Journal of Italian Translation
Journal of Italian Translation
Journal of Italian Translation
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<strong>Journal</strong><br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong>
Editor<br />
Luigi Bonaffini<br />
Associate Editors:<br />
Gaetano Cipolla<br />
Michael Palma<br />
Joseph Perricone<br />
Editorial Board<br />
Adria Bernardi Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock<br />
Franco Buffoni Peter Carravetta<br />
John Du Val Rina Ferrarelli<br />
Luigi Fontanella Irene Marchegiani<br />
Adeodato Piazza Nicolai Stephen Sartarelli<br />
Achille Serrao Cosma Siani<br />
Joseph Tusiani Lawrence Venuti<br />
Pasquale Verdicchio<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> is an international journal devoted to the translation<br />
<strong>of</strong> literary works from and into <strong>Italian</strong>-English-<strong>Italian</strong> dialects. All translations<br />
are published with the original text. It also publishes essays and reviews dealing<br />
with <strong>Italian</strong> translation. It is published twice a year: in April and in November.<br />
Submissions should be both printed and in electronic form and they will not<br />
be returned. <strong>Translation</strong>s must be accompanied by the original texts, a brief pr<strong>of</strong>ile<br />
<strong>of</strong> the translator, and a brief pr<strong>of</strong>ile <strong>of</strong> the author. All submissions and inquiries<br />
should be addressed to <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong>, Department <strong>of</strong> Modern Languages<br />
and Literatures, 2900 Bedford Ave. Brooklyn, NY 11210. l.bonaffini@att.net<br />
Book reviews should be sent to Joseph Perricone, Dept. <strong>of</strong> Modern Languages<br />
and Literatures, Fordham University, Columbus Ave & 60th Street, New<br />
York, NY 10023.<br />
Subscription rates:<br />
U.S. and Canada. Individuals $25.00 a year, $40 for 2 years.<br />
Institutions: $30.00 a year.<br />
Single copies $12.00.<br />
For all mailing overseas, please add $8 per issue. Payments in U.S. dollars.<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> is grateful to the Sonia Raizzis Giop Charitable<br />
Foundation for its generous support<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> is published under the aegis <strong>of</strong> the Department <strong>of</strong><br />
Modern Languages and Literatures <strong>of</strong> Brooklyn College <strong>of</strong> the City University <strong>of</strong><br />
New York<br />
Design and camera-ready text by Legas, PO Box 149, Mineola, NY 11501<br />
ISSN: 1559-8470<br />
© Copyright 2006 by <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong>
<strong>Journal</strong><br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Editor<br />
Luigi Bonaffini<br />
Volume I, Number 1, Spring 2006
In each issue <strong>of</strong> <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> we will feature a noteworthy<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> or <strong>Italian</strong> American artist.<br />
In our first issue we feature the work <strong>of</strong> Giulia Di Filippi, an artist from<br />
S. Agapito, (IS) Molise.
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Volume I, Number 1, Spring 2006<br />
Table <strong>of</strong> Contents<br />
Essays<br />
Franco Buffoni<br />
La traduzione del testo poetico .................................................................... 7<br />
The <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Poetry as an Autonomous Literary Genre. ............ 20<br />
Lina Insana<br />
Tracing the Trauma <strong>of</strong> <strong>Translation</strong>: The Ancient<br />
Mariner’s voyage from English to <strong>Italian</strong>—and back again ................. 23<br />
Rina Ferrarelli<br />
Lost and Found in <strong>Translation</strong>: A Personal Perspective ....................... 35<br />
John DuVal<br />
Translating by the Numbers ....................................................................... 43<br />
Giose Rimanelli<br />
Traduzione da altre lingue nel dialetto molisano ................................... 51<br />
<strong>Translation</strong>s<br />
Adria Bernardi .............................................................................................. 55<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Raffaello Baldini<br />
(Romagnolo dialect).............................................................................. 61<br />
Roberto de Lucca<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> Chapter 5 <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s Quer pasticciaccio brutto<br />
de via Merulana. .................................................................................... 104<br />
John Du Val<br />
English translations <strong>of</strong> poems by Giorgio Roberti ................................ 117<br />
Gil Fagiani<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Cesare Fagiani<br />
(Abruzzese dialect) ............................................................................. 127<br />
Gregory Pell<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Davide Rondoni ................................ 136
Rina Ferrarelli<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Raffaele Carrieri ................................ 150<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Rina Ferrarelli ..................................... 158<br />
Adeodato Piazza Nicolai<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> translation <strong>of</strong> poems by W.S. Merwin ........................................ 167<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Luigina Bigon, Amelia Rosselli,<br />
Mia Lecomte ......................................................................................... 174<br />
Michael Palma<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Giovanni Raboni ............................... 188<br />
Pasquale Verdicchio<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Giorgio Caproni ................................ 202<br />
Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock<br />
English translation <strong>of</strong> poems by Guido Gozzano and<br />
Giovanni Pascoli .................................................................................. 214<br />
Confronti poetici - Poetic Comparisons<br />
Edited by Luigi Fontanella<br />
Featuring Robert Viscusi and Valerio Magrelli, ........................................ 224<br />
Traduttori a duello - Dueling Translators<br />
Edited by Gaetano Cipolla<br />
Guido Gozzano’s “Amori Ancillari” ...................................................... 229<br />
Classics Revisited<br />
Joseph Tusiani Translates Ugo Foscolo’s Le Grazie............................... 231<br />
Book Reviews<br />
Simonetta Agnello Hornby. The Almond Picker. Translated by Alastair<br />
McEwen. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Pp. x + 315.<br />
COLCLOUGH SANDERS.<br />
Lucio Mariani. Echoes <strong>of</strong> Memory: Selected Poems <strong>of</strong> Lucio Mariani. Bilingual<br />
Edition. Translated by Anthony Molino. Middletown (CT):<br />
Wesleyan University Press, 2003. Pp. 118. GREGORY PELL.<br />
Dante, Alighieri. Inferno. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander,<br />
intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2000.FINA<br />
MODESTO.<br />
Dante, Alighieri. Purgatorio. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander,<br />
intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday,<br />
2003.FINA MODESTO.
La Traduzione del testo poetico<br />
by Franco Buffoni<br />
Franco Buffoni lives in Rome. He is a pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> literary criticism<br />
and comparative literature at the University <strong>of</strong> Cassino. Some <strong>of</strong> his poetry<br />
books are: Suora Carmelitana e altri racconti in versi (Premio Montale,<br />
Guanda, 1997); Songs <strong>of</strong> Spring (Premio Mondello, Marcos y Marcos, 1999);<br />
Il Pr<strong>of</strong>ilo del Rosa (Premio Betocchi, Mondadori, 2000); Theios (Interlinea,<br />
2001); The Shadow <strong>of</strong> Mount Rosa (Gradiva Publications, 2002); Del Maestro<br />
in bottega (Empiria, 2002); Guerra (Mondadori, 2005). As a translator he<br />
edited for Bompiani I Poeti Romantici Inglesi (2 Vols., 1990) and for<br />
Mondadori La trilogia delle Ballate dell’Ottocento inglese (Coleridge, Wilde,<br />
Kipling, 2005). As a journalist he collaborates with several newspapers and<br />
radio programs and he is the editor <strong>of</strong> Testo a fronte (dedicated to the theory<br />
and the practice <strong>of</strong> literary translation).<br />
Il termine “traduttologia” non è ancora uscito dal gergo specialistico<br />
in Italia, mentre sono d’uso corrente translation studies nel mondo<br />
di lingua inglese, traductologie in Francia e Uebersetzungswissenschaft<br />
in Germania. La reticenza ad accettare il termine è la spia in<br />
Italia di un rifiuto più grave e radicale: quello che si possa concepire<br />
l’esistenza di una scienza della traduzione. Mentre in Francia se ne parla<br />
apertamente almeno dal 1963, quando apparve Les problèmes téoriq7ues<br />
de la traduction di George Mounin. Un testo che divenne ben presto una<br />
specie di manuale europeo, con i suoi innegabili pregi, ma anche con la<br />
sua concezione rigorosamente strutturalistica della letteratura. Da questo<br />
impianto derivava a Mounin la certezza - ribadita più volte nel corso<br />
dell’opera - che prima di allora nessuna teorizzazione seria fosse mai stata<br />
tentata nel campo della traduzione. Antoine Berman ne L’épreuve de<br />
l’étranger 1 invece in seguito (1984) dimostrò come - per esempio - nell’ambito<br />
del Romanticismo tedesco la questione traduttologica venga costantemente<br />
e sistematicamente dibattuta. E con argomentazioni ancora oggi vive e attuali.<br />
Tanto che Gianfranco Folena, il più accreditato avversario italiano di<br />
Mounin, nella premessa alla ristampa (Einaudi, 1991) di Volgarizzare e<br />
tradurre (1973) 2 parla esplicitamente di “una bella smentita” a Mounin da<br />
parte di Berman.<br />
Ma Berman non avrebbe avuto tale impatto e tale possibilità di ascolto<br />
se nel 1975 - con After Babel - George Steiner non avesse formalizzato la<br />
prima grande ribellione internazionale ai dogmatismi della linguistica<br />
teorica. E dico “internazionale” perché non da meno potrebbero definirsi<br />
la portata di certi studi - e di certe ribellioni - di Gianfranco Folena, allora<br />
come oggi purtroppo circolanti solo in Italia. Incidentalmente rilevo anche
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
che, solo nella seconda edizione di Dopo Babele (Garzanti, 1994) 3 , Steiner<br />
inserisce Folena in bibliografia; ma lo fa indicando Volgarizzare e tradurre<br />
come apparso per la prima volta nel 1991, e quindi falsando completamente<br />
la cronologia delle priorità, avendo Folena trattato nello stesso modo molti<br />
dei temi di Dopo Babele già due anni prima (1973 vs 1975). Certamente Steiner<br />
non lo conosceva.<br />
Nel 1975 George Steiner parlò dunque di necessità - da parte del<br />
traduttore letterario - di “rivivere l’atto creativo” che aveva informato la<br />
scrittura dell’”originale”, aggiungendo che la traduzione, prima di essere<br />
un esercizio formale, è “un’esperienza esistenziale”. Al di là delle<br />
provocazioni steineriane, potremmo chiederci come, operativamente, la<br />
traduttologia abbia tentato di contrastare il predominio linguistico-teorico<br />
nel proprio ambito di studi.<br />
Gli sforzi si concentrarono dapprima nel tentativo di sfatare il luogo<br />
comune che tende a configurare la traduzione come un sottoprodotto<br />
letterario, invitando invece a considerarla come un Überleben, un afterlife<br />
del testo. Operazione in sé niente affatto originale, se come ricorda anche<br />
Mounin, quando nel 1548 Thomas Sébillet classificò le traduzioni fra i generi<br />
letterari non fece che “rispecchiare la tendenza in voga”. Ma ribadire quel<br />
concetto più di trent’anni fa fu una presa di posizione estremamente<br />
coraggiosa. E fu proprio un altro strutturalista, di ambito praghese, Jirí<br />
Levy, che già nel 1963, pubblicando Umeni prekladu (divenuta poi<br />
patrimonio dell’Europa colta nella versione tedesca del 1969, Die literarische<br />
Übersetzung. Theorie einer Kunstgattung: La traduzione letteraria. Teoria di<br />
un genere artistico) riconsiderò il tema prestigiosamente.<br />
L’opera di Levy si divide in due parti fondamentali 4 : una prima<br />
teorica, comprendente i capitoli sulla pratica novecentesca del tradurre,<br />
sulle diverse fasi del lavoro di traduzione, sul problema estetico del<br />
tradurre, lo stile artistico e “traduttivo”, la traduzione di opere teatrali e,<br />
infine, la traduzione come problema storico-letterario. La seconda è invece<br />
imperniata sulla questione verso-prosa, sul ritmo, la rima, l’eufonia e la<br />
morfologia del verso. E si tratta di una parte che, relativamente alla<br />
questione specifica delle traduzioni di poesia, resta ancora oggi una delle<br />
poche trattazioni che affrontino esaurientemente anche questioni tecniche.<br />
Un altro passo capitale della traduttologia contemporanea viene<br />
compiuto grazie a Friedmar Apel nel 1983, e proprio attraverso una severa<br />
critica a Jirí Levy. Nel capitolo iniziale di Literarische Übersetzung 5 Apel<br />
osserva infatti che “anche quanti considerano la traduzione come arte” (e<br />
il riferimento è ovviamente al sottotitolo dell’opera levyana) poi finiscono<br />
ugualmente con l’attenersi “a definizioni normative o ideali”. E per<br />
avvalorare la propria critica riporta queste due citazioni da Levy:<br />
a) Lo scopo del lavoro di traduzione è quello di<br />
mantenere, cogliere e trasmettere l’opera originale (il suo
Franco Buffoni<br />
messaggio); non è mai quello di creare un’opera nuova che non<br />
abbia un antecedente. Lo scopo della traduzione è riproduttivo.<br />
b) Quando diciamo che la traduzione è una riproduzione<br />
e che tradurre è un processo originale e creativo, noi diamo una<br />
definizione normativa e diciamo come la traduzione debba essere<br />
fatta. Alla definizione normativa corrisponderebbe la traduzione<br />
ideale. Quanto più debole è la traduzione, tanto più essa si<br />
allontana da questa definizione.<br />
Quindi Apel aggiunge: “La problematica di una simile definizione si<br />
acuisce in Levy in quanto egli tenta di concepire la traduzione come ‘genere<br />
artistico’. Il concetto di genere però ha senso solo ogni volta che esso<br />
presenta la dialettica forma-contenuto, mentre in Levy - come anche nella<br />
maggior parte delle teorie traduttologiche della linguistica - il messaggio<br />
appare fondamentalmente come una invariante. Il suo concetto di<br />
traduzione si espone così alla stessa argomentazione con la quale la critica<br />
della conoscenza, sull’esempio di forme dell’imitazione, ossia del principio<br />
di mimesis, dimostra l’impossibilità della riproduzione in senso stretto”.<br />
Per concludere: “Non stupisce dunque che quegli approcci al problema di<br />
natura scientifico-letteraria, fondati su una visione storica, definiscano il<br />
concetto di traduzione in modo più aperto e soprattutto più dinamico, con<br />
lo svantaggio che i criteri di definizione sono spesso difficilmente<br />
afferrabili...”. Una posizione perfettamente riassunta nella seguente<br />
“proposta di definizione” da parte di Apel del lavoro di ricerca sulla<br />
traduzione letteraria: “La traduzione è una forma che insieme comprende<br />
e dà corpo all’esperienza di opere in un’altra lingua. Oggetto di questa<br />
ricerca è l’unicità dialettica di forma e contenuto, come rapporto di volta in<br />
volta instauratosi fra la singola opera e un dato orizzonte di ricezione (stadio<br />
della lingua e poetica, tradizione letteraria, situazione storica, sociale,<br />
collettiva e individuale). Nella nuova configurazione questa costellazione<br />
diventa sperimentabile come distanza dall’originale”. Con questa ipotesi<br />
di lavoro, Apel - come osserva Emilio Mattioli nella prefazione alla edizione<br />
italiana - “mette da parte tutta una serie di luoghi comuni e di questioni<br />
male impostate che hanno afflitto e affliggono il campo della traduzione, e<br />
propone la ricerca sulla traduzione in tutta la sua complessità, evitando<br />
ogni riduttivismo”. Apel ci pare criticabile solo per quanto concerne la<br />
necessità di contestualizzare maggiormente l’opera levyana. Se infatti egli<br />
può permettersi di constatare i limiti che lo studio di Levy presenta, ciò va<br />
a merito anche dello stesso Levy , che nel clima culturale egemonizzato dai<br />
formalismi degli anni sessanta, seppe indicare la via da percorrere per<br />
giungere - poi - a criticarlo.<br />
*<br />
“Io mi domando”, si chiedeva Céline nella lettera a M. Hindus del 15<br />
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
maggio 1947, “in che cosa mi paragonino a Henry Miller, che è tradotto?,<br />
mentre invece tutto sta nell’intimità della lingua! per non parlare della resa<br />
emotiva dello stile...”. E ancora: “Mi interessano solo gli scrittori che hanno<br />
uno stile. Ed è raro uno stile, è raro. Di storie, invece, sono piene le strade,<br />
pieni i commissariati” 6 .<br />
E lo stile è “intraducibile”, come per Croce è “intraducibile” la poesia.<br />
Sono posizioni tardo-romantiche che, facendo leva sui presupposti a) della<br />
unicità e irriproducibilità dell’opera d’arte; b) della indissolubilità di<br />
contenuto e forma, giungono a negare la traducibilità della poesia e della<br />
prosa “alta”. Tali concezioni sono l’espressione di un idealismo oggi<br />
particolarmente inattuale, contro il quale l’estetica del Novecento (e quella<br />
italiana in prima linea, da Banfi a Anceschi a Formaggio a Mattioli) si è<br />
battuta, direi, vittoriosamente.<br />
Il principio fondamentale che crea sintonia tra l’estetica<br />
ne<strong>of</strong>enomenologica italiana e le posizioni di Friedmar Apel consiste nel<br />
rifiuto di ogni posizione normativa: non si possono dare regole per la<br />
traduzione letteraria come non si possono dare regole per l’opera d’arte.<br />
Ma, mentre il tramonto delle poetiche normative nel campo dell’attività<br />
creativa artistica è avvenuto da tempo, nel campo della traduzione persiste<br />
la tendenza a indicare delle regole. (Si consideri a riguardo l’accusa di Apel<br />
a Levy ). Come osserva Mattioli: “Il genio e la soggettività assoluta sono<br />
elementi dell’estetica romantica oggi irriproponibili come tali. E un fatto<br />
rilevato da molti studiosi è che a queste categorie tardo-romantiche<br />
ricorrano anche i linguisti che formalizzano il discorso sulla traduzione, e<br />
poi - di fronte alla traduzione letteraria - non sanno far altro che riprendere<br />
queste vecchie idee”.<br />
Come tradurre, allora, la poesia? Come “riprodurre” lo stile? Sono le<br />
domande che a questo punto un traduttologo si sente porre. La risposta<br />
potrebbe prendere l’avvio dalla constatazione che le dicotomie (fedele/<br />
infedele; fedele alla lettera/fedele allo spirito; ut orator/ut interpres;<br />
“traductions des pr<strong>of</strong>esseurs”/”traductions des poètes”) - da Cicerone a<br />
Mounin - inevitabilmente portano a una situazione di impasse, configurando,<br />
da una parte, l’intraducibilità dello “stile” e dell’”ineffabile” poetico, e<br />
dall’altra la convinzione che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto.<br />
Naturalmente il fatto che sia trasmissibile soltanto un contenuto è una pura<br />
astrazione, ma è dove si giunge partendo sia da presupposti “crociani”,<br />
sia da presupposti “jacobsoniani”. (Notoriamente, per Jakobson, la<br />
poesia è intraducibile in quanto il tratto che più la caratterizza è la<br />
paronomasia; tuttavia la si può “comprendere” adeguatamente, e<br />
dunque interpretare in traduzione, pensando ai significati lirici dei quali<br />
è portatrice per il tramite di un’altra lingua).<br />
Non mi pare che la situazione dicotomica di impasse muti analizzando<br />
la più recente quérelle francese - nominalmente molto affascinante - tra<br />
Henri Meschonic e Jean-René Ladmiral, alias tra sourciers (da “languesource”,<br />
lingua fonte, ma con una inquietante assonanza con l’ambito
Franco Buffoni<br />
stregonesco) e ciblistes (da “langue-cible”, o d’arrivo, coniata sulla sigla<br />
C.B. che in inglese indica la “citizen’s band”, la frequenza radio riservata<br />
al pubblico) 7 . In altri termini, tra una tendenza naturalizzante - “targetoriented”<br />
- che spinge il testo verso il lettore straniero “naturalizzandoglielo”<br />
nel contesto linguistico e culturale di arrivo, fino a non<br />
fargli capire che si tratta di un testo tradotto; e una tendenza estraniante -<br />
“source-oriented” - che trascina il lettore straniero verso il testo, cercando<br />
costantemente di accendergli spie relative alla fonte, affinché non dimentichi<br />
mai che quel testo è tradotto. (Per fare un solo esempio, è tradizionalmente<br />
source-oriented il modo di presentare gli autori stranieri negli Stati Uniti;<br />
ma è certamente target-oriented il modo in cui Pound tradusse Leopardi o<br />
Cavalcanti). Secondo questa impostazione, lo scontro tra scuole<br />
traduttologiche somiglierebbe a quello in atto nel mondo del restauro: farlo<br />
vedere il più possibile, o nasconderlo il più possibile.<br />
Se si prescinde dalla simpatia che certe definizioni possono più di<br />
altre suscitare, credo sia chiaro come - proseguendo con una impostazione<br />
dicotomica - si aggiungano soltanto nuove coppie - come addomesticamento/straniamento,<br />
visibilità/invisibilità, violabilità/inviolabilità<br />
a quelle da secoli esistenti: libertà/fedeltà, tradimento/aderenza,<br />
scorrevolezza/letteralità, sensus/verbum. Né crediamo che un suggerimento<br />
per uscire dalla millenaria impasse possa giungere da studiosi pur<br />
validissimi - come l’americano Lawrence Venuti, autore di The Translator’s<br />
Invisibility 8 - totalmente schierati sull’uno o sull’altro versante, malgrado<br />
la grande finezza - in certi casi - delle argomentazioni esposte. (Nel caso di<br />
Venuti, per esempio, è senz’altro di alto livello il costante riferimento a<br />
Schleiermacher e alla scuola ermeneutica novecentesca che a lui si ispira).<br />
“Come riprodurre, allora, lo stile?” è la domanda che poco fa abbiamo<br />
lasciato in sospeso. Il nocciolo del problema, a nostro avviso, sta proprio<br />
nel verbo usato per porre la domanda: riprodurre. Perché la traduzione<br />
letteraria non può ridursi concettualmente a una operazione di<br />
riproduzione di un testo. Questo può valere al massimo per un testo di<br />
tipo tecnico, per il quale è - tutto sommato - congruo continuare a parlare<br />
di decodifica e di ricodifica. L’invito nostro è invece a considerare la<br />
traduzione letteraria come un processo, che vede muoversi nel tempo e -<br />
possibilmente - fiorire e rifiorire, non “originale” e “copia”, ma due testi<br />
forniti entrambi di dignità artistica. Uno studio fondamentale a riguardo è<br />
l’altro capitale libro di Friedmar Apel: Sprachbewegung. Eine historischpoetologische<br />
Untersuchung zum Problem des Übersetzens 9 . Il concetto di<br />
“movimento” del linguaggio nasce proprio dalla necessità di guardare nelle<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>ondità della lingua cosiddetta di partenza prima di accingersi a tradurre<br />
un testo letterario. L’idea è comunemente accettata per la cosiddetta lingua<br />
di arrivo. Nessuno infatti mette in dubbio la necessità di ritradurre<br />
costantemente i classici per adeguarli alle trasformazioni che la lingua continua<br />
a subire. Il testo cosiddetto di partenza, invece, viene solitamente<br />
considerato come un monumento immobile nel tempo, marmoreo,<br />
11
12<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
inossidabile. Eppure anch’esso è in movimento nel tempo, perché in<br />
movimento nel tempo sono - semanticamente - le parole di cui è composto;<br />
in costante mutamento sono le strutture sintattiche e grammaticali, e così<br />
via. In sostanza si propone di considerare il testo letterario classico o<br />
moderno da tradurre non come un rigido scoglio immobile nel mare, bensì<br />
come una piattaforma galleggiante, dove chi traduce opera sul corpo vivo<br />
dell’opera, ma l’opera stessa è in costante trasformazione o, per l’appunto,<br />
in movimento. In questa ottica, la dignità estetica della traduzione appare<br />
come il frutto di un incontro tra pari destinato a far cadere le tradizionali<br />
coppie dicotomiche, in quanto mirato a togliere ogni rigidità all’atto<br />
traduttivo, fornendo al suo prodotto una intrinseca dignità autonoma di<br />
testo.<br />
Maurice Blanchot nel suo studio del 1971 intitolato Traduire, riflettendo<br />
su Die Aufgabe des Uebersetzers di Benjamin, già riprende questo principio<br />
collegandosi alla tradizione humboldtiana che configura un alto grado di<br />
dinamismo in ciascuna lingua. Egli mette in dubbio pertanto il luogo<br />
comune della superiorità dell’originale rispetto alla traduzione, proprio<br />
facendo leva sul principio del movimento del linguaggio nel tempo che -<br />
coinvolgendo anche il testo “classico” nella lingua di partenza - contribuisce<br />
a quella che Blanchot definisce “la solenne deriva delle opere letterarie”.<br />
Una posizione da cui consegue la definizione blanchottiana di traduttore:<br />
“Il maestro segreto della differenza delle lingue, non per abolirla, ma per<br />
utilizzarla al fine di risvegliare nella propria, con i cambiamenti violenti o<br />
lievi che le apporta, una presenza di ciò che, in origine, è differente”. Può<br />
così già dirsi superata da Blanchot la metafisica posizione benjaminiana<br />
secondo la quale il traduttore libera la verità del testo facendo emergere la<br />
lingua pura che sottende tutte le lingue.<br />
Si potrebbe persino affermare che il concetto di movimento del<br />
linguaggio nel tempo - che induce a considerare come “storici”<br />
(sull’esempio dei romantici tedeschi) sia il testo di partenza sia il testo di<br />
arrivo - nel processo della traduzione letteraria possa avere inizio prima<br />
ancora della redazione della stesura cosiddetta “definitiva” del cosiddetto<br />
“originale”, allorché al traduttore è possibile accedere anche all’avantesto<br />
(cioè a tutti quei documenti da cui il testo “definitivo” prende forma),<br />
impadronendosi così del percorso di crescita, di germinazione del testo<br />
nelle sue varie fasi. A riguardo un linguista come Pareyson parla di<br />
“formatività” del testo; un poeta come Gianni D’Elia di “adesione<br />
simpatetica, non tanto al testo finito e compiuto, quanto alla miriade di<br />
cellule emotive che lo hanno reso possibile. Come tentare di ripercorrerne<br />
la trama germinativa, con una fiducia che nessun linguista ammetterebbe,<br />
perché essa non precede soltanto il soggetto ma il linguaggio: l’esperienza<br />
di un sentire che è appunto fiducia in un dono di ‘contagio’ controllato,<br />
inoculato giorno per giorno, fino a interagire con le ragioni più pr<strong>of</strong>onde<br />
del proprio fare” 10 .<br />
Il testo, dunque, si muove verso il futuro all’interno delle incrostazioni
Franco Buffoni<br />
della lingua, ma anche verso il passato se si tiene conto degli avantesti. Lo<br />
dimostra molto bene Lorenzo De Carli nel saggio Proust. Dall’avantesto alla<br />
traduzione 11 , mettendo a confronto le varie traduzioni italiane della Recherche<br />
(Raboni, Ginzburg, Mucci, Schacherl, Nessi Somaini, Pinto). Ebbene,<br />
dall’analisi testuale appare evidente come i traduttori che hanno potuto (e<br />
voluto) accedere anche all’avantesto (nel caso di Proust, ovviamente, i<br />
Cahiers), avendo colto il percorso di crescita, di germinazione, subito da<br />
quel particolare passaggio proustiano, siano poi stati in grado di renderlo<br />
con maggiore consapevolezza critica ed estetica. Ma si pensi agli ottantamila<br />
foglietti da cui provengono le quattrocento pagine del Voyage au bout de la<br />
nuit di Céline, alle Epifanie da cui discende il Portrait di Joyce, ecc. Il tutto,<br />
concettualmente, nella piena consapevolezza della stratificazione delle<br />
lingue storiche.<br />
Malgrado la loro solidità e malgrado circolino da vent’anni<br />
nell’Europa delle intelligenze sarebbe un errore ritenere che le posizioni<br />
teoriche anziesposte siano ormai acquisite, visto che Umberto Eco, nel suo<br />
recentissimo Dire quasi la stessa cosa. Esperienze di traduzione (ed. Bompiani),<br />
contrappone con sicurezza “il fatto, acclarato, che le traduzioni invecchiano”<br />
all’inglese di Shakespeare, che “rimane sempre lo stesso” 12 .<br />
Perché riteniamo inadeguati gli strumenti della linguistica teorica se<br />
applicati alla traduzione letteraria? Perché essi possono funzionare<br />
traducendo da un esperanto ad un altro esperanto; appunto, da una lingua<br />
di partenza a una lingua di arrivo, attraverso un processo di decodificazione<br />
e quindi di ricodificazione. Mentre per tradurre dalla ex lingua di Chaucer<br />
e di Shakespeare nella ex lingua di Petrarca e di Tasso occorrono altri<br />
strumenti ben più s<strong>of</strong>isticati ed empirici. Un concetto - quest’ultimo - che<br />
Luciano Bianciardi esemplifica con “architettonico” didatticismo all’inizio<br />
della Vita agra, allorché descrive il palazzo della biblioteca di Grosseto.<br />
Che in precedenza era stata casa insegnante dei compagni di Gesù, e prima<br />
ancora prepositura degli Umiliati, e alle origini Braida del Guercio... 13<br />
Trasferendo al linguaggio questa descrizione si ottiene l’effetto-diodo,<br />
come osservando dall’alto una pila accatastata ma trasparente di strati<br />
fonetici e semantici.<br />
*<br />
Operativamente, al fine di sfuggire all’impasse delle dicotomie, è forse<br />
possibile suggerire una riflessione capace di coniugare cinque concetti,<br />
aggiungendo a quelli già considerati di avantesto e di movimento del<br />
linguaggio nel tempo i concetti di poetica, di ritmo e di intertestualità. (Anche<br />
se la proposta teorica intertestuale, per alcuni aspetti, potrebbe farsi risalire<br />
al concetto classico di imitatio o di mimesis, che a sua volta oscillava tra<br />
conformatio e commutatio: e quindi saremmo ancora in ambito dicotomico).<br />
Il termine intertestualità appare per la prima volta nel 1966 in un<br />
saggio di Julia Kristeva, poi ripubblicato nel 1969 su “Tel Quel”. Secondo<br />
la definizione della Kristeva: “Ogni testo si costruisce come un mosaico di<br />
13
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
citazioni; ogni testo non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro<br />
testo”. Una definizione che ha le sue radici nell’idea di “dialogicità” di<br />
Bachtin 14 e su cui, in seguito, anche Segre si è espresso con molta chiarezza,<br />
particolarmente nel saggio “Intertestualità e interdiscorsività nel romanzo<br />
e nella poesia” (in Teatro e romanzo. Due tipi di comunicazione letteraria,<br />
Einaudi 1984).<br />
Nell’ottica intertestuale la traduzione di poesia o di prosa “alta” o<br />
poetica (e nel quinto punto, dedicato al “ritmo”, torneremo su questa<br />
presunta differenza) non è che assorbimento e trasformazione di un altro<br />
testo. Forzando il concetto non è che una lunga citazione di un testo intero<br />
in una lingua straniera. Da questa angolatura ci si sottrae alla impostazione<br />
tradizionale che assegna alla traduzione il compito impossibile di una<br />
riproduzione totale, e si pone in modo nuovo sia il compito del traduttore<br />
sia quello della critica della traduzione.<br />
La traduzione di poesia è contemporaneamente produzione e<br />
riproduzione, analisi critica e sintesi poetica, rivolta tanto verso il sistema<br />
linguistico straniero, quanto verso il proprio. Traduzione poetica, dunque,<br />
non come palinsesto nel senso genettiano di scrittura sovrapposta (nella<br />
quale è possibile sceverare il testo sottostante, l’ipotesto), ma come risultato<br />
di una interazione verbale con un modello straniero recepito criticamente<br />
e attivamente modificato.<br />
Riassumendo quanto esposto da Emilio Mattioli negli editoriali dei<br />
primi numeri del semestrale di teoria e pratica della traduzione letteraria<br />
“Testo a fronte” (dove per la prima volta sono apparsi molti dei saggi<br />
contenuti in questo volume), lettura e analisi intertestuale mirano a cogliere<br />
in ogni traduzione la dinamica del suo costituirsi dall’originale, e il suo<br />
conflitto con esso. La differenza temporale, spaziale, culturale, linguistica<br />
viene a delinearsi come distanza poetica che pone necessariamente in<br />
prospettiva ciò che è estraneo. Nella concezione intertestuale, il rapporto<br />
originale-copia (che implica una gerarchia di precedenza, di maggiore<br />
importanza dell’originale rispetto alla copia) acquista un’altra dimensione:<br />
diviene dialogico, e non è più di rango, ma di tempo. In quanto la<br />
traduzione poetica viene a configurarsi come genere letterario a sé, dotato<br />
di una propria autonoma dignità. Come scrive A. Berman in L’épreuve de<br />
l’étranger, “la traduzione non è né una sotto-letteratura (come l’ha<br />
considerata il XVI secolo) né una sotto-critica (come l’ha ritenuta il XIX<br />
secolo). Ma non è nemmeno una linguistica applicata o una poetica<br />
applicata (come si è creduto nel XX secolo). La traduzione è soggetto e<br />
oggetto di un sapere proprio. La traduttologia studia questo sapere”.<br />
È evidente che l’intera operazione intellettuale che andiamo<br />
proponendo non può non giovarsi della grande tradizione classica e<br />
umanistica della retorica 15 , nella convinzione che - trasponendo i problemi<br />
teorici relativi alla traduzione nell’orbita di altri fenomeni letterari - se ne<br />
faciliti il distacco, o almeno se ne incrini la esclusiva dipendenza dai grandi
Franco Buffoni<br />
formalismi novecenteschi, in particolare dall’ambito strutturalistico e<br />
linguistico-teorico.<br />
L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e<br />
uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione. Con<br />
questa impostazione siamo all’interno di una concezione “aperta”<br />
dell’opera letteraria, convinti che nessun testo possa essere invenzione<br />
assolutamente originale. (L’assoluto monologismo sarebbe equivalente alla<br />
incomunicabilità) 16 . Se dunque in ogni opera letteraria c’è il riflesso di altre<br />
opere - sub specie di calchi, prestiti, rifacimenti, citazioni - e quindi è in<br />
corso un dialogo con parole già dette, non si vede perché questo dialogo<br />
non possa trovare ulteriore svolgimento nella traduzione. Non si traduce<br />
infatti da una lingua ad un’altra, ma da un testo a un altro. E la disparità, il<br />
dislivello inevitabile tra autore e traduttore - che è una forma particolare<br />
del dislivello sempre esistente tra chi parla o scrive e chi ascolta o legge,<br />
anche all’interno della stessa lingua - sono la condizione medesima della<br />
libertà e della conoscenza 17 . È dunque motivo per noi di particolare tristezza<br />
rilevare come oggi in Italia il primo avversario di questa impostazione<br />
teorica sia proprio il teorizzatore - quarant’anni fa - dell’”opera aperta”.<br />
Ma l’autore del Trattato di semiotica, lo si sa, ama i paradossi: vent’anni<br />
dopo avere indotto al fallimento letterario i suoi compagni di gioventù,<br />
autori di improbabili “opere aperte”, giunse al successo internazionale con<br />
l’opera che “più chiusa non si può”: opera che - per altro - chi scrive<br />
considera il più grande romanzo illuministico del secondo Novecento.<br />
Con le idee sulla traduzione sostenute da Eco non si esce dalle<br />
dicotomie e dai dogmatismi si continua ad oscillare tra Croce e Jakobson<br />
nella convinzione che la poesia sia intraducibile. Cerchiamo un’altra volta<br />
ancora di impostare in modo diverso la questione volgendoci al concetto<br />
di “poetica”. Secondo Luciano Anceschi, “la riflessione che gli artisti e i<br />
poeti esercitano sul loro fare, indicandone i sistemi tecnici, le norme operative,<br />
le moralità, gli ideali” è la poetica. Nell’ottica della intertestualità, la<br />
traduzione letteraria è dunque il rapporto tra due poetiche, quella<br />
dell’autore tradotto e quella del traduttore. Come rileva Mattioli, Peter<br />
Szondi nel suo studio sul sonetto 105 di Shakespeare tradotto da Paul<br />
Celan 18 identifica la poetica della traduzione di Celan nel verso “In der<br />
Bestaendigkeit, da bleibt mein Vers geborgen”, che rende il verso<br />
shakespeariano “Therefore my verse to constancy confined”. La costanza,<br />
che è il tema del sonetto di Shakespeare, diventa nella traduzione di Celan<br />
il fattore costitutivo del verso. Szondi compie quindi un acutissimo rilievo<br />
di poetica che porta ad una comprensione tutta interna della traduzione. E<br />
ciò accade con Giorgio Orelli traduttore di Goethe e con Giaime Pintor<br />
traduttore di Rilke, con Massimo Mila traduttore delle Affinità elettive o<br />
con Paola Capriolo traduttrice de La Morte a Venezia 19 . In buona sostanza<br />
con quelle che Henri Meschonnic definisce le “traduzioni-testo” (a esempio<br />
egli cita S. Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul<br />
Celan, Baudelaire come traduttori) distinguendole dalle traduzioni-non-<br />
15
16<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
testo destinate a deperire rapidamente.<br />
Mattioli invita inoltre a rileggere il commento di Valéry alla sua<br />
traduzione delle Bucoliche 20 per scoprire come il modo in cui il poeta del<br />
Cimetière marin prospetta il rapporto tra originale e traduzione tolga ogni<br />
rigidità all’atto traduttivo accantonando ogni idea di copia, di<br />
rispecchiamento, e quindi lo qualifichi in tutta la sua dignità. E questo<br />
proprio perché propone un rapporto poietico, un rapporto tra due poetiche,<br />
fra due momenti costruttivi, fra due processi, non fra due risultati definitivi<br />
e fermi. Una posizione, questa, ampiamente condivisa anche da Henri<br />
Meschonnic nel suo Poétique du traduire (1999). Sostiene Mattioli in Studi di<br />
poetica e retorica 21 : “E’ proprio sull’abbandono di ogni posizione normativa<br />
che si gioca la possibilità di dare una impostazione nuova ai problemi della<br />
traduzione e al loro studio. Non ha nessun interesse continuare a discutere<br />
se si possa o non si possa tradurre, partendo dall’idea di traduzione come<br />
copia perfetta che per principio non si dà”. Questa svolta 22 è analoga a<br />
quella avvenuta in campo estetico quando cambiò la domanda<br />
essenzialistica “che cosa è l’arte?” in quella fenomenologica “come è l’arte?”.<br />
E così come la domanda fenomenologica relativa all’arte consentì il recupero<br />
pieno delle poetiche, dei generi letterari, della tecnica artistica, del discorso<br />
sugli stili ecc., disincagliando la critica dalla alternativa rigida fra poesia e<br />
non poesia, allo stesso modo la proposta di considerare la traduzione<br />
letteraria in tutta la sua non riducibile complessità, sottrae il discorso sulla<br />
traduzione all’impasse delle alternative secche, dicotomiche e/o<br />
giocherellone 23 .<br />
Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa,<br />
o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile<br />
di un autore: sono queste le domande che consideriamo assolutamente<br />
superate. Come considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione<br />
italiana dell’opera di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non è<br />
certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema del<br />
tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema ad<br />
una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque una<br />
idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale della<br />
grande riflessione della Fruehromantik sulla traduzione come compito<br />
senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità<br />
di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che,<br />
solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato”.<br />
Quanto al concetto di ritmo, per noi particolarmente attuale - si veda<br />
il volume Ritmologia. Il ritmo del linguaggio. Poesia e traduzione, apparso nel<br />
2002 per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos - mi limito in questa sede a ricordare i<br />
tre fondamentali indirizzi della ricerca: un indirizzo filos<strong>of</strong>ico, un indirizzo<br />
filologico-linguistico, un indirizzo poetico.<br />
Nel primo ambito configuriamo i filos<strong>of</strong>i, che tendenzialmente<br />
dovrebbero applicarsi alla categoria della ritmicità in senso ampio, cercando<br />
la funzione che il ritmo ha nel mondo. Nel secondo ambito configuriamo i
Franco Buffoni<br />
filologi, che guardano al ritmo cercando anzitutto di definire che cosa esso<br />
sia (e qui la auctoritas è quella di Beda il Venerabile: “Il ritmo può sussistere<br />
di per sé, senza metro; mentre il metro non può sussistere senza ritmo. Il<br />
metro è un canto costretto da una certa ragione; il ritmo un canto senza<br />
misure razionali”; una definizione che ritroviamo modernamente espressa<br />
nel recente Traité du rythme di Meschonnic e Dessons: “Il ritmo non è<br />
formalista, nel senso che non è una forma vuota, un insieme schematico<br />
che si tratterebbe di mostrare o no, secondo l’umore. Il ritmo di un testo ne<br />
è l’elemento fondamentale, perché ritmo è operare la sintesi della sintassi,<br />
della prosodia e dei diversi movimenti enunciativi del testo”) 24 . Compito<br />
dei filologi è dunque di accordarsi sul significato, di studiare la parola, e<br />
infine di condurre l’analisi secondo modalità che contemplano la lingua e<br />
la storia della lingua.<br />
Con i poeti, infine, ciò che conta del ritmo è il momento in cui esso si<br />
