Journal of Italian Translation Editor Luigi Bonaffini Associate Editors: Gaetano Cipolla Michael Palma Joseph Perricone Editorial Board Adria Bernardi Franco Buffoni John Du Val Luigi Fontanella Adeodato Piazza Nicolai Achille Serrao Joseph Tusiani Pasquale Verdicchio Geoffrey Brock Peter Carravetta Rina Ferrarelli Irene Marchegiani Stephen Sartarelli Cosma Siani Lawrence Venuti Journal of Italian Translation is an international journal devoted to the translation of literary works from and into Italian-English-Italian dialects. All translations are published with the original text. It also publishes essays and reviews dealing with Italian translation. It is published twice a year: in April and in November. Submissions should be both printed and in electronic form and they will not be returned. Translations must be accompanied by the original texts, a brief profile of the translator, and a brief profile of the author. All submissions and inquiries should be addressed to Journal of Italian Translation, Department of Modern Languages and Literatures, 2900 Bedford Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11210. l.bonaffini@att.net Subscription rates: U.S. and Canada. Individuals $25.00 a year, $40 for 2 years. Institutions: $30.00 a year. Single copies $12.00. For all mailing overseas, please add $8 per issue. Payments in U.S. dollars. Journal of Italian Translation is grateful to the Sonia Raizzis Giop Charitable Foundation for its generous support Journal of Italian Translation is published under the aegis of the Department of Modern Languages and Literatures of Brooklyn College of the City University of New York Design and camera-ready text by Legas, PO Box 149, Mineola, NY 11501 ISSN: 1559-8470 © Copyright 2006 by Journal of Italian Translation Journal of Italian Translation Editor Luigi Bonaffini Volume I, Number 1, April 2006 In each issue of Journal of Italian Translation we will feature a noteworthy Italian or Italian American artist. In this first issue we are featuring the work of Giulia Di Filippi, an artist from S. Agapito, (IS) Molise. Journal of Italian Translation Volume I, Number 1, February 2006 Table of Contents Essays Franco Buffoni La traduzione del testo poetico .................................................................... 7 The Translation of Poetry as an Autonomous Literary Genre. ............ 20 Lina Insana Tracing the Trauma of Translation: The Ancient Mariner’s voyage from English to Italian—and back again ................. 23 Rina Ferrarelli Lost and Found in Translation: A Personal Perspective ....................... 35 John DuVal Translating by the Numbers ....................................................................... 43 Giose Rimanelli Traduzione da altre lingue nel dialetto molisano ................................... 51 Translations Adria Bernardi .............................................................................................. 55 English translation of poems by Raffaello Baldini (Romagnolo dialect) .............................................................................. 61 Roberto de Lucca English translation of Chapter 5 of Gadda’s Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana. .................................................................................... 104 John Du Val English translations of poems by Giorgio Roberti ................................ 117 Gil Fagiani English translation of poems by Cesare Fagiani (Abruzzese dialect) ............................................................................. 127 Gregory Pell English translation of poems by Davide Rondoni ................................ 136 Rina Ferrarelli English translation of poems by Raffaele Carrieri ................................ 150 Italian translation of poems by Rina Ferrarelli ..................................... 158 Adeodato Piazza Nicolai Italian translation of poems by W.S. Merwin ........................................ 167 English translation of poems by Luigina Bigon, Amelia Rosselli, Mia Lecomte ......................................................................................... 174 Michael Palma English translation of poems by Giovanni Raboni ............................... 188 Pasquale Verdicchio English translation of poems by Giorgio Caproni ................................ 202 Geoffrey Brock English translation of poems by Guido Gozzano and Giovanni Pascoli .................................................................................. 214 Confronti poetici - Poetic Comparisons Edited by Luigi Fontanella Featuring Robert Viscusi and Valerio Magrelli, ........................................ 224 Traduttori a duello - Dueling Translators Edited by Gaetano Cipolla Guido Gozzano’s “Amori Ancillari” ...................................................... 229 Classics Revisited Joseph Tusiani Translates Ugo Foscolo’s Le Grazie ............................... 231 Book Reviews Simonetta Agnello Hornby. The Almond Picker. Translated by Alastair McEwen. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Pp. x + 315. COLCLOUGH SANDERS Lucio Mariani. Echoes of Memory: Selected Poems of Lucio Mariani. Bilingual Edition. Translated by Anthony Molino. Middletown (CT): Wesleyan University Press, 2003. Pp. 118. REVIEWER? Dante, Alighieri. Inferno. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2000.FINA MODESTO Dante, Alighieri. Purgatorio. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander, intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2003.FINA MODESTO La Traduzione del testo poetico by Franco Buffoni Franco Buffoni lives in Rome. He is a professor of literary criticism and comparative literature at the University of Cassino. Some of his poetry books are: Suora Carmelitana e altri racconti in versi (Premio Montale, Guanda, 1997); Songs of Spring (Premio Mondello, Marcos y Marcos, 1999); Il Profilo del Rosa (Premio Betocchi, Mondadori, 2000); Theios (Interlinea, 2001); The Shadow of Mount Rosa (Gradiva Publications, 2002); Del Maestro in bottega (Empiria, 2002); Guerra (Mondadori, 2005). As a translator he edited for Bompiani I Poeti Romantici Inglesi (2 Vols., 1990) and for Mondadori La trilogia delle Ballate dell’Ottocento inglese (Coleridge, Wilde, Kipling, 2005). As a journalist he collaborates with several newspapers and radio programs and he is the editor of Testo a fronte (dedicated to the theory and the practice of literary translation). I l termine “traduttologia” non è ancora uscito dal gergo specialistico in Italia, mentre sono d’uso corrente translation studies nel mondo di lingua inglese, traductologie in Francia e Uebersetzungswissenschaft in Germania. La reticenza ad accettare il termine è la spia in Italia di un rifiuto più grave e radicale: quello che si possa concepire l’esistenza di una scienza della traduzione. Mentre in Francia se ne parla apertamente almeno dal 1963, quando apparve Les problèmes téoriq7ues de la traduction di George Mounin. Un testo che divenne ben presto una specie di manuale europeo, con i suoi innegabili pregi, ma anche con la sua concezione rigorosamente strutturalistica della letteratura. Da questo impianto derivava a Mounin la certezza - ribadita più volte nel corso dell’opera - che prima di allora nessuna teorizzazione seria fosse mai stata tentata nel campo della traduzione. Antoine Berman ne L’épreuve de l’étranger1 invece in seguito (1984) dimostrò come - per esempio - nell’ambito del Romanticismo tedesco la questione traduttologica venga costantemente e sistematicamente dibattuta. E con argomentazioni ancora oggi vive e attuali. Tanto che Gianfranco Folena, il più accreditato avversario italiano di Mounin, nella premessa alla ristampa (Einaudi, 1991) di Volgarizzare e tradurre (1973)2 parla esplicitamente di “una bella smentita” a Mounin da parte di Berman. Ma Berman non avrebbe avuto tale impatto e tale possibilità di ascolto se nel 1975 - con After Babel - George Steiner non avesse formalizzato la prima grande ribellione internazionale ai dogmatismi della linguistica teorica. E dico “internazionale” perché non da meno potrebbero definirsi la portata di certi studi - e di certe ribellioni - di Gianfranco Folena, allora come oggi purtroppo circolanti solo in Italia. Incidentalmente rilevo anche 8 Journal of Italian Translation che, solo nella seconda edizione di Dopo Babele (Garzanti, 1994)3, Steiner inserisce Folena in bibliografia; ma lo fa indicando Volgarizzare e tradurre come apparso per la prima volta nel 1991, e quindi falsando completamente la cronologia delle priorità, avendo Folena trattato nello stesso modo molti dei temi di Dopo Babele già due anni prima (1973 vs 1975). Certamente Steiner non lo conosceva. Nel 1975 George Steiner parlò dunque di necessità - da parte del traduttore letterario - di “rivivere l’atto creativo” che aveva informato la scrittura dell’”originale”, aggiungendo che la traduzione, prima di essere un esercizio formale, è “un’esperienza esistenziale”. Al di là delle provocazioni steineriane, potremmo chiederci come, operativamente, la traduttologia abbia tentato di contrastare il predominio linguistico-teorico nel proprio ambito di studi. Gli sforzi si concentrarono dapprima nel tentativo di sfatare il luogo comune che tende a configurare la traduzione come un sottoprodotto letterario, invitando invece a considerarla come un Überleben, un afterlife del testo. Operazione in sé niente affatto originale, se come ricorda anche Mounin, quando nel 1548 Thomas Sébillet classificò le traduzioni fra i generi letterari non fece che “rispecchiare la tendenza in voga”. Ma ribadire quel concetto più di trent’anni fa fu una presa di posizione estremamente coraggiosa. E fu proprio un altro strutturalista, di ambito praghese, Jirí Levy, che già nel 1963, pubblicando Umeni prekladu (divenuta poi patrimonio dell’Europa colta nella versione tedesca del 1969, Die literarische Übersetzung. Theorie einer Kunstgattung: La traduzione letteraria. Teoria di un genere artistico) riconsiderò il tema prestigiosamente. L’opera di Levy si divide in due parti fondamentali4: una prima teorica, comprendente i capitoli sulla pratica novecentesca del tradurre, sulle diverse fasi del lavoro di traduzione, sul problema estetico del tradurre, lo stile artistico e “traduttivo”, la traduzione di opere teatrali e, infine, la traduzione come problema storico-letterario. La seconda è invece imperniata sulla questione verso-prosa, sul ritmo, la rima, l’eufonia e la morfologia del verso. E si tratta di una parte che, relativamente alla questione specifica delle traduzioni di poesia, resta ancora oggi una delle poche trattazioni che affrontino esaurientemente anche questioni tecniche. Un altro passo capitale della traduttologia contemporanea viene compiuto grazie a Friedmar Apel nel 1983, e proprio attraverso una severa critica a Jirí Levy. Nel capitolo iniziale di Literarische Übersetzung5 Apel osserva infatti che “anche quanti considerano la traduzione come arte” (e il riferimento è ovviamente al sottotitolo dell’opera levyana) poi finiscono ugualmente con l’attenersi “a definizioni normative o ideali”. E per avvalorare la propria critica riporta queste due citazioni da Levy: a) Lo scopo del lavoro di traduzione è quello di mantenere, cogliere e trasmettere l’opera originale (il suo Franco Buffoni 9 messaggio); non è mai quello di creare un’opera nuova che non abbia un antecedente. Lo scopo della traduzione è riproduttivo. b) Quando diciamo che la traduzione è una riproduzione e che tradurre è un processo originale e creativo, noi diamo una definizione normativa e diciamo come la traduzione debba essere fatta. Alla definizione normativa corrisponderebbe la traduzione ideale. Quanto più debole è la traduzione, tanto più essa si allontana da questa definizione. Quindi Apel aggiunge: “La problematica di una simile definizione si acuisce in Levy in quanto egli tenta di concepire la traduzione come ‘genere artistico’. Il concetto di genere però ha senso solo ogni volta che esso presenta la dialettica forma-contenuto, mentre in Levy - come anche nella maggior parte delle teorie traduttologiche della linguistica - il messaggio appare fondamentalmente come una invariante. Il suo concetto di traduzione si espone così alla stessa argomentazione con la quale la critica della conoscenza, sull’esempio di forme dell’imitazione, ossia del principio di mimesis, dimostra l’impossibilità della riproduzione in senso stretto”. Per concludere: “Non stupisce dunque che quegli approcci al problema di natura scientifico-letteraria, fondati su una visione storica, definiscano il concetto di traduzione in modo più aperto e soprattutto più dinamico, con lo svantaggio che i criteri di definizione sono spesso difficilmente afferrabili...”. Una posizione perfettamente riassunta nella seguente “proposta di definizione” da parte di Apel del lavoro di ricerca sulla traduzione letteraria: “La traduzione è una forma che insieme comprende e dà corpo all’esperienza di opere in un’altra lingua. Oggetto di questa ricerca è l’unicità dialettica di forma e contenuto, come rapporto di volta in volta instauratosi fra la singola opera e un dato orizzonte di ricezione (stadio della lingua e poetica, tradizione letteraria, situazione storica, sociale, collettiva e individuale). Nella nuova configurazione questa costellazione diventa sperimentabile come distanza dall’originale”. Con questa ipotesi di lavoro, Apel - come osserva Emilio Mattioli nella prefazione alla edizione italiana - “mette da parte tutta una serie di luoghi comuni e di questioni male impostate che hanno afflitto e affliggono il campo della traduzione, e propone la ricerca sulla traduzione in tutta la sua complessità, evitando ogni riduttivismo”. Apel ci pare criticabile solo per quanto concerne la necessità di contestualizzare maggiormente l’opera levyana. Se infatti egli può permettersi di constatare i limiti che lo studio di Levy presenta, ciò va a merito anche dello stesso Levy , che nel clima culturale egemonizzato dai formalismi degli anni sessanta, seppe indicare la via da percorrere per giungere - poi - a criticarlo. * “Io mi domando”, si chiedeva Céline nella lettera a M. Hindus del 15 10 Journal of Italian Translation maggio 1947, “in che cosa mi paragonino a Henry Miller, che è tradotto?, mentre invece tutto sta nell’intimità della lingua! per non parlare della resa emotiva dello stile...”. E ancora: “Mi interessano solo gli scrittori che hanno uno stile. Ed è raro uno stile, è raro. Di storie, invece, sono piene le strade, pieni i commissariati”6. E lo stile è “intraducibile”, come per Croce è “intraducibile” la poesia. Sono posizioni tardo-romantiche che, facendo leva sui presupposti a) della unicità e irriproducibilità dell’opera d’arte; b) della indissolubilità di contenuto e forma, giungono a negare la traducibilità della poesia e della prosa “alta”. Tali concezioni sono l’espressione di un idealismo oggi particolarmente inattuale, contro il quale l’estetica del Novecento (e quella italiana in prima linea, da Banfi a Anceschi a Formaggio a Mattioli) si è battuta, direi, vittoriosamente. Il principio fondamentale che crea sintonia tra l’estetica neofenomenologica italiana e le posizioni di Friedmar Apel consiste nel rifiuto di ogni posizione normativa: non si possono dare regole per la traduzione letteraria come non si possono dare regole per l’opera d’arte. Ma, mentre il tramonto delle poetiche normative nel campo dell’attività creativa artistica è avvenuto da tempo, nel campo della traduzione persiste la tendenza a indicare delle regole. (Si consideri a riguardo l’accusa di Apel a Levy ). Come osserva Mattioli: “Il genio e la soggettività assoluta sono elementi dell’estetica romantica oggi irriproponibili come tali. E un fatto rilevato da molti studiosi è che a queste categorie tardo-romantiche ricorrano anche i linguisti che formalizzano il discorso sulla traduzione, e poi - di fronte alla traduzione letteraria - non sanno far altro che riprendere queste vecchie idee”. Come tradurre, allora, la poesia? Come “riprodurre” lo stile? Sono le domande che a questo punto un traduttologo si sente porre. La risposta potrebbe prendere l’avvio dalla constatazione che le dicotomie (fedele/ infedele; fedele alla lettera/fedele allo spirito; ut orator/ut interpres; “traductions des professeurs”/”traductions des poètes”) - da Cicerone a Mounin - inevitabilmente portano a una situazione di impasse, configurando, da una parte, l’intraducibilità dello “stile” e dell’”ineffabile” poetico, e dall’altra la convinzione che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto. Naturalmente il fatto che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto è una pura astrazione, ma è dove si giunge partendo sia da presupposti “crociani”, sia da presupposti “jacobsoniani”. (Notoriamente, per Jakobson, la poesia è intraducibile in quanto il tratto che più la caratterizza è la paronomasia; tuttavia la si può “comprendere” adeguatamente, e dunque interpretare in traduzione, pensando ai significati lirici dei quali è portatrice per il tramite di un’altra lingua). Non mi pare che la situazione dicotomica di impasse muti analizzando la più recente quérelle francese - nominalmente molto affascinante - tra Henri Meschonic e Jean-René Ladmiral, alias tra sourciers (da “languesource”, lingua fonte, ma con una inquietante assonanza con l’ambito Franco Buffoni 11 stregonesco) e ciblistes (da “langue-cible”, o d’arrivo, coniata sulla sigla C.B. che in inglese indica la “citizen’s band”, la frequenza radio riservata al pubblico)7. In altri termini, tra una tendenza naturalizzante - “targetoriented” - che spinge il testo verso il lettore straniero “naturalizzandoglielo” nel contesto linguistico e culturale di arrivo, fino a non fargli capire che si tratta di un testo tradotto; e una tendenza estraniante “source-oriented” - che trascina il lettore straniero verso il testo, cercando costantemente di accendergli spie relative alla fonte, affinché non dimentichi mai che quel testo è tradotto. (Per fare un solo esempio, è tradizionalmente source-oriented il modo di presentare gli autori stranieri negli Stati Uniti; ma è certamente target-oriented il modo in cui Pound tradusse Leopardi o Cavalcanti). Secondo questa impostazione, lo scontro tra scuole traduttologiche somiglierebbe a quello in atto nel mondo del restauro: farlo vedere il più possibile, o nasconderlo il più possibile. Se si prescinde dalla simpatia che certe definizioni possono più di altre suscitare, credo sia chiaro come - proseguendo con una impostazione dicotomica - si aggiungano soltanto nuove coppie - come addomesticamento/straniamento, visibilità/invisibilità, violabilità/inviolabilità a quelle da secoli esistenti: libertà/fedeltà, tradimento/aderenza, scorrevolezza/letteralità, sensus/verbum. Né crediamo che un suggerimento per uscire dalla millenaria impasse possa giungere da studiosi pur validissimi - come l’americano Lawrence Venuti, autore di The Translator’s Invisibility8 - totalmente schierati sull’uno o sull’altro versante, malgrado la grande finezza - in certi casi - delle argomentazioni esposte. (Nel caso di Venuti, per esempio, è senz’altro di alto livello il costante riferimento a Schleiermacher e alla scuola ermeneutica novecentesca che a lui si ispira). “Come riprodurre, allora, lo stile?” è la domanda che poco fa abbiamo lasciato in sospeso. Il nocciolo del problema, a nostro avviso, sta proprio nel verbo usato per porre la domanda: riprodurre. Perché la traduzione letteraria non può ridursi concettualmente a una operazione di riproduzione di un testo. Questo può valere al massimo per un testo di tipo tecnico, per il quale è - tutto sommato - congruo continuare a parlare di decodifica e di ricodifica. L’invito nostro è invece a considerare la traduzione letteraria come un processo, che vede muoversi nel tempo e possibilmente - fiorire e rifiorire, non “originale” e “copia”, ma due testi forniti entrambi di dignità artistica. Uno studio fondamentale a riguardo è l’altro capitale libro di Friedmar Apel: Sprachbewegung. Eine historischpoetologische Untersuchung zum Problem des Übersetzens9. Il concetto di “movimento” del linguaggio nasce proprio dalla necessità di guardare nelle profondità della lingua cosiddetta di partenza prima di accingersi a tradurre un testo letterario. L’idea è comunemente accettata per la cosiddetta lingua di arrivo. Nessuno infatti mette in dubbio la necessità di ritradurre costantemente i classici per adeguarli alle trasformazioni che la lingua continua a subire. Il testo cosiddetto di partenza, invece, viene solitamente considerato come un monumento immobile nel tempo, marmoreo, 12 Journal of Italian Translation inossidabile. Eppure anch’esso è in movimento nel tempo, perché in movimento nel tempo sono - semanticamente - le parole di cui è composto; in costante mutamento sono le strutture sintattiche e grammaticali, e così via. In sostanza si propone di considerare il testo letterario classico o moderno da tradurre non come un rigido scoglio immobile nel mare, bensì come una piattaforma galleggiante, dove chi traduce opera sul corpo vivo dell’opera, ma l’opera stessa è in costante trasformazione o, per l’appunto, in movimento. In questa ottica, la dignità estetica della traduzione appare come il frutto di un incontro tra pari destinato a far cadere le tradizionali coppie dicotomiche, in quanto mirato a togliere ogni rigidità all’atto traduttivo, fornendo al suo prodotto una intrinseca dignità autonoma di testo. Maurice Blanchot nel suo studio del 1971 intitolato Traduire, riflettendo su Die Aufgabe des Uebersetzers di Benjamin, già riprende questo principio collegandosi alla tradizione humboldtiana che configura un alto grado di dinamismo in ciascuna lingua. Egli mette in dubbio pertanto il luogo comune della superiorità dell’originale rispetto alla traduzione, proprio facendo leva sul principio del movimento del linguaggio nel tempo che coinvolgendo anche il testo “classico” nella lingua di partenza - contribuisce a quella che Blanchot definisce “la solenne deriva delle opere letterarie”. Una posizione da cui consegue la definizione blanchottiana di traduttore: “Il maestro segreto della differenza delle lingue, non per abolirla, ma per utilizzarla al fine di risvegliare nella propria, con i cambiamenti violenti o lievi che le apporta, una presenza di ciò che, in origine, è differente”. Può così già dirsi superata da Blanchot la metafisica posizione benjaminiana secondo la quale il traduttore libera la verità del testo facendo emergere la lingua pura che sottende tutte le lingue. Si potrebbe persino affermare che il concetto di movimento del linguaggio nel tempo - che induce a considerare come “storici” (sull’esempio dei romantici tedeschi) sia il testo di partenza sia il testo di arrivo - nel processo della traduzione letteraria possa avere inizio prima ancora della redazione della stesura cosiddetta “definitiva” del cosiddetto “originale”, allorché al traduttore è possibile accedere anche all’avantesto (cioè a tutti quei documenti da cui il testo “definitivo” prende forma), impadronendosi così del percorso di crescita, di germinazione del testo nelle sue varie fasi. A riguardo un linguista come Pareyson parla di “formatività” del testo; un poeta come Gianni D’Elia di “adesione simpatetica, non tanto al testo finito e compiuto, quanto alla miriade di cellule emotive che lo hanno reso possibile. Come tentare di ripercorrerne la trama germinativa, con una fiducia che nessun linguista ammetterebbe, perché essa non precede soltanto il soggetto ma il linguaggio: l’esperienza di un sentire che è appunto fiducia in un dono di ‘contagio’ controllato, inoculato giorno per giorno, fino a interagire con le ragioni più profonde del proprio fare”10. Il testo, dunque, si muove verso il futuro all’interno delle incrostazioni Franco Buffoni 13 della lingua, ma anche verso il passato se si tiene conto degli avantesti. Lo dimostra molto bene Lorenzo De Carli nel saggio Proust. Dall’avantesto alla traduzione11, mettendo a confronto le varie traduzioni italiane della Recherche (Raboni, Ginzburg, Mucci, Schacherl, Nessi Somaini, Pinto). Ebbene, dall’analisi testuale appare evidente come i traduttori che hanno potuto (e voluto) accedere anche all’avantesto (nel caso di Proust, ovviamente, i Cahiers), avendo colto il percorso di crescita, di germinazione, subito da quel particolare passaggio proustiano, siano poi stati in grado di renderlo con maggiore consapevolezza critica ed estetica. Ma si pensi agli ottantamila foglietti da cui provengono le quattrocento pagine del Voyage au bout de la nuit di Céline, alle Epifanie da cui discende il Portrait di Joyce, ecc. Il tutto, concettualmente, nella piena consapevolezza della stratificazione delle lingue storiche. Malgrado la loro solidità e malgrado circolino da vent’anni nell’Europa delle intelligenze sarebbe un errore ritenere che le posizioni teoriche anziesposte siano ormai acquisite, visto che Umberto Eco, nel suo recentissimo Dire quasi la stessa cosa. Esperienze di traduzione (ed. Bompiani), contrappone con sicurezza “il fatto, acclarato, che le traduzioni invecchiano” all’inglese di Shakespeare, che “rimane sempre lo stesso”12. Perché riteniamo inadeguati gli strumenti della linguistica teorica se applicati alla traduzione letteraria? Perché essi possono funzionare traducendo da un esperanto ad un altro esperanto; appunto, da una lingua di partenza a una lingua di arrivo, attraverso un processo di decodificazione e quindi di ricodificazione. Mentre per tradurre dalla ex lingua di Chaucer e di Shakespeare nella ex lingua di Petrarca e di Tasso occorrono altri strumenti ben più sofisticati ed empirici. Un concetto - quest’ultimo - che Luciano Bianciardi esemplifica con “architettonico” didatticismo all’inizio della Vita agra, allorché descrive il palazzo della biblioteca di Grosseto. Che in precedenza era stata casa insegnante dei compagni di Gesù, e prima ancora prepositura degli Umiliati, e alle origini Braida del Guercio...13 Trasferendo al linguaggio questa descrizione si ottiene l’effetto-diodo, come osservando dall’alto una pila accatastata ma trasparente di strati fonetici e semantici. * Operativamente, al fine di sfuggire all’impasse delle dicotomie, è forse possibile suggerire una riflessione capace di coniugare cinque concetti, aggiungendo a quelli già considerati di avantesto e di movimento del linguaggio nel tempo i concetti di poetica, di ritmo e di intertestualità. (Anche se la proposta teorica intertestuale, per alcuni aspetti, potrebbe farsi risalire al concetto classico di imitatio o di mimesis, che a sua volta oscillava tra conformatio e commutatio: e quindi saremmo ancora in ambito dicotomico). Il termine intertestualità appare per la prima volta nel 1966 in un saggio di Julia Kristeva, poi ripubblicato nel 1969 su “Tel Quel”. Secondo la definizione della Kristeva: “Ogni testo si costruisce come un mosaico di 14 Journal of Italian Translation citazioni; ogni testo non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro testo”. Una definizione che ha le sue radici nell’idea di “dialogicità” di Bachtin14 e su cui, in seguito, anche Segre si è espresso con molta chiarezza, particolarmente nel saggio “Intertestualità e interdiscorsività nel romanzo e nella poesia” (in Teatro e romanzo. Due tipi di comunicazione letteraria, Einaudi 1984). Nell’ottica intertestuale la traduzione di poesia o di prosa “alta” o poetica (e nel quinto punto, dedicato al “ritmo”, torneremo su questa presunta differenza) non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro testo. Forzando il concetto non è che una lunga citazione di un testo intero in una lingua straniera. Da questa angolatura ci si sottrae alla impostazione tradizionale che assegna alla traduzione il compito impossibile di una riproduzione totale, e si pone in modo nuovo sia il compito del traduttore sia quello della critica della traduzione. La traduzione di poesia è contemporaneamente produzione e riproduzione, analisi critica e sintesi poetica, rivolta tanto verso il sistema linguistico straniero, quanto verso il proprio. Traduzione poetica, dunque, non come palinsesto nel senso genettiano di scrittura sovrapposta (nella quale è possibile sceverare il testo sottostante, l’ipotesto), ma come risultato di una interazione verbale con un modello straniero recepito criticamente e attivamente modificato. Riassumendo quanto esposto da Emilio Mattioli negli editoriali dei primi numeri del semestrale di teoria e pratica della traduzione letteraria “Testo a fronte” (dove per la prima volta sono apparsi molti dei saggi contenuti in questo volume), lettura e analisi intertestuale mirano a cogliere in ogni traduzione la dinamica del suo costituirsi dall’originale, e il suo conflitto con esso. La differenza temporale, spaziale, culturale, linguistica viene a delinearsi come distanza poetica che pone necessariamente in prospettiva ciò che è estraneo. Nella concezione intertestuale, il rapporto originale-copia (che implica una gerarchia di precedenza, di maggiore importanza dell’originale rispetto alla copia) acquista un’altra dimensione: diviene dialogico, e non è più di rango, ma di tempo. In quanto la traduzione poetica viene a configurarsi come genere letterario a sé, dotato di una propria autonoma dignità. Come scrive A. Berman in L’épreuve de l’étranger, “la traduzione non è né una sotto-letteratura (come l’ha considerata il XVI secolo) né una sotto-critica (come l’ha ritenuta il XIX secolo). Ma non è nemmeno una linguistica applicata o una poetica applicata (come si è creduto nel XX secolo). La traduzione è soggetto e oggetto di un sapere proprio. La traduttologia studia questo sapere”. È evidente che l’intera operazione intellettuale che andiamo proponendo non può non giovarsi della grande tradizione classica e umanistica della retorica15, nella convinzione che - trasponendo i problemi teorici relativi alla traduzione nell’orbita di altri fenomeni letterari - se ne faciliti il distacco, o almeno se ne incrini la esclusiva dipendenza dai grandi formalismi novecenteschi, in particolare dall’ambito strutturalistico e Franco Buffoni 15 linguistico-teorico. L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione. Con questa impostazione siamo all’interno di una concezione “aperta” dell’opera letteraria, convinti che nessun testo possa essere invenzione assolutamente originale. (L’assoluto monologismo sarebbe equivalente alla incomunicabilità)16. Se dunque in ogni opera letteraria c’è il riflesso di altre opere - sub specie di calchi, prestiti, rifacimenti, citazioni - e quindi è in corso un dialogo con parole già dette, non si vede perché questo dialogo non possa trovare ulteriore svolgimento nella traduzione. Non si traduce infatti da una lingua ad un’altra, ma da un testo a un altro. E la disparità, il dislivello inevitabile tra autore e traduttore - che è una forma particolare del dislivello sempre esistente tra chi parla o scrive e chi ascolta o legge, anche all’interno della stessa lingua - sono la condizione medesima della libertà e della conoscenza17. È dunque motivo per noi di particolare tristezza rilevare come oggi in Italia il primo avversario di questa impostazione teorica sia proprio il teorizzatore - quarant’anni fa - dell’”opera aperta”. Ma l’autore del Trattato di semiotica, lo si sa, ama i paradossi: vent’anni dopo avere indotto al fallimento letterario i suoi compagni di gioventù, autori di improbabili “opere aperte”, giunse al successo internazionale con l’opera che “più chiusa non si può”: opera che - per altro - chi scrive considera il più grande romanzo illuministico del secondo Novecento. Con le idee sulla traduzione sostenute da Eco non si esce dalle dicotomie e dai dogmatismi si continua ad oscillare tra Croce e Jakobson nella convinzione che la poesia sia intraducibile. Cerchiamo un’altra volta ancora di impostare in modo diverso la questione volgendoci al concetto di “poetica”. Secondo Luciano Anceschi, “la riflessione che gli artisti e i poeti esercitano sul loro fare, indicandone i sistemi tecnici, le norme operative, le moralità, gli ideali” è la poetica. Nell’ottica della intertestualità, la traduzione letteraria è dunque il rapporto tra due poetiche, quella dell’autore tradotto e quella del traduttore. Come rileva Mattioli, Peter Szondi nel suo studio sul sonetto 105 di Shakespeare tradotto da Paul Celan18 identifica la poetica della traduzione di Celan nel verso “In der Bestaendigkeit, da bleibt mein Vers geborgen”, che rende il verso shakespeariano “Therefore my verse to constancy confined”. La costanza, che è il tema del sonetto di Shakespeare, diventa nella traduzione di Celan il fattore costitutivo del verso. Szondi compie quindi un acutissimo rilievo di poetica che porta ad una comprensione tutta interna della traduzione. E ciò accade con Giorgio Orelli traduttore di Goethe e con Giaime Pintor traduttore di Rilke, con Massimo Mila traduttore delle Affinità elettive o con Paola Capriolo traduttrice de La Morte a Venezia19. In buona sostanza con quelle che Henri Meschonnic definisce le “traduzioni-testo” (a esempio egli cita S. Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul Celan, Baudelaire come traduttori) distinguendole dalle traduzioni-nontesto destinate a deperire rapidamente. 16 Journal of Italian Translation Mattioli invita inoltre a rileggere il commento di Valéry alla sua traduzione delle Bucoliche20 per scoprire come il modo in cui il poeta del Cimetière marin prospetta il rapporto tra originale e traduzione tolga ogni rigidità all’atto traduttivo accantonando ogni idea di copia, di rispecchiamento, e quindi lo qualifichi in tutta la sua dignità. E questo proprio perché propone un rapporto poietico, un rapporto tra due poetiche, fra due momenti costruttivi, fra due processi, non fra due risultati definitivi e fermi. Una posizione, questa, ampiamente condivisa anche da Henri Meschonnic nel suo Poétique du traduire (1999). Sostiene Mattioli in Studi di poetica e retorica21: “E’ proprio sull’abbandono di ogni posizione normativa che si gioca la possibilità di dare una impostazione nuova ai problemi della traduzione e al loro studio. Non ha nessun interesse continuare a discutere se si possa o non si possa tradurre, partendo dall’idea di traduzione come copia perfetta che per principio non si dà”. Questa svolta22 è analoga a quella avvenuta in campo estetico quando cambiò la domanda essenzialistica “che cosa è l’arte?” in quella fenomenologica “come è l’arte?”. E così come la domanda fenomenologica relativa all’arte consentì il recupero pieno delle poetiche, dei generi letterari, della tecnica artistica, del discorso sugli stili ecc., disincagliando la critica dalla alternativa rigida fra poesia e non poesia, allo stesso modo la proposta di considerare la traduzione letteraria in tutta la sua non riducibile complessità, sottrae il discorso sulla traduzione all’impasse delle alternative secche, dicotomiche e/o giocherellone23. Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa, o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile di un autore: sono queste le domande che consideriamo assolutamente superate. Come considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione italiana dell’opera di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non è certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema del tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema ad una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque una idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale della grande riflessione della Fruehromantik sulla traduzione come compito senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che, solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato”. Quanto al concetto di ritmo, per noi particolarmente attuale - si veda il volume Ritmologia. Il ritmo del linguaggio. Poesia e traduzione, apparso nel 2002 per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos - mi limito in questa sede a ricordare i tre fondamentali indirizzi della ricerca: un indirizzo filosofico, un indirizzo filologico-linguistico, un indirizzo poetico. Nel primo ambito configuriamo i filosofi, che tendenzialmente dovrebbero applicarsi alla categoria della ritmicità in senso ampio, cercando la funzione che il ritmo ha nel mondo. Nel secondo ambito configuriamo i filologi, che guardano al ritmo cercando anzitutto di definire che cosa esso Franco Buffoni 17 sia (e qui la auctoritas è quella di Beda il Venerabile: “Il ritmo può sussistere di per sé, senza metro; mentre il metro non può sussistere senza ritmo. Il metro è un canto costretto da una certa ragione; il ritmo un canto senza misure razionali”; una definizione che ritroviamo modernamente espressa nel recente Traité du rythme di Meschonnic e Dessons: “Il ritmo non è formalista, nel senso che non è una forma vuota, un insieme schematico che si tratterebbe di mostrare o no, secondo l’umore. Il ritmo di un testo ne è l’elemento fondamentale, perché ritmo è operare la sintesi della sintassi, della prosodia e dei diversi movimenti enunciativi del testo”)24. Compito dei filologi è dunque di accordarsi sul significato, di studiare la parola, e infine di condurre l’analisi secondo modalità che contemplano la lingua e la storia della lingua. Con i poeti, infine, ciò che conta del ritmo è il momento in cui esso si fa parola, cioè diventa linguaggio e dunque si realizza attraverso una particolare intonazione, non nel senso di scansione metrica misurata, bensì nel senso eracliteo di un corpo che si fa lingua e discorso (Meschonnic). Poiché il ritmo è soggetto, se un poeta trova il ritmo, trova il soggetto; se non lo trova, i versi che sta scrivendo non sono arte. E questo vale tanto per la scrittura letteraria “originale” quanto per quella in traduzione. Note: 1 Il cui capitolo essenziale, “L’auberge du lointain”, apparve sul n. 2 di “Testo a fronte” e viene ripresentato in questo volume. La traduzione completa è apparsa nel 1998 presso le edizioni Quodlibet di Macerata. 2 Apparso in prima edizione in volume miscellaneo per le Edizioni Lint di Trieste nel 1973. 3 Nella traduzione rivista da Claude Béguin. (Mentre la prima edizione era stata pubblicata da Sansoni nel 1984, nella traduzione di Ruggero Bianchi). 4 Di entrambe “Testo a fronte” ha pubblicato i passi essenziali (che in questo volume ripresentiamo), rispettivamente nel n. 7 (ottobre 1992) per la I parte, e nel n. 8 (marzo 1993) per la II parte. 5 Tradotto in italiano da Gabriella Rovagnati col titolo e apparso presso Guerini e Associati nel 1990 col titolo Il manuale del traduttore letterario nella collana I Testi di “Testo a fronte”. 6 Risposta data da Céline a Louis Pauwels e André Brissaud che nel 1959 lo intervistarono per la televisione francese. 7 L’argomento appare in vari numeri di “Testo a fronte”, e in particolare nel n. 13 (ottobre 1995). L’opera principale di Jean-René Ladmiral è Traduire: théorèmes pour la traduction, Paris, Payot 1979. 8 Avente come sottotitolo A History of Translation, il volume apparve nel 1995 a Londra da Routledge ed è stato tradotto in italiano da Marina Guglielmi: L’invisibilità del traduttore, Roma, Armando 1999. 9 La traduzione italiana, curata da Riccarda Novello con prefazione di Emilio Mattioli e una nuova premessa dello stesso Apel è apparsa nel 1997 nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte” per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos col 18 Journal of Italian Translation titolo Il movimento del linguaggio. 10 Gianni D’Elia nella prefazione alla sua traduzione delle Nourritures terrestres di André Gide apparsa da Einaudi nel 1994 nella collana Scrittori tradotti da scrittori. 11 Edito nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte, ed. Guerini e Associati, 1992. 12 Come osserva Edoardo Zuccato nel saggio intitolato “Testo a fronte” in corso di pubblicazione negli Atti del Convegno tenutosi a Urbino nell’ottobre 2003 sul tema Editoria e Traduzione, “Eco non poteva scegliere un esempio più infelice, vista la disastrosa situazione testuale dell’opera shakespeariana, di cui non solo non esistono autografi, ma neppure una edizione originale di riferimento, al punto che ci sono opere di cui oggi vengono proposte due versioni diverse, entrambe come originali. Un’occhiata anche sommaria alla storia delle edizioni del canone shakespeariano mostrerebbe a chiunque che l’inglese di Shakespeare non è mai rimasto lo stesso”. 13 Tradurre, comunemente, si dice oggi. Ma nel Trecento dicevasi volgarizzare, perché la voce tradurre sapeva troppo di latino, e allora scansavansi i latinismi, come poi li cercarono nel Quattrocento, e taluni li cercano ancor oggi; sì perché que’ buoni traduttori facevano le cose per farle, e trasportando da lingue ignote il pensiero in lingua nota, intendevano renderle intelligibili a’ più”. E’ questo il famoso attacco del capitolo VIII della Vita agra di Luciano Bianciardi, che così sornionamente si conclude: “Ma adesso le più delle traduzioni non si potrebbero, se non per ironia, nominare volgarizzamenti, dacché recano da lingua foresta, che per sé è chiarissima e popolare, in linguaggio mezzo morto, che non è di popolo alcuno; e la loro traduzione avrebbe bisogno d’un nuovo volgarizzamento”. Inutile sottolineare che la “lingua foresta” chiarissima e popolare da cui si traduce è l’inglese — o meglio ancora l’americano di Henry Miller e Saul Bellow; mentre il linguaggio mezzo morto in cui si traduce è l’italiano, non appartenente — così come è venuto letterariamente configurandosi - a popolo alcuno. 14 Precursore del concetto di intertestualità (senza mai aver menzionato il termine) Bachtin — come è noto — focalizza il concetto di parodia come fenomeno dialogico. Osserva F. Stella in “Testimonianze” nn. 384-5, aprilemaggio 1996, facendo riferimento al celebre saggio di Todorov su Bachtin (originale francese 1981, — qualsiasi punto se ne consideri - può leggersi tanto verso l’’avanti’ (dai pre-testi al testo), quanto nel senso opposto (dal testo ai pre-testi). Nel processo intertestuale si ha a che fare con una dinamica effettiva, in cui assumono pari importanza sia le modificazioni imposte al testo dalle sue matrici pre-testuali, sia quelle indotte nei pretesti dall’inserimento del nuovo arrivato nella rete intertestuale. La creazione di ogni nuovo testo modifica l’assetto relazionale dell’intero sistema di testi (e discorsi) a cui esso fa riferimento: da questo momento in avanti, anche i testi preesistenti ne risultano modificati (dunque influenzati), se è vero che la loro realtà si esprime nella dimensione dialogica indicata Franco Buffoni 19 da Bachtin. Ogni nuovo testo, con la propria costituzione, determina i propri determinanti, legge e modifica i testi passati, pronto ad essere a sua volta letto e modificato dai testi a venire. Il testo produce i suoi antecedenti”. Di particolare interesse in questo consesso di filologi germanici può essere quest’ultima considerazione di Pasero: “Il paradosso per cui il testo posteriore modifica il precedente (ovvero: il derivato legge la fonte) non è sempre dato in questa sua drastica forma: esso si impone con particolare vigore solo quando — all’incirca a partire dalla fine del Medioevo, per quanto riguarda la tradizione culturale dell’Occidente — si delinea una ideologia del distacco dalla lettura dei testi come auctoritates da citare e glossare, e nel contempo si teorizza e si pratica un loro impiego più ‘creativo’. Tale spostamento d’accenti trova un corrispettivo nel riconoscere a tutti i testi (anche ai ‘nuovi’, dunque) il diritto di comportarsi come individualità autonome, che entrano con pari chances nell’agone letterario”. Dal nostro punto di vista, ovviamente, quando ci si riferisce a “tutti” i testi, compresi i “nuovi”, il pensiero corre in primis alle traduzioni-testo (relativamente alle quali rimandiamo alla nota 25). 17 L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione. 18 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 2. 19 A riguardo Henri Meschonnic distingue tra traduzioni-non-testo, destinate a deperire rapidamente, e traduzioni-testo - come quelle di S. Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul Celan, Baudelaire - destinate a restare, per l’appunto, come testi. 20 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 3, ottobre 1991, per le cure di Giovanni Lombardo. 21 Modena, Mucchi, 1983. 22 Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa, o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile di un autore: sono queste le domande che - come comitato direttivo di “Testo a fronte” - consideriamo assolutamente superate. 23 Considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione italiana di Literarische Ubersetzung di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non è certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema del tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema ad una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque una idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale della grande riflessione della Fruhromantik sulla traduzione come compito senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che, solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato” 24 A riguardo si vedano anche, nel già citato volume Ritmologia, gli interventi di Emilio Mattioli e di chi scrive. Una impostazione teorica che trova una sicura fonte in E. Benveniste, Problemi di linguistica generale, trad. di M. Vittoria Giuliani, Il Saggiatore, Milano, 1994, p.396. 20 Journal of Italian Translation The Translation of Poetry as an Autonomous Literary Genre by Franco Buffoni “I wonder” asked L. F. Céline in the letter to M. Hindus of May 15th, 1947, “ how can they compare me to Henry Miller, who is translated?, while everything is a question of the intimacy of the language not to mention the emotional output of style…” Style, for Céline, was therefore “untranslatable,” just as poetry was “untranslatable” for Benedetto Croce. These theoretical positions, which play on the assumption of the uniqueness and irreproducibility of the work of art, end up denying the translatability of poetry and “high” prose. Such conceptions are the expression of an idealism that is particularly outdated nowadays, against which Italian aesthetics of a neo-phenomenological bent (from Banfi to Anceschi to Formaggio to Mattioli) have fought for three decades at least (victoriously, I would say). It all started with the observation that the dichotomies (faithful/unfaithful; faithful to the letter/faithful to the spirit; ut orator/ut interpres; verbum/sensus; “traductions des poètes/traductions des professeurs”) – from Cicero to Mounin – inevitably lead to a cul de sac, which puts, on the one hand, the untranslatability of “style” and of the poetic “ineffable,” and on the other hand, the conviction that it is possible to transmit just the content. Naturally the fact that it is possible to transmit just the content is a pure abstraction, but it is where you get starting from both “idealistic” and “formalistic” assumptions. I don’t think that the dichotomous situation of impasse changes by analysing the academic argument between Meschonnic and Ladmiral, alias between sourciers and ciblistes, or between a naturalizing “target-oriented” tendency, which would push the text toward the foreign reader “naturalizing” it, and an alienating “source-oriented” tendency that would drag the foreign reader toward the text. According to this kind of thought, the clash between schools of translation would resemble the one that exists in the world of art restoration: to show it as much as possible, or hide it as much as possible. If we set aside the fondness that certain definitions may elicit as opposed to others, I believe it is clear that — if we continue with a dichotomous layout — we only add new pairs — like domestication/estrangement, visibility/invisibility, violability/inviolability to those of previous centuries: liberty/faithfulness, betrayal/assent, fluency/literalness. This is what happens with The Translator’s Invisibility of Lawrence Venuti despite the fact that his constant reference to Schleiermacher and the hermeneutic school inspired by him is certainly of a very high level. Franco Buffoni 21 “How then, can we reproduce the style?” The heart of the matter, in my opinion, is in the verb used to ask the question: reproduce. Because literary translation cannot be reduced conceptually to a mere reproduction of a text; it should rather be considered as a process, which sees not an “original” and a “copy” move through time and possibly bloom and flourish again, but two texts equally endowed with artistic dignity. The Movement of Language by Friedmar Apel is a fundamental study in this regard. The concept of “movement” in language comes from the necessity of deeply analysing the so-called language of departure before embarking on the translation of a literary text. The idea is commonly accepted for the so-called language of arrival. No one, in fact, casts any doubts on the need to constantly retranslate the classics in order to adapt them to the transformations that language continuously undergoes. The so-called departure text, on the other hand, is usually viewed as a monument — immobile in time — marmoreal and rustproof. And yet, it too is moving in time, because the words which compose it are also moving semantically in time, as well as the syntactic and grammatical structures and so on. Essentially, what is being proposed is to consider the classical or modern literary text to be translated not as an immobile rock in the sea, but as a floating platform, where the translator works on the live body of the text, but the text itself is in constant transformation, or precisely, moving in time. In this view, the aesthetic dignity of the translation appears as the fruit of a meeting between equals (the author and the translator) fated to cause the traditional dichotomous pairs to fall away, since it is aimed at removing all stiffness from the act of translation, by giving its product an intrinsic autonomous dignity as text. This principle was already anticipated by Blanchot through the image of the “solemn drift of literary works.” You can go so far as to affirm that the movement of the language in time, during this process of literary translation, begins even before the drafting of the “definitive” version of the “original,” when it is possible for the translator to access the “pre-text” (that is, all those documents from which the “definitive” text takes shape). In this way, the translator takes possession of the path of growth and germination of the text in its various phases. In this regard, a linguist may speak of the formativity of the text; while a poet may speak of sympathetic adherence, on the part of the translator, not so much to the finished text, but to the myriad of emotional cells that made it possible. The text, therefore, moves toward the future but also toward the past if we take into account the “pre-texts.” Think of the eight thousand sheets which gave rise to the four hundred pages of Céline’s Voyage au bout de la nuit, or of the Epiphanies from which Joyce’s Portrait descends, or the Cahiers upon which La Recherche du temp perdu is formed …All this in the awareness of the stratification of historical languages. It is a concept that Luciano Bianciardi exemplifies with “architectonic” clarity at the beginning of his 22 Journal of Italian Translation La Vita Agra (Sour Life), when he describes the building that houses the library of Grosseto. Previously it had been the teaching house of the Companions of Jesus, and before the Convent of the Humbled, and even before the Braidense Library… By transferring this description to language, you obtain the diode effect, which is like seeing from high a heap of piled up but transparent phonetic and semantic layers. This is why I consider the translation of poetry as an autonomous literary genre, according to a tradition that sees in its developement Thomas Sébillet in the 16th century (Mounin reminds us that, according to Sébillet, translation at that time was considered “parmi les genres littéraires en vogue”), and Jiri Levy, who in the early Sixties of the 20th century published in Prague Umeni Prekladu, a fundamental essay the subtitle of which is quite meaningful: “Theorie einer Kunstgattung”, that is to say “theory of a literary genre” . Traumatic Translation: Levi’s “Ancient Mariner” from English to Italian—and Back Again by Lina Insana Lina Insana is Assistant Professor of Italian at the University of Pittsburgh, where she teaches courses on Holocaust Literature, Fascism and Resistance, Sicilian Writers, Italian Detective Fiction, Translation Studies, Italian American Studies, and Migration and Identity. She has published on Italian American children’s literature, gender and Fascist culture, Boccaccio, Beppe Fenoglio, and Primo Levi, and is currently completing her manuscript on Levi’s use of translation as a metaphor for Holocaust testimony. Introduction H olocaust survivors, returning home after liberation and the long homeward odysseys that followed, soon found themselves prey to a new conflict: between the “burning need” to tell of their brutalizing experience and a profound confusion over how to go about representing its singular and unspeakable events. This crisis of representation stemmed, in part, from specific aspects of the Final Solution, which deployed tactics of cruel dehumanization, the debasement of significative language, and the eradication of all subject hood and agency, not to speak of unheard-of physical hardships, slavery, and torture. The result is an unbearable proximity between the Lager’s new reality and the limits of our imaginative capacities. As Terrence Des Pres has theorized, “what we experience, symbolically, in spirit only, survivors must go through, in spirit and in body. In extremity, states of mind become objective, metaphors tend to actualize, the word becomes flesh” (174). When traditional literary figures are no longer appropriate as an expressive strategy, what recourse does the survivor-writer have? Levi’s response to the incommensurate communicative environments of Auschwitz and the world of survival grew out of his belief that effective communication was fundamental to the human condition.1 As such, at the heart of his testimonial project was an attempt to convey the reality of the camps by recoding its various sign systems for “gli altri,” who had not been there to experience it for themselves; in other words, to translate it. The translational metaphor for Holocaust testimony is particularly apt in Levi’s case because of his consistent attention to language issues in his writing, his focus on the Lagerjargon2 as a constituent element of the univers concentrationnaire, and his own considerable translation work.3 Across Levi’s testimonial oeuvre, translation acts4 become textual sites of survivor hood, where processes of testimony and aspects of the survivor’s 24 Journal of Italian Translation condition are explored in complex and traumatically repetitive ways, mirroring the trauma of the experience, itself. Another notable aspect of Levi’s translations is that they are often intentionally unfaithful, representing an unsettling or even a reversal of the source text. This undermining foregrounding of the texts that Levi chooses to appropriate and translate within the space of his ostensibly “original” testimonial production should not be inscribed within a Bloomian “anxiety of influence” directed toward the figures of Dante Alighieri and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Rather, this author’s portrayal of translation en abyme figures his attempt to reverse the Auschwitz source text and overcome its arrogant and omnipotent “authors.” Levi’s practice of manhandling his source texts in the service of a larger personal and literary program reveals nothing less than a reassertion of the subject hood so diminished in the univers concentrationnaire. If, as Shoshana Feldman writes, “History is the ‘original,’ the writings—its translations” (40), Levi’s practice is indicative of a preoccupation with not only translating, but reversing the source text of the Holocaust event. Levi’s use of four verses of Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1817) is exemplary of this general tendency in his oeuvre. As we shall see, Levi’s traumatic return to the text and its protagonist places the source text’s preoccupation with the transmission of trauma en abyme, foregrounding Levi’s and Coleridge’s common themes of transmission, translation, and survivor guilt. Within this context, however, Levi makes changes to the text that simultaneously reassert his authorial agency (and thus his subject hood) and recast Coleridge’s text as a testimonial utterance unique to Levi’s experience. My comments in this essay will focus in particular on Levi’s 1984 poem “Il superstite” (“The Survivor”), a text whose analysis allows us to comment not only on the role of translation in Levi’s authorial strategies, but also on particular problems that this poem—with its embedded (mis) translation of Coleridge—posed for its American translator, Ruth Feldman. Faced with an exercise of circular translation of the kind described by Umberto Eco in Experiences in Translation (40),5 Feldman’s decision to return to Coleridge’s original verses effaced the fact, and thus the implications, of Levi’s own mediation of Coleridge. The Ancient Mariner as Holocaust Survivor According to Marco Belpoliti (21), Primo Levi was most likely introduced to Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” in 1964, when Beppe Fenoglio’s translation of it was published by Einaudi; we can trace Levi’s public references to the poem more or less to this same period. Both in the preface to the 1966 theatrical production of Se questo è un uomo (cited in Anissimov 471)6 and in the “Cromo” chapter of Il sistema periodico (1974) Levi compares himself affirmatively to the Ancient Mariner. In the fist case, the terms of comparison revolve around the duties of the interlocutor (or the Lina Insana/Primo Levi 25 theatrical audience) to come to a conclusion based on the survivor’s “tale,” while in “Cromo” Levi’s focus is his urgent need to purify himself, to rid himself of the albatross hanging around his own neck through storytelling. Though these paraphrastic references to the Ancient Mariner character date to 1966, his explicit citation and translation of one specific four-verse stanza brought this affinity to its culmination in the last few years of his life, inspiring not only the 1984 poem “Il superstite,” but the title of its entire collection, Ad ora incerta (1984), and the incipit of his last book, I sommersi e i salvati (1986): “Since then, at an uncertain hour,/ That agony returns:/ And till my ghastly tale is told,/ This heart within me burns” (vv. 582-85). The consistency with which Levi returns to the Coleridge text and its protagonist challenges us to reckon with their importance as figures for Levi’s testimonial project. Moreover, Levi’s active mediation of his source text demands