People often say that Latin is a dead language, but this is misleading. Latin is not dead in the way that languages like Gothic or Etruscan are dead. Speakers of those languages died out or started speaking something else, but no one ever stopped speaking Latin – they spoke it so continually that it evolved over generations into dialects that were too different to call the same language.

Romansh (stress the last syllable) shares with Romanian the distinction of a name which reminds you that its speakers are using the same words that have passed down from father to son and mother to daughter from the time when Roman legions were setting up camp here. The language has not expanded like some other Romance dialects did: instead, hemmed in by Germanic tribes on one side, and by the Alps on the other, it has more or less clung on to remain an important native language among a few tens of thousands of people in a single canton of Switzerland (a country which, pleasingly, has afforded it official national status).

At first glance it resembles something typed up by a dyslexic Italian. Here's a sample:

Il staunchel di ha rut las alas
e croda sco in fretg madir
en ils arcuns cavortgs dil stgir.
e nibels van so tschiens agnalas

tras il silenzi dalla senda brina
enviers las portas dil ruaus.
las faultschs schain lassas els canvaus,
ed in bargir schenau va tras l'arclina.

migeivla glisch tras tendas grevas
sepalp'ed ina vusch cantina
e claud'ils egls ad in affon.

ils siemis vegnan tras curtgina
d'argien e prendan igl affon
bufatg cun els sin alas levas.

—Hendri Spescha

The weary day, with broken wings
falls like ripe fruit
into the arcane troughs of dark
and clouds go like a thousand lambs

through the silence of the brown pathway
towards the gates of rest.
The scythes lie weary in the windrows
and through the sand-reeds runs a pent-up whimper.

Soft light fumbles through heavy curtains
and a voice sings
and closes the eyes of a child.

Dreams come through a curtain
of silver and gently take the child
aloft with them on light wings.

—(trans HM Barnes)

So, is there a major literature hiding untranslated in the Romansh-speaking Alps? Well, no, in a word. Not on the evidence of this collection anyway. That doesn't mean that it's uninteresting or not worthwhile though – the stories and poems in here provide a fascinating window on a very particular way of life (and indeed a particular way of thinking).

These are simple tales that reflect a life of hard work with little time to muse over big philosophical questions: the central characters are goatherds, cattle farmers, farm-wives, chamois-hunters, and the stories hinge on country pranks, avalanche slopes, the presence of wolves, travelling gipsies, village politics, pig-raising, drunk relatives and marital fallings-out. All the stories are set in the Grisons/Graubünden with one exception, a short story by Clo Duri Bezzola set on the London Underground that shows a frank terror of a big industrial city.

The collection (from 1971) is terribly out of date but I can't see anything similar published more recently, and there must certainly be writers that have come to prominence in the meantime. (Most writers in the area tend for obvious reasons to write in German or Italian to reach a bigger audience.) An appendix at the back gives examples of the poetry in the original Romansh, which was appreciated but I would have like more of it. There is a decent introduction too which sets out the history and context of Romansh literature.

In general, my main feeling was gratitude at the chance to read some of this material which would otherwise have remained totally inaccessible. Anyone interested in Romance languages, Switzerland, rural literature, village folktales or some combination of the above should find lots to intrigue them herein – if you can find a copy, that is. ( )