fa parola, cioè diventa linguaggio e dunque si realizza attraverso una<br />
particolare intonazione, non nel senso di scansione metrica misurata, bensì<br />
nel senso eracliteo di un corpo che si fa lingua e discorso (Meschonnic).<br />
Poiché il ritmo è soggetto, se un poeta trova il ritmo, trova il soggetto; se<br />
non lo trova, i versi che sta scrivendo non sono arte. E questo vale tanto per<br />
la scrittura letteraria “originale” quanto per quella in traduzione.<br />
Note:<br />
1 Il cui capitolo essenziale, “L’auberge du lointain”, apparve sul n. 2 di<br />
“Testo a fronte” e viene ripresentato in questo volume. La traduzione<br />
completa è apparsa nel 1998 presso le edizioni Quodlibet di Macerata.<br />
2 Apparso in prima edizione in volume miscellaneo per le Edizioni Lint<br />
di Trieste nel 1973.<br />
3 Nella traduzione rivista da Claude Béguin. (Mentre la prima edizione<br />
era stata pubblicata da Sansoni nel 1984, nella traduzione di Ruggero<br />
Bianchi).<br />
4 Di entrambe “Testo a fronte” ha pubblicato i passi essenziali (che in<br />
questo volume ripresentiamo), rispettivamente nel n. 7 (ottobre 1992) per<br />
la I parte, e nel n. 8 (marzo 1993) per la II parte.<br />
5 Tradotto in italiano da Gabriella Rovagnati col titolo e apparso presso<br />
Guerini e Associati nel 1990 col titolo Il manuale del traduttore letterario nella<br />
collana I Testi di “Testo a fronte”.<br />
6 Risposta data da Céline a Louis Pauwels e André Brissaud che nel<br />
1959 lo intervistarono per la televisione francese.<br />
7 L’argomento appare in vari numeri di “Testo a fronte”, e in particolare<br />
nel n. 13 (ottobre 1995). L’opera principale di Jean-René Ladmiral è Traduire:<br />
théorèmes pour la traduction, Paris, Payot 1979.<br />
8 Avente come sottotitolo A History <strong>of</strong> <strong>Translation</strong>, il volume apparve<br />
nel 1995 a Londra da Routledge ed è stato tradotto in italiano da Marina<br />
Guglielmi: L’invisibilità del traduttore, Roma, Armando 1999.<br />
9 La traduzione italiana, curata da Riccarda Novello con prefazione di<br />
17
18<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Emilio Mattioli e una nuova premessa dello stesso Apel è apparsa nel 1997<br />
nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte” per i tipi di Marcos y Marcos col<br />
titolo Il movimento del linguaggio.<br />
10 Gianni D’Elia nella prefazione alla sua traduzione delle Nourritures<br />
terrestres di André Gide apparsa da Einaudi nel 1994 nella collana Scrittori<br />
tradotti da scrittori.<br />
11 Edito nella collana “I saggi di Testo a fronte, ed. Guerini e Associati,<br />
1992.<br />
12 Come osserva Edoardo Zuccato nel saggio intitolato “Testo a fronte”<br />
in corso di pubblicazione negli Atti del Convegno tenutosi a Urbino<br />
nell’ottobre 2003 sul tema Editoria e Traduzione, “Eco non poteva scegliere<br />
un esempio più infelice, vista la disastrosa situazione testuale dell’opera<br />
shakespeariana, di cui non solo non esistono autografi, ma neppure una<br />
edizione originale di riferimento, al punto che ci sono opere di cui oggi<br />
vengono proposte due versioni diverse, entrambe come originali.<br />
Un’occhiata anche sommaria alla storia delle edizioni del canone<br />
shakespeariano mostrerebbe a chiunque che l’inglese di Shakespeare non<br />
è mai rimasto lo stesso”.<br />
13 Tradurre, comunemente, si dice oggi. Ma nel Trecento dicevasi<br />
volgarizzare, perché la voce tradurre sapeva troppo di latino, e allora<br />
scansavansi i latinismi, come poi li cercarono nel Quattrocento, e taluni li<br />
cercano ancor oggi; sì perché que’ buoni traduttori facevano le cose per<br />
farle, e trasportando da lingue ignote il pensiero in lingua nota, intendevano<br />
renderle intelligibili a’ più”. E’ questo il famoso attacco del capitolo VIII<br />
della Vita agra di Luciano Bianciardi, che così sornionamente si conclude:<br />
“Ma adesso le più delle traduzioni non si potrebbero, se non per ironia,<br />
nominare volgarizzamenti, dacché recano da lingua foresta, che per sé è<br />
chiarissima e popolare, in linguaggio mezzo morto, che non è di popolo<br />
alcuno; e la loro traduzione avrebbe bisogno d’un nuovo volgarizzamento”.<br />
Inutile sottolineare che la “lingua foresta” chiarissima e popolare da cui si<br />
traduce è l’inglese — o meglio ancora l’americano di Henry Miller e Saul<br />
Bellow; mentre il linguaggio mezzo morto in cui si traduce è l’italiano, non<br />
appartenente — così come è venuto letterariamente configurandosi - a<br />
popolo alcuno.<br />
14 Precursore del concetto di intertestualità (senza mai aver menzionato<br />
il termine) Bachtin — come è noto — focalizza il concetto di parodia come<br />
fenomeno dialogico. Osserva F. Stella in “Testimonianze” nn. 384-5, aprilemaggio<br />
1996, facendo riferimento al celebre saggio di Todorov su Bachtin<br />
(originale francese 1981, — qualsiasi punto se ne consideri - può leggersi<br />
tanto verso l’’avanti’ (dai pre-testi al testo), quanto nel senso opposto (dal<br />
testo ai pre-testi). Nel processo intertestuale si ha a che fare con una<br />
dinamica effettiva, in cui assumono pari importanza sia le modificazioni<br />
imposte al testo dalle sue matrici pre-testuali, sia quelle indotte nei pretesti<br />
dall’inserimento del nuovo arrivato nella rete intertestuale. La<br />
creazione di ogni nuovo testo modifica l’assetto relazionale dell’intero<br />
sistema di testi (e discorsi) a cui esso fa riferimento: da questo momento in
Franco Buffoni<br />
avanti, anche i testi preesistenti ne risultano modificati (dunque influenzati),<br />
se è vero che la loro realtà si esprime nella dimensione dialogica indicata<br />
da Bachtin. Ogni nuovo testo, con la propria costituzione, determina i propri<br />
determinanti, legge e modifica i testi passati, pronto ad essere a sua volta<br />
letto e modificato dai testi a venire. Il testo produce i suoi antecedenti”. Di<br />
particolare interesse in questo consesso di filologi germanici può essere<br />
quest’ultima considerazione di Pasero: “Il paradosso per cui il testo<br />
posteriore modifica il precedente (ovvero: il derivato legge la fonte) non è<br />
sempre dato in questa sua drastica forma: esso si impone con particolare<br />
vigore solo quando — all’incirca a partire dalla fine del Medioevo, per<br />
quanto riguarda la tradizione culturale dell’Occidente — si delinea una<br />
ideologia del distacco dalla lettura dei testi come auctoritates da citare e<br />
glossare, e nel contempo si teorizza e si pratica un loro impiego più<br />
‘creativo’. Tale spostamento d’accenti trova un corrispettivo nel riconoscere<br />
a tutti i testi (anche ai ‘nuovi’, dunque) il diritto di comportarsi come<br />
individualità autonome, che entrano con pari chances nell’agone letterario”.<br />
Dal nostro punto di vista, ovviamente, quando ci si riferisce a “tutti” i testi,<br />
compresi i “nuovi”, il pensiero corre in primis alle traduzioni-testo<br />
(relativamente alle quali rimandiamo alla nota 25).<br />
17 L’idea che nella comunicazione ci siano due momenti, uno retorico e<br />
uno ermeneutico, comporta che ogni comunicazione sia traduzione.<br />
18 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 2.<br />
19 A riguardo Henri Meschonnic distingue tra traduzioni-non-testo,<br />
destinate a deperire rapidamente, e traduzioni-testo - come quelle di S.<br />
Gerolamo, Lutero, Pasternak, Ezra Pound, Robert Graves, Paul Celan,<br />
Baudelaire - destinate a restare, per l’appunto, come testi.<br />
20 Da noi pubblicato su “Testo a fronte” n. 3, ottobre 1991, per le cure di<br />
Giovanni Lombardo.<br />
21 Modena, Mucchi, 1983.<br />
22 Se si possa o non si possa tradurre poesia; se si possa o non si possa,<br />
o peggio, se sia lecito o meno tentare di “riprodurre” in traduzione lo stile<br />
di un autore: sono queste le domande che - come comitato direttivo di<br />
“Testo a fronte” - consideriamo assolutamente superate.<br />
23 Considera Mattioli nel saggio introduttivo all’edizione italiana di<br />
Literarische Ubersetzung di Apel: “E’ evidente che la lezione da ricavare non<br />
è certo quella della negazione dell’apporto della linguistica al problema<br />
del tradurre, bensì della pretesa di alcuni linguisti di ridurre il problema<br />
ad una sola dimensione, ad una disciplina soltanto. La nostra è dunque<br />
una idea aperta della traduzione letteraria, una ripresa in chiave attuale<br />
della grande riflessione della Fruhromantik sulla traduzione come compito<br />
senza fine, nella forte consapevolezza della presenza di una molteplicità<br />
di variabili nel processo traduttivo e della ineliminabilità del tempo che,<br />
solo, dà alla ricerca sul tradurre complessità, fascino e significato”<br />
24 A riguardo si vedano anche, nel già citato volume Ritmologia, gli<br />
interventi di Emilio Mattioli e di chi scrive. Una impostazione teorica che<br />
trova una sicura fonte in E. Benveniste, Problemi di linguistica generale, trad.<br />
di M. Vittoria Giuliani, Il Saggiatore, Milano, 1994, p.396.<br />
19
20<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
The <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Poetry as an Autonomous<br />
Literary Genre<br />
by Franco Buffoni<br />
“I wonder” asked L. F. Céline in the letter to M. Hindus <strong>of</strong> May 15 th ,<br />
1947, “ how can they compare me to Henry Miller, who is translated?,<br />
while everything is a question <strong>of</strong> the intimacy <strong>of</strong> the language not to mention<br />
the emotional output <strong>of</strong> style…”<br />
Style, for Céline, was therefore “untranslatable,” just as poetry was<br />
“untranslatable” for Benedetto Croce.<br />
These theoretical positions, which play on the assumption <strong>of</strong> the<br />
uniqueness and irreproducibility <strong>of</strong> the work <strong>of</strong> art, end up denying the<br />
translatability <strong>of</strong> poetry and “high” prose. Such conceptions are the expression<br />
<strong>of</strong> an idealism that is particularly outdated nowadays, against<br />
which <strong>Italian</strong> aesthetics <strong>of</strong> a neo-phenomenological bent (from Banfi to<br />
Anceschi to Formaggio to Mattioli) have fought for three decades at least<br />
(victoriously, I would say).<br />
It all started with the observation that the dichotomies (faithful/unfaithful;<br />
faithful to the letter/faithful to the spirit; ut orator/ut interpres; verbum/sensus;<br />
“traductions des poètes/traductions des pr<strong>of</strong>esseurs”) – from<br />
Cicero to Mounin – inevitably lead to a cul de sac, which puts, on the one<br />
hand, the untranslatability <strong>of</strong> “style” and <strong>of</strong> the poetic “ineffable,” and on<br />
the other hand, the conviction that it is possible to transmit just the content.<br />
Naturally the fact that it is possible to transmit just the content is a<br />
pure abstraction, but it is where you get starting from both “idealistic” and<br />
“formalistic” assumptions.<br />
I don’t think that the dichotomous situation <strong>of</strong> impasse changes by<br />
analysing the academic argument between Meschonnic and Ladmiral, alias<br />
between sourciers and ciblistes, or between a naturalizing “target-oriented”<br />
tendency, which would push the text toward the foreign reader “naturalizing”<br />
it, and an alienating “source-oriented” tendency that would drag<br />
the foreign reader toward the text.<br />
According to this kind <strong>of</strong> thought, the clash between schools <strong>of</strong> translation<br />
would resemble the one that exists in the world <strong>of</strong> art restoration: to<br />
show it as much as possible, or hide it as much as possible.<br />
If we set aside the fondness that certain definitions may elicit as opposed<br />
to others, I believe it is clear that — if we continue with a dichotomous<br />
layout — we only add new pairs — like domestication/estrangement,<br />
visibility/invisibility, violability/inviolability to those <strong>of</strong> previous<br />
centuries: liberty/faithfulness, betrayal/assent, fluency/literalness. This<br />
is what happens with The Translator’s Invisibility <strong>of</strong> Lawrence Venuti despite<br />
the fact that his constant reference to Schleiermacher and the hermeneutic<br />
school inspired by him is certainly <strong>of</strong> a very high level.
Franco Buffoni<br />
“How then, can we reproduce the style?” The heart <strong>of</strong> the matter, in<br />
my opinion, is in the verb used to ask the question: reproduce. Because<br />
literary translation cannot be reduced conceptually to a mere reproduction<br />
<strong>of</strong> a text; it should rather be considered as a process, which sees not an<br />
“original” and a “copy” move through time and possibly bloom and flourish<br />
again, but two texts equally endowed with artistic dignity.<br />
The Movement <strong>of</strong> Language by Friedmar Apel is a fundamental study<br />
in this regard. The concept <strong>of</strong> “movement” in language comes from the<br />
necessity <strong>of</strong> deeply analysing the so-called language <strong>of</strong> departure before<br />
embarking on the translation <strong>of</strong> a literary text.<br />
The idea is commonly accepted for the so-called language <strong>of</strong> arrival.<br />
No one, in fact, casts any doubts on the need to constantly retranslate the<br />
classics in order to adapt them to the transformations that language continuously<br />
undergoes. The so-called departure text, on the other hand, is<br />
usually viewed as a monument — immobile in time — marmoreal and<br />
rustpro<strong>of</strong>. And yet, it too is moving in time, because the words which compose<br />
it are also moving semantically in time, as well as the syntactic and<br />
grammatical structures and so on.<br />
Essentially, what is being proposed is to consider the classical or<br />
modern literary text to be translated not as an immobile rock in the sea, but<br />
as a floating platform, where the translator works on the live body <strong>of</strong> the<br />
text, but the text itself is in constant transformation, or precisely, moving<br />
in time. In this view, the aesthetic dignity <strong>of</strong> the translation appears as the<br />
fruit <strong>of</strong> a meeting between equals (the author and the translator) fated to<br />
cause the traditional dichotomous pairs to fall away, since it is aimed at<br />
removing all stiffness from the act <strong>of</strong> translation, by giving its product an<br />
intrinsic autonomous dignity as text. This principle was already anticipated<br />
by Blanchot through the image <strong>of</strong> the “solemn drift <strong>of</strong> literary works.”<br />
You can go so far as to affirm that the movement <strong>of</strong> the language in<br />
time, during this process <strong>of</strong> literary translation, begins even before the drafting<br />
<strong>of</strong> the “definitive” version <strong>of</strong> the “original,” when it is possible for the<br />
translator to access the “pre-text” (that is, all those documents from which<br />
the “definitive” text takes shape).<br />
In this way, the translator takes possession <strong>of</strong> the path <strong>of</strong> growth and<br />
germination <strong>of</strong> the text in its various phases. In this regard, a linguist may<br />
speak <strong>of</strong> the formativity <strong>of</strong> the text; while a poet may speak <strong>of</strong> sympathetic<br />
adherence, on the part <strong>of</strong> the translator, not so much to the finished text,<br />
but to the myriad <strong>of</strong> emotional cells that made it possible.<br />
The text, therefore, moves toward the future but also toward the past<br />
if we take into account the “pre-texts.” Think <strong>of</strong> the eight thousand sheets<br />
which gave rise to the four hundred pages <strong>of</strong> Céline’s Voyage au bout de la<br />
nuit, or <strong>of</strong> the Epiphanies from which Joyce’s Portrait descends, or the Cahiers<br />
upon which La Recherche du temp perdu is formed …All this in the awareness<br />
<strong>of</strong> the stratification <strong>of</strong> historical languages. It is a concept that Luciano<br />
Bianciardi exemplifies with “architectonic” clarity at the beginning <strong>of</strong> his<br />
21
22<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
La Vita Agra (Sour Life), when he describes the building that houses the<br />
library <strong>of</strong> Grosseto. Previously it had been the teaching house <strong>of</strong> the Companions<br />
<strong>of</strong> Jesus, and before the Convent <strong>of</strong> the Humbled, and even before<br />
the Braidense Library…<br />
By transferring this description to language, you obtain the diode<br />
effect, which is like seeing from high a heap <strong>of</strong> piled up but transparent<br />
phonetic and semantic layers. This is why I consider the translation <strong>of</strong> poetry<br />
as an autonomous literary genre, according to a tradition that sees in<br />
its developement Thomas Sébillet in the 16 th century (Mounin reminds us<br />
that, according to Sébillet, translation at that time was considered “parmi<br />
les genres littéraires en vogue”), and Jiri Levy, who in the early Sixties <strong>of</strong><br />
the 20 th century published in Prague Umeni Prekladu, a fundamental essay<br />
the subtitle <strong>of</strong> which is quite meaningful: “Theorie einer Kunstgattung”,<br />
that is to say “theory <strong>of</strong> a literary genre” .
Traumatic <strong>Translation</strong>: Levi’s “Ancient Mariner” from<br />
English to <strong>Italian</strong>—and Back Again<br />
by Lina Insana<br />
Lina Insana is Assistant Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> at the University <strong>of</strong> Pittsburgh,<br />
where she teaches courses on Holocaust Literature, Fascism and Resistance,<br />
Sicilian Writers, <strong>Italian</strong> Detective Fiction, <strong>Translation</strong> Studies, <strong>Italian</strong><br />
American Studies, and Migration and Identity. She has published on<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> American children’s literature, gender and Fascist culture, Boccaccio,<br />
Beppe Fenoglio, and Primo Levi, and is currently completing her manuscript<br />
on Levi’s use <strong>of</strong> translation as a metaphor for Holocaust testimony.<br />
Introduction<br />
Holocaust survivors, returning home after liberation and the long<br />
homeward odysseys that followed, soon found themselves prey to<br />
a new conflict: between the “burning need” to tell <strong>of</strong> their brutalizing<br />
experience and a pr<strong>of</strong>ound confusion over how to go about representing its<br />
singular and unspeakable events. This crisis <strong>of</strong> representation stemmed, in<br />
part, from specific aspects <strong>of</strong> the Final Solution, which deployed tactics <strong>of</strong><br />
cruel dehumanization, the debasement <strong>of</strong> significative language, and the<br />
eradication <strong>of</strong> all subject hood and agency, not to speak <strong>of</strong> unheard-<strong>of</strong><br />
physical hardships, slavery, and torture. The result is an unbearable<br />
proximity between the Lager’s new reality and the limits <strong>of</strong> our imaginative<br />
capacities. As Terrence Des Pres has theorized, “what we experience,<br />
symbolically, in spirit only, survivors must go through, in spirit and in body.<br />
In extremity, states <strong>of</strong> mind become objective, metaphors tend to actualize,<br />
the word becomes flesh” (174).<br />
When traditional literary figures are no longer appropriate as an expressive<br />
strategy, what recourse does the survivor-writer have? Levi’s response<br />
to the incommensurate communicative environments <strong>of</strong> Auschwitz<br />
and the world <strong>of</strong> survival grew out <strong>of</strong> his belief that effective communication<br />
was fundamental to the human condition. 1 As such, at the heart <strong>of</strong> his testimonial<br />
project was an attempt to convey the reality <strong>of</strong> the camps by recoding<br />
its various sign systems for “gli altri,” who had not been there to experience<br />
it for themselves; in other words, to translate it. The translational metaphor<br />
for Holocaust testimony is particularly apt in Levi’s case because <strong>of</strong> his<br />
consistent attention to language issues in his writing, his focus on the<br />
Lagerjargon 2 as a constituent element <strong>of</strong> the univers concentrationnaire, and his<br />
own considerable translation work. 3<br />
Across Levi’s testimonial oeuvre, translation acts 4 become textual sites<br />
<strong>of</strong> survivor hood, where processes <strong>of</strong> testimony and aspects <strong>of</strong> the survivor’s
24 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
condition are explored in complex and traumatically repetitive ways, mirroring<br />
the trauma <strong>of</strong> the experience, itself. Another notable aspect <strong>of</strong> Levi’s<br />
translations is that they are <strong>of</strong>ten intentionally unfaithful, representing an<br />
unsettling or even a reversal <strong>of</strong> the source text. This undermining<br />
foregrounding <strong>of</strong> the texts that Levi chooses to appropriate and translate<br />
within the space <strong>of</strong> his ostensibly “original” testimonial production should<br />
not be inscribed within a Bloomian “anxiety <strong>of</strong> influence” directed toward<br />
the figures <strong>of</strong> Dante Alighieri and Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Rather, this<br />
author’s portrayal <strong>of</strong> translation en abyme figures his attempt to reverse the<br />
Auschwitz source text and overcome its arrogant and omnipotent “authors.”<br />
Levi’s practice <strong>of</strong> manhandling his source texts in the service <strong>of</strong> a larger<br />
personal and literary program reveals nothing less than a reassertion <strong>of</strong> the<br />
subject hood so diminished in the univers concentrationnaire. If, as Shoshana<br />
Feldman writes, “History is the ‘original,’ the writings—its translations”<br />
(40), Levi’s practice is indicative <strong>of</strong> a preoccupation with not only translating,<br />
but reversing the source text <strong>of</strong> the Holocaust event.<br />
Levi’s use <strong>of</strong> four verses <strong>of</strong> Samuel Taylor Coleridge’s Rime <strong>of</strong> the Ancient<br />
Mariner (1817) is exemplary <strong>of</strong> this general tendency in his oeuvre. As we<br />
shall see, Levi’s traumatic return to the text and its protagonist places the<br />
source text’s preoccupation with the transmission <strong>of</strong> trauma en abyme,<br />
foregrounding Levi’s and Coleridge’s common themes <strong>of</strong> transmission, translation,<br />
and survivor guilt. Within this context, however, Levi makes changes<br />
to the text that simultaneously reassert his authorial agency (and thus his<br />
subject hood) and recast Coleridge’s text as a testimonial utterance unique to<br />
Levi’s experience.<br />
My comments in this essay will focus in particular on Levi’s 1984<br />
poem “Il superstite” (“The Survivor”), a text whose analysis allows us to<br />
comment not only on the role <strong>of</strong> translation in Levi’s authorial strategies, but<br />
also on particular problems that this poem—with its embedded (mis) translation<br />
<strong>of</strong> Coleridge—posed for its American translator, Ruth Feldman. Faced<br />
with an exercise <strong>of</strong> circular translation <strong>of</strong> the kind described by Umberto Eco<br />
in Experiences in <strong>Translation</strong> (40), 5 Feldman’s decision to return to Coleridge’s<br />
original verses effaced the fact, and thus the implications, <strong>of</strong> Levi’s own<br />
mediation <strong>of</strong> Coleridge.<br />
The Ancient Mariner as Holocaust Survivor<br />
According to Marco Belpoliti (21), Primo Levi was most likely introduced<br />
to Coleridge’s “Rime <strong>of</strong> the Ancient Mariner” in 1964, when Beppe<br />
Fenoglio’s translation <strong>of</strong> it was published by Einaudi; we can trace Levi’s<br />
public references to the poem more or less to this same period. Both in the<br />
preface to the 1966 theatrical production <strong>of</strong> Se questo è un uomo (cited in<br />
Anissimov 471) 6 and in the “Cromo” chapter <strong>of</strong> Il sistema periodico (1974)<br />
Levi compares himself affirmatively to the Ancient Mariner. In the fist case,<br />
the terms <strong>of</strong> comparison revolve around the duties <strong>of</strong> the interlocutor (or the
Lina Insana/Primo Levi<br />
theatrical audience) to come to a conclusion based on the survivor’s “tale,”<br />
while in “Cromo” Levi’s focus is his urgent need to purify himself, to rid<br />
himself <strong>of</strong> the albatross hanging around his own neck through storytelling.<br />
Though these paraphrastic references to the Ancient Mariner character<br />
date to 1966, his explicit citation and translation <strong>of</strong> one specific four-verse<br />
stanza brought this affinity to its culmination in the last few years <strong>of</strong> his life,<br />
inspiring not only the 1984 poem “Il superstite,” but the title <strong>of</strong> its entire<br />
collection, Ad ora incerta (1984), and the incipit <strong>of</strong> his last book, I sommersi e i<br />
salvati (1986): “Since then, at an uncertain hour,/ That agony returns:/ And<br />
till my ghastly tale is told,/ This heart within me burns” (vv. 582-85). The<br />
consistency with which Levi returns to the Coleridge text and its protagonist<br />
challenges us to reckon with their importance as figures for Levi’s testimonial<br />
project. Moreover, Levi’s active mediation <strong>of</strong> his source text demands<br />
that this reckoning occur on the terrain <strong>of</strong> translation, both on the level <strong>of</strong><br />
theme (the citing, recoding and traumatic retelling that are central to<br />
Coleridge’s text), and on the formal level (the specific acts <strong>of</strong> citation and<br />
[mis] translation that occur within the textual space <strong>of</strong> Levi’s poem).<br />
“Il superstite”<br />
The first line <strong>of</strong> the <strong>of</strong>t-cited Coleridge passage (v. 582) is reproduced<br />
tale quale, as the first verse <strong>of</strong> Levi’s poem: “Since then, at an uncertain hour”.<br />
The second line is Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> the first, faithfully done, and represented<br />
in regular type: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta.” This is followed in<br />
the third verse by a close translation <strong>of</strong> Coleridge’s next line (v. 583), “That<br />
agony returns” (“Quella pena ritorna”), and then a significantly altered<br />
rendering <strong>of</strong> the next two verses, to which we will soon return.<br />
Remarkably, despite critical unanimity regarding the role <strong>of</strong> the Fenoglio<br />
translation in familiarizing Levi with the poem, Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> the<br />
verses from the “Rime” is clearly original. Fenoglio’s translation <strong>of</strong> vv. 582-<br />
85 reads: “Da quel momento, a un’ora imprecisa,/ Quell’agonia mi torna;/ E<br />
fino a che non ho detta la mia storia/ Di morti, dentro mi brucia il cuore.”<br />
Levi’s version, instead, reads: “Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta,/ Quella pena<br />
ritorna,/ E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il cuore.” Of particular<br />
note in a casual comparison between the source text and Fenoglio’s<br />
and Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> it is the fact that the former’s addition <strong>of</strong> “Di morti”<br />
in verse 585—made, one assumes, to approximate Coleridge’s original<br />
tetrameter—does not materialize in Levi’s translation, leading us to believe<br />
that Levi was translating from Coleridge directly and not from Fenoglio’s<br />
1964 translation. As we shall soon see, Levi’s omission <strong>of</strong> Fenoglio’s unfaithful<br />
reference to death provides not only textual pro<strong>of</strong> <strong>of</strong> his direct relationship<br />
to the Coleridge source text, but also helps to interrogate ostensibly<br />
clear distinctions between life and death, “sommersi” and “salvati.”<br />
Starting with v. 6, Levi’s “Il superstite” then makes a transition from<br />
the Coleridge source text and his interpretation <strong>of</strong> it to a more properly “origi-<br />
25
26 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
nal” segment (vv. 6-13) describing the “sommersi” that the poem’s survivor<br />
“persona” will soon address. By then admonishing the “gente sommersa”<br />
in verses 14-20, this persona ostensibly places himself in the diametrically<br />
opposed category <strong>of</strong> the “salvati,” who must defensively account for their<br />
survival to both the “sommersi”—the audience to which the quoted segment<br />
is addressed—and to the poem’s broader audience <strong>of</strong> outsiders who, privy<br />
to both sides <strong>of</strong> the dialogue, are placed in the position <strong>of</strong> judge. As such, the<br />
author sets up a seemingly neat distinction between survivors and their<br />
dead companions, complete with an implied dialogue within the survivor<br />
persona’s monologue that presents both points <strong>of</strong> view: “ ‘Indietro, via di<br />
qui, gente sommersa,/ Andate. Non ho soppiantato nessuno,/ Non ho<br />
usurpato il pane di nessuno,/ Nessuno è morto in vece mia. Nessuno./<br />
Ritornate alla vostra nebbia./ Non è mia colpa se vivo e respiro/ E mangio e<br />
bevo e dormo e vesto panni’ “ (vvs. 14-20).<br />
This segment, enclosed entirely in quotation marks, is characterized by<br />
a repetition <strong>of</strong> negative clauses containing “Non” and “Nessuno.” Not only<br />
is this negational structure an example <strong>of</strong> Freud’s affirming negations, 7 but<br />
its repetitive cadence constitutes, in microcosmic form, the sort <strong>of</strong> traumatic<br />
repetition that Levi’s use <strong>of</strong> Coleridge’s “Rime” and his testimonial work<br />
represent on more global levels. 8 It is precisely this combination <strong>of</strong> repetition<br />
and negation that aids Levi in portraying the dialogue within a monologue<br />
between the two parts <strong>of</strong> a divided survivor self. The affirming negations, in<br />
this context, have the striking effect <strong>of</strong> validating the accusations <strong>of</strong> the<br />
“sommersi,” even while presenting the “salvati”’s opposing—and seemingly<br />
dominant—point <strong>of</strong> view. Furthermore, the rhetorical strategy <strong>of</strong> redundancy<br />
suggests that this implicit “dialogue” is a repeating one that the<br />
surviving subject must enact over and over again. In the recent opinion <strong>of</strong><br />
Giorgio Agamben, Levi’s poem is indicative <strong>of</strong> his refusal to accept “fino in<br />
fondo le conseguenze” <strong>of</strong> individual survivor guilt, and its poetic persona<br />
representative <strong>of</strong> one who “lotta tenacemente contro di esso” (83).<br />
But Levi makes two significant changes to Coleridge’s original in his<br />
own loose translation (vv. 4-5) that displace him with regard to this neatly<br />
divided dichotomy <strong>of</strong> the “drowned” and the “saved.” This transitional<br />
segment that bridges the two introductory verses <strong>of</strong> faithful translation and<br />
the original verses beginning at v. 6 in effect creates a space <strong>of</strong> many ambiguities:<br />
between faithful and unfaithful translation, between the giving and the<br />
receiving <strong>of</strong> testimony, between survival and death. First, the focus on the<br />
Mariner’s first-person tale in Coleridge’s v. 584 (“And till my ghastly tale is<br />
told”) has been shifted in Levi’s rewriting to the search for an active listener:<br />
“E se non trova chi lo ascolti”. By emphasizing the necessity <strong>of</strong> finding an<br />
interlocutor (through the addition <strong>of</strong> the active verb ascoltare), a witness to<br />
the survivor’s testimony, Levi establishes an interactive model <strong>of</strong> narrative<br />
responsibility. In this model, the living must speak for those who did not<br />
survive. As Levi will later explain in the “La vergogna” chapter <strong>of</strong> I sommersi<br />
e i salvati, “[n]oi toccati dalla sorte abbiamo cercato, con maggiore o minore
Lina Insana/Primo Levi<br />
sapienza, di raccontare non solo il nostro destino, ma anche quello degli<br />
altri, dei sommersi, appunto...Parliamo noi in loro vece, per delega” (65).<br />
Implicit in this model is the fact that the weight <strong>of</strong> responsibility must be<br />
distributed among speakers and listeners alike at many different levels, as<br />
the “salvati” must become witnesses to the atrocities committed against the<br />
“sommersi” and the survivor’s listener-reader must, in turn, bear witness to<br />
that which is recounted to him by the survivor. It is not enough merely to tell,<br />
but the reader-listener after the fact must also be a willing interlocutor and<br />
witness, mirroring and repeating the narrative testimonial act <strong>of</strong> the survivor<br />
to create an infinite chain <strong>of</strong> witnessing and telling, listening and witnessing.<br />
Similarly, for Coleridge there is a tendency to “dissolv[e] the distinction<br />
between the roles <strong>of</strong> speaker and audience: both here are equally in<br />
thrall to the tale” (Eilenberg 287-88). For both the Holocaust survivor and the<br />
protagonist <strong>of</strong> the “Rime,” each link in the transmission <strong>of</strong> the tale is simultaneously<br />
narrator and narratee, yet another example <strong>of</strong> the manner in which<br />
the representation en abyme <strong>of</strong> the transmissive act shines a particularly<br />
bright meta-narrative light on the process <strong>of</strong> witnessing. Referring to the<br />
Coleridge poem, Eilenberg identifies this phenomenon as a thematic “doubling”<br />
<strong>of</strong> the protagonist in that “each person who hears the story becomes,<br />
like the Mariner, the teller <strong>of</strong> that story” (277). For Eilenberg, these textual<br />
doubles include the sixteenth-century “mistral who narrates the poem that<br />
the antiquarian would gloss” (291), as well as the Hermit and Wedding<br />
Guest who are the Mariner’s most immediate interlocutors. Upon close inspection,<br />
it becomes clear that Levi’s own poem shares Coleridge’s predilection<br />
for textual doubles, though not as explicit as those present in the “Rime.”<br />
Ultimately, the poet and his survivor persona are at once elements and propagators<br />
<strong>of</strong> the poem’s doubling mechanism: a poet who quotes Coleridge’s<br />
original English text, who knows but sets aside a good-faith <strong>Italian</strong> translation<br />
<strong>of</strong> Coleridge (Beppe Fenoglio’s), who puts forth his own translation <strong>of</strong><br />
Coleridge; and a survivor, who, in his vehement denial <strong>of</strong> any wrongdoing<br />
against the “gente sommersa,” implicitly cites the charges <strong>of</strong> his accusers.<br />
Even the final line <strong>of</strong> the poem constitutes another layer <strong>of</strong> this game <strong>of</strong><br />
doubling through citation, as the survivor translates Dante (“e mangia e bee<br />
e dorme e veste panni” [Inferno 33.141]), once again making revealing changes<br />
<strong>of</strong> person and perspective (“E mangio e bevo e dormo e vesto panni” [v. 20]),<br />
to invoke the double <strong>of</strong> the traitor Branca D’Oria. 9<br />
But in keeping with poetry’s role as the space in which this author<br />
works through his more conflicted responses to survivor hood, Levi’s unfaithful<br />
translation <strong>of</strong> the fourth verse also serves to undermine this very<br />
narrative model whereby interlocutors, and therefore witnesses, are created<br />
within the textual space <strong>of</strong> testimony. While Coleridge’s main verb is decidedly<br />
indicative (“And till my ghastly tale is told”), Levi’s version is constructed<br />
on the first part <strong>of</strong> a hypothetical phrase, presenting the possibility<br />
<strong>of</strong> an audience in the subjunctive mode—possible, but not certain: “E se non<br />
trova chi lo ascolti.” Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> Coleridge, then, prompts us to ques-<br />
27
28 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
tion his faith in the very narrative-testimonial model that he has constructed.<br />
The second change in Levi’s reworking <strong>of</strong> the original poem involves a<br />
shift from the first person (“And till my ghastly tale is told/ This heart within<br />
me burns.”) to the third: “E se non trova chi lo ascolti/ Gli brucia in petto il<br />
cuore.” (vv. 4-6). By displacing the subject position away from the lyric,<br />
authoritative first person, Levi problematizes his own status as survivor,<br />
and thus, in effect, his own position in this interactive model <strong>of</strong> witnessing.<br />
In addition to the splitting and doubling effects <strong>of</strong> this move that we have<br />
already outlined, Levi’s decision to speak <strong>of</strong> the survivor in third-person<br />
terms would seem to place him at least one remove from the survivor’s ostensibly<br />
authoritative position, which Levi begins to question in his later years. 10<br />
According to his later thought, survivors like Levi must take on the role <strong>of</strong><br />
witness even though that role’s validity is diminished by their very survival:<br />
“‘[Quello dei sopravvisuti] è stato un discorso ‘per conto di terzi,’ il racconto<br />
di cose viste da vicino, non sperimentate in proprio. La demolizione condotta<br />
a termine, l’opera compiuta, non l’ha raccontata nessuno, come nessuno è<br />
mai tornato a raccontare la sua morte” (I sommersi e i salvati 65).<br />
This weakened view <strong>of</strong> the authority <strong>of</strong> survivor hood is only confirmed<br />
later on in the poem when Levi overtly quotes the survivor’s defensive<br />
rebuke <strong>of</strong> the submerged. By taking the survivor’s words out <strong>of</strong> the<br />
poet’s mouth and citing them as the words <strong>of</strong> an unnamed survivor persona,<br />
Levi further develops the narrative duality that is set up by his translation <strong>of</strong><br />
Coleridge’s first-person stance to a third-person narrative position. But this<br />
technique is suggestive <strong>of</strong> far more than a dantesque poet-pilgrim relationship<br />
between Levi’s writer and survivor identities. Rather, Levi’s explicit<br />
quotation <strong>of</strong> the survivor’s defensive words as if he did not own them amounts<br />
to a decision to position himself definitively outside <strong>of</strong> the neat drowned vs.<br />
saved dichotomy that he himself has created. This rhetorical technique suggests<br />
a survivor who is neither “sommerso” nor “salvato”; not prey to the<br />
true depths <strong>of</strong> the Nazi atrocities, and yet not wishing, in this moment <strong>of</strong> the<br />
poem, to accept the survivor’s words, his responsibility, or his guilt. In effect,<br />
Levi establishes himself as a border figure who stands astride these two<br />
opposing zones <strong>of</strong> the moral system <strong>of</strong> Auschwitz—drowned and saved—<br />
but recognizes that it is his very identification with both survivor hood and<br />
death that warrants his occupancy <strong>of</strong> an entirely different intermediary zone.<br />
“The Survivor”<br />
“Il superstite,” with all <strong>of</strong> its layers <strong>of</strong> textual and narrative transmission,<br />
was itself translated into English by Levi’s longtime acquaintance and<br />
translator Ruth Feldman. 11 First published in 1986 and reprinted in 1988, 12<br />
the English-language translation <strong>of</strong> “Il superstite” strikingly reveals the tension<br />
inherent in the translator’s attempt to faithfully render a number <strong>of</strong><br />
different and <strong>of</strong>ten competing source texts: Coleridge’s “Rime,” Levi’s “Il<br />
superstite,” and, ultimately, the Holocaust, itself.<br />
The Feldman translation <strong>of</strong> this poem, entitled “The Survivor,” repre-
Lina Insana/Primo Levi<br />
sents Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> v. 582 (“Dopo di allora, ad ora incerta”) as the first<br />
verse <strong>of</strong> the new poem. This is followed by a direct citation <strong>of</strong> vv. 581-85 <strong>of</strong> the<br />
English-language Coleridge poem, tali quali, as verses 2-5, eliding Levi’s<br />
changes to the Coleridge source text. In both published versions, these verses<br />
are set apart graphically from the rest <strong>of</strong> the poem, both in terms <strong>of</strong> the size <strong>of</strong><br />
their font and by a space between verses 5 (“This heart within me burns”)<br />
and 6 (“Once more he sees his companions’ faces”); in the 1986 epigraphic<br />
version this separation is rendered still more striking by the fact that the first<br />
5 verses are all in italics, implying that as a whole they represent a direct and<br />
faithful translation (or citation) <strong>of</strong> some original text, either Coleridge’s or<br />
Levi’s.<br />
In both <strong>of</strong> Feldman’s versions <strong>of</strong> the poem, the Coleridge citation stands<br />
in epigraph to the rest <strong>of</strong> the poetic text, but is not incorporated into it, nor is<br />
the voice <strong>of</strong> the Ancient Mariner-cum-survivor ever conflated with the survivor-persona’s<br />
