In Reggio Emilia, the PD’s secretariat has dropped the diminutive form and is now called “Elena”

A diminutive is the gentlest form of contempt, the only civilised way we have of telling someone that they do not frighten us. And that must be why, the other evening in Reggio Emilia, the young members of the PD – who represent the secretary’s cultural revolution and who never act on instinct, but always according to a script – cheered: “Elena! Elena! Elena!’ And she—that is, Elly—pardon me, Elena—accepted it without flinching, and thus came of age. The operation, which began as a bit of fun, actually has its own logic, and is an idea from the Nazareno in which there is evidently far more political engineering than in the minimum wage: because only a full name can go head-to-head with another full name. The right won in 2022 by presenting a list of first-person nouns: ‘I am Giorgia, I am a woman, I am a mother, I am a Christian’ – just imagine if she’d said: ‘I am Giorgy’ – and the left responds four years later with a baptismal certificate, an augmentative form. This should soon produce, Giuseppe Conte permitting, the most symmetrical election campaign in national history: a duel between two proper names, Giorgia versus Elena – which is a foundational, incendiary and popular name in these Odyssey-like times – and ultimately prove, who knows, to be the pinnacle of bipolarism that the nation has managed to build in thirty years of attempts. Italians belittle what they love, and in belittling it, they diminish and condemn it.

After all, the Risorgimento was not brought about by Camy di Cavour, nor was the Republic founded by Alcy De Gasperi. And the only Italian statesman who managed to govern for a long time whilst clinging to his nickname – even though he was fearsome and two metres tall – ended up in Hammamet, which is not scientific proof, but nor, you will agree, is it an encouraging omen. Against Giorgia—who is the saint with the spear, the slain dragon and the rescued maiden—the progressive camp now has but one name worthy of the challenge: Elena, which is not a battle name but is the battle itself. 

Elly, on the other hand, belongs to the vast and affectionate family of names ending in ‘y’ – the Millys, the Nellys, the Lillys – thoroughly likeable ladies who have kept variety shows, Saturday-night quiz programmes and private nursery schools going, and who occupy a specific and respected sphere without ever straying into the neighbouring sphere of ministries and government. Elena, on the other hand, is the name that Goethe – having reached the end of his life and wishing to symbolically unite the ancient and modern worlds – chose as the only possible wife for Faust. It should be noted, however, that the name Elly carries a notable editorial connotation: remove the y and add an e, and one obtains the title of a monthly fashion magazine (when a party secretary appears in the pages of Vogue explaining that she consults a colour consultant, the coincidence becomes destiny). But not any more. The surname, of course, remains, and Italians continue to pronounce it with languid or angry approximation, scattering into a small phonetic diaspora between Sclèin, Sklàin and Schlàin. A problem that everyone has solved by getting round it, first with ‘Elly’ and now – one supposes – with ‘Elena’, the secretary renamed on a Sunday in September, between the fried dumplings and the dying embers. Although becoming something else takes an age. And, above all, an idea.