that this reckoning occur on the terrain of translation, both on the level of theme (the citing, recoding and traumatic retelling that are central to Coleridge’s text), and on the formal level (the specific acts of citation and [mis] translation that occur within the textual space of Levi’s poem). “Il superstite” The first line of the oft-cited Coleridge passage (v. 582) is reproduced tale quale, as the first verse of Levi’s poem: “Since then, at an uncertain hour”. The second line is Levi’s translation of the first, faithfully done, and represented in regular type: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta.” This is followed in the third verse by a close translation of Coleridge’s next line (v. 583), “That agony returns” (“Quella pena ritorna”), and then a significantly altered rendering of the next two verses, to which we will soon return. Remarkably, despite critical unanimity regarding the role of the Fenoglio translation in familiarizing Levi with the poem, Levi’s translation of the verses from the “Rime” is clearly original. Fenoglio’s translation of vv. 58285 reads: “Da quel momento, a un’ora imprecisa,/ Quell’agonia mi torna;/ E fino a che non ho detta la mia storia/ Di morti, dentro mi brucia il cuore.” Levi’s version, instead, reads: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta,/ Quella pena ritorna,/ E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il cuore.” Of particular note in a casual comparison between the source text and Fenoglio’s and Levi’s translation of it is the fact that the former’s addition of “Di morti” in verse 585—made, one assumes, to approximate Coleridge’s original tetrameter—does not materialize in Levi’s translation, leading us to believe that Levi was translating from Coleridge directly and not from Fenoglio’s 1964 translation. As we shall soon see, Levi’s omission of Fenoglio’s unfaithful reference to death provides not only textual proof of his direct relationship to the Coleridge source text, but also helps to interrogate ostensibly clear distinctions between life and death, “sommersi” and “salvati.” Starting with v. 6, Levi’s “Il superstite” then makes a transition from the Coleridge source text and his interpretation of it to a more properly “origi- 26 Journal of Italian Translation nal” segment (vv. 6-13) describing the “sommersi” that the poem’s survivor “persona” will soon address. By then admonishing the “gente sommersa” in verses 14-20, this persona ostensibly places himself in the diametrically opposed category of the “salvati,” who must defensively account for their survival to both the “sommersi”—the audience to which the quoted segment is addressed—and to the poem’s broader audience of outsiders who, privy to both sides of the dialogue, are placed in the position of judge. As such, the author sets up a seemingly neat distinction between survivors and their dead companions, complete with an implied dialogue within the survivor persona’s monologue that presents both points of view: “ ‘Indietro, via di qui, gente sommersa,/ Andate. Non ho soppiantato nessuno,/ Non ho usurpato il pane di nessuno,/ Nessuno è morto in vece mia. Nessuno./ Ritornate alla vostra nebbia./ Non è mia colpa se vivo e respiro/ E mangio e bevo e dormo e vesto panni’ “ (vvs. 14-20). This segment, enclosed entirely in quotation marks, is characterized by a repetition of negative clauses containing “Non” and “Nessuno.” Not only is this negational structure an example of Freud’s affirming negations,7 but its repetitive cadence constitutes, in microcosmic form, the sort of traumatic repetition that Levi’s use of Coleridge’s “Rime” and his testimonial work represent on more global levels.8 It is precisely this combination of repetition and negation that aids Levi in portraying the dialogue within a monologue between the two parts of a divided survivor self. The affirming negations, in this context, have the striking effect of validating the accusations of the “sommersi,” even while presenting the “salvati”’s opposing—and seemingly dominant—point of view. Furthermore, the rhetorical strategy of redundancy suggests that this implicit “dialogue” is a repeating one that the surviving subject must enact over and over again. In the recent opinion of Giorgio Agamben, Levi’s poem is indicative of his refusal to accept “fino in fondo le conseguenze” of individual survivor guilt, and its poetic persona representative of one who “lotta tenacemente contro di esso” (83). But Levi makes two significant changes to Coleridge’s original in his own loose translation (vv. 4-5) that displace him with regard to this neatly divided dichotomy of the “drowned” and the “saved.” This transitional segment that bridges the two introductory verses of faithful translation and the original verses beginning at v. 6 in effect creates a space of many ambiguities: between faithful and unfaithful translation, between the giving and the receiving of testimony, between survival and death. First, the focus on the Mariner’s first-person tale in Coleridge’s v. 584 (“And till my ghastly tale is told”) has been shifted in Levi’s rewriting to the search for an active listener: “E se non trova chi lo ascolti”. By emphasizing the necessity of finding an interlocutor (through the addition of the active verb ascoltare), a witness to the survivor’s testimony, Levi establishes an interactive model of narrative responsibility. In this model, the living must speak for those who did not survive. As Levi will later explain in the “La vergogna” chapter of I sommersi e i salvati, “[n]oi toccati dalla sorte abbiamo cercato, con maggiore o minore Lina Insana/Primo Levi 27 sapienza, di raccontare non solo il nostro destino, ma anche quello degli altri, dei sommersi, appunto...Parliamo noi in loro vece, per delega” (65). Implicit in this model is the fact that the weight of responsibility must be distributed among speakers and listeners alike at many different levels, as the “salvati” must become witnesses to the atrocities committed against the “sommersi” and the survivor’s listener-reader must, in turn, bear witness to that which is recounted to him by the survivor. It is not enough merely to tell, but the reader-listener after the fact must also be a willing interlocutor and witness, mirroring and repeating the narrative testimonial act of the survivor to create an infinite chain of witnessing and telling, listening and witnessing. Similarly, for Coleridge there is a tendency to “dissolv[e] the distinction between the roles of speaker and audience: both here are equally in thrall to the tale” (Eilenberg 287-88). For both the Holocaust survivor and the protagonist of the “Rime,” each link in the transmission of the tale is simultaneously narrator and narratee, yet another example of the manner in which the representation en abyme of the transmissive act shines a particularly bright meta-narrative light on the process of witnessing. Referring to the Coleridge poem, Eilenberg identifies this phenomenon as a thematic “doubling” of the protagonist in that “each person who hears the story becomes, like the Mariner, the teller of that story” (277). For Eilenberg, these textual doubles include the sixteenth-century “mistral who narrates the poem that the antiquarian would gloss” (291), as well as the Hermit and Wedding Guest who are the Mariner’s most immediate interlocutors. Upon close inspection, it becomes clear that Levi’s own poem shares Coleridge’s predilection for textual doubles, though not as explicit as those present in the “Rime.” Ultimately, the poet and his survivor persona are at once elements and propagators of the poem’s doubling mechanism: a poet who quotes Coleridge’s original English text, who knows but sets aside a good-faith Italian translation of Coleridge (Beppe Fenoglio’s), who puts forth his own translation of Coleridge; and a survivor, who, in his vehement denial of any wrongdoing against the “gente sommersa,” implicitly cites the charges of his accusers. Even the final line of the poem constitutes another layer of this game of doubling through citation, as the survivor translates Dante (“e mangia e bee e dorme e veste panni” [Inferno 33.141]), once again making revealing changes of person and perspective (“E mangio e bevo e dormo e vesto panni” [v. 20]), to invoke the double of the traitor Branca D’Oria.9 But in keeping with poetry’s role as the space in which this author works through his more conflicted responses to survivor hood, Levi’s unfaithful translation of the fourth verse also serves to undermine this very narrative model whereby interlocutors, and therefore witnesses, are created within the textual space of testimony. While Coleridge’s main verb is decidedly indicative (“And till my ghastly tale is told”), Levi’s version is constructed on the first part of a hypothetical phrase, presenting the possibility of an audience in the subjunctive mode—possible, but not certain: “E se non trova chi lo ascolti.” Levi’s translation of Coleridge, then, prompts us to ques- 28 Journal of Italian Translation tion his faith in the very narrative-testimonial model that he has constructed. The second change in Levi’s reworking of the original poem involves a shift from the first person (“And till my ghastly tale is told/ This heart within me burns.”) to the third: “E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il cuore.” (vv. 4-6). By displacing the subject position away from the lyric, authoritative first person, Levi problematizes his own status as survivor, and thus, in effect, his own position in this interactive model of witnessing. In addition to the splitting and doubling effects of this move that we have already outlined, Levi’s decision to speak of the survivor in third-person terms would seem to place him at least one remove from the survivor’s ostensibly authoritative position, which Levi begins to question in his later years.10 According to his later thought, survivors like Levi must take on the role of witness even though that role’s validity is diminished by their very survival: “‘[Quello dei sopravvisuti] è stato un discorso ‘per conto di terzi,’ il racconto di cose viste da vicino, non sperimentate in proprio. La demolizione condotta a termine, l’opera compiuta, non l’ha raccontata nessuno, come nessuno è mai tornato a raccontare la sua morte” (I sommersi e i salvati 65). This weakened view of the authority of survivor hood is only confirmed later on in the poem when Levi overtly quotes the survivor’s defensive rebuke of the submerged. By taking the survivor’s words out of the poet’s mouth and citing them as the words of an unnamed survivor persona, Levi further develops the narrative duality that is set up by his translation of Coleridge’s first-person stance to a third-person narrative position. But this technique is suggestive of far more than a dantesque poet-pilgrim relationship between Levi’s writer and survivor identities. Rather, Levi’s explicit quotation of the survivor’s defensive words as if he did not own them amounts to a decision to position himself definitively outside of the neat drowned vs. saved dichotomy that he himself has created. This rhetorical technique suggests a survivor who is neither “sommerso” nor “salvato”; not prey to the true depths of the Nazi atrocities, and yet not wishing, in this moment of the poem, to accept the survivor’s words, his responsibility, or his guilt. In effect, Levi establishes himself as a border figure who stands astride these two opposing zones of the moral system of Auschwitz—drowned and saved— but recognizes that it is his very identification with both survivor hood and death that warrants his occupancy of an entirely different intermediary zone. “The Survivor” “Il superstite,” with all of its layers of textual and narrative transmission, was itself translated into English by Levi’s longtime acquaintance and translator Ruth Feldman.11 First published in 1986 and reprinted in 1988,12 the English-language translation of “Il superstite” strikingly reveals the tension inherent in the translator’s attempt to faithfully render a number of different and often competing source texts: Coleridge’s “Rime,” Levi’s “Il superstite,” and, ultimately, the Holocaust, itself. The Feldman translation of this poem, entitled “The Survivor,” repre- Lina Insana/Primo Levi 29 sents Levi’s translation of v. 582 (“Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta”) as the first verse of the new poem. This is followed by a direct citation of vv. 581-85 of the English-language Coleridge poem, tali quali, as verses 2-5, eliding Levi’s changes to the Coleridge source text. In both published versions, these verses are set apart graphically from the rest of the poem, both in terms of the size of their font and by a space between verses 5 (“This heart within me burns”) and 6 (“Once more he sees his companions’ faces”); in the 1986 epigraphic version this separation is rendered still more striking by the fact that the first 5 verses are all in italics, implying that as a whole they represent a direct and faithful translation (or citation) of some original text, either Coleridge’s or Levi’s. In both of Feldman’s versions of the poem, the Coleridge citation stands in epigraph to the rest of the poetic text, but is not incorporated into it, nor is the voice of the Ancient Mariner-cum-survivor ever conflated with the survivor-persona’s voice. As a result, the imagined dialogue that moves the second part of the poem becomes a very different kind of conversation, one where the ownership of the survivor position is not formally problematized within the poem’s formal structure. The poet here can simply be said to have adopted a “voice” of anxiety vis à vis the survivor’s condition, but without linking that persona textually or graphically to the Ancient Mariner character who in Levi’s version takes on far more than mere emblematic value for the survivor persona in question. With the effacement of Levi’s violence to the Coleridge text comes a negation of the complexity of Levi’s relationship to the Ancient Mariner character inherent in his explicit and forceful rhetorical distancing from that character in the Italian poem. Feldman’s return to Coleridge’s original text suggests a refusal to participate in an exercise of circular translation, a reticence to acknowledge either the translator’s presence in the process of transmission, or the uniqueness of the translational act. Her decision to privilege Coleridge’s source text also suggests an underlying anxiety about accuracy in the representation, transmission, and translation of Holocaust texts, and the Holocaust source text in general; Feldman’s profound desire to accurately represent the Holocaust signified ultimately manifests itself in the “return” to a pristine, uncorrupted source text. Paradoxically, however, readers of Feldman’s Englishlanguage translation of Levi’s “Il superstite” are given less than the full picture of survivor testimony when they are denied access to Levi’s poetic refraction of Coleridge’s text, and his use of it to figure the complexities of transmission, translation, and the testimonial process. Primo Levi’s translation of this fragment of Coleridge’s “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” and its incorporation into his 1984 poem “Il superstite” reveal the importance of translation as a textual site of meditation on the testimonial process and on the condition of survivor hood. His manhandling of the Coleridge fragment establishes Levi’s agency as a testimonial and poetic subject, and at the same time allows him to perform a complex commentary on his own position of survivor hood between life and death, 30 Journal of Italian Translation testimony and silence. This contrasts sharply with the English-language translation of the poem, where the translator’s anxieties about faithfully translating the competing source texts at issue—literary and historical alike— undermine this very complexity. Works Cited Agamben, Giorgio. Quel che resta di Auschwitz. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri, 1998. Alighieri, Dante. Inferno. Trans. Charles Singleton. 2 vols: Italian text and translation, and commentary. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977. Anissimov, Myriam. Primo Levi, ou la tragédie d’un optimiste. Paris: J.C. Lattès, 1996. Belpoliti, Marco. Primo Levi. Milano: Mondadori, 1998. Des Pres, Terrence. The Survivor. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976. Gilman, Sander. “To Quote Primo Levi: ‘Redest keyn jiddisch, bist nit kejn jid’ [‘If you don’t speak Yiddish, you’re not a Jew’].” Prooftexts 9 (1989): 13960. Eco, Umberto. Experiences in Translation. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2001. Eilenberg, Susan. “Voice and Ventriloquy in ‘The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.’” The “Rime of the Ancient Mariner”: Complete, Authoritative Texts of the 1798 and 1817 Versions with Biographical and Historical Contexts, Critical History, and Essays from Contemporary Critical Perspectives. Murfin, Ross C. series ed. and introd. Boston: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 1999. Feldman, Ruth. Moments of Reprieve. New York: Summit Books, 1986. Trans. of Lilít e altri racconti by Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi, 1986. —. Telephone interview. 26 Feb. 2000. Feldman, Ruth and Brian Swann, trans. Collected Poems. London; Boston: Faber and Faber, 1988. Trans. of Ad ora incerta by Primo Levi. Milano: Garzanti, 1984. —, trans. Shema. London: Mennard Press, 1976. Trans. of L’osteria di Brema by Primo Levi. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975. Felman, Shoshana. The Juridical Unconscious: trials and traumas in the twentieth century. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002. Fenoglio, Beppe, trans. La ballata del vecchio marinaio. Ed. Filippo Fossati. Torino: Stamperia del Borgo Po, 1988. Trans. of “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1817. Levi, Primo. L’altrui mestiere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. —. “Così ho rivissuto il Processo di Kafka.” Interview with Luciano Genta. Tuttolibri—La stampa 9 Apr. 1983: 3. Rpt. as “Tradurre Kafka” in Racconti e saggi. Torino: La Stampa, 1986. —. Lilít e altri racconti. Torino: Einaudi, 1981. —. “Una misteriosa sensibilità.” Il tempo. 3 July 1983. —, trans. La notte dei Girondini. Milano: Adelphi, [1976], 1997. Trans. of De Lina Insana/Primo Levi 31 Nacht der Girondijnen by Jacob Presser. 1957. —. L’osteria di Brema. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975. —, trans. and introd. Il processo. Torino: Einaudi, 1983. Trans. of Der Prozeb by Franz Kafka. —. Se questo è un uomo, La tregua. Torino: Einaudi, [1958,1963,1989], 1993. —, trans. Lo sguardo da lontano. Torino: Einaudi, 1984. Trans. of Le régard éloigné by Claude Lévi-Strauss. —, trans. Simboli naturali. Torino: Einaudi, 1979. Trans. of Natural Symbols by Mary Douglas. —. Il sistema periodico. Torino: Einaudi, [1975], 1994. —. I sommersi e i salvati. Torino: Einaudi, [1986], 1991. —, trans. La via delle maschere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. Trans. of La vie des masques by Claude Lévi-Strauss. Rosato, Italo. “Poesia.” Primo Levi. Riga, n. 13. Milano: Marcos y Marcos, 1997. —. “Ad ora incerta.” Autografo. II.5 (1985): 95-9. Segre, Cesare. “I romanzi e le poesie.” Opere. Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi, 1988. xii-xxxv. Thomson, Ian. Primo Levi. London: Hutchinson, 2002. Notes 1. Cf. Levi’s essay “Dello scrivere oscuro” in L’altrui mestiere. 2. The lingua franca of the univers concentrationnaire, the Lagerjargon was a mixture of all of the national and cultural languages represented in the camp. It contained elements of the sign systems of both victim and oppressor: on one hand, the German, Polish, and Yiddish of the Nazis and their “gray zoner” functionaries, and on the other, “bits and pieces of the languages of the victims” (Gilman 140). Levi’s interest in the language of the Lager and of the Final Solution spans from Se questo è un uomo to the “Comunicare” chapter of I sommersi e i salvati. 3. In addition to various projects commissioned by Edizioni Scientifiche Einaudi (notably the four-volume co-translation of Chimica Superiore Organica), Levi’s published translation work includes La notte dei Girondini (Milano: Adelphi, 1976; trans. of Jacob Presser’s De nacht der Girondijnen), I simboli naturali (Torino: Einaudi, 1979; trans. of Mary Douglas’Natural Symbols), Il processo (Torino: Einaudi, 1983; trans. of Franz Kafka’s Der Prozeß), Lo sguardo da lontano (Torino: Einaudi, 1984; trans. of Claude Lévi-Strauss’ Le régard éloigné), La via delle maschere (Torino: Einaudi, 1985; trans. of Claude LéviStrauss’ La vie des masques), and translations of Heinrich Heine’s poetry published in the “Traduzioni” section at the end of Ad ora incerta, a collection of Levi’s original poetic work (Torino: Garzanti, 1984). Levi was also the author of a number of essays on the topic of translation, in particular three separate pieces written in conjunction with his translation of Franz Kafka’s Der Prozeb (his introduction to the translation, itself; “Tradurre Kafka;” and 32 Journal of Italian Translation “Una misteriosa sensibilità”) and the essay “Tradurre e essere tradotti.” 4. I define translation act quite broadly, here, as both self-standing translation projects, such as Levi’s translations of Kafka and Presser; and embedded gestures of translations, as is the case in the present study and in Levi’s translation of the 26th Canto of Dante’s Inferno in the “Canto di Ulisse” chapter of Se questo è un uomo. 5. “During a seminar on translation, a colleague of mine gave the students the English version of The Name of the Rose (namely, the description of the church portal) and asked them to translate it into Italian (obviously threatening to compare their result with the original). Asked for some advice, I told the students that they were not to be disturbed by the idea that there was an original (in the same sense in which a translator should not be disturbed by the suspicion that there is a Perfect Language, a reine Sprache, somewhere in the skies). They had to consider the translation as if it were the original, and they had to decide what the purpose of that text was” (emphasis mine). 6. The preface cited by Anissimov on pp. 471-72 as the source of her citation differs significantly from the original Italian. It is unclear from her note whether it is taken directly from the preface or has been adapted together with another source. 7. “Può essere a questo punto scontato citare Freud e le sue negazioni che affermano: ‘Lei domanda chi possa essere questa persona del sogno. Non è mia madre’” (Rosato, “Poesia” 425). 8. Italo Rosato (“Ad ora incerta” 96), Marco Belpoliti (Primo Levi 125), and Cesare Segre (xxiv) have all noted Levi’s poetics of repetition, the former two in terms of “ripetizione e accumulazione” and the latter in terms of “anafore.” None, however, have attempted to place Levi’s tendency to repeat phrases and words in the context of traumatic repetition, as I hope to do here. 9. Branca Doria (or d’Oria) (1233-1325) was a Genovese Ghibelline nobleman whom Dante places in the division of Cocytus, the realm of the treacherous, specifically reserved for murderers of guests and friends; his sin is the murder of his father-in-law (Singleton 624). 10. In the essay “La vergogna” (I sommersi e i salvati), Levi discusses at length the feelings of guilt that he and his fellow survivors experienced after their liberation from the camps. One of the essay’s main themes is Levi’s assertion that the “salvati” who survived to tell about the horror of the Holocaust are the minority, and that it is the majority, those who “hanno toccato il fondo,” who constitute the norm of the Final Solution’s reality. As such, the survivors are not the true witnesses to the horrors of the extermination; rather, the “sommersi” are the only ones who would have been able to truly testify to the extreme capacity for evil of mankind: “sono loro, i ‘mussulmani,’ i sommersi, i testimoni integrali, coloro la cui deposizione avrebbe avuto significato generale” (64). 11. I am grateful to Mrs. Feldman for her generous willingness to discuss her translation of this poem with me in our phone conversation of 26 Feb. Lina Insana/Primo Levi 33 2000; unfortunately, however, she was unable to explain her decisions with regard to this particular passage. 12. Brian Swann collaborated with Feldman on the first translation of Levi’s collected poetry, Shema (London: Menard Press, 1976, for which the pair won the 1977 John Florio Prize) and as such is listed as a co-translator on the revised and expanded 1988 publication, Collected poems (London, Boston: Faber and Faber, 1988). However, according to Myriam Anissimov’s 1995 Levi biography, Feldman translated all of the additional poems—including the 1984 “Il superstite” —by herself. This assertion is borne out by the fact that in Moments of Reprieve, Feldman’s 1986 solo translation of many of Levi’s short stories, including those originally printed under Levi’s La stampa rubric and in 1981’s Lilít, the same translation of “Il superstite” stands in epigraph to the text. Oil on canvas, detail Lost and Found in Translation: A Personal Perspective by Rina Ferrarelli I talians divide their country into three parts, northern, central and southern. Some of the northern and southern so-called dialects are as different from standard Italian as Portuguese or Spanish, and are, like them, separate languages, Italian being a language the immigrants had to learn in school. That I had to learn in school. Those of us from the North and the South--I’m excluding central Italy because all those regions are close to Tuscany which was the source of the language from which Italian evolved and their languages may in fact be true dialects--those of us from the North and the South had to abandon our mother tongue and learn another language, the Italian language, at a very young age. At the age of five or six, before we left our countries of birth for a foreign country, we were translating from the mother tongue into Italian, what I call our father tongue. And with it we translated ourselves from the motherland, the folk culture which was either matriarchal or a state between the two, into the fatherland, la patria, a national concept and a national project. Today, because of the history we have lived through, we do not like the connotations of the word fatherland, but that is what patria translates into, the root being from pater in Latin. Pater became patre in my vernacular, padre in Italian, father in English. Also, the nation is patriarchal in its ways. Ethno-linguists might tell us that the countries that use fatherland, different as they are among themselves, are probably even more culturally different, or were at one time, from countries whose language has them say motherland or homeland. The Italian language and the culture that was imparted with it were used to unify the peninsula and the islands in the twentieth century, and to give all the various tribes a common tongue and a common identification. It was in fact a kind of naturalization, for in the translation, we lost some aspects of our identities and acquired others. The mother tongue had an intonation, diction and syntax that set us apart from other Italians, even people from the same general area. It not only pinpointed us to a region, but to a particular town. We recognized each other through our speech as through a habit or dress, a costume. I grew up in San Giovanni in Fiore (Province of Cosenza in the region of Calabria), and I remember coming home from school every day with news of the new tongue I was learning. Guess how we say marmitta (pot) in Italian? I would ask my mother, and then quickly answer myself: Péntola! Frissura (frying pan)was padella, forgiaru (blacksmith) fabbro ferraio! Tappini (slippers) were called pantófole, and table cloth which we called misale was 36 Journal of Italian Translation called tovaglia da tavola. And these differences in vocabulary were not exceptions but the rule. I also brought home words of other lives, for which we had no equivalents and no experience, such as ananàs (pineapple), banana, dátteri (dates). When I went to middle school, where I was taught by teachers who had studied Latin and Greek for many years, I discovered that some of the words in my vernacular were from Greek--catoia, collura-and that some had retained the ancient pronunciation for the oi diphthong vasilicoi for básilico. Later, when I read La Divina Commedia, I learned that some of the meanings still current in my so-called dialect but no longer so in modern Italian were used in Dante’s time: stipare, for instance, for putting things away in a stipo (cupboard).. The language has a vocabulary that’s different from Italian, a smattering of French and Germanic words, as well Italian words whose endings are closer to Latin; in addition, we pronounce the first syllable of the word mamma as a nasal schwa, and have a nasal tight rendering of other phonemes. We don’t trill or roll our rs. We say them against our teeth. Our metaphors are different: while in Italian stir-fried vegetables are affogati (drowned) in my mother tongue they’re startled; our syntax is the same with few exceptions: we use the possessive as a suffix, instead of a separate word before the noun, not mio padre (my father), but pátrema. Again, when I say my dialect, my vernacular, I mean the spoken, not written tongue, of my home town. Not my province, my region, but my hometown. Mastering Italian, the living language we had to use at school and with strangers, was the biggest challenge of my life between the ages of five and fifteen, and the beginning of what would turn out to be a long trans-lation, a life-long picaresque journey. As long as I lived in my hometown, I was always translating. One language at school, one at home and in the neighborhood. We were expected to speak Italian with the people from out of town, translating sometimes for them if they did not understand the shopkeepers. It was only when I went away to school at the age of ten to attend a college prep school—my town did not have one at that time—that I switched to Italian for good. Still, I enjoyed listening to the poetry recited in the mother tongue. I’m thinking of the satirical poems written for carnevale, the verses of exaggerated praise improvised for certain new year’s celebrations, as well as the serious dialect poetry which was sometimes published in the paper. It’s a thrill even today to hear anything literary in that language. An unusual occurrence. It’s hard to find poets let alone books. People were discouraged and even punished for speaking the mother tongue, or rewarded, as I was, for using the Italian language correctly, and they were never asked to write in it. The vernacular is by definition unwritten. Even so, some poets chose to write in it. Unfortunately, they seldom found an audience outside of their towns. What Luigi Bonaffini has done in this country in his anthologies of dialect poetry, collections which offer the original mother tongues, as well as the Italian versions and the English, is indeed a rare Rina Ferrarelli 37 treat. These books are collectibles. Dialect poetry, until recently, was marginalized in the Italian culture. For the reasons I mentioned. Italy was perceived to be too fragmented and there was a movement toward union. But also for other more practical reasons. When a poet writes in the Italian language, his work can be read and understood by every Italian. When his work is in his own dialect, not in ours, the rest of us will need notes or a translation into Italian. But it’s hard to ignore the thrill, when a work is in your own spoken tongue, the pleasure of the familiar, of the ordinary in an extraordinary setting. The other huge leap in my picaresque journey was switching from Italian to English after I emigrated. Total immersion was easier in this setting. I lived in a culture and in a household that spoke English—the uncle and aunt with whom I lived for the first two years spoke Italian and did to me at the beginning, but ran the household and communicated with each other and their children in English. And I was fifteen and in school, at St. Justin’s High School because my relatives didn’t think much of the public high school. And school fills the whole day in this country. After a few days or a week of orientation with a girl named Roberta who knew Italian, I was on my own. In a fog, a dark wood. Fortunately, Sister Marcella, the French teacher, convinced the principal that I’d do better if she tutored me, and took me under her wing teaching me English through French. My school girl French! But I did not know English and she did not Italian. French was the only language we had in common. Neither French nor Italian, however, helped me with the pronunciation of English vowels, the a in cat, the o in got and i in pit being very difficult. In some other cases I couldn’t even hear the difference and, in others, words that were supposed to have the same vowel sound—like a grade school child I was learning groups of related words-- did not when spoken outside the classroom. Not to my ear. At that point, no one mentioned dialectal variations.It was hard to lift words and phrases out the common run of the spoken language.Anything with been and being, to give one example, became slurred, and for a long time, I didn’t know which word had been used. For the next two or three years, while I was learning English in school and first hand in the larger American community, I was also learning the unofficial language that some of the older Italians spoke among themselves, including my Aunt Mary, my mother’s sister, who was not old, but had emigrated from Italy in her twenties and had not gone to school to learn English. To understand my Aunt and the older Italians, especially my landlady when I was in college, who did not speak English and did not speak Italian, the father tongue, I had to learn the Italian-American dialect which Ferdinando Alfonsi (Almanacco, 1992) has called Italese, and which is made up of English words with Italian suffixes. And with English meanings even when the made-up word corresponds to an actual word in the Italian language. I learned that parkare means to park; storo store, giobba job, renta 38 Journal of Italian Translation rent, shoppa shop, garbaciu garbage, groceria grocery store--the list could be very long—and that carro does not mean cart, as in Italian, but automobile, and fornitura does not mean supplies or fittings, but furniture. I never spoke this dialect myself, but I needed to know it. My landlady spoke a mixture of an Italian vernacular mixed with this Italian American dialect. In all of these exchanges, losses and gains. I went to see American movies, and they were no longer dubbed. Although this might seem a gain, I perceived it as a loss. I could no longer lose myself in a movie. I couldn’t understand what people were saying or follow the plot. And I was also expected to read American and English books in the original, a long timeconsuming process. What an innocent I had been abroad in my own country. I had read English works in translation as if Alcott, Swift and Shakespeare had written in Italian. I had watched American movies dubbed in Italian and had asked no questions, seen no discrepancies. I never noticed how the lips moved. Or whether the gestures did not go with the words. What if cowboys spoke in long musical sentences instead of monosyllables? I had never heard a cowboy speak English, neither in real life nor in a movie. Didn’t know if he spoke a dialect, nor if there were dialects. How was I supposed to know that certain taciturn, reticent types went with certain landscapes? When I came to the States and told my new friends about this wonderful western I had seen, which starred Alan Ladd against the background of gorgeous mountain peaks, and they said, Shane, I did not recognize the title. I wasn’t sure at first that I was getting through, but even before I mentioned the Italian title--it had been translated into Il Cavaliere della Valle Solitaria (The Horseman/ Knight of the Solitary Valley), a title they found amusing because of its length-- I could see from the way their eyes sparkled, the way they talked, that the film had been as moving and attractive in English as it had been in Italian. In this case too, I had not been much aware of the translation, neither of the movie nor of the title. Still, the amazing thing is that the story, and in the case of Shane, the nobility of the character and the strong theme came across despite the differences. I had the same experience discussing the movie Julius Caesar, which I had seen in Italian. The famous speeches and the key scenes had all come across. The mediums in this famously well-acted and produced movie had been the drama, the pictures, the force of the personalities brought to the screen by the actors, with the language, even in Italian, acquiring authority from them, aside from what the translator had been able to do, which I was not in a position to judge. I was then the person for which translation is meant. Perhaps this is a commonplace which we sometimes forget. We translate for those who don’t know the language. I am not now that ideal reader/viewer of Shakespeare in Italian. Some excellent translations of Shakespeare in the romance languages don’t sound anything like Shakespeare to me. But, then, how could they? Still, they bor- Rina Ferrarelli 39 der on the absurd. And I’m saying this after translating hundreds of Italian poems into English and feeling that I was doing a fairly good job. English has great synthetic power, and Shakespeare is master of syntactic concision, a great inventor of verbs; while the forte of Italian is the strong phrase, the musical phrase. When I was growing up I never considered translation as one version of the original. I had no idea what the differences between the two might be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken vernacular that deviated in major ways from Italian, which was in fact another language; despite the study of Latin and French, I took translations into Italian for granted just as the natives of any place take their language and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done. No matter what the language, one’s way of seeing the world through words becomes the way it is. Translation, in this frame of reference, is seen as the same piece of writing with the very same words but in a different language. I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another language. Carta can be both paper and map in Italian, but has to be one or the other in English; sueño is both sleep and dream in Spanish, but has to be one or the other in English. It’s impossible to ignore the context, but even that does not solve all the conundrums. It takes a conscious effort to realize that every piece of literature is another way of seeing, another way of doing, of being, not only of a people, but of a particular person living at a particular time and place-- every experience being filtered through the individual consciousness and sensibility of the author-- and that authors have affected in major ways, if they’re Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, the language they have chosen or inherited. Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national language out of his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to subsequently learn, regardless of their mother tongue. Alessandro Manzoni, who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth century, and for enriching the language of prose, was a northern Italian who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said, went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters of the Arno. Translators not only have ways of reading (first level of interpretation); they have ways of re-creating through their choices (second level of interpretation) character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm and sound, tone. Sometimes they have to invent what their own language does not have to come out with an equivalent. The translation is always the product of a symbiotic relationship, for the translator’s interpretation of the original and her sense of her own language, of the language of literature always play a part. 40 Journal of Italian Translation Still, most of us even today ask no questions, or, with a little knowledge, swing to the opposite position and assume the worst, and are quick to cry, Traduttore traditore (translator traitor), unaware that in every translation there are losses and gains, and that, broadly speaking, translation is all there is. The original and the translation are both translations, and as such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experience of life into the experience of words, structures made of words, choosing out of huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful, more or less satisfied. What the authors think they have accomplished, how much they’ve brought across, can often be different from what readers think. Regardless of how it was, how many versions this version went through, it is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. The reader who is also a translator lets the words take him beyond the words, as close to the experience that inhabits the words and that the words conjure as he’s capable of going. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional landscapes. A translator has access to the original. For most of us, the approximation that we call translation is all there is. Without it, we wouldn’t have the Bible, The Iliad and Odyssey, The Aeneid, The Metamorphoses, The Divine Comedy, Shakespeare’s plays, The Gilgamesh, The Tao, The Bhagavad Gita, the great Russian novels, etc. In fact, even with a second and a third language, we would know very little of the world’s great literature. Many of the books I read as a child were in translation. And in many cases, the name of the translator wasn’t even in the book-- the exception being Cesare Vico Lodovici, who translated Shakespeare’s plays--as if one translator would make the same choices as any other, given an excellent knowledge of both languages! Not only hadn’t the readers given much thought to translation, even the people who should’ve known better had not given much thought to the art. And in Italy, a great many prose writers and poets have also been gifted translators. Sometimes, they too took for granted what they did, and so did their editors and publishers. And if they didn’t, they didn’t leave us their thoughts about it. In modern times, the list of Italian poet/translators includes two Nobel prize winners, Quasimodo and Montale; as well as Pavese and Sereni, to mention only four. When I started reading English Literature in college with barely a year of English—through some translation error, I started college at 16-- all of it was equally difficult for me. I had no bias in favor of modern or contemporary works as the American students did, and I made no distinction between the English and American dialect. Likewise, as a child I read Little Women and Gulliver’s Travels in translation and, unlike my children, had no trouble with the language. They had to contend with archaic versions of English, while I read contemporary Italian translations. The strangeness I had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete. Translation into the language of my time had smoothed the way, and had Rina Ferrarelli 41 given me an experience similar to that of the original readers at the time of Swift and Alcott. The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been professionally involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a poet. When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who was one of my English professors at Duquesne University, to translate a few poems of Quasimodo. I did, and that started me on my way, publishing them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the beginning and the end for many years. Life intervened. I had no time write or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule, my languages came into play again. I read and translated from ethnographies, some of whom were in French, Italian and Spanish. It wasn’t until I was through with this project that I started literary translation again. I have since rendered into English hundreds of individual poems, and I have collected some of my translations of modern Italian poets in three books: the poesie-racconti of Giorgio Chiesura, who spent two years in various German internment camps during WWII; the lyrics of Leonardo Sinisgalli; and most recently the work of Bartolo Cattafi, a Sicilian poet, forthcoming from Chelsea Editions. I always translated from Italian into English. For the past year, though, I’ve undertaken the arduous task of translating my own poetry into Italian. And for reason that I’m trying to fathom, it’s proving to be much more difficult, much harder and time consuming than translating into English. After doing so much translating of poetry, some of it nationally recognized, I’m beginning to feel how impossible the task is, how preposterous at times. Utterly necessary—I have to remind myself over and over that I’m doing it for people who don’t know English, some of them close friends—and utterly baffling. I don’t know for sure why I feel so differently about translating into Italian. It’s true that I have not been back in Italy for several years, and that the language that was fresh in my ear has now become faint. Not that the language of poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue. Still, the point is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak Italian. The most significant reason, perhaps, might have to do with the fact that I’m translating my own poems, work that I feel is finished, that I have abandoned and left behind. Thus, the challenge of reading, digging, understanding, of discovering another persona, of hearing another voice is missing, and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows everything down instead. I’m not terribly interested in going over old poems, in reworking them in another language, even Italian. No, I’m not, not especially. But I am doing it. And through it, I’m coming full circle. I’m reversing the process. Writing in English about my childhood in southern Italy, I 42 Journal of Italian Translation had to find ways to say things which did not exist in this culture, I had to interpret my experiences and present them so they could be understood. I’m now exploring the Italian language with a maturity which I did not have in my teens, availing myself, when applicable, of my knowledge of the mother tongue, and also interpreting—for language even without setting is a bearer of culture—the immigrant’s American experience for the other side. Translating by the Numbers by John DuVal I was raised in the faith and discipline of the New Criticism, scrutinizing, dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the poem itself. A frequent implication of the New Criticism was, “There’s only one way to say something and that’s how the great poet said it.” Thus if Keats wrote, “When I have fears that I may cease to be,” he wrote to be because to be was the perfect expression, far better than to exist or to live, and may cease to be was better than may die. It was our job as students to explain why to be was best, and woe to the smart aleck who claimed it was best because it rhymed with charact’ry. This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the masters, how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the requirements of meter or rhyme. It was also useful in that we learned to cherish the words of the great craftspeople of our language. Where it failed, I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite choices it offers of saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased. For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it encourages us to study each word and each phrase of an original to learn what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough of Despond, where we stay, sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G.G. Belli, for instance, wrote in Romanesco, the dialect of the people of Rome, but given how slowly our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find a better one than the ones we found before. I had thought the following translation of a poem by Trilussa, another Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had this down on paper: To Mimi Do you remember our first rendezvous behind the Convent House, alone together in the cloister? We carved each other’s name into the ancient stone I wrote, Fourteen May, Nineteen hundred. Here Carlo kissed Mimi. Twenty years. And yesterday as I reread the names and the date, 44 Journal of Italian Translation I found myself regretting the blessed, painful time that slipped away. I saw you once more, just as you had been, wearing a pretty lilac dress. You’d pinned roses in your hair. “Everything fades,” I said. “Nothing can stay. The words I chipped from marble with a knife still glitter in the noonday sun, but not enough to summon back to life a thing that’s gone.” I stood in sorrow there beside the wall, when suddenly I saw another date and other names: “Rosa and Paul, August twenty-eight seventeen hundred twenty-three. Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s worse off than me.” Six months earlier than that version, I had thought the translation was finished, and I had been wrong then. I had translated the Carlo and Mimi of Trilussa’s Romanesco into Charley and Mary: Fui io che scrissi: “Qui Carlo baciò Mimi. Quindici maggio millenovecento.” Più de vent’anni! Pensa! Eppure, jeri.... I wrote, Twelve February, nineteen hundred. Here Charley kissed Mary. I think it might have been the chance of rhyming Mary whimsically with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri (yesterday), which first inclined me toward the English names. Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem about the passage of time, the poet had handled words that marked off time: months and years, dates. There was a whole hendecasyllabic line for one date, Quindici maggio millenovecento (15 May 1900) rhyming interestingly with convento, and ventotto agosto (28 August) rhyming with posto and millesettecentoventitré (1723) rhyming with me. In English it would have been easy to rhyme May (maggio) with yesterday, but I wanted a cleverer time rhyme, one that reflected Trilussa’s flair for words: February/Mary. What difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in May? John Du Val 45 But with the name Charley I was missing something. Trilussa had been Trilussa since he was eighteen. He even signed his name Tri. But he was born Carlo Alberto Salustri. Carlo. For a poet who described his poetry and his personality as a series of masks, this mention of his almost-forgotten (well, forgotten by me anyway!) first name was a moment of delicious intimacy in a volume of translations where it would not appear elsewhere. Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May, no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. January wasn’t May either. Carlo, Mimi, and the month of May too were all written back into the poem. While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name. Now, I thought the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the beginning of this article, in a volume of translations from Trilussa for the University of Arkansas Press. One of the outside readers for the University of Arkansas Press, however, going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the translation of the last line was finished: “‘He’s worse off than me’ is a grammatical error; than is a conjunction not a preposition; me should be I, as in “‘He’s worse off than I am.’” I knew that. This is one of those few instances in English where what everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic. “You’re right, John” replied Miller Williams, the editor of the Press and the poet and translator who had introduced Trilussa to me. “But,” he added gently, “your error comes at the end of the poem, where it’s so obvious.... Look, you don’t have to rhyme the end of the poem with three. Paul could have been in love with Rosa in 1724 or 1725 or even in 1726. What difference does it make?” Of course. I could translate by the numbers. Vistas of alternate endings opened before me. To be systematic, I began with 1721. seventeen hundred twenty-one. Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s done worse than I’ve done.” There. I had scored with my first shot. The grammar was correct without being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much the same as the original: “...li ventotto agosto der millesettecentoventitré.” Allora ho detto:--Povero Pasquale, sta un po’ peggio de me. I read the English to myself aloud. Maybe I hadn’t scored. Something 46 Journal of Italian Translation was wrong. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right. Paul was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business world. I changed the tense. ...”Poor Paul, he’s doing worse than I’ve done.” No. The present progressive tense inspires us to ask, “Just what is poor Paul doing down there?” Decomposing? The problem was more than the tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done. And do would not do when I got to 1722. Nor would too, being a homonym rather than a rhyme (“I’m bad off; well, he is too!”) as well as for other reasons. You might do. Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centuries instead of merely meditating on his fate. seventeen hundred twenty-two. Then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul, at least I’m better off than you.” Almost, but no. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sympathy. By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse off than he is. The you sounds almost taunting, whereas “He’s worse off than I am,” shakes the speaker out of his self pity. Translating a little closer to the original might help: ...”Poor Paul, I’m still a little better off than you.” A little for un po’ had not worked well rhythmically with worse off, but it did work with better off, and it tempers the sense of sneering, if it were only a little more sympathetic.... But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last line: seventeen hundred twenty-three. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, it’s worse on him than me.” Here the problem is that it in the last line has no clear antecedent. We understand that Paul’s loss is worse on him than my loss is on me, but then it has to stand for two different antecedents: Paul’s loss and my loss, an ambiguity which fuzzes up the poem at the crucial ending. Four: seventeen hundred twenty-four. John Du Val 47 Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul! What am I feeling sorry for myself for?” There are a number of technical problems with the four solution: a) the last line is unmetrical and too long; b) the poem now ends with a homonym again rather than a rhyme; c) the two for’s in the last line clunk unharmoniously together; d) the sentence ends with a preposition, which, not ordinarily a problem, gets excessive emphasis at the end of the poem. For some reason I was fond of this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws gave it a kind of humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody that I showed it to liked it. Five: seventeen hundred twenty-five. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s got it worse than I’ve.” The less said about that the better. Six: seventeen hundred twenty-six. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s in an even worse fix. I don’t think that makes Paul sound like a cat, but it’s still unpleasantly comical to picture Paul’s condition as one which, if he were only clever enough, he might be able to get out of. Seven: seventeen hundred twenty-seven. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s worse off than I am, even.” This is not bad. The even makes perfect sense: I’m bad off, but he’s even worse. But at the end of the sentence, when the sentence could have ended perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply for the rhyme, which he did. Eight: seventeen hundred twenty-eight. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, his is an even worse fate.” Here there is an infidelity to reality not in the original: Paul’s fate is not worse than Carlo’s, because they have the same fate, death. Paul’s just happens to be sooner. Perhaps He’s even in a worse state.” 48 Journal of Italian Translation There is no infidelity to reality in this alternative, but the line is too funereal, as in “laid out in state.” Nine: seventeen hundred twenty-nine. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, his case is worse than mine.” Case is too clinical. Other abstract words, such as predicament or situation or (of course) state either bring on other associations in conflict with the original or are too vague. Ten: seventeen hundred ten. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s worse off than I’ve been.” No. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhyming been with ten. Also, Carlo’s concern is with how he feels now, standing by the wall, not with how he has felt in the past. seventeen hundred eleven . . . Same as seven. Twelve: seventeen hundred twelve. And then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul, and I was feeling sorry for myself!” This is a little too far from the literal for my comfort. Other than that, I don’t know why I don’t like it, but I don’t. Thirteen: seventeen hundred thirteen. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, and I thought I was hurting!” Here the language becomes a little too with-it, too contemporary. Also, it evokes the metaphysical question of whether Paul, having died, is now experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem. I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.... There must be better endings, but mine get worse. You don’t want to hear them. After considering every alternate I could devise and laying them all out on little scraps of paper on my bed and after all I have said and all I have claimed about my precious English language, despite my fondness for the seventeen hundred twenty-four solution and despite the grammatical problem which precipi- John Du Val 49 tated this discussion, I liked my first choice best. I decided that it might be the context, rather than the line, that needed changing, because Trilussa’s Romanesco, though by no stretch of the imagination ignorant sounding, is conversational, and I felt that he would, if he had been writing in English, have written the kind of grammatical error that people condemn only in writing, never in conversation. But did my language sound conversational enough throughout the poem? I went back through the translation and changed the barely eloquent line seventeen, “but not enough to summon back to life,” to “but not enough: they don’t bring back to life....” And I changed the self-consciously elegiac, “I stood in sorrow there beside the wall,” to, “I stood there, feeling bad beside the wall,” a perfectly correct sentence in English, but colloquial enough even to make some readers suppose that the incorrect “feeling badly” would be more dignified. Finally, before the anthology Tales of Trilussa went to press, I went back through all the poems, making tiny adjustments toward a more conversational English in the hopes that readers would not fault the English version of “A Mimi” for a technicality, and on page 54 I printed, seventeen hundred twenty-three. Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul, he’s worse off than me.” 50 Journal of Italian Translation “Paso ardientte”, oil on canvas. Traduzione da altre lingue nel dialetto molisano di Giose Rimanelli U no dei maggiori traduttori nonché critico contemporaneo dei vari dialetti italiani in lingua Inglese, Luigi Bonaffini, in occasione dell’uscita del primo numero di una nuova rivista di traduzioni da lui diretta, Journal of Italian Translation gentilmente m’invita a collaborare con un qualcosa in linea con l’etica linguistica del Journal, ricordandomi quanto segue: “Dato che in Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco 1 hai tradotto poesie dal provenzale ed altre lingue nel tuo dialetto, ho pensato che potresti parlare di questo tuo libro e della problematica di tradurre in dialetto testi che appartengono sia alla tradizione romanza sia alla letteratura contemporanea. Potresti anche citare l’altro molisano che si è cimentato in tal senso, cioè Beppe Jovine che ha tradotto Montale. Lui dice che in dialetto si può esprimere tutto, ma è chiaro che il problema principale è quello di rendere un testo scritto in lingue sofisticate come il provenzale e l’inglese, che appartengono a tradizioni letterarie molto ricche, in un linguaggio molto più povero e con scarsi riferimenti culturali.” Bonaffini è un principe nell’arte della traduzione e sua lessicografia,2 mentr’io mi considero in quell’arte un dilettante, e le ragioni o cause sono due: Bonaffini conosce la profonda semantica dialettica-orale dei dialetti italiani (e culturalmente degli antichi, devo credere), mentr’io - da narratorein più lingue e poeta - mi considero solo un curioso delle lingue in genere, essendo il mio metodo non esattamente quello del “traduttore” ma del novello studente il quale - come appunto accade in Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco - traduce col vocabolario in mano dopo aver controllato le grammatiche delle lingue in corrispondenza con quelle che lui già conosce. Si tratta di un “gioco” infatti, come appunto il titolo del mio libro dichiara, che sempre comporta tuttavia un gran rischio: sballare concetto e ritmo della determinata lirica del tale autore, inventandone una propria con una certa vis comica o, alla Cicerone, obbedendo alla Virtù come guida, a braccetto con la Fortuna. A parte il Provenzale, che fu mia curiosa necessità adolescenziale di studio al di là della noia, cercai anche di annusare latino e greco in un Istituto di Frati Minori Francescani nei miei anni puberi; e ripeto che cercai di studiarli soprattutto come diversivo alla mia quasi “naturale” noia d’ogni cosa; vivevo infatti come in una bottiglia d’acqua con solo la testa fuori, respirando aria, quindi parole, idee di gente lontana in tempi lontani che, poi mi accorsi, mi stavano accanto più vivi dei miei collegiali compagnucci. Mi accorsi infatti che, mentre sfuggivo un certo ordine di 52 Journal of Italian Translation educazione monastica trovavo libertà, cioé sollievo e rifugio su grammatiche e vocabolari, attratto anche (sebbene non “specificamente”) da grammatiche di tedesco e inglese, mentre quelle di francese e spagnolo erano le ufficiali, sanzionate dal curriculum, quindi da praticare come studio obbligato. Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Da ragazzo, in quel collegio di Frati Minori, inconsciamente appresi (per istinto all’inizio) che vi sono due tipi di amore: quello umano e quello divino. Il punto interrogativo era comunque questo: è possibile unirli eliminando il dualismo? Rabbrividii un tantino quando, crescendo, riflettei che “dualismo” indica sia “contrasto” che “copula.” E’ possibile che stiano bene insieme? Me ne convinse più tardi, verso gli anni quaranta, un libro di Mario Casella sul trovatore da me più amato, Jaufre Rudel, che appunto incorporò nella sua lirica i “termini” dell’umano e del divino. E anche a quel tempo riflettei, sebbene azzardosamente, che il concetto di amore, umano e divino, poteva anche ridursi - nella mente più che nella coscienza - a un gioco: e questo, più tardi negli anni, non poté infine non incorporare anche il filosofico concetto di Eros e Thanatos, da me già percepito (sebbene non inteso) nella mia prima e quasi infantile lettura di Jaufre. Da quell’Istituto francescano me ne andai al quinto anno - io ne contavo 15 - decidendo contro il noviziato e il sacerdozio. Scelsi male, comunque: uscendo nel mondo di fuori mi trovai improvvisamente di fronte alla guerra, la follia del destino, la salvezza miracolosa a diciannove anni e l’immediata scrittura da parte mia del confessionale libro di guerra Tiro al piccione, pubblicato solo anni più tardi. Vi è sempre un 2 nella vita, un binario per il treno infatti, che conduce o condurrebbe da qualche parte, mentre con il numero 3 potremmo finalmente giungere alla salvezza: il sacrificio della meditazione, la liberazione da noi stessi e persino l’accettazione della morte di noi stessi. Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. E però il numero 2 per me resta come catalista verso la vera vita: creatività. Il libro Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco vuole esplorare la sottile malizia cerebrale della poesia su latitudine internazionale per quanto riguarda il soggetto fragile-labile chiamato amore, sul quale tuttavia vive, sopravvive e genera la copula umana Lui e Lei... Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e comparate prima di essere state tradotte... nel mio dialetto molisano, e dal dialetto quindi ritradotte nella lingua ufficiale italiana. Si è trattato di un esperimento quasi impossibile: il ricco delle varie lingue ridotto al povero del mio dialetto, per infine accorgermi che tanto povero non lo è poi. Ho riaperto a caso Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco mentre scrivevo queste righe, e fuori son venute pagine 96-97, latino/dialetto, per subito realizzare che il mio dialetto, pur linguisticamente ristretto, a volte ha la possibilità di coesistere quasi letteralmente con altre lingue, come - ad esempio - in questo difficile tedesco di Paul Celan, Irisch: Giose Rimanelli 53 Gib mir das Wegrecht über die Kornstiege zu deinem Schlaf, das Wegrecht über den Schlafphad, das Recht, dab ich Torf stechen kann am Herzhang, morgen. Dàmme vije libbere ngòpp’i scale de rèndìneje dénd’u suónne tije, vije libbere p’a vijèrèlle d’u suónne, a libbertà de tèglià u càrevóne nu mmiézze d’a’mmèrze demàne3 Ricordo che qualcuno, giustamente lodando Luigi Bonaffini, lo paragonò a “quel monaco del monastero medievale impegnato a salvare i dialetti della nostra lingua.”28 Ed io ricordo Bonaffini che in un suo intervento sulla poesia e l’arte del tradurre venne fuori con una frase memorabile, come a volte sono le autobiografie, questa: “Quando gli oggetti sono spariti, ci rimangono le parole, e queste devono essere sufficienti per esprimere lo spirito di ciò che si è perso.” E le parole sono il dialetto dei nostri primi passi nella vita. Così anche commenta un nostro magnifico dialettologo, Franco Brevini, certamente alludendo ai poeti espatriati dalla lingua ufficiale e, come in un esilio, tornati alla mammella materna, il dialetto. Sia quel che sia, Bonaffini e Rimanelli sono degli espatriati nell’America dei padri emigrati, per i quali il legame più forte con la loro infanzia, e la terra da cui provengono - il Molise - è appunto il “parlato” del loro primo balbettare, oggi sostanza e sostegno del loro discorso, il dialetto appunto! 1. Giose Rimanelli. Gioco d’amore amore del gioco. Poesia provenzale in dialetto molisano e lingua. (Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia 2002). 2. La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta. 3. Irlandese. Dammi via l;ibera / sulle scale di granone dentro il tuo sonno, / via libera / per il viottolo del sonno. / La libertà di tagliare il carbone / sul cuore del pendio, / domani. 4. Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese. Prefazione di Cosma Siani. (Edizioni Cofine, Roma, 2003). m cgia Quadrato magico. Traduzioni/Translations In Answer to a Translator’s Last Six Questions (Raffaello Baldini 1924-2005) by Adria Bernardi Adria Bernardi’s novel, Openwork, will be published in fall 2006 by Southern Methodist Univerity Press. She is the author of In the Gathering Woods, a collection of stories, which was awarded the Drue Heinz Prize, and a novel, The Day Laid on the Altar, which was awarded the Bakeless Fiction Prize. She has translated Gianni Celati’s Adventures in Africa, the poetry of Tonino Guerra, Abandoned Places, and a theatrical monologue by Raffaello Baldini, Page Proof. She teaches at the Warren Wilson MFA Program for Writers. Born in 1924 in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini published six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect of Italian: E’ solitèri (Galeati, 1976), La náiva (Einaudi, 1982), Furistír (Einaudi, 1988), Ad nòta (Mondadori, 1995), as well as La nàiva, Furistír, Ciacri (Einaudi, 2000). Intercity, was published by Einaudi in 2003. His collection Furistír was awarded the Viareggio Prize. Baldini wrote three theatrical monologues: Carta canta, Zitti tutti! and In fondo a destra. He died in Milan in March of 2005 In the poem “Water,” what does concredendo mean? It means only “credendo.” Believing. There are no further allegorical, liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix? It’s not an old word, dialect word, with multiple meanings, meanings on multiple levels? No. In the poem, “Water,” do the friends, with whom the narrator attends the spectacle in the theater, remain in their seats? Correct. They do not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer wearing the shabby jacket? Correct. After fleeing the lower levels of the theater that has flooded with water, the narrator climbs flight-of-stairs after flight-of-stairs, opens door after door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this card-reader a man or a woman? I think it’s probably a man. What does the dialect term o roviè mean? in your poem, “Candles.” It just means ho cominciato — I started. That’s it? That’s it. Un bel piatto? The translator wants to get this exactly right. He exhales. How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him. Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. A plate substantial enough to hold a candle when you’re coming upstairs from some dark place. About the phrase, È qualcosa di vivo—something living, something 58 Journal of Italian Translation that’s alive, a living thing? Is this an evocation of a particular line of poetry? No. The verb tenses must be changed: “He lives in Milan, where he has resided since 1955.” “He has been supportive and encouraging of this translation.” “He has been generous of his time.” “All of his six poetry collections and his three theatrical monologues are written in the dialect of the town of his birth, Santarcangelo di Romagna.” “His work has been awarded the Viareggio Prize,the first time this prestigious prize was awarded to a work written in a dialect. His most recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize.” “His poems are intense internal monologues in which generally only one of the interlocutors gets to speak.” “His themes are reflected in some of these titles: Solitude, Outsider, Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death.” Few of his poems are free from parenthetical asides, digression, non sequitur. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone of argument: indignatio memopsis oiktros, erotesis orcos threnos ara decsis diasymus aposiopesis apostrophe In the end his spine caused great pain, a tall, thin man. The rhetorical techniques of argument are defined in this way: indignatio, impassioned speech or loud, angry speaking memopsis, complaining against injuries and pleading for help Adria Bernardi 59 oiktros, evoking pity or forgiveness erotesis, rhetorical question implying strong affirmation or denial orcos, oath threnos, lamentation ara, curse or imprecation decsis, vehement supplication of gods or men diasymus, disparagement of opponent’s arguments aposiopesis, stopping suddenly in midcourse, leaving a statement unfinished apostrophe, breaking off discourse to address directly some present or absent person or thing Dove sei? (Where are you?) an oratorio in four tempos for soloist, chorus and piano. The translator read it late one night, intending to phone the next day to ask if it was possible to get a copy of the music. There was a message on the answering machine. The translator was feeding paper into a printer, catching yet more errors. Mumbling and imprecations. Cartridge out of ink. Empty paper tray. A computer talking back: Printing Error. White stacks on floor, packages prepared for release to known addressees to reach the unknown interlocutor. The window was open in Milan. motorbikes sputtering, a tram creaking and rolling past on rails, movement away from the receiver, and footsteps echoing away, then returning, pages rustling. Here it is, he said. Sefirà e il F 62 Journal of Italian Translation E’ sènt Ció, mè a i craid, io ci credo, in un qualcosa, e a n mu n vargògn, mo non pretendo mica, mè, la zénta, par mè, i à da fè ognéun come si sente, sgònd la su coscienza, a n sémm piò témp d’na volta, mè a déggh sno, quant a sint zért dischéurs fat a 1’arvérsa, mo ‘s’ut dischéut, è un sentimento quello, ta n’e’ cnòss, lasa stè, pórta rispèt, ch’è anche un mistero, s’ ta m’e’ dmand mu mè quèll ch’a sint, a n’e’ so, mè quant a so tla cisa, u n gn’éintra i prit, csa vól déi, è la nostra religione, mo a n so bigòt, mè, a i vagh, te ta n mu n cridaré, si sèt dè fa, un dopmezdè, a paséva, ò détt: a m férum, tla Colegèta, e dréinta un frèsch, Pepino l’era dri ch’e’ spazéva, mè d’impí, da zétt, at cla penòmbra, e 1í il pensiero, a 1 so ch’è in ogni luogo, mo però in chiesa, e tè dàila si prit, zért ch’i sbàia ènca lòu, sono esseri umani come noi, parchè, néun a n sbaiémm? che quèst l'è un mònd ch’a duvrésmi ès fradéll, volerci bene uno con l’altro, invíci, non vedi l’ingiustizia, 1’egoéisum, la cativéria, ch’a n sémm mai cuntént, che mè dal vólti a i péns, s’ t’éss rasòun tè ch’e’ finéss tótt aquè, cumè, mo ‘lòura i à d’avài rasòun sémpra i prepotent? rubé, mazè, basta sno no fès zcruv, se al di sopra di noi non c’è nessuno, mo tè la nòta ta n guèrd mai d’insò? tótt’ cal stèli, migliéun, questi mondi infiniti, andémma, zò, un essere supremo u i à da ès, che li ha creati, a n so sno me ch’a i craid, u i n’è tint, profeséur, grandi scienziati, ta n sé piò tè ch’ nè lòu? mo fa la próva, sta s’una mena verta, sta ‘lè di an, sémpra verta, csa crèssal? du quaiéun, gnént piò gnént e’ dà gnént, ci vuole un Dio, che basta un sóffi, ed è nata la vita, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 63 The Saint So. I believe, I believe in it, in a something, and I’m not ashamed, but I’m not at all claiming, I, people, as far as I’m concerned, each one has got to do however one experiences it, according to one’s conscience, we’re not living in the old days anymore, I’m just saying when I hear certain discussions, arguing otherwise, what’s there to discuss, it’s merely one opinion, I don’t agree, then let it rest, have respect, that it is a mystery as well, if you ask me how I feel about it, I don’t know, but when I’m in church, the priests have got nothing to do with it, how can I put it? it is our shared religion, but I’m not some pious bigot, I go there, you’re not going to believe me but six days ago, one afternoon, passing by, I say: I’m going to stop, in the Collegiata, and inside it was so cool, Peppino was in there sweeping, I was standing, silent, in that half-light, and the thought came to me there, I know it is present in every place, but in church, and you, you really have it in for the priests, of course even they make mistakes, they are human just like us, why? you think we never make mistakes? this is a world where we should all be brothers, love one another, as one’s self, but don’t you see the injustice, the egotism, the cruelty, we are never content, which makes me think sometimes, if you’re right that it all ends here, how can that be, so then the ones with power always win? robbing, killing, it’s bad enough they never get caught, if up above us there is no one, haven’t you ever looked up there? all those stars, millions, arrived, crying, it’s her mother, you can imagine, and the two of us, in the hallway, waiting, how long will it be? what are they doing to her in there? to my wife? by this time it was morning, My Lord! Mother of God! in these moments I don’t know how those who don’t believe get through it, it is a need, to address someone, that you are in his hands, he can help you out, 64 Journal of Italian Translation e a sémm aquè ch’à bazilémm, che mè ‘ta bón, va là, u i n’è óna tótt i dè, u m’è vnéu la finènza ir, i è stè ’lè a scartablè dagli òuri, i à fat un gran verbèl, par do fatéuri, e dis ch’u i amanchéva ènca dal bòlli, va a zcòrr sa lòu, tanimódi qualquèl i à da truvè, u s buscarà du bòch, mo t’avdiré-che, e irisàira un nervòus, ma chèsa, da par me, no, la Jolanda a la ò manda in muntagna, sla Silvana, a Madonna di Campiglio, la s’à da divaghè, dop quell ch’ la à pas, amo cumè, quatr’òuri sòtta i férr, che cla sàira, mo gnént, émmi magnè, spaghétt in biènch, puràzi, du tri sgómbar marinéd, émm guèrs ènch’ la televisiòun, pu a lèt, e a una zért’òura a sint: «Carlo, a stagh mèl», «T n’é digeréi ?», «L’è dal curtlèdi, aquè», «T’é bsògn d’andè de córp?», ció, ‘s’ut ch’a géss, agli óngg la stéva bén, può zais la luce e ò capí tótt, ò ciamè Giunchi, via te bsdèl, e un’òura dop la antréva zà tla sèla operatória, ch’ l’è rivàt’ la Silvana, t’un piènt, li la su mà, t si mat, e alè nun déu, ‘t che curidéur, a spitè, quant u i vó? csa i fai adlà ma la mi mòi: l’era bèla matéina, Madòna! Signuréin! at chi mumént. mè a n’e’ so cmè ch’i fa quéi ch’i n’i craid, è un bisogno, rivolgersi a qualcuno, che sei nelle sue mani, u t pò ‘iuté, parchè Alesandri, brèv e sol che brèv, mo al su paróli, quant l’è scap, l’à détt: «Questo è stato un miracolo, che se tardava tre minuti», e mè alè ò tach a piànz, a réid, una nòta cmè quèlla, s’a n so s-ciòp, mo ò capéi tènt’ ad cal robi, che questa vita, in fondo, e’ basta gnént, e néun ch’a s cridémm d’ès, tótt’ la nòsta imbiziòun, mo da fè chè? siamo tacati a un filo, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini because Alessandri, I can’t say enough good things about him, but his words, when he came out, he said: “This is a miracle, if it had been three minutes later,” and I started crying, right there, and laughing, if it hadn’t burst, but I understood a lot after those things, that this mortal life, when it’s all said and done, nothing’s ever enough, and we, whatever it is we believe in, all our ambitions, for what? we are holding on by a thread. because in the hospital I saw Nandi, I didn’t recognize him, he’d gone down to have X-rays taken, we talked and then saying goodbye he squeezed my hand, without looking at me: “But fifty’s a little early,” and he went away with the nurse, I didn’t know how to answer him, and then during the night, those words, I thought about them, because he, yeah, a real wheeler-dealer, true, but everyone likes money, let’s be honest, plus with deals, if you don’t do it someone else will, he’d bought out Cecchi months ago, and now even Armanda, alone, a woman, we were talking the other day about Paolino Campidelli, he goes strictly by the books, and he ends up in that living hell, in that case instead, but this is not the time, with that boy, who he bragged about, think about that, then, try to understand, it’s that they have too much, but it’s not all their fault either, his mother, all he had to do was ask her, and his head, or was it someone he associated with, one year? it must be two by now, and he doesn’t write, nothing, they don’t hear a single thing, it’s as if he’s dead, and I know him well, Paolino, when I needed some help, he always worked hard, he never screwed anyone, why then is he castigated in this way? I don’t know, but even yesterday evening, that girl, who I’d passed just five minutes before, they went right up on the sidewalk, killed instantly, what wrong could she have done? I know, they’re questions, but I see certain things, which is a sin, I know, but if there is a God, 65 66 Journal of Italian Translation che te bsdèl ò vést Nandi, a n l’ò ‘rcnunséu, l’andéva zò a fè i raggi, émm zcòurs, e pu te salutém u m’à tnú strètt’ la mèna, senza guardèm: «Però a zinquèntun’an l’è un pó prèst», e l’è ‘ndè véa sl’infermír, che mè a n gn’ò savú ‘rspònd, e dop la nòta, cal paróli, a i ò péns, parchè léu, sè, afarésta, mo i baócch i i pis ma tótt, andémma, pu i aféri s’ ta n’i fé tè u i fa un èlt. ch’ l’éva còmpar da Cecchi si méis fa, e adès ènca l’Armanda, da par li, ‘na dona, ch’a zcurémmi l’altredè ad Palín Campidèli, léu strétt, e pu alazò a l’inféran, alè invíci, mo adès u n’è e’ mumént, sa che burdèl, ch’u s stiméva, fighéurt, pu, va a capéi, l’è ch’i à trop, u n’è gnénca còulpa sóvva, la su mà, léu bastéva ch’e’ dmandéss, e tla su testa, o l’è stè qualch’ cumpàgn, un an? i è bèla déu, e u n scréiv, gnént, u n s sa gnént, è come morto, ch’a 1 cnòss bén, mè, Palín, quant ò vú bsògn, l’à sémpra lavurè, u n’a mai freghè niseun, e parchè ‘lòura castighél at sté modi? a n’e’ so, mo ènca irisàira, cla burdèla, ch’a séra pas d’alè zéinch minéut préima, i la è ‘ndèda a tó sò se marciapí, dis an, morta se còulp, che mèl pòla avài fat? a l so, l’è dmandi, mo mè vdai zérti robi, che è peccato, lo so, mo se c’è un Dio, però ènch s’u n gn’è, al mi mèssi, al cumagnòun, mo no sno mè, tótt quéi ch’i va tla cisa, tótt’ cal candàili zàisi, tótt’ al cisi, quant u i n’è mai te mònd, bèli, grandi, par gnént? che mè a San Pitar, m’arcórd, u m’è vnú la chèrna pléina, no, una fede ci vuole, cs’èll ch’a sémm, di animèli? a sémm di brécch? émm e’ zarvèl, druvémmal, ci sarà una ragione, un fundamént, che adès a n gn’arivémm, mo però un giorno u s capirà iniquèl, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini which even if there isn’t, all of my masses, communions, but it’s not just me, all those who go to church, all those lit candles, all the churches, how many of them are there in this world? beautiful, enormous buildings, for nothing? I, at St. Peter’s, I remember, I got goose bumps, no, you need a faith, what are we, animals? are we donkeys? we each have a brain, we make use of it, there’s got to be a reason, a basis, which we don’t get right now, but one day everything will be understood, there’s got to be a purpose, because if not, if it doesn’t matter, if this world is just an Instant Lottery, where if your number comes up you don’t even know if you’ve won or if you’ve lost these are discussions, these are, which the inside my head, afterwards, is roiling, I can’t stand it, but I think about this every so often, you have to do it, today people just don’t want to think about anything, just having fun, and they make fun of you, a girl on the train, last year, with her friends, I’d said: We are all smaller, because everyone does whatever he feels like doing, that the world isn’t right and from here it will only get worse, and she said, “From where?” they all laughed, what did I say, “We’re not going to wait our turns in line, there’s too many of us,” and I wanted to answer her right back, but I kept quiet, then I got off, these kids, I don’t understand, they think in a certain way, but sometimes in Rimini, on the street, I’m standing there for a minute, there are a lot of them, I mean lots, where are they all going? pfft! what are they all doing? and in summer, at the beach, in the Piazza Tripoli, talking all different languages, what are they saying? then the thoughts, which sometimes I stay there and watch them for a half-hour, another half-hour, and at night I dream of ants, the pavement, covered, even the stairs, they’re black, some that fly, they’re walking over, they crunch, they form little mounds around me, and I say: standing here, for them, 67 68 Journal of Italian Translation u i à da ès un vérs, parchè se no, s’l’è tótt cumpàgn, se aquè sté mònd l’è sno una loteréa, che s’e’ vén e’ tu nómar ta n sé gnénca se t’é véint, se t’é pérs... l’è zchéurs, mè, quést, che la testa, a m’imbròi, dop, a n gn’aréss, però a i faz d’ogni tènt, bsògna fèi, òz la zénta invíci i n vó pensè ma gnént, sno divertéis, e i t tó ènca in zéir, una ragaza in treno, an, si su améigh, mè a géva: a s sémm ardótt, tótt i fa quèll ch’u i pèr, e dop e’ mònd u n pò andè bén, e adlà e’ sarà ènca pézz, e li: «Di là?», i ridéva tótt, cs’òi détt? «Non ci stanno più dietro, siamo troppi», e mè alè a i vléva arspònd, pu a so stè zétt, dop a so smòunt, sti zóvan, a n’e’ so, i ragiòuna t’un módi, però dal vólti, a Rémin, par la strèda, ch’a m’aférm un mumént, i è tint, dabón, dò ch’i va? boh, csa fai? e d’instèda, a maréina, in piazza Tripoli, ch’i zcòrr at tótt’ al lèngui, csa girài? pu i pensír, che dal vólti a stagh alè a guardèi par dal mèz’ òuri, e la nòta a m’insógni tótt’ furméighi, e’ sulèr bróst, ènca i scaléin, i è nir, u i n’è ch’al vòula, a i caméin sòura, al scrécca, u m s fa i patéun, e a déggh: mè què par 1òu a so e’ Signòur, dò ch’a pas l’è la guèra, a pòs fè tótt, fiumèna, taremòt, sémpra tl’insógni, e u m ciapa una paéura, a m svégg ad bot, a vagh ma la finestra, i lómm ch’u i è, la zénta, sl’autostrèda i n s férma mai, e mè aquè spèsa i véidar, a pi néud, sal mudàndi, e a pràigh, ò tróv un sènt te calendèri, ch’a n faz e’ nóm, mo a n l’ò mai sintí déi, quèll che ‘lè, a so sichéur, a 1 cnòss sno mè, la Jolanda la sbròuntla: «Mo l’è al quatar, csa fét?», e a n’i dmand gnént, a n vi nisuna grèzia, tanimódi quèll ch’e’ pò fè léu u 1 fa, mo u n m’arimpórta, ènca s’u n pò fè gnént, mè a so ch’ l’è ‘lè, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 69 I am the Lord, wherever I am is war, I can do anything, make rivers overflow, earthquakes, still in the dream, I get afraid, I wake up wide awake, I walk to the window, lights out there, people, on that highway, they never stop, and I’m here facing the window, bare feet, in my underwear, and I pray, I find a saint on the calendar, I don’t want to say his name, but he’s one I’ve never heard talked about, I’m sure I’m the only one who knows that one, Jolanda’s complaining, “It’s four in the morning, What are you doing?” and I don’t ask him for anything, I don’t want any grace, it’s enough that he’ll do whatever he can, but it doesn’t matter, even if he can’t do anything, I know that he’s there, that I pray and that he hears me. Water I, it was my buddies, you go, you go, for laughs, and I walked up, there were six or seven of us, he’d set up chairs, and seeing him up close, he was slight, with this shabby jacket, and, man, was he was frenetic, jabbering away, in five minutes I was already dazed, he talked a mile a minute, there I was, head hanging down, where have I ended up? he picked Mirko first: “Observe all the butterflies! here is the net, now catch them!” and Mirko, intent, with that butterfly net, is running, he’s leaping up, as if there were moths, then he stopped him, he was pointing like a bloodhound, people were saying: “Come on, it’s right there,” he, flick, swoosh, and that guy: “You have caught it,” he slapped him on the back: “Congratulations!” next he picked Dato and Carlín di Faiòun, he positioned them in front of him: “Brrr, it’s freezing!” they started to shiver, they were stomping their feet, they blew into their hands, “And this snow is wicked!” they turned up their collars, both of them standing, they opened an umbrella, Dato pointed it down low into the wind, Carlín right there behind him, hunched over, his cap jammed down to his ears, and I sat there, with my arms crossed, what is this garbage? 70 Journal of Italian Translation che mè a pràigh e che léu u m sta da sintéi. Aqua Mè, l’è stè chi burdéll, va tè, va tè, par réid, e a so ‘ndè sò, a sérmi si sèt, léu u s’à dè dal scaràni, e a vdail alè da davséin, l’era znin, s’na sèrga léisa, mo 1'éva la tarèntla, e s’una parlantéina, in zéinch minéut u m’éva zà invurnéi, ‘na machinètta, mè a stéva a testa basa, dò ch’a so capitè? 1'à tach da Mirko: «Quante farfalle! ecco il retino, prendile!», e Mirko, séri, s’ ché ridéin, córr, sèlta, cm’u i fóss dal pavaiòti, pu u s’è férum, e’ puntéva cmè un brach, la zénta: «Dài, ch’ la è ‘1è», léu, tac, ‘na bota, e cl’èlt: «L’hai presa», u i à batéu s’na spala, «Complimenti!», l’è ‘ndè da Dato e da Carlin ‘d Faiòun, u s’i è pustè davènti: «Brrr! che gelo!», lòu i à tach a bublé, i batéva i pi, i s sufiéva tal dàidi, «E questa neve! una tormenta!», i s’è tiràt sò e’ bèvar, tutt du d’impí, i à vèrt 1’umbrèla, Dato u la puntéva basa còuntra e’ vént, Carlín di dri, gubéun, se brètt calchèd fina agli urècci, e mè disdài alè, brazi incrusèdi, mo cs’èll ch’ l’è sta roba? mè a so vnéu concredend ch’e’ foss di zugh d’abellità, si fazulétt, sal chèrti, ch’i t taia la gravata, robi acsè, da divertéis, ch’i s chèva la bumbètta e e’ vòula véa ‘n pizòun, mo fè e’ zimbèl, no, no, a n’i stagh, ò un esercéizi, mè, ‘na clientela, ò una riputaziòun, e’ zcòrr s’un èlt: «Ti piace la Guzzi California?», a n’e’ cnòss quèll, «Eccola qui, è la tua, la vuoi provare ?», e st’ pataca e’ partéss, brrrum! brrrrum! a caval d’na scaràna, mè a n’e’ so, mo i n s n’incórz ? i n sint la zénta ? che Dato 1'è impieghèd ma la Pruvéinza, e Carlín, ènca léu, l’à mòi e fiùl, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini I came here believing it was going to be games of skill, with handkerchiefs, cards, that they’d cut your tie in two, stuff like that, entertainment, a top hat and out flies a dove, but to make people laughing-stocks, no, no, this I won’t stand for, I have a business, I, have a clientele, I have a reputation, he’s talking to someone else: “Would you like to have a Guzzi? the California model?” I don’t know that particular model, “There it is, it’s yours, would you like to take it for a ride?” and this idiot takes off, vroom, vroom, straddling a chair, don’t these people get it? do people just not listen? Dato, he’s got a staff position for the Province, and Carlín, even him, he’s got a wife and kids, how could he have pulled this off? did he trick them? what could he have said to them? you will not thwart me, you will do as I command, or maybe he promised them money? but he’s coming this way, oh no, he looks at me out of the corner of his eye every so often, it would be quite a feat to put me to sleep, or what if I fake it? whatever he wants, for awhile, it would be hilarious, then, this would be the best part: “That’s enough now, I’m bored, I’m going to get a cup of coffee, see you guys later,” now that would really thwart him, then afterwards people would run him out of town, poor guy, they’d chase him all the way to Cesena, no, no way, I’m telling you no, you’re not glomming on me, that’s that, but then what if it has consequences for him? I go ahead and just let him say it: “This fellow is not an appropriate subject,” then I go back to my seat and that’s all she wrote, meanwhile my friend over there on the Guzzi is not slowing down, he’s leaning into all the curves, he’s going to end up falling, it’s been going on for a quite some time now, no, that’s it, he’s stopped, if I could just say something to him, for his own good, so he could come back to his senses, but there’s no way to do it, I wave to him, no response, doesn’t he understand? is he afraid? come here, you might have gotten into an accident, he’s gone over to someone else now: “You have a great gift,” that fat guy, the redhead, who works at the methane gas plant, 71 72 Journal of Italian Translation cm’àl fat? u i à intraplè? csa i avràl détt? nu m’arviné, fé mód, o u i à prumèss di bócch ? però aquè u n vén, u m guèrda d’ogni tènt sla còuda dl’òc, la sarà gnara indurmantèm mu mè, o magari fè féinta, tótt quèll ch’e’ vó, pr’un pó, u i sarébb da réid, pu te piò bèl, «Adès basta, a m so stóff, a vagh a tó un cafè, a s’avdémm, burdéll», che ta l’arvéin dabón, la zénta dop i i da dri, me puràz, fina Ceséina, no, gnént, a i déggh ad no, sa mè la n taca, e basta, ch’ pu l’è robi ch’al suzéd, u 1 pò déi: «Questo qui non è il sogetto», mè a tòuran te mi pòst e bonanòta, e quèll dla Guzzi u n mòla, e’ pènd tal curvi, e va finéi ch’e’ casca, sno che què la vén lònga, no, ècco, u 1 férma, s’a i putéss dí quèl, ènca par 1éu, ch’u s pòsa regolè, mo u n gn’è mèzi, a i faz ségn, e léu cmè gnént, u n capéss? l’à paéura? vén aquè, ch’u t végna un azidént, l’è ‘ndè da un èlt: «Lei ha avuto un gran dono», che gròs, gag, che lavòura me metano, u s’i è fisé: «Ci farà questo onore? È qui con noi un artista di grido», u s’è sintí rógg: «Italo, sei grande!», e Italo l’è stè sò, l’à fat ad sè sla testa, l’è vnú ‘vènti, l’à tach a ócc céus «Una furtiva lacrima», u n déva invéll, la zénta: «Bravo! bravo!», i n l’à las gnénch’ finéi, i vléva e’ bis: «Che gelida manina! », « No! », da un pèlch d’ilt i à dè sò: «Fin che la barca va!», «Che gelida manina! », «O sole mio!», «Fin che la barca va!», «Mamma!», un caséin, u n s capéva piò gnént, éun sla pila, tla sèla, cmè un curtèl, da d’in èlt u i à ‘rspòst un’èlta pila, dal saètti te schéur, e sémpra piò cagnèra, alòura Gufredín l’à zais al luci, mo 1'è stè pézz, te luzòun i s’è méss a bat i pi: «Vogliamo i soldi indietro!», Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 73 he’s zeroed in on him: “Will you grant us this honor? We have here among us an artist of first order” he shouted, “Italo, you are magnificent!” and Italo stood up, he nodded yes, he walked to the front, he closed his eyes, “Una furtive lacrima,” he didn’t hit a single note, people were shouting, Bravo! Bravissimo! they didn’t even let him finish, they wanted an encore: “Che gelida manina!” “No!” from another row others were yelling out: “Fin che la barca va!” “Mamma!” It was a zoo, you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying, one guy had flashlight, in the hall, slashing it around like a knife, someone else answered with another flashlight, making lightening bolts in the dark, there was even more of a ruckus, so Goffredino turned on the lights, but that made it worse, in the balcony they started stomping their feet: “We want our money back!” it was chaos, the light bulbs were flickering, some of the hotheads down there were coming to blows, some of the old people got up and scurried out, their heads bent over, coats draped over their arms, we were completely silent up on the stage, watching, he was watching too, then he strutted out: “All eyes on me!” with that smirk, “Everyone stop! Cease! This is an order!” and at that exact moment a crash onstage and all this spattering, what’s going on? they’d thrown a bag of water, then another, and another, my pals, I said: Hey! what do you think you’re doing throwing it here? oh but they thought it was just fine, water, bags, great fun, they were horsing around, they started lifting the chairs over their heads, for protection, the legs turned up, another bag, the redhead pointed a finger: “Giorgio! I saw you!” whistles from above: “Referee! Are you blind? Do you need glasses?” then everything pelted down, pieces of carob, apple cores, banana peels, orange peels, a can of Fanta, a barrage, which if you were to get hit, and this? you filthy pigs, it’s not water, and where is he? oh, there he was, his ears all slick and shiny from his hair cream, sweating, with his crooked bowtie, “It’s really coming down now, it’s time to make a break for it,” 74 Journal of Italian Translation un purbiòun, e’ treméva al lampadéini, di scalmanèd ad sòtta i s’atachéva, qualch’ anzièn u s’alzéva e véa cuvéun se capòt sottabraz, néun tótt zétt se pelcsènic a guardè, e’ guardéva ènca léu, pu u s’è indrizé: «A me gli occhi!», s’na zurma, «Fermi tutti! fermi, vi dico!», e própia at che mumént una bota se pèlch e tènt ‘d chi squézz, cs’èll stè? i éva tiràt un sachètt d’aqua, pu un èlt, un èlt, i mi cumpàgn, mè ò détt: «Ció, aquè cm’a la mitémmi?», mo lòu sè, aqua, sachétt, l’era un divertiment, i zughéva, al scaràni, i s li era mèssi, par arparès, gambi d’insò, sla testa, un èlt sachètt, e’ gag l’à punté un daid: «Giorgio, a t’ò vést», da d’in èlt di gran fés-ci: «Arbitro, occhiali! », pu l’è vnú zò e’ mònd, pézz ‘d carobla, tursóll, bózzi ‘d banana, ad melarènza, un busilòt dla Fanta, pin, ch’ s’i t ciapa, mo quèsta, brutti porci, u n’è aqua, e duv’èll léu? l’era alè, u i luséva agli urècci ad brilantina, sudéd, se nòtal tórt, «Aquè u s’è smòs ‘na vèggia ch’ l’è mèi còisla», a i ò détt, léu u m’à guèrs: «Se ce la fai», «S’a gli à faz mè? mo mè chi vut ch’ m’aférma?» «Non parlo della gente», «E ‘lòura?», «L’acqua», «Sté pacéugh?», «Cresce», «Mo sèt òt sachétt», «È un’altra cosa», «Come un’altra cosa?» e te zcòrr a m so mòs, orca, a sguazéva, mo quèsta addò ch’ la vén? ch’i apa las vért un rubinètt, aquè, ad sta baraònda, mo là spèsa u i sarà pò qualcadéun, u i vó póch, «Non si ferma», «Marà farmèla invíci, fai un rógg», «È tardi», e ò sintí un giàz, éva i pi a bagn, a so mòunt s’na scaràna, csa suzédal? che un mumént fa, mo èl dóbbi, Gufredín dò ch’ l’è? u n s n’è incórt? u n vaid? u i n’era bèla quatar dàida, spórca, pina ad cichi, ad ziréin, e mè ch’ò d’andé chèsa, cmè ch’a faz? pu quèst, ‘s’ut rubinètt, u s’è ròtt un cundótt, l’è un canòun d’aqua, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 75 I said to him, he was looking at me: “If you can.” “If I can? me, who’s going to stop me?” “I’m not talking about the people,” “What then?” “The water,” “This mess?” “It is getting bigger,” “Just seven or eight bags,” “There’s something else,” “What do you mean, something else?” and while we were talking I got drenched, what the hell? I was soaked, a faucet? here, in all this mayhem? there’s got to be someone behind this, it wouldn’t take much, “It is not stopping,” “But it’s got to be stopped, give them a yell,” “It’s late,” I felt ice-cold, my feet were wet, I jumped up on a chair, what’s going on? because a minute ago, it could be, Goffredino? where is he? does he not realize? doesn’t he see? there’s already three inches, it’s filthy, it’s full of cigarette butts, matchsticks, and I, I need to get back home, what am I going to do? now this, it’s not a faucet, the water-main has burst, it’s a flood, someone, come on now, go notify the police, because if it’s not cut off, and be quick, it’s really gushing, it’s already above the transoms, you can see the lights reflecting down into it, I can see myself, where are the others? my pals, and him, they’re not here anymore, how did they get out? and the pandemonium out ahead, it’s all collapsing, no, it’s the cover of the prompt box which has given, the water has made another route, it’s receding, listen to how it’s rumbling below, it’s gone down, there on the wall you can see the watermark, or is it? it’s still too soon, it was all the way up to the knees, but it must be going down, see how much it’s gone down already, but in case it hasn’t, be on the lookout for a landmark, some plaster peeling, that one, that one I saw earlier in the evening, it looked like a leaf on a stem, where is it? was it there then? I don’t see it anymore, oh no, instead of going down, wait, what’s all that stuff coming this way? a loaf of bread? completely saturated? bloated, it’s enough to turn your stomach, and here, on the seat of the chair, is a puddle, the other chairs are moving, going in every direction, knocking against each other, what’s going on down there? a crash of windows breaking, a roar, 76 Journal of Italian Translation qualcadéun, zò, ch’e’ vaga a visé al guèrdi, s’ ta n la stagn, e fè prèst, quèsta la córr, la è zà mòunta sòura mi cavéi, u s’i vaid dréinta i 1ómm, a m vèggh par mè, mo e ch’ilt duv’èi? i mi cumpàgn, e léu, i n gn’è piò, dò ch’i è pas? e sté malàn alè ‘vènti, e’ casca tótt, no, l’à zdéu e’ cvérc dla béusa de sugeridòur, l’aqua, u s’i è vért un pas, la va zò, sint ad sòtta cmè ch’ la arbòmba, aquasò adès u s sgòmbra, alè te méur u s’avdirà la réiga de bagnèd, o no? 1'è prèst ancòura, u i n’era un znòc, però la chin calè, quèll ch’ va mai zò, se no basta tní d’òc un sègn, un scòurgh, quèll alè, ch’a l’ò vést ad préima sàira, u m pareva una foia se gambòz, dò ch’ l’è? l’era alè dès, a n’e’ vèggh piò, ció, mo invíci ‘d calé, spétta, cs’èll ch’ l’è cla roba ch’ vén avènti? una pagnòta, tótt’ imbumbèda, gòunfia, la fa séns, e sla pivira aquè u i è la piscòlla, agli èlt scaràni al s móv, al va d’in quà e d’in là, al sbat tra ‘d 1òu, e alazò in fònd cs’èll stè? un scatramàz ad véidar rótt, un sciòun, aquè u n s pò spitè piò, sno che dú s val? basta, quèll ch’ vén e’ vén, che tavuléin, ò slòngh ‘na gamba, dài, s’a i putéss arivé, se pi ò tòcch l’òural de mèrum, a so stè pr’un pó a cavàl tra la scaràna e e’ tavuléin, s’a sguéll a m sbrènch, ò fat la blènza, a m so dè e’ slènz, ò dvanè un pó sal brazi, a m so indrizé, aglia ò fata, ‘ta bón, e un batimèní, ch’a m so ènca spavantè, a n mu n l’aspitéva, mo sta festa ma chéi? mu mè? pu a i ò vést, tótt, la zénta mai ch’u i era, i dént a d’ór, no, i réid, ta n sint? l’era una sbacarèda, i s batéva sal còsci, i s déva ad gòmat, i s pighéva, u s’i avdéva tremè al spali, i s’asughéva al lègrimi se braz, mo pu di sgréss, di céul, al dòni al stéva testa d’indrí, u i ridéva ènca al culèni, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini you can’t wait here any longer, but where can you go? enough, whatever’s going to happen will happen, that little table, I’ve extended my arm, come on, come on, if I can reach it, I’m touching the marble ledge with my feet, I’ve been here for awhile straddling between a table and chair, if I slip I’m done for, I’m balancing, then this impulse, I’ve tilted my arms a little, I’ve righted myself, I’ve done it, steady, and then there’s clapping, which scared the living daylights out of me, I wasn’t expecting that, who’s the applause for anyway? for me? then I saw them, everyone, tons of people, someone with gold teeth, no, they’re laughing, can’t you hear? bursts of laughter, slapping their thighs, elbowing each other, they were doubled over, you could see their shoulders quaking, wiping off tears with an arm, but then, there were shrieks and catcalls, women with their heads thrown back, even the necklaces were convulsing with laughter, some were all splayed out, completely disheveled, they started coughing, they were choking with laughter, a little boy standing in the aisle was watching me, they are laughing at me, I got dizzy, too much of a din, it was all flickering, I raised my hand: be quiet, someone yelled out: “Silence in the hall!” someone else: “Speak up,” what’s going on with them? “Speech!” are they all insane? “We’re all waiting Four Eyes!” I don’t dare say a word, plus, what can I tell them? “You’re the Boss, you tell us,” all right, be quiet then, “Here, folks, whoever can, you should get up and go home,” you could hear snickering, “It’s nothing to laugh about, you don’t believe me? look, no, look at me, up here, at me, don’t you see me?” from one row they heckled: “Projector! He’s all out of focus!” it was worse than before, now they were hoarse, with flushed faces, and over there? what’s that rumbling? it’s like it’s boiling, plus it’s risen, it’s a gush, it was the hole, it had filled up below, it was spouting up again, and then something broke, this isn’t happening, it was like when they open the sluice at the millstream, it went down, but a river rises, screams, 77 78 Journal of Italian Translation d’ilt i era a gambi vérti, tott sbudléd, u i avnéva da tòs, i s’afughéva, un burdèl u m guardéva d’impí te curidéur, i réid sa mè, u m ziréva la testa, tropa boba, avdéva imbarbaièd, o ‘lzè una mèna: sté zétt, éun l’à rugéu: «Silenzio in sala!», un èlt: «Hai la parola», cs’ài capéi? «Discorso! », mo i è mat ? «Quattr’occhi, dài ». ch’a n m’aréisgh, pu csa i dégghi? «Capo, alòura?», va bén, sté zétt: «Aquè, burdéll, chi ch’ pò », a n’éva e’ spéud, «Quèst l’è un zavài ch’ l’è mèi tó sò e ‘ndè chèsa», u s’è sintú sgrigné, «La n’è da réid, a n mu n cridéi? guardé mo guardém, aquasò, mu mè, a n m’avdéi?», da un pèlch i m’à ‘rspòst: Quadro!», la è stè fata, pézz ch’ nè préima, i era ormai tótt runchèd, dal fazi lóstri, e alè cs’èll ch’e’ sbarbòtla? cmè ch’ la buléss, pu la à dè sò, mo un zèt, l’era la beusa, sòtta u s’era impéi, u la arbutéva fura, e pu la à ròtt, u n s’è capéi, l’è stè cmè quante mi muléin i éirva e’ butàz, la andéva zò, mo una fiumèna, rógg, u n s’avdéva piò gnént, un nibiòun, a vampèdi, da srè i ócc, la m piuvéva madòs, e ad sòtta l’era la fèin de mònd, 1’aqúa, u sintéva sbat ti méur, u m’arivéva i squézz tla faza, ò vést ‘na córda, a l’ò ingranfèda, sò, a m so tróv spèsa al quéinti, u i era un’asa, cmè un caminamént, avènti pò, fina una pórta ad fèr, ò vért, un curidéur se tapàid ròss, mo quést l’è i pèlch, ò vést scrétt «II Ordine», sò pr’al schèli, «III Ordine», un mumént, che pèlch sla pórta vérta, fam avdài, a so éintar, ò guèrs ad sòtta, mama, zénta, pultròuni, gnént, l’era tótt’aqua sòura u i baléva plézzi, guènt, capéll, e la crèss sémpra, i préim pèlch i è zà a bagn, l’è sòtta ènca i sgónd pèlch, èlt che guardè, aquè bsògna ‘ndè sò, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini you couldn’t see a thing anymore, a dense fog, in gusts, it forced you to close your eyes, I was in a downpour, and below, it was the end of the world, water, you could hear it slapping against the walls, my face was being sloshed, I saw a rope, I grabbed it, up we go, I found myself behind the wing, there was a board, like over a war trench, careful now, all the way to an iron door, I pulled it open, a hallway with red carpet, but these are the different tiers, I saw “Level II” written, some stairs, up, “Level III,” wait a second, that tier with the open door, let’s have a look, I went in, I looked down, oh mother, people, seats, it was all water, on the surface, there were furs, gloves, hats, and it’s still rising, the first tiers are already submerged, the second tiers are under too, but why am I standing here watching, you need to get up higher, come on now, this is the upper balcony, this is the snack bar, I jumped up onto the counter, I got through, then stuff everywhere, jam-packed, a storage area, huge boxes, crates, sacks, empty bottles, if I come down wrong on my foot, ouch, my head! what did I hit it on? is it bleeding? on this iron pipe, I worked my way behind it, careful, it’s the handrail of another staircase, water, below, listen to it rumbling, I ran as fast as I could, I took it two stairs at a time, a door, I grabbed the door handle, it gave, it opened, and all the lights were blazing, it’s town hall, the meeting chambers, there wasn’t a soul, I passed through it, into the engineering department, from there into the archives, another staircase, this one’s stone, narrower, Jesus, look at these pendulums, it’s the town clock, they’re nothing but bricks attached to a piece of wire, and what is happening down below? it looks like a storm at sea, over there is an opening, three steps, a tiny gate, what’s all this stuff flying around, pigeons? I was underneath the roof tiles, where’s that music coming from? be careful walking, it’s all just laths, 79 80 Journal of Italian Translation forza, quèst l’è e’ luzòun, quèst l’è e’ bufè, a so sèlt se bancòun, a so pas ‘dlà, l’era pin ‘d roba, un magazéin, scatléun, casi, sach, bòci svéiti, s’a vagh zò mèl s’un pi, ahi, la mi testa! dò ch’ò batéu? u m vén e’ sangh? sté fèr, a i so ‘ndè dri, ‘ta bón, l’è e’ tinimèn d’un’èlta schèla, l’aqua, sòtta, sint cmè ch’ la gargòia, andéva ad scaranèda, du scaléin a la vólta, una porta, a m so ciap ma la manéglia, la à zdéu, l’è vért, e tótt’ al luci zàisi, mo l’è e’ Cuméun, la sèla de cunséi, u n gn’era un’anma, ò travarsè, a so ‘ndè tl’uféizi tecnich, da ‘lè tl’archéivi, un’èlta schèla, ad sas, piò strètta, orca, vè i péndal, l’è l’arlózz, ch’ pu l’era di madéun lighéd s’na spranga, e sòtta csa suzédal? e’ pareva cumè un mèr in burasca, alè che béus, tri scaléin, un rastèl, e’ svulaza dla roba, l’è pizéun? a sera sòtta i cópp, mo dò ch’i sòuna? aténti a caminé, l’è tótt sturúl, se t sgar t vé ad sòtta, e u s sint sémpra sunè, sté budèl, u s’i va cuvéun, e què? dò ch’a so scap? mo quèst l’è e’ pèlch dl’órgan ‘d San Ròch, ècco chi ch’ sòuna, l’è du burdéll, i zuga, éun e’ pacéuga si tast, purséa, cl’èlt me mèng u m’à vést, u s’è férum, i tast i à batú ciòch, ad sòtta ò sintí frézz, ‘na pozza ad zira, la éva zà cvért i altèr, qualche candàila la era ancòura zàisa, sla fiamba ch’ la baléva, pu u s’è smórt tótt, però alè u m pèr, cla pórta, u s va se campanéil, a m’i so bótt, sno che i scaléin, lègn vèc, un scricadézz, alt, férma, quèst e’ zéd, e’ zóccla ènch’ quést, gnént, l’è tótt fraid, ta n vaid alasò ch’ sbrènch? e cagli asi spandléun, óna la déndla, la casca, plòff, adès a turnè indrí, pianin, acsè, ‘d curtèl, tachèd me méur, e quèst? che préima a n 1'éva mégga vést sté purtunzéin, l’è vért, ‘n’andit, ‘na cambra, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 81 if I stumble, I fall down below, and you can still hear the music playing, this narrow chute, if you crawl on all fours, and here? where has it belched me out? this is the organ loft at San Rocco, that’s what’s playing, two kids, they’re playing around, one of them is banging on the keyboard, helter-skelter, the other, at the bellows, has seen me, it stopped, they keys were playing by themselves, from below I heard a hissing, a stink of wax, it had already covered the altars, a few candles were still lit, with flames that were flickering, then it all went out, but over there, it looks like, maybe, that door, leads up into the bell tower, I ran to it, it’s just that these stairs, the wood’s old, they’re creaking, stop, wait, this one’s giving, this other one’s vibrating too, it’s nothing, no good, it’s rotten, don’t you see that fissure up there? and those hanging boards that are swaying, it’s falling, boom, so now go back the way you came, slowly, that’s right, it’s angled, the wall’s slanted, what’s this? I hadn’t seen it at first, this hatch, it’s open, a passageway, a room, I held my breath, that’s Father Gaetano, at the back of the room, in an armchair, his mouth open, without his dentures, he was snoring, forward I go, on tiptoes, a step, the laundry room, hanging sheets, pillowcases, towels, shirts, tablecloths, you could get lost here, isn’t that a staircase over there, a spiral staircase, come on now, carefully, so you don’t slip, what is this smell? it’s like carbolic acid, a tincture of some sort, and all these beds, in a row, white, where have I ended up? the hospital? and this sawdust on the floor, to keep it dry? right, keep it dry, can’t you see there’s already more than an inch? “Sshh! be quiet!” “But sawdust isn’t going to do any good, “ “Quiet, because he’s dozed off, just go wherever you need to go,” “Give it to me straight now, is this a place where I’d be better off not being? “And he’s got a strangulated hernia,” “I’ve warned you, do what you want,” and there, what’s that, what’s beyond that glass door? I felt around, another staircase, a beam, two beams, a door, 82 Journal of Italian Translation a tnéva e’ fiè, mo quèll l’è don Gaitèn, d’indrí s’un scaranòun, a bòcca vérta, senza dantira, e’ surnicéva, avènti in pèunta ‘d pi, ‘na schèla, e’ cambaròun da stènd i pan, lanzúl, fudrètti, sugamèn, caméisi, tvai, aquè ’un u s pérd, mo alazò u n’è una schèla? a luméga, sò, pièn, da no sguilé, cs’èll ch’ l'è st’udòur? cm’e’ fóss acid fènich, tintéura, e tótt chi létt, in féila, biènch, dò ch’a so vnéu? te bsdèl? e sté sgadézz ma tèra, pr’asughé? sè, t’é vòia, a n’avdéi ch’u i n’è zà piò ‘d do dàida? «Ssst! sté zétt! », «Mo se sgadézz u n s’i fa gnént», «Sté zétt, ch’u s’è supéi, andé dò ch’i d’andè», «Dém rèta, quèst 1'è un pòst ch’ l’è mèi no stèi», «Mo s’un’ergna struzèda», «Mè a v 1'ò détt, fé vuílt», e alè, ch’a vègga, csa i èll dlà ‘d cla vedrèda? a m’e’ sintéva, un’èlta schèla, un rèm, du rèm, ‘na pórta, la è sno custèda, u n gn’è niseun? ò vést e’ 1ómm sòtta una bóssla, ò busé, «Avènti, vní ‘vènti, a v faz ‘na stàisa?», la déva dréinta m’un maz ‘d chèrti, «A n pòs», «Zincmella frènch», «U n’è pr’i bócch, ò préssia», «Duv’iv d’andè?», «D’in èlt, dò ch’ 1'è una schèla?», «Drétt me vòst nès, arví cla pórta», «Adio, mo vò, ènca vò, nu sté spitè, scapé, u i è zà un pacéugh aquè», «Eh, a 1 so purtròp, 1'è una chèsa, mè, quèsta, quant e’ pióv a chin mètt dimpartótt dal caldarètti», e la zénta i capéss sémpra a 1’arvérsa, ‘s’ut caldarètti, mo ta n la sint sòtta, aquè sòtta, ta n sint cmè un animèli ch’e’ lènsa? gnént, va 1à, ‘s’ut zcòrr, piotòst adès aquè, quèst 1'è 1'éultum pianètt, e sté purtòun 1'è srèd, però adlà i zcòrr, l’è scap un camarir, a m so infilé, i éva fini ‘d magnè, mo una tavlèda, i bacaiéva, un fómm, i n m’à gnénch vést, ò imbòcch un curidéur, sta pórta u i è la cèva dréinta, vdémma, a i ò inzècch ènch’ stavolta, un souraschèla, e alasò u i è un batóss, a m’i so ciap, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 83 it’s ajar, isn’t there anyone here? I saw the light under a doorbell, I rang,” Come in, come in, should I lay them out for you? she was shuffling a deck of cards, “I can’t,” “Just five thousand lire,” “It’s not the money, I’m in a hurry,” “Where do you have to go?” “Up higher, where’s a staircase?” “Follow your nose, open that door,” “Goodbye, and you, you too, don’t stay here waiting, come away, it’s already a morass,” “Ah. You don’t have to tell me, this is a house, and I, this is, and when it rains, I have to put bowls all over the place,” and people are always getting things half-assed backwards, what good are basins and bowls? can’t you hear it down below, right down here, don’t you hear how it sounds like an animal gasping? no response, fine then, what’s the point of talking, in any case, this is the final landing, and this huge door is shut, but there’s talking behind it, a waiter came out, he slipped past me, they’d finished eating, it was quite a group, they were squabbling, a cloud of smoke, they didn’t even see me, I made my way to a hallway, and this door? there’s a key inside, let’s see, I could have guessed it, stairs, and up there, a trapdoor, I grabbed it, I braced myself against the wall, I hefted myself up, and this? it’s like walking inside a cloud, it’s filled with tufts of wool, it’s Pia’s house, Pia the mattress-maker, and that curl over there is a railing, at least my vision’s still sharp, above it’s all horsehair, quiet now, who’s moaning? “Are you hurt?” there’s two of them, “What do you want?” “Is it Nando?” “No, please excuse me, I was just passing through,” “Get the hell out of here,” she had covered her face with her hands, and now where? stay calm, beyond that net is a door, with a bolt that’s all rusted, this is a bitch, come on, up and down, up and down, that’s right, to get it to budge, all it needs, come on, up and down, and pull, that’s it, it gave, hurry, come on, unbelievable! I tripped, I came close to falling, it’s pitch dark, and I’m not finding the switch, here it is, right here, but this stone feels like tufa, and hanging from it, up high there, is a rabbit stuffed with straw, 84 Journal of Italian Translation pi còuntra e’ méur, a m so tiràt sò ‘d pais, e aquè? l’era cmè caminé t’na nóvla, tótta lèna scàrmiéda; l’è la chèsa dla Pia di mataràz, e alè che rézz l’è una ringhira, ò un òc ormai, ad sòura 1'è tótta créina, zétt, chi ch’ s’alaménta? «A stè mèl ?», mo i è in déu, «Csa vut ?», «L’è Nando ?», «No, ‘i da scusé, a paséva da què», «Tót de caz!», li la s’era cvért’ la faza sal mèni, e adès dù s val? ‘ta bón, adlà ‘d cla ràida, l’è una pórta, s’un carnàz tótt ruznéid, quèst l’è una bés-cia, dài pò, sò e zò, sò e zò, acsè, da smóval, u i vó, mo e’ vén, sémpra sò e zò e tirè, ècco, l’è vnéu, andémma, dài, ‘zidénti! ò inzampighé, che un èlt pó a casch, l’è un schéur, e a n tróv e’ scròch dla luce, ècco, l’è què, mo quèst ‘l’è tóff, e tachèda sò ‘lè una pèla ad cunéi sla paia dréinta, una canèla ad gòmma m’un ciód, bòci, fiasch, lègna, telaràgn, l’è una cantéina, o ch’a zavèri? no, l’è bòtti, quèlli, ch’a m so s-cènt bèla al gambi, schèli e schèli, ò s-ciupè par avní réss, che s’ la s’inféila aquè l’è la mórta de sòrgh, mo cmè ch’ò fat? csèll ch’u m suzéd? porca boia, u n m’avrà mégga indurmént ènca mu mè? no, mo va là, che préima ò batú ‘na zuchéda, sint che gnòch, èlt che indurmént, spétta, no, ècco, a i so, gnént, a véngh da la basa, ènca al chèsi, i palàz, l’è di scaléin, ch’u i aréiva un burdèl, mo quant u s’à e’ nervòus, ch’u n s ragiòuna, ‘ta bon, a so pas un spaghètt, e sò mal schèli dop a ridéva da par mè, mè déggh ch’a sarò pò un pataca, mo adès basta, basta, la è pasa, a so quasò d’in èlt, quant u s pò guardè ad sòtta, lasa pò, ènca s’u i è póch d’avdài, mo u s téira e’ fiè, sno che la n déura, sint, l’aria la è griva, i calzéun i s’ataca, e’ casca d’ogni tènt un calzinàz, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini a rubber hose on a nail, bottles, wine flasks, wood, spider webs, it’s a wine cellar, or am I delirious? no, there are wine barrels, my legs are killing me, stairs and more stairs, I’m going to collapse trying to get to the end, because if the water gets down here, I’ll drown like a rat, how did I get here? what is happening to me? Damn, could he have hypnotized me too? no, forget it, first I banged my head, can you feel that lump? you can just forget about sleep, wait, no, here, there’s nothing, I’m coming up from the plains, even the houses, the villas, they’re steps, a little boy is coming this way, when you’re a nervous wreck, and not thinking straight, stay calm now, I just had a good scare, and coming up the stairs later I was all alone laughing, I mean, what an imbecile, but enough of that now, enough, it’s passed, I’m way up here, when you can see down below, or even if not, even if there’s not much to see, at least you can take a deep breath, but it doesn’t last, feel it, it’s humid, my pants are sticking, every so often a piece of plaster falls, there it is, look at that mark on the pavement, down below there, it’s getting bigger, it’s here already, you can’t get away from it, you can’t escape, but you can get used to it, plus there’s not any choice, on your haunches and climbing, even when there’s nowhere else to go, when there’s nothing left to say, it seems like you’re trapped, then, if you look closely, in the back, there’s a staircase, how many times has this happened to me, and you run up them in a frenzy, after awhile you’re there all over again, here is the wall, here too, it’s all wall, but this time, you stay there, looking down, but no, it’s never going to end, there could even be a hidden door, like right now, you’ve got to pay attention to every little nook and cranny, the slightest creaking, matches would really be a help now, but they’re not lighting, the tips are all soggy, wait a second, let me see, this skinny hanging cord, 85 86 Journal of Italian Translation l’è li, vèrda cla macia se sulèr, alè ad sòtta, ch’ la s slèrga, la è zà què, ta n’i scap, ta n t sgavàgn, mo u s’i fa l’òs, pu u i è póch da capè, pi te chéul e andè sò, ènch’ quant u n s va piò invéll, ch’u n s pò mai déi, u t pèr d’ès intraplèd, pu a guardè bén, in fònd u i è una schèla, quant vólti u m’è suzèst, e t vé sò ‘d féuga, dop un pó ta i si dl’èlt, aquè l’è méur, ènca què, l’‘e tótt méur, stavólta mò, t sté ’lé, a ócc bas, invíci no, mai zéd, u i putrébb ès ’na pórta mascarèda, cmè ‘dès, bsògna stè ‘ténti ènch’ m’un ciaplètt, m’un scròch i furminènt, ch’i m farébb bén, mo i n zènd, al cróccli al s’è spaplèdi, spétta, fam avdài, sta curdléina u n sarà una marlètta? ció, la s’éirva dabón, l’è tótt scaléin, a vagh ch’a vòul, a rógg, a chènt, ch’a so stunèd, pazinzia, u n sint niseun, e alà u i è un’èlta schèla, ch’a i so zà pas da què, o no? i póst ormai, tanimódi l’è chèsi, i è tótt cumpàgn, 1'è cumè fè e’ zéir dl’óca, mo me, basta tní bota, fintènt che li la è sòtta, orca, ò vést bén? bèla, puzèda alè, cmè una putèna, u n m’era ‘ncòura capitè, i la à lasa di muradéur, la fa rinséida, quèsta, la dòndla, e quasò in zéima cìapès bén, a scavèlch la finèstra, ‘na sèla, avènti, un’èlta schèla, ad mèrum, se tinimèn d’utòun, u s va da sgnéur, pu un’èlta, a n finéss mai, e tè csa vut? nu scróllti aquè, mòl fràid, u m’a dluvié, u i amanchéva un chèn, córr, dài, va véa, va te caséin, che invíci mè a m’arpòuns, bsògna fè tapa, d’ogni tènt, cumè, a n’ò méggh’ piò vint’an, ècco, a so pòst, mè u m basta zéinch minéut, mo quant’èll ch’a vagh sò? adès a tach, sémpra acsè, s’a m’aférum, dop pr’un pó, la testa, un mulinèl, u i sarà pò da qualche pèrta e’ sótt, ch’a n gn’apa d’arivé? mo sótt dabón, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini wouldn’t this be a latch, hey, it opens, it sure does, it’s a tiny staircase, I’m taking off, I’m yelling, singing, me, even though I’m tone deaf, patience, no one’s making any noise, and there’s another staircase over there, didn’t I already pass through here already? or not? places, at any rate, so many of them are the same, they’re all alike, it’s a wild goosechase, but I’m, banging my head was bad enough, as long as it’s down below, Jesus, did I see right? beautiful, all spread out like a whore, I hadn’t understood yet, the stone masons had left it there, it means I can do it, it’s swaying, and up here at the top, hold tight now, I climb through the window, a meeting room, keep going, another staircase, it’s marble, with brass railings, it’s easy street, then another, they just keep going on and on, and you, what do you want? don’t you shake all over me, it’s complete drenched, you got me wet, the only thing missing was the dog, go, go on, scat, you can go to hell, but I’m going to rest, you’ve got to catch your breath every once in awhile, I’m not twenty anymore, all right then, much better, all I need is five minutes, just how steep is this? I’m starting now, it’s always like this, if I stop, after awhile, my head starts spinning like a top, there’s got to be some place, somewhere, that’s dry, you think you’re ever going to get there? but it’s dry, I’m telling you, dry as a walnut, with dust like that fluff under the bed, on those curled-up notecards on the dresser mirror, and then even there, are you so sure that the water’s not going to come? I don’t know, they’re all good questions, who can reply? but there is one in particular, and that question, if we meet, not him, he doesn’t control a thing, with all his chitchat, he’s a pawn, no, it’s the ones who are above him, the ones who really run things, the ones you could have the talk with, two words for you: why me? because when you think about it, this is a big deal, it’s way too big, I’m here, it seems to me, I was selected at random, 87 88 Journal of Italian Translation sótt cmè una néusa, sla pòrbia ch’ la fa i rózzal sòtta e’ lèt, sal cartuléini a rézz mi véidar dla cardenza, e pu ènca ’lè sichéur che 1’aqua la n’arivarà? a n’e’ so, l’è tótt’ dmandi, chi ch’ pò ‘rspònd? mo u i n’è óna, mè quèlla, s’a incuntréss, no léu, ch’u n cmanda gnént, tótt’ la su ciacra, 1'è una pedéina, no, quéi ch’i i è sòura, quéi ch’i cmanda dabón, putèi fè un zcòurs, do paróli: parchè própia mu mè? che quant a i péns, quèst’ 1'è una roba gròsa, tropa gròsa, mè què, sgònd mè, a so vnù ciapèd par chès, l’è un quiproquò, che s’a i déggh e’ mi nóm, a so sichéur, i starà alè a guardèm: e tu chi sei? 1'è quèll ch’a v vléva déi, chi ch’a so mè? a n so gnént, mè, zò, a còunt cmè e’ do ‘d bastòun, ch’a patéss ènch’ d’otite, pu a i vèggh póch, e sa sti ucèl, ch’i mè casch, ò una lénta tótta cripèda, quèll ch’a gí vuílt l’è un èlt, chi sa, magari u m s’asarméa, mo a n so mè, e adès farmé, ch’ò una vòia ‘d butém stuglèd ma tèra, e stè ‘lè quant u m pèr, a n dmand ‘na masa, e dop, s’u s pò, qualche scaléin d’inzò, vérs chèsa, che ènca ‘lè mè u m basta póch, la partéida ma la televisiòun, ‘na gita d’ogni tènt, a vrébb avdài al Dolomiti, ch’a n’i so mai stè, dal nòti andè a luméghi, s’ l’à piuvéu, ch’a m pis, e quèst e quèll, e avènti a zcòrr, da par mè, e u n suzéd gnént, ch’i n’apa da capéi, i m’avdirà pò, o ch’i n guèrda, dò ch’i è? ma chéi ch’a 1 déggh che mè què, quèst l’è un sbai, a n gn’éintar gnént! Ciacri O insugné mèl stanòta, dal gran béssi, mo cmè tótt fé e’ cafè? vè ach pisarèla, l’è tótt’ al vólti acsè, ma tè u t vó óna ch’ la t vénga dri dò t pas, mo èl dóbbi, zò, ta n’apa da imparè, ch’ t si bèla vèc, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini it’s a quid pro quo, which if I were to tell them my name, I’m sure, they’d be up there looking down at me: and you, who are you? that’s what I wanted to say to you, who am I? I’m nothing, I’m, let’s be honest, I’m worth less than the two of clubs, the otitis makes my ears buzz, I can’t see well, even with these glasses, they fell off, one of the lenses is cracked, the one you’re talking about is not me, who knows, maybe it looks like me, but it’s not me, and now you’ve stopped, now when all I want to do is throw myself on the ground, and stay here as long as I want, I’m not asking much, and later, if possible, a few stairs down, toward direction of home, even there, I wouldn’t need much, a game on t.v. a little trip every once in awhile, I’d like to see the Dolomites, I’ve never been there, to go out a few nights collecting snails, if it had rained, because I like the taste of them, a little bit of this and that, and to keep talking, by myself, with nothing happening, but there’s no way they understand, they see me all right, or aren’t they looking, where are they? who am I going to tell that I’m here, that this is all a mistake which has npothing to do with me. Small Talk I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes, how did you make this coffee? look at this, spills, every time it’s like this, with you you’ve got to have someone there with you every second, is it possible you’re never going to learn, you’re already old, and don’t walk on it, we need a rag here, leave it alone, I’ll do it, with my bones aching, listen, do you hear it, it’s eight already, I’m going out to do some shopping. my gosh, the sirocco, I feel it too, my bones are aching, Clara, is it true that your brother has bought, that he wants to go live at Poggio? has he gone crazy? 