voice. As a result, the imagined dialogue that moves the second<br />
part <strong>of</strong> the poem becomes a very different kind <strong>of</strong> conversation, one<br />
where the ownership <strong>of</strong> the survivor position is not formally problematized<br />
within the poem’s formal structure. The poet here can simply be said to have<br />
adopted a “voice” <strong>of</strong> anxiety vis à vis the survivor’s condition, but without<br />
linking that persona textually or graphically to the Ancient Mariner character<br />
who in Levi’s version takes on far more than mere emblematic value for<br />
the survivor persona in question. With the effacement <strong>of</strong> Levi’s violence to<br />
the Coleridge text comes a negation <strong>of</strong> the complexity <strong>of</strong> Levi’s relationship<br />
to the Ancient Mariner character inherent in his explicit and forceful rhetorical<br />
distancing from that character in the <strong>Italian</strong> poem.<br />
Feldman’s return to Coleridge’s original text suggests a refusal to participate<br />
in an exercise <strong>of</strong> circular translation, a reticence to acknowledge<br />
either the translator’s presence in the process <strong>of</strong> transmission, or the uniqueness<br />
<strong>of</strong> the translational act. Her decision to privilege Coleridge’s source text<br />
also suggests an underlying anxiety about accuracy in the representation,<br />
transmission, and translation <strong>of</strong> Holocaust texts, and the Holocaust source<br />
text in general; Feldman’s pr<strong>of</strong>ound desire to accurately represent the Holocaust<br />
signified ultimately manifests itself in the “return” to a pristine, uncorrupted<br />
source text. Paradoxically, however, readers <strong>of</strong> Feldman’s Englishlanguage<br />
translation <strong>of</strong> Levi’s “Il superstite” are given less than the full<br />
picture <strong>of</strong> survivor testimony when they are denied access to Levi’s poetic<br />
refraction <strong>of</strong> Coleridge’s text, and his use <strong>of</strong> it to figure the complexities <strong>of</strong><br />
transmission, translation, and the testimonial process.<br />
Primo Levi’s translation <strong>of</strong> this fragment <strong>of</strong> Coleridge’s “Rime <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Ancient Mariner” and its incorporation into his 1984 poem “Il superstite”<br />
reveal the importance <strong>of</strong> translation as a textual site <strong>of</strong> meditation on the<br />
testimonial process and on the condition <strong>of</strong> survivor hood. His manhandling<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Coleridge fragment establishes Levi’s agency as a testimonial<br />
and poetic subject, and at the same time allows him to perform a complex<br />
commentary on his own position <strong>of</strong> survivor hood between life and death,<br />
29
30 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
testimony and silence. This contrasts sharply with the English-language<br />
translation <strong>of</strong> the poem, where the translator’s anxieties about faithfully<br />
translating the competing source texts at issue—literary and historical alike—<br />
undermine this very complexity.<br />
Works Cited<br />
Agamben, Giorgio. Quel che resta di Auschwitz. Torino: Bollati Boringhieri,<br />
1998.<br />
Alighieri, Dante. Inferno. Trans. Charles Singleton. 2 vols: <strong>Italian</strong> text and<br />
translation, and commentary. Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1977.<br />
Anissimov, Myriam. Primo Levi, ou la tragédie d’un optimiste. Paris: J.C. Lattès,<br />
1996.<br />
Belpoliti, Marco. Primo Levi. Milano: Mondadori, 1998.<br />
Des Pres, Terrence. The Survivor. New York: Oxford University Press, 1976.<br />
Gilman, Sander. “To Quote Primo Levi: ‘Redest keyn jiddisch, bist nit kejn<br />
jid’ [‘If you don’t speak Yiddish, you’re not a Jew’].” Pro<strong>of</strong>texts 9 (1989): 139-<br />
60.<br />
Eco, Umberto. Experiences in <strong>Translation</strong>. Toronto: University <strong>of</strong> Toronto<br />
Press, 2001.<br />
Eilenberg, Susan. “Voice and Ventriloquy in ‘The Rime <strong>of</strong> the Ancient Mariner.’”<br />
The “Rime <strong>of</strong> the Ancient Mariner”: Complete, Authoritative Texts <strong>of</strong> the<br />
1798 and 1817 Versions with Biographical and Historical Contexts, Critical History,<br />
and Essays from Contemporary Critical Perspectives. Murfin, Ross C. series<br />
ed. and introd. Boston: Bedford/St.Martin’s, 1999.<br />
Feldman, Ruth. Moments <strong>of</strong> Reprieve. New York: Summit Books, 1986. Trans.<br />
<strong>of</strong> Lilít e altri racconti by Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi, 1986.<br />
—. Telephone interview. 26 Feb. 2000.<br />
Feldman, Ruth and Brian Swann, trans. Collected Poems. London; Boston:<br />
Faber and Faber, 1988. Trans. <strong>of</strong> Ad ora incerta by Primo Levi. Milano:<br />
Garzanti, 1984.<br />
—, trans. Shema. London: Mennard Press, 1976. Trans. <strong>of</strong> L’osteria di Brema<br />
by Primo Levi. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975.<br />
Felman, Shoshana. The Juridical Unconscious: trials and traumas in the twentieth<br />
century. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard University Press, 2002.<br />
Fenoglio, Beppe, trans. La ballata del vecchio marinaio. Ed. Filippo Fossati.<br />
Torino: Stamperia del Borgo Po, 1988. Trans. <strong>of</strong> “Rime <strong>of</strong> the Ancient Mariner”<br />
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1817.<br />
Levi, Primo. L’altrui mestiere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985.<br />
—. “Così ho rivissuto il Processo di Kafka.” Interview with Luciano Genta.<br />
Tuttolibri—La stampa 9 Apr. 1983: 3. Rpt. as “Tradurre Kafka” in Racconti e<br />
saggi. Torino: La Stampa, 1986.<br />
—. Lilít e altri racconti. Torino: Einaudi, 1981.<br />
—. “Una misteriosa sensibilità.” Il tempo. 3 July 1983.<br />
—, trans. La notte dei Girondini. Milano: Adelphi, [1976], 1997. Trans. <strong>of</strong> De
Lina Insana/Primo Levi<br />
Nacht der Girondijnen by Jacob Presser. 1957.<br />
—. L’osteria di Brema. Milano: Scheiwiller, 1975.<br />
—, trans. and introd. Il processo. Torino: Einaudi, 1983. Trans. <strong>of</strong> Der Prozeb<br />
by Franz Kafka.<br />
—. Se questo è un uomo, La tregua. Torino: Einaudi, [1958,1963,1989], 1993.<br />
—, trans. Lo sguardo da lontano. Torino: Einaudi, 1984. Trans. <strong>of</strong> Le régard<br />
éloigné by Claude Lévi-Strauss.<br />
—, trans. Simboli naturali. Torino: Einaudi, 1979. Trans. <strong>of</strong> Natural Symbols<br />
by Mary Douglas.<br />
—. Il sistema periodico. Torino: Einaudi, [1975], 1994.<br />
—. I sommersi e i salvati. Torino: Einaudi, [1986], 1991.<br />
—, trans. La via delle maschere. Torino: Einaudi, 1985. Trans. <strong>of</strong> La vie des<br />
masques by Claude Lévi-Strauss.<br />
Rosato, Italo. “Poesia.” Primo Levi. Riga, n. 13. Milano: Marcos y Marcos,<br />
1997.<br />
—. “Ad ora incerta.” Autografo. II.5 (1985): 95-9.<br />
Segre, Cesare. “I romanzi e le poesie.” Opere. Primo Levi. Torino: Einaudi,<br />
1988. xii-xxxv.<br />
Thomson, Ian. Primo Levi. London: Hutchinson, 2002.<br />
Notes<br />
1. Cf. Levi’s essay “Dello scrivere oscuro” in L’altrui mestiere.<br />
2. The lingua franca <strong>of</strong> the univers concentrationnaire, the Lagerjargon was a<br />
mixture <strong>of</strong> all <strong>of</strong> the national and cultural languages represented in the camp.<br />
It contained elements <strong>of</strong> the sign systems <strong>of</strong> both victim and oppressor: on<br />
one hand, the German, Polish, and Yiddish <strong>of</strong> the Nazis and their “gray<br />
zoner” functionaries, and on the other, “bits and pieces <strong>of</strong> the languages <strong>of</strong><br />
the victims” (Gilman 140). Levi’s interest in the language <strong>of</strong> the Lager and <strong>of</strong><br />
the Final Solution spans from Se questo è un uomo to the “Comunicare” chapter<br />
<strong>of</strong> I sommersi e i salvati.<br />
3. In addition to various projects commissioned by Edizioni Scientifiche<br />
Einaudi (notably the four-volume co-translation <strong>of</strong> Chimica Superiore Organica),<br />
Levi’s published translation work includes La notte dei Girondini (Milano:<br />
Adelphi, 1976; trans. <strong>of</strong> Jacob Presser’s De nacht der Girondijnen), I simboli<br />
naturali (Torino: Einaudi, 1979; trans. <strong>of</strong> Mary Douglas’Natural Symbols), Il<br />
processo (Torino: Einaudi, 1983; trans. <strong>of</strong> Franz Kafka’s Der Prozeß), Lo sguardo<br />
da lontano (Torino: Einaudi, 1984; trans. <strong>of</strong> Claude Lévi-Strauss’ Le régard<br />
éloigné), La via delle maschere (Torino: Einaudi, 1985; trans. <strong>of</strong> Claude Lévi-<br />
Strauss’ La vie des masques), and translations <strong>of</strong> Heinrich Heine’s poetry<br />
published in the “Traduzioni” section at the end <strong>of</strong> Ad ora incerta, a collection<br />
<strong>of</strong> Levi’s original poetic work (Torino: Garzanti, 1984). Levi was also the<br />
author <strong>of</strong> a number <strong>of</strong> essays on the topic <strong>of</strong> translation, in particular three<br />
separate pieces written in conjunction with his translation <strong>of</strong> Franz Kafka’s<br />
Der Prozeb (his introduction to the translation, itself; “Tradurre Kafka;” and<br />
31
32 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
“Una misteriosa sensibilità”) and the essay “Tradurre e essere tradotti.”<br />
4. I define translation act quite broadly, here, as both self-standing translation<br />
projects, such as Levi’s translations <strong>of</strong> Kafka and Presser; and embedded<br />
gestures <strong>of</strong> translations, as is the case in the present study and in Levi’s<br />
translation <strong>of</strong> the 26 th Canto <strong>of</strong> Dante’s Inferno in the “Canto di Ulisse” chapter<br />
<strong>of</strong> Se questo è un uomo.<br />
5. “During a seminar on translation, a colleague <strong>of</strong> mine gave the students<br />
the English version <strong>of</strong> The Name <strong>of</strong> the Rose (namely, the description <strong>of</strong> the<br />
church portal) and asked them to translate it into <strong>Italian</strong> (obviously threatening<br />
to compare their result with the original). Asked for some advice, I told<br />
the students that they were not to be disturbed by the idea that there was an<br />
original (in the same sense in which a translator should not be disturbed by<br />
the suspicion that there is a Perfect Language, a reine Sprache, somewhere in<br />
the skies). They had to consider the translation as if it were the original, and<br />
they had to decide what the purpose <strong>of</strong> that text was” (emphasis mine).<br />
6. The preface cited by Anissimov on pp. 471-72 as the source <strong>of</strong> her citation<br />
differs significantly from the original <strong>Italian</strong>. It is unclear from her note<br />
whether it is taken directly from the preface or has been adapted together<br />
with another source.<br />
7. “Può essere a questo punto scontato citare Freud e le sue negazioni che<br />
affermano:<br />
‘Lei domanda chi possa essere questa persona del sogno. Non è mia madre’”<br />
(Rosato, “Poesia” 425).<br />
8. Italo Rosato (“Ad ora incerta” 96), Marco Belpoliti (Primo Levi 125), and<br />
Cesare Segre (xxiv) have all noted Levi’s poetics <strong>of</strong> repetition, the former two<br />
in terms <strong>of</strong> “ripetizione e accumulazione” and the latter in terms <strong>of</strong> “anafore.”<br />
None, however, have attempted to place Levi’s tendency to repeat phrases<br />
and words in the context <strong>of</strong> traumatic repetition, as I hope to do here.<br />
9. Branca Doria (or d’Oria) (1233-1325) was a Genovese Ghibelline nobleman<br />
whom Dante places in the division <strong>of</strong> Cocytus, the realm <strong>of</strong> the treacherous,<br />
specifically reserved for murderers <strong>of</strong> guests and friends; his sin is the<br />
murder <strong>of</strong> his father-in-law (Singleton 624).<br />
10. In the essay “La vergogna” (I sommersi e i salvati), Levi discusses at<br />
length the feelings <strong>of</strong> guilt that he and his fellow survivors experienced after<br />
their liberation from the camps. One <strong>of</strong> the essay’s main themes is Levi’s<br />
assertion that the “salvati” who survived to tell about the horror <strong>of</strong> the Holocaust<br />
are the minority, and that it is the majority, those who “hanno toccato<br />
il fondo,” who constitute the norm <strong>of</strong> the Final Solution’s reality. As such,<br />
the survivors are not the true witnesses to the horrors <strong>of</strong> the extermination;<br />
rather, the “sommersi” are the only ones who would have been able to truly<br />
testify to the extreme capacity for evil <strong>of</strong> mankind: “sono loro, i ‘mussulmani,’<br />
i sommersi, i testimoni integrali, coloro la cui deposizione avrebbe avuto<br />
significato generale” (64).<br />
11. I am grateful to Mrs. Feldman for her generous willingness to discuss<br />
her translation <strong>of</strong> this poem with me in our phone conversation <strong>of</strong> 26 Feb.
Lina Insana/Primo Levi<br />
2000; unfortunately, however, she was unable to explain her decisions with<br />
regard to this particular passage.<br />
12. Brian Swann collaborated with Feldman on the first translation <strong>of</strong> Levi’s<br />
collected poetry, Shema (London: Menard Press, 1976, for which the pair<br />
won the 1977 John Florio Prize) and as such is listed as a co-translator on the<br />
revised and expanded 1988 publication, Collected poems (London, Boston:<br />
Faber and Faber, 1988). However, according to Myriam Anissimov’s 1995<br />
Levi biography, Feldman translated all <strong>of</strong> the additional poems—including<br />
the 1984 “Il superstite” —by herself. This assertion is borne out by the fact<br />
that in Moments <strong>of</strong> Reprieve, Feldman’s 1986 solo translation <strong>of</strong> many <strong>of</strong> Levi’s<br />
short stories, including those originally printed under Levi’s La stampa rubric<br />
and in 1981’s Lilít, the same translation <strong>of</strong> “Il superstite” stands in<br />
epigraph to the text.<br />
33
Oil on canvas, detail.
Lost and Found in <strong>Translation</strong>:<br />
A Personal Perspective<br />
by Rina Ferrarelli<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>s divide their country into three parts, northern, central and<br />
southern. Some <strong>of</strong> the northern and southern so-called dialects<br />
are as different from standard <strong>Italian</strong> as Portuguese or Spanish,<br />
and are, like them, separate languages, <strong>Italian</strong> being a language the immigrants<br />
had to learn in school. That I had to learn in school. Those <strong>of</strong> us from<br />
the North and the South--I’m excluding central Italy because all those regions<br />
are close to Tuscany which was the source <strong>of</strong> the language from which<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> evolved and their languages may in fact be true dialects--those <strong>of</strong> us<br />
from the North and the South had to abandon our mother tongue and learn<br />
another language, the <strong>Italian</strong> language, at a very young age.<br />
At the age <strong>of</strong> five or six, before we left our countries <strong>of</strong> birth for a<br />
foreign country, we were translating from the mother tongue into <strong>Italian</strong>,<br />
what I call our father tongue. And with it we translated ourselves from the<br />
motherland, the folk culture which was either matriarchal or a state between<br />
the two, into the fatherland, la patria, a national concept and a national<br />
project. Today, because <strong>of</strong> the history we have lived through, we do<br />
not like the connotations <strong>of</strong> the word fatherland, but that is what patria translates<br />
into, the root being from pater in Latin. Pater became patre in my vernacular,<br />
padre in <strong>Italian</strong>, father in English. Also, the nation is patriarchal in<br />
its ways. Ethno-linguists might tell us that the countries that use fatherland,<br />
different as they are among themselves, are probably even more culturally<br />
different, or were at one time, from countries whose language has them<br />
say motherland or homeland.<br />
The <strong>Italian</strong> language and the culture that was imparted with it were<br />
used to unify the peninsula and the islands in the twentieth century, and to<br />
give all the various tribes a common tongue and a common identification.<br />
It was in fact a kind <strong>of</strong> naturalization, for in the translation, we lost<br />
some aspects <strong>of</strong> our identities and acquired others. The mother tongue had<br />
an intonation, diction and syntax that set us apart from other <strong>Italian</strong>s, even<br />
people from the same general area. It not only pinpointed us to a region,<br />
but to a particular town. We recognized each other through our speech as<br />
through a habit or dress, a costume.<br />
I grew up in San Giovanni in Fiore (Province <strong>of</strong> Cosenza in the region<br />
<strong>of</strong> Calabria), and I remember coming home from school every day with<br />
news <strong>of</strong> the new tongue I was learning. Guess how we say marmitta (pot) in<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>? I would ask my mother, and then quickly answer myself: Péntola!<br />
Frissura (frying pan)was padella, forgiaru (blacksmith) fabbro ferraio! Tappini<br />
(slippers) were called pantófole, and table cloth which we called misale was
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called tovaglia da tavola. And these differences in vocabulary were not exceptions<br />
but the rule. I also brought home words <strong>of</strong> other lives, for which<br />
we had no equivalents and no experience, such as ananàs (pineapple), banana,<br />
dátteri (dates). When I went to middle school, where I was taught by<br />
teachers who had studied Latin and Greek for many years, I discovered<br />
that some <strong>of</strong> the words in my vernacular were from Greek--catoia, collura-and<br />
that some had retained the ancient pronunciation for the oi diphthong<br />
vasilicoi for básilico. Later, when I read La Divina Commedia, I learned that<br />
some <strong>of</strong> the meanings still current in my so-called dialect but no longer so<br />
in modern <strong>Italian</strong> were used in Dante’s time: stipare, for instance, for putting<br />
things away in a stipo (cupboard).. The language has a vocabulary that’s<br />
different from <strong>Italian</strong>, a smattering <strong>of</strong> French and Germanic words, as well<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> words whose endings are closer to Latin; in addition, we pronounce<br />
the first syllable <strong>of</strong> the word mamma as a nasal schwa, and have a nasal<br />
tight rendering <strong>of</strong> other phonemes.<br />
We don’t trill or roll our rs. We say them against our teeth. Our metaphors<br />
are different: while in <strong>Italian</strong> stir-fried vegetables are affogati<br />
(drowned) in my mother tongue they’re startled; our syntax is the same<br />
with few exceptions: we use the possessive as a suffix, instead <strong>of</strong> a separate<br />
word before the noun, not mio padre (my father), but pátrema. Again, when<br />
I say my dialect, my vernacular, I mean the spoken, not written tongue, <strong>of</strong><br />
my home town. Not my province, my region, but my hometown.<br />
Mastering <strong>Italian</strong>, the living language we had to use at school and<br />
with strangers, was the biggest challenge <strong>of</strong> my life between the ages <strong>of</strong><br />
five and fifteen, and the beginning <strong>of</strong> what would turn out to be a long<br />
trans-lation, a life-long picaresque journey. As long as I lived in my hometown,<br />
I was always translating. One language at school, one at home and in<br />
the neighborhood. We were expected to speak <strong>Italian</strong> with the people from<br />
out <strong>of</strong> town, translating sometimes for them if they did not understand the<br />
shopkeepers. It was only when I went away to school at the age <strong>of</strong> ten to<br />
attend a college prep school—my town did not have one at that time—that<br />
I switched to <strong>Italian</strong> for good.<br />
Still, I enjoyed listening to the poetry recited in the mother tongue.<br />
I’m thinking <strong>of</strong> the satirical poems written for carnevale, the verses <strong>of</strong> exaggerated<br />
praise improvised for certain new year’s celebrations, as well as<br />
the serious dialect poetry which was sometimes published in the paper.<br />
It’s a thrill even today to hear anything literary in that language. An unusual<br />
occurrence. It’s hard to find poets let alone books. People were discouraged<br />
and even punished for speaking the mother tongue, or rewarded,<br />
as I was, for using the <strong>Italian</strong> language correctly, and they were never asked<br />
to write in it. The vernacular is by definition unwritten. Even so, some poets<br />
chose to write in it. Unfortunately, they seldom found an audience outside<br />
<strong>of</strong> their towns. What Luigi Bonaffini has done in this country in his<br />
anthologies <strong>of</strong> dialect poetry, collections which <strong>of</strong>fer the original mother<br />
tongues, as well as the <strong>Italian</strong> versions and the English, is indeed a rare
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treat. These books are collectibles. Dialect poetry, until recently, was<br />
marginalized in the <strong>Italian</strong> culture. For the reasons I mentioned. Italy was<br />
perceived to be too fragmented and there was a movement toward union.<br />
But also for other more practical reasons. When a poet writes in the <strong>Italian</strong><br />
language, his work can be read and understood by every <strong>Italian</strong>. When his<br />
work is in his own dialect, not in ours, the rest <strong>of</strong> us will need notes or a<br />
translation into <strong>Italian</strong>. But it’s hard to ignore the thrill, when a work is in<br />
your own spoken tongue, the pleasure <strong>of</strong> the familiar, <strong>of</strong> the ordinary in an<br />
extraordinary setting.<br />
The other huge leap in my picaresque journey was switching from<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> to English after I emigrated. Total immersion was easier in this setting.<br />
I lived in a culture and in a household that spoke English—the uncle<br />
and aunt with whom I lived for the first two years spoke <strong>Italian</strong> and did to<br />
me at the beginning, but ran the household and communicated with each<br />
other and their children in English. And I was fifteen and in school, at St.<br />
Justin’s High School because my relatives didn’t think much <strong>of</strong> the public<br />
high school. And school fills the whole day in this country. After a few<br />
days or a week <strong>of</strong> orientation with a girl named Roberta who knew <strong>Italian</strong>,<br />
I was on my own. In a fog, a dark wood. Fortunately, Sister Marcella, the<br />
French teacher, convinced the principal that I’d do better if she tutored me,<br />
and took me under her wing teaching me English through French. My school<br />
girl French! But I did not know English and she did not <strong>Italian</strong>. French was<br />
the only language we had in common.<br />
Neither French nor <strong>Italian</strong>, however, helped me with the pronunciation<br />
<strong>of</strong> English vowels, the a in cat, the o in got and i in pit being very difficult.<br />
In some other cases I couldn’t even hear the difference and, in others,<br />
words that were supposed to have the same vowel sound—like a grade<br />
school child I was learning groups <strong>of</strong> related words-- did not when spoken<br />
outside the classroom. Not to my ear. At that point, no one mentioned dialectal<br />
variations.It was hard to lift words and phrases out the common run<br />
<strong>of</strong> the spoken language.Anything with been and being, to give one example,<br />
became slurred, and for a long time, I didn’t know which word had been<br />
used.<br />
For the next two or three years, while I was learning English in school<br />
and first hand in the larger American community, I was also learning the<br />
un<strong>of</strong>ficial language that some <strong>of</strong> the older <strong>Italian</strong>s spoke among themselves,<br />
including my Aunt Mary, my mother’s sister, who was not old, but had<br />
emigrated from Italy in her twenties and had not gone to school to learn<br />
English. To understand my Aunt and the older <strong>Italian</strong>s, especially my landlady<br />
when I was in college, who did not speak English and did not speak<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>, the father tongue, I had to learn the <strong>Italian</strong>-American dialect which<br />
Ferdinando Alfonsi (Almanacco, 1992) has called Italese, and which is made<br />
up <strong>of</strong> English words with <strong>Italian</strong> suffixes. And with English meanings even<br />
when the made-up word corresponds to an actual word in the <strong>Italian</strong> language.<br />
I learned that parkare means to park; storo store, giobba job, renta<br />
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rent, shoppa shop, garbaciu garbage, groceria grocery store--the list could be<br />
very long—and that carro does not mean cart, as in <strong>Italian</strong>, but automobile,<br />
and fornitura does not mean supplies or fittings, but furniture. I never spoke<br />
this dialect myself, but I needed to know it. My landlady spoke a mixture<br />
<strong>of</strong> an <strong>Italian</strong> vernacular mixed with this <strong>Italian</strong> American dialect.<br />
In all <strong>of</strong> these exchanges, losses and gains. I went to see American<br />
movies, and they were no longer dubbed. Although this might seem a gain,<br />
I perceived it as a loss. I could no longer lose myself in a movie. I couldn’t<br />
understand what people were saying or follow the plot. And I was also<br />
expected to read American and English books in the original, a long timeconsuming<br />
process. What an innocent I had been abroad in my own country.<br />
I had read English works in translation as if Alcott, Swift and<br />
Shakespeare had written in <strong>Italian</strong>. I had watched American movies dubbed<br />
in <strong>Italian</strong> and had asked no questions, seen no discrepancies. I never noticed<br />
how the lips moved. Or whether the gestures did not go with the<br />
words. What if cowboys spoke in long musical sentences instead <strong>of</strong> monosyllables?<br />
I had never heard a cowboy speak English, neither in real life nor<br />
in a movie. Didn’t know if he spoke a dialect, nor if there were dialects.<br />
How was I supposed to know that certain taciturn, reticent types went<br />
with certain landscapes? When I came to the States and told my new friends<br />
about this wonderful western I had seen, which starred Alan Ladd against<br />
the background <strong>of</strong> gorgeous mountain peaks, and they said, Shane, I did<br />
not recognize the title. I wasn’t sure at first that I was getting through, but<br />
even before I mentioned the <strong>Italian</strong> title--it had been translated into Il<br />
Cavaliere della Valle Solitaria (The Horseman/ Knight <strong>of</strong> the Solitary Valley),<br />
a title they found amusing because <strong>of</strong> its length-- I could see from the way<br />
their eyes sparkled, the way they talked, that the film had been as moving<br />
and attractive in English as it had been in <strong>Italian</strong>. In this case too, I had not<br />
been much aware <strong>of</strong> the translation, neither <strong>of</strong> the movie nor <strong>of</strong> the title.<br />
Still, the amazing thing is that the story, and in the case <strong>of</strong> Shane, the nobility<br />
<strong>of</strong> the character and the strong theme came across despite the differences.<br />
I had the same experience discussing the movie Julius Caesar, which I<br />
had seen in <strong>Italian</strong>. The famous speeches and the key scenes had all come<br />
across. The mediums in this famously well-acted and produced movie had<br />
been the drama, the pictures, the force <strong>of</strong> the personalities brought to the<br />
screen by the actors, with the language, even in <strong>Italian</strong>, acquiring authority<br />
from them, aside from what the translator had been able to do, which I was<br />
not in a position to judge. I was then the person for which translation is<br />
meant. Perhaps this is a commonplace which we sometimes forget. We<br />
translate for those who don’t know the language.<br />
I am not now that ideal reader/viewer <strong>of</strong> Shakespeare in <strong>Italian</strong>. Some<br />
excellent translations <strong>of</strong> Shakespeare in the romance languages don’t sound<br />
anything like Shakespeare to me. But, then, how could they? Still, they bor-
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der on the absurd. And I’m saying this after translating hundreds <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong><br />
poems into English and feeling that I was doing a fairly good job. English<br />
has great synthetic power, and Shakespeare is master <strong>of</strong> syntactic concision,<br />
a great inventor <strong>of</strong> verbs; while the forte <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> is the strong phrase,<br />
the musical phrase.<br />
When I was growing up I never considered translation as one version<br />
<strong>of</strong> the original. I had no idea what the differences between the two might<br />
be, the different approaches and complementary results, or that different<br />
versions might be needed for different purposes. Despite a spoken vernacular<br />
that deviated in major ways from <strong>Italian</strong>, which was in fact another<br />
language; despite the study <strong>of</strong> Latin and French, I took translations<br />
into <strong>Italian</strong> for granted just as the natives <strong>of</strong> any place take their language<br />
and mores for granted --as the only way something is said and done. No<br />
matter what the language, one’s way <strong>of</strong> seeing the world through words<br />
becomes the way it is. <strong>Translation</strong>, in this frame <strong>of</strong> reference, is seen as the<br />
same piece <strong>of</strong> writing with the very same words but in a different language.<br />
I did not entertain the idea that translators have to interpret what<br />
they read, and may interpret the same passage differently, or that if a word<br />
is ambiguous in one language, the same word might not be in another language.<br />
Carta can be both paper and map in <strong>Italian</strong>, but has to be one or the<br />
other in English; sueño is both sleep and dream in Spanish, but has to be<br />
one or the other in English. It’s impossible to ignore the context, but even<br />
that does not solve all the conundrums. It takes a conscious effort to realize<br />
that every piece <strong>of</strong> literature is another way <strong>of</strong> seeing, another way <strong>of</strong> doing,<br />
<strong>of</strong> being, not only <strong>of</strong> a people, but <strong>of</strong> a particular person living at a<br />
particular time and place-- every experience being filtered through the individual<br />
consciousness and sensibility <strong>of</strong> the author-- and that authors have<br />
affected in major ways, if they’re Dante, Cervantes, Shakespeare, the language<br />
they have chosen or inherited.<br />
Dante chose to write his epic-length poem in the spoken tongue rather<br />
than in Latin, the literary language. And he consciously forged a national<br />
language out <strong>of</strong> his own Tuscan dialect. A language all writers had to subsequently<br />
learn, regardless <strong>of</strong> their mother tongue. Alessandro Manzoni,<br />
who is given credit for developing the historical novel in the nineteenth<br />
century, and for enriching the language <strong>of</strong> prose, was a northern <strong>Italian</strong><br />
who started with the language he had learned in school and then, he said,<br />
went to Tuscany to rinse it in the waters <strong>of</strong> the Arno.<br />
Translators not only have ways <strong>of</strong> reading (first level <strong>of</strong> interpretation);<br />
they have ways <strong>of</strong> re-creating through their choices (second level <strong>of</strong><br />
interpretation) character and literary persona, diction and syntax, rhythm<br />
and sound, tone. Sometimes they have to invent what their own language<br />
does not have to come out with an equivalent. The translation is always the<br />
product <strong>of</strong> a symbiotic relationship, for the translator’s interpretation <strong>of</strong><br />
the original and her sense <strong>of</strong> her own language, <strong>of</strong> the language <strong>of</strong> literature<br />
always play a part.<br />
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Still, most <strong>of</strong> us even today ask no questions, or, with a little knowledge,<br />
swing to the opposite position and assume the worst, and are quick<br />
to cry, Traduttore traditore (translator traitor), unaware that in every translation<br />
there are losses and gains, and that, broadly speaking, translation is<br />
all there is. The original and the translation are both translations, and as<br />
such, approximations. Authors translate what they see and feel, the experience<br />
<strong>of</strong> life into the experience <strong>of</strong> words, structures made <strong>of</strong> words, choosing<br />
out <strong>of</strong> huge vocabularies, and they may be more or less successful,<br />
more or less satisfied. What the authors think they have accomplished, how<br />
much they’ve brought across, can <strong>of</strong>ten be different from what readers think.<br />
Regardless <strong>of</strong> how it was, how many versions this version went through, it<br />
is now fixed and the words are all a reader has. The reader who is also a<br />
translator lets the words take him beyond the words, as close to the experience<br />
that inhabits the words and that the words conjure as he’s capable <strong>of</strong><br />
going. He has to try to imagine what the author saw or felt, and it is only<br />
when he has a view, that he can re-create the physical and emotional landscapes.<br />
A translator has access to the original. For most <strong>of</strong> us, the approximation<br />
that we call translation is all there is. Without it, we wouldn’t have<br />
the Bible, The Iliad and Odyssey, The Aeneid, The Metamorphoses, The Divine<br />
Comedy, Shakespeare’s plays, The Gilgamesh, The Tao, The Bhagavad Gita, the<br />
great Russian novels, etc. In fact, even with a second and a third language,<br />
we would know very little <strong>of</strong> the world’s great literature.<br />
Many <strong>of</strong> the books I read as a child were in translation. And in many<br />
cases, the name <strong>of</strong> the translator wasn’t even in the book-- the exception<br />
being Cesare Vico Lodovici, who translated Shakespeare’s plays--as if one<br />
translator would make the same choices as any other, given an excellent<br />
knowledge <strong>of</strong> both languages! Not only hadn’t the readers given much<br />
thought to translation, even the people who should’ve known better had<br />
not given much thought to the art. And in Italy, a great many prose writers<br />
and poets have also been gifted translators. Sometimes, they too took for<br />
granted what they did, and so did their editors and publishers. And if they<br />
didn’t, they didn’t leave us their thoughts about it. In modern times, the list<br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> poet/translators includes two Nobel prize winners, Quasimodo<br />
and Montale; as well as Pavese and Sereni, to mention only four.<br />
When I started reading English Literature in college with barely a<br />
year <strong>of</strong> English—through some translation error, I started college at 16-- all<br />
<strong>of</strong> it was equally difficult for me. I had no bias in favor <strong>of</strong> modern or contemporary<br />
works as the American students did, and I made no distinction<br />
between the English and American dialect. Likewise, as a child I read Little<br />
Women and Gulliver’s Travels in translation and, unlike my children, had no<br />
trouble with the language. They had to contend with archaic versions <strong>of</strong><br />
English, while I read contemporary <strong>Italian</strong> translations. The strangeness I<br />
had encountered had to do with content, with elliptical political and social<br />
references rather than with terms and phrases that had become obsolete.<br />
<strong>Translation</strong> into the language <strong>of</strong> my time had smoothed the way, and had
Rina Ferrarelli<br />
given me an experience similar to that <strong>of</strong> the original readers at the time <strong>of</strong><br />
Swift and Alcott.<br />
The picaresque journey that is translation has continued throughout<br />
my life. Not only because learning involves translation; I have been pr<strong>of</strong>essionally<br />
involved with translation for many years, in my work, and as a<br />
poet. When I was still in college, I was asked by the poet Sam Hazo, who<br />
was one <strong>of</strong> my English pr<strong>of</strong>essors at Duquesne University, to translate a<br />
few poems <strong>of</strong> Quasimodo. I did, and that started me on my way, publishing<br />
them in Choice, a poetry journal edited by John Logan. But that was the<br />
beginning and the end for many years. Life intervened. I had no time write<br />
or translate when my kids were little. But when I started working, still<br />
part-time and at a research job in anthropology with a flexible schedule,<br />
my languages came into play again. I read and translated from ethnographies,<br />
some <strong>of</strong> whom were in French, <strong>Italian</strong> and Spanish. It wasn’t until I<br />
was through with this project that I started literary translation again. I have<br />
since rendered into English hundreds <strong>of</strong> individual poems, and I have collected<br />
some <strong>of</strong> my translations <strong>of</strong> modern <strong>Italian</strong> poets in three books: the<br />
poesie-racconti <strong>of</strong> Giorgio Chiesura, who spent two years in various German<br />
internment camps during WWII; the lyrics <strong>of</strong> Leonardo Sinisgalli; and<br />
most recently the work <strong>of</strong> Bartolo Cattafi, a Sicilian poet, forthcoming from<br />
Chelsea Editions.<br />
I always translated from <strong>Italian</strong> into English. For the past year, though,<br />
I’ve undertaken the arduous task <strong>of</strong> translating my own poetry into <strong>Italian</strong>.<br />
And for reason that I’m trying to fathom, it’s proving to be much more<br />
difficult, much harder and time consuming than translating into English.<br />
After doing so much translating <strong>of</strong> poetry, some <strong>of</strong> it nationally recognized,<br />
I’m beginning to feel how impossible the task is, how preposterous at times.<br />
Utterly necessary—I have to remind myself over and over that I’m doing it<br />
for people who don’t know English, some <strong>of</strong> them close friends—and utterly<br />
baffling.<br />
I don’t know for sure why I feel so differently about translating into<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>. It’s true that I have not been back in Italy for several years, and that<br />
the language that was fresh in my ear has now become faint. Not that the<br />
language <strong>of</strong> poetry has much to do with the spoken tongue. Still, the point<br />
is valid. Also true that I always write in English, think in English, and have<br />
done so for decades, and that I seldom have much chance to speak <strong>Italian</strong>.<br />
The most significant reason, perhaps, might have to do with the fact that<br />
I’m translating my own poems, work that I feel is finished, that I have abandoned<br />
and left behind. Thus, the challenge <strong>of</strong> reading, digging, understanding,<br />
<strong>of</strong> discovering another persona, <strong>of</strong> hearing another voice is missing,<br />
and this, which should make things easier, make them go faster, slows everything<br />
down instead. I’m not terribly interested in going over old poems,<br />
in reworking them in another language, even <strong>Italian</strong>. No, I’m not, not especially.<br />
But I am doing it. And through it, I’m coming full circle. I’m reversing<br />
the process. Writing in English about my childhood in southern Italy, I<br />
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had to find ways to say things which did not exist in this culture, I had to<br />
interpret my experiences and present them so they could be understood.<br />
I’m now exploring the <strong>Italian</strong> language with a maturity which I did not<br />
have in my teens, availing myself, when applicable, <strong>of</strong> my knowledge <strong>of</strong><br />
the mother tongue, and also interpreting—for language even without setting<br />
is a bearer <strong>of</strong> culture—the immigrant’s American experience for the<br />
other side.
