batting her eyelashes.
Shuk felt as though he had always known her, and his initial curiosity vanished when he saw the soft features of her face, a characteristic of many of the women of Shkodra.
"I was unable to take Vida with me when I went to see you after you got back because she was spending a few days with her relatives," said Shaqe.
Vida was the bride's name.
With this, she began praising her virtues: she was a good worker, didn't talk much, was neat, and was just the perfect match for Lin.
The young woman blushed and lowered her head even more. Shuk kept his eyes on her, but he was not really interested for he had plunged once again into a daydream.
"Where would all those girls who played with me in the garden be now, I wonder? Of course, they're all grown up and many of them are married now. Perhaps I have already seen them on the street, and did not recognize them. Some of them may even have died..."
He cast his mind back to Dusha, who had been his closest friend as a child. He had carried the memories of her with him when he left Shkodra and had guarded them carefully through his years of wanderings abroad. Dusha, that pale and skinny little girl. Of her delicate features, only her big black eyes showed any vitality. He had taken her under his protection, and none of the other children would dare to have harmed her. He used to give her walnuts, paper for making kites, spools of thread, knucklebones for playing jacks, and little figurines. Once, he remembered, he wanted to give her a beautiful box with a pen holder, a pencil, an inkwell, and an eraser in it. His uncle had brought it from him from Trieste. She wouldn't take it. He begged and cajoled to no avail. Nothing in the world would convince her to accept the present.
Where would Dusha be now?
Except for her name, he know nothing about her; neither who her parents were, nor where she lived at that time. He had met her down in the garden, and only now did he understand why he had always wanted to come and play here. It was his desire to see and spend time with Dusha. He had heard nothing more of her in ten years of absence, and a strange feeling now caused him to believe that she might not have survived the years, skinny and fragile as she had been. He imagined her somehow lying in the Fusha e Rmajit cemetery, and grieved at the thought, seeing her dead before his eyes, his little sister.
Shaqe then spoke:
"Lin will be back from market soon. He would be very disappointed if he missed you. Can you wait for him, Shuk? I am going to put a bottle of raki out to chill in the well and make you some nice appetizers. Do wait until he gets back! He won't be very long..."
"Alright, but in the meantime I'm going to go and have a look at the garden, if I may."
"Why, of course," uttered Shaqe. "Get up, girl! Take him and show him the garden."
The young woman stood up, blushing.
When they got downstairs, she opened the little gate for him and said in a faint voice: "Go on in."
Shuk entered and began tiptoeing over the soft, green grass.
It was like a dream. Nothing had changed, except that, now that he was grown up, the garden seemed smaller, the walls were lower, and the trees less tall than he had imagined.
The sun could not be seen any longer. It had vanished behind the wall. A pale afternoon light devoid of vibrancy spread through the garden, the light which precedes the last moments of dusk and brings with it a certain sadness and longing for something which is about to disappear forever. Everything was still: the large, rough foliage of the fig tree, the delicate leaves of the plums which rose in a circle in the middle of the garden, the dark ivy, the honeysuckle blooming on the high walls, even the tent-shaped boxwood under the windows of the house stood quiet. No movement, as if they had gathered in silence to wait for the shadows of the night to descend upon them.
The air, motionless within the garden, was replete with smells: the smell of ripe fruit, the scent of fresh grass, the fragrances of flowers, herbs, and plants hidden in various cool corners. All these scents, contained within the garden walls, joined to form a single fragrance as exquisite as an aromatic potion.
Twilight, with its pale shadows, was spreading and blotting out the colours, but had also set alight a myriad of stars in that part of the sky which stretched like a silver veil over the walls. In Shuk's dreamy eyes, the garden was slowly taking on another form, an image of dawn.
For a few moments, everything was miraculously transformed. The fresh light of springtime flooded into the garden and revived the plants, which began to grow. The silence which had covered the garden like a veil was suddenly supplanted by voices, shouts, and merriment. Among the sounds, he recognized a girl's soft voice, and his heart skipped. He was a child once again. He rolled in the grass, climbed the trees, stretched his hands out to reach the sweet figs, and hid behind the dense boxwood. At once, he stopped running and looked, in amazement, towards the little gate which was opening. Dusha, his tiny girlfriend, the playmate of his early years, entered the garden with a piece of red candy in her fingers. She walked towards him, sucking on the confection as she approached.
"We've got a beautiful garden behind the house, don't we?"
Shuk was awakened from his daydream by the young woman's voice. It upset him at first because her words had dispersed and destroyed his dream, but then, feeling uncomfortable because of his protracted silence, he felt obliged to reply:
"Yes, it's wonderful. I love it because it reminds me of my childhood. You know, I often used to come here to play. Memories of the past, however fond they are, always make me uneasy. That's what happened to me the moment I entered the garden."
He spoke and looked at her.
The young woman, whose body radiated health and youth, smiled as she listened to him. Her eyes expressed joy and serenity. The shy expression on her face was now gone.
Shuk thought to himself:
"How lucky you are not to know what depression is! It is an illness which has often gnawed at my soul. If I were to tell you everything I was thinking, you would probably find me strange, perhaps even ridiculous. How lucky you are!"
Speaking up, he then said:
"I haven't been in Shkodra for over ten years now. You know, when you have been away for a long time, you notice even the smallest details on the first days when you get back."
Her lips moved. Shuk waited for a moment, but she did not speak.
The light faded and vanished. Night had now fallen over the garden. He could not see her face well because it was now dark and she was standing at a distance from him. Yet he sensed the trembling of her body, as if she were on the verge of saying something and was holding herself back.
He thought that he might have been boring her with his talk so he walked towards the gate.
"Shall we go back upstairs?"
She gave no reply, but followed in his footsteps. Suddenly, in the middle of the garden, Shuk could no longer swallow the question which had risen to his lips several times.
"Do you know anything about a little girl called Dusha who used to live somewhere around here?"
The bride walked on behind him. As he received no reply, he continued, without turning:
"She was not in good health and had an emaciated, drawn-out face. I don't know why, but I have the impression she may have died... These plum trees were the witness of my happy childhood. I wish they, at least, could tell me what happened. I was exuberant a moment ago thinking of that girl I once loved, and now I see her in her grave."
At that moment, he spun around as if struck by lightning.
With a smile on her lips, the young woman replied:
"Don't you recognize me, Shuk?"
[Kopshti, from the volume Hija e maleve, Shkodra 1929. Translated from the Albanian by Robert Elsie.]