89 90 Journal of Italian Translation e nu caméini sòura, aquè u i vó e’ straz, lasa ’lè, ch’a faz mè, ch’ò un mèl tagli òsi, sint, l’è zà agli òt, a vagh a fè un pó ’d spàisa, orca che curinaza, a l so ènca mè ch’u m dól agli òsi, Clara, ció, dabón che e’ tu fradèl l’à còumpar, ch’e’ vó ’ndè stè me Pózz? mo l’è dvént mat? csa val a fè me Pózz? che mè a n’i starébb gnénca sa che grèpp, e la su mòi, la tu cugnèda, cs’èll? la è vlú ’ndè li? alòura l’è un èlt zcòurs, ció, s’u i pis alasò, l’è par la nòna? la mama ad léu, a l so, la sta ’lasò, ò capí tótt, sa tri burdéll, la nòna l’è un bèl apòz, cumè, zért ch’ènca lòu però l’è un cambiament, mo i è zóvan, pu, sè, zò, ch’u s sta bén ènca mé Pózz, d’in èlt, aria piò féina, a m férum da Nazario, mo ènca tè fat avdài, a s’incuntrémm sémpra par chès, Caterina, dú vét? t’é una préssia, te bsdèl? chéi t’é te bsdèl? Giani? ch’a si parént, un pó a la lònga, a si fiúl ad cuséin, o no? cum stal? che mè, sgònd mè, quèll’ l’è una malatea, léu, l’è du an, da quant ch’ mórt’ la Jole, l’à fat un cambiamént, u n’è piò léu, tla butàiga u n gn’è mai, l’è sémpra te cafè, pasti, luvéri, biciaréin, che acsè, zà ch’ l’è ’nca un òm griv, acsè e’ vó dèi mazès, amo tè t déi quèll ch’a déggh mè, l’è li, l’è la su mòi, la Franca, ch’ la à sbaiè, li ma Giani la n l’à mai capéi, léu l’è un pó sgustòus, sè, u n’i va mai bén gnént, mo u n’è catéiv, bsògna savàil ciapè, t n’i pò dè sémpra còuntra, ta n pò sémpra ragnè, dop, dài e dài, e’ vén fura una Jole, ch’ènca ’lè, zò, la Franca la à sbaiè, tótt chi spatéran, ò capéi, sè, sfughès, mo zérti robi Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini what’s he going to do up at Poggio? I wouldn’t go up there either, up on that cliff, and his wife, she’s your cousin, or what? she wanted to go up there? well then that’s a different story, if she likes it up there, it’s because of the grandmother? his mother, I know, she lives up there, I understand completely, with three kids, a grandmother, now that’s something you can count on, why wouldn’t it be? but, certainly, even for them, it’s still a big change, but they’re young, then, yes, it’s true, you do feel good up there, even at Poggio, up there, the air’s better, I’m going to Nazario’s, you too, drop by and see me, they only time we see each other is by accident, Caterina, where are you going? you’re in such a hurry, to the hospital, who do you have in the hospital? Gianni? you’re related, a little distant, you’re children of cousins, or no? how is he? which I think, in my opinion that is a sickness, he, it’s been two years, since Yole died, there was a big change, he’s not himself anymore, he’s never in the shop, he’s always at the cafe, sweets, it’s gluttony, shots, which with that, he’s a heavy man to start with, he’s going to kill himself like that, but you’re saying what’ I’m saying, it’s her, it’s his wife, Franca, who was at fault, she, with Gianni, she never understood him he’s a little prickly, yes, nothing’s ever right but he’s not mean, you have to know how to take him, you can’t always be contradicting him, you can’t always argue, then afterwards, little by little, a Yole shows up, which even there, then, Franca was wrong, all the scenes, I understand, yes, letting off steam, but certain things, you can’t go around town saying, he hadn’t even moved out, yes, he did that for the boy, yes, but however in any case they’re together, you, now, stay another second, how can I say it, to stop trying, 91 92 Journal of Italian Translation ta n li pò ’ndè dí in piaza, ch’u n’era gnénca scap da chèsa, sè, u l’à fat pr’e’ burdèl, mo però intent a sté insén, e tè ’lòura sta un pó bóna, cm’òi da déi? nu l ziménta, se t rógg l’è pézz, dop u la ciapa ad péunta, mo la Franca zért robi la n gn’aréiva, no, t’é rasòun, l’è zchéurs, quést, l’è fadeiga, bsògna pruvè, da ’d fura a sémm brèv tótt, mo quant t si ’lè, che t vaid e’ tu maréid, mè a so rivàta, a s’avdémm, Caterina, ta la é frèsca, Nazario, la sunzézza? tri budéll, no, fa quatar, e un pó ’d grasúl, che ma Pèval i i pis, ir ta m’é dè una chèrna ch’ la n s magnéva, ò capéi da fè e’ bród, mo l’era stòppa, ch’ ta l sé ’nca tè, zò, nu fa la cumédia, csa i éintral e’ castrè? e’ castrè l’era bón, a t’ò détt gnént? mo la chèrna, Pèval u s’è incaplè, u la vó tèndra léu, cm’a t l’òi da déi? cumè, viziéd, ta m tó ’nca in zéir? e tè? Bina, mo dò t si stè ch’ l’è un témp ch’a n t vèggh, ah, t’é viazè? duvò? pu bén, che mè, quèll che là u n s móv e gnénca, che invíci u m pisarébb, mè, d’ogni tènt, andè in zéir, vdai dal robi, mo léu sè, e adès du vét? mè invíci ò da pasè da l’Elda a tó i spinàz, u i è ’nca al rósli? mèz chéll, ch’agli è ’nca tropi, ècco, acsè, basta, dò ch’ ta l’é mèss ma Nino? l’è te lèt? sla févra? un’influenza? amo la è fura, la è te lèt ènch’ la Flavia, la à un mamòun, li pu la fómma ènca, ch’ a i e’ déggh sémpra, mè, u t fa mèl fumé, l’è un vlén, sè, mo va a zcòrr sa li, che or’èll? l’è al dis, dabón? ch’a n n’ò mélla da fè, Elda, a s’vdémm, oh, la Dolores, spétta, Dolores, ò una roba da dmandèt, t’é préssia? l’è un minéut, tè ta l’é cnunsú bén Misirúl, no? che irisàira émm ragnè, se mi maréid, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini if you scream and yell it’s worse, then they’re pointing fingers at you, but Franca, certain things, she just never figured out, no, you’re right, it’s all just talk, all this, it wears you out, you do the best you can, from the outside, we all look good but when it’s you, seeing your husband, here I am now, I’ll be seeing you, Caterina, do you have any that’s fresh, Nazario? sausage? three good long pieces, no, make it four, and a little of the crackling, which Paolo likes, yesterday you gave me a piece of meat that was inedible, I used it to make broth, I’m telling you it was tough, you know it too, come one, don’t put me on, what’s steer meat got to do with it? the steer meat was good, I didn’t tell you? but the meat, Paolo got mad, he likes it tender, he, how can I explain it to you? what do you mean he’s spoiled? are you pulling my leg? and what about you? Bina, and where have you been, I haven’t seen you in ages? oh, a trip? where? how nice, and me, mine won’t budge, but now I’d like to, I’d like, every once in awhile to take a trip, see some things but him, sure, and where are you going now? I’ve got to go to Elda’s to get some spinach, do you have some greens too? a half kilo, which is even too much, there, that’s good, where did you leave Nino? he’s in bed? with a fever? the flu? oh well, it’s going around, Flavia’s sick in bed too, she’s got a bad cold, on top of it, she smokes, which I’m always telling her, I do, smoking’s not good for you, it’s poison, sure, try talking to her, what time is it? it’s ten? really? I’ll see you oh there’s Dolores, wait, Dolores, I’ve got one thing to ask you, are you in a hurry, it’ll take just a second, you knew Missiroli well, right? because last night we were arguing, with my husband, he says, he is so stubborn, he says that he came from Verucchio, which I don’t know where he gets these things, he was from Bellaria, wasn’t he? see, see there, that I’m right, I was sure of it, I remember, your mother, worked twenty years in his shop, but Paolo when he digs his heels in, I know, it’s late, 93 94 Journal of Italian Translation léu dis, mo l’é un tistòun, dis ch’ l’avnéva da Vrócc, che mè a n’e’ so ’ddò òch’u li téira fura zérti robi, l’era ’d Belaria, o no? vitt, ch’ò rasòun? mo mè a séra sichéura, a m’arcórd, la tu mà la à lavurè vint’an tla su butàiga, mo Pèval quant e’ péunta, a l so, l’è tèrd, émm préssia tótt, saléutmi la tu mà, che mè a déggh sémpra ch’a vi vní a truvèla, pu a la armand, a la armand, e’ pasa i dè, mo préima o dop a véngh, e quèst l’è Giorgio, t saré cuntént? ò vést la tu Milena in divéisa, ció, la fa una fighéura, la va ’nca se mutòur? la guéida li? t’é capéi, mè a n guéid gnénca la carióla, però, la n’era mèstra la tu fióla? ah, u n’i pieséva da fè scóla, e alòura, ch’ la farà ènca carira, òz u n gn’è piò nisun impediment, òz una dòna, ta n li vaid? al fa tótt, ènca e’ suldè, la va par lòu, Giorgio, u n gn’è gnént da fè, saléutmi la Graziella, e adès aquè ch’a n mu n zcórda, e’ sèl gròs, e’ zóccar, l’óli, ’na savunètta, ch’u i n’è ormai ’na scaia, ’na bósta ad boratalco, ècco, l’Idrolitina, ch’a m zcurdéva, e a ví tó ’nca de mél, ò un pó ’d rampàzna, che se lat chèld e’ s-ciòi, e pu avrébb da pasè da la Lucia, ch’ la sta alazò a l’inféran, spétta, mo u n’è li, la Lucia, quèlla che là? ch’a stéva pr’avnì zò da tè, e alòura cla sutèna t la é fata? no? a l savéva, tè t prumètt, tè t prumètt, u n gn’è sà stofa? dabón? ch’ l’è una piò bèla fantaséa, e alòura u n’i vén gnént? orca, zà, t’é rasòun, ’na bèlza, bló o un maròun schéur, andémm insén da Miro, ènca adès, ta n pò ’dès? admatéina, Lucia, a s’avdémm ’dmatéina, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini we’re all in a hurry, say hello to your mother for me, which I’m always saying I’m going to stop by and visit, then I put it off, put it off, days go by, but sooner or later I’m coming, and here’s Giorgio, you’ll be happy to know that I saw your Milena in her uniform, oh my gosh, she cuts quite a figure, does she even ride the motorbike? she drives? you understand I wouldn’t even know how to steer a wheelbarrow, but wasn’t she a teacher, your daughter? ah, she didn’t like school, oh well, which would be a nice career, today there aren’t any obstacles, today a woman, don’t you see them? they do everything, even the military, they do what they want, Giorgio, what can you do about it? say hello to Graziella for me, and now, here, so I don’t forget, some coarse salt, sugar, oil, a bar of soap, the other one’s just a sliver at this point, a packet of talcum powder, here, fizz tablets, which I’d forgotten all about, and I want to get some honey, too, I’m a little hoarse, which if you put it in some hot milk, and then I should go and see Lucia who lives so far down there it’s the end of the earth, wait now, isn’t that Lucia, the one over there? I was just about do go down to see you, and so have you finished the skirt? no? I knew it, you promised, you promised, wasn’t there enough material? really? it’s such a pretty pattern, and now nothing can be done with it, goodness, you’re right, a flounce, either blue or a dark brown, let’s go together to Miro’s, how about now? you can’t go now? tomorrow then, Lucia, I’ll see you tomorrow, bread, no, there’s yesterday’s which we throw away and people are dying of hunger, it’s a crime, I’m ashamed, I am, but him, sure, if he doesn’t have fresh bread, all right, fine, a roll, for that pain-in-the-neck, bread’s good, even the next day bread’s good, why wouldn’t it be, the flavor comes out more, 95 96 Journal of Italian Translation e e’pèn, gnént, u i è quèll d’ir, ch’a n butémm véa, e u i è chi ch’ mór ad fèma, l’è un delétt, a m vargògn, mè, mo léu, sè, s’u n’à e’ pèn frèsch, va bén, zò, una rusètta ma che nuiòus, ch’ l’è bón ènca e’ dè dop e’ pèn, cumè, pu e’ fa ’nca piò rinséida, t’é parcè tè? admèn e’ fa la nàiva, alòura addò ch’ l’avnéva Misirúl? che irisàira ta m’é magnè la faza, da Belaria, la m l’à détt la Dolores, mo pu i l sa tótt, sno tè ta n’e’ savévi, e t vlévi avài rasòun, quant ta t’i mètt, t si piò intipatich, ò incòuntar Giorgio in piaza, no, Giorgio ad Magalòt, che sa cla fióla, e’ pareva che, brèva, la piò brèva tla scóla, chi sa dò ch’ la arivarà, e adès la fa la guèrdia, bèla roba, la à studié, la à studié par fè al contravenziòun, ch’ la sta piò mèl sa cla divéisa, una ragaza, zò, mo va là, a fè la guèrdia, pu che brètt sla visira, tótt calchèd, ch’ la à sno i cavéll ad bèl, (cs’èll ch’a magnémm?) u i è n’cóura un gòzzal ’d bród, sa sté pèn déur a faz una stuvèda, e du budéll ’d sunzézza, ch’ la è sémpra bóna la stuvèda, sint, ò ragnè sa Nazario, mo sté bród l’è specièl, vé che stèli, un budèl, lè ènca trop, mè, e quést che què l’è du grasúl, però nu magni tótt, i t fa mèl, tótt, lasni un pó par stasàira, basta, zò, che dop ta n’i digeréss, a n t’i tóggh piò, a zéur, a n t’i tóggh piò, che quant t sté mèl u n s chèmpa, t la vó una pàira? no? ch’ la t lèva dréinta, a t la sbózz mè, una fètta, sint che roba, un butír, u t’è scap l’òura? va là che ta n pérd gnént, tè ta n t vaid mégga, sa cla televisiòun t si cmè un arlózz, che ta m fé vní un nervòus, cambia, ta n t stóff? Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini you set the table? pigs do have wings, so where did Missiroli come from, last night you just about bit my head off, from Bellaria, Dolores told me, but then everybody knows it, it’s only you that didn’t know, and you just had to be right, when you dig in, you are truly unpleasant, I ran into Giorgio uptown, no, Giorgio Magalotti, who with that daughter, it seemed like, she did so very well, she was the best in school, who knows how far she’ll go? and now she’s a meter maid, nice, huh? she studied, she studied, to hand out parking tickets, and she looks awful in that uniform, a girl, come on now, get off it, a traffic officer, then that cap with the visor, it’s all shoved up inside there, the only nice feature she has is her hair, what should we eat? there’s still a few drops of broth, which with the stale bread, I’ll make some zuppa di pane, and two pieces of sausage, who says zuppa di pane isn’t good? listen, I complained to Nazario, oh this broth, turned out especially good, just look at those beautiful little tear drops floating inside, one piece of sausage is evev too much for me, and here I’ll give you a couple of pieces of crackling, but don’t eat it all, it doesn’t sit well, all of it, leave a little for tonight, that’s enough, come on, then afterwards you won’t digest it, I’m not going to get it for you anymore, I swear it, I’m not going to buy it again, because when you feel bad it’s unbearable, do you want a pear? no, it’ll clean you out, I’ll peel it for you, a slice, just taste this, it’s butter, why don’t you go out now? you won’t miss out on anything, you don’t even seem yourself anymore, with that television set you’re like a clock, it makes me jumpy, with all that switching, aren’t you tired of it? when it’s that time, he turns it on, there could be an earthquake, but he’d still turn it on, I myself would throw it out the window, 97 98 Journal of Italian Translation léu quant l’è cl’òura e’ zénd, e’ pò vní e’ taremòt, mo léu e’ zénd, ch’a te butarébb vèa da la finestra, mè, che telecomando, par stè sintéi, ch’ l’è tótti ciacri, zò, i n chèva un ragn da un béus, sémpra al stèss’ robi, e u n a pò dí gnént, bsògna stè zétt, cumè, l’à da zcòrr chi pataca, lasa andè, va là, t fé un schiv sa cla televisiòun, sémpra tachèd alè, mo va un pó in piaza, va te cafè, va a fè una pasegèda, a n stagh mai zétta? l’è lòu ch’i n sta mai zétt, basta, va là, guèrda quèll t vu, mè a vagh adlà a stiré, sè, cs’èll ch’a stéir, aquè, vèrda che roba, ch’i era nóv, sti calzétt, mo cmè ch’us fa? di béus ch’u i pasa un braz, aquè t’é vòia, quést i è da buté véa, sémpra acsè, léu, se una roba la i pis u n la smètt piò, ènca sta sèrga, vè, ’s’ut rinacè, quèsta la è ’ndèda, i gómat, èlt che sléis, u s vaid la fódra, u s’inamoura, léu, t’na sèrga, sémpra quèlla, sémpra quèlla, l’ardéus un straz, e dop, t si mat, la zénta, vè cmè ch’ la l manda, u m fa fè dal fighéuri, ch’ènca la zénta, s’i badéss par lòu, no, quèsta, via, a glia bótt tla mundèzza, u s mitrà quèlla ’d vléut, ch’e’ sta ènca mèi, mo u n n’à tènti, l’à piò vistí ch’ nè mè, e avènti pò, vè che muntagna ad roba, che stiré a n’ò mai vú ’na gran pasiòun, u m pis piò i férr, mè, lavurè si férr, a i ò fat un maiòun, an, ch’u s stiméva, un péunt ad vàird, e adès fura a daquè, che s’a n’i stagh dri mè mal robi, léu, Emma, t guèrd e’ mi órt? u t pis? vén dréinta, fa e’ zéir, a t véngh arvéi, ta t pórt a chèsa tri quatar pumidór, che in insalèda, s’ ta i fé stasàira, ta m giré, a i mitémm at sté sachètt, no, ch’i n’è trópp, ta n vaid quant u i n’è? chi è ch’i i magna? e a n gn’ò mégga dè gnént, mè u i è dal vólti, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 99 I would, that remote control, just sitting there listening to it, it’s all chatter, come on now, it’s just a big waste of time, always the same stuff, and you can’t say a word, they should be the ones shutting up, shouldn’t they? those jerks, they’ve just got to talk, well let them, come on, you’re, with that television, always glued to it, go on and go uptown, go to the cafe, go take a walk, I never shut up? it’s them that never shut up, enough, come on now, watch all you want, I’m going in the other room to iron, sure, and just what am I ironing? here, look at all this stuff, which these were brand new, these pants, what am I supposed to do? holes you could put a hand through, you’ve got to be kidding, here these should be thrown away, it’s always like this, he, if he has a certain thing, you can’t tear it away from him, this suit coat too, look, what’s the use of mending it, this one’s shot, the elbows, never mind worn out, you can see the lining, he falls in love, he does, with a jacket, always that one, always that one, he’s worn it down to a rag, which then people, look at how she sends him out, he’s making me look bad, which people too, if they would just mind their own business, no, this one’s gone, I’m throwing it away, you could put on some of that velour, which would even work better, but he’s got so many, he’s got more clothes than I do, well just keep at it, look at this mountain of stuff, I’ve never had a big love for ironing, I like knitting better, for me, knitting, I made him a pullover, last year, which he was proud of, he showed it off, and now the watering outside, which if I don’t keep on top of things, he, Emma, come look at my garden? do you like it? come on in, come take a look, I’ll come and open it, you can take home three or four tomatoes, which in a salad, if you use them tonight, will you tell me, I’ll put them in this bag, no, it’s not too much, can’t you see how many there are? who’s going to eat them all? and it’s not that I haven’t fed him any, I, sometimes, in the afternoon, a tomato with bread, 100 Journal of Italian Translation e’ dopmezdè, un pumidór se pèn, pr’imbrènda, a n’e’ lèv gnénca, s’un pó ’d sèl, e alòura déim, che tè ta i sté tachèda ma la Giordana, mè ò sintéi dal ciacri, ènca tè? ch’a so ’rvènza, fóss stè la Dora, fóss stè la Marina, che lòu dabón, l’è mèi stè zétt, va là, un dè a la ò vésta piànz ma la Giordana: “Ò do surèli che”, la s vargugnéva, e adès e’ scapa fura, che mè a n’aréiv a cràidi, gnénca tè? amo, cumè, la è sémpra stè a e’ su pòst, u n s’è putéu dí gnént, mai, la su mà la s stiméva, t si mat, la su Giordana, e tótt t’un bot, mo l’è quèll ch’a déggh mè, u i è tènt ad chi pastrócc òz, cmè ch’u s fa ’rvanzè in cinta? e sa chéi? li la n dí gnént, dis ch’ la n dí gnént, mo u i è chi ch’ déi, e’ pèr, ta l’é sintí ’nca tè? sa Walter Lucchi, ch’a n’e’ so, mè, ènca li, s’un òm spusèd, ch’ la è inteligenta, inteligenta ad chè? t’é e’ zarvèl, ta n’e’ dróv? e dis che l’Elsa la sa zà tótt, Walter l’è du tri dè ch’u n s vaid, l’è fura, ènca ’lè dès cundèla, do famèi arvinédi, mo tè stasàira ta t fé un’insalèda, t’é tólt e’ squaquaròun? l’è la su mórta, mo pu ta i pò magnè sa quèll ch’u t pèr, i à un parfómm, sint che roba, mè invíci a faz agli óvi sfritulèdi si spinàz, l’è al si, a i vagh a mètt sò ’dès, mo grezia ad chè, par du tri pumidór? u i n’è ch’a n’i stémm dri, a s’avdémm, e saléutmi la Mariula, una surèla acsè la m vrébb mu mè, la à al mèno d’ór, e st’èlta vólta, arcórdti, quant t pas da què, u i è féigh, vè quant u n n’à, fra dis quéngg dè i è fat, cumè, l’è prèst, l’è al sèt e mèz sunèdi, quant t vu magnè? zò, sbréigti, ch’al s’agiàza, agli è s-ciavéidi? e mètti e’ s‘el, ma tè u t pis salèd, ch’u n va mégga tènt bén, a n so sno mè ch’a l déggh, u l dí i dutéur, Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini 101 for a snack, I don’t even wash it, with a little salt, and so tell me, which you’re near Giordana, I heard some talk, you too, I was talking to, it could have been Dora, it could have been Marina, which they really, it’s better to say nothing, but come on, one day, I saw her crying to Giordana, “I have two sisters who. . .” she was ashamed, and now it comes out, which I just couldn’t believe, you either, and well, she always did what was expected, you couldn’t have said a bad word, never, her mother used to brag, are you crazy, her Giordana, then out of the blue, that’s what I’m saying, there’s so many of these kinds of messes these days, how did she end up pregnant? and with who? she’s not saying a word, they say she’s not talking, buy there are some who are saying, that’s what it seems like, you heard it too? with Walter Lucchi, which I don’t know, I, even her, with a married man, who’s intelligent, so intelligent that, you’ve got a brain? why don’t you use it? and they say that Elsa already knows everything, it’s been two or three days that no one’s seen Walter, he’s away, even there, suiting himself, two families ruined, so, you’re going to make a salad tonight, does it give you the runs? it kills him, but you can eat whatever you want to, they have such a perfume, smell it, no, I’m going to make scrambled eggs, with spinach, it’s six, I’m going in now to get things started, thank you for what? for two or three tomatoes? it’s been awhile since we’ve talked, I’ll see you and say hello to Mariola for me, I’d love to have a sister like her too, she can do anything with her hands, and the next time, remember, when you come by here, there’s figs, look how loaded it is, in a week-and-a-half or two they’ll be ripe, what do you mean it’s early, it’s ringing seven-thirty, when do you want to eat? come on now, hurry up, it’s getting cold, is it too bland? put in some salt, you like it salty, which isn’t good for you, it’s not me saying it, it’s the doctors saying it, too much salt is bad for you, 102 Journal of Italian Translation troppo sale fa male, bsògna magnè s-ciavéid, ch’ l’è pu s-ciavéid par tè, par mè e’ va bén, t’é sémpra da sbruntlè-tè, mo magna cal do óvi, e sta un pó zétt, che invíci mè stasàira a la ví vdai un pó ’d televisiòun, u i è Millesogni, dis ch’u s véinz dis migliéun s’i t cèma me telefan, sè, ò capéi, mo tè ’nca s’i ciaméss, tè ta n’arspònd, ta n’arspònd mai, u m tòcca córr mu mè, ècco, a i sémm, i ravéa, quèsta che què la i i è ad tótt i brudétt, la zcòrr t’un módi, u n s capéss gnént, la pzézza, e st’èlt ancòura, ch’ l’è piò ghignòus, e ma la zénta, u i pis, i n capéss mégga gnént, la zénta, e adès, mo cs’èll ch’i fa? mè a déggh-che, cs’èll ch’i va a strulghè mai, mo fé dal robi, ch’i ciapa tènt ’d chi bócch, e tè, salàm, tótti i an, tè ta n sté bén s’ ta n vé a paghè l’abonament, ch’i s dà, vè quèll ch’i s dà, vè che roba, e i va ’vènti, no, no, basta, a m so zà stóffa, mo va là, che or’èll? l’è al nóv e mèz? dabón, zà al nóv e mèz? ció, ta l sé cs’èll ch’a t déggh? a vagh a lèt. Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini you’ve always got to complain about something, you, now eat those eggs, and be quiet a second tonight I’d like to see some television for a change, A Thousand Dreams is on, they say someone is going to win ten million if they call you on the phone, yes, I understand, but even if they called, you wouldn’t pick it up, you never answer, you make me run and get it, here, here we are, they’re starting, this one here, there’s all possible ways, the way she talks, you can’t understand anything, she mumbles, and this one, he’s even worse, he’s always sneering, and people like him, people don’t understand anything, and now, what are they doing? I say that, what are they racking their brains about? you do stuff, they win all this money, and you, you numskull, every year you’re not happy until you march down and pay, everything-on-the-up-and-up, the television fee, which then they give us, look what they give us, look at all that stuff, and they just keeping going on and on, no, no, that’s enough, I’m already sick and tired of it, come on now, what time is it? nine-thirty? really? nine-thirty already? well, you know what I have to say to you? I’m going to bed. 103 A New Annotated Translation of Carlo Emilio Gadda’s Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana by Roberto De Lucca Roberto de Lucca has been working as a translator since 1988. He is currently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches Italian literature. He also works as a writer of Italian films for DVD release. C arlo Emilio Gadda (1893-1973) is considered today to be the giant among Italy’s modern prose writers: in the words the critic Andrea Cortellessa he has assumed the status of “the prototype of the writer: challenge to emulation, reservoir of quotation, monument of worth.” Critical consensus during the last decade of the century regarding the many-sided qualities of this extraordinary writer-figure seems to have secured him a firm place as the major Italian prose writer of our time, as well as one of the major twentieth-century European writers, next to other names (Joyce, Kafka, Proust, etc.) which have reached entrenched canonical status. This widespread judgment is not so much due to the novelty of Gadda’s themes, nor to his experimentation with the conventions of prose narration, nor, in the last analysis, despite the great importance of this facet of his work, to his linguistic originality. Gadda’s importance largely consists in the power of a prose which achieves, as Emilio Manzotti has written, “a rare density of expression, a “white-hot” quality that inscribes itself on our memory with aphoristic conciseness.” In spite of this, the reception of Gadda’s work in English-speaking countries has not been a success, and he remains relatively unknown here even within the academy. The main reason is translation. Aside from a few short pieces buried in the back issues of reviews, only two of Gadda’s works have appeared in English: That Awful Mess on Via Merulana, William Weaver’s 1965 version of Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana (which appeared in Italy in 1957), and, in 1968, Acquainted with Grief (Weaver’s title for the 1963 La cognizione del dolore). The English in the 1965 translation of the novel regularly tends towards the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid. The version offered here remedies the extremely heavy losses of formal features which make reading the Weaver translation an experience so distant from that of reading Gadda’s original Italian. It also offers extensive commentary in the form of linear notes. The importance of the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda, are of primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the present version to preserve the diatypes (lexical variety) of the original, where possible. Given the impossibility of translating into another language the aura parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity of registers that the introduction of colloquialisms and dialects represents. The dialects in the novel are never adopted for mere naturalistic verisimilitude, but blended into a more general “macaronism” which affects the narration at the minimal and maximal levels of syntax, morphology and vocabulary. Current scholarship has resulted in a nearly complete re-interpretation and re-evaluation of Gadda’s masterpiece. The publication, from 198893, of Gadda’s complete works in a reliable edition makes it possible, for the first time, to verify intertextual references throughout. This new translation is a small part of the renewed understanding of this great literary work. Synopsis In Fascist Rome (the novel takes place in 1927), the young police inspector Francesco Ingravallo (called don Ciccio for short), a detective-philosopher from the southern Italian region of Molise, is called on to investigate a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at 219, Via Merulana. In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends of Ingravallo: the wife, whom Ingravallo admires for her sweetness, and with whom he is perhaps secretly in love, is of a family whose wealth has been built in large measure on speculation during the First World War. During a lunch with the couple, don Ciccio guesses that Liliana’s obvious melancholy has been caused by her sterility, a calamity she attempts to soothe by temporarily “adopting” several girls from the Roman provinces, mostly servants that she showers with gifts and other blandishments. Three days after the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering whether there is any link between the two crimes. Liliana’s cousin, the young and handsome Giuliano Valdarena, is present at the murder scene having discovered her corpse. Suspicion falls on him as the murderer with money as motive; Liliana’s husband Remo is away on a business trip and cannot be apprised of the murder. As chapter four opens, he returns and learns of his wife’s death. Liliana’s cousin, Giuliano Valdarena, is under arrest at a Roman prison, but no one seems convinced of his guilt. Liliana’s family awaits some news of the family jewels, left in her keeping; and the Fascist authorities are pressing the police for an arrest - even for an official scapegoat. The interrogation of Balducci is interrupted by Liliana’s priest, Don Lorenzo Corpi, with the news that Liliana Balducci had entrusted her last will and testament to him. Dottor Fumi (Ingravallo’s Neapolitan superior) reads the will, and Ingravallo indulges in some of the speculation for which he is famous among his colleagues. Gadda’s heavy use of dialects, technical language, parody, and literary archaisms make for a dense linguistic mix. 106 Journal of Italian Translation Chapter Five Chapter five of the Pasticciaccio precedes a division in the novel: beginning with chapter six, in fact, the action veers away from Rome, only to return there, briefly, just before the famous close in chapter ten. It also abounds (indirectly, via remembered citations from others) in speech from the murdered Liliana Balducci – an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central, though largely silent. The chapter also contains vestiges of the famous “interrogatorio del Balducci” which comprised chapter four of the version that appeared in “Letteratura” in 1946, and nearly completely suppressed by Gadda. The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s funeral. Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana Capitolo 5 Ma le deposizioni del Ceccherelli, del suo «giovine di negozio», certo Gallone, un ber vecchietto asciutto asciutto co l’occhiali a stanga, e di un lavorante, certo Amaldi, o Amaldini, furono pienamente favorevoli a Giuliano. Il Ceccherelli, appoggiato dai due, confermò in ogni particolare l’incarico ricevuto più de due mesi prima dalla povera signora, le varie fasi dell’approntamento del ciondolo: «è p’un mio parente che sposa, me raccomanno a lei». La signora gli aveva fatto vede un anello d’oro a la cavaliera, massiccio, oro giallo, con un diaspro sanguigno, bellissimo, recante le cifre GV a glittico, e in carattere gotico per modo de dì: «il diaspro pe la catena, lo vorrei che s’accompagnasse con questo.» Gli aveva lasciato l’anello. Lui aveva preso l’impronta in cera: prima della cifra, poi de tutta la pietra, che sporgeva dal castone. Liliana Balducci era poi tornata in bottega altre due volte, aveva scelto la pietra fra cinque che le erano state mostrate dopo che le avevano provvedute apposta dalla Digerini e Coccini, la ditta fornitrice, ch’era tanti anni che lo serviva: permodoché non aveva sollevato obiezioni ad un prestito. Del pari pienamente confermato risultò che l’opale, bellissimo, benché co quel tanto de jella addosso che cianno tutti l’opali, lo doveva rilevare il Ceccherelli, e lo aveva rilevato di fatto dietro conguaglio, nonostante quell’RV, ch’era inciso leggero, «che però io, poi, sa, con rispetto parlanno, sì che me ne buggero de tutte ste superstizzione de la gente: che pare d’esse in der medioevo, quasi quasi! io, in coscienza, tiro a fa l’affari mia: più puliti che posso. In quarant’anni che ciò er negozio, me creda, dottó, nun ho avuto a dì p’una spilla! E poi, a bon conto, l’ho subbito schiaffato in der cassettino ch’ ‘o tengo apposta pe questo, subbito subbito appena l’ho cavato fora dar castone suo, a forza de pinze, senza manco toccallo co le dita, se po dì: le pinze, ho fatto un sarto dar barbiere de faccia pe disinfettalle coll’alcole: e Roberto De Lucca 107 Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana Chapter 5 The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s funeral. But Ceccherelli and his “shop boy”, a certain Gallone, skinny old gent with specs, and an assistant, one Amaldi or Amaldini, deposed wholly on Giuliano’s side. Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two months before, and the sundry phases of the readying of the fob: “It’s for family getting married, so I’m counting on you.” She’d shown him a gold signet ring, solid yellow gold, with a bloodstone jasper, very fine, engraved with the initials G.V., in gothic letters, sort of: “I’d like the jasper on the chain to match this one here.” She’d left him the ring. He’d made a wax impression: first of the monogram, then of the whole stone, which protruded from its setting. Liliana Balducci had then come back to the store twice, picking the gem from five that had been shown her, stock furnished specially by Digerini and Coccini, the suppliers he’d dealt with for ages, so they’d provided them on loan without batting an eyelash. It was likewise fully confirmed that Ceccherelli had been asked to remove the opal, gorgeous, despite that jinx it hauled around with it like all opals have, and that he’d accepted it in fact as part payment despite that R.V., not deeply engraved: “But let me tell you something, I don’t give a crap about folks’ superstitions, excuse my French here… You’d almost think we’re back in the dark ages, almost! In all honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. In forty years I’ve had this shop, take it from me, officer, I haven’t logged one complaint! Not a pin! Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out of the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. The pliers I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: the doohickey I just chucked it in that drawer there, last one on the way to the can… Alfredo, you know the one I mean, Peppì, you too… a bunch of those coral good luck charms heaped in there, so if that old opal got it in his head to lay some curse on the shop… What, put a curse on it? Yeah, right: like to see him try, with all 108 Journal of Italian Translation lui, er sor coso, l’ho schiaffato in der cassetto quello là in fonno isolato p’annà ar cesso, tu Arfredo ce ‘o sai, e tu pure Peppì: che ce stanno insieme tanti de queli corni de corallo che si gnente gnente je pijasse la fantasia de volemme jettà la bottega... a me, jettamme? sì, stai fino: vorebbe vede, povero fiio! E come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli!... ma co la punta bona, ]e lo dico io.» L’anello je l’aveva ridato a la signora dopo un par de giorni, «Sli m’aricordo bene, quanno ripassò a bottega pe vede li diaspri». Il ciondolo doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Sarebbe passato lui a ritirallo, portando con sé la catena: «quella, sì»: la riconosceva perfettamente. «Quella catena, aveva detto Liliana, «sa? lei sor Ceccherelli la conosce bene, s’aricorda? Quella che me l’ha stimata dumila lire?... Quella j’ho da regalà. E l’anello del nonno, cor brillante, s’ ‘o ricorda? che me l’ha stimato novemila e cinque?» Ingravallo gli mostrò pure l’anello. «E questo, nun c’è dubbio: un brillante de dodici grani dodici emmezzo a dì poco. Un’acqua magnifica.» Lo prese, lo rigirò, lo guardò: lo sollevò contro luce: «Tante volte me l’aveva detto, il nonno: aricordate, Liliana, che deve restà in famija! Sai a chi vojo dì! » La frase der nonno suo, una formula sacra a momenti, pe lei; se vedeva: be’, l’aveva ripetuta du volte, in bottega: «nun è vero?»: presente il Gallone, presente il Giuseppe Amaldi; che confermarono col capo. All’Amaldi Liliana stessa aveva voluto spiegaje lei ogni cosa: e com ereno le du lettere intrecciate che doveva incidere, com’era che voleva incapsulato il diaspro: un po’ sporgente dalla legatura ovale: il Ceccherelli secondò con l’unghia del mignolo il fermo contorno della pietra verde, montata a sigillo, vale a dire in lieve aggetto sul castone: e con una laminetta d’oro sul rovescio, a celare la faccia grezza, a richiudere. Oltre agli orefici, che furono ascoltati de mattina, bisogna di che la famiglia Valdarena e addentellati, e cioè la nonna de Giuliano, il Balducci medesimo, le du zie de li Banchi Vecchi e zi’ Carlo, e zi’ Elvira, e Ii parenti un po’ tutti, staveno ad annaspa da tre giorni chi de qua chi de là pe trovà er filo de la salvazione e tirallo fora, lui Giuliano, da li pasticci in cui s’aritrovava, povero fijo, senz’avé né colpa né peccato. Una parola. Ma dopo le tre deposizioni a discarico de li tre orefici, ch’ereno già bone, je venne subito dietro quella più bona ancora del cassiere—capo de la banca: der Banco de Santo Spirito. Dar cartellino del conto (ai libretti de risparmio) risultò che il prelievo de diecimila, Liliana l’aveva fatto là, propio il 23 gennaio: due giorni prima del regalo: che quello glie l’aveva fatto il 25, a casa, quann’era andato a trovalli, e aveva trovato solo lei. Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva Liliana: l’aveva contentata lui, quella volta: era lui a lo sportello, nummero otto, pieno di paterni sorrisi. A momenti mezzogiorno. Sì, sì: ricordava perfettamente: all’atto dello snocciolarle sul vetro i dieci fogli — dieci bricocoloni zozzi, lenticchiosi, de quelli co la lebbra, che so’ stati ner portafojo a fisarmonica d’un pecoraro de Passo Fortuna o sur banco fracico de vino dell’oste de li Castelli — lei invece j’aveva detto, co quela voce così morbida, e quel’occhioni fonni fonni: «Mbè la prego, sor Cavalli, veda un po’ si me li po dà belli novi si ce l’ha: lei ce lo sa che me piaceno un po’ puliti... », perché Roberto De Lucca 109 those lucky pieces in there, poor sap! Like a capon in the middle of a bunch of roosters!… but still with some sharp beak on him, I’ll tell you!” The ring he’d given back to the Signora after a couple days, “If I remember rightly, it was when she came by the store to look at the jasperstones.” He was supposed to hand the fob over to Giuliano in person, coming by himself to get it, bring the chain: “Yep, that one”: he recognized it perfectly. “That chain, you know the one?” Liliana had said, “You know that chain, Mister Ceccherelli, you remember? The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I want to give that one away as a present. And grandfather’s ring, with the gem, remember? The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand?” Ingravallo showed him the ring as well. “It’s this one, all right: three carats and a little left over. A magnificent water.” He took it, turned it, studied it: held it up against the light: “All the time he said to me, grandpa said: remember, Liliana, that has to stay in the family! You know to whom I mean!” Her grandfather’s word, a holy formula almost for her: that was plain: anyway, she’d repeated it twice, in the shop: “Ain’t I right?”, he asked in the presence of Gallone and Giuseppe Amaldi, who acknowledged with their heads. Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: how the two letters that he was supposed to engrave were linked together, how she wanted the jasperstone to be set: bulging a little from the oval setting: Ceccherelli traced with the nail of his little finger the clean contour of the stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting, and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face. Apart from the jewelers, who were heard in the morning, the Valdarena family and consorts, that is Giuliano’s grandmother, Balducci himself, the pair of aunts from Banchi Vecchi, unca Carlo, auntie Elvira and just about the whole of the relatives, had been thrashing about for the last three days every which way to get a hold on the lifeline and pull him out, Giuliano, from the fix he’d got himself into, poor guy, though he was as innocent as a baby. Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by the head teller of the bank: the Banco di Santo Spirito. According to the bank balance (on the savings account passbooks), it turned out that Liliana had withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January 23: two days before the gift: the one she’d given on the twenty-fifth, at home, when he’d dropped by to visit them, and had found just her. Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana: he’d served her that day: at window eight, beaming paternally. Round about noon. Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: as he was shelling out the ten bills onto the counter – ten big crumby leaves, the leprous kind that’ve been lying in the pants wallet of a goatherd from Passo Fortuna or on a winesplotched bar of some tavern keeper in the Castelli – she’d said, with that velvety voice of hers, and those big, deep eyes: “Please, Sor Cavalli, see if you can’t give me some nice new ones, if you have any: you know I like them sort of clean…”: because she called him Cavalli instead of Del Bo. “Like this?” he’d asked, one hand already stashing away the rags, the other hand pinch- 110 Journal of Italian Translation lo chiamava Cavalli, in luogo di Del Bo. « Così? » le aveva detto lui riponendo i sudici che aveva già in mano: e glie ne mostrava una mazzetta fresca, per aria, come contro luce, presi p’un angolo, che je pencolava dai due diti: «Lustri lustri, guardi!... so’ arrivati propio jeri da la Banca d’Italia: appena sputati fora dar torchio. IJn odorino bono, senta un po’. L’antro jeri mattina ereno ancora a Piazza Verdi. Che? ha paura de li bacilli? Ha raggione!... Una bella signora come lei. » «No, sor Cavalli, è che devo fa un regalo» aveva detto Liliana. «Sposi?» «Sì, sposi» «Dieci fogli da mille è sempre un bel regalo: pure pe li sposi.» «Un cugino: che è come un fratello. Sapesse! je feci quasi da madre, quann’era pupo.» Proprio così aveva detto: lo ricordava perfettamente: lo poteva giurare sul vangelo. «Auguri agli sposi: e a lei pure, signora.» Si ereno stretti la mano. Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due funzionari: poi al dottor Fumi, solo, allorché don Ciccio, verso la mezza, fu tirato a «occuparsi d’altro», preferì «uscire un momento.» In verità, «d’altre pratiche» non ne mancava, sul tavolo. Ché, anzi, il tavolo ne rigurgitava agli scaffali, e questi agli archivi: e gente che saliva e che scegneva, e che aspettava de fora: e chi fumava, chi buttava la sigheretta, chi scatarrava su li muri. Tutto greve e fumoso, il gentile clima del Cacco, in un odorino sincretico un po’ come de caserma o de loggione der teatro Jovinelli: tra d’ascelle e de piedi, e d’altri effluvi ed olezzi più o meno marzolini, ch’era una delizia annasalli. Di «pratiche» ce n’era da gavazzarci, da nuotarci dentro: e gente in anticamera! Madonna! più che ai piedi de la gran torre de Babele. Furono accenni (e meglio che accenni) «di carattere intimo» quelli espediti dal Balducci: parte spontaneamente, si direbbe a scivolo, abbandonatosi il cacciatore—viaggiatore a quella tale specie di logorrea cui si danno vinte certe anime in pena, o un po’ ripentite magari de’ trascorsi loro, non appena sopravvenga la fase di addolcimento, come il livido suole sopravvenire alla botta: di cicatrizzazione post—traumatica: allorché sentono che li raggiunge intanto il perdono, e di Cristo e degli uomini: parte, invece, tiratigli col più soave spago di bocca da una civile dialessi, da un appassionato perorare, da un vivido volger d’occhi, da una traente maieutica e dalla caritatevole papaverina—eroina e della parlata e del gesto, del Golfo e del Vòmero: con azione blanda a un tempo e suasiva, tatràc! da cavadenti di tipo amabile. Ed ecco il dente. Liliana, ormai, s’era fitta in capo che dar marito... non le verrebbero pupi: lo giudicava un buon marito, certo, sotto tutti gli aspetti»: ma d’un bebè in viaggio, che! neanche il presagio. In dieci anni de matrimonio, a momenti, che, che! manco l’inspirazzione: e aveva sposato a ventuno. I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: o lei, o lui. O tutt’e due. Lei? p’esclude che la colpa fosse sua avrebbe dovuto provà con un artro. Glie lo aveva detto anche il professor D’Andrea. Per modo che da quelle delusioni continuate, da quei dieci anni, o quasi, dove aveveno messo così tormentate radici il dolore, l’umiliazione, la disperazione, il pianto, da quegli anni inutili della sua bellezza datavano pure quei sospiri, quei mah! quelle lunghe guardate a Roberto De Lucca 111 ing a fresh wad with two fingers, holding it up against the light, like: “Shiny new, look!… Just yesterday they got here from the Banca d’Italia: just off the press. Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. What, you’re nervous about germs? You’re right!… Pretty lady like you.” “No, Sor Cavalli, it’s just that I’m giving a present”, Liliana had answered. “Newlyweds?” “Yes, newlyweds.” “Ten grand’s always nice to get: especially for a pair of newlyweds.” “A cousin: who’s like a brother. Just think! I practically played the part of mother when he was a baby.” She’d said it just like that: he remembered perfectly: he could swear on the Bible. “My best wishes to the happy couple: and to you too, Signora.” They’d shaken hands. Sunday the 20th, in the morning, more background given by Balducci to the two officers, then to dottor Fumi alone, when don Ciccio, toward half past noon, was prompted to “handle another file”. He preferred to “step out for a moment”. There was indeed no shortage of “other files” on his table. The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets: with people climbing up and stomping down as well as loitering outside: this one smoking, that one flicking away a butt, another hawking phlegm on the walls. All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syncretic little fragrance sort of like a barracks or the upper gallery of the Teatro Jovinelli: ‘tween armpits and feet, and still other perfumes more or less like March cheese, that to get a whiff of was sure bliss. “Files” there were enough to wallow in, to scull around inside: and folks, then, in the hall! Christ! Beat the tower of Babel on a shopping day. Balducci got some hints (and better than hints) of an “intimate nature” off his chest: partly impromptu, spilling out as the sales-and-huntsman surrendered to that sort of logorrhea certain pained or perhaps repentant souls succumb to, as soon as the healing phase sets in, as a bruise succeeds a blow: the phase of post-trauma scar formation when they feel both heaven and mankind have extended pardon; partly, instead, drawn from him with the mildest mouth-twine by affable dialektike, ardent discourse, mobile fervor of eyes, maieutic ingenuity and the charitable anaesthesia of Parthenopean speech and gesture: with the action at once gentle and persuasive, gotcha! of a kindly toothpuller. And here’s the molar. Liliana, by now, had got it into her head that from her husband… that she wasn’t getting any kids out of him. She considered him a good husband, of course, “any way you look at it”, but there wasn’t, you know, the slightest hint of a little bundle on the way. In ten years of marriage, almost, not even a token: and she’d wed at twenty-one. The doctors had laid it on the line: either her or him. Or both. Her? To prove it wasn’t her fault, she would have had to try with another guy. Even Doctor D’Andrea had told her that. So that out of those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain, the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those useless years of her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!… What the 112 Journal of Italian Translation ogni donna, a quelle piene, poi!... chi dice ma, cuore contento non ha... ai bambini, a le belle serve tutte fronzute de sélleri e de spinaci, in della sporta, quanno veniveno da piazza Vittorio, la mattina: o cor mappamondo in aria, inchinate a soffià er naso a un pupetto, o a toccallo, si s’è bagnato fuori ora: ch’è propio allora che je se vede er mejo, a la serva, tutta la salute, tutte le cosce, de dietro: dar momento ch’è de moda che cianno la mutanne corte corte, si pure ce l’hanno. Guardava le ragazze, ricambiava d’un lampo, come una profonda malinconica nota, le guardate ardite dei giovani: una carezza, o una benevola franchia, mentalmente largite ai futuri largitori della vita: a qualunque le paresse portare in sé la certezza, la verità germile, gheriglio del segreto divenire. Era il limpido assenso di un’anima fraterna: a chi delineava il disegno della vita. Ma precipitavano gli anni, l’uno dopo l’altro, dalla loro buia stalla, nel nulla. Da quegli anni, operando la coercizione del costume, il primo palesarsi indi il graduale esasperarsi d’un delirio di solitudine: «raro int’ ‘a femmena», interloquì pianamente iI dottor Fumi: «int’ ‘a femmena romana, poi...»: «semo de compagnia, noi romani, » consentì Balducci: e quel bisogno, tutt’al contrario, di appoggiarsi con l’animo all’altrui fisica immagine, e alla vivida genesia delle genti e dei poveri: quella mania... di regalar lenzuoli doppi alle serve, de faje la dote pe forza, d’incoraggià ar matrlmonio chi nun aspettava de mejo: quela fantasia de volé piagne, poi, e de soffiasse er naso, che je pijava pe giornate sane, povera Lillana, si davero se sposaveno: come je fosse venuta l’invidia, a cose fatte. Un’invidia che je rosicava er fegato: come si l’avessino fatto pe fa dispetto a lei, de sposà, pe poi dije: «Vedi un po’: de quattro mesi c’è già er pupo! Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: un chilo ar mese. » Bastava, certe matine, che un’amica je facesse: «Vedessi che baulle cià Clementina! », pe fasse venì l’occhi rossi. «Una vorta me fece una mezza scena a me, suo marito, p’una ragazza de Soriano ar Cimìno: una contadina ch’era venuta a Roma co la viterbese, a portamme li confetti. “Quela zozzona manco la vojo vede!” strillava. La sposa, povera pupa, arrivò co lo sposo, preceduti da na panza come na mongolfiera a San Giovanni, a li fochi. Diceveno: avemo portato li confetti. Se sa, ereno un po’ imbarazzati. Je feci, ridenno: se vede che tira aria bona sur Cimìno: lei arrossì, abbassò gli occhi sul ventre, come l’Annunziata quanno che l’angelo se mette a spiegaje tutta la faccenda: poi però prese coraggio a risponne: embè, che ce volete fa, sor Balducci? Semo giovini. Avemo preso li passi avanti... Quanno la cratura sarà venuta ar monno, chi se n’aricorda più? si c’era er prete o si nun c’era er prete, á benedicce? Mo stia tranquillo, che semo benedetti tutt’e tre. » Gli anni! come una rosa che sfiori: i petali, uno dopo l’altro... nel nulla. Fu a questo punto, co na faccia color cenere, che Ingravallo domandò licenza: pe motivi di servizio. Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole e carta scritta: disposizioni da dare: telefono. Il dottor Fumi lo seguì con l’occhio, mentre quello si diresse verso l’uscio a capo chino, curve le Roberto De Lucca 113 heart thinks, the tongue speaks… at the babies, at the pretty maids all verdant with chard and spinach, in baskets, coming from Piazza Vittorio in the morning: or with their fannies in the air, bent over to mop some kid’s nose, or poke around, see if he’s wet himself, off schedule: since it’s right then you get a load of her goldmine, that is the maid’s, the whole works, all the thigh from behind: now that it’s the style to wear such skimpy underpants, if they’re even wearing. She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt, despondent signal, the bold glances of young men: a caress or benevolent franchise mentally bequeathed future bequeathers of life: to whoever might bear within him the certainty, the seminal truth, the kernel of secret becoming. The pure assent of a fraternal soul: to those who traced the pattern of life. But out of the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into nothingness. From those years, the constraints of morality, at work, the initial manifestations and hence the gradual deterioration into a delirium of solitude (“rare, in a woman”, dottor Fumi put in gently: “In a Roman woman, then…”: “We’re chummy, we Romans”, Balducci acquiesced): and that entirely contrasting need to depend spiritually on the other’s physical image; upon the vigorous breeding of peoples, of the poor. That mania… for forking out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, pushing folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: and then the whim, that took hold of her for days on end, to want to bawl and blow her nose, poor Liliana, if they actually went ahead and did it: as if pricked by jealousy after the fact. Ate her heart out: like they’d up and married to spite her, just to be able to say: lookee here, four months only and already a kid’s on the way! Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. “Some mornings all it took was some girlfriend saying: You should see the spare tire Clementine’s got on her!”, to give her the sniffles. “Once she almost threw a fit with me, her husband, over some girl from Soriano nel Cimino: country girl’d come down to Rome by train to bring me a piece of the wedding cake. “I don’t even wanna lay eyes on that dirty bitch!” she was screaming. The bride, poor kid, comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the fireworks at San Giovanni. They said: we brought you the wedding cake. Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: I see you’re enjoying the fresh air up there, at Cimìno: she blushes, glances down at her belly, like the Virgin Mary when that angel lays it on the line at the Annunciation: but then she gains her spunk back and says: well, what do you want, Mr. Balducci? We’re young. So we jumped the gun a little… When the kid comes into the world who’s gonna still remember? if the priest was around or wasn’t around, to give his blessing? Not to worry, ‘cause now we’re all three blessed.” The years! like a wasting rose, its petals falling one by one into nothingness. It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to shove off: duty calling. Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced or in writing: orders to impart: telephone. Dottor Fumi followed him from out of the corner of his eye as he moved toward the exit, his head bowed and 114 Journal of Italian Translation spalle, in un’attitudine che sembrò stanca ed assorta: lo vide levar di tasca un pacchetto macedonia, e una sigheretta dal pacchetto, l’ultima, sommerso da chissà quali affanni: l’uscio si richiuse. Don Ciccio, tutta quela storia, gli pareva d’avella saputa già da un pezzo. Le impressioni e i ricordi che il cugino e il marito di Liliana andavano estraendo, in una specie di tormentoso recupero, dal di lei tempo così atrocemente dissolto, gli confermavano Ciò che egli aveva già intuito per proprio conto, sebbene in modo vago, incerto. Pure quell’idea di voler morire, se non le arrivava il bambino: un po’ se l’era «immaginata», don Ciccio, o credeva? pe la conoscenza de la signora Liliana: un po’ era venuta a galla dalle ammissioni del cugino e, ora, dal parlare del marito: fatto loquace dalla disgrazia, e dal sentirsi al centro dell’attenzione e della compassione generale (cacciatore, era! je pareva de tornà co la lepre, fucile a spalla, stivaloni infangati e cani stracchi) e bisognoso de sfogasse, dopo la botta: e discettante a piede libero su la delicatezza dell’animo femminile e, in genere, su quella gran sensitività della donna: che in loro, povere creature! è una cosa diffusa. Il «diffusa» l’aveva letto a Milano, sur Secolo, in un articolo di Maroccus... er dottore der Secolo: finissimo! La postuma cartella clinica de Liliana venne poi integrata dalla pietà delle amiche e delle beneficate: orfanelle che piagneveno, moniche der Sacro Core che nun piagneveno, perch’ereno sicure ch’era già in Paradiso, a quell’ora, lo poteveno giurà: e zi’ Marletta e zi’ Elvira in gramaglie, e un paro d’altre zIe, de li Banch1 Vecchi, pure piuttosto nere pure loro: e conoscenze diverse, ivi computando la contessa Teresa (la Menecacci) e donna Manuela Pettacchioni, oltre a quarche altra gentile casigliana der ducentodicinnove: le due terne antagoniste: l’Elodia, la Enea Cucco, la Giulietta Frisoni (scala B), da una parte, e da quell’artra la Cammarota, la Bottafavi e l’Alda Pernetti (scala A), che ciaveva pure er fratello, che contava per altre sei. Femmine tutte, a sensibbilità diffusa, dunque: benché de quela sorta che Liliana... se le teneva a la larga. Una diffusa e delicata ovaricità, propio così, je permeava a tutte lo stelo dell’anima: come antiche essenze, nella terra e nei prativi della Marsica, lo stelo d’un fiore: premute lungamente a poi esplodere in der soave profumo d’ ‘a corolla; che la su’ corolla de loro, viceversa, era er naso, che se lo poteveno soffià quanto je pareva. Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del non—confiteor: che il dottor Fumi elicitò in quei giorni a una memore analisi, col tatto e col garbo che lo distinsero lungo tutta una operosa carriera (e l’hanno fatto oggi, meritato premio! sottoprefetto de Lucunaro adnuente Gaspero: cioè no, mejo ancora! de Firlocca, un sitarello delizioso, dove ha tutto l’agio di far valere tutte le sue qualità) e co chella calda voce... quella che lo dava subbito presente, prima ancora der campanello (stanza numero quattro), agli orecchi d’ogni brigadiere e d’ogni ladro, non appena mettesse piede in ufficio . Roberto De Lucca 115 shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him pull a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The door closed behind him. Don Ciccio sensed he’d already known it for a while, that whole story. What he’d already vaguely grasped on his own was confirmed for him by the impressions and recollections that Liliana’s cousin and husband, in a sort of recuperative agony, were in the process of dragging out of her so atrociously voided days. Even that notion of wanting to die if no kid came: a bit of it had been his “imagination,” (or perhaps belief, through his acquaintance with Signora Liliana); a bit had surfaced from the cousin’s disclosures. And now from the talk of the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his sense of being at the center of attention and collective commiseration (A hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds), needing to get it off his chest after the blow: and holding forth, untrammeled, on the delicacy of the female spirit and that extreme sensitiveness of women in general: which in them, poor things, is widespread. That widespread he’d picked up in Il Secolo, an article in the Milan paper by Maroccus… the medical correspondent for Il Secolo: a brain! Liliana’s posthumous case history was then rounded out by the compassion of her female friends and beneficiaries: crying orphans, Sacred Heart nuns, dry-eyed because they’d cross their hearts she was already in heaven, and auntie Elvira in weeds, plus a couple of other aunts from Banchi Vecchi, pretty black also: and miscellaneous acquaintances, figuring in the countess Teresa (Bigazzi) and milady Manuela Pettachioni, plus some other gentle women tenants at two hundred nineteen: the two rival triads made up of the Elodia woman, Enea Cucco and Giulietta Frisoni (B stairs), on one side, and from that other the Cammarota woman, Mrs. Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti (stairway A), whose brother counted for an extra six. Females all, demonstrating that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: though of that sort which Liliana… kept at arm’s length. A widespread and delicate ovarianism, that’s the word, impregnated, in all of them, the soul’s stem, like ancient essences in the earth and fallow fields of the Marsica might the stem of a flower: pressed at length until they burst in the perfume of the corolla; but their corolla consisting of the nose, that they could blow to their hearts’ content. Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn pallor of their reticence and the purple of the non-confiteor which dottor Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy and tact which set him apart during the whole of a long and busy career (the just reward of which, today, is his nomination to the position of sub-prefect of Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: no, sorry, better still, of Firlocca, delightful little spot where his manifold qualities find more than ample range) and with that warm voice… which announced him, right off the bat, even before the buzzer (room number four), to the ears of every corporal or criminal, as soon as he’d set foot in the office. 116 Journal of Italian Translation “Dentro il silenzio c’è troppo rumore”, oil on canvas. English Translationsof Poems by Giorgio Roberti by John DuVal and Louise Rozier The Academy of American Poets granted John DuVal the 1992 Harold Morton Landon Translation Award for his translation of Cesare Pascarella’s The Discovery of America. He received a 1999-2000 NEA for his translation of a play by Adam le Bossu. His latest book of translations is From Adam to Adam: Seven Old French Plays, with Raymond Eichmann and published by Pegasus Press, which will republish an expanded edition of their Fabliaux Fair and Foul at the end of this year. He directs the Program in Literary Translation at the University of Arkansas. Louise Rozier directs the Italian Program at the University of Arkansas. Her translation of Fortunato Pasqualino’s Il giorno che fui Gesù (The Little Jesus of Sicily), published by the University of Arkansas Press in 1999, was awarded the 1996 PEN Renato Poggioli Translation Award. She is the author of the monograph Il mito e l’allegoria nella narrativa di Paola Masino, published by the Edwin Mellen Press in 2004. Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and president for thirty years of the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry. Among many awards, his ‘na zeppa a l’occhio (A Stick in the Eye) won the Premio Nazionale di Poesia “Roma” and the Premio Internazionale per la Satira, and his Antiche farmacie romane won the Premio Internazionale di saggistaca. His 1974 translation into Romanesco of Er Vangelo seconno S. Marco has been much praised and often reprinted. After his death in November, 2002, a special issue of the magazine Romanità was dedicated to him. Note on translation G.G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth century, gave an example for Italian poets with his sonnets that showed how dialect could convey the energy of conversation more effectively than standard language. We translators of dialect into English in the United States do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our verse sound like people talking. This would seem impossible for A Stick in the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his deft details and his sudden shifts of style, and makes translating his poem a pleasure, though difficult. 118 Journal of Italian Translation GIORGIO ROBERTI Sonnets from ‘na zeppa al’occhio XXXVI L’offerta der vino Ulisse allora ritentò un approccio co un quartarolo in mano, ormai deciso a nisconne le fregne in un soriso. Dice:--Mó ch’ai magnato ce vò un goccio... Senti che marvasia de paradiso che t’avevo portata dentro ar còccio... E quello, ingarbujato, poro boccio, pe’ tre vorte arzò er gommito sur viso. Poi disse: “Er vino mio sarà gajardo perché ogni vaga d’uva è un palloncino tale e quale a ‘na palla de bijardo, ma ringrazzianno Bacco e a falla breve, si da le parti vostre c’è ‘sto vino quella è ‘na Grecia Magna... perchè beve! XXXVII La sborgna der cicròpe E siccome la coppa era un vascone come quello der Moro in Agonale, ce se prese una sborgna, uno sborgnone che nisuna osteria n’ha visto uguale. Poi guardò Ulisse e fece: --E naturale che devo ripagà la bòna azzione. Come te chiami? Nottola senz’ale? Gnappetta? Tappo? Càccola? Cojone? --Io so’ Nessuno... e pò giurallo ognuno! ---Okei, pe’ ricambià quer che m’hai dato me te pappo urtimo, Nessuno!-- John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 119 GIORGIO ROBERTI Sonnets from A Stick in the Eye (‘na zeppa a l’occhio) Situation: the Cyclops has Ulysses and his men trapped in his cave and has already gobbled down six of them. XXXVI The Gift of Wine Ulysses approached him when the snack was done, grinning hard to hide a twitch of fear, cradling a jug above his hip bone: “Here! Here’s a drop to wash your breakfast down. Here, taste. It’s from the paradisal stock we brought here for you. That’s why the jug’s so big.” A little confused, the poor brute took a swig... another swig..., and swallowed the whole crock, then said, “My wines were pretty strong I thought, because each grape is bigger than a billiard ball, but let’s praise Bacchus for the stuff you brought, sailing over the wine dark sea. You call your country Greater Greece, because you dine on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine!” XXXVII The Cyclops Blind Drunk And since the crock was really more a tub, an “Agonale Basin with the Moore,” he got so stinking drunk, a tavern, pub, or barroom never saw the like before, then, looking at Ulysses, said, “Hey you, one good deed deserves another. Tell me what your name is. Pigmy? Corky Screw? Mouse Pill? Mosquito? Tommy Tinkerbell?” --”I’m No One. Anyone will swear I am.” --”Okay, then for your gift of wine, you’ve won first prize: you’ll be the last I eat, No One.” 120 Journal of Italian Translation --Grazzie, gigante da le spalle tozze, ma dimme: sei zitello o sei sposato? --Io pe’ la scapolanza vado a nozze!-- XXXVIII Er cicròpe s’abbiocca E detto questo prese la rincorza verso un branco de pecore lì appresso, ma fece un giravorta su sé stesso uguale a un picchio quanno perde forza. E mentre sbarellava come un fesso sentiva ne lo stommaco una morza de cacio, vino, stracci e ciccia borza, assieme co ‘na voja d’annà ar cesso. Poi, tutt’un bòtto, pòro babbalèo, cascò de peso tale e quale a un toro che scapicolli giù dar Colosseo. Eppoi senza ritegno nè decoro mentre finiva in braccio de Morfeo se vommitava... li mortacci loro! XXXIX Er sorteggio der quartetto de... punta Sùbbito Ulisse riattizzò sur fòco la punta de quer palo..., e, appena pronta, disse: -- Regazzi, fate un po’ de conta pe’ decide tra voi chi fa ‘sto gioco!-Ma quelli incominciorno, a poco a poco, a chièdeje l’esonero e, pe’ gionta, chi prometteva svànziche all’impronta, chi vantava amicizzie in arto loco... Tanto che quanno fu a la concrusione, com’è come nun è vennero fòra li quattro stronzi senza protezzione. John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti --”Thanks, Mr. Shoulders-like-a-battering-ram. But are you single? Do you have a wife?” --”Who, me? I’m hitched. Hitched to the single life.” XXXVIII The Cyclops Lies Down Having said that, the Cyclops turned around and headed unsteadily over toward a huddle of ewes and lambs nearby, then spun a little the way a top wobbles when it slows down, and halfway through another off-balance lurch across the cave, his stomach felt the press of sheep cheese, rich wine, fat meat, and a mess of chewed up clothing, with a sudden urge to run to the bathroom. Then the poor fool fell, fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut in the Colosseum at a festival. Down now, without good timing or decor, drifting off in Morpheus’s boat, he vomited their dead friends on the floor. XXXIX The Chosen Four Ulysses grabbed the pole and in the flame twirled the sharp point. “Okay, boys, he said, “we’re going to have to make a choice: which of you is staying in this game?” But one by one his soldiers got loquacious. They wanted out. Some promised they were able to slip him a little gift beneath the table; and others talked about friends in high places. Like it or like it not, when all talk ended, all that the lottery threw up were four pathetic bastards no one ever protected. 121 122 Journal of Italian Translation E Ulisse, ner vedesseli in ginocchio, strillò: -- Forza, perdio, nun vedo l’ora de cecallo, così ce perde... d’occhio!-XL L’accecamento der gigante Schizzofatto li quattro der drappello mirato all’occhio diedero l’affono, mentre Ulisse, incazzato e furibbonno, girava er palo come un carosello. Sùbbito quer vurcano moribbonno sputò brandelli d’occhio dar cervello e fece un urlo che sembrò un appello da fà aggriccià la pelle a tutto er monno. E mentre Lui strillava la natura diventava rugosa e penzierosa: s’increspava de monti la pianura. Tanto che a quer mutà de giografia più d’una stella fissa, luminosa, se trasformò in cometa e scappò via. XLI Ariveno li cuggini der gigante L’artri cicròpi, già piazzati a séde, pe’ fasse ‘na scopetta e ‘no spuntino, se chiesero: “Che avrà nostro cuggino?” E detto fatto je l’annorno a chiède. “A Polifé, che fai? Che te succede? Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino? Com’è che tenghi chiuso er portoncino e fai der tutto pe’nun fatte vède?” E Lui: “E’ Nessuno che me fa der male... Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno, tutto er punto de vista personale...” “Ma nun ciavrài li vermi o l’orecchioni?” “V’ho detto ch’è... Nessuno!” “Si è nessuno sta zitto e nun ce rompe li cojoni!” John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti There they knelt. “Now I can’t wait to bust his eye out, men,” he yelled, “so make sure this will be the last he sees of us!” XL The Giant Blinded The four flag bearers aimed, charged, planted, ground the long shaft deep into the cyclops’ socket. Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round. At once that moribund volcano hurled forth great eye fragments and little wads of jell out of his monster brain. He yelled a yell enough to raise goose pimples on the world. As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned, wrinkling her great face, and started to stir and raised up mountains from the level ground. Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped, many a luminous, uneasy star turned into a comet and escaped. XLI The Giant’s Cousins Arrive The other cyclopes had come to town to snack and have a card game. One said, “Wasn’t that Poliphemo?”--”Yeah! What’s with our cousin?”-And they ran to find out what was going on. --”Hey, Poliphemo! Hey! Are you all right? Who’s got you crying like a little kid? Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid yourself away from us and out of sight?” And him: “No One has caused me all this pain. No One, god damn it! Goddamn No One’s taken all of my personal point of view away.” --”What is it, cousin, worms? Ear ache? Migraine?” “I already told you: No One!” --”No one? Then, hey, shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching.” 123 124 Journal of Italian Translation XLII Li cicròpi soccoritori se ne vanno scocciati E mentre quelli, ormai pe’ le campagne, se n’annavano via de gran cariera, Ulisse fece ar mostro: -- Aspetta e spera..., nun ciài nemmanco l’oculo pe’ piagne! --E’ vero, l’occhio è ‘na caverna nera e ancora sento er palo che lo sfragne, le lacrime però nun sò taccagne e ne tengo, perdio, ‘n’acquasantiera! Ma tu che ciài l’occhietti sopra ar viso e guardi er celo, sai chi sò le stelle? Sò Cicròpi che stanno in Paradiso! E le stelle me dicheno: “Pastore, coraggio! Pe’ guidà le pecorelle nun te serveno l’occhi, abbasta er còre!”-- John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 125 XLII The Helpful Cyclopes Clump Off Now that the giant’s neighbors and relations were hurrying back to the farm yards where they lived, Ulysses said to the monster, “Hope and have patience! You don’t even have an eye for crying with.” --”It’s true. The eye I had is a black cave, and I still feel the stick that burst it open, but I can’t stop tears, and tears, by God, I have-enough to fill a holy water fountain. But you, who have a face that’s got two eyes, and see the sky, do you know what stars are? They’re cyclopes who’ve gone to Paradise. Those stars are saying to me, ‘Shepherd, keep your courage up, because for herding sheep eyes don’t matter: all you need is heart.’” Roberti’s note to Sonnet XXXVII: “The Agonale Basin with the Moor is the basin of the Fountain of the Moor in Piazza Navona, completed by Bernini, who designed the statue of the Ethiopian in the center of the fountain.” English Translations of Poems by Cesare Fagiani by Gil Fagiani Gil Fagiani co-hosts the monthly open reading of the Italian American Writers’ Association at the Cornelia Street Café. He has published two poetry chapbooks: “Crossing 116th Street: A Blanquito in El Barrio,” by Skidrow Penthouse, and “Rooks,” by Rain Mountain Press. In 2005, he won an “Honorable Mention” for both the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and the Bordighera Prize. Gil’s translations include the poetry of three North African immigrants living in Italy due to be published in a Bilingual Anthology of Italian Migrant Poetry edited by Luigi Bonaffini and Mia Lecomte. Born in Lanciano, Cesare Fagiani (1901-1965) was considered one of Abruzzo’s leading poets from the 1930s to the 1960s. His poetry has been included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and national magazines and newspapers. In 1951, he won first prize along with Alfredo Luciani, at the first Modesto Della Porta Convention of Abruzzese Poetry. His principal works include: Luna nove (New Moon), 1949, Stamme e sentì (Stay With Me and Listen), 1954, Fenestre aperte (Open Windows), 1966, and Teatro abruzzese di Cesare Fagiani, (Cesare Fagiani’s Abruzzese Theater), 1961. Note on translation The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese, that is the language of Lanciano, a city of 30,000 inhabitants in Abruzzo. Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in order to obtain the full flavor of a particular word or expression. A second challenge stemmed from the fact that many of the poems I’ve worked on were written more than 70 years ago. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. Therefore, for the sake of accuracy, I’ve had to seek out and consult with people fluent in Lancianese who are in their 70s and 80s. In this regard, I’ve had the good fortune to be given a rare Abruzzese dictionary, Vocabulario abruzzese, by Nicola De Archangelo, published in 1930, by one of the daughters of the poet I translated. La gente -- A monte nen ci i’: ci sta lu foche! A destre nen yutà’: ci sta lu vente! A manche truve l’acque che t’affoche! Soltante arrete va o puramente statte ‘nchiuvate proprie addò ti truve! -Cuscì la gente dice se ti smuve. Ma tu ne le sentì’ che la campane: sinte lu core, ride e va luntane! Amore e cante Amore, ti facesse ‘na canzone, une di quille a foche martellate, turnite gna si deve e rimpastate di note arillucinte di passione. P’ avè’ chiù tempe a fa’ ‘na cosa bbone ci jasse, ‘n cuscïenze, carciarate, nen ci durmesse pe’ ‘na ‘nter’ annate pecchè la notte chiù sa dà’ lu tone! E queste nom pecchè i’ stenghe in vene di farme, come tante, lu bbelline ma sole pe’ cantarte a vocia piene nu mutivette nove, proprie fine, pe’ dire ca pecchè ti vojje bbene ‘stu core è diventate cantarine. Discurse d’amore Quande credeme ca nïente chiù ci sta da dire pe’ che la jurnate allore... parle i’ ca parle tu... n’ atru discorse è pronte ‘ntavulate. E che diceme? Cose ariccuntate, ditte e riditte sole tra di nû duvente, pecchè sème ‘nnammurate, cose che vale chiù di lu Perù. Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani People -- Keep away from the mountain: there’s fire! Don’t turn to the right: there’s wind over there! Over towards the left there’s water, you’ll drown! Only go backwards or even better stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! -So say the people if you try to move. But it’s best not to listen to those bells: listen to your heart, laugh and travel far! Love and song My love, I would compose for you a song one of those hammered and forged in fire, polished the way it should be and blended with notes that are shiny and passionate. To find time to make something beautiful maybe I would even go to prison, and wouldn’t sleep for an entire year because night time brings on such a somber tone! And I’d do this not out of vanity like so many others do, my darling but just to sing to you in a full voice a sweet little melody, spanking new, to say that because of my love for you this heart of mine has become a songsmith. Love Talk Whenever we believe there’s nothing more that could possibly be said for the day then first ... I speak and afterwards you speak ... and we’re ready to shoot the breeze some more. And what do we say? Things already told said and resaid just between me and you becomes for us, because we are in love, things that have greater value than Perù. 129 130 Journal of Italian Translation Chiù l’accuntème e chiù ve’ lu vulìe di dirle pecchè sempre cagne tone e si fa bbelle ogne fessarìe, pecchè, quande ci sta la passïone, pure ‘na chiacchiarelle che si sie è pe’ lu core come ‘na canzone! La vita mé La vita mé: nu ciele annuvelate, nu vente ‘ngustïose, nu garbine, ‘na ruvenella d’acque cuncrïate pi tirà ‘nnenze sempre tra le spine! Nu ciele che te’ spesse nu cavute che certe vote fa da fenestrelle: di jorne, a nu serene di vellute; di notte, a ‘na sguardate di ‘na stelle. Nu vente che, a vote, se s’appose mi lande tra le pide la pampujje; di bbone che ci truve?... Di ‘na rose ‘na fronna solamente ci - ariccujje! ‘Na ruvanelle che, pur’ esse a vote, lande la macchie de la pecuntrìe e va, senza ‘mbrattarse ‘nche la lote, cantenne sole esse pé la vie. Lu cante A chi nen cante chiù si fa sciapite lu sense de la vite. A chi chiù cante pijje chiù sapore la voce de lu core. Cuncette I Cuncè, troppe fucante è ssa suttane che fa sciò - llà - sciò - n qua quande camine! Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani The more we tell them the more we desire to tell them because every foolishness improves the sound and becomes beautiful because a little chat already known is like a familiar song to the heart! My Life My life: cloudy sky, an annoying wind, a Southern wind, a brooklet of water gathering to go ahead always among the thorns! A sky that often has a hole that at certain times makes like a small window: at daytime, a velvet serenity; at nighttime, a glance of a star. A wind that, sometimes, if it stops leaves the dry leaves by my feet; What do you find that is good? Of a rose the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf! A brooklet, even that at times, leaves the stains of melancholy and goes, without getting dirty with mud, singing all by itself along the way. The Song To those who no longer sing, the spirit of life is tasteless To those who sing more, the voice of the heart gets more flavor Concetta I Concetta, your petticoat is too hot swinging every which way as you walk! 131 132 Journal of Italian Translation N’ avaste le papambre di ‘stu grane a mette’ foche all’arie ‘sta mmatine? Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane: mi te’ ffà’ troppe vènte ssa pedane! Cuncette, scì bbendette, pecchè schèppe? Quanta dispitte ti pô fa nu streppe e quante foche vive chiù s’ accampe dentr’ a ‘stu core che già te’ la lampe! II E vie!... Fa chiù piane gna camine se no le pieghe ‘n te ricasche bbone! Le trijje si scampane, Cuncettine, nen tirà’ ‘nnenze gne ‘na sciambricone! Mi sfronne le papambre bbone bbone ssu passe che nen vo’ capì’ rraggione! Pe’ ssu passe le morre fanne a truzze, si scòtele e ti jèttene la ruzze. La ruzze di... ‘stu core e di... ssu grane po’ fa perdì’ lu pregge a ssa suttane! Lanciane Bande e campane! Ecche Lanciane: sopra tre còlle tra sole e stelle nche la Maielle quase vicine e nu strapizze all’ atru pizze fatte di mare. Ecche ‘sta care Lanciana mé proprie addò sta. Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani Aren’t the poppies in this field enough to set the air on fire this morning? Concetta, step more softly as you go: your hem is stirring up the air too much! Concetta, my God, why are you running? A thorn bush could cause you so much trouble and how much more intense the fire grows inside my heart that’s already in flames! II Go ahead! ... Take it easy as you walk or the folds of your dress will not fall right! The needlework will vanish, Concetta, don’t carry on as if you are tipsy! You’re trampling on all these lovely poppies and you don’t want to listen to reason! You’re making the ears of wheat strike each other, they’re being shaken up and resent it. The resentment ... of my heart and ... these ears makes your petticoat lose all its worth! Lanciano Bands and bells! This is Lanciano: on top of three hills in between the sun and stars with the Maiella almost near and a drop to the other side made of sea. Here is my dear Lanciano exactly the way it is. 133 134 Journal of Italian Translation Bomme e campane! Ecche Lanciane: orte e ciardine, chiese e funtane, genta frentane, cante e camine, core a la mane, cipolle e pane ma... coccia ‘n terre!... Pure la guerre!... Ne j’ tuccà’ la libbertà Neve Tutt’arruffate e nche chell’ucchietille annacquanite, chelu passerette sott’a chela nenguente, puvirette, guardè’ lu ciele e ci jettè’ nu strille. Cerchè pietà a li Sente e a l’Angelille pe’ nen fa’ nengue almene a chelu tette? Pure nu San Franscesche, scià bbendette, da che sta ‘n ciele chiù nen pense a cille! Zampogne Cale la neve e sente nu scapiste; è proprie esse: è lu scupinare che, quand’ ere quatrale, appena viste pe’ me ere ‘na feste senza pare! Ma coma va? Se un - è la scupine e un - è la canzone che si cante pecchè, pecchè se l’anne chiù camine chiù che la feste luce entr’ a lu piante? Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani Fireworks and bells! This is Lanciano: gardens and parks, churches and fountains, Frentane people, songs and walks heart in their hand, onions and bread but...head to the ground!... Even the war! Don’t touch their liberty! Snow All ruffled and with those tiny eyes soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow under that snowfall, wretched little thing, looked up at the sky and gave out a cry. He looked for pity from saints and angels at least to keep the snow off of the roof? Even a Saint Francis, blessed be, since he’s in heaven thinks no more of birds. Bagpipes Snow falls and I hear the sound of footsteps; it is really him, it is the piper that, when I was a kid, just seeing him for me was a good time beyond compare! But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe and the other one -- is the song one sings why, why, do the oncoming years go by more than the festival shines through my tears? 135 English Translations of Poems by Davide Rondoni by Gregory Pell Gregory Pell teaches Italian language, literature and cinema at Hofstra University (NY). He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. Recently, he has published a book on cinematic and holographic images in Eugenio Montale’s poetry. Poet, essayist, playwright, translator and editor, Davide Rondoni is one of contemporary Italy’s most active and diversified writers. His contribution to literature includes his recent founding of the Centro di Poesia Contemporanea (Università di Bologna) and his continuous participation in the journal clanDestino, of which he is founder and director. In these capacities, Rondoni has his finger on the pulse of Italian poetry. Spanning 20 years, Rondoni’s own poetic activity, which reflects such influences as Rimbaud, Luzi, Testori, Bigongiari and Caproni, has most recently culminated in the works Avrebbe amato chiunque (2003) and Il veleno, l’arte (2004). Rondoni’s awards are numerous and his poetry is recognized in translation in such countries as France, Spain, the United States and Russia. T he difficulty in translating Rondoni’s poetry is not the result of an elaborate or opulent use of language; nor is it necessarily a result of a reliance on impenetrable slang or idiom. Rather the difficulty can be attributed to his capturing the immediacy of the contexts around him in a language that is exceedingly organic and expressed through a rhythm that causes the poetry to seem meditated or uttered under the poet’s breath. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled and unnecessary: his poetic language seems so simple that I am almost tempted to overjustify my role by implying things in my rendition that were not implied in the original. Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, culturallinguistic differences arise. Rondoni employs the banality of a key term like “autogrill” (in one of his most well-known poems, “Bartolomeo”) which cannot be rendered in English in one word: ‘rest area’, ‘service area’, and ‘highway reststop’ are too clumsy to be poetic. One could say the same thing for the use of “benzinai” in the same poem: “filling station attendants,” “gas station attendants”, or “gas attendants” take away from the terseness and the musicality. I chose the latter, for it was the shortest version I could find to emulate the syllabation, without overlooking the suggestiveness of gasoline found in “benzinai.” Third, there remains the task of capturing the vagaries and contingencies of intonation: Rondoni’s is a poetry that must – perhaps Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni 137 more so than others – be spoken aloud, as it follows broken rhythm and unfixed, uneven lineation reminiscent of Luzi’s poetry, which is, likewise, full of deliberate horizontal tabulations. Rondoni’s poetry, then, is deceptively plain, so my role is to take the ordinary Italian and marry it to a corresponding syntax, replete with Rondoni’s deliberate lack of punctuation, in an English version. Rondoni’s primary insistence on the tabulation of verses and the positioning of certain types of words at the end of each verse demands it. Yet, how does one translate a poetry that sounds like the manifestation of a man’s contemplations, or his remarks about life as it happens around him? How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a word that simultaneously exists as the beginning of a new thought as much as it exists as a continuation of a previous thought? At best, one can listen to Rondoni intone his own verses; but even if solutions presented themselves in such a reading, I would have to betray the written verse and that could violate the very primacy of Rondoni’s original, albeit unusual, choices for his verse delineations. 138 Journal of Italian Translation New York (Avrebbe amato chiunque) I. Central Park, fine autunno, alberi di seta elettrica e color sangue nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono si aprono poi piano che si spengono, ombra che sta venendo, aria che si oscura. E inizia a splendere la corona ghiacciata dei grattacieli sulla folla più cupa nelle strade. Io chiedo a Oonagh: perché tieni i capelli così, grigi a trent’anni. Ma lei ballando muove la cenere della testa e gli occhi celesti impensabili fa un cerchio magico a Manhattan, fa di sé un incendio e apre braccia, remi, ali nell’oceano delle voci della sera. Senti che grida di barche invisibili. Nella baia nera. II. Cosa succede in questa poesia? succede che ti vedo aprire il frigorifero e in quel bagliore sul viso ecco i ventagli luminosi, il tempo e ti vedo un po’ bevuta e disperata in modo fantastico lanciare dalle gallerie della casa dove dormono le tue bambine Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni New York I. Central Park, autumn’s end, trees of electric silk and blood hues in the sky’s cold blue that rise up proffer themselves then slowly they relent, shadow in its becoming, air as it dims. And it starts, the frosty crown of the skyscrapers, to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets. I ask Oonagh: why do you keep your hair like that, grey at thirty. But dancing she moves her head’s cinders and those inconceivable azure eyes she forms a magic circle in Manhattan, she sets herself ablaze and opens arms, oars, wings into the ocean that is the evening’s voices. You hear the shouts from invisible boats. In the dark bay. II. What is it that happens in this poem? it happens that I see you open the refrigerator and in that flash on your face suddenly luminous fans, time and I see you a bit tipsy and wonderfully desperate cast from the balconies of the house where your little girls sleep your cry that emanates in the fog: 139 140 Journal of Italian Translation il richiamo che dirama nella nebbia: «sono solo una donna che passa le voci di bocca in bocca, solo una traduttrice con le sue figlie, lasciate l’ira che rade le parole dal viso, lasciate o ci farete tutti morire» e mentre tace il buio di alti cristalli di banche e l’ombra in grandi moschee, in uffici deserti viene la risposta da un punto invisibile del porto o da che battello, da che vagone che trema nella sera su una pianura d’Europa o da un uomo solo al volante, sirene lunghe che si cercano, le voci di chi non si vede in questo viaggio di sete, di appunti strappati su biglietti, di riconoscenza... Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo) Quando anche tu ti fermerai in questo grande autogrill e il viso stancovedrai rapido sui vetri, sull’alluminio del banco, sarà una sera come questa che nel vento rompe la luce e le nubi del giorno, sarà un grande momento: lo sapremo io e te soli. Ripartirai con un lieve turbamento, quasi un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti, dei benzinai, dei loro berretti, sentirai alle tue spalle leggero divenire un canto. La felicità del tempo è dirti sì, ci sei, una forza segreta uno sgomento ti fa, non la mia Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni “I’m just a woman who passes voices from one mouth to another, just a translator with her daughters, let go of the ire that cancels words from your face, let go or you’ll cause us to die” and while the darkness of tall-paned banks hushes and the shadow in imposing mosques, in empty offices the reply comes from an invisible point in the harbor or from some barge, from some rail car shaking through the night over a European plain or from a man alone at the wheel, drawn out sirens [seeking each other, the voices of the unseen on this journey of thirst, of notes scattered over tickets, of gratitude... Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo) And when you too will pause in this vast highway rest-area and see your face flash onto the glass of the metal counter, it will be an evening like this one where the wind breaks up the day’s light and passing clouds, it will be a wondrous moment: only you and I will get it. You’ll take your leave again with slight agitation, almost a memory and the silence of display shelves, of gas attendants, their caps, all will be turned lightly to song behind you. The joy of time’s passing is telling you: yes, you’re really there, a secret force, a consternation creates you, 141 142 Journal of Italian Translation giovinezza che cede, non l’età matura, non il mio invecchiamento la nostra vera somiglianza è là dove non si vede. Mio figlio, mio viaggiatore, sarà il tuo inferno, la tua virtù questo udito da cane o da angelo che sente al’unisono il giro dei pianeti e la pastiglia cadere nel bicchiere due piani sotto, dove due vecchi si accudiscono. Sarà questo amore strepitoso tuo padre, quello vero. Fermati ancora in questo autogrill, dal buio mi piacerà rivederti… A Giuseppe Ungaretti, visto di notte alla televisione leggere «I fiumi» (Il bar del tempo) Non ho fiumi io, non ho mai vissuto sporgendo il volto sull’acqua che quieta o vorticosa taglia la città, nobilita o nel gorgo ruba via tutti i pensieri. Non ho avuto gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole il lume della mente, addormentando. Ho avuto viali, strade larghe, rumorose, il getto alto di tangenziali, braccia aperte di povera madre vene da cui entra in città ogni genere di roba. Ho avuto viali d’alberi o rapide vertigini tra l’acciaio di pareti e vetro oscuro. Il caos Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni 143 not my waning youth, not the mature years, not my growing old – our resemblance lies in the unseen. My son, my traveler, your hell, your virtue might be your dog-like or angel-like hearing that detects the turning of the planets and a pill falling into a cup two floors below, where two seniors citizens attend to each other. This roaring love will be your father, your real one. Stop off for a spell in this highway rest-area, from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again... To G. Ungaretti seen at night on the TV reading “I fiumi” (Il bar del tempo) Myself, I have no rivers, I’ve never lived leaning my face over the still or turbulent water that carves the city, ennobling us or stealing our thoughts in an eddy. I’ve never had terraced rocks, outstretched over which to dampen my mind’s wick, dozing under the sun. I had avenues, wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories of by-passes, the open arms of a poor mother veins through which all sorts of things come into the city. I had tree-lined avenues or swift bouts of vertigo between steel walls and tinted glass. Chaos Journal of Italian Translation 144 li rende identici, sotto la pioggia sono l’inferno, sono frenetici. Ma la notte, quando cade la notte si ridisegnano, viali nuovi d’ombra e di solitudine, quando li illumina il lento collo dei lampioni e lo spegnersi delle ultime réclame. Si muovono allora leggermente, ramificano, forse rotea un poco tutta la città; qualcuno finisce in faccia a un castello, a una cattedrale, altri smuoiono sotto i fari arancio di un nodo autostradale i viali la notte respirano con le foglie dei platani, larghe, nere, le grate dei metró e l’aria nenia che dorme sui bambini. Tirano il fiato quando va il passeggero dell’ultimo tram I viali mi danno una vita speciale, che non è pianto e allegria non è, ma una ventosità, un andare ancora andare che viene da chissà che mari, da quali valli, da grandi fiumi. Cosa c’era là fuori (Avrebbe amato chiunque) Cosa c’era là fuori, che vuoto o che cielo in quel vuoto, che notte il fuoco tirava giú tutto Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni renders them indistinguishable, under the rain they are hell, they are frenetic. But during the night, when night does come, they recast themselves, new avenues shadowy, lonely avenues, when tall streetlamps illuminate them and the latest adverts fade out. Then they move delicately, branching, perhaps the whole city turns on itself; some end at a castle, others at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath the orange lights of a highway junction – the avenues breath in the night with their wide black plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby sleeping over the children. They draw a breath as the last trolley passenger takes his leave – The avenues offer me a special life, one that’s neither tears nor joy but a breeziness, a sense of moving on and on that comes from who knows what seas or valleys, from great rivers. What’s outside there? (Avrebbe amato chiunque) What’s outside, there what nothingness or what a sky in that nothingness, what a night the fire pulled down everything destroyed everything stealing your breath. 145 146 Journal of Italian Translation e rompeva togliendovi il fiato. Cosa c’era dove hai lanciato il tuo bambino il vuoto del quarto piano, o che vento, che fiato che oro, che affido di vita nel buio per salvar lui via via, in un respiro. E mentre lui cadeva tu bruciavi maternamente. Ma le tue braccia alla finestra prima di tornare al carbone e alla memoria furono comete, ponti di Brooklyn d’amore nella notte in periferia di Milano. E io te le ho prese, signora, lascia le braccia a questo ballo lontano, alla musica che io e te da due sponde nell’ombra per sempre sentiamo. Pietà di Michelangelo, vagone (Avrebbe amato chiunque) Quando si torna da Roma gallerie si devono passare, molti bui, lampi, strane fratture della luce. E i silenzi del corpo in questi treni veloci È difficile riconoscere il proprio volto nel lampo che lo fotografa sul vetro, gli occhi al magnesio degli anni. Il tizio che per tutto il viaggio fissa la borsa chiusa di fronte a sé, la ragazza coi capelli colorati e il labbro forato Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni What was there where you [hurled your baby the nothingness of the fourth floor, oh what wind, what breath what gold, trust in life itself in the dark but to save him away away from there, in a gasp. And as he fell you burned maternally. But your arms on the windowsill before turning back to carbon and in a recollection were comets, Brooklyn bridges of love in the night outside of Milan. And I have taken them [from you, lady, leave those arms to this faraway dance, to the music that I and you from two shores in the shadows eternally share. Michelangelo’s Pietà, train car (Avrebbe amato chiunque) Upon returning from Rome, tunnels must be traveled, many dark, flashes, odd fractures of light. And the body’s silences in these fast trains It’s hard to recognize one’s own face in the flash that photographs it onto the glass, magnesium eyes from over the years. The guy who for the whole trip stares at the sealed bag in front of him, the girl with the dyed hair and a pierced lip who wants to tell her life story to a stranger. 147 148 Journal of Italian Translation che vuole raccontare la sua vita ad un estraneo. E l’altro, brutto, gonfio di medicinali, il cappello tirato sulla calvizie, piange o forse ha pianto. Leggo nella rivista delle Ferrovie: 1498, cinquecento anni della Pietà di Michelangelo – e vedo quell’abbandono senza posa le lunghe braccia bianche, la madre così ragazza, il corpo di Dio che dorme in quell’assorto bianco. Materia che non crede a se stessa – come questi viaggiatori, nel sonno che ingigantisce i vagoni nella sera. Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni And the other, ugly one, swollen with medications, hat pulled over his bald spot, crying or maybe he’s just cried. I read in the Railway magazine: 1498, five hundred years of Michelangelo’s Pietà – and see that incessant abandon the long, white arms, a mother herself still a girl, God’s boy sleeping in that rapt whiteness. Matter that does not believe in its own being – like these travelers, in a slumber that amplifies the train cars in the evening. 149 English Translations of Poems by Raffaele Carrieri and Italian Translation of Poems by the Translator di Rina Ferrarelli Rina Ferrarelli taught English and translation theory at the University of Pittsburgh for many years. She has published a chapbook and a book of original poetry, Dreamsearch (malafemmina, 1992) and Home is a Foreign Country (Eadmer, 1996) respectively, and two collections of translation, Light Without Motion (Owl Creek Press, 1989), poesie-racconti of Giorgio Chiesura, which received the Italo Calvino Prize from the Columbia University Translation Center; and I Saw the Muses (Guernica, 1997), lyrics from the Italian of Leonardo Sinisgalli, which was mentioned as one of five “outstanding” finalists in the Landon Translation Prize. She was also awarded an NEA in translation. Winter Fragments: Selected Poems of Bartolo Cattafi is being published in the spring by Chelsea Editions. Raffaele Carrieri (1905-1984) was born in Taranto, and lived a vagabond life in his teens and early twenties. He quit school at 14 and sailed to Albania, from where he went first to Montenegro and then to Fiume to fight with D’Annunzio. He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including those along the coast of Africa. He worked at many jobs to support himself, and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years. It was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that were collected in Lamento del gabelliere (1945). In 1923 he went to Paris where he lived for several years among the poets and painters of the time, and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good in Milan 1930, and worked as art critic. In addition to several books of poetry, some of which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he wrote many books of art criticism, and biographies and studies of poets, sculptors and painters. Some of his other collections are La civetta (1949), Il trovatore (1953), Canzoniere amoroso (1958), La giornata è finita (1963), Io sono cicala (1967) and Le ombre dispettose (1974) among others. Translating Carrieri In the poems that I translated Carrieri uses many of his briefly inhabited identities as masks, creating a multiplicity of selves: not only a Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri 151 doppio, sometimes like an ancestral other he’s inherited, but a soldier, street vendor, ditch digger, ragpicker, rope maker, tax collector, emigrant. At times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for identity is given body, substance, voice. And all the personae have something in common but are also different. In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that sounded like the Carrieri in my head: restless, homeless, lonely, in danger. A man who often looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes; who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded, damaged hand giving him yet another identity. But also a weary man of no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing. The challenge was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity of narrative, the muted music. It was important to keep the poems’ slim, hungry look. Their short takes and sharp images. Their impatient, hurried runs. I decided against “cerulean,” the cognate of “céruli” because its four syllables are too long for the line, and it’s not a word sdrúcciola as the original. Also, the shade and connotations are slightly different in English. I kept the focus on the one poignant image— “The bowl of milk/Filling with darkness”; “ . . . the shoes/That watched like dogs,” or scattered it through the verses, preserving the unpredictable quality of his collages. In poems such as these, there is no room to move. Like the poet, I put my trust in the image. 152 Journal of Italian Translation Raffaele Carrieri Si era in due Si era in due a morire Alla fine di una sera Io e l’alpino del Friuli. Ognuno di noi lo sapeva Ch’era l’ultima sera. Vedevo sul comodino La ciotola di latte Riempirsi di tenebra E questo ancora vedere E distinguere il bianco Dal nero mi dava piacere. L’occhio e la ciotola Erano gli anelli Di una stessa catena. Il giorno che seguì Sopravvissi all’alpino. Altro non ricordo Di quella sera. Piccola morte So questo, era un soldato Con un paio di scarpe nuove Che accanto gli stavano A vegliarlo giorno e notte. Aveva una fucilata nel petto E ogni volta che tossiva guardava Con ceruli occhi le scarpe Che vegliavano come cani La branda dell’infermeria. Morì alle cinque del mattino Dicendo queste sole parole: “Mettetemi amici le scarpe È venuta l’ora d’andarmene.” Morì alle cinque del mattino Con gli occhi rivolti alle scarpe. Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri Raffaele Carrieri Two of Us Two of us were dying At the end of one evening The alpine soldier and I. Each of us knew It was the last evening. I saw on the night table The bowl of milk Filling with darkness And I was pleased I could still see And distinguish White from black. My eye and the bowl Were links In the same chain. The day after I survived the other. That’s all I remember From that evening. Small Death I know this: he was a soldier With a new pair of shoes Which kept vigil near him Day and night. He was shot in the chest And every time he coughed He turned his sky-blue eyes To look at the shoes That watched like dogs The infirmary cot. He died at five in the morning Saying only these words: “Friends, put my shoes on It’s time for me to go.” He died at five in the morning Eyes turned toward his shoes. 153 Journal of Italian Translation 154 Morte In ogni Luogo T’ho Sentito Passare E tornare Come Passa E torna Il vento. Non ho niente Non ho niente Proprio niente Che sia mio. Dalla camicia Al berretto Non ho più Niente di mio. Degli occhi Ho fatto tranello All’inverno. Ho asservito All’astuzia L’orecchio. Dall’udito Al mantello Non ho più Niente di mio. Anche le mani Hanno cessato Di essere mie. Le mie mani Sono di questo Sparuto fucile Che all’oscuro Mi somiglia. Fine di giornata A ogni fine di giornata Quando il cielo muore Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri Death Death In every Place I have Felt you Passing And returning Like The wind Passes And returns. I Have Nothing I have nothing Truly nothing That’s mine. From shirt To hat I no longer Have anything That’s mine. Out of my eyes I’ve made a snare For winter. I’ve put my ears At the service Of cunning. From my hearing to my cloak I no longer Have anything That’s mine. Even my hands Have ceased to be mine. They belong to this bony gun which in the dark resembles me. Day’s End At every day’s end When the sky dies 155 156 Journal of Italian Translation Con la gola tagliata Come la gallina nera Resto solo sul prato Con gli odori della sera E il sacco di cenciaiolo Dove raccolgo la cenere Delle mie ore terrene. Attesa di Niente La luce non mi è stata compagna Sulla terra né l’acqua sorella. L’affabile acqua piovana Che materna addormenta Il vecchio gabelliere E la giovane rana. Avrei voluto chiudere il cielo Come una semplice porta Per restare una giornata Acquattato nell’erba In attesa di niente Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri Its throat severed Like the black hen’s I linger in the meadow Alone with the evening smells And the rag picker’s sack where I gather the ashes Of my earthly hours. Waiting for Nothing Light has not been my friend On the earth nor water my sister. The amiable rain water That like a mother puts to sleep The old tax collector And the young frog. I would have liked to close the sky Like a simple door To remain all day Hidden in the grass Waiting for nothing. 157 Journal of Italian Translation Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into Italian Dreamsearch I was back in that other country again last night those narrow streets familiar and strange. I walked on the worn stone in the shadow of houses looking for a door looking for a face and again I woke up too soon. And it’s been thirty years now I’ve mothered three children made a warm home for them and that little orphan girl. Back to the Source Granite and river stone worn by walking, wide sloping steps with short rises the steep descent but not the straight path of a torrent sharp turns and small wide bends where walls jut out alleys come in I always go up in my dreams upstream back to the source. Inside the Frame Someone’s often missing from family pictures, Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli Cercando nel sogno Mi ritrovai in quell’altro mondo durante la notte quei vicoli stretti intimi e strani. Camminavo sulle pietre consunte nell’ombra delle case cercando una porta cercando un volto e di nuovo mi svegliai troppo presto. E sono già passati trent’anni, ho dato alla luce tre figli, ho fatto un nido morbido e caldo per loro e quella piccola orfanella. Ritorno alla fonte Pietre del fiume pezzi di granito logorati dai piedi ampi ripiani spioventi piccoli gradini l’erta discesa ma non la diritta via d’un torrente curve improvvise e anse piccole ed ampie dove i muri sporgono i viottoli rientrano nei sogni vado sempre in su contro corrente ritorno alla fonte. Dentro il Quadro Manca sempre qualcuno in quelle foto di famiglia 159 Journal of Italian Translation someone you can find, sometimes, if you look at the clothes she made or bought, the colors that go with your eyes, your hair slicked with a wet comb or braided with ribbons. At your features, your expression. She wanted you to smile off the frame, inside the frame and sometimes you did. Divestiture She unpinned the folds of white linen eloquent of place, loosened the loops and braided knots, and combed her hair into a bun. She untied her apron, took off one by one the pleated skirts, the black jacket with wide velvet cuffs, the padded camisole, the long shirt articulate with lace. Then stepped into a dress skimpier than a slip, and naked, exposed like that, my grandmother came to America. Linens Plain weaves, twills and herringbones, woven at home linen on linen, linen on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band of warp threads separating one napkin, one towel from the other—but most are decorated with needlepoint lace. My mother’s older sister had the broad back and strong constitution Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli qualcuno che a volte si trova nei vestiti che ha fatto o comprato, nei colori che vanno cogli occhi i capelli, lisciati col pettine bagnato, o intrecciati coi nastri. Nei tuoi lineamenti, la tua espressione. Voleva vederti sorridere fuori, dentro il quadro e a volte l’hai fatto. Divestiture Tolse lo spillo d’u rituortu, candido lino eloquente del luogo, sfece lacci e nodi intrecciati e raccolse i capelli sulla nuca. Snodò il grembiule, si tolse una dopo l’altra le gonne fitte di pieghe, la giacca nera coi larghi risvolti di velluto, il corpetto imbottito, e la lunga camicia articolata di merletto. Poi si mise un vestito succinto come ‘na suttana, e spogliata, esposta così, mia nonna partì per l’America I Panni di Lino Intrecci semplici, incrociati, a spine di pesce, tessuti a casa lino su lino, lino su cotone. Alcuni non sono stati tagliati, e una striscia d’ordito separa tovaglie e tovaglioli. Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio. La sorella maggiore di mia madre, di fibra forte e spalle larghe, stava intere giornate piegata sul telaio, e mandava i pedali su e giù, facendo scorrere a braccia tese, da una sponda 161 Journal of Italian Translation to bend for hours, working the pedals, arms stretching to send the shuttle scuttling through. My mother, the more delicate one, the one who wanted to get away, sat where the light fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads her sister had worked into a tight fabric, restructured the space with floss, white on white openwork borders, arabesqued windows. Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving were meant to survive soaking in hot water and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine wash them and when the weather is good, hang them outside, the way women still do over there, stretching them into shape while damp. Most are holding up well; a few show signs of wear, but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk for so many years that weakened the fabric. The Bridge Progress has finally come to the forgotten South. A new superstrada wide and straight as none before bypasses the shelf of road the sharp-angled bridge. The cross by the roadside reminds the few of us who remember fewer all the time of the men who died there hitting the rocks of the stream when their truck went off the road. Seven men who knew how to do without how to turn in a small place taking nothing for granted. The bridge is crumbling purple flowers grow out of the wall. The river keeps on going as it did then the rocks are mute— Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli all’altra la navetta. Mia madre, ch’era la più delicata, quella che sognava d’altri posti, altre vite, se ne stava dove la luce le cascava sulle mani, e tirando i fili, tessuti stretti stretti dalla sorella, strutturava lo spazio colla seta, bianco su bianco, orli traforati, piccole finestre rabescate. Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre. Io il bucato lo faccio nella lavatrice, e quando il tempo è bello, metto tutto fuori ad asciugare, come fanno le donne al mio paese, tirando e stirando con le mani, modellando la tela mentre è umida. Per lo più si son mantenute belle queste cose. Le poche logore, non lo sono per l’uso. È stato il chiuso della cassa— per tenerle intatte—che ha indebolito il tessuto. Il Ponte È finalmente arrivato il progresso al sud dimenticato. Una nuova superstrada ampia e diritta come non ce n’erano mai ha tagliato la mensola di via le curve strette del ponte. La croce al lato della strada ricorda ai pochi che ancora si rammentano, ogni giorno più pochi, gli uomini che morirono sbattendo contro le pietre del fiume quando il camion sbandò dal ponte. Sette uomini che sapevano far senza, che si muovevano nello stesso piccolo spazio senza prendere niente per scontato. Il ponte si sta sgretolando, fiori viola spuntano dal muro. Il fiume continua il suo cammino come ha fatto quella volta 163 Journal of Italian Translation deep within their heart the crack of bone the shocked cry of pain. Broomflowers Chrome yellow against green stems in bunches on the reddish dirt even-spaced rows like a pattern on a quilt. Is this new or have I forgotten as I forgot the nightingale singing in the trees below the wall— what did I know then about nightingales— the row of stones holding the tiles down at the edge of the roof? I’ve missed the Corpus Christi procession the creweled bedspreads hanging on the balcony rails, gaudy against the old walls, the petals twirling in the air like confetti a carpet on the street more dazzling than the gold monstrance the white and gold canopy. On the breeze a whiff of their scent, delicate pleasing. The sun is down now, the sky turning indigo, but their yellow endures on the slope below the parapet. Inside rough bouquets in earthenware jars. And the little girl who picked them for me is saying to her mother, sotto voce, «She comes from America, and she likes broomflowers?» Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli e le pietre sono mute— in fondo al loro cuore lo schianto delle ossa il grido sorpreso di dolore. Le ginestre Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia file diritte e uguali come i disegni delle coperte nostrane. È stato sempre così o mi sono dimenticata come ho dimenticato l’usignolo che cantava negli alberi sotto il muro— che cosa ne sapevo allora d’usignoli— la fila di pietre sulle tegole rosse all’orlo del tetto? Non c’ero per la festa di Corpus Christi, non ho visto le coperte ricamate che pendevano da finestre e ringhiere i colori sgargianti contro i vecchi muri, i petali che giravano nell’ aria come coriandoli, un tappeto sulla via più vistoso dell’ostenstorio dorato del baldacchino in bianco e giallo. Il vento me ne porta l’odore, delicato e piacevole. Il sole è dietro i monti, il cielo è diventato viola, ma il giallo brilla ancora al di là del parapetto. Dentro casa mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta. E la ragazzina che li ha raccolti dice alla mamma, sottovoce, «viene dall’America, e le piacciono le ginestre?» 165 “Folgori di tempesta”, mixed techniques on canvas. Italian Translation of Poems by W. S. Merwin by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai Adeodato Piazza Nicolai, nato a Vigo di Cadore (BL) nel 1944 ed emigrato negli Stati Uniti nel 1959, è poeta, saggista e traduttore. Laureatosi nel 1969 dal Wabash College, ha ottenuto il Master of Arts dall’Università di Chicago nel 1986. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Company di Chicago. Autore di quattro volumi di poesia, il prossimo sarà L’apocalisse e altre stagioni. Sta traducendo vari poeti dall’italiano all’inglese e viceversa. Di prossima pubblicazione l’antologia Nove poetesse afroamericane. Ha insegnato letteratura italiana e “Creative Writing” all’Università di Purdue Calumet, Indiana. Tuttora vive in Italia, dove si occupa di poesia, traduzioni e di “workshops” sul ladino del Centro Cadore. W. S. Merwin è nato a New York City nel 1927 e cresciuto a Union City, New Jersey, come pure a Scranton, Pennsylvania. Dal 1949 al 1951 ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Da allora ha vissuto in vari luoghi del mondo, il più recente a Maui nelle Hawaii, dove fa il coltivatore di rare piante di palma. Ha pubblicato più di 46 opere di poesia, prosa e traduzioni. Ha ricevuto una Fellowship dall’Accademia dei Poeti Americani (di cui ora è cancelliere), il Premio Pulitzer per la poesia come pure il Premio Bollingen. Recentemente è stato onorato dalle Hawaii con il Governor’s Award per la Letteratura, il Premio Tanning come maestro di poesia, il Premio Lila Wallace--Reader’s Digest e il Premio Ruth Lilly per la poesia. 168 Journal of Italian Translation Da: Flower & Hand – 1977-1983 (The Compass Flower, 1977) The Heart In the first chamber of the heart all the gloves are hanging by two the hands are bare as they come through the door the bell rope is moving without them they move forward cupped as though holding water there is a bird a thing in their palms in this chamber there is no color In the second chamber of the heart all the blindfolds are hanging but one the eyes are open as they come in they see the bell rope moving without hands they see the bathing bird being carried forward bathing through the colored chamber In the third chamber of the heart all the sounds are hanging but one the ears hear nothing as they come through the door the bell rope is moving like a breath without hands a bird is being carried forward bathing in total silence In the last chamber of the heart all the words are hanging but one the blood is naked as it steps through the door with its eyes open and a bathing bird in its hands and with its bare feet on the sill moving as through water to the one stroke of the bell Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon Da Fiore e mano – 1977-1983 (Il fiore bussola, 1977) Il cuore Nella prima camera del cuore tutti i guanti sono appesi in coppia le mani sono nude mentre entrano dalla porta la corda del campanello si muove senza di loro mentre avanzano unite come una coppa che porta l’acqua c’è un uccello una cosa nelle palme in questa camera non c’è colore Nella seconda camera del cuore tutte le bende rimangono appese eccetto una gli occhi sono aperti mentre entrano vedono la corda del campanello che si muove senza le mani vedono un uccello al bagno portato in avanti attraverso la camera colorata Nella terza camera del cuore tutti i suoni sono appesi eccetto uno le orecchie non sentono mentre entrano dalla porta la corda del campanello si sposta come un respiro senza mani un uccello viene portato in avanti mentre fa il bagno nel silenzio totale Nell’ultima camera del cuore tutte le parole sono appese eccetto una il sangue è nudo mentre entra dalla porta con gli occhi aperti e un uccello al bagno nelle sue mani e con i suoi piedi nudi sul davanzale muovendosi nell’acqua a battito unico del campanello qualcuno suona senza le mani. 169 170 Journal of Italian Translation someone is ringing without hands The Snow You with no fear of dying how you dreaded winter the cataract forming on the green wheated hill ice on sundial and steps and calendar it is snowing after you were unborn it was my turn to carry you in a world before me trying to imagine you I am your parent at the beginning of winter you are my child we are one body one blood one red line melting the snow unbroken line in falling snow Apples Waking besides a pile of unsorted keys in an empty room the sun is high what a long jagged string of broken bird song they must have made as they gathered there by the ears deaf with sleep and the hands empty as waves I remember the birds now but where are the locks when I touch the pile my hand sounds like a wave on a single beach I hear someone stirring in the ruins of a glass mountain after decades those keys are so cold that they melt at my touch all but one to the door of a cold morning the colors of apples Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon La neve Tu senza paura di morire come temevi l’inverno la cataratta che si formava sulla verde collina di frumento ghiaccio sulla clessidra e gradini e calendario sta nevicando dopo che non eri nato venne il mio turno di portarti in un mondo che mi precedeva cercando d’immaginarti sono il tuo genitore all’inizio dell’inverno tu sei il mio bambino siamo un solo corpo un solo sangue una riga rossa che scioglie la neve righa indivisa sulla neve che cade. Mele Vegliando presso un mucchio di chiavi diverse in una stanza vuota il sole è al massimo che lunga coda puntuta di note interrotte di uccello avranno fatto mentre si ammucchiavano là vicino alle orecchie sorde dal sonno e le mani vuote come onde ora ricordo gli uccelli ma dove sono le serrature quando tocco quel mucchio la mano sembra un’onda sull’unica spiaggia sento qualcuno che si sveglia fra i ruderi di una montagna di vetro dopo decine di anni quelle chiavi sono così fredde che si disfanno al tatto tutte eccetto una appartenente alla porta di un freddo mattino i colori delle mele. 171 172 Journal of Italian Translation The Horse In a dead tree there is the ghost of a horse no horse was ever seen near the tree but the tree was born of a mare it rolled with long legs in rustling meadows it pricked it ears it reared and tossed its head and suddenly stood still beginning to remember as its leaves fell Alcuni critici hanno scritto: “La voce di Merwin, sinuosa e infinitamente flessibile, ha creato un nuovo tipo di verso narrativo: la tragica storia delle Hawaii, sofferta da una famiglia, raccontata come da un nativo, con una semplicità immediata e uno sciolto realismo di saga.” -- Ted Hughes “Un elettrizzante racconto storico -- compatto e raffinato e pieno di valori dimenticati. Merwin crea una forte narrativa poetica con grande intimità e umanità. -- Michael Ondaatje “Merwin è sempre stato un poeta contemplativo, attirato dalla lezione del mondo naturale e il rigore di una visione incontaminata. È anche un poeta romantico, eroico nella sua ricerca del profondo e intenso, dalla forza e potenzialità della coscienza. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile ammirazione.” -- J. D. McClatchy, The New Yorker Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon Il cavallo In un albero morto c’è lo spirito di un cavallo nessun cavallo fu mai visto vicino a quell’albero ma l’albero era nato da una cavalla scorazzava sulle lunghe gambe attraverso pianure ondeggianti rizzava le orecchie s’impennava e scrollava la testa e d’improvviso restò immobile incominciando a ricordare meltre le sue foglie cadevano. 173 174 Journal of Italian Translation Traduzioni da AUTOBIOGRAFIE NON VISSUTE di Mia Lecomte Mia Lecomte è nata a Milano nel 1966 e vive a Roma. Ha pubblicato: il saggio Animali parlanti. Le parole degli animali nella letteratura del Cinquecento e del Seicento (Firenze 1995); i libri per bambini La fiaba infinita e La fiaba impossibile (Torino 1987), Tiritiritère (Bergamo 2001); il volume fotografico Luoghi poetici (Firenze 1996), realizzato con il fotografo Sebastian Cortés, di cui è autrice e curatrice di testi ed apparato critico; e le raccolte poetiche Poesie (Napoli 1991), Geometrie reversibili (Salerno1996, Premio Città di Ostia 1997, segnalato Premio Internazionale E. Montale 1997), Litania del perduto (Prato 2002, testo a fronte in inglese. Con incisioni dell’artista canadese Erica Shuttleworth), Autobiografie non vissute (Lecce 2004). Per l’ed. “Zone” di Roma dirige la collana Cittadini della poesia, dedicata alla poesia della migrazione in italiano. E’ redattrice del semestrale di poesia comparata ASemicerchio@, del quadrimestrale di poesia internazionale “Pagine”, delle riviste di letteratura on-line “Kùmà”, “El Ghibli” e “Sagarana”, presso la cui scuola di scrittura, a Lucca, svolge un laboratorio di poesia all’interno del Master annuale. Vita è quello che rimane quando si è perduto tutto. È il cane a tre zampe tutte e tre dritte e forti e una quarta strappata dall’inguine, è la quarta zampa del cane che nessun altro cane ha voluto e non smette di piangere l’inguine e tutte e tre quelle altre, dritte e forti. Vita, quando si è perduto tutto e ovvia è la taglia sull’incolpevole della pietra scagliata, il cieco che senza quell’unica gamba la gamba strappata dall’inguine malgrado le altre, tutte e tre dritte e forti non può più far tornare il suo cane. °°° °°° L’anima della tua anima è un inutile involucro vuoto la matrioska intermedia già sterile una cellula di scaglie coriacee Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon Life is what is left when all has been lost. It is the dog with three legs all three straight and strong and the fourth one ripped from its belly, it’s the dog’s fourth leg that no other dog wanted and the belly doesn’t stop groaning, and the other three straight and strong. Life, when all has been lost and the blame falls on the one who did not throw the rock, the blind man who without that singular limb the leg ripped from the belly in spite of the others, all three straight and strong cannot make his own dog return. °° The soul of your soul is an empty useless envelope the inner matrioska already dried up a cell with horny scales 175 176 Journal of Italian Translation che non può penetrare la voce – non c’è polpa senza spina in terra o sulla croce, ancora gattoni caparbio alla periferia di te stesso, il dente è più guasto nella bocca rifatta di fresco – parole che qualcuno ha voluto il suono della loro sconfitta attraversano l’anima vacua di quell’anima che dicono tua e non lasciano traccia di sé. °°° Congedo Spartiamoci ora l’eternità comune. Eco a caduta dal passato balena in incaglio sul futuro, viatico forse a una qualunque vita l’andare in pace, intanto alla fine del rito. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon the voice is unable to penetrate – there’s no pulp without thorn on earth or on the cross, you still stalk stubbornly around your outer self, the tooth is more rotten in the restructured mouth – words that someone wanted to be the sound of their rout traversing the hollow spaces of that soul they say is your own without leaving any trace. °°° Leave-taking Let’s share now one common eternity. Echo falling from the past whale beached upon the future, maybe remedy to an everyday life such conditional going in peace at the end of the rite. 177 Journal of Italian Translation 178 Amelia Rosselli Amelia Rosselli - figlia di Carlo, l’esule antifascista fondatore del movimento “Giustizia e Libertà”, poi assassinato da emissari del regime è nata a Parigi nel 1930. Qui é vissuta sino all’occupazione tedesca, che l’ha costretta a fuggire in Inghilterra e poi negli Stati Uniti. Ha più tardi (nel 1950) fatto ritorno in Italia, stabilendosi a Roma, dove ha vissuto fino alla morte (si è suicidata nel 1996). Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano, inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni belliche (1964), Serie ospedaliera (1969), Documento 1966-1973 (1976), Impromptu (1981), Sleep (1992, in inglese). Da “DOCUMENTO” (1966-1973) * È una suoneria costante; un micidiale compromettersi una didascalia infruttuosa, e un vento di traverso mentre battendo le ciglia sentenziavo una saggezza imbrogliata. Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da un malessere generale. La gola della montagna si offrì pulita al mio desiderio di continuare la menzogna indecifrabile come le sigarette che fumo. * La passione mi divorò giustamente la passione mi divise fortemente la passione mi ricondusse saggiamente io saggiamente mi ricondussi alla passione saggistica, principiante Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon It’s a constant alarm clock; a lethal compromising a fruitless caption, and a cross wind while batting my eyelids I formulated a tangled wisdom I plan to do away with forms, their whispers, their contents containing entirely the strangling box of my soul that indifferent to the problem would do well to contain itself. Toys are streets and nurses are habits destroyed by a general sickness. The gully of the mountain cleanly offered itself to my wish to continue my undecipherable lie like the cigarettes I smoke * Passion justly devoured me passion powerfully divided me passion wisely brought me back I wisely brought myself back to the passion with words, a beginner in the dark wood of a boring obligation, and the burning passion to sit at the table with the great ones 179 180 Journal of Italian Translation nell’oscuro bosco d’un noioso dovere, e la passione che bruciava nel sedere a tavola con i grandi senza passione o volendola dimenticare io che bruciavo di passione estinta la passione nel bruciare io che bruciavo di dolore nel vedere la passione così estinta. Estinguere la passione bramosa! Distinguere la passione dal vero bramare la passione estinta estinguere tutto ciò che rima con è: estinguere me, la passione la passione fortemente bruciante che si estinse da sé: Estinguere la passione del sé! estinguere il verso che rima da sé: estinguere perfino me estinguere tutte le rime in “e”: forse vinse la passione estinguendo la rima in “e”. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon without passion or wanting to forget it I who burned with passion the passion extinguished in the burning I who burned with pain at seeing passion thus extinguished. To extinguish covetous passion! To distinguish passion from the true yearning for extinguished passion extinguish everything that is extinguish everything that rhymes with is: extinguish myself, the passion the passion burning so fiercely that it put itself out: Extinguish the passion for self! extinguish the verse that rhymes with itself: even extinguishing me extinguish all the rhymes in “e”: maybe passion won out by extinguishing the rhyme in “e”. 181 182 Journal of Italian Translation Luigina Bigon Luigina Bigon was born in Padua, where she currently lives. For most of her life she has dedicated her energies and talent to the artistic ornamentation of high fashion women’s shoes. Her creations are exhibited in the Small Egyptian Room of the Villa Foscarini-Rossi Museum in Stra, Venice. She is also profoundly interested in poetry and has published three volumes: Bartering for Dreams (Clessidra, 1989, English translation by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai), Blacklight (Maseratense, 1995) and Searching for O (Panda, 2001). She originated and edited the poetry series “…in Verse”, publishing the following titles: Walking…in Verse (Panda, 1996), Gelato…in Verse (Media- diffusion, 1997) and Eyeglasses…in Verse (Panda, 1998). Founder, in 1989, of the poetry group UCAI of Padua (Union of Catholic Italian Artists), she was its president until 2004. On occasion of the 40th anniversary of the Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. Padua and Its Artists (Imprimenda, 2003, translated into English by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai). I corpi allungati Salgono le voci al Dio piangente lamento, anime e lance sotto la gola, inchiodano corazze e morsi nel violetto senza pace. Calano le brume sui colli preghiere, gocce d’acqua sulle pietre. Si alza il velo della memoria, un flusso trascende l’accento posto a confine tra la materia e lo spirito. Voce solitaria la parola del mondo mi grida dentro, quasi urla. Altre genti popolano l’eco di un profondo umano che si nutre del tempo e del luogo, senza misura. Vestiti di nero, i corpi allungati quasi si perdono nei volti esangui di una civiltà che si consuma nello sguardo di chi implora giustizia non più nell’ora della morte ma del perdono. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon The Long Bodies Voices lift up to the plangent God lament, souls and lances beneath the throat, nailing breastplates and clamps in the violet without peace. The mists wrap around the hills prayers, drops of water on the stones. Memory’s veil opens up, the tide transcends the marker placed to divide matter from spirit. A lonely voice the word of the world that rips me within, almost yells. Others populate the echo of human depth feeding itself on the time and the place, without end. Dressed in black the long bodies are almost lost in the drawn faces of a people consumed by the look of one who is begging for justice no longer in the hour of death but of forgiveness. 183 184 Journal of Italian Translation Paragrafo assurdo Vado da ombra ad ombra per non scottarmi. Grottesco come stare seduti sul ramo di un albero a parlare da soli. Tutto è talmente lontano forse mai appartenuto al mondo (attraverso quale fessura dovrà passare il cammello?) La realtà sfila sonnambula sopra un paese irreale, insetti dappertutto - bugie in fiore con panorama in prospettiva nevai ascetici, linfa superstite. Non so se vale la pena fingere che tutto sia ideale. Paragrafo assurdo: non buttare via la pura finzione. Quercia o foglia Agosto sta volando come una foglia sopra le cime degli alberi e c’è chi soffia sotto per farla volare. Forse esclude la ragione ma il campo si allarga ovunque ci sia una misura di grandezza, e mentre ci si illude si perdono le radici. E quel filo d’argento che lega le anime al mondo sparisce scolorando nell’aria. Vorresti il tuo albero quercia di luce con le radici strette nella terra. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon Absurd Paragraph I move from shadow to shadow in order not to burn. Grotesque like being seated on a tree’s branch to talk to the self. It is so incredibly distant maybe never a part of this world (across what fissure will the camel come to pass?) Reality unravels sleepwalking across a surreal landscape, bugs everywhere – blossoming lies with an overview in perspective ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph. I’m not so sure if it is worth making believe it is all ideal. An absurd paragraph: don’t throw away the pure fiction. Oak Tree or Leaf August flies off like a leaf across the tree tops with someone who blows beneath it to make it fly. Maybe reason doesn’t hold but the field is expanding wherever there is | one measure of greatness, and as we delude ourselves we lose our roots. That silvery filament binding spirits to the earth | fades away into thin air. You would like your tree as an oak made of light with roots dug deep into the ground. 185 186 Journal of Italian Translation Scia di zolfo Dì di sì, dì che credi. Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo sapendo di mentire (io tu e gli altri). Proclami una promessa: è solo schermo privo di consistenza nemmeno un velo. Mattone su mattone costruisci il castello invisibile con le tante serrature a manico. Nemmeno una nuvola. La voce crepitante di malizie lascia una scia di zolfo (zoccoli sullo sterrato dopo la pioggia, nell’aria odore di terra e di escrementi). A cosa credere se tutto è fumo e appartiene a longitudini vaghe a costruzioni inverosimili come i gorghi delle burrasche? Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere. Vortice di specchi Non è lamento di lupo a graffiare la porta, né strazio di colomba a volare sopra l’incudine spezzato. Voragine di corvo strapiomba il sereno ma non spezza le radici. Il gesto sonoro segna soltanto una melodia malata. Lo sconcerto non spaventa l’asino, il raglio non ha senso anche se di notte la luna gli illumina il pelo. Alla fine cosa può accadere. Nulla. È soltanto un vortice di specchi che scortica l’aria. Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Rosselli-Bigon Trace of Sulphur Say yes, say you believe. The half-lie scratches insistently aware of its falsehood (me you and the others). You pronounce the promise: it’s just a screen devoid of substance not even a veil. Brick on brick you build the invisible castle filled with handles and latches. Not even one cloud. a voice creaking with malice leaves only traces of sulphur (hooves on the earth after the rain, an aroma of humus and shit in the air). What to believe in if all is smoke that pertains to pale longitudes to implausible structures like eddies in the storms? A fetish of dust hangs behind. A Vortex of Mirrors It’s not a wolf’s howling that claws at the door, nor the dove’s mourning flying across the shattered anvil. A raven’s dive collapses the calm but won’t demolish the roots. The musical touch signals no more than a sickened note dissonance that does not frighten the donkey, its bray makes no sense even if nightly the moon lights up its pelt. In the end what can happen? Nothing. It’s only a vortex of mirrors flaying the air. 187 English Translations of Poems by Giovanni Raboni by Michael Palma Michael Palma has published The Egg Shape, Antibodies, and A Fortune in Gold (poetry); translations of Guido Gozzano, Diego Valeri, and other modern and contemporary Italian poets; and a fully rhymed version of Dante’s Inferno. His translation of Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by Chelsea Editions. Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in 1932, worked as an editor and critic. His many volumes of poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie (1951-1998), which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in 2002. He also published translations of Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal and Proust’s A la recherche du temps perdu, among many others. He died in September 2004. Giovanni Raboni T he more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry of Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is one of the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest Italian poet, of our time. This judgment was confirmed by Mondadori’s decision to include him in its Meridiani series of standard Italian writers while he was still alive, a fact about which he seemed a bit shy but justifiably quite proud, when I met with him for the second (and last) time in Milan in February 2004—although, sadly, he did not live to see its realization. W. H. Auden, the English-language writer that in some ways Raboni most resembles, famously set out five criteria for a major poet, which can be summarized here as copiousness, “wide range in subject matter and treatment,” “originality of vision and style,” mastery of technique, and development. Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all of these expectations, and it is this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section of that manuscript presented here. From the terse lyrics of his earliest phase to the experiments with widely varying line lengths and mixtures of colloquial and arcane diction, from the scores of sonnets written in his forties and fifties (a trend toward formalism that reversed the movement of so many of his American contemporaries) to the reminiscent poems of his last collection (itself reminiscent of Lowell’s Day by Day), his work is a rich blend of constancy and change. In keeping pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which the larger ones often depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage and the rhymes (where they occur), but also the parallelisms, the alliteration, the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many of the sonnets, and so on. Technique, of course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and often quirky angle of insight peculiar to his vision (and now and then simply peculiar); the passionate moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness of late love. These are the things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys of his life and to the public shames and outrages of his times. 190 Journal of Italian Translation Risanamento Di tutto questo non c’è più niente (o forse qualcosa s’indovina, c’è ancora qualche strada acciottolata a mezzo, un’osteria). Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva venirci col coltello... Eh sì, il Naviglio è a due passi, la nebbia era più forte prima che lo coprissero... Ma quello che hanno fatto, distruggere le case, distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove, a cosa serve? Il male non era lì dentro, nelle scale, nei cortili, nei ballatoi, lì semmai c’era umido da prendersi un malanno. Se mio padre fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: ti sembra che serva? è il modo? A me sembra che il male non è mai nelle cose, gli direi. Lezioni di economia politica Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Più tardi può darsi che la maschera si tagli e tu riesca a vederli con gli occhi i veri, i santi moti del tuo cuore... tardi per assecondarli, magari: ma allora, a diciotto, diciannove e nessuno che ci dicesse sul muso « stronzi », il nostro modo di rivoltarci era quello, il conformismo, la pacatezza, il freddo disgusto per le intemperanze giovanili; aver schifo della rivoluzione... Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla, le scarpe da vampiro. E ti ricordi, non ne perdevamo una: issati sui vecchi banchi (dalle porte-finestre il giardino delle Reali Fanciulle o come diavolo si chiamavano), immobili, cascando di sonno, d’incertezza e insieme impalati d’orgoglio, mi sforzavo d’essere alla sua altezza, come lui Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni Recovery Of all this there’s nothing left anymore (or maybe something if I had to guess, there’s still a street or two with cobblestones down the middle, and a bar). Down here, my father said, you were well advised to carry a knife with you... Ah yes, the Canal is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker back then, before they covered it... But what they’ve gone and done, destroying all the houses, destroying neighborhoods, here and other places, what good does it do? The sickness wasn’t there inside them, in the stairways, in the courtyards, in the galleries, if anything it was the dampness that could hurt you. If my father were alive today, I’d ask him: Does it seem good to you? Is this the way? It seems to me that the sickness is never in things, I’d say to him. Lessons of Political Economy What do you want me to tell you? Later on the mask may be cut away in the end and you’ll be able to see with your own eyes the natural, the hallowed motions of your heart... too late to follow them, in all likelihood; but then when we were eighteen, nineteen, with no one to call us “little shits” right to our faces, our way of rebelling was like that, conformity, restraint, a cold disgust for all the excesses of youth; a cultivated disdain for revolution... It goes without saying, you understand, that someone like him was our man, with his hard round collars, his tie-pin, his bloodsucker’s shoes. And you recall, we didn’t miss one of them: sitting up at those high old desks (through the French windows the garden of the Royal Princesses or whatever the hell they called it), immobile, falling asleep and into uncertainty but all the same stiff with pride, and I made every effort to be at his altitude, to be clearheaded 191 192 Journal of Italian Translation lucido e spassionato – di capire com’è giusto applicare anche ai salari, alle teste degli operai la legge della domanda e dell’offerta. Bambino morto di fatica ecc. 1 La porta chiusa alle spalle, nel buio, d’età fra cinque e sei anni sopportando una crescita d’occhi, improvvisamente, nella schiena e – il plafone ribàltasi in piancito e qui, e qui, sul pianerottolo (la porta da dentro chiusa alle spalle) cosa resta da fare se non cercare scampo con la testa cioè incastrarla, tra ferro e ferro, sul vuoto delle scale scabrosamente non riuscendo più a liberarla, minuziosamente arrestando i battiti del cuore per infarto: tipico dei grandi; questo è uno dei modi. 2 Adesso che me l’hai detto vedo com’è finito il bambino: un medio grumo di sangue sul pavimento del bagno. E tu che se per caso svenivi, se non c’era nessuno potevi morire dissanguata. Del quale comportamento, suggerisci sentimentale, bisognerebbe ringraziarlo, nessun gentile o bestiale medicastro avendoci messo mano per raschiarlo volontariamente (per nostra volontà) via. Anche così, rifletto, si produce un santino, l’immagine buona, propiziatoria da appendere dall’altra parte del letto in simmetria con quelle da trattare con gli spilli... 3 Ha fatto troppo l’amore, dopo, sembra che t’abbia detto; sembra Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni and dispassionate like him—to understand why it was proper procedure to apply even to wages, to the heads of the laborers, the law of supply and demand. Little Boy Dead of Exhaustion Etc. 1 The door closed behind him, in the darkness, somewhere between five and six years old enduring an increase of eyes, out of nowhere, in his back and—the ceiling rolling over on the floor and here, and here, out on the landing (the door closed behind him from inside) what else is there to do but look for a way out with his head, that is to say, jammed between rail and rail, on the emptiness of the stairs struggling and failing to work it free again, scrupulously stopping the beating of his heart with an infarction: just like the grownups; it’s one of their ways. 2 Now that you’ve told me about him I can see how the little boy came to die: a medium-sized blood clot on the bottom of the tub. And you, if by some chance you were to faint, if no one else was there then you might bleed to death. For which behavior, you sentimentally suggest, he really should be thanked, no amiable or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there to willingly (according to our will) scrape it away. That’s how, I imagine, they go about producing a holy card, a lovely, propitiatory image to hang from the other side of the bed in symmetry with all the ones already pinned up there... 3 She made too much love, later on, it seems she said to you; it seems 193 194 Journal of Italian Translation che in questo modo i bambini si fanno – questo lo sanno tutti – ma alle volte succede di disfarli. Con l’amore, vedi? (non a me: è da sola che cerchi d’imbrogliarti), con l’amore, non con l’indifferenza, il fastidio, non con la voglia di mandarlo via... 4 Bambino, leggendo, morto di fatica nella Svizzera francese o forse sbaglio a ricordare, in Piemonte – nei pressi (non all’ombra, assolutamente) di un cespuglio o addirittura di una pietra, questo volevo dire: che la grande madre per avergli nascosto l’animale (e lui, a rintracciarlo, in giro ventiquattr’ore su ventiquattro, in giro come un matto, alla fine morto di fatica o per il troppo caldo o assiderato, alla fine impossibilitato a distinguere) non credeva di fare nessun male. Personcina Quando dorme se lo chiami muove un orecchio solo. Succhia latte nei sogni dalla sua mamma morta. Morde biscotti. Adora i fondi di caffè. Con le zampe assapora scialli e maglioni. Dorme sui fogli. Usa un libro per cuscino. Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni this is the way that babies are made—this everybody knows—but sometimes it happens they’re unmade. With love, do you see? (not to me: you’re looking to get mixed up all by yourself), with love, not with indifference, irritation, not with the wish to make him go away. 4 A little boy (reading) dead of exhaustion in French Switzerland, or maybe I misremember, in Piedmont—in the vicinity (not in the shadow, absolutely) of a thicket or else, to get right down to it, of a rock, this is what I wanted to say: that his grownup mother in having hidden the animal from him (and he, in tracking it down, going round midnight upon midnight, going round like a lunatic, in the end dead of exhaustion or overheated or frozen, in the end it was impossible to tell) didn’t think that she was doing any harm. Little Person Call him while he’s sleeping and he only flicks an ear. He suckles in his dreams at his dead mamma’s breast. He gnaws biscuits. He adores the taste of coffee grounds. He savors with his paws shawls and thick pullovers. He sleeps on leaves. He uses a book for a head cushion. 195 196 Journal of Italian Translation Sta bene sopratutto in fondo agli armadi, nelle scatole... Con occhi più verdi, tremando spia il viavai dei piccioni. Si lecca i baffi puntando la mosca che volerà. Gli addii Ogni tanto mi sforzo di ricordarli: il ladro di verdura, il matto, la servante au grand coeur, il medico ecc. Strano gioco, ho paura, e assai poco redditizio. Tanto tempo è passato! e io che mi gratto la testa e sto seduto al tavolo di pietra del mulino aspettando il sereno, non sento di quelle spente dolcezze più che un rauco, degradato miagolio. * Invecchiando il corpo vorrebbe un’anima diversa, ma come si fa? non serve prendere calmanti, stordire i nervi e la mente, il problema è proprio l’anima, l’anima che non vuole pace, l’anima insaziabile, ostinata che ferve per sempre più comicamente impervi labirinti o abissi e si sa che l’anima non solo è immortale ma immortalmente immatura. Così, temo, non resta che rassegnarsi, finché non s’arresta la fontanella del respiro niente può cambiare, non è di questo fuoco spegnersi come gli altri a poco a poco. * Andarsene, tornare, due pensieri dolci fino alla morte in tre parole sole, FERROVIE NORD MILANO, ieri Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni He’s at his best inside the bottoms of cupboards, in boxes... He quivers, green eyes marking the to and fro of pigeons. He licks his whiskers stalking the fly that’ll fly away. The Farewells Every once in a while I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief, the madman, and la servante au grand coeur, the physican, etc. A curious game, I’m afraid, and one with little enough reward. How much time has gone by! and I who scratch my head and go on sitting here at the stone table of the mill waiting for the sky to clear, all that I still hear now of those dead joys is the noise of a degraded, shrill meow. * The aging body wants a different soul but what can be done for it? It hardly serves to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves and brain, the problem really is the soul, the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul is not just immortal but immortally immature. I’m afraid it isn’t going to quit simply because you’re ready to submit, till the stream of breath dries up it’ll never be any different, for as long as this flame’s still lit it doesn’t die out like others bit by bit. * To go away, to come back home again, two thoughts that will be sweet till death in three distinct words, RAILWAYS NORTH MILAN, back then 197 198 Journal of Italian Translation limpidamente stampate nel sole del mattino, ora oscillanti sui poveri trampoli del ricordo. Non ci vuole molto per capire che i passeggeri sanno poco o niente di cìò che duole nella nostra memoria, che per loro Auschwitz è un nome come tanti, un suono senza storia. Li sento, più leggeri dell’aria, sfiorarmi, fendere il buono dell’aria, oh non esuli, frontalieri dell’aria in viaggio fra la nebbia e l’oro. * Mio male, mio bene, così vicini ormai che tante volte vi confondo, che risse facevate quando il mondo era pieno di luce e i teatrini del cuore non scritturavano ombre ma angeli e demoni in carne e ossa e da tutte le parti, nella fossa di chi rammenta, nelle quinte ingombre di macerie, nei cessi, nel foyer annerito dagli incendi ferveva l’incauta vita... Certo, si solleva ancora il sipario, ogni sera c’è spettacolo – ma senza vincitori né vinti, senza sangue, senza fiori. * L’autunno ha a volte luci così terse e, sugli alberi, rossi di così atroce dolcezza che il cuore si spezzerebbe vedendoli. In diverse più innocue incombenze dunque si finge assorbito e lascia che siano gli occhi a incantarsene, a impregnarsene, sciocchi e intrepidi come sono... Poi stinge Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni in the morning sun imprinted limpidly and these days wobbling by upon the poor stilts of recall. It doesn’t take much to see that all the passengers know little or nothing of things that ache in our memory, that Auschwitz is just a name to them, just one like any other, a sound that doesn’t hold any history. I feel them, lighter than the air, as they graze me, split the goodness of the air, not exiles but commuters of the air in transit between fog and gold. * My good, my evil, by now so close together that I confuse you sometimes, I who might have angered you when the world was filled with light and the little theaters of the heart would never hire shadows for the roles but filled every one with angels and demons of flesh and bone, from all sides, in the ditch of the one who may recall, in the toilets, in the wings that were overrun with debris, and in the foyer that was so flame-blackened, life was reckless and it blazed... Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised, and every evening there is still a show— but now there are no winners in our plays, no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets. * At times in autumn there are lights so clear and, on the trees, reds of such horribly outrageous sweetness that your heart would be shattered to see them. And while you appear preoccupied by a variety of more innocuous tasks, you still permit your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it, brave and foolish as they are... Then gradually 199 200 Journal of Italian Translation a poco a poco o forse trascolora come fa, salendo, la luna, quel tetro fulgore, scrudelisce nel pulviscolo del tempo, e solo allora uno ha il coraggio di dire quant’era bello – più bello della primavera. * Mai avuto, io, il doppio dei tuoi anni. Ma cosa dico? certo che li ho avuti, solo che tu non c’eri, eri, vediamo, a Padova, o forse Venezia, intenta a qualche tua storia d’irresistibile ventiduenne – e in fondo cosa importa in base a quale calcolo o magia la ragazza che eri è diventata l’incresciosamente giovane donna che sarai finché vivo e io per non perderti un malato da vent’anni s’ingegna di non morire? Non lasciarmi né ora né prima, mi sembra a volte di dire non so con che cuore, e a chi delle due. * L’hanno picchiato a sangue, non a morte il figlio mezzo scimunito della fiorista del paese che girava fischiando «Giovinezza» due, al massimo tre giorni prima del 25 aprile. Era fascista? Certo – come quelli che l’hanno preso a pugni erano uno di Masnago, gli altri di Induno: per esserci nati. Mai più saremmo stati, lì da noi, così atrocemente innocenti. Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni it all begins to fade, but then again perhaps it’s changing color, as the moon rising in its somber splendor soon is warmed in time’s fine dust, and only then do you dare to say how beautiful a thing it really was—more beautiful than spring. * There was never a time when I was twice your age. What am I saying? Of course there was such a time, only you weren’t here, you were, let’s see, in Padua, maybe Venice, intent on some of your history as an irresistible twenty-two-year-old—and really in the end what does it matter what calculus or charm transformed the young girl that you were into the regrettably young woman that you’ll be for as long as I’m alive, a sick man who to keep from losing you has managed now for twenty years not to die. Don’t leave me now, don’t leave me first, I sometimes seem to hear, but which heart speaks, and to which one of us? * They beat him bloody, though not to death the halfwit son of the woman who owned the local flower shop because he went around whistling “Giovinezza” two, no more than three days before April 25. Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way that those who pounded him were one of them from Masnago and the rest from Induno: by being born there. Never would those of us who were from those parts be so atrociously innocent again. 201 English Translations of Poems by Giorgio Caproni by Pasquale Verdicchio Pasquale Verdicchio has translated the work of Pier Paolo Pasolini, Antonio Porta, Alda Merini and Giorgio Caproni (The Wall of the Earth), among others. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contemporary poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the University of California, San Diego. Giorgio Caproni (1912-1990) Born in Livorno, Caproni is usually considered to be a Ligurian poet given the fact of his family’s move to Genova when he was young. Most of his life was however spent in Rome, where he was a teacher. His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity of language and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict. His poetry has been recognized with major prizes in Italy: Stanze della funicolare (Viareggio Prize), Il muro della terra (Premio Gatto), Il Franco cacciatore (Premio Montale e Premio Feltrinelli). His literary activity included translation from the French of the works of Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire. Caproni’s first translated collection in English, the Wall of the Earth, appeared in 1991 through Guernica Editions. The poems here presented are selected from Caproni’s posthumous work Res amissa (Mondadori, 1991), edited and introduced by Giorgio Agamben. From RES AMISSA by GIORGIO CAPRONI translated by Pasquale Verdiccho Journal of Italian Translation 204 Res amissa Non ne trovo traccia …… Venne da me apposta (di questo sono certo) per farmene dono. …… Non ne trovo più traccia. …… Rivedo nell’abbandono del giorno l’esile faccia biancoflautata… La manica in trina… La grazia, Così dolce e allemanica nel porgere… …… …… Un vento d’urto – un’aria quasi silicea agghiaccia ora la stanza… (È lama di coltello? Tormento oltre il vetro ed il legno -serrato – dell’imposta?) …… …… Non ne scorgo più segno. Più traccia. …… …… Chiedo alla morgana… Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni Res amissa I can find no trace of it. ...... He came to me deliberately (of this I am certain) to make a gift of it. ...... I can no longer find trace of it. ...... I see again in the leaving day the thin face whitefluted . . . The sleeve in lace . . . The grace, so gentle and germanic in its offering . . . ...... ...... A wind of impact - an air almost siliceous chills now the room . . . (Is it the blade of a knife? Torment beyond the glass and wood - closed - of the shutter?) ...... ...... I can no longer find sign of it. No trace. ...... ...... I ask the morgana . . . 205 Journal of Italian Translation 206 Rivedo esile l’esile faccia flautoscomparsa… Schiude - remota – l’albeggiante bocca, ma non parla. (Non può - niente può – dar risposta …… …… Non spero più di trovarla. …… L’ho troppo gelosemente (irrecuperabilmente) riposta. I cardini I cardini della luce… Dell’ombra… Li conosco. Conosco le cretacee porte che danno sul mare. Sul bosco. Ma i cardini della nascita? I cardini della morte?… Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni I see again thin the slim face flutedisappeared . . . Parts - remote - the dawning mouth, but does not speak. (She cannot - nothing can - anwer.) ...... ...... I no longer hope to find her. ...... I have too jealously (irrecoverably) hidden her. Reasons The reasons for light . . . For shadow . . . I know them. I know the cretaceous doors that lead to the sea. The woods. But the reasons for birth? The reasons for death? . . . 207 Journal of Italian Translation 208 Così, stentoreamente, gridava, richiuso, il demente. (Era, la sua ragione eversa, la sola Cosa non persa?) L’ignaro S’illuse, recuperato l’oggetto accuratamente perso, d’aver fatto un acquisto. Fu gioia d’un momento. E rimase turbato. Quasi come chi si sia a un tratto visto spogliato d’una rendita. (Lui, ignaro che ogni ritrovamento - sempre – è una perdita.) Il patto ………. un’ ombra che stringe la mano d’ombra a un’altra ombra… (In ombra…) Due ombre che senza lasciare ombra d’ombra, nell’ombra Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni So, straining, shouted, shut in, the madman. (Was, his ruined reason, the only Thing not lost?) Unaware He was under the illusion, having found the accurately lost object again, of having gained something. It was a momentary joy. And he was left troubled. Almost like someone who suddenly finds himself stripped of an income. (He, unaware that anything found again is - always - a loss.) The Agreement .................. a shadow that shakes the hand of shadow of another shadow . . . (In shadow. . .) Two shadows that without leaving a shadow of a shadow, in the shadows 209 Journal of Italian Translation 210 fermano un patto… (D’ombra…) Ma I duri corpi viventi?… Le due compatte masse tese – quasi acciaiescenti?… Dove le due persone proiettanti?… …… (È dunque - il luogo d’ogni congiunzione – perpetua parallasse?…) Invenzioni Quelle impalpabili voci quasi trasparenti… L’azzurro di tutti quegli occhi neri - inesistenti? – d’acqua e d’ossidiana… Lontana - sempre più lontana – da sé, la mente ne ha perso il nome… Angeli dissolti?… Incorporei - afoni - corrieri di note spente… Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni come to an agreement . . . (Of shadow . . .) But the hard living bodies? . . . The two compact masses taut - almost steelescent? . . . Where the two projecting people?. . . ...... (It is therefore - the place of every conjunction perpetual parallax? . . .) Inventions Those impalpable voices almost transparent . . . The blue of all those black eyes - non existent? - of water and obsidian . . . Distant - always more distant from itself, the mind has lost the name of it . . . Angels dissipated? . . . Incorporeal - aphonic - couriers of extinguished notes . . . 211 212 Journal of Italian Translation Presumibilmente soltanto vuote figurazioni di suoni senza più suono… Lumi senza accensioni… Invenzioni… Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni Presumably only empty figurations of sound without sound . . . Lamps without switches . . . Inventions . . . 213 English Translations of Poems by Guido Gozzano and Giovanni Pascoli by Geoffrey Brock Geoffrey Brock is the author of Weighing Light, and his poems and translations have appeared in magazines including Poetry, Paris Review, and The New Yorker. His translation of Cesare Pavese’s Disaffections was named one of the “Best Books of 2003” by the Los Angeles Times and received both the PEN Center USA Translation Award and the MLA’s Lois Roth Translation Award. He’s also the translator of books by Roberto Calasso and Umberto Eco. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient of recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches creative writing and translation at the University of Arkansas. His website is www.geoffreybrock.com. Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in 1883 and died there in 1916, after a long battle with tuberculosis. He was a poet of substantial accomplishment and enormous promise, easily the best of the so-called “Crepuscular” poets. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular attitude toward the past, as if the long day of Italian culture were winding down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces. In a land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi, such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it was precisely this sort of passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly rebel. But Gozzano’s poetry also contains the seeds of something much more modern. Like Eliot, he had read his Laforgue, and his monologue “Totò Merúmeni,” one of the centerpieces of his second and most important volume, I colloqui (1911), anticipates by several years elements of Eliot’s “Prufrock.” It is tantalizing (and, of course, fruitless) to imagine what the landscape of Italian poetry in the first half of the last century might have looked like had Gozzano not died nel mezzo del cammin. The poem presented here first appeared in a journal in 1913 and was not collected during Gozzano’s brief lifetime. Though not typical of his bestknown work, it is profoundly beguiling. The “unfound isle,” with its “blessed shore” (Purg. XXXI 97) and “sacred forest” (Purg. XXVIII 2), alludes to the earthly paradise described in the final cantos of Purgatorio. (The final line also suggests parallels with another famous journey: it is lifted from Pascoli’s long poem about Ulysses, L’ultimo viaggio.) If the Purgatorio seems today the most modern and human of Dante’s canticles, it is partly because it is the only one that, as W.S. Merwin has remarked, takes place “on the earth, as our lives do.” For Dante, of course, purgatory is something to transcend, whereas Gozzano, in this poem, seems to deny the possibility of such transcendence. His paradise remains unattainable, a “vain semblance,” and his sailors thus remain condemned to their purgatory—which is to say, to this world: unlike Dante, and like us. Giovanni Pascoli was born in 1855 in San Mauro di Romagna (a town later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor) and died in Bologna, where he had followed Carducci as professor of Italian literature, in 1912. His personal life was famously full of tragedy: his father was shot to death when he was 11, his mother and oldest sister died the following year, and two of his brothers were dead by the time he was 20. In 1891 he published his first collection of poems in Italian and also won the first of thirteen gold medals for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy. At his best, his quiet, plain-spoken style provides what Joseph Cary calls “a rough antithesis or even antidote” to the grandeur, or grandiosity, of Carducci and D’Annunzio (the other two members of the great triad that shadows the threshold of twentieth-century Italian poetry). He is known for his poetics of the “fanciullino,” his term for the innocent, non-rational intuition possessed by children and poets and associated with lyricism and creativity, and for his focus on “piccole cose,” small, humble objects, which constitute the essence of Pascoli’s world and which are named with a precision new to Italian poetry. Where Leopardi, a notoriously inexact naturalist, refers generically to “the songs of birds,” Pascoli names the exact species and sometimes, like Audubon, even transcribes its call phonetically. The title of his first book, Myricae, is neatly emblematic of this aspect of his poetics: taken from a reference by Virgil to “humilesque myricae” (humble tamarisks), it emphasizes the humble object, properly named. Subsequent books include Poemetti (Shorter poems, 1897), Canti di Castelvecchio (Songs from Castelvecchio, 1903), Poemi conviviali (Convivial Poems, 1904), and several others. “La cavalla storna” may be Pascoli’s most famous poem, which is not to say his best. Though the poem is built around a central mystery—the identity of his father’s murderer—the poem itself is not, I think, as mysterious as his best poems are. It is not without fascination, but part of its fascination surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. It may overstate the case to say that it stands in relation to his oeuvre as “O Captain! My Captain!” does to Whitman’s (Pascoli’s is a better poem), but they have much in common: both are about father figures who were shot to death in the mid-1860s, both moistened the eyes of generations of schoolchildren, and, if we read them generously, both are indeed moving, in their fashion. But both also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. Translation can’t remedy such faults; it can only avoid exacerbating them while trying to do justice to the virtues. In Pascoli’s case (unlike Whitman’s), the poem’s form and tone are virtues: the finely balanced, end-stopped heroic couplets and the gothic air have the effect of distancing the poem’s events, of making them seem the stuff of ancient legend rather than autobiography. It was such qualities that I tried hardest to convey. 216 Journal of Italian Translation Guido Gozzano La più bella I. Ma bella più di tutte l’Isola Non-Trovata: quella che il Re di Spagna s’ebbe da suo cugino il Re di Portogallo con firma sugellata e bulla del Pontefice in gotico latino. L’Infante fece vela pel regno favoloso, vide le fortunate: Iunonia, Gorgo, Hera e il Mare di Sargasso e il Mare Tenebroso quell’isola cercando... Ma l’isola non c’era. Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde, le caravelle invano armarono la prora: con pace del Pontefice l’isola si nasconde, e Portogallo e Spagna la cercano tuttora. II. L’isola esiste. Appare talora di lontano tra Teneriffe e Palma, soffusa di mistero: «...l’Isola Non-Trovata!» Il buon Canarïano dal Picco alto di Teyde l’addita al forestiero. La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari. ...Hifola da-trovarfi? ...Hifola pellegrina?... È l’isola fatata che scivola sui mari; talora i naviganti la vedono vicina... Radono con le prore quella beata riva: tra fiori mai veduti svettano palme somme, odora la divina foresta spessa e viva, lacrima il cardamomo, trasudano le gomme... S’annuncia col profumo, come una cortigiana, l’Isola Non-Trovata... Ma, se il pilota avanza, rapida si dilegua come parvenza vana, si tinge dell’azzurro color di lontananza... Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli Guido Gozzano The Loveliest I. But loveliest of all, the Unfound Isle: the King of Spain received it from his cousin, the King of Portugal, with a royal seal and the Pope’s bull, scrawled in a Gothic Latin. Seeking the fabled place, the Infante passed the Fortunate Isles—Junonia, Gorgo, Hera, sailed the Sea of Darkness and the Sargasso, eye to his glass... The island was not there. In vain the sails of the stout galleys swelled, in vain they fitted out their caravels: with the Pope’s peace, the island hid itself; Spain seeks it still, and Portugal as well. II. The isle exists. Occasionally it appears between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling. On Teide’s peak, the kind Canaryman steers the foreigner’s gaze: “There, the Unfound Isle!” It’s marked on the parchment maps of privateers: Wandering ifle? or Ifland to-be-found? It’s the enchanted isle that rides the waters, and sometimes sailors see it close at hand: Their vessels glide along its blessed shore; the dense green sacred forest scents the air; over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar; cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire... The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances, like courtesans... And like vain semblances, when pilots sail too near it vanishes, turning that shade of blue that distance is. 217 218 Journal of Italian Translation Giovanni Pascoli La cavalla storna Nella Torre il silenzio era già alto. Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto. I cavalli normanni alle lor poste frangean la biada con rumor di croste. Là in fondo la cavalla era, selvaggia, nata tra i pini su la salsa spiaggia; che nelle froge avea del mar gli spruzzi ancora, e gli urli negli orecchi aguzzi. Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa: «O cavallina, cavallina storna, che portavi colui che non ritorna; tu capivi il suo cenno ed il suo detto! Egli ha lasciato un figlio giovinetto; il primo d’otto tra miei figli e figlie; e la sua mano non toccò mai briglie. Tu che ti senti ai fianchi l’uragano, tu dài retta alla sua piccola mano. Tu ch’hai nel cuore la marina brulla, tu dài retta alla sua voce fanciulla». La cavalla volgea la scarna testa verso mia madre, che dicea più mesta: «O cavallina, cavallina storna, che portavi colui che non ritorna; lo so, lo so, che tu l’amavi forte! Con lui c’eri tu sola e la sua morte. O nata in selve tra l’ondate e il vento, Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli Giovanni Pascoli The Dapple Gray Mare The Villa lay beneath the quiet’s cover. The poplars whispered by the Salto River. The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread. Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold; her nostrils carried still that tang of shore, and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar. A woman leaned beside the horse’s head; she was my mother. This is what she said: O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, who bore the man who won’t return away— you understood his touch, his words, his mind! The man has left a little boy behind (first born of eight) who never handled reins. And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes, heed his small hand. And heed his childlike speech, though in your heart there lies a barren beach. The gray mare turned her bony head to see my mother as she spoke so mournfully: O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, who bore the man who won’t return away— I know, of course: I know you loved him, too! He would have died alone there, but for you. After the bit between your teeth went slack, 219 220 Journal of Italian Translation tu tenesti nel cuore il tuo spavento; sentendo lasso nella bocca il morso, nel cuor veloce tu premesti il corso: adagio seguitasti la tua via, perché facesse in pace l’agonia...» La scarna lunga testa era daccanto al dolce viso di mia madre in pianto. «O cavallina, cavallina storna, che portavi colui che non ritorna; oh! due parole egli dové pur dire! E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire. Tu con le briglie sciolte tra le zampe, con dentro gli occhi il fuoco delle vampe, con negli orecchi l’eco degli scoppi, seguitasti la via tra gli alti pioppi: lo riportavi tra il morir del sole, perché udissimo noi le sue parole». Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera. Mia madre l’abbracciò su la criniera. «O cavallina, cavallina storna, portavi a casa sua chi non ritorna! a me, chi non ritornerà più mai! Tu fosti buona... Ma parlar non sai! Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa. Oh! ma tu devi dirmi una una cosa! Tu l’hai veduto l’uomo che l’uccise: esso t’è qui nelle pupille fise. Chi fu? Chi è? Ti voglio dire un nome. E tu fa cenno. Dio t’insegni, come». Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli your heart raced, but you trotted gently back; born beneath pines, between the waves and wind, you mastered fear so peace might be his end. The gray mare’s bony muzzle brushed the side of my sweet mother’s visage as she cried. O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, who bore the man who won’t return away— whose last few words you know, but can’t repeat! You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet. The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame, along the whispering poplar road, you came. You bore him through the dying of the day so we might hear some last word he might say. The mare’s long head was listening. In her pain, My mother threw her arms around that mane. O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray, you bore him home, the man who went away, who never can come home! Good though you be, you cannot (others dare not) speak to me. But oh, there’s one — just one! — thing you must tell: You saw the killer, yes, you know him well— who is it? I will say a man’s name now. Give me some signal. God will show you how. The horses were no longer champing meal; asleep, they dreamed the rolling of the wheel. They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay: asleep, they dreamed the whiteness of the way. 221 222 Journal of Italian Translation Ora, i cavalli non frangean la biada: dormian sognando il bianco della strada. La paglia non battean con l’unghie vuote: dormian sognando il rullo delle ruote. Mia madre alzò nel gran silenzio un dito: disse un nome... Sonò alto un nitrito. Geoffrey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli My mother raised her hand toward the hushed sky and spoke a name. The gray mare’s neigh rose high. 223 Confronti Poetici/ Poetic Comparisons Section Edited by Luigi Fontanella The purpose of this “rubrica” is to feature two poets, an American or Italian-American and an Italian, who in the opinion of the Editor share affinities or embody different approaches to poetry. The editor will select one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the Italian translation thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets, whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through the translator. Luigi Fontanella is Professor of Italian at Stony Brook University. His most recent books are Azul (Archinto, 2001); La parola transfuga (Cadmo, 2003); I racconti di Murano di Italo Svevo (Empiria, 2004); Pasolini rilegge Pasolini (Archinto, 2005). He is the editor of Gradiva, and the president of IPA (Italian Poetry in America). Valerio Magrelli’s most recent books are Didascalie per la lettura di un giornale (Einaudi, 1999), and Nel condominio di carne (Einaudi, 2003). In 2002 he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for Italian poetry. Magrelli is Professor of French Literature at the University of Cassino. Robert Viscusi is Professor of English and American Literature at Cuny- Brooklyn College, where he has directed the Wolfe Institute for the Humanities since 1982. His most recent books are the novel Astoria (Guernica 1995, winner of the American Book Award in 1996, a collection of poems: A New Geography of Time (Guernica, 2004), and Buried Caesars and Other Secrets of Italian American Writing (Suny Press, 2006). 226 Journal of Italian Translation ROBERT VISCUSI (from A New Geography of Time, Guernica, 2004, p. 53) Goons and Lagoons Gangsters in gondolas glide down the streets of Las Vegas. What does it matter that this is a desert? The water is a form of liquidity. The gangsters are my leaders insofar as I am an Italian in America. Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash. Don’t tell me I am not special, because I have been to Italy. In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices. The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls. Seaweed hangs from every stone you can see of the library’s foundation. Albert Anastasia was murdered in a barber’s chair at the Sheraton. He had a brother who was a priest at Saint Lucy’s in the Bronx. Father Anastasia didn’t speak English too well. We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions. The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner of Allerton Avenue. Gangsters in cherrywood coffins would slide into the church. The Island of San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery. That water eats everything. After a few decades the graves are empty. Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves. In America it is the cities we bury. The money eats them the way water eats corpses. VALERIO MAGRELLI (inedito, 2005) Guarda questa bambina che sta imparando a leggere: tende le labbra, si concentra, tira su una parola dopo l’altra, pesca, e la voce fa da canna, fila, si flette, strappa guizzanti queste lettere ora alte nell’aria luccicanti al sole della pronuncia. Robert Viscusi/Valerio Magrelli 227 Gonzi e Gondole Scivolano gangster in gondola per le strade di Las Vegas. Che importa se questo è un deserto? L’acqua è una forma di liquidità. I gangster sono i miei leader solo perché io sono un italiano in America. I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato. Non dirmi che io non sono speciale, perché sono stato in Italia. Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti. L’acqua s’arrampica sulle scale di marmo degli ingressi. Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca. Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo Sheraton. Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx. Un prete che non parlava bene l’inglese. Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci. Le cadillac giravano silenziose all’angolo di Allerton Avenue. Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da quella chiesa. Nell’isola di San Michele, in piena laguna, c’è il cimitero. L’acqua divora ogni cosa. Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano. Veneziani, uno dopo l’altro, sono andati ad occupare quelle stesse tombe. In America noi seppelliamo le città. Il denaro le divora così come l’acqua divora i cadaveri. VALERIO MAGRELLI (unpublished, 2005) Look at this child who is learning how to read: she stretches out her mouth, concentrates, pulls up word after word, fishing or them, and her voice acts like a rod, it spins, bends, tears out these darting letters finally high in the air glittering in the sun of pronunciation. 228 Journal of Italian Translation Traduttori a duello/ Dueling Translators Section Editred by Gaetano Cipolla It has been said that a text of poetry or prose, translated by ten equally knowledgeable translators, will result in ten different texts. In theory, the different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning, that is, the basic message contained in the original text. This section of Italian Journal of Translation will test this theory by asking our readers to translate a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text. We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing. For this issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano. Send your version of this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach.You may submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini. Elogio degli amori ancillari I Allor che che viene con novelle sue, ghermir mi piace l’agile fantesca che secretaria antica è fra noi due. M’accende il riso della bocca fresca, l’attesa vana, il motto arguto, l’ora, e il profumo d’istoria boccaccesca… Ella m’irride, si dibatte, implora, invoca il nome della sua padrona: “Ah! Che vergogna! Povera Signora! Ah! Povera Signora!...” E s’abbandona. II Gaie figure di decamerone, le cameriste dan senza tormento, più sana voluttà che le padrone. Non la scaltrezza del martirio lento, non da morbosità polsi riarsi, e non il tedioso sentimento che fa le notti lunghe e i sonni scarsi, non dopo voluttà l’anima triste: ma un più sereno e maschio sollazzarsi. Lodo l’amore delle cameriste! Classics Revisited English Translation of Ugo Foscolo’s “Le Grazie” / Traduzione inglese di “Le Grazie” di Ugo Foscolo by Joseph Tusiani Joseph Tusiani, professor emeritus, Lehman College, City University of New York, came to the US in 1947, when he was 23. Naturalized in 1956, he is the translator of classics of Italian of poetry into English verse, and a poet in his own right. The great bulk of his translations includes Michelangelo’s Complete Poems, Boccaccio’s Nymphs of Fiesole, Luigi Pulci’s Morgante, all of Machiavelli’s verses, Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered and Creation of the World, Leopardi’s Canti. He is the author of collections of verse in English (Rind and All, 1962; The Fifth Season, 1964; Gente Mia and Other Poems, 1978; Collected Poems 1983-2004, 2004), in Latin (Carmina latina, 1994; Carmina latina II, 1998), in Italian (among others, Il ritorno, 1992), and in his Gargano dialect (sixteen titles between 1955 and 2004), and of an autobiography in three volumes, La parola difficile (1988), La parola nuova (1991), La parola antica (1992). Note on Translation Of the two hundred and more Italian poets I rendered into English, no one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve. Pulci, Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Ugo Foscolo’s case is unique in that Le Grazie is the most polished and elegant Italian poem written in blank verse. Its haunting musicality, in which the subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic of the Homeric hexameter, is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest translator utterly afraid of any attempt at a possible rendering of its enchantment. Lines such as “il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra i mirti,” “scoppian dall’inquiete aeree fila, quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo,” and “agile come in cielo Ebe succinta” present no syntactical obscurity but are so charged with inner grace and melody as to defy description. Yet it is this grace and melody that (hoc est in votis) must be maintained if we want to keep Foscolo’s poem as pure and singular as it is. Le Grazie has also been compared to a spellbinding tapestry with a texture of multicolored threads woven by goddesses’ hands. One thing is certain: no other Italian poem is as intimate and astonishing, as fluent and echoing. Translator’s Note: I have based this verse translation of Ugo Foscolo’s Le Grazie on the edition by Mario Puppo: Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis e Poesie (Milan: Mursïa, 1965). This translation first appeared in Canadian Journal of Italian Studies: «Hymn One. Venus», Vol. 5, 1-2, Fall-Winter 1981-1982, pp. 101-8; «Hymn Two. Vesta», Vol. 5, 3, Spring 1982, pp. 211-21; «Hymn Three. Pallas», Vol. 6, N. 4/Vol. 7, N. 1, 1983, pp. 183-88. 232 Journal of Italian Translation Inno primo Venere Cantando, o Grazie, degli eterei pregi di che il cielo v’adorna, e della gioia che vereconde voi date alla terra, belle vergini! a voi chieggo l’arcana armonïosa melodia pittrice della vostra beltà; sì che all’Italia afflitta di regali ire straniere voli improvviso a rallegrarla il carme. Nella convalle fra gli aerei poggi di Bellosguardo, ov’io cinta d’un fonte limpido fra le quete ombre di mille giovinetti cipressi alle tre Dive l’ara innalzo, e un fatidico laureto in cui men verde serpeggia la vite la protegge di tempio, al vago rito vieni, o Canova, e agl’inni. Al cor men fece dono la bella Dea che in riva d’Arno sacrasti alle tranquille arti custode; ed ella d’immortal lume e d’ambrosia la santa immago sua tutta precinse. Forse (o ch’io spero!) artefice di Numi, nuovo meco darai spirto alle Grazie ch’or di tua man sorgon dal marmo. Anch’io pingo e spiro a’ fantasmi anima eterna: sdegno il verso che suona e che non crea; perché Febo mi disse: Io Fidia, primo, ed Apelle guidai con la mia lira. Eran l’Olimpo e il Fulminante e il Fato, e del tridente enosigèo tremava la genitrice Terra; Amor dagli astri Pluto feria: nè ancor v’eran le Grazie. Una Diva scorrea lungo il creato a fecondarlo, e di Natura avea l’austero nome: fra’ celesti or gode di cento troni, e con più nomi ed are le dan rito i mortali; e più le giova l’inno che bella Citerea la invoca. Perché clemente a noi che mirò afflitti travagliarci e adirati, un dì la santa Diva, all’uscir de’ flutti ove s’immerse a ravvivar le gregge di Nerèo, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Hymn One Venus By singing, Graces, the ethereal worth and the adorning heaven–granted bliss that, bashful still, you shower on the world, beautiful maidens, dare I ask of you the magical immortal melody that solely may depict your loveliness: suddenly Italy, so sorely hurt by wrath of foreign sires, will be reached by my consoling wingèd song at last. Here to the valley mid the airy hills of Bellosguardo, in the quiet shade of countless youthful cypresses, where I have raised to the three Goddesses an altar surrounded by an ever-limpid stream and solemnly watched over as a shrine by fateful laurel trees where through the vine less verdant writhes, O my Canova, come: come to the lovely rite and to the song. ‘T is but a gift on this my heart bestowed by the fair Goddess to whose vigilance you consecrated all the tranquil arts flourishing still upon this Arno’s bank, while in ambrosia and immortal glow she veiled her holy image utterly. Sculptor of Deities, along with me maybe (so let me hope) you will soon breathe a newer life into the Graces hewn out of the marble by your hand. I, too, breathe into phantoms an eternal soul; I loathe the line that sounds yet fails to live, for Phoebus said to me: “I taught Apelles as well as Phidias with my lyre first.” Olympus, Thundering Zeus and Fate alone existed when our pregnant Mother Earth feared Neptune’s trident; Love, high from the stars, pierced Pluto, but there were no Graces yet. One Goddess only over all creation, to make it fecund, ever lightly flew— she who was known by Nature’s awesome name and has a hundred thrones in heaven while with varied names and altars here on earth 233 234 Journal of Italian Translation apparì con le Grazie; e le raccolse l’onda Ionia primiera, onda che amica del lito ameno e dell’ospite musco da Citera ogni dì vien desiosa a’ materni miei colli: ivi fanciullo la Deità di Venere adorai. Salve, Zacinto! All’antenoree prode, de’ santi Lari Idei ultimo albergo e de’ miei padri, darò i carmi e l’ossa, e a te il pensier: chè piamente a queste Dee non favella chi la patria obblìa. Sacra città è Zacinto. Eran suoi templi, era ne’ colli suoi l’ombra de’ boschi sacri al tripudio di Dïana e al coro; pria che Nettuno al reo Laomedonte munisse Ilio di torri inclite in guerra. Bella è Zacinto. A lei versan tesori l’angliche navi; a lei dall’alto manda i più vitali rai l’eterno sole; candide nubi a lei Giove concede, e selve ampie d’ulivi, e liberali i colli di Lieo: rosea salute prometton l’aure, da’ spontanei fiori alimentate, e da’ perpetui cedri. Splendea tutto quel mar quando sostenne su la conchiglia assise e vezzeggiate dalla Diva le Grazie: e a sommo il flutto, quante alla prima prima aura di Zefiro le frotte delle vaghe api prorompono, e più e più succedenti invide ronzano a far lunghi di sé äerei grappoli, van alïando su’ nettarei calici e del mèle futuro in cor s’allegrano, tante a fior dell’immensa onda raggiante ardian mostrarsi a mezzo il petto ignude le amorose Nereidi oceanine; e a drappelli agilissime seguendo la Gioia alata, degli Dei foriera, gittavan perle, dell’ingenue Grazie il bacio le Nereidi sospirando. Poi come l’orme della Diva e il riso delle vergini sue fêr di Citera sacro il lito, un’ignota violetta spuntò a’ piè de’ cipressi; e d’improvviso molte purpuree rose amabilmente Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo we mortals worship her, who welcomes most the hymn that calls her Cytherea the Fair. ‘T was she, the holy Goddess, who, one day, tenderly pitying our wrathful strife, at last together with the Graces rose out of the waters whereto she had plunged to charge the flocks of Nereus with life. Glad, the Ionian waves first welcomed them— the waves that, friendly to the beauteous sand as well as to its hospitable moss, longingly come from Cythera each day to my maternal hills where as a child the deity of Venus I adored. Hail, Zante: To the Antenorian shores, last refuge of the household Gods of Troy and of my ancestors, will I commend my song and bones; to thee alone my thought, for with the Graces no one can converse who impiously forsakes his native land. A holy town is Zante. Once her temples and hillocks harbored the restoring shade of woodlands sacred to Diana’s chorus and festival, before God Neptune strengthened with siege-resisting towers Ilium for wicked-hearted King Laomedon. Most beautiful is Zante. British ships pour ample treasures on her; from the sky the timeless sun sheds its most vital rays on her alone while Jove grants lustrous clouds, wonder of olive-groves, and boundless hills teeming with vines: a rosy healthiness is in the air, kept fragrant evermore by ever-verdant cedars and wild blooms. The whole sea shone the very day it held the three fair Graces balanced on a shell and sweetly fondled by the Goddess: there, on every wave’s crest, just as many swarms of restless bees onrush and, borne aloft by the first fragile breath of Zephyrus, others and others come in buzzing hives, which, forming endless clusters in the air, hover above the nectar of each bud dreaming of future honey blissfully, so many atop the wide, bright billows were the loving lovely Nereids of the deep: 235 236 Journal of Italian Translation si conversero in candide. Fu quindi religïone di libar col latte cinto di bianche rose, e cantar gl’inni sotto a’ cipressi, e d’offerire all’ara le perle, e il primo fior nunzio d’aprile. L’una tosto alla Dea col radïante pettine asterge mollemente e intreccia le chiome dell’azzurra onda stillanti. L’altra ancella a le pure aure concede, a rifiorire i prati a primavera, l’ambrosio umore ond’è irrorato il petto della figlia di Giove; vereconda la lor sorella ricompone il peplo su le membra divine, e le contende di que’ mortali attoniti al desìo. Non prieghi d’inni o danze d’imenei, ma de’ veltri perpetuo l’ululato tutta l’isola udìa, e un suon di dardi e gli uomini sul vinto orso rissosi, e de’ piagati cacciatori il grido. Cerere invan donato avea l’aratro a que’ feroci: invan d’oltre l’Eufrate chiamò un dì Bassarèo, giovine dio, a ingentilir di pampini le rupi. Il pio strumento irrugginia su’ brevi solchi, sdegnato; e divorata, innanzi che i grappoli recenti imporporasse a’ rai d’autunno, era la vite: e solo quando apparian le Grazie, i cacciatori e le vergini squallide, e i fanciulli l’arco e ‘l terror deponeano, ammirando. Con mezze in mar le rote iva frattanto lambendo il lito la conchiglia, e al lito pur con le braccia la spingean le molli Nettunine. Spontanee s’aggiogarono alla biga gentil due delle cerve che ne’ boschi dittei schive di nozze Cintia a’ freni educava; e poi che dome aveale a’ cocchi suoi, pasceano immuni da mortale saetta. Ivi per sorte vagolando fuggiasche eran venute le avventurose, e corsero ministre al viaggio di Venere. Improvvisa Iri che segue i Zefiri col volo s’assise auriga, e drizzò il corso all’istmo Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo following, near and nimble, in the wake of wingèd Joy, the Gods’ sole harbinger, pearl after pearl, in throngs, about they strew, each of them sighing—lucky Nereids— for the ingenuous Graces’ happy kiss. Then as the Goddess’ footprint and the smile of her escorting virgin maidens made Cythera’ shore a land of loveliness, an unknown violet was seen to sprout down at the foot of every cypress tree while many roses that were purple-hued turned of a sudden innocently white. Thus a most hallowed ritual was born– libating milk out of white-rose-trimmed cups and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade while casting on the holy altar pearls with the first blossom that announces April. With a refulgent comb one of them–look– most languorously braids Joves’s daughter’s hair, still dripping of the sea’s still azure foam. The other maiden, bidding every meadow quickly reburgeon into Spring at last, sprinkles the air with each ambrosian drop that keeps Venus’s breast still dewy-wet. Bashful, their sister lets the peplos fall upon the holy limbs, concealing them from the desire of man’s ecstatic gaze. No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance but lengthy ululations of wild hounds resounded through the isle, with din of darts and men at fight over the vanquished bear and cries of wounded hunters in between. In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes given her plough; in vain had she, one day, begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus, a youthful god, to soften the hard rock with gentleness of tendrils. In great ire within its narrow groove the sacred tool was left to rust while tendrils were devoured before their recent bunches stood a chance to ripen purple in the autumn sun. ‘T was only when the Graces first appeared, hunters and squalid virgins and young lads laid bows and fear aside, and watched in awe. Meanwhile, its wheels still half inside the sea, 237 238 Journal of Italian Translation del Laconio paese. Ancor Citèra del golfo intorno non sedea regina: dove or miri le vele alte su l’onda, pendea negra una selva, ed esiliato n’era ogni Dio da’ figli della terra duellanti a predarsi; e i vincitori d’umane carni s’imbandian convito. Videro il cocchio e misero un ruggito, palleggiando la clava. Al petto strinse sotto al suo manto accolte, le tremanti sue giovinette, e: Ti sommergi, o selva! Venere disse, e fu sommersa. Ahi tali forse eran tutti i primi avi dell’uomo! Quindi in noi serpe, ahi miseri, un natìo delirar di battaglia; e se pietose nol placano le Dee, spesso riarde ostentando trofeo l’ossa fraterne. Ch’io non le veggia almeno or che in Italia fra le messi biancheggiano insepolte! Ma chi de’ Numi esercitava impero su gli uomini ferini, e quai ministri aveva in terra il primo dì che al mondo le belle Dive Citerea concesse? Alta ed orrenda n’è la storia; e noi quaggiù fra le terrene ombre vaganti dalla fama n’udiam timido avviso. Abbellitela or voi, Grazie, che siete presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete. Quando i pianeti dispensò agli Dei Giove padre, il più splendido ei s’elesse, e toccò in sorte a Citerea il più bello, e l’altissimo a Pallade, e le genti di que’ mondi beate abitatrici sentìr l’imperio del lor proprio Nume. Ma senza Nume rimanea negletto il picciol globo della terra, e nati alle prede i suoi figli ed alla guerra, e dopo breve dì sacri alla morte. ................... Il bel cocchio vegnente, e il doloroso premio de’ lor vicini arti più miti persuase a’ Laconi. Eran da prima per l’intentata selva e l’oceàno dalla Grecia divisi; e quando eretta agli ospitali Numi ebbero un’ara, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo pushed by the fair Neptunians with their hands, lightly the shell was skimming still the shore when very gently two most gentle does willingly to the chariot yoked themselves. To Cynthia they belonged: the Goddess kept them in her Dictean forests where, immune to mortal arrows, they in freedom grazed. Venture had brought the nimbly faring pair right there that morning; so they quickly ran to aid the Goddess’ journey. Suddenly Iris, who views with Zephyrs in their flight, sat down as charioteer and onward aimed toward the Laconian isthmus. Cythera was not yet queen of the encircling gulf: where now you watch but sails high on the waves a thick, black woodland hung where not one god was welcomed by the children of the earth who fought each other for each other’s prey with human flesh ever the victor’s meal. Seeing the chariot, they wildly roared, wielding their clubs in anger. Promptly Venus, cuddling the shivering virgins to her breast under her cloak, “Plunge down, thou forest:,” bade, and of that forest there was trace no more. Such were, alas, man’s primal ancestors! Hence a delirious readiness to fight instinctively lies dormant in us all, which, if the pitying Graces curb it not, often rekindles and most wretchedly flaunts as its trophy but fraternal bones. Ah, these may I not see now that in Italy they bleach unburied in the golden wheat. But who, of all the Gods, could ever tame those beast-like humans? And what help had he here on this earth upon the very dawn Venus released her Graces to the World? High and horrendous is the tale of it, of which a timid echo Fame disclosed to us still groping in our native dark. Embellish it, you Graces who were there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well. When Father Jove distributed the stars among the Gods, he kept the brightest one, gave Cytherea the fairest, and Athena the highest of them all: the happy throngs 239 240 Journal of Italian Translation vider tosto le pompe e le amorose gare e i regi conviti; e d’ogni parte correan d’Asia i guerrieri e i prenci argivi alla reggia di Leda. Ah non ti fossi irato Amor! e ben di te sovente io mi dorrò, da che le Grazie affliggi. Per te all’arti eleganti ed a’ felici ozi, per te lascivi affetti, e molli ozi, e spergiuri a’ Greci; e poi la dura vita, e nude a sudar nella palestra [sottentrar] le fanciulle onde salvarsi Amor da te. Ma quando eri per anche delle Grazie non invido fratello Sparta fioriva. Qui di Fare il golfo cinto d’armonïosi antri a’ delfini, qui Sparta e le fluenti dell’Eurota grate a’ cigni; e Messene offria securi ne’ suoi boschetti alle tortore i nidi; qui d’Augìa ‘l pelaghetto, inviolato al pescator, da che di mirti ombrato era lavacro al bel corpo di Leda e della sua figlia divina. E Amicle terra di fiori non bastava ai serti delle vergini spose; dal paese venian cantando i giovani alle nozze. Non de’ destrieri nitidi l’amore li rattenne, non Laa che fra tre monti ama le caccie e i riti di Dïana, né la Maremma Elea ricca di pesce. E non lunge è Brisea, donde il propinquo Taigeto intese strepitar l’arcano tripudio e i riti, onde il femmineo coro placò Lieo, e intercedean le Grazie. ..................... Ma dove, o caste Dee, ditemi dove la prima ara vi piacque, onde se invano or la chieggo alla terra, almen l’antica religïone del bel loco io senta. Tutte velate, procedendo all’alta Dorio che di lontan gli Arcadi vede, le Dive mie vennero a Trio: l’Alfeo arretrò l’onda, e die’ a’ lor passi il guado che anc’oggi il pellegrin varca ed adora. Fe’ manifesta quel portento a’ Greci la Deità; sentirono da lunge Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo that firsts inhabited those very worlds felt soon the empire of their deity. But with no deity, forlorn and lost the little globe of this our earth lay still with all its children born for war and prey and, after a brief season, doomed to die. ——————————————————————— The fair approaching chariot and the harsh fate that had struck their neighbors in a flash taught the Laconians more peaceful arts. Untrodden forests and the ocean bed until that very day had kept them all utterly sundered from the rest of Greece; but as they raised an altar to the Gods opulence, regal banquets, and love jousts at once they knew, and soon from everywhere princes of Argos, warriors of Asia hastened to Leda’s court. Why did you then yield, Love, to anger? If you still afflict the Graces so, how will you win my heart? Sweet ways and idle bliss were born of you, who also stirred the senses with such lust as brooded treason ‘gainst the Greeks at once. To save themselves from all your might, O Love, stark-naked maidens with great toil and sweat hardened their limbs in fighting manliness. And yet, so long as envy failed to force you against the Graces, your own sisters, Sparta flourished in splendor. Here was Pharae’s gulf, around which dolphins find their sounding dens. Yea, Sparta with Eurota’s streams was here— swans’ cherished home; and here Messene lent safe refuge in her woods to turtle-doves; here, too, was seen Augeas’ little sea never by fishermen disturbed again since shading myrtle trees around it grew— the bathing spot for Leda’s beauteous form and for her divine daughter’s dainty limbs. Nor could Amyclae, land of wreaths, provide as many buds as there were virgin brides: the grooms, a-singing, to the nuptials came, for neither love of dauntless steeds nor Las, where at the foot of three high mountains sprang Diana’s rituals and hunting chase, 241 242 Journal of Italian Translation odorosa spirar l’aura celeste. De’ Beoti al confin siede Aspledone: città che l’aureo sol veste di luce quando riede all’occaso; ivi non lunge sta sull’immensa minïèa pianura la beata Orcomèno, ove il primiero, dalle ninfe alternato e da’ garzoni, amabil inno udirono le Grazie. ................... Così cantaro; e Citerea svelossi; e quanti allor garzoni e giovinette vider la Deità furon beati, e di Driadi col nome e di Silvani fur compagni di Febo. Oggi le umane orme evitando, e de’ poeti il volgo, che con lira inesperta a sé li chiama, invisibili e muti per le selve vagano. Come quando esce un’Erinne a gioir delle terre arse dal verno, maligna, e lava le sua membra a’ fonti dell’Islanda esecrati, ove più tristi fuman sulfuree l’acque; o a groelandi laghi, lambiti di [sulfuree] vampe, la teda alluma, e al ciel sereno aspira; finge perfida pria roseo splendore, e lei deluse appellano col vago nome di boreale alba le genti; quella scorre, le nuvole in Chimere orrende, e in imminenti armi converte fiammeggianti; e calar senti per l’aura dal muto nembo l’aquile agitate, che veggion nel lor regno angui, e sedenti leoni, e ulular l’ombre de’ lupi. Innondati di sangue errano al guardo delle città i pianeti, e van raggiando timidamente per l’aereo caos; tutta d’incendio la celeste volta s’infiamma, e sotto a quell’infausta luce rosseggia immensa l’iperborea terra. Quinci l’invida Dea gl’inseminati campi mira, e dal gelo l’oceàno a’ nocchieri conteso; ed oggi forse per la Scizia calpesta armi e vessilli, e d’itali guerrier corpi incompianti. ...................... Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo nor even fish-replete Elea could ever restrain their ardor. Also near, Brisea lies, whence the Taygetus heard the loud-exultant clangor of the rites whereby a female chorus, strengthened by the interceding Graces, soothed Lyaeus. ................................................ But where, chaste Goddesses, oh, tell me where you saw the primal altar dear to you, so that, if never shall I find its like upon this earth, I may at least feel in me the old religion of its dazzling site. Utterly veiled, proceeding toward the lofty Dorion scanning far Arcadia, my Goddesses reached Thuria: Alpheus withdrew his waves, thus laying at their feet an easy ford that to this very day a pilgrim crosses worshiping in awe – a portent that to all the Greeks revealed the mighty sky: from far away indeed they felt the fragrant breathing of the Gods. Right where Boeotia ends, starts Aspledon, a city mantled by the setting sun in raimen’ts of pure gold; not far from there, right in the boundless Minyan plainland, lies blest Orchomenus where the Graces heard the first entrancing hymn, half sung by nymphs and half by youths in alternating strains. ................................................ When their hymn ended, Cytherea shone in her unclouded deity: the nymphs and all the youths that saw her knew full bliss and, but as Dryads and as Sylvans known, faithfully followed Phoebus ever since. Shunning all human vestiges, and deaf to vulgar poets whose unskillful lyre lures them in vain, through woods they wander still, invisible and silent all of them. Just as a Fury now released from hell, eager to feast on winter-frozen ground, bathes in Icelandic execrable streams where waters reek most putrid and most foul or, searching for blue skies, lights up her torch from the live sulphur of Greenlandic lakes; 243 244 Journal of Italian Translation E giunte le Dive appiè de’ monti, alla sdegnosa Diana Iride il cocchio e mansuete le cerve addusse, amabil dono, in Creta. Cintia fu sempre delle Grazie amica, e ognor con esse fu tutela al core dell’ingenue fanciulle ed agl’infanti. E solette radean lievi le falde dell’Ida irriguo di sorgenti; e quando fur più al Cielo propinque, ove una luce rosea le vette al sacro monte asperge, e donde sembran tutte auree le stelle, alle vergini sue che la seguieno mandò in core la Dea queste parole: - Assai beato, o giovinette, è il regno de’ Celesti ov’io riedo; a la infelice Terra ed a’ figli suoi voi rimanete confortatrici; sol per voi sovr’essa ogni lor dono pioveranno i Numi. E se vindici sien più che clementi, allor fra’ nembi e i fulmini del Padre, vi guiderò a placarli. Al partir mio tale udirete un’armonia dall’alto, che diffusa da voi farà più liete le nate a delirar vite mortali, più deste all’Arti e men tremanti al grido che le promette a morte. Ospizio amico talor sienvi gli Elisi; e sorridete a’ vati, se cogliean puri l’alloro, ed a’ prenci indulgenti, ed alle pie giovani madri che a straniero latte non concedean gl’infanti, e alle donzelle che occulto amor trasse innocenti al rogo, e a’ giovinetti per la patria estinti. Siate immortali, eternamente belle! Più non parlava, ma spargea co’ raggi de le pupille sue sopra le figlie eterno il lume della fresca aurora, e si partiva: e la seguian cogli occhi di lagrime soffusi, e lei da l’alto vedean conversa, e questa voce udiro: - Daranno a voi dolor novello i Fati e gioia eterna. - E sparve; e trasvolando due primi cieli, s’avvolgea nel puro lume dell’astro suo. L’udì Armonia Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo wicked, she feigns a rosy splendor first (people are baffled, and a gentle name— Aurora Borealis—give to her); Then, moving onward, she transmutes all clouds into Chimaeras and horrendous flames of overhanging swords: the silent storm causes the frightened eagles down to plunge from their high realm where sudden snakes are seen couching with lions and wolves’ whining shades. The city’s glance perceives blood-dripping stars up in the airy chaos shyly burn: one conflagration wins the firmament and underneath that evil-boding light the hyperborean boundless earth glows red. The envious Goddess scans the unsown fields and the wide-frozen seas that steersmen shun, and at this very moment maybe treads on arms and banners through the Scythian land and on Italian still unburied braves. ............................................ When our fair Deities at last arrived in Crete, most willing at its mountain’s foot Iris surrendered chariot and does to fierce Diana as a gift of love: Cynthia, whereupon, swore timeless faith to the three Graces from that very day, ever to watch with them over the hearts of candid girls as well as candid lads. Thus very lonely they were seen to roam Mount Ida’s base where fountainheads abound until they climbed, one day, as near the Sky as they could go—right where a rosy sheen sprinkles the holy mountain’s lofty tops wherefrom the stars are viewed as lustrous gold. ‘T was then the Goddess rained these glowing words into her loyal virgins’ very hearts: “Most blessèd, happy maidens, is the realm of the Celestials whereto I return; but here you must remain, here to console the luckless Earth with all her hapless sons. For you alone will every God bestow his every gift upon her lavishly, and you, should Heaven’s ire outweigh its ruth, will I take there to placate all its storms and Zeus’s thunderbolts. When I am gone 245 246 Journal of Italian Translation e giubilando l’etere commosse. Chè quando Citerea torna a’ beati cori, Armonia su per le vie stellate move plauso alla Dea pel cui favore temprò un dì l’universo . . . . . . . . Come nel chiostro vergine romita, se gli azzurri del cielo, e la splendente Luna, e il silenzio delle stelle adora, sente il Nume, ed al cembalo s’asside, e del piè e delle dita e dell’errante estro e degli occhi vigili alle note sollecita il suo cembalo ispirata, ma se improvvise rimembranze Amore in cor le manda, scorrono più lente sovra i tasti le dita, e d’improvviso quella soave melodia che posa secreta ne’ vocali alvei del legno, flebile e lenta all’aüre s’aggira; così l’alta armonia che . . . . . . discorreva da’ Cieli . . . . . . . . Udiro intente le Grazie; e in cor quell’armonia fatale albergàro, e correan su per la terra a spirarla a’ mortali. E da quel giorno dolce ei sentian per l’anima un incanto, lucido in mente ogni pensiero, e quanto udian essi o vedean vago e diverso dilettava i lor occhi, e ad imitarlo prendean industri e divenia più bello. Quando l’Ore e le Grazie di soave luce diversa colorìano i campi, e gli augelletti le seguìano e lieto facean tenore al gemere del rivo e de’ boschetti al fremito, il mortale emulò que’ colori; e mentre il mare fra i nembi, o l’agitò Marte fra l’armi, mirò il fonte, i boschetti, udì gli augelli pinti, e godea della pace de’ campi. ..................... E l’arte agevolmente, all’armonia che udiva, diede eleganza alla materia; il bronzo quasi foglia arrendevole d’acànto ghirlandò le colonne; e ornato e legge ebber travi e macigni, e gìan concordi Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo such harmonies shall reach you from above as will, prolonged by you, give more delight to man’s brief life created but to fret, thus making it more heedful of the arts and less afraid of all-possessing death. Let the Elysian Fields—should there be need— be your sole friendly haven; ever smile on bards whose laurel wreaths are purely earned, on freedom-minded princes, on young mothers who do not yield their babes to alien breasts, on naive maidens innocently thrust by hidden love on an untimely pyre; and smile on youngsters fallen for their land. Be beautiful, and live for evermore!” She spoke no longer, but her radiant eyes scattered upon her daughters then and there the deathless glimmer of the new-born Dawn before she fled. In tears they watched her go, and as from high above at them she waved they heard this final message: “From the Fates new grief and endless triumph you will have.” She vanished; flying through the first two heavens, she reached the crowning light of her own star. Harmony heard her come and with her joy moved the entire universe to song, for every time sweet Venus shares the bliss of her abode again, dear Harmony along the starry ways applauds the one whose tender sovereignty reshaped the world. As a young lonesome maiden in her room, watching ecstatic in the spotless sky the splendent Moon and every silent star, feels the inspiring Deity and sits down at her harpsichord which, in her new excitement, with her feet and hands and eyes she fast attunes to the awaiting note; but, if deep in her heart Love comes to rouse remembrances of joy, her fingers run less rapid on the keyboard, causing soon the tender melody that lies concealed right at the vocal bottom of the wood to wander slow and feeble in the air: so did the mystic harmony descend from Heaven....................................... Keenly the Graces heard, and in their hearts 247 248 Journal of Italian Translation curvati in arco aereo imitanti il firmamento. Ma più assai felice tu che primiero la tua donna in marmo effigïasti: Amor da prima in core t’infiammò del desìo che disvelata volea bellezza, e profanata agli occhi degli uomini. Ma venner teco assise le Grazie, e tal diffusero venendo avvenenza in quel volto e leggiadrìa per quelle forme, col molle concento sì gentili spirarono gli affetti della giovine nuda; e non l’amica ma venerasti Citerea nel marmo. E non che ornar di canto, e chi può tutte ridir l’opre de’ Numi? Impazïente il vagante inno mio fugge ove incontri grazïose le menti ad ascoltarlo; pur non so dirvi, o belle suore, addio, e mi detta più alteri inni il pensiero. Ma e dove or io vi seguirò, se il Fato ah da gran giorni omai profughe in terra alla Grecia vi tolse, e se l’Italia che v’è patria seconda i doni vostri misera ostenta e il vostro nume oblia? Pur molti ingenui de’ suoi figli ancora a voi tendon le palme. Io finché viva ombra daranno a Bellosguardo i lauri, ne farò tetto all’ara vostra, e offerta di quanti pomi educa l’anno, e quante fragranze ama destar l’alba d’aprile, e il fonte e queste pure aure e i cipressi e segreto il mio pianto e la sdegnosa lira, e i silenzi vi fien sacri e l’arti. Fra l’arti io coronato e fra le Muse, alla patria dirò come indulgenti tornate ospiti a lei, sì che più grata in più splendida reggia e con solenni pompe v’onori: udrà come redenta fu due volte per voi, quando la fiamma pose Vesta sul Tebro e poi Minerva diede a Flora per voi l’attico ulivo. Venite, o Dee, spirate Dee, spandete la Deità materna, e novamente deriveranno l’armonia gl’ingegni dall’Olimpo in Italia: e da voi solo, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo treasured that fateful song while running fast from land to land to breathe it into men. And ever since men felt within their souls an incantation, all their thoughts shone bright, and every novel thing they heard or saw in beauty grew and most delighted them if but they tried to imitate its awe. When with the Graces all the fleeting Hours colored with varied lights the countryside, and small birds followed them with carefree sounds of rivulets and forests, mortal eyes began to copy all those happy hues and, while the ocean floor was storm-harassed or agitated by still warring Mars, looking on rills and woods, they could enjoy but painted wings and rustic scenery. ................................................. Easily Art, which heeded Harmony, made matter elegant: bronze like a leaf of meek acanthus wreathed the columns’ height, and beams and marble blocks gained frieze and law till, curved in nimble arches, they reflected with equal melody the firmament. But, oh, much happier are you who could sculpture your lady’s effigy in stone. Love first engendered in your deepest heart a yearning for her beauty wholly bare which man’s profaning eyes failed to adore. For where you sat the Graces sat with you, and on those features, on that very face such graceful beauty their live breathing left, such gentle feelings with their gentle song did they inspire to her nakedness, instead of your true friend you recognized Venus herself within the marble core. Hard though it be to decorate with song, can any man divulge the Gods’ events? Impatiently this erring hymn of mine shuns the most gracious minds eager to hear; yet, my fair Sisters, I cannot depart while this my thought dictates much prouder songs. But whither shall I ever follow you if Fate has snatched you from your native Greece, and Italy, your second home, can boast but of your beauty, heedless of your might? 249 250 Journal of Italian Translation né dar premio potete altro più bello, sol da voi chiederem, Grazie, un sorriso. Vesta - Inno secondo I Tre vaghissime donne a cui le trecce infiora di felici itale rose giovinezza, e per cui splende più bello sul lor sembiante il giorno, all’ara vostra sacerdotesse, o care Grazie, io guido. Qui e voi che Marte non rapì alle madri correte, e voi che muti impallidite nel penetrale della Dea pensosa, giovinetti d’Esperia. Era più lieta Urania un dì, quando le Grazie a lei il gran peplo fregiavano. Con esse qui Galileo sedeva a spïar l’astro della loro regina; e il disvïava col notturno rumor l’acqua remota, che sotto a’ pioppi delle rive d’Arno furtiva e argentea gli volava al guardo. Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Yet of her guiltless children many still look up to you. So long as living shades keep Bellosguardo’s laurel trees alive, to your bright altar will I offer them together with the fruit the seasons yield, together with the scents first April stirs, mixed with pure rills and cypresses and airs and also with my tears and timid lyre, thus binding arts and silence to one rite. Crowned both a painter and a poet, I shall tell my land your mercy’s risen hour, that she may once again now honor you with ampler gratitude and greater pomp in a more splendid Court: thus will she know how twice she was redeemed by your bright worth when on the Tiber Vesta laid her torch and Pallas gave to Flora for your sake the Attic olive tree. Come, Deities, and oh, dear Goddesses, upon the earth cast your maternal tenderness again. So here in Italy the greatest minds will from Olympus draw their harmony, for, as you cannot give a greater gift, give us, O Graces, but your happy smile. Hymn Two Vesta I Belovèd Graces, to your altar now some most enchanting priestesses I lead— three ladies whose long tresses Youth enwreathes with radiant Italian roses while a fairer daylight on their faces shines. Here, come here quickly, you Hesperian lads Mars has not snatched from loving mothers’ breasts, and you who, pallid and in silence dwell deep in the pensive Goddess’ holy shrine. Happier was Urania when the Graces adorned her lengthy peplos with their hands. Here Galileo sat with them, intent on studying the planet of their queen yet soon distracted by the nightly murmur of distant waters hiding silver-hued under the poplars of the Arno’s banks. 251 252 Journal of Italian Translation Qui a lui l’alba, la luna e il sol mostrava, gareggiando di tinte, or le severe nubi su la cerulea alpe sedenti, or il piano che fugge alle tirrene Nereidi, immensa di città e di selve scena e di templi e d’arator beati, or cento colli, onde Appennin corona d’ulivi e d’antri e di marmoree ville l’elegante città, dove con Flora le Grazie han serti e amabile idïoma. Date principio, o giovinetti, al rito, e da’ festoni della sacra soglia dilungate i profani. Ite, insolenti genii d’Amore, e voi livido coro di Momo, e voi che a prezzo Ascra attingete. Qui né oscena malìa, né plauso infido può, né dardo attoscato: oltre quest’ara, cari al volgo e a’ tiranni, ite, profani. Dolce alle Grazie è la virginea voce e la timida offerta: uscite or voi dalle stanze materne ove solinghe Amor v’insidia, o donzellette, uscite: gioia promette e manda pianto Amore. Qui su l’ara le rose e le colombe deponete, e tre calici spumanti di latte inghirlandato; e fin che il rito v’appelli al canto, tacite sedete: sacro è il silenzio a’ vati, e vi fa belle più del sorriso. E tu che ardisci in terra vestir d’eterna giovinezza il marmo, or l’armonia della bellezza, il vivo spirar de’ vezzi nelle tre ministre, che all’arpa io guido agl’inni e alle carole, vedrai qui al certo; e tu potrai lasciarle immortali fra noi, pria che all’Eliso su l’ali occulte fuggano degli anni. Leggiadramente d’un ornato ostello, che a lei d’Arno futura abitatrice i pennelli posando edificava il bel fabbro d’Urbino, esce la prima vaga mortale, e siede all’ara; e il bisso liberale acconsente ogni contorno di sue forme eleganti; e fra il candore delle dita s’avvivano le rose, mentre accanto al suo petto agita l’arpa. Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Here he was shown by moon or rising sun severe clouds sitting on cerulean hills or the whole plainland stretching as far down as the Tyrrhenian Sea—a boundless stage of blissful ploughmen, temples, towns and woods— or countless hillocks whence the Apennines adorn with olive groves and marble homes the splendid city where the Graces live and share with Flora idiom and wreaths. Mark the beginning of the rite, you lads, and from the garlands on the threshold strewn the uninitiated keep away. Away, you sneering genii of Love, away, O Momus’ livid throng, with all of you who purchase even Ascra’s peak: No obscene magic here, no wicked praise, no poisoned dart avails: now you who serve the mob and tyranny, this altar shun! Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice and timid offering: so leave, you too, O lovely maidens, the maternal rooms where Love will stalk your very loneliness: Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears. Lay on this altar turtle-doves along with roses and three chalices of milk, bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite invites you to the song, in silence wait: silence, so sacred to the bards, endears you more than a smile. And you, who dare on earth dress barren marble with eternal youth, today, I’m certain of it, you will see beauty’s own harmony, the living breath that is the charm of the three priestesses I’m bringing to the dances and the hymns: you will be able thus to leave them here immortal in our midst before they flee, on time’s dark wings, to their Elysium. Gracefully out of a most graceful home, which, gladly laying his fair brush aside, the handsome master from Urbino built for one about to choose the Arno’s bank, the first fair mortal to the altar comes. A silken veil most lavishly reveals her matchless contours; her white fingers grow suddenly bright as roses newly born 253 254 Journal of Italian Translation Scoppian dall’inquïete aeree fila, quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo, gioia insieme e pietà, poi che sonanti rimembran come il ciel l’uomo concesse alle gioie e agli affanni onde gli sia librato e vario di sua vita il volo, e come alla virtù guidi il dolore, e il sorriso e il sospiro errin sul labbro delle Grazie, e a chi son fauste e presenti, dolce in core ei s’allegri e dolce gema. Pari un concento, se pur vera è fama, un dì Aspasia tessea lungo l’Ilisso: era allor delle Dee sacerdotessa, e intento al suono Socrate libava sorridente a quell’ara, e col pensiero quasi a’ sereni dell’Olimpo alzossi. Quinci il veglio mirò volgersi obliqua, affrettando or la via su per le nubi, or ne’ gorghi letèi precipitarsi di Fortuna la rapida quadriga da’ viventi inseguita; e quel pietoso gridò invano dall’alto: A cieca duce siete seguaci, o miseri! e vi scorge dove in bando è pietà, dove il Tonante più adirate le folgori abbandona su la timida terra. O nati al pianto e alla fatica, se virtù vi è guida, dalla fonte del duol sorge il conforto. Ah ma nemico è un altro Dio di pace, più che Fortuna, e gl’innocenti assale. Ve’ come l’arpa di costei sen duole! Duolsi che a tante verginette il seno sfiori, e di pianto alle carole in mezzo, invidïoso Amor bagni i lor occhi. Per sé gode frattanto ella che amore per sé l’altera giovane non teme. Ben l’ode e su l’ardenti ali s’affretta alle vendette il Nume: e a quelle note a un tratto l’inclemente arco gli cade. E i montanini Zefiri fuggiaschi docili al suono aleggiano più ratti dalle linfe di Fiesole e dai cedri, a rallegrare le giunchiglie ond’ella oggi, o Grazie, per voi l’arpa inghirlanda, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo as to her breast she holds the quavering harp. Out of the restless airy strings break forth, like rays of sun by sudden tempest torn, mercy and mirth together: in their sound they will recall how Heaven granted man triumph and trouble, thus to make his life an ever-varied, ever-balanced flight; how grief alone to manly virtue leads; how smile and sigh touch both the Graces’ lips, and those who feel their happy presence lodge sweet joy and sweet lament deep in their hearts. Aspasia one day, if fame is true, ‘long the Ilissus sang a likely song: a priestess of the Goddesses was she when, heedful of that sound, Socrates smiled and, while abating at the altar, reached (or almost) calm Olympus with his thought. Hence the old man saw Fortune’s chariot, chased by all people, through the clouds now rush and now plunge down into Lethean waves, so that, to pity moved, in vain he cried, “Blind is your leader, O you wretched men; she leads you where no mercy ever dwells and whence in his worst wrath thundering Zeus drops all his bolts upon the frightened earth; Men, born to tears and toil, if virtue still can guide you, from your grief is solace born. Ah, more than Fortune, still another God abhors sweet peace and fights the innocent. See how the lady’s harp is anguish—rent: She’s anguish-rent that envious Love should touch so many maidens’ hearts and, in the midst of their sweet dancing, wet their eyes with tears But happy for herself she seems to all, most proudly feeling still immune and free. Hearing her boast, on wings ablaze the God prepares his sudden vengeance: at those notes he lets his unrelenting bow fall down. Faster than ever, by that music won, the mountain’s ever-fleeting Zephyrs leave Fiesole’s nymphs and cedars to bring joy, O Graces, to the jonquils she has woven around her harp to honor you, and make this hymn I sing still dearer to your hearts. Behold: Attuning feet and hands and eyes 255 256 Journal of Italian Translation e a voi quest’inno mio guida più caro. Già del piè delle dita e dell’errante estro, e degli occhi vigili alle corde ispirata sollecita le note che pingon come l’armonia diè moto agli astri, all’onda eterea e alla natante terra per l’oceàno, e come franse l’uniforme creato in mille volti co’ raggi e l’ombre e il ricongiunse in uno, e i suoni all’aere, e diè i colori al sole, e l’alterno continüo tenore alla fortuna agitatrice e al tempo; sì che le cose dissonanti insieme rendan concento d’armonia divina e innalzino le menti oltre la terra. Come quando più gaio Euro provòca sull’alba il queto Lario, e a quel sussurro canta il nocchiero e allegransi i propinqui lïuti, e molle il fläuto si duole d’innamorati giovani e di ninfe su le gondole erranti; e dalle sponde risponde il pastorel con la sua piva: per entro i colli rintronano i corni terror del cavrïol, mentre in cadenza di Lecco il malleo domator del bronzo tuona dagli antri ardenti; stupefatto perde le reti il pescatore, ed ode. Tal dell’arpa diffuso erra il concento per la nostra convalle; e mentre posa la sonatrice, ancora odono i colli. Or le recate, o vergini, i canestri e le rose e gli allori a cui materni nell’ombrifero Pitti irrigatori fur gli etruschi Silvani, a far più vago il giovin seno alle mortali etrusche, emule d’avvenenza e di ghirlande; soave affanno al pellegrin se innoltra improvviso ne’ lucidi teatri, e quell’intenta voluttà del canto ed errare un desio dolce d’amore mira ne’ vólti femminili, e l’aura pregna di fiori gli confonde il core. Recate insieme, o vergini, le conche dell’alabastro, provvido di fresca linfa e di vita, ahi breve! a’ montanini Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo in prompt obedience to the waiting chords, she prods, inspired, every single note till all of them depict how Harmony first set in motion stars, ethereal waves, and this earth floating on the ocean; how with rays and shadows it broke then the wide but uniform creation into thousands of faces, quickly blended into one; and how it joined each color with the sun, and with the air each sound, and thus with time and vexing fortune all vicissitudes, so that, discordant though they be, all things might render a concordant hymn to Heaven lifting the human mind above the earth. Just as when Eurus with his joyous breath rouses the restless Larius at dawn, and soon the boatman at that murmur sings the nearing lutes rejoice, and languidly the flutes of loving lads and nymphs reply from wandering gondole: in the meantime a little shepherd’s bagpipe from the shore echoes once more; from hill to hill the horn brings terror to the deer; from caves ablaze Lecco’s bronze-taming hammer soon rebounds, and, losing now his nets, the fisherman listens, astounded, to the happy song: so through our valleys does the melody, roused by the harpsichord, so dearly sound that, even when the harpsichordist rests, the knolls around her still enraptured hear Now bring to her, young virgins, laurel wreaths and roses watered in the Pitti’s shades by Etruscan Sylvans for the greater grace of fair Etruscans’ youth-enamored breasts ever desirous of new buds and charm: baffled and sweetly tempted, foreigners who our well–lighted theaters explore are by the song’s voluptuousness so swayed, so taken by that sweet desire of love wandering sweetly on our women’s faces, a whiff of flowers floating in the air perturbs their hearts. And all together here, dear maidens, bring the alabaster basins wherein you keep the fresh but fleeting life for mountain jasmine and for violet, 257 258 Journal of Italian Translation gelsomini, e alla mammola dogliosa di non morir sul seno alla fuggiasca ninfa di Pratolino, o sospirata dal solitario venticel notturno. Date il rustico giglio, e se men alte ha le forme fraterne, il manto veste degli amaranti invïolato: unite aurei giacinti e azzurri alle giunchiglie di Bellosguardo che all’amante suo coglie Pomona, e a’ garofani alteri della prole diversa e delle pompe, e a’ fiori che dagli orti dell’Aurora novella preda a’ nostri liti addussero vittorïosi i Zefiri su l’ale, e or fra’ cedri al suo talamo imminenti d’ospite amore e di tepori industri questa gentil sacerdotessa edùca. Spira soave e armonïoso agli occhi quanto all’anima il suon, splendono i serti che di tanti color mesce e d’odori; ma il fior che altero del lor nome han fatto dodici Dei ne scevra, e il dona all’ara pur sorridendo; e in cor tacita prega: che di quei fiori ond’è nudrice, e l’arpa ne incorona per voi, ven piaccia alcuno inserir, belle Dee, nella ghirlanda la quale ogni anno il dì sesto d’aprile delle rose di lagrime innaffiate in val di Sorga, o belle Dee, tessete a recarle alla madre. II Ora Polinnia alata Dea che molte lire a un tempo percote, e più d’ogni altra Musa possiede orti celesti, intenda anche le lodi de’ suoi fiori; or quando la bella donna, delle Dee seconda sacerdotessa, vien recando un favo. Nostro e disdetto alle altre genti è il rito per memoria de’ favi, onde in Italia con perenne ronzìo fanno tesoro divine api alle Grazie: e chi ne assaggia parla caro alla patria. Ah voi narrate come aveste quel dono! E chi la fama a noi fra l’ombre della terra erranti Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo sorry not yet to die upon the breast of Pratolino’s ever–running nymph or shunned by lonely breezes of the night. Give the wild lily that, although it shows its kindred forms less high, can dazzle still in the pure mantle of the amaranth; mix all sky-blue and golden hyacinths with Bellosguardo’s jonquils that Pomona still for her lover picks, with all the proud carnations ever new in shades and shapes, and with the blooms that on victorious wings the Zephyrs from Dawn’s garden snatched and rought – a recent trophy—to our very shores, and now this gentle priestess gently grows with artful heat and hospitable love among the cedars hanging o’er her home. Harmonious and soft both to the sight and to the soul the very sound exhales; bright shine the wreaths that of so many hues as well as many fragrances are wrought; and yet the flower that twelve Gods have made proud of their names can sever all of them and place them on the altar with a smile, praying that, out of all the blooms she grows and decks her harp with just to honor you, one you may pick, fair Goddesses, to blend into the garland that on April sixth, O lovely Deities, in Sorga’s vale out of all roses wet with tears you weave for Venus, your own mother. II Let now Polymnia, the wingèd Goddess that plucks many a lyre at one time and, more than any other Muse, in heaven owns flower gardens, understand the praises of all her wreaths now that the lovely lady, the second priestess of the Goddesses, comes to the altar with a honeycomb. Our own, not other nations’, is the rite that celebrates the honeycomb’s old lore, wherefore in Italy heavenly bees with endless murmur to the Graces yield abundant honey: he who tastes of it 259 260 Journal of Italian Translation può abbellir se non voi, Grazie, che siete presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete? Quattro volte l’Aurora era salita su l’orïente a riveder le Grazie, dacché nacquero al mondo; e Giano antico, padre d’Italia, e l’adriaca Anfitrite inviavan lor doni, e un drappelletto di Naiadi e fanciulle eridanine, e quante i pomi d’Anïene e i fonti godean d’Arno e di Tebro, e quante avea Ninfe il mar d’Aretusa; e le guidavi tu, più che giglio nivea Galatea. ..................... E cantar Febo pieno d’inni un carme. Vaticinò, com’ei lo spirto, e varia daranno ai vati l’armonia del plettro le sue liete sorelle, e Amore il pianto che lusinghi a pietà l’alme gentili, e il giovine Lïeo scevra d’acerbe cure la vita, e Pallade i consigli, Giove la gloria, e tutti i Numi eterno poscia l’alloro; ma le Grazie il mèle persüadente grazïosi affetti, onde pia con gli Dei torni la terra. E cantando vedea lieto agitarsi esalando profumi, il verdeggiante bosco d’Olimpo, e rifiorir le rose, e [scorrere] di nèttare i torrenti, e risplendere il cielo, e delle Dive raggiar più bella l’immortal bellezza; però che il Padre sorrideva, e inerme a piè del trono l’aquila s’assise. .................... Inaccessa agli Dei splende una fiamma solitaria nell’ultimo de’ cieli, per proprio foco eterna; unico Nume la veneranda Deità di Vesta vi s’appressa, e deriva indi una pura luce che, mista allo splendor del sole, tinge gli aerei campi di zaffiro, e i mari, allor che ondeggiano al tranquillo spirto del vento facili a’ nocchieri, e di chiaror dolcissimo consola con quel lume le notti, e a qual più s’apre Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo dearly converses with his fatherland. Oh, tell us how that gift was yours alone. Who else, O Graces, can embellish fame for us, still groping in this earthly dusk; who else but you, who were already there, and, being Goddesses, know all things well? Once more to see the Graces since their birth bright Dawn had climbed four times the eastern sky: father of Italy, old Janus then, and Adriatic Amphitrite sent their gifts along with Eridanian girls and Naiads, with the dwellers who enjoyed Aniene’s trees, Arno’s and Tiber’s springs, and all the nymphs from Arethusa’s sea— and it was you escorted them all there, O whiter-much-than-lilies Galatea. ................................................. Till Phoebus sang a hymn-repleted song, He phrophesied how bards would take the soul from him, from his glad sisters the sweet lyre from Love the weeping that would lure a gentle spirit to ruth, from young Lyaeus life devoid of cares, from Pallas good advice, and from all Gods the laurel afterwards; but from the Graces would the honey flow, inspiring gracious feelings apt once more to reconcile with Heaven this our earth. He noticed, as he sang, the fragrance-breathing excitement of the green Olympian woods, the nectar-running streams, the roses’ birth, the splendor of the skies, and the far brighter immortal beauty of the Goddesses: indeed the Father smiled on this while, harmless, his eagle rested underneath his throne. Unreachable to all the Deities, in the last heaven shines a lonely flame which its own fire makes eternal: there the awesome Goddess Vesta climbs alone to fetch a cloudless light that with the sun’s paints in pure sapphire the whole firmament and the whole sea, now in the tranquil breeze waving most easy to the seaman’s eyes, and comforts with its sweetest clarity each solitary night wherein the humblest flower that burgeons to bedeck the earth 261 262 Journal of Italian Translation modesto fiore a decorar la terra molli tinte comparte, invidïate dalla rosa superba. ..................... Dite, o garzoni, a chi mortale, e voi, donzelle, dite a qual fanciulla un giorno più di quel mèl le Dee furon cortesi. N’ebbe primiero un cieco; e sullo scudo di Vulcano mirò moversi il mondo, e l’alto Ilio dirùto, e per l’ignoto pelago la solinga itaca vela, e tutto Olimpo gli s’aprì alla mente e Cipria vide e delle Grazie il cinto. Ma quando quel sapor venne a Corinna sul labbro, vinse tra l’elèe quadrighe di Pindaro i destrier, benché Elicona li dissetasse, e li pascea di foco Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila correva, e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole. .................... Di quel mèl la fragranza errò improvvisa sul talamo all’eolïa fanciulla, e il cor dal petto le balzò e la lira ed aggiogando i passeri, scendea Venere dall’Olimpo, e delle sue ambrosie dita le tergeva il pianto. Indarno Imetto le richiama dal dì che a fior dell’onda ergea, beate volatrici, il coro eliconio seguìeno, obbedïenti all’elegia del fuggitivo Apollo. Però che quando su la Grecia inerte Marte sfrenò le tartare cavalle depredatrici, e coronò la schiatta barbara d’Ottomano, allor l’Italia fu giardino alle Muse, e qui lo stuolo fabro dell’aureo mèl pose a sua prole il felice alvear. Né le Febee api (sebben le altre api abbia crudeli) fuggono i lai della invisibil Ninfa, che ognor delusa d’amorosa speme, pur geme per le quete aure diffusa, e il suo altero nemico ama e richiama; tanta dolcezza infusero le Grazie, per pietà della Ninfa, alle sue voci, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo is granted hues so soft the proud rose envies. Now tell, O lads, and you, sweet maidens, tell unto what mortal man, unto what lass the Goddesses most kindly gave, one day, most of that honey. A blind man came first: on Vulcan’s shield he saw the world revolve, high Ilium in ruins, and, outcast on unknown seas, the lone Ithacan sail: the whole Olympus to his vision burst, baring the Cyprian and the Graces’ zone. But when that savor soothed Corinna’s lips, mid the Elean coaches it outsped Pindaric steeds whose thirst Helicon quenched: Eolus fed them with his fire, the Sun adorned them with his spurs and, high above, speeding ahead, an eagle showed the way. ................................................... The sudden fragrance of that honey sprinkled the nuptial bed of the Eolian girl: Her lyre quavered and her heart leapt up when in a chariot, drawn by sparrows, down came Venus to wipe out her every tear with her ambrosian fingers. Ah, in vain has the Hymettus called them home again since the first dawn when, on swift wings of bliss skimming the high Aegean waves, behind the Heliconian chorus came the Graces, heedful of Phoebus’ fleeting elegy. For after Mars on slothful Greece unleashed the all-marauding mares of Tartary, and Ottoman’s barbaric sons were crowned, Italy gave the Muses a new home, and those who spun that golden honey placed its happy beehive for her children here. Not that the bees of Phoebus (others, too, are cruel equally) shun the laments of the unseen and ever-hopeless Nymph who, self-expanding through the quiet air, vents her despair, and calls and calls again, though unrequited, her despising foe; but so much sweetness did the graces breathe, for the Nymph’s sake, into her every word that, utterly forgetful of their work, those bees, now idle here in Italy, listen to but the echo that can make 263 264 Journal of Italian Translation che le lor api immemori dell’opra, ozïose in Italia odono l’eco che al par de’ carmi fe’ dolce la rima. Quell’angelette scesero da prima ove assai preda di torrenti al mare porta Eridàno. Ivi la fata Alcina di lor sorti presàga avea disperso molti agresti amaranti; e lungo il fiume gran ciel prendea con negre ombre un’incolta selva di lauri: su’ lor tronchi Atlante di Ruggiero scrivea gli avi e le imprese, e di spettri guerrier muta una schiera e donne innamorate ivan col mago, aspettando il cantor; e questi i favi vide quivi deposti, e si mietea tutti gli allori; ma de’ fior d’Alcina più grazïoso distillava il mèle, e il libò solo un lepido poeta, che insiem narrò d’Angelica gli affanni. Ma non men cara l’api amano l’ombra del sublime cipresso, ove appendea la sua cetra Torquato, allor che ardendo forsennato egli errò per le foreste “sì che insieme movea pietate e riso “nelle gentili Ninfe e ne’ pastori: “né già cose scrivea degne di riso “se ben cose facea degne di riso”. ...Deh! perché torse i suoi passi da voi, liete in udirlo cantar o Erminia, e il pio sepolcro e l’armi? Né disdegno di voi, ma più fatale Nume alla reggia il risospinse e al pianto. ...A tal ventura fur destinate le gentili alate che riposâr sull’Eridano il volo. Mentre nel Lilibeo mare la fata dava promesse, e l’attendea cortese a quante all’Adria indi posaro il volo angiolette Febee, l’altro drappello che, per antico amor Flora seguendo, tendea per le tirrene aure il suo corso, trovò simile a Cerere una donna su la foce dell’Arno; e l’attendeva portando in man purpurei gigli e frondi fresche d’ulivo. Avea riposo al fianco Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo a rhyme as pleasant as the song itself. Those wingèd, winsome bees descended first right where the mighty Eridanus brings its largest prey of torrents to the sea. There fate-presaging sorceress Alcina had copiously strewn wild amaranths, and there, along the very stream, a thick forest of laurels veiled much of the sky with its black shadow: on their trunks Atlante would carve Ruggiero’s ancestors and deeds; and there a silent throng of phantom knights and loving ladies with a sorcerer awaited still their singer: there he saw the honeycombs at his disposal placed, and made a harvest of all laurel trees. But the best honey from Alcina’s wreaths was left for but one poet yet to taste – the witty bard that also sang with it lovelorn Angelica’s unhappy woes. Yet no less dear is to the bees the shade of the tall cypress where Torquato hung his harp when, madly burning, through the woods he wandered “moving shepherds and sweet nymphs to pity and to laughter at one time; no longer did he write what made man laugh— he only did what made man only laugh.” Ah, why did he meander, O sweet bees, away from you, who liked to hear him sing Erminia’s flight and pious arms and holy sepulcher? No hate of you—a fatal Power brought him back to a princely court and to new tears. Such was the venture of all those ever-gentle, pinioned bees destined to halt their flight upon the Po. While from the Lilybaean Sea the Fairy with many soon-kept promises allured every Phoebean creature come to rest finally on the Adriatic shores, the other swarm that, borne by Flora’s love, had only aimed at the Tyrrhenian sky, right on the Arno’s estuary found a lady that had long been waiting there: Ceres-resembling, in her hands she held vermilion lilies and fresh olive sprouts. 265 266 Journal of Italian Translation un’etrusca colonna, a sé dinanzi di favi desïoso un alveare. Molte intorno a’ suoi piè verdi le spighe spuntavano, e perìan molte immature fra gli emuli papaveri; mal nota, benché fosse divina, era l’Ancella alle pecchie immortali. Essa agli Dei non tornò mai, da che scendea ne’ primi dì noiosi dell’uomo; e il riconforta ma le presenti ore gl’invola; ha nome Speranza e men infida ama i coloni. Già negli ultimi cieli iva compiendo il settimo de’ grandi anni Saturno col suo pianeta, da che a noi la Donna precorrendo le Muse era tornata per consiglio di Pallade, a recarne l’ara fatale ove scolpite in oro le brevi rifulgean libere leggi, madri dell’arti onde fu bella Atene. .................... Ecco prostrata una foresta, e fianchi rudi d’alpe, e masse ferree immani al braccio de’ Ciclòpi, a fondar tempio che ceda tardo a’ muti urti del tempo. E al suono che invisibili spandeano le Grazie intorno, assunsero nell’opra nuova speme i viventi: e l’Architetto meravigliando della sua fatica, quasi nubi lievissime, di terra ferro e abeti vedea sorgere e marmi, a sue leggi arrendevoli, e posarsi convessi in arco aereo imitanti il firmamento. Attonite le Muse come vennero poscia alla divina mole il guardo levando, indarno altrove col memore pensier ivan cercando se altrove Palla, . . . . . . . . . . . . . o quando in Grecia di celeste acànto ghirlandò le colonne, o quando in Roma gli archi adornava a ritornar vittrice trïonfando con candide cavalle, miracolo sì fatto avesse all’arti mai suggerito. Quando poi la Speme veleggiando su l’Arno in una nave l’api recò e l’ancora là dove Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Resting one side on an Etruscan column, she gazed on something right in front of her— a beehive longing still for honeycombs. Full many a verdant spear of wheat burst forth down at her feet while others, not yet ripe, amongst the vying poppies perished soon: though of celestial origin, the Handmaid was hardly known to the immortal bees. Never has she returned among the Gods since she came down on man’s first tedious days; man she consoles but steals his present hours: her name (she smiles on farmers most) is Hope. In the last heavens Saturn with his planet was in the seventh of his lengthy years when, as forerunner of the Nine, the Handmaid, by Pallas so advised, returned to us bringing the sacred altar where in gold were carved and shone the free and simple laws that made the arts and Athens beautiful. ..................................................... Behold, a forest down is being felled along with marble blocks and measureless masses of iron by Cyclopes’ hands: a temple here must rise that will for long withstand the silent buffetings of time. At the sound scattered by the unseen Graces the living with new hope join in the deed: marveling at his work, the Architect sees, like thin clouds, fir trunks and iron beams and marble matter, docile to his laws, rise quickly from the earth and only rest when, curved in airy arches, they reflect the firmament. The Muses, all enrapt, lift now their eyes to the imposing dome and with nostalgic thoughts try to recall if Pallas elsewhere .................................... either in Greece, when the divine acanthus garlanded every column, or in Rome when, entering victorious on white steeds, she decked its arches with triumphal leaves, had with her presence so inspired the arts as to behold such glory born at last. When, sailing toward the Arno on her ship, Hope afterwards brought there all of her bees— there where the Muses’ regal mansion would 267 268 Journal of Italian Translation sorger poscia dovea delle bell’arti sovra mille colonne una gentile reggia alle Muse, . . . corser l’api a un’indistinta di novelle piante soavità che intorno al tempio oliva. Un mirto che suo dall’alto Beatrice ammira, venerando spendeva; e dalla cima battea le penne un Genio disdegnoso che il passato esplorando e l’avvenire cieli e abissi cercava, e popolato d’anime in mezzo a tutte l’acque un monte; poi, tornando, spargea folgori e lieti raggi, e speme e terrore e pentimento ne’ mortali; e verissime sciagure all’Italia cantava. Appresso al mirto fiorian le rose che le Grazie ogni anno ne’ colli euganei van cogliendo, e un serto molle di pianto il dì sesto d’aprile ne recano alla Madre. A queste intorno dolcemente ronzarono, e sentiro come forse d’Eliso era venuto ad innestare il cespo ei che più ch’altri libò il mèl sacro su l’Imetto, e primo fe’ del celeste amor celebre il rito. Pur con molti frutteti e con l’orezzo le sviò de’ quercioli una valletta dove le Ninfe alle mie Dee seguaci non son Genii mentiti. Io dal mio poggio quando tacciono i venti fra le torri della vaga Firenze, odo un Silvano ospite ignoto a’ taciti eremiti del vicino Oliveto: ei sul meriggio fa sua casa un frascato, e a suon d’avena le pecorelle sue chiama alla fonte. Chiama due brune giovani la sera, né piegar erba mi parean ballando. Esso mena la danza. N’eran molte sotto l’alpe di Fiesole a una valle che da sei montagnette ond’è ricinta scende a sembianza di teatro acheo. Affrico allegro ruscelletto accorse a’ lor prieghi dal monte, e fe’ la valle limpida d’un freschissimo laghetto. Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo upon a thousand columns some day rise— dashed all those bees, attracted by a faint fragrance of new-born plants around the shrine. A sacred myrtle tree, which Beatrice from heaven calls her own, was shining there, and from its very top, beating his wings, a wrathful Genius, scanning both past and future, sought abyss and skies and, in the midst of all the seas, a mountain inhabited by souls; then, back on earth, upon the mortals cast he thunderbolts and happy rays, repentance. hope and fright, singing to Italy disasters true. Close to that myrtle tree those roses bloomed, which every year on the Euganean hills the Graces pick and weave a wreath thereof to offer, wet with tears, on April sixth, to their own Mother. Sweetly round those buds murmured the bees, and felt the rosebush grafted by him who tasted on th’ Hymettus’ peak the sacred honey more than others, singing, first, the religion of celestial love. And yet, despite the orchards and the shade, a tiny dell of youthful oak trees swayed them where, loyal to my Goddesses, the nymphs are not mendacious Genii. From this hill, when through the towers of my lovely Florence the winds are still, I hear a sylvan guest unknown in yonder silent hermitage of nearby Oliveto: he, past noon, makes shady twigs his home, and with his oat calls one by one his little sheep to drink. At evening, then, two dark-haired maidens come, who hardly bend the grasses as they dance (‘t is he who leads them there). Beneath the hill of Fiesole too many maidens dwelt in a fair dell that from six circling mountains like an Achean theater descends. Mindful of all their callings from above, Africo, carefree rivulet, replied and, forming there the coolest little lake, made the entire little valley bright. Not yet had Fiammetta heard of Nymphs when, telling tales of courtesy and love, 269 270 Journal of Italian Translation Nulla per anco delle Ninfe inteso avea Fiammetta allor ch’ivi a diporto novellando d’amori e cortesie con le amiche sedeva, o s’immergea, te, Amor, fuggendo e tu ve la spïavi, dentro le cristalline onde più bella. Fur poi svelati in que’ diporti i vaghi misteri, e Dïoneo re del drappello le Grazie afflisse. Perseguì i colombi che stavan su le dense ali sospesi a guardia d’una grotta: invan gementi sotto il flagel del mirto onde gl’incalza gli fan ombra dattorno, e gli fan prieghi che non s’accosti; sanguinanti e inermi sgombran con penne trepidanti al cielo. Dalla grotta i recessi empie la luna, e fra un mucchio di gigli addormentata svela a un Fauno confusa una Napea. Gioì il protervo dell’esempio, e spera allettarne Fiammetta; e pregò tutti allor d’aita i Satiri canuti, e quante emule ninfe eran da’ giochi e da’ misteri escluse: e quegli arguti ozïando ogni notte a Dïoneo di scherzi e d’antri e talami di fiori ridissero novelle. Or vive un libro dettato dagli Dei; ma sfortunata la damigella che mai tocchi il libro! Tosto smarrita del natìo pudore avrà la rosa; né il rossore ad arte può innamorar chi sol le Grazie ha in core. O giovinette Dee, gioia dell’inno, per voi la bella donna i riti vostri imìta e le terrene api lusinga nel felsineo pendio d’onde il pastore mira Astrea che or del ciel gode e de’ tardi alberghi di Nereo; d’indiche piante e di catalpe onde i suoi Lari ombreggia sedi appresta e sollazzi alle vaganti schiere, o le accoglie ne’ fecondi orezzi d’armonïoso speco invïolate dal gelo e dall’estiva ira e da’ nembi. La bella donna di sua mano i lattei calici del limone, e la pudica delle vïole, e il timo amor dell’api, Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo with her own friends for pastime there she sat or plunged into those waters, shunning you, O Love, who spied upon her furtively, and found her fairer in the crystal foam. The wondrous mysteries were then revealed in that diversion whereby Dioneo, king of the group, displeased the Graces’ sight. Away he chased the turtle-doves that watched on full-spread wings the entrance to a cave: moaning in vain beneath the myrtle’s lashing, they cast their shadows ‘round him, begging him not to draw near, but, armless, fast they flee on bleeding wings in terror to the sky. The moon that floods the sunken cave with light shows on a bunch of lilies a Napea asleep and blended in a Faun’s embrace. By that example spurred, the daring lad hoped to ensnare Fiammetta, and invoked as many white-haired Satyrs as he knew with all the envious nymphs until then banned from all that playing, all that mystery; witty and shrewd and idle, every night to Dioneo they recounted tales of fun and caves and nuptial beds of blooms. Dictated by the Gods, a book still lives, but hapless is the lass that touches it: her rose will quickly lose its native hue, and never will the Graces fall in love with artful blushing on a woman’s cheeks. O youthful Goddesses, my hymn’s one joy, for you the lovely lady now renews your holy rites and lures the earthly bees to her Felsinean hillock whence the shepherd watches Astrea in love with sky and sea. Shading her hearth with most exotic plants, her home she lends for fun to wandering throngs or she invites them to the healthy shade of her harmonious cottage never touched by winter’s frost or summer’s wrathful storm. With her own hand the lovely lady wets the milky calyxes of lemon buds, shy violets, and thyme, to bees so dear; as balm of dew she begs from peaceful stars and consecrates new honeycombs to you, deep in her heart she sighes a silent prayer. 271 272 Journal of Italian Translation innaffia, e il fior delle rugiade invoca dalle stelle tranquille, e impetra i favi che vi consacra e in cor tacita prega. Con lei pregate, donzellette, e meco voi, garzoni, miratela. Il segreto sospiro, il riso del suo labbro, il dolce foco esultante nelle sue pupille faccianvi accorti di che preghi, e come l’ascoltino le Dee. E certo impetra che delle Dee l’amabile consiglio da lei s’adempia. I preghi che dal Cielo per pietà de’ mortali han le divine vergini caste, non a voi li danno, giovani vati e artefici eleganti, bensì a qual più gentil donna le imìta. A lei correte, e di soavi affetti ispiratrici e immagini leggiadre sentirete le Grazie. Ah vi rimembri che inverecondo le spaventa Amore! III Torna deh! torna al suon, donna dell’arpa; guarda la tua bella compagna; e viene ultima al rito a tesser danze all’ara. Pur la città cui Pale empie di paschi con l’urne industri tanta valle, e pingui di mille pioppe aerëe al sussurro, ombrano i buoi le chiuse, or la richiama alle feste notturne e fra quegli orti freschi di frondi e intorno aurei di cocchi lungo i rivi d’Olona. E già tornava questa gentile al suo molle paese; così imminente omai freme Bellona che al Tebro, all’Arno, ov’è più sacra Italia, non un’ara trovò, dove alle Grazie rendere il voto d’una regia sposa. Ma udì ‘l canto, udì l’arpa; e a noi si volse agile come in cielo Ebe succinta. Sostien del braccio un giovinetto cigno, e togliesi di fronte una catena vaga di perle a cingerne l’augello. Quei lento al collo suo del flessuoso collo s’attorce, e di lei sente a ciocche neri su le sue lattee piume i crini scorrer disciolti, e più lieto la mira Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Pray, gracious maidens, with her, and with me, O lads, just look at her. Her secret sigh, the smile upon her lips, the tranquil flame exulting in her eyes should tell you what she prays for, and how fast the Goddesses listen to her. Surely she begs the Three to help her do their lovely will on earth. The worth that Heaven, sorry for mankind, bestows on the chaste virgins from the sky will never fall on you, O artisans and youthful bards of futile elegance, but only on the gentlest lady eager to imitate them. Therefore, run to her, and you will sense the Graces as they breathe feelings of love and images of grace. Remember: Love unchaste they ever dread. III Come, lady with the harp, and play again! Look at your lovely friend, arriving last: she’ll dance around the altar in this rite. The town whose plainland Pales fills with pastures through industrious canals and countless poplars singing sublimely in the lofty air (fat oxen shade its outskirts) calls her back to its nocturnal splendor in the midst of gardens fresh with trees and golden-bright with chariots along th’ Olona’s banks. Once more the pleasure of her country home this gentle one was seeking, for so near is still Bellona’s cry she could not find either upon the Tiber or the Arno— where the more sacred Italy abides – a single altar whence a regal bride could lift her prayer to the Goddesses. But then she heard the song, she heard the harp: swiftly she turned to us just as in heaven Hebe in her long, tucked-up dress would do. Perched on her arm, she holds a youthful Swan; now from her forehead she removes a chain, pearl-studded, and soon binds the bird with it. Slowly the Swan, with undulating grace winding his neck around her neck, now feels her raven hair on his white plumage loose, 273 274 Journal of Italian Translation mentr’ella scioglie a questi detti il labbro: Grata agli Dei del reduce marito da’ fiumi algenti ov’hanno patria i cigni, alle virginee Deità consacra l’alta Regina mia candido un cigno Accogliete, o garzoni, e su le chiare acque vaganti intorno all’ara e al bosco deponete l’augello, e sia del nostro fonte signor; e i suoi atti venusti gli rendan l’onde e il suo candore, e goda di sé, quasi dicendo a chi lo mira, simbol son io della beltà. Sfrondate ilari carolando, o verginette, il mirteto e i rosai lungo i meandri del ruscello, versate sul ruscello, versateli, e al fuggente nuotatore che veleggia con pure ali di neve, fate inciampi di fiori, e qual più ameno fiore a voi sceglia col puniceo rostro, vel ponete nel seno. A quanti alati godon l’erbe del par l’aere e i laghi amabil sire è il cigno, e con l’impero modesto delle grazie i suoi vassalli regge, ed agli altri volator sorride, e lieto le sdegnose aquile ammira. Sovra l’òmero suo guizzan securi gli argentei pesci, ed ospite leale il vagheggiano, s’ei visita all’alba le lor ime correnti, desïoso di più freschi lavacri, onde rifulga sovra le piume sue nitido il sole. Fioritelo di gigli. Al vago rito Donna l’invia, che nella villa amena de’ tigli (amabil pianta, e a’ molli orezzi propizia, e al santo coniugale amore) nudrialo afflitta; e a lei dal pelaghetto lieto accorrea, agitandole l’acque sotto i lauri tranquille. O di clementi virtù ornamento nella reggia insùbre! Finché piacque agli Dei, o agl’infelici cara tutela, e di tre regie Grazie genitrice gentil, bella fra tutte figlie di regi, e agl’Immortali amica! Tutto il Cielo t’udìa quando al marito Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo and looks upon her with much greater bliss as she begins to move her lips to say: “Grateful to Heaven for her man’s return from the cold rivers, fatherland of swans, my noble Queen to the three virgin Graces is offering the whiteness of this Swan.” Welcome the Bird, O lads, and lay him down on the clear waters murmuring around the altar and the forest: let him be lord of our stream, and let the waves bring forth his graceful ways and innocence. To all who gaze upon him may this happy Swan say, “I am beauty’s symbol.” Happily dancing, O graceful maidens, pluck the leaves of every rosebush, every myrtle tree along the winding stream, and cast them all over the stream itself, thus laying stumbles of blossoms right before the fleeting bird sailing on pinions of pure, dazzling snow, and, dearly treasuring the sweetest bud he chooses for you with his purple beak, conceal it on your breast. Of all the birds that love air, lakes and meadows equally, the Swan is gentle king: most affably he rules his subjects in the Graces’ realm, smiles at his wingèd mates and joyfully watches the scornful eagles overhead. Over his back the fish in sliver spree most safely wriggle, loving him as guest when he at daybreak tries their deeper waves in search of fresher cleansings that may lure upon his feathers the new-risen sun. Crown him with lilies! For the beauteous rite he was donated by Her Ladyship, who in her villa fresh with linden trees (lovable plants propitious to cool shades as well as sanctity of wedded love) in sadness nourished him: from the small lake the Swan had run to her, causing a ripple on the immobile waters underneath her laurel trees. O virtues’ ornament there in her royal palace of Milan! O (while the Gods allowed it) ever-pleasant harbor to weeping mortals, gentle mother 275 276 Journal of Italian Translation guerreggiante a impedir l’Elba ai nemici pregavi lenta l’invisibil Parca che accompagna gli Eroi, vaticinando l’inno funereo e l’alto avello e l’armi più terse e giunti alla quadriga i bianchi destrieri eterni a correre l’Eliso. Ma come Marte, quando entro le navi rispingeva gli Achei, vide sul vallo fra un turbine di dardi Aiace solo, fumar di sangue; e ove dirùto il muro dava più varco a’ Teucri, ivi attraverso piantarsi; e al suon de’ brandi, onde intronato avea l’elmo e lo scudo, i vincitori impäurir del grido; e rincalzarli fra le dardanie faci arso e splendente; scagliar rotta la spada, e trarsi l’elmo e fulminar immobile col guardo Ettore, che perplesso ivi si tenne: tal dell’Ausonio Re l’inclito alunno fra il lutto e il tempestar lungo di Borea si fe’ vallo dell’Elba, e minacciando il trïonfo indugiava e le rapine dello Scita ramingo oltre la Neva. Quinci indignato il sol torce il suo carro, quando Orïone predator dell’Austro sovra l’Orsa precipita e abbandona corrucciosi i suoi turbini e il terrore sul deserto de’ ghiacci orridi, d’alto silenzio e d’ossa e armate esuli larve. Sdegnan chi a’ fasti di fortuna applaude le Dive mie, e sol fan bello il lauro quando Sventura ne corona i prenci. Ma più alle Dive mie piace quel carme che d’egregia beltà l’alma e le forme con la pittrice melodia ravviva. Spesso per l’altre età, se l’idïoma d’Italia correrà puro a’ nepoti, (è vostro, e voi, deh! lo serbate, o Grazie!) tento ritrar ne’ versi miei la sacra danzatrice, men bella allor che siede, men di te bella, o gentil sonatrice, men amabil di te quando favelli, o nutrice dell’api. Ma se danza, vedila! tutta l’armonia del suono Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo to three sweet regal Graces, the most fair of the king’s daughters, deathless Heaven’s friend! All the Gods heard your plea when for your husband, at war to keep the foe from Elba away, you raised your prayer to the unseen Fate that, marching with the heroes, prophesies a hymn, a lofty tomb, most shining arms, and, yoked to their quadriga, snow-white steeds to tread, eternal, the Elysian Fields. But as, when pushing the Acheans back onto their ships, Mars on the wall saw Ajax, bleeding, alone within a storm of darts, stand where a breach had made more Trojans rush, and, in the midst of swords resounding high on shield and helmet, frighten with his shout and chase the winners through Dardanian flames that made him most resplendent as he burned, until he hurled his broken blade at last, removed his helmet, and with flashing gaze made Hector stop, perplexed: in such a way the lustrous pupil of Ausonia’s King through Boreas’ wailing and lugubrious storm made Elba his own wall whence a while longer beyond the Neva with his threat he kept the Scythians’ triumphant plundering. The Sun now sways his chariot from here, mad when Orion with his preying winds precipitously falls upon the Bear unleashing all its wrathful, dreadful gales on deserts of horrendous glaciers, high silence, and bones, and ghosts of warring men. My Goddesses abhor those who exalt Fortune’s bright lavishness: they only make splendid the wreath that crowns grief-tested kings. But, most of all, my Goddesses delight in hymns that with depictive melody waken to lofty beauty soul and flesh. Oft for the future ages—if the tongue of Italy retain its purity (‘t is yours, O Graces; therefore keep it so)— in these my very lines I try to limn the sacred dancing lady, oh, less fair when she sits down, less beautiful than you, O gentle harpsichordist, less endearing than you, O foster mother of the bees, 277 278 Journal of Italian Translation scorre dal suo bel corpo, dal sorriso della sua bocca; e un moto, un atto, un vezzo manda agli sguardi venustà improvvisa. E chi pinger la può? Mentre a ritrarla pongo industre lo sguardo, ecco m’elude, e le carole che lente disegna affretta rapidissima, e s’invola sorvolando su’ fiori; appena veggio il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra’ mirti. Inno terzo Pallade I Pari al numero lor volino gl’inni alle vergini sante, armonïosi del peregrino suono uno e diverso di tre favelle. Intento odi, Canova; ch’io mi veggio d’intorno errar l’incenso, qual si spandea sull’are a’ versi arcani d’Anfïone: presente ecco il nitrito de’ corsieri dircèi; benché Ippocrene li dissetasse, e li pascea dell’aure Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila volava, e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole, pur que’ vaganti Pindaro contenne presso il Cefiso, ed adorò le Grazie. Fanciulle, udite, udite: un lazio Carme vien danzando imenei dall’isoletta di Sirmïone per l’argenteo Garda sonante con altera onda marina, da che le nozze di Pelèo, cantate nella reggia del mar, l’aureo Catullo al suo Garda cantò. Sacri poeti, a me date voi l’arte, a me de’ vostri idïomi gli spirti, e co’ toscani modi seguaci adornerò più ardito le note istorie, e quelle onde a me solo siete cortesi allor che dagli antiqui sepolcri m’apparite, illuminando d’elisia luce i solitari campi ove l’errante Fantasia mi porta a discernere il vero. Or ne preceda Clio, la più casta delle Muse, e chiami consolatrici sue meco le Grazie. .................... Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo while still you speak. But if she dances, oh, the whole harmonious power of the sound explodes through her fair body and her smile: each lovely gesture, every graceful turn gives unexpected pleasure to the eyes. But who can ever paint her? Ah, the more I try to hold her beauty in my glance, the more she baffles me: her dancing steps, until now slow, become a sudden whirl and just as breeze on blooms she vanishes: I hardly see her veil now disappear as a white gleam among the myrtle trees. Hymn Three Pallas I Let now the hymns in equal number soar to yonder holy virgins with the wondrous sound of the same yet diverse music of three languages. Canova, hear me still: I feel the incense all about me spread such as was strewn on altars when Amphion’s mysterious lines were sung: the neighing’s here of the Dircean steeds which Hippocrene refreshed with its own streams, Eolus fed with winds, and the Sun quickened with his spurs while, high above, an eagle showed the way. ‘T was Pindar tamed the others, running wild near the Cephisus, and adored the Graces. And listen, girls, you too: a Latin Hymn out of the little isle of Sirmio comes with a rhythm of a wedding feast over the Garda of the silver light, whose waters proudly sound as sea-born waves since golden-voiced Catullus told his lake of Peleus’ nuptials sung beneath the sea. Give, sacred poets, all your art to me, to me the spirit of your different tongues, and, bolder than before, I will adorn with Tuscan elegance the well-known tales and those that you reveal to me alone as you appear out of the ancient tombs casting Elysian light on lonely lands whereto my wandering fantasy has brought me, 279 280 Journal of Italian Translation Come se a’ raggi d’Espero amorosi fuor d’una mìrtea macchia escon secrete e tortorelle mormorando a’ baci, guata dall’ombra l’upupa e sen duole, fuggono quelle impaurite al bosco; così le Grazie si fuggian tremando. Fu lor ventura che Minerva allora risaliva que’ balzi, al bellicoso Scita togliendo il nume suo. Di stragi su’ canuti, e di vergini rapite, stolto! il trionfo profanò che in guerra giusta il favore della Dea gli porse. Delle Grazie s’avvide e della fuga immantinente, e dietro ad un’opaca rupe il cocchio lasciava, e le sue quattro leonine poledre; ivi lo scudo depose, e la fatale ègida, e l’elmo, e inerme agli occhi delle Grazie apparve. - Scendete, disse, o vergini, scendete al mar, e venerate ivi la Madre; e dolce un lutto per Orfeo nel core vi manderà, che obblierete il vostro terror, tanto ch’io rieda a offrirvi un dono, né più vi offenda Amore. - E tosto al corso diè la quadriga, e la rattenne a un’alta reggia che al par d’Atene ebbe già cara; or questa sola ha in pregio, or quando i Fati non lasciano ad Atene altro che il nome. II ....................... E a me un avviso Eufrosine, cantando, porge, un avviso che da Febo un giorno sotto le palme di Cirene apprese. Innamorato, nel pierio fonte guardò Tiresia giovinetto i fulvi capei di Palla, liberi dall’elmo, coprir le rosee disarmate spalle; sentì l’aura celeste, e mirò l’onde lambir a gara della Diva il piede, e spruzzar riverenti e paurose la sudata cervice e il casto petto, che i lunghi crin discorrenti dal collo coprian, siccome li moveano l’aure. Ma né più rimirò dalle natìe Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo searching for truth. Let Clio come now first – the chastest of the Muses – and with me let her invoke the Graces’ soothing ease. ......................................................................... As in the glimmer of the Evening Star from the dark thickness of the myrtle trees murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss till, watched by the resentful hoopoe, back into the forest terrified they flee: in such a way the frightened Graces ran. But luckily for them, right at that time Minerva climbed those very hills again to take her mighty deity away from fighting Scythians whose victory, which she had granted for a rightful war, had madly been profaned by rape of women and slaughter of unarmed white-haired old men. Noticing the three Graces in their flight, behind a darkened rock she hid at once the four lionine mares that pulled her coach; helmet and shield and breastplate she laid down and wholly bare before the Graces stood. “Go down,” she said, “dear virgins, to the sea, go down, and worship your own Mother there. Such a sweet grief for Orpheus’s death will she inspire in your hearts, you’ll soon forget your terror till I here return with a dear present for you; nor will Love offend you any longer.” Thus she spurred her fast quadriga forward till she reached a lofty royal palace dear to her as much as Athens – her sole cherished home now that the Fates gave Athens but a name. II ................................................................... Singing, Euphrosyne now counsels me as she herself was counseled long ago by Phoebus underneath Cyrene’s palms. Enamored, down in the Pierian spring youthful Tiresias, one day, caught sight of Pallas’ sunlit hair that, helmet-free, fell loose upon her rosy shoulders bare: a breeze from heaven felt he as he saw the waves that vied to kiss the Goddess’ feet 281 282 Journal of Italian Translation cime eliconie il cocchio aureo del Sole, né per la coronèa selva di pioppi guidò a’ ludi i garzoni, o alle carole l’anfïonie fanciulle; e i capri e i cervi tenean securi le beote valli, chè non più il dardo suo dritto fischiava, però che la divina ira di Palla al cacciator col cenno onnipotente avvinse i lumi di perpetua notte. Tal destino è ne’ fati. Ahi! senza pianto l’uomo non vede la beltà celeste. III ..................... Isola è in mezzo all’oceàn, là dove sorge più curvo agli astri; immensa terra, come è grido vetusto, un dì beata d’eterne messi e di mortali altrice. Invan la chiede all’onde oggi il nocchiero, or i nostri invocando or dell’avverso polo gli astri; e se illuso è dal desio, mira albeggiar i suoi monti da lunge, e affretta i venti, e per l’antica fama Atlantide l’appella. Ma da Febo detta è Palladio Ciel, che da la santa Palla Minerva agli abitanti irata, cui il ricco suolo e gl’imenei lascivi fean pigri all’arti e sconoscenti a Giove, dentro l’Asia gli espulse, e l’aurea terra cinse di ciel pervio soltanto ai Numi. Onde, qualvolta per desìo di stragi si fan guerra i mortali, e alla divina libertà danno impuri ostie di sangue; o danno a prezzo anima e brandi all’ire di tiranni stranieri, o a fera impresa seguon avido re che ad innocenti popoli appresta ceppi e lutto a’ suoi; allor concede le Gorgòni a Marte Pallade, e sola tien l’asta paterna con che i regi precorre alla difesa delle leggi e dell’are, e per cui splende a’ magnanimi eroi sacro il trionfo. Poi nell’isola sua fugge Minerva, e tutte Dee minori, a cui diè Giove d’esserle care alunne, a ogni gentile Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo and, reverent and hesitant, then sprinkled her still-perspiring face and virgin breast which her long-streaming hair, tossed by the wind, protected from man’s gaze. But nevermore was he to watch the chariot of the Sun golden above his native Helicon nor would he through Coronis’ poplar trees lead youngsters any longer to the game or Amphionian maidens to the dance. Through the Boeotian valleys rams and deer roamed safely ever since, for nevermore did his dart whistle straight up in the air: heeding the might of her omnipotence, Athena’s godly wrath had then and there bandaged the hunter’s eyes with endless night. Such is the Fates’ decree. Through tears alone must man behold celestial beauty here, III There is an island in mid-ocean, right where its most rounded waves rise to the stars – according to old tales a boundless land one day inhabited by men and blessed with everlasting vegetation. Now, although invoking stars of either pole, the seaman cannot see it any more; only, if still deluded by desire, from far away he scans its whitened peak and, therefore trying to outspeed the winds, he calls Atlantis what Apollo named Heaven of Pallas, for it was Minerva who, fully angered by those dwellers made by wealthy soil and most lascivious love thankless to Jove and heedless of the arts, expelled them all into the Asian woods, girding our golden planet with a sky accessible to Deities alone. Therefore, whenever thirst for bloodshed makes these mortal creatures one another fight or when to heavenly freedom they lift up unholy hosts of blood or for a price yield soul and sword to wrath of foreign kings or follow in ferocious enterprises a greedy tyrant eager to enchain innocent nations and oppress his own: 283 284 Journal of Italian Translation studio ammaestra: e quivi casti i balli, quivi son puri i canti, e senza brina i fiori e verdi i prati, ed aureo il giorno sempre, e stellate e limpide le notti. Chiamò d’intorno a sé le Dive, e a tutte compartì l’opre del promesso dono alle timide Grazie. Ognuna intenta agl’imperî correa: Pallade in mezzo con le azzurre pupille amabilmente signoreggiava il suo virgineo coro. Attenuando i rai aurei del sole, volgeano i fusi nitidi tre nude Ore, e del velo distendean l’ordito. Venner le Parche di purpurei pepli velate e il crin di quercia; e di più trame raggianti, adamantine, al par de l’etre e fluide e pervie e intatte mai da Morte, trame onde filan degli Dei la vita, le tre presàghe riempiean la spola. Né men dell’altre innamorata, all’opra Iri scese fra’ Zefiri; e per l’alto le vaganti accogliea lucide nubi gareggianti di tinte, e sul telaio pioveale a Flora a effigïar quel velo; e più tinte assumean riso e fragranza e mille volti dalla man di Flora. E tu, Psiche, sedevi, e spesso in core, senz’aprir labbro, ridicendo: “Ahi, quante gioie promette, e manda pianto Amore!”, raddensavi col pettine la tela. E allor faconde di Talia le corde, e Tersicore Dea, che a te dintorno fea tripudio di ballo e ti guardava, eran conforto a’ tuoi pensieri e a l’opra. Correa limpido insiem d’Èrato il canto da que’ suoni guidato; e come il canto Flora intendeva, e sì pingea con l’ago. Mesci, odorosa Dea, rosee le fila; e nel mezzo del velo ardita balli, canti fra ‘l coro delle sue speranze Giovinezza: percote a spessi tocchi antico un plettro il Tempo; e la danzante discende un clivo onde nessun risale. Le Grazie a’ piedi suoi destano fiori, a fiorir sue ghirlande: e quando il biondo Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo ‘t is then, surrendering to Mars her Gorgons, Athena brandishes her father’s spear whereby, preceding monarchs, she defends altars and laws, thus rendering a true and noble hero’s triumph ever bright. Back to her island then Minerva runs, where many minor Goddesses, by Jove sent as dear pupils to her, she instructs in every gentle task: chaste dancing there is seen, chaste music heard; no frost offends ever the flowers or the verdant lawns; in golden sunshine the whole day remains with ever-limpid, ever-starry nights. She bade her Goddesses around her come, and then assigned to all part of the work for the completion of the gift already promised to the shy Graces solemnly. Each, most attentive, to her bidding ran. Right in the middle, Pallas amiably over her virgins watched with chaste, blue eyes. Spinning the golden sun, ray after ray, three naked Hours their lustrous spindles twirled, lengthening thus the texture of a veil. With oak-leaves aureoled, in purple clad, came the foreseeing Fates, and soon they filled the long-awaiting spool with threads as bright and varied and celestial as the sky, fluent and pervious yet Death-untouched – threads all the Gods employ when spinning life. No less enamored than the others, down came Iris with the Breezes to that toil: reaching for wandering, refulgent clouds with one another vying for new tints, she down to Flora rained them one by one, hers to depict the veil with; Flora’s touch lent them new sheen and fragrance as they took on countless faces. And you, too, sat down, O Psyche, often saying in your heart, though uttering no sound, “O Love! O Love! You promise pleasure but give only tears,” and with a comb you thickened every thread while, comforting your work and all your thoughts, with eloquence Thalia plucked her chords and heavenly Terpsichore, enrapt, in boundless jubilation danced about you. 285 286 Journal of Italian Translation crin t’abbandoni e perderai ‘l tuo nome, vivran que’ fiori, o Giovinezza, e intorno l’urna funerea spireranno odore. Or mesci, amabil Dea, nivee le fila; e ad un lato del velo Espero sorga dal lavor di tue dita; escono errando fra l’ombre e i raggi fuor d’un mìrteo bosco due tortorelle mormorando ai baci; mirale occulto un rosignuol, e ascolta silenzïoso, e poi canta imenei: fuggono quelle vereconde al bosco. Mesci, madre dei fior, lauri alle fila; e sul contrario lato erri co’ specchi dell’alba il sogno; e mandi a le pupille sopite del guerrier miseri i volti de la madre e del padre allor che all’are recan lagrime e voti; e quei si desta, e i prigionieri suoi guarda e sospira. Mesci, o Flora gentile, oro alle fila; e il destro lembo istorïato esulti d’un festante convito: il Genio in volta prime coroni agli esuli le tazze. Or libera è la gioia, ilare il biasmo, e candida è la lode. A parte siede bello il Silenzio arguto in viso e accenna che non volino i detti oltre le soglie. Mesci cerulee, Dea, mesci le fila; e pinta il lembo estremo abbia una donna che con l’ombre e i silenzi unica veglia; nutre una lampa su la culla, e teme non i vagiti del suo primo infante sien presagi di morte; e in quell’errore non manda a tutto il cielo altro che pianti. Beata! ancor non sa quanto agl’infanti provido è il sonno eterno, e que’ vagiti presagi son di dolorosa vita. Come d’Èrato al canto ebbe perfetti Flora i trapunti, ghirlandò l’Aurora gli aerei fluttuanti orli del velo d’ignote rose a noi; sol la fragranza, se vicino è un Iddio, scende alla terra. E fra l’altre immortali ultima venne rugiadosa la bionda Ebe, costretti in mille nodi fra le perle i crini, silenzïosa, e l’anfora converse: Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo Escorted by those sounds, Erato’s song soared limpid in the air, and with her needle Flora depicted what the singing meant. Weave, fragrant Goddess, weave now rosy threads, and, painted in the middle of the veil, let ever-daring, ever-dancing Youth join in the singing chorus of her hopes. Time oft and dully strikes his ancient lyre while down a hill that no one climbs again the dancing maiden’s coming. At her feet the Graces waken blossoms, that she may replenish all her garlands happily. Oh, when your hair will lose its golden glow, and you, sweet Youth, will lose your very name, living and living still, those very flowers around a tomb will shed their final scent. Now, lovely Goddess, weave snow-dazzling threads, and from your fingers’ effort let at once Hesperus on the veil’s right side arise: through rays and shadows out of myrtle trees murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss; unseen, a nightingale sees them, instead, listens in silence and then sings of love: bashful, into the forest back they flee. Mother of wreaths, weave laurel leaves with hreads, and let Dream linger on the veil’s left side with Dawn’s own mirrors, flashing on the weary eyes of a sleeping warrior the grieving images of a mother and a father offering at the altar vows and tears: suddenly he awakes and with a sigh looks at poor prisoners he still must guard. Weave, gentle Flora, gold along with threads, and let the painted right side now exult with a most joyous banquet: fast about, let Genius crown the exiles’ goblets first. Now free is all the joy, cheerful the blame, and genuine the praise. There in a corner beautiful Silence sits alone and stares, wittily warning all to keep their words under the secret safety of the roof. Weave, Goddess, now, weave now cerulean threads, and let the painted left side now reveal a woman in the darkness still awake: holding a lamp over a cradle lit, 287 288 Journal of Italian Translation e dell’altre la vaga opra fatale rorò d’ambrosia; e fu quel velo eterno. Poi su le tre di Citerea Gemelle tutte le Dive il diffondeano; ed elle fra le fiamme d’amore invano intatte a rallegrar la terra; e sì velate apparian come pria vergini nude. .................... E il velo delle Dee manda improvviso un suon, qual di lontana arpa, che scorre sopra i vanni de’ Zeffiri soave; qual venìa dall’Egeo per l’isolette un’ignota armonia, poi che al reciso capo e al bel crin d’Orfeo la vaga lira annodaro scagliandola nell’onde le delire Baccanti; e sospirando con l’Ionio propinquo il sacro Egeo quell’armonia serbava, e l’isolette stupefatte l’udiro e i continenti. .................... Addio, Grazie: son vostri, e non verranno soli quest’inni a voi, né il vago rito obblieremo di Firenze ai poggi quando ritorni April. L’arpa dorata di novello concento adorneranno, disegneran più amabili carole e più beato manderanno il carme le tre avvenenti ancelle vostre all’ara: e il fonte, e la frondosa ara e i cipressi, e i serti e i favi vi fien sacri, e i cigni votivi, e allegri i giovanili canti e i sospir delle Ninfe. Intanto, o belle o dell’arcano vergini custodi celesti, un voto del mio core udite. Date candidi giorni a lei che sola, da che più lieti mi fioriano gli anni, m’arse divina d’immortale amore. Sola vive al cor mio cura soave, sola e secreta spargerà le chiome sovra il sepolcro mio, quando lontano non prescrivano i fati anche il sepolcro. Vaga e felice i balli e le fanciulle di nera treccia insigni e di sen colmo, sul molle clivo di Brianza un giorno guidar la vidi; oggi le vesti allegre Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo her dear first infant’s wailings she mistakes for presages of death, and in that error sends nothing but her weeping to the sky. Blessèd is she, who has not yet been told that infants would prefer eternal sleep, and that their cries bespeak a life of woe. As Flora at the song of Erato perfected her embroidery, bright Dawn wreathed the whole veil’s soft-waving, airy hems with roses we know not — whose scent alone, only if God is near, can reach the earth. And, last of all immortal Goddesses, blonde Hebe full of dew descended there: her hair held fast by myriads of pearls, she emptied the whole amphora she brought and, silent still, with sweet ambrosia sprinkled the fated, famous toil of all the other Divinities: that veil eternal grew. Finally all the Goddesses displayed before the Graces the whole wondrous work; in Love’s high flames in the meantime unscorched, around they wandered to cheer up the earth and, though so veiled, bare virgins were they still. The holy veil gives out a sudden sound as of a distant harp most dearly borne on Zephyrs’ wings: in such a guise, one day, throughout the isles of the Aegean Sea an unknown harmony was faintly heard after the fierce Bacchantes bound the lyre that once was Orpheus’ to his handsome hair sad plunged it down into the flowing waves: sighing together with the near Ionian, instantly the Aegean’s holy tide echoed that melody till every isle and Continent was full of all its awe. Graces, farewell. Our festive hymns are yours, but you will have much more lest we forget upon the hills of Florence this sweet rite when April’s here again. Your three enchanting maidens around the altar will adorn the golden harp with still a modern sound; still more delightful dances will they weave, and a more blissful song raise to you still. Spring, leafy altar, votive swan and wreath, dark cypress trees and golden honeycombs, 289 290 Journal of Italian Translation obliò lenta e il suo vedovo coro. E se alla Luna e all’etere stellato più azzurro il scintillante Èupili ondeggia, il guarda avvolta in lungo velo, e plora col rosignuol, finché l’Aurora il chiami a men soave tacito lamento. A lei da presso il piè volgete, o Grazie, e nel mirarvi, o Dee, tornino i grandi occhi fatali al lor natìo sorriso. Joseeph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo youngsters’ glad hynms and nymphs’ amorous sighs – may all this be most sacred unto you. Listen meanwhile, O fair, celestial guardians of the mysterious deep, to this my prayer. Give days of calmness to the only one who, since my years in greater gladness bloomed, divinely burned me with immortal love. Alone she lives, dear burden to my heart, just as alone and dear she will unbind her tresses on my sepulcher unless Fate also sets my tomb out of man’s reach. One day l saw her, beautiful and blest, on the sweet hillock of Brianza lead dark-haired, full-breasted maidens to the dance; today, instead, she has forsaken all her cheerful dresses and her girls’ lament. And if with bluer light the Eupili shines to the Moon and to the starry air, clad in long raiments, she still looks at him, and with the nightingale still sadly weeps till Dawn recalls him to a lesser grief. Graces, come down and walk along with her, and while, O Goddesses, she looks at you, let her big, fatal eyes return at once to the familiar beauty of their smile. 291