Translating by the Numbers<br />
by John DuVal<br />
I<br />
was raised in the faith and discipline <strong>of</strong> the New Criticism, scrutinizing,<br />
dissecting, and reassembling that exquisite monument, the<br />
poem itself. A frequent implication <strong>of</strong> the New Criticism was,<br />
“There’s only one way to say something and that’s how the great poet said<br />
it.” Thus if Keats wrote, “When I have fears that I may cease to be,” he wrote<br />
to be because to be was the perfect expression, far better than to exist or to live,<br />
and may cease to be was better than may die. It was our job as students to<br />
explain why to be was best, and woe to the smart aleck who claimed it was<br />
best because it rhymed with charact’ry.<br />
This approach was useful because it taught us to learn from the masters,<br />
how they packed the maximum meaning into every word despite the<br />
requirements <strong>of</strong> meter or rhyme. It was also useful in that we learned to<br />
cherish the words <strong>of</strong> the great craftspeople <strong>of</strong> our language. Where it failed,<br />
I believe, is in not paying due respect to the language itself and the infinite<br />
choices it <strong>of</strong>fers <strong>of</strong> saying almost the same thing, with infinite slight and<br />
delightful variations and always a hint that a phrase could be better phrased.<br />
For us translators the New Critical approach is still useful in that it<br />
encourages us to study each word and each phrase <strong>of</strong> an original to learn<br />
what the original writer has done to make it so wonderfully what it is. The<br />
problem is that it directs us straight to the Slough <strong>of</strong> Despond, where we stay,<br />
sunk and moping unless Faith in the language we are translating into pulls<br />
us out. We will not find in English the phrase that G.G. Belli, for instance,<br />
wrote in Romanesco, the dialect <strong>of</strong> the people <strong>of</strong> Rome, but given how slowly<br />
our minds work and how vast our language is, we can always discover<br />
another phrase like it, and then another, and if we keep looking, we may find<br />
a better one than the ones we found before.<br />
I had thought the following translation <strong>of</strong> a poem by Trilussa, another<br />
Romanesco poet, was finally and after much struggle finished when I had<br />
this down on paper:<br />
To Mimi<br />
Do you remember our first rendezvous<br />
behind the Convent House, alone<br />
together in the cloister? We carved<br />
each other’s name into the ancient stone<br />
I wrote, Fourteen May,<br />
Nineteen hundred. Here Carlo kissed Mimi.<br />
Twenty years. And yesterday<br />
as I reread the names and the date,
44<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
I found myself regretting<br />
the blessed, painful time that slipped away.<br />
I saw you once more, just as you had been,<br />
wearing a pretty lilac dress. You’d pinned<br />
roses in your hair.<br />
“Everything fades,” I said. “Nothing can stay.<br />
The words I chipped from marble with a knife<br />
still glitter in the noonday sun,<br />
but not enough to summon back to life<br />
a thing that’s gone.”<br />
I stood in sorrow there beside the wall,<br />
when suddenly I saw another date<br />
and other names: “Rosa and Paul,<br />
August twenty-eight<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-three.<br />
Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than me.”<br />
Six months earlier than that version, I had thought the translation was<br />
finished, and I had been wrong then. I had translated the Carlo and Mimi <strong>of</strong><br />
Trilussa’s Romanesco into Charley and Mary:<br />
Fui io che scrissi: “Qui<br />
Carlo baciò Mimi.<br />
Quindici maggio millenovecento.”<br />
Più de vent’anni! Pensa! Eppure, jeri....<br />
I wrote, Twelve February,<br />
nineteen hundred.<br />
Here Charley kissed Mary.<br />
I think it might have been the chance <strong>of</strong> rhyming Mary whimsically<br />
with a Romanesco word in the original, jeri (yesterday), which first inclined<br />
me toward the English names. Also I was fascinated by how, in this poem<br />
about the passage <strong>of</strong> time, the poet had handled words that marked <strong>of</strong>f time:<br />
months and years, dates. There was a whole hendecasyllabic line for one<br />
date, Quindici maggio millenovecento (15 May 1900) rhyming interestingly<br />
with convento, and ventotto agosto (28 August) rhyming with posto and<br />
millesettecentoventitré (1723) rhyming with me. In English it would have been<br />
easy to rhyme May (maggio) with yesterday, but I wanted a cleverer time<br />
rhyme, one that reflected Trilussa’s flair for words: February/Mary. What<br />
difference did the month make when everybody knows that given the right<br />
weather in Rome, the noonday sun can glitter as brightly in February as in<br />
May?
John Du Val<br />
But with the name Charley I was missing something. Trilussa had been<br />
Trilussa since he was eighteen. He even signed his name Tri. But he was born<br />
Carlo Alberto Salustri. Carlo. For a poet who described his poetry and his<br />
personality as a series <strong>of</strong> masks, this mention <strong>of</strong> his almost-forgotten (well,<br />
forgotten by me anyway!) first name was a moment <strong>of</strong> delicious intimacy in<br />
a volume <strong>of</strong> translations where it would not appear elsewhere.<br />
Also, as the months went by, it dawned on me that February is not May,<br />
no more than age is youth or disillusion hope. January wasn’t May either.<br />
Carlo, Mimi, and the month <strong>of</strong> May too were all written back into the poem.<br />
While I was at it, I changed Rosa, who had been Rose in the English, back to<br />
her original name, but Paul, whose name in Romanesco was Pasquale, stayed<br />
Paul to rhyme with the wall on which he had carved his name. Now, I thought<br />
the translation was finished, and I submitted it, just as it appears at the<br />
beginning <strong>of</strong> this article, in a volume <strong>of</strong> translations from Trilussa for the<br />
University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas Press.<br />
One <strong>of</strong> the outside readers for the University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas Press, however,<br />
going over the manuscript before its publication, did not think the<br />
translation <strong>of</strong> the last line was finished: “‘He’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than me’ is a grammatical<br />
error; than is a conjunction not a preposition; me should be I, as in<br />
“‘He’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than I am.’”<br />
I knew that. This is one <strong>of</strong> those few instances in English where what<br />
everybody says is an error and what is correct is pedantic.<br />
“You’re right, John” replied Miller Williams, the editor <strong>of</strong> the Press and<br />
the poet and translator who had introduced Trilussa to me. “But,” he added<br />
gently, “your error comes at the end <strong>of</strong> the poem, where it’s so obvious....<br />
Look, you don’t have to rhyme the end <strong>of</strong> the poem with three. Paul could<br />
have been in love with Rosa in 1724 or 1725 or even in 1726. What difference<br />
does it make?”<br />
Of course. I could translate by the numbers. Vistas <strong>of</strong> alternate endings<br />
opened before me. To be systematic, I began with 1721.<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-one.<br />
Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s done worse than I’ve done.”<br />
There. I had scored with my first shot. The grammar was correct without<br />
being pompous, the rhyme was perfect, and the line meant pretty much<br />
the same as the original:<br />
“...li ventotto agosto<br />
der millesettecentoventitré.”<br />
Allora ho detto:--Povero Pasquale,<br />
sta un po’ peggio de me.<br />
I read the English to myself aloud. Maybe I hadn’t scored. Something<br />
45
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
was wrong. The present perfect tense seemed to imply that if only Paul pulled<br />
himself together, and did something, he might still come out all right. Paul<br />
was a dead person; I was making him sound like a failure in the business<br />
world.<br />
I changed the tense.<br />
...”Poor Paul,<br />
he’s doing worse than I’ve done.”<br />
No. The present progressive tense inspires us to ask, “Just what is poor<br />
Paul doing down there?” Decomposing? The problem was more than the<br />
tense; it was also the too active rhyming verb, done.<br />
And do would not do when I got to 1722. Nor would too, being a homonym<br />
rather than a rhyme (“I’m bad <strong>of</strong>f; well, he is too!”) as well as for other<br />
reasons. You might do. Carlo could address his fellow lover across the centuries<br />
instead <strong>of</strong> merely meditating on his fate.<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-two.<br />
Then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul,<br />
at least I’m better <strong>of</strong>f than you.”<br />
Almost, but no. This was more comic than the Romanesco, but not as<br />
kind. In the original, the emotion goes outward; self pity blossoms into sympathy.<br />
By ending in you rather than me, Carlo seems to be taking not only<br />
consolation, but satisfaction in knowing that someone is worse <strong>of</strong>f than he<br />
is. The you sounds almost taunting, whereas “He’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than I am,”<br />
shakes the speaker out <strong>of</strong> his self pity. Translating a little closer to the original<br />
might help:<br />
...”Poor Paul,<br />
I’m still a little better <strong>of</strong>f than you.”<br />
A little for un po’ had not worked well rhythmically with worse <strong>of</strong>f, but it<br />
did work with better <strong>of</strong>f, and it tempers the sense <strong>of</strong> sneering, if it were only a<br />
little more sympathetic....<br />
But there were more numbers. I might try three again, varying the last<br />
line:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-three.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
it’s worse on him than me.”<br />
Here the problem is that it in the last line has no clear antecedent. We<br />
understand that Paul’s loss is worse on him than my loss is on me, but then<br />
it has to stand for two different antecedents: Paul’s loss and my loss, an<br />
ambiguity which fuzzes up the poem at the crucial ending.<br />
Four:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-four.
John Du Val<br />
Then I murmured to myself, “Poor Paul!<br />
What am I feeling sorry for myself for?”<br />
There are a number <strong>of</strong> technical problems with the four solution: a) the<br />
last line is unmetrical and too long; b) the poem now ends with a homonym<br />
again rather than a rhyme; c) the two for’s in the last line clunk<br />
unharmoniously together; d) the sentence ends with a preposition, which,<br />
not ordinarily a problem, gets excessive emphasis at the end <strong>of</strong> the poem. For<br />
some reason I was fond <strong>of</strong> this solution anyway. Maybe the technical flaws<br />
gave it a kind <strong>of</strong> humor in accord with the sardonic Romanesco, but nobody<br />
that I showed it to liked it.<br />
Five:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-five.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s got it worse than I’ve.”<br />
The less said about that the better.<br />
Six:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-six.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s in an even worse fix.<br />
I don’t think that makes Paul sound like a cat, but it’s still unpleasantly<br />
comical to picture Paul’s condition as one which, if he were only clever<br />
enough, he might be able to get out <strong>of</strong>.<br />
Seven:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-seven.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than I am, even.”<br />
This is not bad. The even makes perfect sense: I’m bad <strong>of</strong>f, but he’s even<br />
worse. But at the end <strong>of</strong> the sentence, when the sentence could have ended<br />
perfectly well without it, even sounds as if the translator stuck it there simply<br />
for the rhyme, which he did.<br />
Eight:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-eight.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
his is an even worse fate.”<br />
Here there is an infidelity to reality not in the original: Paul’s fate is not<br />
worse than Carlo’s, because they have the same fate, death. Paul’s just happens<br />
to be sooner. Perhaps<br />
He’s even in a worse state.”<br />
47
48<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
There is no infidelity to reality in this alternative, but the line is too<br />
funereal, as in “laid out in state.”<br />
Nine:<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-nine.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
his case is worse than mine.”<br />
Case is too clinical. Other abstract words, such as predicament or situation<br />
or (<strong>of</strong> course) state either bring on other associations in conflict with the<br />
original or are too vague.<br />
Ten:<br />
seventeen hundred ten.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than I’ve been.”<br />
No. It is late in the poem to be introducing an Arkansas accent, rhyming<br />
been with ten. Also, Carlo’s concern is with how he feels now, standing by<br />
the wall, not with how he has felt in the past.<br />
seventeen hundred eleven . . .<br />
Same as seven.<br />
Twelve:<br />
seventeen hundred twelve.<br />
And then I whispered to the stone, “Poor Paul,<br />
and I was feeling sorry for myself!”<br />
This is a little too far from the literal for my comfort. Other than that, I<br />
don’t know why I don’t like it, but I don’t.<br />
Thirteen:<br />
seventeen hundred thirteen.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
and I thought I was hurting!”<br />
Here the language becomes a little too with-it, too contemporary. Also,<br />
it evokes the metaphysical question <strong>of</strong> whether Paul, having died, is now<br />
experiencing Purgatory or worse, a question that has no place in this poem.<br />
I wrote more, with rhymes for fourteen, fifteen, sixteen.... There must be<br />
better endings, but mine get worse. You don’t want to hear them. After considering<br />
every alternate I could devise and laying them all out on little scraps<br />
<strong>of</strong> paper on my bed and after all I have said and all I have claimed about my<br />
precious English language, despite my fondness for the seventeen hundred<br />
twenty-four solution and despite the grammatical problem which precipi-
John Du Val<br />
tated this discussion, I liked my first choice best. I decided that it might be the<br />
context, rather than the line, that needed changing, because Trilussa’s<br />
Romanesco, though by no stretch <strong>of</strong> the imagination ignorant sounding, is<br />
conversational, and I felt that he would, if he had been writing in English,<br />
have written the kind <strong>of</strong> grammatical error that people condemn only in<br />
writing, never in conversation. But did my language sound conversational<br />
enough throughout the poem? I went back through the translation and<br />
changed the barely eloquent line seventeen, “but not enough to summon<br />
back to life,” to “but not enough: they don’t bring back to life....” And I changed<br />
the self-consciously elegiac, “I stood in sorrow there beside the wall,” to, “I<br />
stood there, feeling bad beside the wall,” a perfectly correct sentence in English,<br />
but colloquial enough even to make some readers suppose that the<br />
incorrect “feeling badly” would be more dignified.<br />
Finally, before the anthology Tales <strong>of</strong> Trilussa went to press, I went<br />
back through all the poems, making tiny adjustments toward a more conversational<br />
English in the hopes that readers would not fault the English version<br />
<strong>of</strong> “A Mimi” for a technicality, and on page 54 I printed,<br />
seventeen hundred twenty-three.<br />
Then I muttered to myself, “Poor Paul,<br />
he’s worse <strong>of</strong>f than me.”<br />
49
“Paso ardientte”, oil on canvas.
Traduzione da altre lingue<br />
nel dialetto molisano<br />
di Giose Rimanelli<br />
Uno dei maggiori traduttori nonché critico contemporaneo<br />
dei vari dialetti italiani in lingua Inglese, Luigi Bonaffini, in<br />
occasione dell’uscita del primo numero di una nuova rivista<br />
di traduzioni da lui diretta, <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> gentilmente<br />
m’invita a collaborare con un qualcosa in linea con l’etica linguistica del<br />
<strong>Journal</strong>, ricordandomi quanto segue:<br />
“Dato che in Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco 1 hai tradotto poesie dal<br />
provenzale ed altre lingue nel tuo dialetto, ho pensato che potresti parlare<br />
di questo tuo libro e della problematica di tradurre in dialetto testi che<br />
appartengono sia alla tradizione romanza sia alla letteratura<br />
contemporanea. Potresti anche citare l’altro molisano che si è cimentato<br />
in tal senso, cioè Beppe Jovine che ha tradotto Montale. Lui dice che in<br />
dialetto si può esprimere tutto, ma è chiaro che il problema principale è<br />
quello di rendere un testo scritto in lingue s<strong>of</strong>isticate come il provenzale e<br />
l’inglese, che appartengono a tradizioni letterarie molto ricche, in un<br />
linguaggio molto più povero e con scarsi riferimenti culturali.”<br />
Bonaffini è un principe nell’arte della traduzione e sua lessicografia, 2<br />
mentr’io mi considero in quell’arte un dilettante, e le ragioni o cause sono<br />
due: Bonaffini conosce la pr<strong>of</strong>onda semantica dialettica-orale dei dialetti<br />
italiani (e culturalmente degli antichi, devo credere), mentr’io - da<br />
narratorein più lingue e poeta - mi considero solo un curioso delle lingue<br />
in genere, essendo il mio metodo non esattamente quello del “traduttore”<br />
ma del novello studente il quale - come appunto accade in Gioco d’amore<br />
Amore del gioco - traduce col vocabolario in mano dopo aver controllato le<br />
grammatiche delle lingue in corrispondenza con quelle che lui già conosce.<br />
Si tratta di un “gioco” infatti, come appunto il titolo del mio libro dichiara,<br />
che sempre comporta tuttavia un gran rischio: sballare concetto e ritmo<br />
della determinata lirica del tale autore, inventandone una propria con<br />
una certa vis comica o, alla Cicerone, obbedendo alla Virtù come guida, a<br />
braccetto con la Fortuna.<br />
A parte il Provenzale, che fu mia curiosa necessità adolescenziale di<br />
studio al di là della noia, cercai anche di annusare latino e greco in un<br />
Istituto di Frati Minori Francescani nei miei anni puberi; e ripeto che cercai<br />
di studiarli soprattutto come diversivo alla mia quasi “naturale” noia<br />
d’ogni cosa; vivevo infatti come in una bottiglia d’acqua con solo la testa<br />
fuori, respirando aria, quindi parole, idee di gente lontana in tempi lontani<br />
che, poi mi accorsi, mi stavano accanto più vivi dei miei collegiali<br />
compagnucci. Mi accorsi infatti che, mentre sfuggivo un certo ordine di
52 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
educazione monastica trovavo libertà, cioé sollievo e rifugio su<br />
grammatiche e vocabolari, attratto anche (sebbene non “specificamente”)<br />
da grammatiche di tedesco e inglese, mentre quelle di francese e spagnolo<br />
erano le ufficiali, sanzionate dal curriculum, quindi da praticare come<br />
studio obbligato.<br />
Ma io ero innamorato del Provenzale. Da ragazzo, in quel collegio<br />
di Frati Minori, inconsciamente appresi (per istinto all’inizio) che vi sono<br />
due tipi di amore: quello umano e quello divino. Il punto interrogativo<br />
era comunque questo: è possibile unirli eliminando il dualismo? Rabbrividii<br />
un tantino quando, crescendo, riflettei che “dualismo” indica sia<br />
“contrasto” che “copula.” E’ possibile che stiano bene insieme? Me ne<br />
convinse più tardi, verso gli anni quaranta, un libro di Mario Casella sul<br />
trovatore da me più amato, Jaufre Rudel, che appunto incorporò nella sua<br />
lirica i “termini” dell’umano e del divino. E anche a quel tempo riflettei,<br />
sebbene azzardosamente, che il concetto di amore, umano e divino, poteva<br />
anche ridursi - nella mente più che nella coscienza - a un gioco: e questo,<br />
più tardi negli anni, non poté infine non incorporare anche il filos<strong>of</strong>ico<br />
concetto di Eros e Thanatos, da me già percepito (sebbene non inteso)<br />
nella mia prima e quasi infantile lettura di Jaufre.<br />
Da quell’Istituto francescano me ne andai al quinto anno - io ne<br />
contavo 15 - decidendo contro il noviziato e il sacerdozio. Scelsi male,<br />
comunque: uscendo nel mondo di fuori mi trovai improvvisamente di<br />
fronte alla guerra, la follia del destino, la salvezza miracolosa a diciannove<br />
anni e l’immediata scrittura da parte mia del confessionale libro di guerra<br />
Tiro al piccione, pubblicato solo anni più tardi.<br />
Vi è sempre un 2 nella vita, un binario per il treno infatti, che conduce<br />
o condurrebbe da qualche parte, mentre con il numero 3 potremmo<br />
finalmente giungere alla salvezza: il sacrificio della meditazione, la<br />
liberazione da noi stessi e persino l’accettazione della morte di noi stessi.<br />
Io sono passato attraverso questi cicli, e ne scrissi. E però il numero 2 per<br />
me resta come catalista verso la vera vita: creatività. Il libro Gioco d’amore<br />
Amore del gioco vuole esplorare la sottile malizia cerebrale della poesia su<br />
latitudine internazionale per quanto riguarda il soggetto fragile-labile<br />
chiamato amore, sul quale tuttavia vive, sopravvive e genera la copula<br />
umana Lui e Lei...<br />
Le lingue di queste poesie sono state esplorate, controllate e<br />
comparate prima di essere state tradotte... nel mio dialetto molisano, e<br />
dal dialetto quindi ritradotte nella lingua ufficiale italiana. Si è trattato di<br />
un esperimento quasi impossibile: il ricco delle varie lingue ridotto al<br />
povero del mio dialetto, per infine accorgermi che tanto povero non lo è<br />
poi. Ho riaperto a caso Gioco d’amore Amore del gioco mentre scrivevo queste<br />
righe, e fuori son venute pagine 96-97, latino/dialetto, per subito realizzare<br />
che il mio dialetto, pur linguisticamente ristretto, a volte ha la possibilità<br />
di coesistere quasi letteralmente con altre lingue, come - ad esempio - in<br />
questo difficile tedesco di Paul Celan, Irisch:
Giose Rimanelli<br />
Gib mir das Wegrecht<br />
über die Kornstiege zu deinem Schlaf,<br />
das Wegrecht<br />
über den Schlafphad,<br />
das Recht, dab ich Torf stechen kann<br />
am Herzhang,<br />
morgen.<br />
Dàmme vije libbere<br />
ngòpp’i scale de rèndìneje dénd’u<br />
suónne tije,<br />
vije libbere<br />
p’a vijèrèlle d’u suónne,<br />
a libbertà de tèglià u càrevóne<br />
nu mmiézze d’a’mmèrze<br />
demàne 3<br />
Ricordo che qualcuno, giustamente lodando Luigi Bonaffini, lo<br />
paragonò a “quel monaco del monastero medievale impegnato a salvare i<br />
dialetti della nostra lingua.” 28 Ed io ricordo Bonaffini che in un suo<br />
intervento sulla poesia e l’arte del tradurre venne fuori con una frase<br />
memorabile, come a volte sono le autobiografie, questa: “Quando gli oggetti<br />
sono spariti, ci rimangono le parole, e queste devono essere sufficienti per<br />
esprimere lo spirito di ciò che si è perso.” E le parole sono il dialetto dei<br />
nostri primi passi nella vita. Così anche commenta un nostro magnifico<br />
dialettologo, Franco Brevini, certamente alludendo ai poeti espatriati dalla<br />
lingua ufficiale e, come in un esilio, tornati alla mammella materna, il<br />
dialetto.<br />
Sia quel che sia, Bonaffini e Rimanelli sono degli espatriati<br />
nell’America dei padri emigrati, per i quali il legame più forte con la loro<br />
infanzia, e la terra da cui provengono - il Molise - è appunto il “parlato”<br />
del loro primo balbettare, oggi sostanza e sostegno del loro discorso, il<br />
dialetto appunto!<br />
Note<br />
1. Giose Rimanelli. Gioco d’amore amore del gioco. Poesia provenzale in<br />
dialetto molisano e lingua. (Cosmo Iannone Editore, Isernia 2002).<br />
2. La similitudine allegorica mi risporta al traduttore-esegeta.<br />
3. Irlandese. Dammi via l;ibera / sulle scale di granone dentro il tuo<br />
sonno, / via libera / per il viottolo del sonno. / La libertà di tagliare il<br />
carbone / sul cuore del pendio, / domani.<br />
4. Vedi anche Annalisa Buonocore. Dialettali e Neo dialettali in Inglese.<br />
Prefazione di Cosma Siani. (Edizioni C<strong>of</strong>ine, Roma, 2003).<br />
53
Quadrato magico.
Traduzioni/<strong>Translation</strong>s
In Answer to a Translator’s Last Six Questions<br />
(Raffaello Baldini 1924-2005)<br />
by Adria Bernardi<br />
Adria Bernardi’s novel, Openwork, will be published in fall 2006<br />
by Southern Methodist Univerity Press. She is the author <strong>of</strong> In the Gathering<br />
Woods, a collection <strong>of</strong> stories, which was awarded the Drue Heinz Prize,<br />
and a novel, The Day Laid on the Altar, which was awarded the Bakeless<br />
Fiction Prize. She has translated Gianni Celati’s Adventures in Africa, the<br />
poetry <strong>of</strong> Tonino Guerra, Abandoned Places, and a theatrical monologue by<br />
Raffaello Baldini, Page Pro<strong>of</strong>. She teaches at the Warren Wilson MFA Program<br />
for Writers.<br />
Born in 1924 in Santarcangelo di Romagna, Raffaello Baldini published<br />
six poetry collections, all written in the romagnolo dialect <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong>:<br />
E’ solitèri (Galeati, 1976), La náiva (Einaudi, 1982), Furistír (Einaudi, 1988),<br />
Ad nòta (Mondadori, 1995), as well as La nàiva, Furistír, Ciacri (Einaudi,<br />
2000). Intercity, was published by Einaudi in 2003. His collection Furistír<br />
was awarded the Viareggio Prize. Baldini wrote three theatrical monologues:<br />
Carta canta, Zitti tutti! and In fondo a destra. He died in Milan in<br />
March <strong>of</strong> 2005<br />
In the poem “Water,” what does concredendo mean?<br />
It means only “credendo.” Believing. There are no further allegorical,<br />
liturgical or philosophical significances to this con-credendo, with prefix?<br />
It’s not an old word, dialect word, with multiple meanings, meanings on<br />
multiple levels? No.<br />
In the poem, “Water,” do the friends, with whom the narrator attends<br />
the spectacle in the theater, remain in their seats? Correct. They do<br />
not accompany him up onto the stage to confront the huckster-performer<br />
wearing the shabby jacket? Correct.<br />
After fleeing the lower levels <strong>of</strong> the theater that has flooded with water,<br />
the narrator climbs flight-<strong>of</strong>-stairs after flight-<strong>of</strong>-stairs, opens door after<br />
door, and meets a card-reader with cards all laid out on a table; is this<br />
card-reader a man or a woman? I think it’s probably a man.<br />
What does the dialect term o roviè mean? in your poem, “Candles.” It<br />
just means ho cominciato — I started. That’s it? That’s it.<br />
Un bel piatto? The translator wants to get this exactly right. He exhales.<br />
How can I explain it? He was in great pain. Each word cost him.<br />
Not a small plate. Not a huge plate. A plate substantial enough to hold a<br />
candle when you’re coming upstairs from some dark place.<br />
About the phrase, È qualcosa di vivo—something living, something
58<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
that’s alive, a living thing? Is this an evocation <strong>of</strong> a particular line <strong>of</strong> poetry?<br />
No.<br />
The verb tenses must be changed:<br />
“He lives in Milan, where he has resided since 1955.”<br />
“He has been supportive and encouraging <strong>of</strong> this translation.”<br />
“He has been generous <strong>of</strong> his time.”<br />
“All <strong>of</strong> his six poetry collections and his three theatrical monologues<br />
are written in the dialect <strong>of</strong> the town <strong>of</strong> his birth, Santarcangelo di<br />
Romagna.”<br />
“His work has been awarded the Viareggio Prize,the first time this<br />
prestigious prize was awarded to a work written in a dialect. His most<br />
recent collection was awarded the Campana Prize.”<br />
“His poems are intense internal monologues in which generally only<br />
one <strong>of</strong> the interlocutors gets to speak.”<br />
“His themes are reflected in some <strong>of</strong> these titles: Solitude, Outsider,<br />
Small Talk. Each poem moves towards and resists Death.”<br />
Few <strong>of</strong> his poems are free from parenthetical asides, digression, non<br />
sequitur. His narrators also wander into anacoluthon, that is to say ending<br />
a sentence with a different structure from that with which it began. His<br />
poems employ the rhetorical techniques that form the backbone <strong>of</strong> argument:<br />
indignatio<br />
memopsis<br />
oiktros,<br />
erotesis<br />
orcos<br />
threnos<br />
ara<br />
decsis<br />
diasymus<br />
aposiopesis<br />
apostrophe<br />
In the end his spine<br />
caused great pain,<br />
a tall, thin man.<br />
The rhetorical techniques <strong>of</strong> argument are defined in this way:<br />
indignatio, impassioned speech or loud, angry speaking<br />
memopsis, complaining against injuries and pleading for help
Adria Bernardi<br />
oiktros, evoking pity or forgiveness<br />
erotesis, rhetorical question implying strong affirmation or denial<br />
orcos, oath<br />
threnos, lamentation<br />
ara, curse or imprecation<br />
decsis, vehement supplication <strong>of</strong> gods or men<br />
diasymus, disparagement <strong>of</strong> opponent’s arguments<br />
aposiopesis, stopping suddenly in midcourse, leaving a statement<br />
unfinished<br />
apostrophe, breaking <strong>of</strong>f discourse to address directly some present or<br />
absent person or thing<br />
Dove sei? (Where are you?)<br />
an oratorio in four tempos for soloist, chorus and piano.<br />
The translator read it late one night,<br />
intending to phone the next day to ask<br />
if it was possible to get a copy <strong>of</strong> the music.<br />
There was a message on the answering machine.<br />
The translator was feeding paper<br />
into a printer, catching yet more errors.<br />
Mumbling and imprecations.<br />
Cartridge out <strong>of</strong> ink. Empty paper tray.<br />
A computer talking back: Printing Error.<br />
White stacks on floor,<br />
packages prepared for release<br />
to known addressees<br />
to reach the unknown interlocutor.<br />
The window was open in Milan.<br />
motorbikes sputtering,<br />
a tram creaking and rolling past on rails,<br />
movement away from the receiver,<br />
and footsteps echoing away,<br />
then returning, pages rustling.<br />
Here it is, he said.<br />
59
Sefirà e il f. vita
62 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
E’ sènt<br />
Ció, mè a i craid, io ci credo, in un qualcosa,<br />
e a n mu n vargògn, mo non pretendo mica,<br />
mè, la zénta, par mè, i à da fè ognéun<br />
come si sente, sgònd la su coscienza,<br />
a n sémm piò témp d’na volta, mè a déggh sno,<br />
quant a sint zért dischéurs fat a 1’arvérsa,<br />
mo ‘s’ut dischéut, è un sentimento quello,<br />
ta n’e’ cnòss, lasa stè, pórta rispèt,<br />
ch’è anche un mistero, s’ ta m’e’ dmand mu mè<br />
quèll ch’a sint, a n’e’ so,<br />
mè quant a so tla cisa, u n gn’éintra i prit,<br />
csa vól déi, è la nostra religione,<br />
mo a n so bigòt, mè, a i vagh,<br />
te ta n mu n cridaré, si sèt dè fa,<br />
un dopmezdè, a paséva, ò détt: a m férum,<br />
tla Colegèta, e dréinta un frèsch, Pepino<br />
l’era dri ch’e’ spazéva, mè d’impí,<br />
da zétt, at cla penòmbra,<br />
e 1í il pensiero, a 1 so ch’è in ogni luogo,<br />
mo però in chiesa, e tè dàila si prit,<br />
zért ch’i sbàia ènca lòu,<br />
sono esseri umani come noi,<br />
parchè, néun a n sbaiémm? che quèst l'è un mònd<br />
ch’a duvrésmi ès fradéll, volerci bene<br />
uno con l’altro, invíci,<br />
non vedi l’ingiustizia, 1’egoéisum,<br />
la cativéria, ch’a n sémm mai cuntént,<br />
che mè dal vólti a i péns, s’ t’éss rasòun tè<br />
ch’e’ finéss tótt aquè, cumè, mo ‘lòura<br />
i à d’avài rasòun sémpra i prepotent?<br />
rubé, mazè, basta sno no fès zcruv,<br />
se al di sopra di noi non c’è nessuno,<br />
mo tè la nòta ta n guèrd mai d’insò?<br />
tótt’ cal stèli, migliéun,<br />
questi mondi infiniti, andémma, zò,<br />
un essere supremo u i à da ès,<br />
che li ha creati, a n so sno me ch’a i craid,<br />
u i n’è tint, pr<strong>of</strong>eséur, grandi scienziati,<br />
ta n sé piò tè ch’ nè lòu? mo fa la próva,<br />
sta s’una mena verta, sta ‘lè di an,<br />
sémpra verta, csa crèssal? du quaiéun,<br />
gnént piò gnént e’ dà gnént, ci vuole un Dio,<br />
che basta un sóffi, ed è nata la vita,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
The Saint<br />
So. I believe, I believe in it, in a something,<br />
and I’m not ashamed, but I’m not at all claiming,<br />
I, people, as far as I’m concerned, each one has got to do<br />
however one experiences it, according to one’s conscience,<br />
we’re not living in the old days anymore, I’m just saying<br />
when I hear certain discussions, arguing otherwise,<br />
what’s there to discuss, it’s merely one opinion,<br />
I don’t agree, then let it rest, have respect,<br />
that it is a mystery as well, if you ask me<br />
how I feel about it, I don’t know,<br />
but when I’m in church, the priests have got nothing to do with it,<br />
how can I put it? it is our shared religion,<br />
but I’m not some pious bigot, I go there,<br />
you’re not going to believe me but six days ago,<br />
one afternoon, passing by, I say: I’m going to stop,<br />
in the Collegiata, and inside it was so cool, Peppino<br />
was in there sweeping, I was standing,<br />
silent, in that half-light,<br />
and the thought came to me there, I know it is present in every place,<br />
but in church, and you, you really have it in for the priests,<br />
<strong>of</strong> course even they make mistakes,<br />
they are human just like us,<br />
why? you think we never make mistakes? this is a world<br />
where we should all be brothers, love one another,<br />
as one’s self, but<br />
don’t you see the injustice, the egotism,<br />
the cruelty, we are never content,<br />
which makes me think sometimes,<br />
if you’re right<br />
that it all ends here, how can that be, so then<br />
the ones with power always win?<br />
robbing, killing, it’s bad enough they never get caught,<br />
if up above us there is no one,<br />
haven’t you ever looked up there?<br />
all those stars, millions,<br />
arrived, crying, it’s her mother,<br />
you can imagine, and the two <strong>of</strong> us, in the hallway,<br />
waiting, how long will it be? what are they doing to her in there?<br />
to my wife? by this time it was morning,<br />
My Lord! Mother <strong>of</strong> God! in these moments<br />
I don’t know how those who don’t believe get through it,<br />
it is a need, to address someone,<br />
that you are in his hands, he can help you out,<br />
63
64 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
e a sémm aquè ch’à bazilémm, che mè<br />
‘ta bón, va là, u i n’è óna tótt i dè,<br />
u m’è vnéu la finènza ir, i è stè ’lè<br />
a scartablè dagli òuri,<br />
i à fat un gran verbèl, par do fatéuri,<br />
e dis ch’u i amanchéva ènca dal bòlli,<br />
va a zcòrr sa lòu,<br />
tanimódi qualquèl i à da truvè,<br />
u s buscarà du bòch, mo t’avdiré-che,<br />
e irisàira un nervòus,<br />
ma chèsa, da par me, no, la Jolanda<br />
a la ò manda in muntagna,<br />
sla Silvana, a Madonna di Campiglio,<br />
la s’à da divaghè, dop quell ch’ la à pas,<br />
amo cumè, quatr’òuri sòtta i férr,<br />
che cla sàira, mo gnént, émmi magnè,<br />
spaghétt in biènch,<br />
puràzi, du tri sgómbar marinéd,<br />
émm guèrs ènch’ la televisiòun, pu a lèt,<br />
e a una zért’òura a sint: «Carlo, a stagh mèl»,<br />
«T n’é digeréi ?», «L’è dal curtlèdi, aquè»,<br />
«T’é bsògn d’andè de córp?», ció, ‘s’ut ch’a géss,<br />
agli óngg la stéva bén, può zais la luce<br />
e ò capí tótt, ò ciamè Giunchi, via<br />
te bsdèl, e un’òura dop la antréva zà<br />
tla sèla operatória, ch’ l’è rivàt’<br />
la Silvana, t’un piènt, li la su mà,<br />
t si mat, e alè nun déu, ‘t che curidéur,<br />
a spitè, quant u i vó? csa i fai adlà<br />
ma la mi mòi: l’era bèla matéina,<br />
Madòna! Signuréin! at chi mumént.<br />
mè a n’e’ so cmè ch’i fa quéi ch’i n’i craid,<br />
è un bisogno, rivolgersi a qualcuno,<br />
che sei nelle sue mani, u t pò ‘iuté,<br />
parchè Alesandri, brèv e sol che brèv,<br />
mo al su paróli, quant l’è scap, l’à détt:<br />
«Questo è stato un miracolo, che se<br />
tardava tre minuti», e mè alè ò tach<br />
a piànz, a réid, una nòta cmè quèlla,<br />
s’a n so s-ciòp, mo ò capéi tènt’ ad cal robi,<br />
che questa vita, in fondo, e’ basta gnént,<br />
e néun ch’a s cridémm d’ès,<br />
tótt’ la nòsta imbiziòun, mo da fè chè?<br />
siamo tacati a un filo,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
because Alessandri, I can’t say enough good things about him,<br />
but his words, when he came out, he said:<br />
“This is a miracle, if it had been<br />
three minutes later,” and I started crying, right there, and laughing,<br />
if it hadn’t burst, but I understood a lot after those things,<br />
that this mortal life, when it’s all said and done, nothing’s ever<br />
enough,<br />
and we, whatever it is we believe in,<br />
all our ambitions, for what?<br />
we are holding on by a thread.<br />
because in the hospital I saw Nandi, I didn’t recognize him,<br />
he’d gone down to have X-rays taken, we talked and then<br />
saying goodbye he squeezed my hand,<br />
without looking at me: “But fifty’s<br />
a little early,” and he went away with the nurse,<br />
I didn’t know how to answer him, and then during the night,<br />
those words, I thought about them,<br />
because he, yeah, a real wheeler-dealer, true, but everyone<br />
likes money, let’s be honest, plus with deals,<br />
if you don’t do it someone else will,<br />
he’d bought out Cecchi months ago,<br />
and now even Armanda, alone,<br />
a woman, we were talking the other day<br />
about Paolino Campidelli, he goes strictly by the books,<br />
and he ends up in that living hell, in that case instead,<br />
but this is not the time, with that boy,<br />
who he bragged about, think about that, then, try to understand,<br />
it’s that they have too much, but it’s not all their fault either,<br />
his mother, all he had to do was ask her,<br />
and his head, or was it someone he associated with,<br />
one year? it must be two by now,<br />
and he doesn’t write, nothing,<br />
they don’t hear a single thing,<br />
it’s as if he’s dead,<br />
and I know him well, Paolino, when I needed some help,<br />
he always worked hard, he never screwed<br />
anyone, why then is he castigated<br />
in this way? I don’t know, but even yesterday evening,<br />
that girl, who I’d passed<br />
just five minutes before,<br />
they went right up on the sidewalk, killed instantly,<br />
what wrong could she have done?<br />
I know, they’re questions,<br />
but I see certain things,<br />
which is a sin, I know, but if there is a God,<br />
65
66 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
che te bsdèl ò vést Nandi, a n l’ò ‘rcnunséu,<br />
l’andéva zò a fè i raggi, émm zcòurs, e pu<br />
te salutém u m’à tnú strètt’ la mèna,<br />
senza guardèm: «Però a zinquèntun’an<br />
l’è un pó prèst», e l’è ‘ndè véa sl’infermír,<br />
che mè a n gn’ò savú ‘rspònd, e dop la nòta,<br />
cal paróli, a i ò péns,<br />
parchè léu, sè, afarésta, mo i baócch<br />
i i pis ma tótt, andémma, pu i aféri<br />
s’ ta n’i fé tè u i fa un èlt.<br />
ch’ l’éva còmpar da Cecchi si méis fa,<br />
e adès ènca l’Armanda, da par li,<br />
‘na dona, ch’a zcurémmi l’altredè<br />
ad Palín Campidèli, léu strétt,<br />
e pu alazò a l’inféran, alè invíci,<br />
mo adès u n’è e’ mumént, sa che burdèl,<br />
ch’u s stiméva, fighéurt, pu, va a capéi,<br />
l’è ch’i à trop, u n’è gnénca còulpa sóvva,<br />
la su mà, léu bastéva ch’e’ dmandéss,<br />
e tla su testa, o l’è stè qualch’ cumpàgn,<br />
un an? i è bèla déu,<br />
e u n scréiv, gnént, u n s sa gnént, è come morto,<br />
ch’a 1 cnòss bén, mè, Palín, quant ò vú bsògn,<br />
l’à sémpra lavurè, u n’a mai freghè<br />
niseun, e parchè ‘lòura castighél<br />
at sté modi? a n’e’ so, mo ènca irisàira,<br />
cla burdèla, ch’a séra pas d’alè<br />
zéinch minéut préima, i la è ‘ndèda a tó sò<br />
se marciapí, dis an, morta se còulp,<br />
che mèl pòla avài fat? a l so, l’è dmandi,<br />
mo mè vdai zérti robi,<br />
che è peccato, lo so, mo se c’è un Dio,<br />
però ènch s’u n gn’è, al mi mèssi, al cumagnòun,<br />
mo no sno mè, tótt quéi ch’i va tla cisa,<br />
tótt’ cal candàili zàisi,<br />
tótt’ al cisi, quant u i n’è mai te mònd,<br />
bèli, grandi, par gnént? che mè a San Pitar,<br />
m’arcórd, u m’è vnú la chèrna pléina,<br />
no, una fede ci vuole,<br />
cs’èll ch’a sémm, di animèli? a sémm di brécch?<br />
émm e’ zarvèl, druvémmal,<br />
ci sarà una ragione, un fundamént,<br />
che adès a n gn’arivémm, mo però un giorno<br />
u s capirà iniquèl,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
which even if there isn’t, all <strong>of</strong> my masses, communions,<br />
but it’s not just me, all those who go to church,<br />
all those lit candles,<br />
all the churches, how many <strong>of</strong> them are there in this world?<br />
beautiful, enormous buildings, for nothing? I, at St. Peter’s,<br />
I remember, I got goose bumps,<br />
no, you need a faith,<br />
what are we, animals? are we donkeys?<br />
we each have a brain, we make use <strong>of</strong> it,<br />
there’s got to be a reason, a basis,<br />
which we don’t get right now,<br />
but one day<br />
everything will be understood,<br />
there’s got to be a purpose, because if not,<br />
if it doesn’t matter,<br />
if this world is just an Instant Lottery,<br />
where if your number comes up you don’t even know<br />
if you’ve won or if you’ve lost<br />
these are discussions, these are,<br />
which the inside my head, afterwards, is roiling, I can’t stand it,<br />
but I think about this every so <strong>of</strong>ten,<br />
you have to do it, today<br />
people just don’t want to think about anything,<br />
just having fun,<br />
and they make fun <strong>of</strong> you, a girl on the train,<br />
last year, with her friends, I’d said: We are all smaller,<br />
because everyone does whatever he feels like doing, that the world<br />
isn’t right and from here it will only get worse,<br />
and she said, “From where?” they all laughed, what did I say,<br />
“We’re not going to wait our turns in line, there’s too many <strong>of</strong> us,”<br />
and I wanted to answer her right back, but I kept quiet,<br />
then I got <strong>of</strong>f, these kids, I don’t understand,<br />
they think in a certain way,<br />
but sometimes in Rimini, on the street,<br />
I’m standing there for a minute, there are a lot <strong>of</strong> them, I mean lots,<br />
where are they all going? pfft! what are they all doing?<br />
and in summer, at the beach, in the Piazza Tripoli,<br />
talking all different languages, what are they saying?<br />
then the thoughts, which sometimes<br />
I stay there and watch them for a half-hour, another half-hour,<br />
and at night I dream <strong>of</strong> ants,<br />
the pavement, covered, even the stairs, they’re black,<br />
some that fly, they’re walking over, they crunch,<br />
they form little mounds around me,<br />
and I say: standing here, for them,<br />
67
68 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
u i à da ès un vérs, parchè se no,<br />
s’l’è tótt cumpàgn,<br />
se aquè sté mònd l’è sno una loteréa,<br />
che s’e’ vén e’ tu nómar ta n sé gnénca<br />
se t’é véint, se t’é pérs...<br />
l’è zchéurs, mè, quést,<br />
che la testa, a m’imbròi, dop, a n gn’aréss,<br />
però a i faz d’ogni tènt, bsògna fèi, òz<br />
la zénta invíci i n vó pensè ma gnént,<br />
sno divertéis,<br />
e i t tó ènca in zéir, una ragaza in treno,<br />
an, si su améigh, mè a géva: a s sémm ardótt,<br />
tótt i fa quèll ch’u i pèr, e dop e’ mònd<br />
u n pò andè bén, e adlà e’ sarà ènca pézz,<br />
e li: «Di là?», i ridéva tótt, cs’òi détt?<br />
«Non ci stanno più dietro, siamo troppi»,<br />
e mè alè a i vléva arspònd, pu a so stè zétt,<br />
dop a so smòunt, sti zóvan, a n’e’ so,<br />
i ragiòuna t’un módi,<br />
però dal vólti, a Rémin, par la strèda,<br />
ch’a m’aférm un mumént, i è tint, dabón,<br />
dò ch’i va? boh, csa fai?<br />
e d’instèda, a maréina, in piazza Tripoli,<br />
ch’i zcòrr at tótt’ al lèngui, csa girài?<br />
pu i pensír, che dal vólti<br />
a stagh alè a guardèi par dal mèz’ òuri,<br />
e la nòta a m’insógni tótt’ furméighi,<br />
e’ sulèr bróst, ènca i scaléin, i è nir,<br />
u i n’è ch’al vòula, a i caméin sòura, al scrécca,<br />
u m s fa i patéun, e a déggh: mè què par 1òu<br />
a so e’ Signòur, dò ch’a pas l’è la guèra,<br />
a pòs fè tótt, fiumèna, taremòt,<br />
sémpra tl’insógni, e u m ciapa una paéura,<br />
a m svégg ad bot, a vagh ma la finestra,<br />
i lómm ch’u i è, la zénta, sl’autostrèda<br />
i n s férma mai, e mè aquè spèsa i véidar,<br />
a pi néud, sal mudàndi,<br />
e a pràigh, ò tróv un sènt te calendèri,<br />
ch’a n faz e’ nóm, mo a n l’ò mai sintí déi,<br />
quèll che ‘lè, a so sichéur, a 1 cnòss sno mè,<br />
la Jolanda la sbròuntla: «Mo l’è al quatar,<br />
csa fét?», e a n’i dmand gnént,<br />
a n vi nisuna grèzia, tanimódi<br />
quèll ch’e’ pò fè léu u 1 fa, mo u n m’arimpórta,<br />
ènca s’u n pò fè gnént, mè a so ch’ l’è ‘lè,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
I am the Lord, wherever I am is war,<br />
I can do anything, make rivers overflow, earthquakes,<br />
still in the dream, I get afraid,<br />
I wake up wide awake, I walk to the window,<br />
lights out there, people, on that highway,<br />
they never stop, and I’m here facing the window,<br />
bare feet, in my underwear,<br />
and I pray, I find a saint on the calendar,<br />
I don’t want to say his name, but he’s one I’ve never heard talked about,<br />
I’m sure I’m the only one who knows that one,<br />
Jolanda’s complaining, “It’s four in the morning,<br />
What are you doing?” and I don’t ask him for anything,<br />
I don’t want any grace, it’s enough<br />
that he’ll do whatever he can, but it doesn’t matter,<br />
even if he can’t do anything, I know that he’s there,<br />
that I pray and that he hears me.<br />
Water<br />
I, it was my buddies, you go, you go,<br />
for laughs, and I walked up, there were six or seven <strong>of</strong> us,<br />
he’d set up chairs, and seeing him<br />
up close, he was slight, with this shabby jacket,<br />
and, man, was he was frenetic,<br />
jabbering away, in five minutes<br />
I was already dazed, he talked a mile a minute,<br />
there I was, head hanging down,<br />
where have I ended up? he picked Mirko first:<br />
“Observe all the butterflies! here is the net, now catch them!”<br />
and Mirko, intent, with that butterfly net, is running, he’s leaping up,<br />
as if there were moths, then he stopped him,<br />
he was pointing like a bloodhound, people were saying: “Come on,<br />
it’s right there,” he, flick, swoosh, and that guy: “You have caught it,”<br />
he slapped him on the back: “Congratulations!”<br />
next he picked Dato and Carlín di Faiòun,<br />
he positioned them in front <strong>of</strong> him: “Brrr, it’s freezing!”<br />
they started to shiver, they were stomping their feet,<br />
they blew into their hands, “And this snow<br />
is wicked!” they turned up their collars,<br />
both <strong>of</strong> them standing, they opened an umbrella, Dato<br />
pointed it down low into the wind,<br />
Carlín right there behind him, hunched over, his cap jammed<br />
down to his ears, and I sat there,<br />
with my arms crossed, what is this garbage?<br />
69
70 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
che mè a pràigh e che léu u m sta da sintéi.<br />
Aqua<br />
Mè, l’è stè chi burdéll, va tè, va tè,<br />
par réid, e a so ‘ndè sò, a sérmi si sèt,<br />
léu u s’à dè dal scaràni, e a vdail alè<br />
da davséin, l’era znin, s’na sèrga léisa,<br />
mo 1'éva la tarèntla,<br />
e s’una parlantéina, in zéinch minéut<br />
u m’éva zà invurnéi, ‘na machinètta,<br />
mè a stéva a testa basa,<br />
dò ch’a so capitè? 1'à tach da Mirko:<br />
«Quante farfalle! ecco il retino, prendile!»,<br />
e Mirko, séri, s’ ché ridéin, córr, sèlta,<br />
cm’u i fóss dal pavaiòti, pu u s’è férum,<br />
e’ puntéva cmè un brach, la zénta: «Dài,<br />
ch’ la è ‘1è», léu, tac, ‘na bota, e cl’èlt: «L’hai presa»,<br />
u i à batéu s’na spala, «Complimenti!»,<br />
l’è ‘ndè da Dato e da Carlin ‘d Faiòun,<br />
u s’i è pustè davènti: «Brrr! che gelo!»,<br />
lòu i à tach a bublé, i batéva i pi,<br />
i s sufiéva tal dàidi, «E questa neve!<br />
una tormenta!», i s’è tiràt sò e’ bèvar,<br />
tutt du d’impí, i à vèrt 1’umbrèla, Dato<br />
u la puntéva basa còuntra e’ vént,<br />
Carlín di dri, gubéun, se brètt calchèd<br />
fina agli urècci, e mè disdài alè,<br />
brazi incrusèdi, mo cs’èll ch’ l’è sta roba?<br />
mè a so vnéu concredend ch’e’ foss di zugh<br />
d’abellità, si fazulétt, sal chèrti,<br />
ch’i t taia la gravata, robi acsè,<br />
da divertéis, ch’i s chèva la bumbètta<br />
e e’ vòula véa ‘n pizòun, mo fè e’ zimbèl,<br />
no, no, a n’i stagh, ò un esercéizi, mè,<br />
‘na clientela, ò una riputaziòun,<br />
e’ zcòrr s’un èlt: «Ti piace<br />
la Guzzi California?», a n’e’ cnòss quèll,<br />
«Eccola qui, è la tua, la vuoi provare ?»,<br />
e st’ pataca e’ partéss, brrrum! brrrrum!<br />
a caval d’na scaràna,<br />
mè a n’e’ so, mo i n s n’incórz ? i n sint la zénta ?<br />
che Dato 1'è impieghèd ma la Pruvéinza,<br />
e Carlín, ènca léu, l’à mòi e fiùl,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
I came here believing it was going to be games<br />
<strong>of</strong> skill, with handkerchiefs, cards,<br />
that they’d cut your tie in two, stuff like that,<br />
entertainment, a top hat<br />
and out flies a dove,<br />
but to make people laughing-stocks,<br />
no, no, this I won’t stand for, I have a business, I,<br />
have a clientele, I have a reputation,<br />
he’s talking to someone else: “Would you like<br />
to have a Guzzi? the California model?” I don’t know that<br />
particular model, “There it is, it’s yours, would you like to take it<br />
for a ride?”<br />
and this idiot takes <strong>of</strong>f, vroom, vroom,<br />
straddling a chair, don’t these people get it? do people just not listen?<br />
Dato, he’s got a staff position for the Province,<br />
and Carlín, even him, he’s got a wife and kids,<br />
how could he have pulled this <strong>of</strong>f? did he trick them?<br />
what could he have said to them? you will not thwart me, you will<br />
do as I command,<br />
or maybe he promised them money? but he’s coming this way, oh no,<br />
he looks at me out <strong>of</strong> the corner <strong>of</strong> his eye every so <strong>of</strong>ten,<br />
it would be quite a feat to put me to sleep,<br />
or what if I fake it?<br />
whatever he wants, for awhile, it would be hilarious,<br />
then, this would be the best part: “That’s enough now, I’m bored,<br />
I’m going to get a cup <strong>of</strong> c<strong>of</strong>fee, see you guys later,”<br />
now that would really thwart him, then afterwards<br />
people would run him out <strong>of</strong> town, poor guy, they’d chase him all<br />
the way to Cesena,<br />
no, no way, I’m telling you no, you’re not glomming on me,<br />
that’s that, but then what if it has consequences for him?<br />
I go ahead and just let him say it: “This fellow is not an appropriate<br />
subject,”<br />
then I go back to my seat and that’s all she wrote,<br />
meanwhile my friend over there on the Guzzi is not slowing down,<br />
he’s leaning into all the curves, he’s going to end up falling,<br />
it’s been going on for a quite some time now,<br />
no, that’s it, he’s stopped, if I could just say something to him,<br />
for his own good, so he could come back to his senses,<br />
but there’s no way to do it, I wave to him, no response,<br />
doesn’t he understand? is he afraid? come here,<br />
you might have gotten into an accident, he’s gone over to someone<br />
else now:<br />
“You have a great gift,”<br />
that fat guy, the redhead, who works at the methane gas plant,<br />
71
72 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
cm’àl fat? u i à intraplè?<br />
csa i avràl détt? nu m’arviné, fé mód,<br />
o u i à prumèss di bócch ? però aquè u n vén,<br />
u m guèrda d’ogni tènt sla còuda dl’òc,<br />
la sarà gnara indurmantèm mu mè,<br />
o magari fè féinta,<br />
tótt quèll ch’e’ vó, pr’un pó, u i sarébb da réid,<br />
pu te piò bèl, «Adès basta, a m so stóff,<br />
a vagh a tó un cafè, a s’avdémm, burdéll»,<br />
che ta l’arvéin dabón, la zénta dop<br />
i i da dri, me puràz, fina Ceséina,<br />
no, gnént, a i déggh ad no, sa mè la n taca,<br />
e basta, ch’ pu l’è robi ch’al suzéd,<br />
u 1 pò déi: «Questo qui non è il sogetto»,<br />
mè a tòuran te mi pòst e bonanòta,<br />
e quèll dla Guzzi u n mòla,<br />
e’ pènd tal curvi, e va finéi ch’e’ casca,<br />
sno che què la vén lònga,<br />
no, ècco, u 1 férma, s’a i putéss dí quèl,<br />
ènca par 1éu, ch’u s pòsa regolè,<br />
mo u n gn’è mèzi, a i faz ségn, e léu cmè gnént,<br />
u n capéss? l’à paéura? vén aquè,<br />
ch’u t végna un azidént, l’è ‘ndè da un èlt:<br />
«Lei ha avuto un gran dono»,<br />
che gròs, gag, che lavòura me metano,<br />
u s’i è fisé: «Ci farà questo onore?<br />
È qui con noi un artista di grido»,<br />
u s’è sintí rógg: «Italo, sei grande!»,<br />
e Italo l’è stè sò, l’à fat ad sè<br />
sla testa, l’è vnú ‘vènti,<br />
l’à tach a ócc céus «Una furtiva lacrima»,<br />
u n déva invéll, la zénta: «Bravo! bravo!»,<br />
i n l’à las gnénch’ finéi, i vléva e’ bis:<br />
«Che gelida manina! », « No! », da un pèlch<br />
d’ilt i à dè sò: «Fin che la barca va!»,<br />
«Che gelida manina! », «O sole mio!»,<br />
«Fin che la barca va!», «Mamma!», un caséin,<br />
u n s capéva piò gnént,<br />
éun sla pila, tla sèla, cmè un curtèl,<br />
da d’in èlt u i à ‘rspòst un’èlta pila,<br />
dal saètti te schéur,<br />
e sémpra piò cagnèra,<br />
alòura Gufredín l’à zais al luci,<br />
mo 1'è stè pézz, te luzòun i s’è méss<br />
a bat i pi: «Vogliamo i soldi indietro!»,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
he’s zeroed in on him: “Will you grant us this honor?<br />
We have here among us an artist <strong>of</strong> first order”<br />
he shouted, “Italo, you are magnificent!”<br />
and Italo stood up, he nodded yes,<br />
he walked to the front,<br />
he closed his eyes, “Una furtive lacrima,”<br />
he didn’t hit a single note, people were shouting, Bravo! Bravissimo!<br />
they didn’t even let him finish, they wanted an encore:<br />
“Che gelida manina!” “No!” from another row<br />
others were yelling out: “Fin che la barca va!” “Mamma!” It was a<br />
zoo,<br />
you couldn’t understand a word anyone was saying,<br />
one guy had flashlight, in the hall, slashing it around like a knife,<br />
someone else answered with another flashlight,<br />
making lightening bolts in the dark,<br />
there was even more <strong>of</strong> a ruckus,<br />
so G<strong>of</strong>fredino turned on the lights,<br />
but that made it worse, in the balcony they started<br />
stomping their feet: “We want our money back!”<br />
it was chaos, the light bulbs were flickering,<br />
some <strong>of</strong> the hotheads down there were coming to blows,<br />
some <strong>of</strong> the old people got up and scurried out, their heads bent over,<br />
coats draped over their arms,<br />
we were completely silent up on the stage, watching,<br />
he was watching too, then he strutted out:<br />
“All eyes on me!” with that smirk, “Everyone stop!<br />
Cease! This is an order!” and at that exact moment<br />
a crash onstage and all this spattering,<br />
what’s going on? they’d thrown a bag <strong>of</strong> water,<br />
then another, and another, my pals, I said:<br />
Hey! what do you think you’re doing throwing it here?<br />
oh but they thought it was just fine,<br />
water, bags, great fun,<br />
they were horsing around, they started lifting the chairs<br />
over their heads, for protection, the legs turned up,<br />
another bag, the redhead pointed a finger:<br />
“Giorgio! I saw you!” whistles from above:<br />
“Referee! Are you blind? Do you need glasses?” then everything<br />
pelted down,<br />
pieces <strong>of</strong> carob, apple cores, banana peels, orange peels, a can <strong>of</strong> Fanta,<br />
a barrage, which if you were to get hit, and this? you filthy pigs,<br />
it’s not water, and where is he? oh, there he was,<br />
his ears all slick and shiny from his hair cream,<br />
sweating, with his crooked bowtie,<br />
“It’s really coming down now, it’s time to make a break for it,”<br />
73
74 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
un purbiòun, e’ treméva al lampadéini,<br />
di scalmanèd ad sòtta i s’atachéva,<br />
qualch’ anzièn u s’alzéva e véa cuvéun<br />
se capòt sottabraz,<br />
néun tótt zétt se pelcsènic a guardè,<br />
e’ guardéva ènca léu, pu u s’è indrizé:<br />
«A me gli occhi!», s’na zurma, «Fermi tutti!<br />
fermi, vi dico!», e própia at che mumént<br />
una bota se pèlch e tènt ‘d chi squézz,<br />
cs’èll stè? i éva tiràt un sachètt d’aqua,<br />
pu un èlt, un èlt, i mi cumpàgn, mè ò détt:<br />
«Ció, aquè cm’a la mitémmi?», mo lòu sè,<br />
aqua, sachétt, l’era un divertiment,<br />
i zughéva, al scaràni, i s li era mèssi,<br />
par arparès, gambi d’insò, sla testa,<br />
un èlt sachètt, e’ gag l’à punté un daid:<br />
«Giorgio, a t’ò vést», da d’in èlt di gran fés-ci:<br />
«Arbitro, occhiali! », pu l’è vnú zò e’ mònd,<br />
pézz ‘d carobla, tursóll, bózzi ‘d banana,<br />
ad melarènza, un busilòt dla Fanta,<br />
pin, ch’ s’i t ciapa, mo quèsta, brutti porci,<br />
u n’è aqua, e duv’èll léu? l’era alè,<br />
u i luséva agli urècci ad brilantina,<br />
sudéd, se nòtal tórt,<br />
«Aquè u s’è smòs ‘na vèggia ch’ l’è mèi còisla»,<br />
a i ò détt, léu u m’à guèrs: «Se ce la fai»,<br />
«S’a gli à faz mè? mo mè chi vut ch’ m’aférma?»<br />
«Non parlo della gente», «E ‘lòura?», «L’acqua»,<br />
«Sté pacéugh?», «Cresce», «Mo sèt òt sachétt»,<br />
«È un’altra cosa», «Come un’altra cosa?»<br />
e te zcòrr a m so mòs, orca, a sguazéva,<br />
mo quèsta addò ch’ la vén? ch’i apa las vért<br />
un rubinètt, aquè, ad sta baraònda,<br />
mo là spèsa u i sarà pò qualcadéun,<br />
u i vó póch, «Non si ferma»,<br />
«Marà farmèla invíci, fai un rógg»,<br />
«È tardi», e ò sintí un giàz, éva i pi a bagn,<br />
a so mòunt s’na scaràna, csa suzédal?<br />
che un mumént fa, mo èl dóbbi, Gufredín<br />
dò ch’ l’è? u n s n’è incórt? u n vaid?<br />
u i n’era bèla quatar dàida, spórca,<br />
pina ad cichi, ad ziréin,<br />
e mè ch’ò d’andé chèsa, cmè ch’a faz?<br />
pu quèst, ‘s’ut rubinètt,<br />
u s’è ròtt un cundótt, l’è un canòun d’aqua,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
I said to him, he was looking at me: “If you can.”<br />
“If I can? me, who’s going to stop me?”<br />
“I’m not talking about the people,” “What then?” “The water,”<br />
“This mess?” “It is getting bigger,” “Just seven or eight bags,”<br />
“There’s something else,” “What do you mean, something else?”<br />
and while we were talking I got drenched, what the hell? I was soaked,<br />
a faucet? here, in all this mayhem?<br />
there’s got to be someone behind this,<br />
it wouldn’t take much, “It is not stopping,” “But it’s got to be stopped,<br />
give them a yell,” “It’s late,” I felt ice-cold, my feet were wet,<br />
I jumped up on a chair, what’s going on?<br />
because a minute ago, it could be, G<strong>of</strong>fredino?<br />
where is he? does he not realize? doesn’t he see?<br />
there’s already three inches, it’s filthy,<br />
it’s full <strong>of</strong> cigarette butts, matchsticks,<br />
and I, I need to get back home, what am I going to do?<br />
now this, it’s not a faucet,<br />
the water-main has burst, it’s a flood,<br />
someone, come on now, go notify the police,<br />
because if it’s not cut <strong>of</strong>f, and be quick, it’s really gushing,<br />
it’s already above the transoms,<br />
you can see the lights reflecting down into it, I can see myself,<br />
where are the others? my pals, and him,<br />
they’re not here anymore, how did they get out? and the pandemonium<br />
out ahead, it’s all collapsing, no, it’s the cover<br />
<strong>of</strong> the prompt box which has given,<br />
the water has made another route,<br />
it’s receding, listen to how it’s rumbling below,<br />
it’s gone down, there on the wall<br />
you can see the watermark,<br />
or is it? it’s still too soon, it was all the way up to the knees,<br />
but it must be going down, see how much it’s gone down already,<br />
but in case it hasn’t, be on the lookout for a landmark, some plaster<br />
peeling,<br />
that one, that one I saw earlier in the evening,<br />
it looked like a leaf on a stem,<br />
where is it? was it there then? I don’t see it anymore,<br />
oh no, instead <strong>of</strong> going down, wait, what’s all that stuff<br />
coming this way? a loaf <strong>of</strong> bread?<br />
completely saturated? bloated, it’s enough to turn your stomach,<br />
and here, on the seat <strong>of</strong> the chair, is a puddle,<br />
the other chairs are moving,<br />
going in every direction, knocking against each other,<br />
what’s going on down there?<br />
a crash <strong>of</strong> windows breaking, a roar,<br />
75
76 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
qualcadéun, zò, ch’e’ vaga a visé al guèrdi,<br />
s’ ta n la stagn, e fè prèst, quèsta la córr,<br />
la è zà mòunta sòura mi cavéi,<br />
u s’i vaid dréinta i 1ómm, a m vèggh par mè,<br />
mo e ch’ilt duv’èi? i mi cumpàgn, e léu,<br />
i n gn’è piò, dò ch’i è pas? e sté malàn<br />
alè ‘vènti, e’ casca tótt, no, l’à zdéu<br />
e’ cvérc dla béusa de sugeridòur,<br />
l’aqua, u s’i è vért un pas,<br />
la va zò, sint ad sòtta cmè ch’ la arbòmba,<br />
aquasò adès u s sgòmbra, alè te méur<br />
u s’avdirà la réiga de bagnèd,<br />
o no? 1'è prèst ancòura, u i n’era un znòc,<br />
però la chin calè, quèll ch’ va mai zò,<br />
se no basta tní d’òc un sègn, un scòurgh,<br />
quèll alè, ch’a l’ò vést ad préima sàira,<br />
u m pareva una foia se gambòz,<br />
dò ch’ l’è? l’era alè dès, a n’e’ vèggh piò,<br />
ció, mo invíci ‘d calé, spétta, cs’èll ch’ l’è<br />
cla roba ch’ vén avènti? una pagnòta,<br />
tótt’ imbumbèda, gòunfia, la fa séns,<br />
e sla pivira aquè u i è la piscòlla,<br />
agli èlt scaràni al s móv,<br />
al va d’in quà e d’in là, al sbat tra ‘d 1òu,<br />
e alazò in fònd cs’èll stè?<br />
un scatramàz ad véidar rótt, un sciòun,<br />
aquè u n s pò spitè piò, sno che dú s val?<br />
basta, quèll ch’ vén e’ vén,<br />
che tavuléin, ò slòngh ‘na gamba, dài,<br />
s’a i putéss arivé, se pi ò tòcch l’òural<br />
de mèrum, a so stè pr’un pó a cavàl<br />
tra la scaràna e e’ tavuléin, s’a sguéll<br />
a m sbrènch, ò fat la blènza, a m so dè e’ slènz,<br />
ò dvanè un pó sal brazi, a m so indrizé,<br />
aglia ò fata, ‘ta bón, e un batimèní,<br />
ch’a m so ènca spavantè, a n mu n l’aspitéva,<br />
mo sta festa ma chéi?<br />
mu mè? pu a i ò vést, tótt,<br />
la zénta mai ch’u i era, i dént a d’ór,<br />
no, i réid, ta n sint? l’era una sbacarèda,<br />
i s batéva sal còsci, i s déva ad gòmat,<br />
i s pighéva, u s’i avdéva tremè al spali,<br />
i s’asughéva al lègrimi se braz,<br />
mo pu di sgréss, di céul, al dòni al stéva<br />
testa d’indrí, u i ridéva ènca al culèni,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
you can’t wait here any longer, but where can you go?<br />
enough, whatever’s going to happen will happen,<br />
that little table, I’ve extended my arm, come on, come on,<br />
if I can reach it, I’m touching the marble ledge<br />
with my feet, I’ve been here for awhile straddling<br />
between a table and chair, if I slip<br />
I’m done for, I’m balancing, then this impulse,<br />
I’ve tilted my arms a little, I’ve righted myself,<br />
I’ve done it, steady, and then there’s clapping,<br />
which scared the living daylights out <strong>of</strong> me, I wasn’t expecting that,<br />
who’s the applause for anyway?<br />
for me? then I saw them, everyone,<br />
tons <strong>of</strong> people, someone with gold teeth,<br />
no, they’re laughing, can’t you hear? bursts <strong>of</strong> laughter,<br />
slapping their thighs, elbowing each other,<br />
they were doubled over, you could see their shoulders quaking,<br />
wiping <strong>of</strong>f tears with an arm,<br />
but then, there were shrieks and catcalls, women<br />
with their heads thrown back, even the necklaces were convulsing<br />
with laughter,<br />
some were all splayed out, completely disheveled,<br />
they started coughing, they were choking with laughter,<br />
a little boy standing in the aisle<br />
was watching me, they are laughing at me,<br />
I got dizzy, too much <strong>of</strong> a din,<br />
it was all flickering, I raised my hand:<br />
be quiet, someone yelled out: “Silence in the hall!”<br />
someone else: “Speak up,” what’s going on with them?<br />
“Speech!” are they all insane? “We’re all waiting Four Eyes!”<br />
I don’t dare say a word, plus, what can I tell them?<br />
“You’re the Boss, you tell us,” all right, be quiet then, “Here, folks,<br />
whoever can,<br />
you should get up and go home,” you could hear snickering,<br />
“It’s nothing to laugh about, you don’t believe me? look,<br />
no, look at me, up here, at me, don’t you see me?”<br />
from one row they heckled: “Projector! He’s all out <strong>of</strong> focus!”<br />
it was worse than before, now they were hoarse,<br />
with flushed faces, and over there?<br />
what’s that rumbling?<br />
it’s like it’s boiling, plus it’s risen, it’s a gush,<br />
it was the hole, it had filled up below,<br />
it was spouting up again,<br />
and then something broke, this isn’t happening, it was<br />
like when they open the sluice at the millstream,<br />
it went down, but a river rises, screams,<br />
77
78 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
d’ilt i era a gambi vérti, tott sbudléd,<br />
u i avnéva da tòs, i s’afughéva,<br />
un burdèl u m guardéva<br />
d’impí te curidéur, i réid sa mè,<br />
u m ziréva la testa, tropa boba,<br />
avdéva imbarbaièd, o ‘lzè una mèna:<br />
sté zétt, éun l’à rugéu: «Silenzio in sala!»,<br />
un èlt: «Hai la parola», cs’ài capéi?<br />
«Discorso! », mo i è mat ? «Quattr’occhi, dài ».<br />
ch’a n m’aréisgh, pu csa i dégghi? «Capo, alòura?»,<br />
va bén, sté zétt: «Aquè, burdéll, chi ch’ pò »,<br />
a n’éva e’ spéud, «Quèst l’è un zavài ch’ l’è mèi<br />
tó sò e ‘ndè chèsa», u s’è sintú sgrigné,<br />
«La n’è da réid, a n mu n cridéi? guardé<br />
mo guardém, aquasò, mu mè, a n m’avdéi?»,<br />
da un pèlch i m’à ‘rspòst: Quadro!», la è stè fata,<br />
pézz ch’ nè préima, i era ormai tótt runchèd,<br />
dal fazi lóstri, e alè cs’èll ch’e’ sbarbòtla?<br />
cmè ch’ la buléss, pu la à dè sò, mo un zèt,<br />
l’era la beusa, sòtta u s’era impéi,<br />
u la arbutéva fura,<br />
e pu la à ròtt, u n s’è capéi, l’è stè<br />
cmè quante mi muléin i éirva e’ butàz,<br />
la andéva zò, mo una fiumèna, rógg,<br />
u n s’avdéva piò gnént,<br />
un nibiòun, a vampèdi, da srè i ócc,<br />
la m piuvéva madòs, e ad sòtta l’era<br />
la fèin de mònd, 1’aqúa, u sintéva sbat<br />
ti méur, u m’arivéva i squézz tla faza,<br />
ò vést ‘na córda, a l’ò ingranfèda, sò,<br />
a m so tróv spèsa al quéinti,<br />
u i era un’asa, cmè un caminamént,<br />
avènti pò, fina una pórta ad fèr,<br />
ò vért, un curidéur se tapàid ròss,<br />
mo quést l’è i pèlch, ò vést scrétt «II Ordine»,<br />
sò pr’al schèli, «III Ordine», un mumént,<br />
che pèlch sla pórta vérta, fam avdài,<br />
a so éintar, ò guèrs ad sòtta, mama,<br />
zénta, pultròuni, gnént, l’era tótt’aqua<br />
sòura u i baléva plézzi, guènt, capéll,<br />
e la crèss sémpra, i préim pèlch i è zà a bagn,<br />
l’è sòtta ènca i sgónd pèlch, èlt che guardè,<br />
aquè bsògna ‘ndè sò,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
you couldn’t see a thing anymore,<br />
a dense fog, in gusts, it forced you to close your eyes,<br />
I was in a downpour, and below, it was<br />
the end <strong>of</strong> the world, water, you could hear it slapping<br />
against the walls, my face was being sloshed,<br />
I saw a rope, I grabbed it, up we go,<br />
I found myself behind the wing,<br />
there was a board, like over a war trench,<br />
careful now, all the way to an iron door,<br />
I pulled it open, a hallway with red carpet,<br />
but these are the different tiers, I saw “Level II” written,<br />
some stairs, up, “Level III,” wait a second,<br />
that tier with the open door, let’s have a look,<br />
I went in, I looked down, oh mother,<br />
people, seats, it was all water,<br />
on the surface, there were furs,<br />
gloves, hats,<br />
and it’s still rising, the first tiers are already submerged,<br />
the second tiers are under too, but why am I standing here watching,<br />
you need to get up higher,<br />
come on now, this is the upper balcony, this is the snack bar,<br />
I jumped up onto the counter, I got through,<br />
then stuff everywhere, jam-packed, a storage area, huge boxes,<br />
crates, sacks, empty bottles,<br />
if I come down wrong on my foot, ouch, my head!<br />
what did I hit it on? is it bleeding? on this iron pipe,<br />
I worked my way behind it, careful, it’s the handrail<br />
<strong>of</strong> another staircase, water, below, listen to<br />
it rumbling, I ran as fast as I could,<br />
I took it two stairs at a time,<br />
a door, I grabbed the door handle,<br />
it gave, it opened, and all the lights were blazing,<br />
it’s town hall, the meeting chambers,<br />
there wasn’t a soul,<br />
I passed through it, into the engineering department,<br />
from there into the archives, another staircase, this one’s stone,<br />
narrower, Jesus, look at these pendulums,<br />
it’s the town clock, they’re nothing but bricks attached to a piece <strong>of</strong><br />
wire,<br />
and what is happening down below?<br />
it looks like a storm at sea, over there is an opening,<br />
three steps, a tiny gate,<br />
what’s all this stuff flying around, pigeons?<br />
I was underneath the ro<strong>of</strong> tiles, where’s that music coming from?<br />
be careful walking, it’s all just laths,<br />
79
80 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
forza, quèst l’è e’ luzòun, quèst l’è e’ bufè,<br />
a so sèlt se bancòun, a so pas ‘dlà,<br />
l’era pin ‘d roba, un magazéin, scatléun,<br />
casi, sach, bòci svéiti,<br />
s’a vagh zò mèl s’un pi, ahi, la mi testa!<br />
dò ch’ò batéu? u m vén e’ sangh? sté fèr,<br />
a i so ‘ndè dri, ‘ta bón, l’è e’ tinimèn<br />
d’un’èlta schèla, l’aqua, sòtta, sint<br />
cmè ch’ la gargòia, andéva ad scaranèda,<br />
du scaléin a la vólta,<br />
una porta, a m so ciap ma la manéglia,<br />
la à zdéu, l’è vért, e tótt’ al luci zàisi,<br />
mo l’è e’ Cuméun, la sèla de cunséi,<br />
u n gn’era un’anma,<br />
ò travarsè, a so ‘ndè tl’uféizi tecnich,<br />
da ‘lè tl’archéivi, un’èlta schèla, ad sas,<br />
piò strètta, orca, vè i péndal, l’è l’arlózz,<br />
ch’ pu l’era di madéun lighéd s’na spranga,<br />
e sòtta csa suzédal? e’ pareva<br />
cumè un mèr in burasca, alè che béus,<br />
tri scaléin, un rastèl,<br />
e’ svulaza dla roba, l’è pizéun?<br />
a sera sòtta i cópp, mo dò ch’i sòuna?<br />
aténti a caminé, l’è tótt sturúl,<br />
se t sgar t vé ad sòtta, e u s sint sémpra sunè,<br />
sté budèl, u s’i va cuvéun, e què?<br />
dò ch’a so scap? mo quèst<br />
l’è e’ pèlch dl’órgan ‘d San Ròch, ècco chi ch’ sòuna,<br />
l’è du burdéll, i zuga, éun e’ pacéuga<br />
si tast, purséa, cl’èlt me mèng u m’à vést,<br />
u s’è férum, i tast i à batú ciòch,<br />
ad sòtta ò sintí frézz, ‘na pozza ad zira,<br />
la éva zà cvért i altèr, qualche candàila<br />
la era ancòura zàisa,<br />
sla fiamba ch’ la baléva,<br />
pu u s’è smórt tótt, però alè u m pèr, cla pórta,<br />
u s va se campanéil, a m’i so bótt,<br />
sno che i scaléin, lègn vèc, un scricadézz,<br />
alt, férma, quèst e’ zéd, e’ zóccla ènch’ quést,<br />
gnént, l’è tótt fraid, ta n vaid alasò ch’ sbrènch?<br />
e cagli asi spandléun, óna la déndla,<br />
la casca, plòff, adès a turnè indrí,<br />
pianin, acsè, ‘d curtèl, tachèd me méur,<br />
e quèst? che préima a n 1'éva mégga vést<br />
sté purtunzéin, l’è vért, ‘n’andit, ‘na cambra,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
if I stumble, I fall down below, and you can still hear the music playing,<br />
this narrow chute, if you crawl on all fours, and here?<br />
where has it belched me out?<br />
this is the organ l<strong>of</strong>t at San Rocco, that’s what’s playing,<br />
two kids, they’re playing around, one <strong>of</strong> them is<br />
banging on the keyboard, helter-skelter, the other, at the bellows,<br />
has seen me,<br />
it stopped, they keys were playing by themselves,<br />
from below I heard a hissing, a stink <strong>of</strong> wax,<br />
it had already covered the altars, a few candles<br />
were still lit,<br />
with flames that were flickering,<br />
then it all went out,<br />
but over there, it looks like, maybe, that door,<br />
leads up into the bell tower, I ran to it,<br />
it’s just that these stairs, the wood’s old, they’re creaking,<br />
stop, wait, this one’s giving, this other one’s vibrating too,<br />
it’s nothing, no good, it’s rotten, don’t you see that fissure up there?<br />
and those hanging boards that are swaying,<br />
it’s falling, boom, so now go back the way you came,<br />
slowly, that’s right, it’s angled, the wall’s slanted,<br />
what’s this? I hadn’t seen it at first,<br />
this hatch, it’s open, a passageway, a room,<br />
I held my breath, that’s Father Gaetano,<br />
at the back <strong>of</strong> the room, in an armchair, his mouth open,<br />
without his dentures, he was snoring, forward I go,<br />
on tiptoes, a step,<br />
the laundry room, hanging sheets,<br />
pillowcases, towels, shirts, tablecloths,<br />
you could get lost here, isn’t that a staircase over there,<br />
a spiral staircase, come on now, carefully,<br />
so you don’t slip, what is this smell? it’s like<br />
carbolic acid, a tincture <strong>of</strong> some sort, and all these beds,<br />
in a row, white, where have I ended up? the hospital?<br />
and this sawdust on the floor, to keep it dry?<br />
right, keep it dry, can’t you see<br />
there’s already more than an inch? “Sshh! be quiet!”<br />
“But sawdust isn’t going to do any good, “ “Quiet,<br />
because he’s dozed <strong>of</strong>f, just go wherever you need to go,”<br />
“Give it to me straight now, is this a place where I’d be better <strong>of</strong>f<br />
not being?<br />
“And he’s got a strangulated hernia,” “I’ve warned you,<br />
do what you want,” and there, what’s that,<br />
what’s beyond that glass door? I felt around,<br />
another staircase, a beam, two beams, a door,<br />
81
82 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
a tnéva e’ fiè, mo quèll l’è don Gaitèn,<br />
d’indrí s’un scaranòun, a bòcca vérta,<br />
senza dantira, e’ surnicéva, avènti<br />
in pèunta ‘d pi, ‘na schèla,<br />
e’ cambaròun da stènd i pan, lanzúl,<br />
fudrètti, sugamèn, caméisi, tvai,<br />
aquè ’un u s pérd, mo alazò u n’è una schèla?<br />
a luméga, sò, pièn,<br />
da no sguilé, cs’èll ch’ l'è st’udòur? cm’e’ fóss<br />
acid fènich, tintéura, e tótt chi létt,<br />
in féila, biènch, dò ch’a so vnéu? te bsdèl?<br />
e sté sgadézz ma tèra, pr’asughé?<br />
sè, t’é vòia, a n’avdéi<br />
ch’u i n’è zà piò ‘d do dàida? «Ssst! sté zétt! »,<br />
«Mo se sgadézz u n s’i fa gnént», «Sté zétt,<br />
ch’u s’è supéi, andé dò ch’i d’andè»,<br />
«Dém rèta, quèst 1'è un pòst ch’ l’è mèi no stèi»,<br />
«Mo s’un’ergna struzèda», «Mè a v 1'ò détt,<br />
fé vuílt», e alè, ch’a vègga,<br />
csa i èll dlà ‘d cla vedrèda? a m’e’ sintéva,<br />
un’èlta schèla, un rèm, du rèm, ‘na pórta,<br />
la è sno custèda, u n gn’è niseun? ò vést<br />
e’ 1ómm sòtta una bóssla, ò busé, «Avènti,<br />
vní ‘vènti, a v faz ‘na stàisa?»,<br />
la déva dréinta m’un maz ‘d chèrti, «A n pòs»,<br />
«Zincmella frènch», «U n’è pr’i bócch, ò préssia»,<br />
«Duv’iv d’andè?», «D’in èlt, dò ch’ 1'è una schèla?»,<br />
«Drétt me vòst nès, arví cla pórta», «Adio,<br />
mo vò, ènca vò, nu sté spitè, scapé,<br />
u i è zà un pacéugh aquè», «Eh, a 1 so purtròp,<br />
1'è una chèsa, mè, quèsta, quant e’ pióv<br />
a chin mètt dimpartótt dal caldarètti»,<br />
e la zénta i capéss sémpra a 1’arvérsa,<br />
‘s’ut caldarètti, mo ta n la sint sòtta,<br />
aquè sòtta, ta n sint cmè un animèli<br />
ch’e’ lènsa? gnént, va 1à, ‘s’ut zcòrr, piotòst<br />
adès aquè, quèst 1'è 1'éultum pianètt,<br />
e sté purtòun 1'è srèd, però adlà i zcòrr,<br />
l’è scap un camarir, a m so infilé,<br />
i éva fini ‘d magnè, mo una tavlèda,<br />
i bacaiéva, un fómm, i n m’à gnénch vést,<br />
ò imbòcch un curidéur,<br />
sta pórta u i è la cèva dréinta, vdémma,<br />
a i ò inzècch ènch’ stavolta, un souraschèla,<br />
e alasò u i è un batóss, a m’i so ciap,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
it’s ajar, isn’t there anyone here? I saw<br />
the light under a doorbell, I rang,” Come in,<br />
come in, should I lay them out for you?<br />
she was shuffling a deck <strong>of</strong> cards, “I can’t,”<br />
“Just five thousand lire,” “It’s not the money, I’m in a hurry,”<br />
“Where do you have to go?” “Up higher, where’s a staircase?”<br />
“Follow your nose, open that door,” “Goodbye,<br />
and you, you too, don’t stay here waiting, come away,<br />
it’s already a morass,” “Ah. You don’t have to tell me,<br />
this is a house, and I, this is, and when it rains,<br />
I have to put bowls all over the place,”<br />
and people are always getting things half-assed backwards,<br />
what good are basins and bowls? can’t you hear it down below,<br />
right down here, don’t you hear how it sounds like an animal<br />
gasping? no response, fine then, what’s the point <strong>of</strong> talking, in any<br />
case,<br />
this is the final landing,<br />
and this huge door is shut, but there’s talking behind it,<br />
a waiter came out, he slipped past me,<br />
they’d finished eating, it was quite a group,<br />
they were squabbling, a cloud <strong>of</strong> smoke, they didn’t even see me,<br />
I made my way to a hallway,<br />
and this door? there’s a key inside, let’s see,<br />
I could have guessed it, stairs,<br />
and up there, a trapdoor, I grabbed it,<br />
I braced myself against the wall, I hefted myself up,<br />
and this? it’s like walking inside a cloud,<br />
it’s filled with tufts <strong>of</strong> wool, it’s Pia’s house,<br />
Pia the mattress-maker, and that curl over there<br />
is a railing, at least my vision’s still sharp, above<br />
it’s all horsehair, quiet now, who’s moaning?<br />
“Are you hurt?” there’s two <strong>of</strong> them, “What do you want?” “Is it<br />
Nando?”<br />
“No, please excuse me, I was just passing through,”<br />
“Get the hell out <strong>of</strong> here,” she had covered her face<br />
with her hands, and now where?<br />
stay calm, beyond that net is a door,<br />
with a bolt that’s all rusted, this is a bitch,<br />
come on, up and down, up and down, that’s right, to get it to budge,<br />
all it needs, come on, up and down, and pull,<br />
that’s it, it gave, hurry, come on, unbelievable!<br />
I tripped, I came close to falling, it’s pitch dark,<br />
and I’m not finding the switch, here it is, right here,<br />
but this stone feels like tufa, and hanging from it, up high there,<br />
is a rabbit stuffed with straw,<br />
83
84 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
pi còuntra e’ méur, a m so tiràt sò ‘d pais,<br />
e aquè? l’era cmè caminé t’na nóvla,<br />
tótta lèna scàrmiéda; l’è la chèsa<br />
dla Pia di mataràz, e alè che rézz<br />
l’è una ringhira, ò un òc ormai, ad sòura<br />
1'è tótta créina, zétt, chi ch’ s’alaménta?<br />
«A stè mèl ?», mo i è in déu, «Csa vut ?», «L’è Nando ?»,<br />
«No, ‘i da scusé, a paséva da què»,<br />
«Tót de caz!», li la s’era cvért’ la faza<br />
sal mèni, e adès dù s val?<br />
‘ta bón, adlà ‘d cla ràida, l’è una pórta,<br />
s’un carnàz tótt ruznéid, quèst l’è una bés-cia,<br />
dài pò, sò e zò, sò e zò, acsè, da smóval,<br />
u i vó, mo e’ vén, sémpra sò e zò e tirè,<br />
ècco, l’è vnéu, andémma, dài, ‘zidénti!<br />
ò inzampighé, che un èlt pó a casch, l’è un schéur,<br />
e a n tróv e’ scròch dla luce, ècco, l’è què,<br />
mo quèst ‘l’è tóff, e tachèda sò ‘lè<br />
una pèla ad cunéi sla paia dréinta,<br />
una canèla ad gòmma m’un ciód, bòci,<br />
fiasch, lègna, telaràgn, l’è una cantéina,<br />
o ch’a zavèri? no, l’è bòtti, quèlli,<br />
ch’a m so s-cènt bèla al gambi,<br />
schèli e schèli, ò s-ciupè par avní réss,<br />
che s’ la s’inféila aquè<br />
l’è la mórta de sòrgh, mo cmè ch’ò fat?<br />
csèll ch’u m suzéd?<br />
porca boia, u n m’avrà mégga indurmént<br />
ènca mu mè? no, mo va là, che préima<br />
ò batú ‘na zuchéda, sint che gnòch,<br />
èlt che indurmént, spétta, no, ècco, a i so,<br />
gnént, a véngh da la basa,<br />
ènca al chèsi, i palàz, l’è di scaléin,<br />
ch’u i aréiva un burdèl,<br />
mo quant u s’à e’ nervòus,<br />
ch’u n s ragiòuna, ‘ta bon,<br />
a so pas un spaghètt, e sò mal schèli<br />
dop a ridéva da par mè, mè déggh<br />
ch’a sarò pò un pataca, mo adès basta,<br />
basta, la è pasa, a so quasò d’in èlt,<br />
quant u s pò guardè ad sòtta, lasa pò,<br />
ènca s’u i è póch d’avdài, mo u s téira e’ fiè,<br />
sno che la n déura, sint, l’aria la è griva,<br />
i calzéun i s’ataca,<br />
e’ casca d’ogni tènt un calzinàz,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
a rubber hose on a nail, bottles, wine flasks, wood, spider webs,<br />
it’s a wine cellar,<br />
or am I delirious? no, there are wine barrels,<br />
my legs are killing me,<br />
stairs and more stairs, I’m going to collapse trying to get to the end,<br />
because if the water gets down here,<br />
I’ll drown like a rat, how did I get here?<br />
what is happening to me?<br />
Damn, could he have hypnotized me too?<br />
no, forget it, first<br />
I banged my head, can you feel that lump?<br />
you can just forget about sleep, wait, no, here, there’s<br />
nothing, I’m coming up from the plains,<br />
even the houses, the villas, they’re steps,<br />
a little boy is coming this way,<br />
when you’re a nervous wreck,<br />
and not thinking straight, stay calm now,<br />
I just had a good scare, and coming up the stairs later<br />
I was all alone laughing, I mean,<br />
what an imbecile, but enough <strong>of</strong> that now,<br />
enough, it’s passed, I’m way up here,<br />
when you can see down below, or even if not,<br />
even if there’s not much to see, at least you can take a deep breath,<br />
but it doesn’t last, feel it, it’s humid,<br />
my pants are sticking, every so <strong>of</strong>ten a piece <strong>of</strong> plaster falls,<br />
there it is, look at that mark on the pavement,<br />
down below there, it’s getting bigger, it’s here already,<br />
you can’t get away from it, you can’t escape,<br />
but you can get used to it, plus there’s not any choice,<br />
on your haunches and climbing,<br />
even when there’s nowhere else to go, when there’s nothing left to<br />
say,<br />
it seems like you’re trapped, then, if you look closely,<br />
in the back, there’s a staircase,<br />
how many times has this happened to me, and you run up them<br />
in a frenzy,<br />
after awhile you’re there all over again, here is the wall,<br />
here too, it’s all wall, but this time,<br />
you stay there, looking down, but no, it’s never going to end,<br />
there could even be a hidden door,<br />
like right now, you’ve got to pay attention to every little nook and<br />
cranny,<br />
the slightest creaking, matches would really be a help now,<br />
but they’re not lighting, the tips are all soggy, wait a second,<br />
let me see, this skinny hanging cord,<br />
85
86 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
l’è li, vèrda cla macia se sulèr,<br />
alè ad sòtta, ch’ la s slèrga, la è zà què,<br />
ta n’i scap, ta n t sgavàgn,<br />
mo u s’i fa l’òs, pu u i è póch da capè,<br />
pi te chéul e andè sò,<br />
ènch’ quant u n s va piò invéll, ch’u n s pò mai déi,<br />
u t pèr d’ès intraplèd, pu a guardè bén,<br />
in fònd u i è una schèla,<br />
quant vólti u m’è suzèst, e t vé sò ‘d féuga,<br />
dop un pó ta i si dl’èlt, aquè l’è méur,<br />
ènca què, l’‘e tótt méur, stavólta mò,<br />
t sté ’lé, a ócc bas, invíci no, mai zéd,<br />
u i putrébb ès ’na pórta mascarèda,<br />
cmè ‘dès, bsògna stè ‘ténti ènch’ m’un ciaplètt,<br />
m’un scròch i furminènt, ch’i m farébb bén,<br />
mo i n zènd, al cróccli al s’è spaplèdi, spétta,<br />
fam avdài, sta curdléina<br />
u n sarà una marlètta? ció, la s’éirva<br />
dabón, l’è tótt scaléin, a vagh ch’a vòul,<br />
a rógg, a chènt, ch’a so stunèd, pazinzia,<br />
u n sint niseun, e alà u i è un’èlta schèla,<br />
ch’a i so zà pas da què, o no? i póst ormai,<br />
tanimódi l’è chèsi,<br />
i è tótt cumpàgn, 1'è cumè fè e’ zéir dl’óca,<br />
mo me, basta tní bota,<br />
fintènt che li la è sòtta, orca, ò vést bén?<br />
bèla, puzèda alè, cmè una putèna,<br />
u n m’era ‘ncòura capitè, i la à lasa<br />
di muradéur, la fa rinséida, quèsta,<br />
la dòndla, e quasò in zéima cìapès bén,<br />
a scavèlch la finèstra,<br />
‘na sèla, avènti, un’èlta schèla, ad mèrum,<br />
se tinimèn d’utòun, u s va da sgnéur,<br />
pu un’èlta, a n finéss mai, e tè csa vut?<br />
nu scróllti aquè, mòl fràid, u m’a dluvié,<br />
u i amanchéva un chèn, córr, dài, va véa,<br />
va te caséin, che invíci mè a m’arpòuns,<br />
bsògna fè tapa, d’ogni tènt, cumè,<br />
a n’ò méggh’ piò vint’an, ècco, a so pòst,<br />
mè u m basta zéinch minéut,<br />
mo quant’èll ch’a vagh sò? adès a tach,<br />
sémpra acsè, s’a m’aférum, dop pr’un pó,<br />
la testa, un mulinèl, u i sarà pò<br />
da qualche pèrta e’ sótt,<br />
ch’a n gn’apa d’arivé? mo sótt dabón,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
wouldn’t this be a latch, hey, it opens,<br />
it sure does, it’s a tiny staircase, I’m taking <strong>of</strong>f,<br />
I’m yelling, singing, me, even though I’m tone deaf, patience,<br />
no one’s making any noise, and there’s another staircase over there,<br />
didn’t I already pass through here already? or not? places, at any<br />
rate,<br />
so many <strong>of</strong> them are the same, they’re all alike, it’s a wild goosechase,<br />
but I’m, banging my head was bad enough,<br />
as long as it’s down below, Jesus, did I see right?<br />
beautiful, all spread out like a whore,<br />
I hadn’t understood yet, the stone masons<br />
had left it there, it means I can do it,<br />
it’s swaying, and up here at the top, hold tight now,<br />
I climb through the window,<br />
a meeting room, keep going, another staircase, it’s marble,<br />
with brass railings, it’s easy street,<br />
then another, they just keep going on and on, and you, what do<br />
you want?<br />
don’t you shake all over me, it’s complete drenched, you got me wet,<br />
the only thing missing was the dog, go, go on, scat,<br />
you can go to hell, but I’m going to rest,<br />
you’ve got to catch your breath every once in awhile,<br />
I’m not twenty anymore, all right then, much better,<br />
all I need is five minutes,<br />
just how steep is this? I’m starting now,<br />
it’s always like this, if I stop, after awhile,<br />
my head starts spinning like a top, there’s got to be<br />
some place, somewhere, that’s dry,<br />
you think you’re ever going to get there?<br />
but it’s dry, I’m telling you,<br />
dry as a walnut,<br />
with dust like that fluff under the bed,<br />
on those curled-up notecards<br />
on the dresser mirror, and then even there,<br />
are you so sure that the water’s not going to come?<br />
I don’t know, they’re all good questions, who can reply?<br />
but there is one in particular, and that question, if we meet,<br />
not him, he doesn’t control a thing, with all his chitchat,<br />
he’s a pawn, no, it’s the ones who are above him,<br />
the ones who really run things, the ones you could have the talk with,<br />
two words for you: why me?<br />
because when you think about it,<br />
this is a big deal, it’s way too big,<br />
I’m here, it seems to me, I was selected at random,<br />
87
88 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
sótt cmè una néusa,<br />
sla pòrbia ch’ la fa i rózzal sòtta e’ lèt,<br />
sal cartuléini a rézz<br />
mi véidar dla cardenza, e pu ènca ’lè<br />
sichéur che 1’aqua la n’arivarà?<br />
a n’e’ so, l’è tótt’ dmandi, chi ch’ pò ‘rspònd?<br />
mo u i n’è óna, mè quèlla, s’a incuntréss,<br />
no léu, ch’u n cmanda gnént, tótt’ la su ciacra,<br />
1'è una pedéina, no, quéi ch’i i è sòura,<br />
quéi ch’i cmanda dabón, putèi fè un zcòurs,<br />
do paróli: parchè própia mu mè?<br />
che quant a i péns,<br />
quèst’ 1'è una roba gròsa, tropa gròsa,<br />
mè què, sgònd mè, a so vnù ciapèd par chès,<br />
l’è un quiproquò,<br />
che s’a i déggh e’ mi nóm, a so sichéur,<br />
i starà alè a guardèm: e tu chi sei?<br />
1'è quèll ch’a v vléva déi, chi ch’a so mè?<br />
a n so gnént, mè, zò, a còunt cmè e’ do ‘d bastòun,<br />
ch’a patéss ènch’ d’otite, pu a i vèggh póch,<br />
e sa sti ucèl, ch’i mè casch, ò una lénta<br />
tótta cripèda, quèll ch’a gí vuílt<br />
l’è un èlt, chi sa, magari u m s’asarméa,<br />
mo a n so mè, e adès farmé,<br />
ch’ò una vòia ‘d butém stuglèd ma tèra,<br />
e stè ‘lè quant u m pèr, a n dmand ‘na masa,<br />
e dop, s’u s pò, qualche scaléin d’inzò,<br />
vérs chèsa, che ènca ‘lè mè u m basta póch,<br />
la partéida ma la televisiòun,<br />
‘na gita d’ogni tènt, a vrébb avdài<br />
al Dolomiti, ch’a n’i so mai stè,<br />
dal nòti andè a luméghi, s’ l’à piuvéu,<br />
ch’a m pis, e quèst e quèll, e avènti a zcòrr,<br />
da par mè, e u n suzéd gnént,<br />
ch’i n’apa da capéi, i m’avdirà pò,<br />
o ch’i n guèrda, dò ch’i è? ma chéi ch’a 1 déggh<br />
che mè què, quèst l’è un sbai, a n gn’éintar gnént!<br />
Ciacri<br />
O insugné mèl stanòta, dal gran béssi,<br />
mo cmè tótt fé e’ cafè? vè ach pisarèla,<br />
l’è tótt’ al vólti acsè, ma tè u t vó óna<br />
ch’ la t vénga dri dò t pas, mo èl dóbbi, zò,<br />
ta n’apa da imparè, ch’ t si bèla vèc,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
it’s a quid pro quo,<br />
which if I were to tell them my name, I’m sure,<br />
they’d be up there looking down at me:<br />
and you, who are you?<br />
that’s what I wanted to say to you, who am I?<br />
I’m nothing, I’m, let’s be honest, I’m worth less than the two <strong>of</strong> clubs,<br />
the otitis makes my ears buzz, I can’t see well,<br />
even with these glasses, they fell <strong>of</strong>f, one <strong>of</strong> the lenses<br />
is cracked, the one you’re talking about<br />
is not me, who knows, maybe it looks like me,<br />
but it’s not me, and now you’ve stopped,<br />
now when all I want to do is throw myself on the ground,<br />
and stay here as long as I want, I’m not asking much,<br />
and later, if possible, a few stairs down,<br />
toward direction <strong>of</strong> home, even there, I wouldn’t need much,<br />
a game on t.v.<br />
a little trip every once in awhile, I’d like to see<br />
the Dolomites, I’ve never been there,<br />
to go out a few nights collecting snails, if it had rained,<br />
because I like the taste <strong>of</strong> them, a little bit <strong>of</strong> this and that, and to<br />
keep talking,<br />
by myself, with nothing happening,<br />
but there’s no way they understand, they see me all right,<br />
or aren’t they looking, where are they? who am I going to tell<br />
that I’m here, that this is all a mistake<br />
which has npothing to do with me.<br />
Small Talk<br />
I had bad dreams all night, all these snakes,<br />
how did you make this c<strong>of</strong>fee? look at this, spills,<br />
every time it’s like this, with you<br />
you’ve got to have someone<br />
there with you every second, is it possible<br />
you’re never going to learn, you’re already old,<br />
and don’t walk on it, we need a rag here,<br />
leave it alone, I’ll do it, with my bones aching,<br />
listen, do you hear it, it’s eight already, I’m going out to do some<br />
shopping.<br />
my gosh, the sirocco, I feel it too,<br />
my bones are aching,<br />
Clara, is it true<br />
that your brother has bought,<br />
that he wants to go live at Poggio? has he gone crazy?<br />
89
90 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
e nu caméini sòura, aquè u i vó e’ straz,<br />
lasa ’lè, ch’a faz mè, ch’ò un mèl tagli òsi,<br />
sint, l’è zà agli òt, a vagh a fè un pó ’d spàisa,<br />
orca che curinaza, a l so ènca mè<br />
ch’u m dól agli òsi,<br />
Clara, ció, dabón<br />
che e’ tu fradèl l’à còumpar,<br />
ch’e’ vó ’ndè stè me Pózz? mo l’è dvént mat?<br />
csa val a fè me Pózz?<br />
che mè a n’i starébb gnénca sa che grèpp,<br />
e la su mòi, la tu cugnèda, cs’èll?<br />
la è vlú ’ndè li? alòura l’è un èlt zcòurs,<br />
ció, s’u i pis alasò, l’è par la nòna?<br />
la mama ad léu, a l so, la sta ’lasò,<br />
ò capí tótt, sa tri burdéll, la nòna<br />
l’è un bèl apòz, cumè,<br />
zért ch’ènca lòu però l’è un cambiament,<br />
mo i è zóvan, pu, sè, zò, ch’u s sta bén<br />
ènca mé Pózz, d’in èlt, aria piò féina,<br />
a m férum da Nazario,<br />
mo ènca tè fat avdài, a s’incuntrémm<br />
sémpra par chès,<br />
Caterina, dú vét?<br />
t’é una préssia, te bsdèl? chéi t’é te bsdèl?<br />
Giani? ch’a si parént, un pó a la lònga,<br />
a si fiúl ad cuséin, o no? cum stal?<br />
che mè, sgònd mè, quèll’ l’è una malatea,<br />
léu, l’è du an, da quant ch’ mórt’ la Jole,<br />
l’à fat un cambiamént, u n’è piò léu,<br />
tla butàiga u n gn’è mai,<br />
l’è sémpra te cafè, pasti, luvéri,<br />
biciaréin, che acsè, zà ch’ l’è ’nca un òm griv,<br />
acsè e’ vó dèi mazès,<br />
amo tè t déi quèll ch’a déggh mè, l’è li,<br />
l’è la su mòi, la Franca, ch’ la à sbaiè,<br />
li ma Giani la n l’à mai capéi, léu<br />
l’è un pó sgustòus, sè, u n’i va mai bén gnént,<br />
mo u n’è catéiv, bsògna savàil ciapè,<br />
t n’i pò dè sémpra còuntra,<br />
ta n pò sémpra ragnè, dop, dài e dài,<br />
e’ vén fura una Jole,<br />
ch’ènca ’lè, zò, la Franca la à sbaiè,<br />
tótt chi spatéran,<br />
ò capéi, sè, sfughès, mo zérti robi
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
what’s he going to do up at Poggio?<br />
I wouldn’t go up there either, up on that cliff,<br />
and his wife, she’s your cousin, or what?<br />
she wanted to go up there?<br />
well then that’s a different story,<br />
if she likes it up there, it’s because <strong>of</strong> the grandmother?<br />
his mother, I know, she lives up there,<br />
I understand completely, with three kids, a grandmother,<br />
now that’s something you can count on, why wouldn’t it be?<br />
but, certainly, even for them, it’s still a big change,<br />
but they’re young, then, yes, it’s true, you do feel good up there,<br />
even at Poggio,<br />
up there, the air’s better,<br />
I’m going to Nazario’s,<br />
you too, drop by and see me,<br />
they only time we see each other is by accident,<br />
Caterina, where are you going?<br />
you’re in such a hurry, to the hospital, who do you have in the<br />
hospital?<br />
Gianni? you’re related, a little distant,<br />
you’re children <strong>of</strong> cousins, or no? how is he?<br />
which I think, in my opinion that is a sickness,<br />
he, it’s been two years, since Yole died,<br />
there was a big change, he’s not himself anymore,<br />
he’s never in the shop,<br />
he’s always at the cafe, sweets, it’s gluttony,<br />
shots, which with that, he’s a heavy man to start with,<br />
he’s going to kill himself like that,<br />
but you’re saying what’ I’m saying, it’s her,<br />
it’s his wife, Franca, who was at fault,<br />
she, with Gianni, she never understood him he’s<br />
a little prickly, yes, nothing’s ever right<br />
but he’s not mean, you have to know how to take him,<br />
you can’t always be contradicting him,<br />
you can’t always argue,<br />
then afterwards, little by little,<br />
a Yole shows up,<br />
which even there, then, Franca was wrong,<br />
all the scenes,<br />
I understand, yes, letting <strong>of</strong>f steam, but certain things,<br />
you can’t go around town saying,<br />
he hadn’t even moved out, yes,<br />
he did that for the boy, yes, but however in any case<br />
they’re together, you, now, stay another second,<br />
how can I say it, to stop trying,<br />
91
92 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
ta n li pò ’ndè dí in piaza,<br />
ch’u n’era gnénca scap da chèsa, sè,<br />
u l’à fat pr’e’ burdèl, mo però intent<br />
a sté insén, e tè ’lòura sta un pó bóna,<br />
cm’òi da déi? nu l ziménta,<br />
se t rógg l’è pézz, dop u la ciapa ad péunta,<br />
mo la Franca zért robi la n gn’aréiva,<br />
no, t’é rasòun, l’è zchéurs, quést, l’è fadeiga,<br />
bsògna pruvè, da ’d fura a sémm brèv tótt,<br />
mo quant t si ’lè, che t vaid e’ tu maréid,<br />
mè a so rivàta, a s’avdémm, Caterina,<br />
ta la é frèsca, Nazario, la sunzézza?<br />
tri budéll, no, fa quatar,<br />
e un pó ’d grasúl, che ma Pèval i i pis,<br />
ir ta m’é dè una chèrna ch’ la n s magnéva,<br />
ò capéi da fè e’ bród, mo l’era stòppa,<br />
ch’ ta l sé ’nca tè, zò, nu fa la cumédia,<br />
csa i éintral e’ castrè?<br />
e’ castrè l’era bón, a t’ò détt gnént?<br />
mo la chèrna, Pèval u s’è incaplè,<br />
u la vó tèndra léu, cm’a t l’òi da déi?<br />
cumè, viziéd, ta m tó ’nca in zéir?<br />
e tè?<br />
Bina, mo dò t si stè ch’ l’è un témp ch’a n t vèggh,<br />
ah, t’é viazè? duvò? pu bén, che mè,<br />
quèll che là u n s móv e gnénca,<br />
che invíci u m pisarébb, mè, d’ogni tènt,<br />
andè in zéir, vdai dal robi, mo léu sè,<br />
e adès du vét? mè invíci ò da pasè<br />
da l’Elda a tó i spinàz,<br />
u i è ’nca al rósli?<br />
mèz chéll, ch’agli è ’nca tropi, ècco, acsè, basta,<br />
dò ch’ ta l’é mèss ma Nino? l’è te lèt?<br />
sla févra? un’influenza? amo la è fura,<br />
la è te lèt ènch’ la Flavia, la à un mamòun,<br />
li pu la fómma ènca, ch’ a i e’ déggh sémpra, mè, u t fa mèl fumé,<br />
l’è un vlén, sè, mo va a zcòrr sa li, che or’èll?<br />
l’è al dis, dabón? ch’a n n’ò mélla da fè,<br />
Elda, a s’vdémm,<br />
oh, la Dolores, spétta,<br />
Dolores, ò una roba da dmandèt,<br />
t’é préssia? l’è un minéut,<br />
tè ta l’é cnunsú bén Misirúl, no?<br />
che irisàira émm ragnè, se mi maréid,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
if you scream and yell it’s worse, then they’re pointing fingers at you,<br />
but Franca, certain things, she just never figured out,<br />
no, you’re right, it’s all just talk, all this, it wears you out,<br />
you do the best you can, from the outside, we all look good<br />
but when it’s you, seeing your husband,<br />
here I am now, I’ll be seeing you, Caterina,<br />
do you have any that’s fresh, Nazario? sausage?<br />
three good long pieces, no, make it four,<br />
and a little <strong>of</strong> the crackling, which Paolo likes,<br />
yesterday you gave me a piece <strong>of</strong> meat that was inedible,<br />
I used it to make broth, I’m telling you it was tough,<br />
you know it too, come one, don’t put me on,<br />
what’s steer meat got to do with it?<br />
the steer meat was good, I didn’t tell you?<br />
but the meat, Paolo got mad,<br />
he likes it tender, he, how can I explain it to you?<br />
what do you mean he’s spoiled? are you pulling my leg?<br />
and what about you?<br />
Bina, and where have you been, I haven’t seen you in ages?<br />
oh, a trip? where? how nice, and me,<br />
mine won’t budge,<br />
but now I’d like to, I’d like, every once in awhile<br />
to take a trip, see some things but him, sure,<br />
and where are you going now? I’ve got to go to Elda’s<br />
to get some spinach,<br />
do you have some greens too?<br />
a half kilo, which is even too much, there, that’s good,<br />
where did you leave Nino? he’s in bed?<br />
with a fever? the flu? oh well, it’s going around,<br />
Flavia’s sick in bed too, she’s got a bad cold,<br />
on top <strong>of</strong> it, she smokes,<br />
which I’m always telling her, I do, smoking’s not good for you,<br />
it’s poison, sure, try talking to her, what time is it?<br />
it’s ten? really? I’ll see you<br />
oh there’s Dolores, wait,<br />
Dolores, I’ve got one thing to ask you,<br />
are you in a hurry, it’ll take just a second,<br />
you knew Missiroli well, right?<br />
because last night we were arguing, with my husband,<br />
he says, he is so stubborn,<br />
he says that he came from Verucchio, which I don’t know where<br />
he gets these things, he was from Bellaria, wasn’t he?<br />
see, see there, that I’m right, I was sure <strong>of</strong> it,<br />
I remember, your mother, worked twenty years in his shop,<br />
but Paolo when he digs his heels in, I know, it’s late,<br />
93
94 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
léu dis, mo l’é un tistòun,<br />
dis ch’ l’avnéva da Vrócc, che mè a n’e’ so<br />
’ddò òch’u li téira fura zérti robi,<br />
l’era ’d Belaria, o no?<br />
vitt, ch’ò rasòun? mo mè a séra sichéura,<br />
a m’arcórd, la tu mà<br />
la à lavurè vint’an tla su butàiga,<br />
mo Pèval quant e’ péunta, a l so, l’è tèrd,<br />
émm préssia tótt, saléutmi la tu mà,<br />
che mè a déggh sémpra ch’a vi vní a truvèla,<br />
pu a la armand, a la armand, e’ pasa i dè,<br />
mo préima o dop a véngh,<br />
e quèst l’è Giorgio,<br />
t saré cuntént? ò vést la tu Milena<br />
in divéisa, ció, la fa una fighéura,<br />
la va ’nca se mutòur? la guéida li?<br />
t’é capéi, mè a n guéid gnénca la carióla,<br />
però, la n’era mèstra la tu fióla?<br />
ah, u n’i pieséva da fè scóla, e alòura,<br />
ch’ la farà ènca carira, òz u n gn’è piò<br />
nisun impediment, òz una dòna,<br />
ta n li vaid? al fa tótt, ènca e’ suldè,<br />
la va par lòu, Giorgio, u n gn’è gnént da fè,<br />
saléutmi la Graziella,<br />
e adès aquè<br />
ch’a n mu n zcórda, e’ sèl gròs, e’ zóccar, l’óli,<br />
’na savunètta, ch’u i n’è ormai ’na scaia,<br />
’na bósta ad boratalco,<br />
ècco, l’Idrolitina, ch’a m zcurdéva,<br />
e a ví tó ’nca de mél, ò un pó ’d rampàzna,<br />
che se lat chèld e’ s-ciòi,<br />
e pu avrébb da pasè da la Lucia,<br />
ch’ la sta alazò a l’inféran, spétta, mo<br />
u n’è li, la Lucia, quèlla che là?<br />
ch’a stéva pr’avnì zò da tè, e alòura<br />
cla sutèna t la é fata? no? a l savéva,<br />
tè t prumètt, tè t prumètt, u n gn’è sà st<strong>of</strong>a?<br />
dabón? ch’ l’è una piò bèla fantaséa,<br />
e alòura u n’i vén gnént?<br />
orca, zà, t’é rasòun, ’na bèlza, bló<br />
o un maròun schéur, andémm insén da Miro,<br />
ènca adès, ta n pò ’dès?<br />
admatéina, Lucia, a s’avdémm ’dmatéina,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
we’re all in a hurry, say hello to your mother for me,<br />
which I’m always saying I’m going to stop by and visit,<br />
then I put it <strong>of</strong>f, put it <strong>of</strong>f, days go by,<br />
but sooner or later I’m coming,<br />
and here’s Giorgio,<br />
you’ll be happy to know that I saw your Milena<br />
in her uniform, oh my gosh, she cuts quite a figure,<br />
does she even ride the motorbike? she drives?<br />
you understand I wouldn’t even know how to steer a wheelbarrow,<br />
but wasn’t she a teacher, your daughter?<br />
ah, she didn’t like school, oh well,<br />
which would be a nice career, today there aren’t any<br />
obstacles, today a woman,<br />
don’t you see them? they do everything, even the military,<br />
they do what they want, Giorgio, what can you do about it?<br />
say hello to Graziella for me,<br />
and now, here,<br />
so I don’t forget, some coarse salt, sugar, oil,<br />
a bar <strong>of</strong> soap, the other one’s just a sliver at this point,<br />
a packet <strong>of</strong> talcum powder,<br />
here, fizz tablets, which I’d forgotten all about,<br />
and I want to get some honey, too, I’m a little hoarse,<br />
which if you put it in some hot milk,<br />
and then I should go and see Lucia<br />
who lives so far down there it’s the end <strong>of</strong> the earth, wait now,<br />
isn’t that Lucia, the one over there?<br />
I was just about do go down to see you, and so<br />
have you finished the skirt? no? I knew it,<br />
you promised, you promised, wasn’t there enough material?<br />
really? it’s such a pretty pattern,<br />
and now nothing can be done with it,<br />
goodness, you’re right, a flounce, either blue<br />
or a dark brown, let’s go together to Miro’s,<br />
how about now? you can’t go now?<br />
tomorrow then, Lucia, I’ll see you tomorrow,<br />
bread, no, there’s yesterday’s<br />
which we throw away and people are dying <strong>of</strong> hunger,<br />
it’s a crime, I’m ashamed, I am, but him, sure,<br />
if he doesn’t have fresh bread, all right, fine,<br />
a roll, for that pain-in-the-neck, bread’s good,<br />
even the next day bread’s good, why wouldn’t it be,<br />
the flavor comes out more,<br />
95
96 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
e e’pèn, gnént, u i è quèll d’ir,<br />
ch’a n butémm véa, e u i è chi ch’ mór ad fèma,<br />
l’è un delétt, a m vargògn, mè, mo léu, sè,<br />
s’u n’à e’ pèn frèsch, va bén, zò, una rusètta<br />
ma che nuiòus, ch’ l’è bón ènca e’ dè dop<br />
e’ pèn, cumè, pu e’ fa ’nca piò rinséida,<br />
t’é parcè tè? admèn e’ fa la nàiva,<br />
alòura addò ch’ l’avnéva Misirúl?<br />
che irisàira ta m’é magnè la faza,<br />
da Belaria, la m l’à détt la Dolores,<br />
mo pu i l sa tótt, sno tè ta n’e’ savévi,<br />
e t vlévi avài rasòun, quant ta t’i mètt,<br />
t si piò intipatich,<br />
ò incòuntar Giorgio in piaza,<br />
no, Giorgio ad Magalòt, che sa cla fióla,<br />
e’ pareva che, brèva, la piò brèva<br />
tla scóla, chi sa dò ch’ la arivarà,<br />
e adès la fa la guèrdia, bèla roba,<br />
la à studié, la à studié<br />
par fè al contravenziòun, ch’ la sta piò mèl<br />
sa cla divéisa, una ragaza, zò,<br />
mo va là, a fè la guèrdia,<br />
pu che brètt sla visira, tótt calchèd,<br />
ch’ la à sno i cavéll ad bèl,<br />
(cs’èll ch’a magnémm?)<br />
u i è n’cóura un gòzzal ’d bród, sa sté pèn déur<br />
a faz una stuvèda,<br />
e du budéll ’d sunzézza,<br />
ch’ la è sémpra bóna la stuvèda, sint,<br />
ò ragnè sa Nazario, mo sté bród<br />
l’è specièl, vé che stèli,<br />
un budèl, lè ènca trop, mè, e quést che què<br />
l’è du grasúl, però nu magni tótt,<br />
i t fa mèl, tótt, lasni un pó par stasàira,<br />
basta, zò, che dop ta n’i digeréss,<br />
a n t’i tóggh piò, a zéur, a n t’i tóggh piò,<br />
che quant t sté mèl u n s chèmpa,<br />
t la vó una pàira? no? ch’ la t lèva dréinta,<br />
a t la sbózz mè, una fètta,<br />
sint che roba, un butír,<br />
u t’è scap l’òura?<br />
va là che ta n pérd gnént, tè ta n t vaid mégga,<br />
sa cla televisiòun t si cmè un arlózz,<br />
che ta m fé vní un nervòus, cambia, ta n t stóff?
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
you set the table? pigs do have wings,<br />
so where did Missiroli come from,<br />
last night you just about bit my head <strong>of</strong>f,<br />
from Bellaria, Dolores told me,<br />
but then everybody knows it, it’s only you that didn’t know,<br />
and you just had to be right, when you dig in,<br />
you are truly unpleasant,<br />
I ran into Giorgio uptown,<br />
no, Giorgio Magalotti, who with that daughter,<br />
it seemed like, she did so very well, she was the best<br />
in school, who knows how far she’ll go?<br />
and now she’s a meter maid, nice, huh?<br />
she studied, she studied,<br />
to hand out parking tickets, and she looks awful<br />
in that uniform, a girl, come on now,<br />
get <strong>of</strong>f it, a traffic <strong>of</strong>ficer,<br />
then that cap with the visor, it’s all shoved up inside there,<br />
the only nice feature she has is her hair,<br />
what should we eat?<br />
there’s still a few drops <strong>of</strong> broth, which with the stale bread,<br />
I’ll make some zuppa di pane,<br />
and two pieces <strong>of</strong> sausage,<br />
who says zuppa di pane isn’t good? listen,<br />
I complained to Nazario, oh this broth,<br />
turned out especially good,<br />
just look at those beautiful little tear drops floating inside,<br />
one piece <strong>of</strong> sausage is evev too much for me,<br />
and here I’ll give you a couple <strong>of</strong> pieces <strong>of</strong> crackling, but don’t eat<br />
it all,<br />
it doesn’t sit well, all <strong>of</strong> it, leave a little for tonight,<br />
that’s enough, come on, then afterwards you won’t digest it,<br />
I’m not going to get it for you anymore, I swear it, I’m not going to<br />
buy it again,<br />
because when you feel bad it’s unbearable,<br />
do you want a pear? no, it’ll clean you out,<br />
I’ll peel it for you, a slice,<br />
just taste this, it’s butter,<br />
why don’t you go out now?<br />
you won’t miss out on anything, you don’t even seem yourself<br />
anymore,<br />
with that television set you’re like a clock,<br />
it makes me jumpy, with all that switching, aren’t you tired <strong>of</strong> it?<br />
when it’s that time, he turns it on,<br />
there could be an earthquake, but he’d still turn it on,<br />
I myself would throw it out the window,<br />
97
98 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
léu quant l’è cl’òura e’ zénd,<br />
e’ pò vní e’ taremòt, mo léu e’ zénd,<br />
ch’a te butarébb vèa da la finestra,<br />
mè, che telecomando,<br />
par stè sintéi, ch’ l’è tótti ciacri, zò,<br />
i n chèva un ragn da un béus, sémpra al stèss’ robi,<br />
e u n a pò dí gnént, bsògna stè zétt, cumè,<br />
l’à da zcòrr chi pataca, lasa andè,<br />
va là, t fé un schiv sa cla televisiòun,<br />
sémpra tachèd alè, mo va un pó in piaza,<br />
va te cafè, va a fè una pasegèda,<br />
a n stagh mai zétta?<br />
l’è lòu ch’i n sta mai zétt, basta, va là,<br />
guèrda quèll t vu, mè a vagh adlà a stiré,<br />
sè, cs’èll ch’a stéir, aquè, vèrda che roba,<br />
ch’i era nóv, sti calzétt, mo cmè ch’us fa?<br />
di béus ch’u i pasa un braz, aquè t’é vòia,<br />
quést i è da buté véa, sémpra acsè, léu,<br />
se una roba la i pis u n la smètt piò,<br />
ènca sta sèrga, vè, ’s’ut rinacè,<br />
quèsta la è ’ndèda, i gómat, èlt che sléis,<br />
u s vaid la fódra, u s’inamoura, léu,<br />
t’na sèrga, sémpra quèlla, sémpra quèlla,<br />
l’ardéus un straz, e dop, t si mat, la zénta,<br />
vè cmè ch’ la l manda, u m fa fè dal fighéuri,<br />
ch’ènca la zénta, s’i badéss par lòu,<br />
no, quèsta, via, a glia bótt tla mundèzza,<br />
u s mitrà quèlla ’d vléut, ch’e’ sta ènca mèi,<br />
mo u n n’à tènti, l’à piò vistí ch’ nè mè,<br />
e avènti pò, vè che muntagna ad roba,<br />
che stiré a n’ò mai vú ’na gran pasiòun,<br />
u m pis piò i férr, mè, lavurè si férr,<br />
a i ò fat un maiòun, an, ch’u s stiméva,<br />
un péunt ad vàird,<br />
e adès fura a daquè,<br />
che s’a n’i stagh dri mè mal robi, léu,<br />
Emma, t guèrd e’ mi órt? u t pis? vén dréinta,<br />
fa e’ zéir, a t véngh arvéi, ta t pórt a chèsa<br />
tri quatar pumidór, che in insalèda,<br />
s’ ta i fé stasàira, ta m giré,<br />
a i mitémm<br />
at sté sachètt, no, ch’i n’è trópp, ta n vaid<br />
quant u i n’è? chi è ch’i i magna?<br />
e a n gn’ò mégga dè gnént, mè u i è dal vólti,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
I would, that remote control,<br />
just sitting there listening to it, it’s all chatter, come on now,<br />
it’s just a big waste <strong>of</strong> time, always the same stuff,<br />
and you can’t say a word, they should be the ones shutting up,<br />
shouldn’t they?<br />
those jerks, they’ve just got to talk, well let them,<br />
come on, you’re, with that television,<br />
always glued to it, go on and go uptown,<br />
go to the cafe, go take a walk,<br />
I never shut up?<br />
it’s them that never shut up, enough, come on now,<br />
watch all you want, I’m going in the other room to iron,<br />
sure, and just what am I ironing? here, look at all this stuff,<br />
which these were brand new, these pants, what am I supposed to do?<br />
holes you could put a hand through, you’ve got to be kidding, here<br />
these should be thrown away, it’s always like this, he,<br />
if he has a certain thing, you can’t tear it away from him,<br />
this suit coat too, look, what’s the use <strong>of</strong> mending it,<br />
this one’s shot, the elbows, never mind worn out,<br />
you can see the lining, he falls in love, he does,<br />
with a jacket, always that one, always that one,<br />
he’s worn it down to a rag, which then people,<br />
look at how she sends him out, he’s making me look bad,<br />
which people too, if they would just mind their own business,<br />
no, this one’s gone, I’m throwing it away,<br />
you could put on some <strong>of</strong> that velour, which would even work<br />
better,<br />
but he’s got so many, he’s got more clothes than I do,<br />
well just keep at it, look at this mountain <strong>of</strong> stuff,<br />
I’ve never had a big love for ironing,<br />
I like knitting better, for me, knitting,<br />
I made him a pullover, last year, which he was proud <strong>of</strong>,<br />
he showed it <strong>of</strong>f,<br />
and now the watering outside,<br />
which if I don’t keep on top <strong>of</strong> things, he,<br />
Emma, come look at my garden? do you like it? come on in,<br />
come take a look, I’ll come and open it, you can take home<br />
three or four tomatoes, which in a salad,<br />
if you use them tonight, will you tell me,<br />
I’ll put them<br />
in this bag, no, it’s not too much, can’t you see<br />
how many there are? who’s going to eat them all?<br />
and it’s not that I haven’t fed him any, I, sometimes,<br />
in the afternoon, a tomato with bread,<br />
99
100 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
e’ dopmezdè, un pumidór se pèn,<br />
pr’imbrènda, a n’e’ lèv gnénca, s’un pó ’d sèl,<br />
e alòura déim, che tè ta i sté tachèda<br />
ma la Giordana, mè ò sintéi dal ciacri,<br />
ènca tè? ch’a so ’rvènza,<br />
fóss stè la Dora, fóss stè la Marina,<br />
che lòu dabón, l’è mèi stè zétt, va là,<br />
un dè a la ò vésta piànz ma la Giordana:<br />
“Ò do surèli che”, la s vargugnéva,<br />
e adès e’ scapa fura,<br />
che mè a n’aréiv a cràidi, gnénca tè?<br />
amo, cumè, la è sémpra stè a e’ su pòst,<br />
u n s’è putéu dí gnént, mai, la su mà<br />
la s stiméva, t si mat, la su Giordana,<br />
e tótt t’un bot, mo l’è quèll ch’a déggh mè,<br />
u i è tènt ad chi pastrócc òz, cmè ch’u s fa<br />
’rvanzè in cinta? e sa chéi? li la n dí gnént,<br />
dis ch’ la n dí gnént, mo u i è chi ch’ déi, e’ pèr,<br />
ta l’é sintí ’nca tè? sa Walter Lucchi,<br />
ch’a n’e’ so, mè, ènca li, s’un òm spusèd,<br />
ch’ la è inteligenta, inteligenta ad chè?<br />
t’é e’ zarvèl, ta n’e’ dróv? e dis che l’Elsa<br />
la sa zà tótt, Walter l’è du tri dè<br />
ch’u n s vaid, l’è fura, ènca ’lè dès cundèla,<br />
do famèi arvinédi,<br />
mo tè stasàira ta t fé un’insalèda,<br />
t’é tólt e’ squaquaròun? l’è la su mórta,<br />
mo pu ta i pò magnè sa quèll ch’u t pèr,<br />
i à un parfómm, sint che roba,<br />
mè invíci a faz agli óvi sfritulèdi<br />
si spinàz, l’è al si, a i vagh a mètt sò ’dès,<br />
mo grezia ad chè, par du tri pumidór?<br />
u i n’è ch’a n’i stémm dri,<br />
a s’avdémm, e saléutmi la Mariula,<br />
una surèla acsè la m vrébb mu mè,<br />
la à al mèno d’ór, e st’èlta vólta, arcórdti,<br />
quant t pas da què, u i è féigh, vè quant u n n’à,<br />
fra dis quéngg dè i è fat,<br />
cumè, l’è prèst, l’è al sèt e mèz sunèdi,<br />
quant t vu magnè? zò, sbréigti, ch’al s’agiàza,<br />
agli è s-ciavéidi? e mètti e’ s‘el, ma tè<br />
u t pis salèd, ch’u n va mégga tènt bén,<br />
a n so sno mè ch’a l déggh, u l dí i dutéur,
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
for a snack, I don’t even wash it, with a little salt,<br />
and so tell me, which you’re near<br />
Giordana, I heard some talk, you too, I was talking to,<br />
it could have been Dora, it could have been Marina,<br />
which they really, it’s better to say nothing,<br />
but come on, one day, I saw her crying to Giordana,<br />
“I have two sisters who. . .” she was ashamed,<br />
and now it comes out, which I just couldn’t believe, you either,<br />
and well, she always did what was expected,<br />
you couldn’t have said a bad word, never, her mother<br />
used to brag, are you crazy, her Giordana,<br />
then out <strong>of</strong> the blue, that’s what I’m saying,<br />
there’s so many <strong>of</strong> these kinds <strong>of</strong> messes these days, how did she<br />
end up<br />
pregnant? and with who? she’s not saying a word,<br />
they say she’s not talking, buy there are some who are saying,<br />
that’s what it seems like,<br />
you heard it too? with Walter Lucchi,<br />
which I don’t know, I, even her, with a married man,<br />
who’s intelligent, so intelligent that,<br />
you’ve got a brain? why don’t you use it? and they say that Elsa<br />
already knows everything, it’s been two or three days<br />
that no one’s seen Walter, he’s away, even there, suiting himself,<br />
two families ruined,<br />
so, you’re going to make a salad tonight, does it give you the runs?<br />
it kills him, but you can eat whatever you want to,<br />
they have such a perfume, smell it,<br />
no, I’m going to make scrambled eggs,<br />
with spinach, it’s six, I’m going in now to get things started, thank<br />
you for what? for two or three tomatoes?<br />
it’s been awhile since we’ve talked,<br />
I’ll see you and say hello to Mariola for me,<br />
I’d love to have a sister like her too,<br />
she can do anything with her hands, and the next time, remember,<br />
when you come by here, there’s figs, look how loaded it is,<br />
in a week-and-a-half or two they’ll be ripe,<br />
what do you mean it’s early, it’s ringing seven-thirty,<br />
when do you want to eat? come on now, hurry up, it’s getting cold,<br />
is it too bland? put in some salt, you<br />
like it salty, which isn’t good for you,<br />
it’s not me saying it, it’s the doctors saying it,<br />
too much salt is bad for you,<br />
101
102 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
troppo sale fa male,<br />
bsògna magnè s-ciavéid,<br />
ch’ l’è pu s-ciavéid par tè, par mè e’ va bén,<br />
t’é sémpra da sbruntlè-tè,<br />
mo magna cal do óvi, e sta un pó zétt,<br />
che invíci mè stasàira a la ví vdai<br />
un pó ’d televisiòun, u i è Millesogni,<br />
dis ch’u s véinz dis migliéun<br />
s’i t cèma me telefan, sè, ò capéi,<br />
mo tè ’nca s’i ciaméss, tè ta n’arspònd,<br />
ta n’arspònd mai, u m tòcca córr mu mè,<br />
ècco, a i sémm, i ravéa, quèsta che què<br />
la i i è ad tótt i brudétt, la zcòrr t’un módi,<br />
u n s capéss gnént, la pzézza, e st’èlt ancòura,<br />
ch’ l’è piò ghignòus, e ma la zénta, u i pis,<br />
i n capéss mégga gnént, la zénta, e adès,<br />
mo cs’èll ch’i fa? mè a déggh-che,<br />
cs’èll ch’i va a strulghè mai, mo fé dal robi,<br />
ch’i ciapa tènt ’d chi bócch, e tè, salàm,<br />
tótti i an, tè ta n sté bén s’ ta n vé a paghè<br />
l’abonament, ch’i s dà, vè quèll ch’i s dà,<br />
vè che roba, e i va ’vènti, no, no, basta,<br />
a m so zà stóffa, mo va là, che or’èll?<br />
l’è al nóv e mèz? dabón, zà al nóv e mèz?<br />
ció, ta l sé cs’èll ch’a t déggh? a vagh a lèt.
Adria Bernardi/Raffaello Baldini<br />
you’ve always got to complain about something, you,<br />
now eat those eggs, and be quiet a second<br />
tonight I’d like to see some television<br />
for a change, A Thousand Dreams is on,<br />
they say someone is going to win ten million<br />
if they call you on the phone, yes, I understand,<br />
but even if they called, you wouldn’t pick it up,<br />
you never answer, you make me run and get it,<br />
here, here we are, they’re starting, this one here,<br />
there’s all possible ways, the way she talks,<br />
you can’t understand anything, she mumbles,<br />
and this one, he’s even worse,<br />
he’s always sneering, and people like him,<br />
people don’t understand anything, and now,<br />
what are they doing? I say that,<br />
what are they racking their brains about? you do stuff,<br />
they win all this money, and you, you numskull,<br />
every year you’re not happy until you march down<br />
and pay, everything-on-the-up-and-up,<br />
the television fee, which then they give us, look what they give us,<br />
look at all that stuff, and they just keeping going on and on, no, no,<br />
that’s enough,<br />
I’m already sick and tired <strong>of</strong> it, come on now, what time is it?<br />
nine-thirty? really? nine-thirty already?<br />
well, you know what I have to say to you? I’m going to bed.<br />
103
A New Annotated <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Carlo Emilio Gadda’s<br />
Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana<br />
by Roberto De Lucca<br />
Roberto de Lucca has been working as a translator since 1988. He is<br />
currently on the faculty at Bennington College, where he teaches <strong>Italian</strong><br />
literature. He also works as a writer <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> films for DVD release.<br />
Carlo Emilio Gadda (1893-1973) is considered today to be the<br />
giant among Italy’s modern prose writers: in the words the<br />
critic Andrea Cortellessa he has assumed the status <strong>of</strong> “the<br />
prototype <strong>of</strong> the writer: challenge to emulation, reservoir <strong>of</strong> quotation, monument<br />
<strong>of</strong> worth.” Critical consensus during the last decade <strong>of</strong> the century<br />
regarding the many-sided qualities <strong>of</strong> this extraordinary writer-figure seems<br />
to have secured him a firm place as the major <strong>Italian</strong> prose writer <strong>of</strong> our time,<br />
as well as one <strong>of</strong> the major twentieth-century European writers, next to other<br />
names (Joyce, Kafka, Proust, etc.) which have reached entrenched canonical<br />
status.<br />
This widespread judgment is not so much due to the novelty <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s<br />
themes, nor to his experimentation with the conventions <strong>of</strong> prose narration,<br />
nor, in the last analysis, despite the great importance <strong>of</strong> this facet <strong>of</strong> his work,<br />
to his linguistic originality. Gadda’s importance largely consists in the power<br />
<strong>of</strong> a prose which achieves, as Emilio Manzotti has written, “a rare density <strong>of</strong><br />
expression, a “white-hot” quality that inscribes itself on our memory with<br />
aphoristic conciseness.”<br />
In spite <strong>of</strong> this, the reception <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s work in English-speaking<br />
countries has not been a success, and he remains relatively unknown here<br />
even within the academy. The main reason is translation. Aside from a few<br />
short pieces buried in the back issues <strong>of</strong> reviews, only two <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s works<br />
have appeared in English: That Awful Mess on Via Merulana, William Weaver’s<br />
1965 version <strong>of</strong> Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana (which appeared in<br />
Italy in 1957), and, in 1968, Acquainted with Grief (Weaver’s title for the 1963<br />
La cognizione del dolore).<br />
The English in the 1965 translation <strong>of</strong> the novel regularly tends towards<br />
the very linguistic medietas Gadda takes every possible step to avoid.<br />
The version <strong>of</strong>fered here remedies the extremely heavy losses <strong>of</strong> formal features<br />
which make reading the Weaver translation an experience so distant<br />
from that <strong>of</strong> reading Gadda’s original <strong>Italian</strong>. It also <strong>of</strong>fers extensive commentary<br />
in the form <strong>of</strong> linear notes.<br />
The importance <strong>of</strong> the linguistic elaboration, indisputable in Gadda,<br />
are <strong>of</strong> primary concern to the translator. Much effort is being made in the<br />
present version to preserve the diatypes (lexical variety) <strong>of</strong> the original, where<br />
possible.
Given the impossibility <strong>of</strong> translating into another language the aura<br />
parlativa peculiar to an environment, the translator must, however, try to<br />
conserve, in some way, the heterogeneity <strong>of</strong> registers that the introduction <strong>of</strong><br />
colloquialisms and dialects represents. The dialects in the novel are never<br />
adopted for mere naturalistic verisimilitude, but blended into a more general<br />
“macaronism” which affects the narration at the minimal and maximal levels<br />
<strong>of</strong> syntax, morphology and vocabulary.<br />
Current scholarship has resulted in a nearly complete re-interpretation<br />
and re-evaluation <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s masterpiece. The publication, from 1988-<br />
93, <strong>of</strong> Gadda’s complete works in a reliable edition makes it possible, for the<br />
first time, to verify intertextual references throughout. This new translation<br />
is a small part <strong>of</strong> the renewed understanding <strong>of</strong> this great literary work.<br />
Synopsis<br />
In Fascist Rome (the novel takes place in 1927), the young police inspector<br />
Francesco Ingravallo (called don Ciccio for short), a detective-philosopher<br />
from the southern <strong>Italian</strong> region <strong>of</strong> Molise, is called on to investigate<br />
a jewel theft that has taken place in an apartment building at 219, Via<br />
Merulana. In the building lives a couple, Remo and Liliana Balducci, friends<br />
<strong>of</strong> Ingravallo: the wife, whom Ingravallo admires for her sweetness, and<br />
with whom he is perhaps secretly in love, is <strong>of</strong> a family whose wealth has<br />
been built in large measure on speculation during the First World War. During<br />
a lunch with the couple, don Ciccio guesses that Liliana’s obvious melancholy<br />
has been caused by her sterility, a calamity she attempts to soothe by<br />
temporarily “adopting” several girls from the Roman provinces, mostly servants<br />
that she showers with gifts and other blandishments. Three days after<br />
the robbery, whose investigation is so far inconclusive, Ingravallo is shocked<br />
by the news that Signora Balducci has been found murdered in her home. He<br />
rushes to the scene and takes part in the preliminary inquiry, wondering<br />
whether there is any link between the two crimes. Liliana’s cousin, the young<br />
and handsome Giuliano Valdarena, is present at the murder scene having<br />
discovered her corpse. Suspicion falls on him as the murderer with money as<br />
motive; Liliana’s husband Remo is away on a business trip and cannot be<br />
apprised <strong>of</strong> the murder. As chapter four opens, he returns and learns <strong>of</strong> his<br />
wife’s death. Liliana’s cousin, Giuliano Valdarena, is under arrest at a Roman<br />
prison, but no one seems convinced <strong>of</strong> his guilt. Liliana’s family awaits<br />
some news <strong>of</strong> the family jewels, left in her keeping; and the Fascist authorities<br />
are pressing the police for an arrest - even for an <strong>of</strong>ficial scapegoat. The<br />
interrogation <strong>of</strong> Balducci is interrupted by Liliana’s priest, Don Lorenzo<br />
Corpi, with the news that Liliana Balducci had entrusted her last will and<br />
testament to him. Dottor Fumi (Ingravallo’s Neapolitan superior) reads the<br />
will, and Ingravallo indulges in some <strong>of</strong> the speculation for which he is<br />
famous among his colleagues.<br />
Gadda’s heavy use <strong>of</strong> dialects, technical language, parody, and literary<br />
archaisms make for a dense linguistic mix.
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Chapter Five<br />
Chapter five <strong>of</strong> the Pasticciaccio precedes a division in the novel: beginning<br />
with chapter six, in fact, the action veers away from Rome, only to<br />
return there, briefly, just before the famous close in chapter ten. It also abounds<br />
(indirectly, via remembered citations from others) in speech from the murdered<br />
Liliana Balducci – an anomaly in a novel where the Signora is central,<br />
though largely silent.<br />
The chapter also contains vestiges <strong>of</strong> the famous “interrogatorio del<br />
Balducci” which comprised chapter four <strong>of</strong> the version that appeared in<br />
“Letteratura” in 1946, and nearly completely suppressed by Gadda.<br />
The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s<br />
funeral.<br />
Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana<br />
Capitolo 5<br />
Ma le deposizioni del Ceccherelli, del suo «giovine di negozio», certo<br />
Gallone, un ber vecchietto asciutto asciutto co l’occhiali a stanga, e di un<br />
lavorante, certo Amaldi, o Amaldini, furono pienamente favorevoli a<br />
Giuliano. Il Ceccherelli, appoggiato dai due, confermò in ogni particolare<br />
l’incarico ricevuto più de due mesi prima dalla povera signora, le varie fasi<br />
dell’approntamento del ciondolo: «è p’un mio parente che sposa, me<br />
raccomanno a lei». La signora gli aveva fatto vede un anello d’oro a la<br />
cavaliera, massiccio, oro giallo, con un diaspro sanguigno, bellissimo, recante<br />
le cifre GV a glittico, e in carattere gotico per modo de dì: «il diaspro pe la<br />
catena, lo vorrei che s’accompagnasse con questo.» Gli aveva lasciato l’anello.<br />
Lui aveva preso l’impronta in cera: prima della cifra, poi de tutta la pietra,<br />
che sporgeva dal castone. Liliana Balducci era poi tornata in bottega altre<br />
due volte, aveva scelto la pietra fra cinque che le erano state mostrate dopo<br />
che le avevano provvedute apposta dalla Digerini e Coccini, la ditta fornitrice,<br />
ch’era tanti anni che lo serviva: permodoché non aveva sollevato obiezioni<br />
ad un prestito. Del pari pienamente confermato risultò che l’opale, bellissimo,<br />
benché co quel tanto de jella addosso che cianno tutti l’opali, lo doveva<br />
rilevare il Ceccherelli, e lo aveva rilevato di fatto dietro conguaglio, nonostante<br />
quell’RV, ch’era inciso leggero, «che però io, poi, sa, con rispetto parlanno, sì<br />
che me ne buggero de tutte ste superstizzione de la gente: che pare d’esse in<br />
der medioevo, quasi quasi! io, in coscienza, tiro a fa l’affari mia: più puliti<br />
che posso. In quarant’anni che ciò er negozio, me creda, dottó, nun ho avuto<br />
a dì p’una spilla! E poi, a bon conto, l’ho subbito schiaffato in der cassettino<br />
ch’ ‘o tengo apposta pe questo, subbito subbito appena l’ho cavato fora dar<br />
castone suo, a forza de pinze, senza manco toccallo co le dita, se po dì: le<br />
pinze, ho fatto un sarto dar barbiere de faccia pe disinfettalle coll’alcole: e
Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda<br />
Quer pasticciaccio brutto de via Merulana<br />
Chapter 5<br />
The excerpt here ends just as the narrator reports briefly on Liliana’s funeral.<br />
107<br />
But Ceccherelli and his “shop boy”, a certain Gallone, skinny old gent<br />
with specs, and an assistant, one Amaldi or Amaldini, deposed wholly on<br />
Giuliano’s side. Ceccherelli, backed by the other two, corroborated down to<br />
the last detail both the order received by the poor Signora, more than two<br />
months before, and the sundry phases <strong>of</strong> the readying <strong>of</strong> the fob: “It’s for<br />
family getting married, so I’m counting on you.” She’d shown him a gold<br />
signet ring, solid yellow gold, with a bloodstone jasper, very fine, engraved<br />
with the initials G.V., in gothic letters, sort <strong>of</strong>: “I’d like the jasper on the chain<br />
to match this one here.” She’d left him the ring. He’d made a wax impression:<br />
first <strong>of</strong> the monogram, then <strong>of</strong> the whole stone, which protruded from<br />
its setting. Liliana Balducci had then come back to the store twice, picking<br />
the gem from five that had been shown her, stock furnished specially by<br />
Digerini and Coccini, the suppliers he’d dealt with for ages, so they’d provided<br />
them on loan without batting an eyelash. It was likewise fully confirmed<br />
that Ceccherelli had been asked to remove the opal, gorgeous, despite<br />
that jinx it hauled around with it like all opals have, and that he’d accepted<br />
it in fact as part payment despite that R.V., not deeply engraved: “But let me<br />
tell you something, I don’t give a crap about folks’ superstitions, excuse my<br />
French here… You’d almost think we’re back in the dark ages, almost! In all<br />
honesty, I just focus on doing my job, as above board as possible. In forty<br />
years I’ve had this shop, take it from me, <strong>of</strong>ficer, I haven’t logged one complaint!<br />
Not a pin! Anyway just to be on the safe side, I chucked it right in this<br />
special drawer here I got for that stuff, just right as soon as I got it pried out <strong>of</strong><br />
the setting with the pliers, without even laying a pinky on it, like. The pliers<br />
I ran over to the barber to have disinfected with alcohol: the doohickey I just<br />
chucked it in that drawer there, last one on the way to the can… Alfredo, you<br />
know the one I mean, Peppì, you too… a bunch <strong>of</strong> those coral good luck<br />
charms heaped in there, so if that old opal got it in his head to lay some curse<br />
on the shop… What, put a curse on it? Yeah, right: like to see him try, with all
108<br />
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lui, er sor coso, l’ho schiaffato in der cassetto quello là in fonno isolato p’annà<br />
ar cesso, tu Arfredo ce ‘o sai, e tu pure Peppì: che ce stanno insieme tanti de<br />
queli corni de corallo che si gnente gnente je pijasse la fantasia de volemme<br />
jettà la bottega... a me, jettamme? sì, stai fino: vorebbe vede, povero fiio! E<br />
come un cappone in mezzo a tanti galli!... ma co la punta bona, ]e lo dico io.»<br />
L’anello je l’aveva ridato a la signora dopo un par de giorni, «Sli<br />
m’aricordo bene, quanno ripassò a bottega pe vede li diaspri». Il ciondolo<br />
doveva consegnarlo a Giuliano in persona. Sarebbe passato lui a ritirallo,<br />
portando con sé la catena: «quella, sì»: la riconosceva perfettamente. «Quella<br />
catena, aveva detto Liliana, «sa? lei sor Ceccherelli la conosce bene, s’aricorda?<br />
Quella che me l’ha stimata dumila lire?... Quella j’ho da regalà. E l’anello del<br />
nonno, cor brillante, s’ ‘o ricorda? che me l’ha stimato novemila e cinque?»<br />
Ingravallo gli mostrò pure l’anello. «E questo, nun c’è dubbio: un brillante de<br />
dodici grani dodici emmezzo a dì poco. Un’acqua magnifica.» Lo prese, lo<br />
rigirò, lo guardò: lo sollevò contro luce: «Tante volte me l’aveva detto, il<br />
nonno: aricordate, Liliana, che deve restà in famija! Sai a chi vojo dì! » La<br />
frase der nonno suo, una formula sacra a momenti, pe lei; se vedeva: be’,<br />
l’aveva ripetuta du volte, in bottega: «nun è vero?»: presente il Gallone,<br />
presente il Giuseppe Amaldi; che confermarono col capo. All’Amaldi Liliana<br />
stessa aveva voluto spiegaje lei ogni cosa: e com ereno le du lettere intrecciate<br />
che doveva incidere, com’era che voleva incapsulato il diaspro: un po’<br />
sporgente dalla legatura ovale: il Ceccherelli secondò con l’unghia del<br />
mignolo il fermo contorno della pietra verde, montata a sigillo, vale a dire in<br />
lieve aggetto sul castone: e con una laminetta d’oro sul rovescio, a celare la<br />
faccia grezza, a richiudere.<br />
Oltre agli orefici, che furono ascoltati de mattina, bisogna di che la<br />
famiglia Valdarena e addentellati, e cioè la nonna de Giuliano, il Balducci<br />
medesimo, le du zie de li Banchi Vecchi e zi’ Carlo, e zi’ Elvira, e Ii parenti un<br />
po’ tutti, staveno ad annaspa da tre giorni chi de qua chi de là pe trovà er filo<br />
de la salvazione e tirallo fora, lui Giuliano, da li pasticci in cui s’aritrovava,<br />
povero fijo, senz’avé né colpa né peccato. Una parola. Ma dopo le tre<br />
deposizioni a discarico de li tre orefici, ch’ereno già bone, je venne subito<br />
dietro quella più bona ancora del cassiere—capo de la banca: der Banco de<br />
Santo Spirito. Dar cartellino del conto (ai libretti de risparmio) risultò che il<br />
prelievo de diecimila, Liliana l’aveva fatto là, propio il 23 gennaio: due giorni<br />
prima del regalo: che quello glie l’aveva fatto il 25, a casa, quann’era andato<br />
a trovalli, e aveva trovato solo lei. Il cassiere—capo ragionier Del Bo conosceva<br />
Liliana: l’aveva contentata lui, quella volta: era lui a lo sportello, nummero<br />
otto, pieno di paterni sorrisi. A momenti mezzogiorno. Sì, sì: ricordava<br />
perfettamente: all’atto dello snocciolarle sul vetro i dieci fogli — dieci<br />
bricocoloni zozzi, lenticchiosi, de quelli co la lebbra, che so’ stati ner portafojo<br />
a fisarmonica d’un pecoraro de Passo Fortuna o sur banco fracico de vino<br />
dell’oste de li Castelli — lei invece j’aveva detto, co quela voce così morbida,<br />
e quel’occhioni fonni fonni: «Mbè la prego, sor Cavalli, veda un po’ si me li<br />
po dà belli novi si ce l’ha: lei ce lo sa che me piaceno un po’ puliti... », perché
Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda<br />
109<br />
those lucky pieces in there, poor sap! Like a capon in the middle <strong>of</strong> a bunch<br />
<strong>of</strong> roosters!… but still with some sharp beak on him, I’ll tell you!”<br />
The ring he’d given back to the Signora after a couple days, “If I remember<br />
rightly, it was when she came by the store to look at the jasperstones.” He<br />
was supposed to hand the fob over to Giuliano in person, coming by himself<br />
to get it, bring the chain: “Yep, that one”: he recognized it perfectly. “That<br />
chain, you know the one?” Liliana had said, “You know that chain, Mister<br />
Ceccherelli, you remember? The one you estimated at two thousand lire? I<br />
want to give that one away as a present. And grandfather’s ring, with the<br />
gem, remember? The one you figured was worth nine and a half thousand?”<br />
Ingravallo showed him the ring as well. “It’s this one, all right: three carats<br />
and a little left over. A magnificent water.” He took it, turned it, studied it:<br />
held it up against the light: “All the time he said to me, grandpa said: remember,<br />
Liliana, that has to stay in the family! You know to whom I mean!” Her<br />
grandfather’s word, a holy formula almost for her: that was plain: anyway,<br />
she’d repeated it twice, in the shop: “Ain’t I right?”, he asked in the presence<br />
<strong>of</strong> Gallone and Giuseppe Amaldi, who acknowledged with their heads.<br />
Liliana herself had insisted on explaining everything to Amaldi: how the<br />
two letters that he was supposed to engrave were linked together, how she<br />
wanted the jasperstone to be set: bulging a little from the oval setting:<br />
Ceccherelli traced with the nail <strong>of</strong> his little finger the clean contour <strong>of</strong> the<br />
stone, green, seal mounted, that is to say slightly overhanging the setting,<br />
and backed with a thin gold plate, in order to hide and encase the uncut face.<br />
Apart from the jewelers, who were heard in the morning, the Valdarena<br />
family and consorts, that is Giuliano’s grandmother, Balducci himself, the<br />
pair <strong>of</strong> aunts from Banchi Vecchi, unca Carlo, auntie Elvira and just about<br />
the whole <strong>of</strong> the relatives, had been thrashing about for the last three days<br />
every which way to get a hold on the lifeline and pull him out, Giuliano, from<br />
the fix he’d got himself into, poor guy, though he was as innocent as a baby.<br />
Easier said than done. But after those three depositions in his defense by the<br />
three jewelers, that were middling enough, there was the one, better still, by<br />
the head teller <strong>of</strong> the bank: the Banco di Santo Spirito. According to the bank<br />
balance (on the savings account passbooks), it turned out that Liliana had<br />
withdrawn the ten thousand lire there, just on January 23: two days before<br />
the gift: the one she’d given on the twenty-fifth, at home, when he’d dropped<br />
by to visit them, and had found just her. Del Bo, the head teller, knew Liliana:<br />
he’d served her that day: at window eight, beaming paternally. Round about<br />
noon. Oh yes, he remembered it like yesterday: as he was shelling out the ten<br />
bills onto the counter – ten big crumby leaves, the leprous kind that’ve been<br />
lying in the pants wallet <strong>of</strong> a goatherd from Passo Fortuna or on a winesplotched<br />
bar <strong>of</strong> some tavern keeper in the Castelli – she’d said, with that<br />
velvety voice <strong>of</strong> hers, and those big, deep eyes: “Please, Sor Cavalli, see if you<br />
can’t give me some nice new ones, if you have any: you know I like them sort<br />
<strong>of</strong> clean…”: because she called him Cavalli instead <strong>of</strong> Del Bo. “Like this?”<br />
he’d asked, one hand already stashing away the rags, the other hand pinch-
110<br />
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lo chiamava Cavalli, in luogo di Del Bo. « Così? » le aveva detto lui riponendo<br />
i sudici che aveva già in mano: e glie ne mostrava una mazzetta fresca, per<br />
aria, come contro luce, presi p’un angolo, che je pencolava dai due diti:<br />
«Lustri lustri, guardi!... so’ arrivati propio jeri da la Banca d’Italia: appena<br />
sputati fora dar torchio. IJn odorino bono, senta un po’. L’antro jeri mattina<br />
ereno ancora a Piazza Verdi. Che? ha paura de li bacilli? Ha raggione!... Una<br />
bella signora come lei. »<br />
«No, sor Cavalli, è che devo fa un regalo» aveva detto Liliana. «Sposi?»<br />
«Sì, sposi» «Dieci fogli da mille è sempre un bel regalo: pure pe li sposi.» «Un<br />
cugino: che è come un fratello. Sapesse! je feci quasi da madre, quann’era pupo.»<br />
Proprio così aveva detto: lo ricordava perfettamente: lo poteva giurare sul<br />
vangelo. «Auguri agli sposi: e a lei pure, signora.» Si ereno stretti la mano.<br />
Domenica 20, nella mattinata, ulteriori indicazioni del Balducci ai due<br />
funzionari: poi al dottor Fumi, solo, allorché don Ciccio, verso la mezza, fu<br />
tirato a «occuparsi d’altro», preferì «uscire un momento.» In verità, «d’altre<br />
pratiche» non ne mancava, sul tavolo. Ché, anzi, il tavolo ne rigurgitava agli<br />
scaffali, e questi agli archivi: e gente che saliva e che scegneva, e che aspettava<br />
de fora: e chi fumava, chi buttava la sigheretta, chi scatarrava su li muri.<br />
Tutto greve e fumoso, il gentile clima del Cacco, in un odorino sincretico un<br />
po’ come de caserma o de loggione der teatro Jovinelli: tra d’ascelle e de<br />
piedi, e d’altri effluvi ed olezzi più o meno marzolini, ch’era una delizia<br />
annasalli. Di «pratiche» ce n’era da gavazzarci, da nuotarci dentro: e gente<br />
in anticamera! Madonna! più che ai piedi de la gran torre de Babele. Furono<br />
accenni (e meglio che accenni) «di carattere intimo» quelli espediti dal<br />
Balducci: parte spontaneamente, si direbbe a scivolo, abbandonatosi il<br />
cacciatore—viaggiatore a quella tale specie di logorrea cui si danno vinte<br />
certe anime in pena, o un po’ ripentite magari de’ trascorsi loro, non appena<br />
sopravvenga la fase di addolcimento, come il livido suole sopravvenire alla<br />
botta: di cicatrizzazione post—traumatica: allorché sentono che li raggiunge<br />
intanto il perdono, e di Cristo e degli uomini: parte, invece, tiratigli col più<br />
soave spago di bocca da una civile dialessi, da un appassionato perorare, da<br />
un vivido volger d’occhi, da una traente maieutica e dalla caritatevole<br />
papaverina—eroina e della parlata e del gesto, del Golfo e del Vòmero: con<br />
azione blanda a un tempo e suasiva, tatràc! da cavadenti di tipo amabile. Ed<br />
ecco il dente. Liliana, ormai, s’era fitta in capo che dar marito... non le<br />
verrebbero pupi: lo giudicava un buon marito, certo, sotto tutti gli aspetti»:<br />
ma d’un bebè in viaggio, che! neanche il presagio. In dieci anni de matrimonio,<br />
a momenti, che, che! manco l’inspirazzione: e aveva sposato a ventuno.<br />
I medici aveveno parlato chiaro: o lei, o lui. O tutt’e due. Lei? p’esclude che la<br />
colpa fosse sua avrebbe dovuto provà con un artro. Glie lo aveva detto anche<br />
il pr<strong>of</strong>essor D’Andrea. Per modo che da quelle delusioni continuate, da quei<br />
dieci anni, o quasi, dove aveveno messo così tormentate radici il dolore,<br />
l’umiliazione, la disperazione, il pianto, da quegli anni inutili della sua<br />
bellezza datavano pure quei sospiri, quei mah! quelle lunghe guardate a
Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda<br />
111<br />
ing a fresh wad with two fingers, holding it up against the light, like: “Shiny<br />
new, look!… Just yesterday they got here from the Banca d’Italia: just <strong>of</strong>f the<br />
press. Nice little smell, just take a whiff. Fresh from the Mint. What, you’re<br />
nervous about germs? You’re right!… Pretty lady like you.”<br />
“No, Sor Cavalli, it’s just that I’m giving a present”, Liliana had answered.<br />
“Newlyweds?” “Yes, newlyweds.” “Ten grand’s always nice to get:<br />
especially for a pair <strong>of</strong> newlyweds.” “A cousin: who’s like a brother. Just<br />
think! I practically played the part <strong>of</strong> mother when he was a baby.” She’d<br />
said it just like that: he remembered perfectly: he could swear on the Bible.<br />
“My best wishes to the happy couple: and to you too, Signora.” They’d<br />
shaken hands.<br />
Sunday the 20th, in the morning, more background given by Balducci<br />
to the two <strong>of</strong>ficers, then to dottor Fumi alone, when don Ciccio, toward half<br />
past noon, was prompted to “handle another file”. He preferred to “step out<br />
for a moment”. There was indeed no shortage <strong>of</strong> “other files” on his table.<br />
The table, in fact, overflowed onto the shelves, and from there to the cabinets:<br />
with people climbing up and stomping down as well as loitering outside:<br />
this one smoking, that one flicking away a butt, another hawking phlegm on<br />
the walls. All smoky and stifling, the charming Cacco atmosphere, in a syncretic<br />
little fragrance sort <strong>of</strong> like a barracks or the upper gallery <strong>of</strong> the Teatro<br />
Jovinelli: ‘tween armpits and feet, and still other perfumes more or less like<br />
March cheese, that to get a whiff <strong>of</strong> was sure bliss. “Files” there were enough<br />
to wallow in, to scull around inside: and folks, then, in the hall! Christ! Beat<br />
the tower <strong>of</strong> Babel on a shopping day. Balducci got some hints (and better<br />
than hints) <strong>of</strong> an “intimate nature” <strong>of</strong>f his chest: partly impromptu, spilling<br />
out as the sales-and-huntsman surrendered to that sort <strong>of</strong> logorrhea certain<br />
pained or perhaps repentant souls succumb to, as soon as the healing phase<br />
sets in, as a bruise succeeds a blow: the phase <strong>of</strong> post-trauma scar formation<br />
when they feel both heaven and mankind have extended pardon; partly,<br />
instead, drawn from him with the mildest mouth-twine by affable dialektike,<br />
ardent discourse, mobile fervor <strong>of</strong> eyes, maieutic ingenuity and the charitable<br />
anaesthesia <strong>of</strong> Parthenopean speech and gesture: with the action at<br />
once gentle and persuasive, gotcha! <strong>of</strong> a kindly toothpuller. And here’s the<br />
molar. Liliana, by now, had got it into her head that from her husband… that<br />
she wasn’t getting any kids out <strong>of</strong> him. She considered him a good husband,<br />
<strong>of</strong> course, “any way you look at it”, but there wasn’t, you know, the slightest<br />
hint <strong>of</strong> a little bundle on the way. In ten years <strong>of</strong> marriage, almost, not even a<br />
token: and she’d wed at twenty-one. The doctors had laid it on the line: either<br />
her or him. Or both. Her? To prove it wasn’t her fault, she would have had to<br />
try with another guy. Even Doctor D’Andrea had told her that. So that out <strong>of</strong><br />
those ongoing disappointments, those ten years, or nearly, where the pain,<br />
the humiliation, desperation and tears had put down roots; from those useless<br />
years <strong>of</strong> her beauty those sighs dated, those ahs, those long glances at<br />
every woman, not to mention the ones with a baby in the oven!… What the
112<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
ogni donna, a quelle piene, poi!... chi dice ma, cuore contento non ha... ai<br />
bambini, a le belle serve tutte fronzute de sélleri e de spinaci, in della<br />
sporta, quanno veniveno da piazza Vittorio, la mattina: o cor<br />
mappamondo in aria, inchinate a s<strong>of</strong>fià er naso a un pupetto, o a toccallo,<br />
si s’è bagnato fuori ora: ch’è propio allora che je se vede er mejo, a la<br />
serva, tutta la salute, tutte le cosce, de dietro: dar momento ch’è de moda<br />
che cianno la mutanne corte corte, si pure ce l’hanno. Guardava le<br />
ragazze, ricambiava d’un lampo, come una pr<strong>of</strong>onda malinconica nota,<br />
le guardate ardite dei giovani: una carezza, o una benevola franchia,<br />
mentalmente largite ai futuri largitori della vita: a qualunque le paresse<br />
portare in sé la certezza, la verità germile, gheriglio del segreto divenire.<br />
Era il limpido assenso di un’anima fraterna: a chi delineava il disegno<br />
della vita. Ma precipitavano gli anni, l’uno dopo l’altro, dalla loro buia<br />
stalla, nel nulla. Da quegli anni, operando la coercizione del costume, il<br />
primo palesarsi indi il graduale esasperarsi d’un delirio di solitudine:<br />
«raro int’ ‘a femmena», interloquì pianamente iI dottor Fumi: «int’ ‘a<br />
femmena romana, poi...»: «semo de compagnia, noi romani, » consentì<br />
Balducci: e quel bisogno, tutt’al contrario, di appoggiarsi con l’animo<br />
all’altrui fisica immagine, e alla vivida genesia delle genti e dei poveri:<br />
quella mania... di regalar lenzuoli doppi alle serve, de faje la dote pe<br />
forza, d’incoraggià ar matrlmonio chi nun aspettava de mejo: quela fantasia<br />
de volé piagne, poi, e de s<strong>of</strong>fiasse er naso, che je pijava pe giornate<br />
sane, povera Lillana, si davero se sposaveno: come je fosse venuta<br />
l’invidia, a cose fatte. Un’invidia che je rosicava er fegato: come si<br />
l’avessino fatto pe fa dispetto a lei, de sposà, pe poi dije: «Vedi un po’: de<br />
quattro mesi c’è già er pupo! Er maschietto nostro de quattro chili: un<br />
chilo ar mese. » Bastava, certe matine, che un’amica je facesse: «Vedessi<br />
che baulle cià Clementina! », pe fasse venì l’occhi rossi. «Una vorta me<br />
fece una mezza scena a me, suo marito, p’una ragazza de Soriano ar<br />
Cimìno: una contadina ch’era venuta a Roma co la viterbese, a portamme<br />
li confetti. “Quela zozzona manco la vojo vede!” strillava. La sposa,<br />
povera pupa, arrivò co lo sposo, preceduti da na panza come na<br />
mongolfiera a San Giovanni, a li fochi. Diceveno: avemo portato li confetti.<br />
Se sa, ereno un po’ imbarazzati. Je feci, ridenno: se vede che tira aria<br />
bona sur Cimìno: lei arrossì, abbassò gli occhi sul ventre, come<br />
l’Annunziata quanno che l’angelo se mette a spiegaje tutta la faccenda:<br />
poi però prese coraggio a risponne: embè, che ce volete fa, sor Balducci?<br />
Semo giovini. Avemo preso li passi avanti... Quanno la cratura sarà venuta<br />
ar monno, chi se n’aricorda più? si c’era er prete o si nun c’era er prete, á<br />
benedicce? Mo stia tranquillo, che semo benedetti tutt’e tre. » Gli anni!<br />
come una rosa che sfiori: i petali, uno dopo l’altro... nel nulla.<br />
Fu a questo punto, co na faccia color cenere, che Ingravallo domandò<br />
licenza: pe motivi di servizio. Ragguagli e rapporti di subalterni, parole<br />
e carta scritta: disposizioni da dare: telefono. Il dottor Fumi lo seguì con<br />
l’occhio, mentre quello si diresse verso l’uscio a capo chino, curve le
Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda<br />
113<br />
heart thinks, the tongue speaks… at the babies, at the pretty maids all verdant<br />
with chard and spinach, in baskets, coming from Piazza Vittorio in the<br />
morning: or with their fannies in the air, bent over to mop some kid’s nose, or<br />
poke around, see if he’s wet himself, <strong>of</strong>f schedule: since it’s right then you get<br />
a load <strong>of</strong> her goldmine, that is the maid’s, the whole works, all the thigh from<br />
behind: now that it’s the style to wear such skimpy underpants, if they’re<br />
even wearing. She looked at the girls; returned, in a flash as by deep-felt,<br />
despondent signal, the bold glances <strong>of</strong> young men: a caress or benevolent<br />
franchise mentally bequeathed future bequeathers <strong>of</strong> life: to whoever might<br />
bear within him the certainty, the seminal truth, the kernel <strong>of</strong> secret becoming.<br />
The pure assent <strong>of</strong> a fraternal soul: to those who traced the pattern <strong>of</strong> life.<br />
But out <strong>of</strong> the dark manger the years stampeded, one after the other, into<br />
nothingness. From those years, the constraints <strong>of</strong> morality, at work, the initial<br />
manifestations and hence the gradual deterioration into a delirium <strong>of</strong><br />
solitude (“rare, in a woman”, dottor Fumi put in gently: “In a Roman woman,<br />
then…”: “We’re chummy, we Romans”, Balducci acquiesced): and that entirely<br />
contrasting need to depend spiritually on the other’s physical image;<br />
upon the vigorous breeding <strong>of</strong> peoples, <strong>of</strong> the poor. That mania… for forking<br />
out double bed-sheets to the maids, insisting on putting up dowries, pushing<br />
folks who asked for nothing better to tie the knot: and then the whim, that<br />
took hold <strong>of</strong> her for days on end, to want to bawl and blow her nose, poor<br />
Liliana, if they actually went ahead and did it: as if pricked by jealousy after<br />
the fact. Ate her heart out: like they’d up and married to spite her, just to be<br />
able to say: lookee here, four months only and already a kid’s on the way!<br />
Our eight pound kiddo, two pounds a month. “Some mornings all it took<br />
was some girlfriend saying: You should see the spare tire Clementine’s got<br />
on her!”, to give her the sniffles. “Once she almost threw a fit with me, her<br />
husband, over some girl from Soriano nel Cimino: country girl’d come down<br />
to Rome by train to bring me a piece <strong>of</strong> the wedding cake. “I don’t even<br />
wanna lay eyes on that dirty bitch!” she was screaming. The bride, poor kid,<br />
comes in with her guy, preceded by a belly like a hot air balloon at the<br />
fireworks at San Giovanni. They said: we brought you the wedding cake.<br />
Naturally they were a little embarrassed. I say to them, laughing: I see you’re<br />
enjoying the fresh air up there, at Cimìno: she blushes, glances down at her<br />
belly, like the Virgin Mary when that angel lays it on the line at the Annunciation:<br />
but then she gains her spunk back and says: well, what do you want,<br />
Mr. Balducci? We’re young. So we jumped the gun a little… When the kid<br />
comes into the world who’s gonna still remember? if the priest was around<br />
or wasn’t around, to give his blessing? Not to worry, ‘cause now we’re all<br />
three blessed.” The years! like a wasting rose, its petals falling one by one<br />
into nothingness.<br />
It was at this point, his face ashen, that Ingravallo begged leave to<br />
shove <strong>of</strong>f: duty calling. Reports and memoranda from subordinates, voiced<br />
or in writing: orders to impart: telephone. Dottor Fumi followed him from out<br />
<strong>of</strong> the corner <strong>of</strong> his eye as he moved toward the exit, his head bowed and
114<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
spalle, in un’attitudine che sembrò stanca ed assorta: lo vide levar di<br />
tasca un pacchetto macedonia, e una sigheretta dal pacchetto, l’ultima,<br />
sommerso da chissà quali affanni: l’uscio si richiuse.<br />
Don Ciccio, tutta quela storia, gli pareva d’avella saputa già da un<br />
pezzo. Le impressioni e i ricordi che il cugino e il marito di Liliana andavano<br />
estraendo, in una specie di tormentoso recupero, dal di lei tempo così<br />
atrocemente dissolto, gli confermavano Ciò che egli aveva già intuito per<br />
proprio conto, sebbene in modo vago, incerto.<br />
Pure quell’idea di voler morire, se non le arrivava il bambino: un po’ se<br />
l’era «immaginata», don Ciccio, o credeva? pe la conoscenza de la signora<br />
Liliana: un po’ era venuta a galla dalle ammissioni del cugino e, ora, dal<br />
parlare del marito: fatto loquace dalla disgrazia, e dal sentirsi al centro<br />
dell’attenzione e della compassione generale (cacciatore, era! je pareva de<br />
tornà co la lepre, fucile a spalla, stivaloni infangati e cani stracchi) e bisognoso<br />
de sfogasse, dopo la botta: e discettante a piede libero su la delicatezza<br />
dell’animo femminile e, in genere, su quella gran sensitività della donna: che<br />
in loro, povere creature! è una cosa diffusa. Il «diffusa» l’aveva letto a Milano,<br />
sur Secolo, in un articolo di Maroccus... er dottore der Secolo: finissimo!<br />
La postuma cartella clinica de Liliana venne poi integrata dalla pietà<br />
delle amiche e delle beneficate: orfanelle che piagneveno, moniche der Sacro<br />
Core che nun piagneveno, perch’ereno sicure ch’era già in Paradiso, a<br />
quell’ora, lo poteveno giurà: e zi’ Marletta e zi’ Elvira in gramaglie, e un paro<br />
d’altre zIe, de li Banch1 Vecchi, pure piuttosto nere pure loro: e conoscenze<br />
diverse, ivi computando la contessa Teresa (la Menecacci) e donna Manuela<br />
Pettacchioni, oltre a quarche altra gentile casigliana der ducentodicinnove:<br />
le due terne antagoniste: l’Elodia, la Enea Cucco, la Giulietta Frisoni (scala<br />
B), da una parte, e da quell’artra la Cammarota, la Bottafavi e l’Alda Pernetti<br />
(scala A), che ciaveva pure er fratello, che contava per altre sei. Femmine<br />
tutte, a sensibbilità diffusa, dunque: benché de quela sorta che Liliana... se le<br />
teneva a la larga. Una diffusa e delicata ovaricità, propio così, je permeava a<br />
tutte lo stelo dell’anima: come antiche essenze, nella terra e nei prativi della<br />
Marsica, lo stelo d’un fiore: premute lungamente a poi esplodere in der soave<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>umo d’ ‘a corolla; che la su’ corolla de loro, viceversa, era er naso, che se<br />
lo poteveno s<strong>of</strong>fià quanto je pareva. Femmine tutte, e nel ricordo e nella<br />
speranza, e nel pallore duro o ostinato della reticenza e nella porpora del<br />
non—confiteor: che il dottor Fumi elicitò in quei giorni a una memore analisi,<br />
col tatto e col garbo che lo distinsero lungo tutta una operosa carriera (e<br />
l’hanno fatto oggi, meritato premio! sottoprefetto de Lucunaro adnuente<br />
Gaspero: cioè no, mejo ancora! de Firlocca, un sitarello delizioso, dove ha<br />
tutto l’agio di far valere tutte le sue qualità) e co chella calda voce... quella che<br />
lo dava subbito presente, prima ancora der campanello (stanza numero<br />
quattro), agli orecchi d’ogni brigadiere e d’ogni ladro, non appena mettesse<br />
piede in ufficio .
Roberto De Lucca/ Carlo Emilio Gadda<br />
115<br />
shoulders sagging, with a bearing that seemed tired, absorbed. He saw him<br />
pull a pack <strong>of</strong> cigarettes from his pocket, engrossed in unknown cares. The<br />
door closed behind him.<br />
Don Ciccio sensed he’d already known it for a while, that whole story.<br />
What he’d already vaguely grasped on his own was confirmed for him by<br />
the impressions and recollections that Liliana’s cousin and husband, in a<br />
sort <strong>of</strong> recuperative agony, were in the process <strong>of</strong> dragging out <strong>of</strong> her so<br />
atrociously voided days. Even that notion <strong>of</strong> wanting to die if no kid came: a<br />
bit <strong>of</strong> it had been his “imagination,” (or perhaps belief, through his acquaintance<br />
with Signora Liliana); a bit had surfaced from the cousin’s disclosures.<br />
And now from the talk <strong>of</strong> the husband, made garrulous by hardship, by his<br />
sense <strong>of</strong> being at the center <strong>of</strong> attention and collective commiseration (A<br />
hunter, he was! Saw himself tramping in with a bagged hare, shouldering<br />
his gun, muddied boots, panting hounds), needing to get it <strong>of</strong>f his chest after<br />
the blow: and holding forth, untrammeled, on the delicacy <strong>of</strong> the female<br />
spirit and that extreme sensitiveness <strong>of</strong> women in general: which in them,<br />
poor things, is widespread. That widespread he’d picked up in Il Secolo, an<br />
article in the Milan paper by Maroccus… the medical correspondent for Il<br />
Secolo: a brain!<br />
Liliana’s posthumous case history was then rounded out by the compassion<br />
<strong>of</strong> her female friends and beneficiaries: crying orphans, Sacred Heart<br />
nuns, dry-eyed because they’d cross their hearts she was already in heaven,<br />
and auntie Elvira in weeds, plus a couple <strong>of</strong> other aunts from Banchi Vecchi,<br />
pretty black also: and miscellaneous acquaintances, figuring in the countess<br />
Teresa (Bigazzi) and milady Manuela Pettachioni, plus some other gentle<br />
women tenants at two hundred nineteen: the two rival triads made up <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Elodia woman, Enea Cucco and Giulietta Frisoni (B stairs), on one side, and<br />
from that other the Cammarota woman, Mrs. Buttafavi and Alda Pernetti<br />
(stairway A), whose brother counted for an extra six. Females all, demonstrating<br />
that widespread sensitiveness, in consequence: though <strong>of</strong> that sort<br />
which Liliana… kept at arm’s length. A widespread and delicate ovarianism,<br />
that’s the word, impregnated, in all <strong>of</strong> them, the soul’s stem, like ancient<br />
essences in the earth and fallow fields <strong>of</strong> the Marsica might the stem <strong>of</strong> a<br />
flower: pressed at length until they burst in the perfume <strong>of</strong> the corolla; but<br />
their corolla consisting <strong>of</strong> the nose, that they could blow to their hearts’<br />
content. Females all, both in memory and hope, and in the hard, stubborn<br />
pallor <strong>of</strong> their reticence and the purple <strong>of</strong> the non-confiteor which dottor<br />
Fumi, those days, was soliciting them to recall in detail, with the courtesy<br />
and tact which set him apart during the whole <strong>of</strong> a long and busy career (the<br />
just reward <strong>of</strong> which, today, is his nomination to the position <strong>of</strong> sub-prefect<br />
<strong>of</strong> Lucunaro, adnuente Gasparo: no, sorry, better still, <strong>of</strong> Firlocca, delightful<br />
little spot where his manifold qualities find more than ample range) and<br />
with that warm voice… which announced him, right <strong>of</strong>f the bat, even before<br />
the buzzer (room number four), to the ears <strong>of</strong> every corporal or criminal, as<br />
soon as he’d set foot in the <strong>of</strong>fice.
“Dentro il silenzio c’è troppo rumore”, oil on canvas.
English <strong>Translation</strong>s<strong>of</strong> Poems by Giorgio Roberti<br />
by John DuVal and Louise Rozier<br />
The Academy <strong>of</strong> American Poets granted John DuVal the 1992 Harold<br />
Morton Landon <strong>Translation</strong> Award for his translation <strong>of</strong> Cesare Pascarella’s<br />
The Discovery <strong>of</strong> America. He received a 1999-2000 NEA for his translation<br />
<strong>of</strong> a play by Adam le Bossu. His latest book <strong>of</strong> translations is From<br />
Adam to Adam: Seven Old French Plays, with Raymond Eichmann and<br />
published by Pegasus Press, which will republish an expanded edition <strong>of</strong><br />
their Fabliaux Fair and Foul at the end <strong>of</strong> this year. He directs the Program<br />
in Literary <strong>Translation</strong> at the University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas.<br />
Louise Rozier directs the <strong>Italian</strong> Program at the University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas.<br />
Her translation <strong>of</strong> Fortunato Pasqualino’s Il giorno che fui Gesù<br />
(The Little Jesus <strong>of</strong> Sicily), published by the University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas Press<br />
in 1999, was awarded the 1996 PEN Renato Poggioli <strong>Translation</strong> Award.<br />
She is the author <strong>of</strong> the monograph Il mito e l’allegoria nella narrativa di<br />
Paola Masino, published by the Edwin Mellen Press in 2004.<br />
Giorgio Roberti Poet, essayist, translator, editor, founder and president<br />
for thirty years <strong>of</strong> the Centro Romanesco Trilussa, Giorgio Roberti<br />
energetically promoted Romanesco language, culture and poetry. Among<br />
many awards, his ‘na zeppa a l’occhio (A Stick in the Eye) won the Premio<br />
Nazionale di Poesia “Roma” and the Premio Internazionale per la Satira,<br />
and his Antiche farmacie romane won the Premio Internazionale di<br />
saggistaca. His 1974 translation into Romanesco <strong>of</strong> Er Vangelo seconno S.<br />
Marco has been much praised and <strong>of</strong>ten reprinted. After his death in November,<br />
2002, a special issue <strong>of</strong> the magazine Romanità was dedicated to<br />
him.<br />
Note on translation<br />
G.G. Belli, writing sonnets in Romanesco in the early nineteenth century,<br />
gave an example for <strong>Italian</strong> poets with his sonnets that showed how<br />
dialect could convey the energy <strong>of</strong> conversation more effectively than standard<br />
language. We translators <strong>of</strong> dialect into English in the United States<br />
do not have dialects to convey that energy precisely, so we try to make our<br />
verse sound like people talking. This would seem impossible for A Stick in<br />
the Eye, a story over twenty-seven centuries old, but Roberti helps with his<br />
deft details and his sudden shifts <strong>of</strong> style, and makes translating his poem<br />
a pleasure, though difficult.
GIORGIO ROBERTI<br />
Sonnets from ‘na zeppa al’occhio<br />
XXXVI<br />
L’<strong>of</strong>ferta der vino<br />
Ulisse allora ritentò un approccio<br />
co un quartarolo in mano, ormai deciso<br />
a nisconne le fregne in un soriso.<br />
Dice:--Mó ch’ai magnato ce vò un goccio...<br />
Senti che marvasia de paradiso<br />
che t’avevo portata dentro ar còccio...<br />
E quello, ingarbujato, poro boccio,<br />
pe’ tre vorte arzò er gommito sur viso.<br />
Poi disse: “Er vino mio sarà gajardo<br />
perché ogni vaga d’uva è un palloncino<br />
tale e quale a ‘na palla de bijardo,<br />
ma ringrazzianno Bacco e a falla breve,<br />
si da le parti vostre c’è ‘sto vino<br />
quella è ‘na Grecia Magna... perchè beve!<br />
XXXVII<br />
La sborgna der cicròpe<br />
E siccome la coppa era un vascone<br />
come quello der Moro in Agonale,<br />
ce se prese una sborgna, uno sborgnone<br />
che nisuna osteria n’ha visto uguale.<br />
Poi guardò Ulisse e fece: --E naturale<br />
che devo ripagà la bòna azzione.<br />
Come te chiami? Nottola senz’ale?<br />
Gnappetta? Tappo? Càccola? Cojone?<br />
--Io so’ Nessuno... e pò giurallo ognuno!<br />
---Okei, pe’ ricambià quer che m’hai dato<br />
me te pappo urtimo, Nessuno!--
GIORGIO ROBERTI<br />
Sonnets from A Stick in the Eye (‘na zeppa a l’occhio)<br />
Situation: the Cyclops has Ulysses and his men trapped in his cave<br />
and has already gobbled down six <strong>of</strong> them.<br />
XXXVI<br />
The Gift <strong>of</strong> Wine<br />
Ulysses approached him when the snack was done,<br />
grinning hard to hide a twitch <strong>of</strong> fear,<br />
cradling a jug above his hip bone: “Here!<br />
Here’s a drop to wash your breakfast down.<br />
Here, taste. It’s from the paradisal stock<br />
we brought here for you. That’s why the jug’s so big.”<br />
A little confused, the poor brute took a swig...<br />
another swig..., and swallowed the whole crock,<br />
then said, “My wines were pretty strong I thought,<br />
because each grape is bigger than a billiard ball,<br />
but let’s praise Bacchus for the stuff you brought,<br />
sailing over the wine dark sea. You call<br />
your country Greater Greece, because you dine<br />
on greater grease I guess--and stronger wine!”<br />
XXXVII<br />
The Cyclops Blind Drunk<br />
And since the crock was really more a tub,<br />
an “Agonale Basin with the Moore,”<br />
he got so stinking drunk, a tavern, pub,<br />
or barroom never saw the like before,<br />
then, looking at Ulysses, said, “Hey you,<br />
one good deed deserves another. Tell<br />
me what your name is. Pigmy? Corky Screw?<br />
Mouse Pill? Mosquito? Tommy Tinkerbell?”<br />
--”I’m No One. Anyone will swear I am.”<br />
--”Okay, then for your gift <strong>of</strong> wine, you’ve won<br />
first prize: you’ll be the last I eat, No One.”
120<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
--Grazzie, gigante da le spalle tozze,<br />
ma dimme: sei zitello o sei sposato?<br />
--Io pe’ la scapolanza vado a nozze!--<br />
XXXVIII<br />
Er cicròpe s’abbiocca<br />
E detto questo prese la rincorza<br />
verso un branco de pecore lì appresso,<br />
ma fece un giravorta su sé stesso<br />
uguale a un picchio quanno perde forza.<br />
E mentre sbarellava come un fesso<br />
sentiva ne lo stommaco una morza<br />
de cacio, vino, stracci e ciccia borza,<br />
assieme co ‘na voja d’annà ar cesso.<br />
Poi, tutt’un bòtto, pòro babbalèo,<br />
cascò de peso tale e quale a un toro<br />
che scapicolli giù dar Colosseo.<br />
Eppoi senza ritegno nè decoro<br />
mentre finiva in braccio de Morfeo<br />
se vommitava... li mortacci loro!<br />
XXXIX<br />
Er sorteggio der quartetto de... punta<br />
Sùbbito Ulisse riattizzò sur fòco<br />
la punta de quer palo..., e, appena pronta,<br />
disse: -- Regazzi, fate un po’ de conta<br />
pe’ decide tra voi chi fa ‘sto gioco!--<br />
Ma quelli incominciorno, a poco a poco,<br />
a chièdeje l’esonero e, pe’ gionta,<br />
chi prometteva svànziche all’impronta,<br />
chi vantava amicizzie in arto loco...<br />
Tanto che quanno fu a la concrusione,<br />
com’è come nun è vennero fòra<br />
li quattro stronzi senza protezzione.
John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 121<br />
--”Thanks, Mr. Shoulders-like-a-battering-ram.<br />
But are you single? Do you have a wife?”<br />
--”Who, me? I’m hitched. Hitched to the single life.”<br />
XXXVIII<br />
The Cyclops Lies Down<br />
Having said that, the Cyclops turned around<br />
and headed unsteadily over toward a huddle<br />
<strong>of</strong> ewes and lambs nearby, then spun a little<br />
the way a top wobbles when it slows down,<br />
and halfway through another <strong>of</strong>f-balance lurch<br />
across the cave, his stomach felt the press<br />
<strong>of</strong> sheep cheese, rich wine, fat meat, and a mess<br />
<strong>of</strong> chewed up clothing, with a sudden urge<br />
to run to the bathroom. Then the poor fool fell,<br />
fell like a stone, like a bull with his throat cut<br />
in the Colosseum at a festival.<br />
Down now, without good timing or decor,<br />
drifting <strong>of</strong>f in Morpheus’s boat,<br />
he vomited their dead friends on the floor.<br />
XXXIX<br />
The Chosen Four<br />
Ulysses grabbed the pole and in the flame<br />
twirled the sharp point. “Okay, boys,<br />
he said, “we’re going to have to make a choice:<br />
which <strong>of</strong> you is staying in this game?”<br />
But one by one his soldiers got loquacious.<br />
They wanted out. Some promised they were able<br />
to slip him a little gift beneath the table;<br />
and others talked about friends in high places.<br />
Like it or like it not, when all talk ended,<br />
all that the lottery threw up were four<br />
pathetic bastards no one ever protected.
122<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
E Ulisse, ner vedesseli in ginocchio,<br />
strillò: -- Forza, perdio, nun vedo l’ora<br />
de cecallo, così ce perde... d’occhio!--<br />
XL<br />
L’accecamento der gigante<br />
Schizz<strong>of</strong>atto li quattro der drappello<br />
mirato all’occhio diedero l’affono,<br />
mentre Ulisse, incazzato e furibbonno,<br />
girava er palo come un carosello.<br />
Sùbbito quer vurcano moribbonno<br />
sputò brandelli d’occhio dar cervello<br />
e fece un urlo che sembrò un appello<br />
da fà aggriccià la pelle a tutto er monno.<br />
E mentre Lui strillava la natura<br />
diventava rugosa e penzierosa:<br />
s’increspava de monti la pianura.<br />
Tanto che a quer mutà de giografia<br />
più d’una stella fissa, luminosa,<br />
se trasformò in cometa e scappò via.<br />
XLI<br />
Ariveno li cuggini der gigante<br />
L’artri cicròpi, già piazzati a séde,<br />
pe’ fasse ‘na scopetta e ‘no spuntino,<br />
se chiesero: “Che avrà nostro cuggino?”<br />
E detto fatto je l’annorno a chiède.<br />
“A Polifé, che fai? Che te succede?<br />
Chi te fa piagne come un regazzino?<br />
Com’è che tenghi chiuso er portoncino<br />
e fai der tutto pe’nun fatte vède?”<br />
E Lui: “E’ Nessuno che me fa der male...<br />
Nessuno che me leva, sarvognuno,<br />
tutto er punto de vista personale...”<br />
“Ma nun ciavrài li vermi o l’orecchioni?”<br />
“V’ho detto ch’è... Nessuno!” “Si è nessuno<br />
sta zitto e nun ce rompe li cojoni!”
John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 123<br />
There they knelt. “Now I can’t wait to bust<br />
his eye out, men,” he yelled, “so make sure<br />
this will be the last he sees <strong>of</strong> us!”<br />
XL<br />
The Giant Blinded<br />
The four flag bearers aimed, charged, planted, ground<br />
the long shaft deep into the cyclops’ socket.<br />
Furious, frantic, fast, Ulysses struck it<br />
deeper and turned it like a merry-go-round.<br />
At once that moribund volcano hurled<br />
forth great eye fragments and little wads <strong>of</strong> jell<br />
out <strong>of</strong> his monster brain. He yelled a yell<br />
enough to raise goose pimples on the world.<br />
As he was screaming, Mother Nature frowned,<br />
wrinkling her great face, and started to stir<br />
and raised up mountains from the level ground.<br />
Beholding earth beneath them relandscaped,<br />
many a luminous, uneasy star<br />
turned into a comet and escaped.<br />
XLI<br />
The Giant’s Cousins Arrive<br />
The other cyclopes had come to town<br />
to snack and have a card game. One said, “Wasn’t<br />
that Poliphemo?”--”Yeah! What’s with our cousin?”--<br />
And they ran to find out what was going on.<br />
--”Hey, Poliphemo! Hey! Are you all right?<br />
Who’s got you crying like a little kid?<br />
Why have you pulled your cave door shut and hid<br />
yourself away from us and out <strong>of</strong> sight?”<br />
And him: “No One has caused me all this pain.<br />
No One, god damn it! Goddamn No One’s taken<br />
all <strong>of</strong> my personal point <strong>of</strong> view away.”<br />
--”What is it, cousin, worms? Ear ache? Migraine?”<br />
“I already told you: No One!” --”No one? Then, hey,<br />
shut the fuck up and quit your belly aching.”
124<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
XLII<br />
Li cicròpi soccoritori se ne vanno scocciati<br />
E mentre quelli, ormai pe’ le campagne,<br />
se n’annavano via de gran cariera,<br />
Ulisse fece ar mostro: -- Aspetta e spera...,<br />
nun ciài nemmanco l’oculo pe’ piagne!<br />
--E’ vero, l’occhio è ‘na caverna nera<br />
e ancora sento er palo che lo sfragne,<br />
le lacrime però nun sò taccagne<br />
e ne tengo, perdio, ‘n’acquasantiera!<br />
Ma tu che ciài l’occhietti sopra ar viso<br />
e guardi er celo, sai chi sò le stelle?<br />
Sò Cicròpi che stanno in Paradiso!<br />
E le stelle me dicheno: “Pastore,<br />
coraggio! Pe’ guidà le pecorelle<br />
nun te serveno l’occhi, abbasta er còre!”--
John DuVal and Louise Rozier/Giorgio Roberti 125<br />
XLII<br />
The Helpful Cyclopes Clump Off<br />
Now that the giant’s neighbors and relations<br />
were hurrying back to the farm yards where they lived,<br />
Ulysses said to the monster, “Hope and have patience!<br />
You don’t even have an eye for crying with.”<br />
--”It’s true. The eye I had is a black cave,<br />
and I still feel the stick that burst it open,<br />
but I can’t stop tears, and tears, by God, I have-enough<br />
to fill a holy water fountain.<br />
But you, who have a face that’s got two eyes,<br />
and see the sky, do you know what stars are?<br />
They’re cyclopes who’ve gone to Paradise.<br />
Those stars are saying to me, ‘Shepherd, keep<br />
your courage up, because for herding sheep<br />
eyes don’t matter: all you need is heart.’”<br />
Roberti’s note to Sonnet XXXVII: “The Agonale Basin with the Moor is<br />
the basin <strong>of</strong> the Fountain <strong>of</strong> the Moor in Piazza Navona, completed by<br />
Bernini, who designed the statue <strong>of</strong> the Ethiopian in the center <strong>of</strong> the fountain.”
Toroide, oil on canvas.
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by Cesare Fagiani<br />
by Gil Fagiani<br />
Gil Fagiani co-hosts the monthly open reading <strong>of</strong> the <strong>Italian</strong> American<br />
Writers’ Association at the Cornelia Street Café. He has published two poetry<br />
chapbooks: “Crossing 116th Street: A Blanquito in El Barrio,” by Skidrow<br />
Penthouse, and “Rooks,” by Rain Mountain Press. In 2005, he won an “Honorable<br />
Mention” for both the Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards, and the<br />
Bordighera Prize. Gil’s translations include the poetry <strong>of</strong> three North African<br />
immigrants living in Italy due to be published in a Bilingual Anthology<br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> Migrant Poetry edited by Luigi Bonaffini and Mia Lecomte.<br />
Born in Lanciano, Cesare Fagiani (1901-1965) was considered one <strong>of</strong><br />
Abruzzo’s leading poets from the 1930s to the 1960s. His poetry has been<br />
included in numerous anthologies and published in local, regional and<br />
national magazines and newspapers. In 1951, he won first prize along with<br />
Alfredo Luciani, at the first Modesto Della Porta Convention <strong>of</strong> Abruzzese<br />
Poetry. His principal works include: Luna nove (New Moon), 1949, Stamme<br />
e sentì (Stay With Me and Listen), 1954, Fenestre aperte (Open Windows),<br />
1966, and Teatro abruzzese di Cesare Fagiani, (Cesare Fagiani’s Abruzzese<br />
Theater), 1961.<br />
Note on translation<br />
The dialect I have translated is referred to by local people as Lancianese,<br />
that is the language <strong>of</strong> Lanciano, a city <strong>of</strong> 30,000 inhabitants in Abruzzo.<br />
Although people familiar with Abruzzese dialects in general have proved<br />
helpful, at times I needed to consult with people who grew up in Lanciano in<br />
order to obtain the full flavor <strong>of</strong> a particular word or expression. A second<br />
challenge stemmed from the fact that many <strong>of</strong> the poems I’ve worked on were<br />
written more than 70 years ago. Lancianese, like all languages, has evolved<br />
over time. Some words and expressions are now extinct. Therefore, for the<br />
sake <strong>of</strong> accuracy, I’ve had to seek out and consult with people fluent in<br />
Lancianese who are in their 70s and 80s. In this regard, I’ve had the good<br />
fortune to be given a rare Abruzzese dictionary, Vocabulario abruzzese, by<br />
Nicola De Archangelo, published in 1930, by one <strong>of</strong> the daughters <strong>of</strong> the poet<br />
I translated.
128<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
La gente<br />
-- A monte nen ci i’: ci sta lu foche!<br />
A destre nen yutà’: ci sta lu vente!<br />
A manche truve l’acque che t’affoche!<br />
Soltante arrete va o puramente<br />
statte ‘nchiuvate proprie addò ti truve! --<br />
Cuscì la gente dice se ti smuve.<br />
Ma tu ne le sentì’ che la campane:<br />
sinte lu core, ride e va luntane!<br />
Amore e cante<br />
Amore, ti facesse ‘na canzone,<br />
une di quille a foche martellate,<br />
turnite gna si deve e rimpastate<br />
di note arillucinte di passione.<br />
P’ avè’ chiù tempe a fa’ ‘na cosa bbone<br />
ci jasse, ‘n cuscïenze, carciarate,<br />
nen ci durmesse pe’ ‘na ‘nter’ annate<br />
pecchè la notte chiù sa dà’ lu tone!<br />
E queste nom pecchè i’ stenghe in vene<br />
di farme, come tante, lu bbelline<br />
ma sole pe’ cantarte a vocia piene<br />
nu mutivette nove, proprie fine,<br />
pe’ dire ca pecchè ti vojje bbene<br />
‘stu core è diventate cantarine.<br />
Discurse d’amore<br />
Quande credeme ca nïente chiù<br />
ci sta da dire pe’ che la jurnate<br />
allore... parle i’ ca parle tu...<br />
n’ atru discorse è pronte ‘ntavulate.<br />
E che diceme? Cose ariccuntate,<br />
ditte e riditte sole tra di nû<br />
duvente, pecchè sème ‘nnammurate,<br />
cose che vale chiù di lu Perù.
Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani<br />
People<br />
-- Keep away from the mountain: there’s fire!<br />
Don’t turn to the right: there’s wind over there!<br />
Over towards the left there’s water, you’ll drown!<br />
Only go backwards or even better<br />
stay nailed to the spot where you find yourself! --<br />
So say the people if you try to move.<br />
But it’s best not to listen to those bells:<br />
listen to your heart, laugh and travel far!<br />
Love and song<br />
My love, I would compose for you a song<br />
one <strong>of</strong> those hammered and forged in fire,<br />
polished the way it should be and blended<br />
with notes that are shiny and passionate.<br />
To find time to make something beautiful<br />
maybe I would even go to prison,<br />
and wouldn’t sleep for an entire year<br />
because night time brings on such a somber tone!<br />
And I’d do this not out <strong>of</strong> vanity<br />
like so many others do, my darling<br />
but just to sing to you in a full voice<br />
a sweet little melody, spanking new,<br />
to say that because <strong>of</strong> my love for you<br />
this heart <strong>of</strong> mine has become a songsmith.<br />
Love Talk<br />
Whenever we believe there’s nothing more<br />
that could possibly be said for the day<br />
then first ... I speak and afterwards you speak ...<br />
and we’re ready to shoot the breeze some more.<br />
And what do we say? Things already told<br />
said and resaid just between me and you<br />
becomes for us, because we are in love,<br />
things that have greater value than Perù.<br />
129
130<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Chiù l’accuntème e chiù ve’ lu vulìe<br />
di dirle pecchè sempre cagne tone<br />
e si fa bbelle ogne fessarìe,<br />
pecchè, quande ci sta la passïone,<br />
pure ‘na chiacchiarelle che si sie<br />
è pe’ lu core come ‘na canzone!<br />
La vita mé<br />
La vita mé: nu ciele annuvelate,<br />
nu vente ‘ngustïose, nu garbine,<br />
‘na ruvenella d’acque cuncrïate<br />
pi tirà ‘nnenze sempre tra le spine!<br />
Nu ciele che te’ spesse nu cavute<br />
che certe vote fa da fenestrelle:<br />
di jorne, a nu serene di vellute;<br />
di notte, a ‘na sguardate di ‘na stelle.<br />
Nu vente che, a vote, se s’appose<br />
mi lande tra le pide la pampujje;<br />
di bbone che ci truve?... Di ‘na rose<br />
‘na fronna solamente ci - ariccujje!<br />
‘Na ruvanelle che, pur’ esse a vote,<br />
lande la macchie de la pecuntrìe<br />
e va, senza ‘mbrattarse ‘nche la lote,<br />
cantenne sole esse pé la vie.<br />
Lu cante<br />
A chi nen cante chiù si fa sciapite<br />
lu sense de la vite.<br />
A chi chiù cante pijje chiù sapore<br />
la voce de lu core.<br />
Cuncette<br />
I<br />
Cuncè, troppe fucante è ssa suttane<br />
che fa sciò - llà - sciò - n qua quande camine!
Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani<br />
The more we tell them the more we desire<br />
to tell them because every foolishness<br />
improves the sound and becomes beautiful<br />
because a little chat already known<br />
is like a familiar song to the heart!<br />
My Life<br />
My life: cloudy sky,<br />
an annoying wind, a Southern wind,<br />
a brooklet <strong>of</strong> water gathering<br />
to go ahead always among the thorns!<br />
A sky that <strong>of</strong>ten has a hole<br />
that at certain times makes like a small window:<br />
at daytime, a velvet serenity;<br />
at nighttime, a glance <strong>of</strong> a star.<br />
A wind that, sometimes, if it stops<br />
leaves the dry leaves by my feet;<br />
What do you find that is good? Of a rose<br />
the only thing that you can pick up is a leaf!<br />
A brooklet, even that at times,<br />
leaves the stains <strong>of</strong> melancholy<br />
and goes, without getting dirty with mud,<br />
singing all by itself along the way.<br />
The Song<br />
To those who no longer sing, the spirit <strong>of</strong> life<br />
is tasteless<br />
To those who sing more, the voice <strong>of</strong> the heart<br />
gets more flavor<br />
Concetta<br />
I<br />
Concetta, your petticoat is too hot<br />
swinging every which way as you walk!<br />
131
132<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
N’ avaste le papambre di ‘stu grane<br />
a mette’ foche all’arie ‘sta mmatine?<br />
Cuncette, nche ssu passe vacce piane:<br />
mi te’ ffà’ troppe vènte ssa pedane!<br />
Cuncette, scì bbendette, pecchè schèppe?<br />
Quanta dispitte ti pô fa nu streppe<br />
e quante foche vive chiù s’ accampe<br />
dentr’ a ‘stu core che già te’ la lampe!<br />
E vie!... Fa chiù piane gna camine<br />
se no le pieghe ‘n te ricasche bbone!<br />
Le trijje si scampane, Cuncettine,<br />
nen tirà’ ‘nnenze gne ‘na sciambricone!<br />
Mi sfronne le papambre bbone bbone<br />
ssu passe che nen vo’ capì’ rraggione!<br />
Pe’ ssu passe le morre fanne a truzze,<br />
si scòtele e ti jèttene la ruzze.<br />
La ruzze di... ‘stu core e di... ssu grane<br />
po’ fa perdì’ lu pregge a ssa suttane!<br />
Bande e campane!<br />
Ecche Lanciane:<br />
sopra tre còlle<br />
tra sole e stelle<br />
nche la Maielle<br />
quase vicine<br />
e nu strapizze<br />
all’ atru pizze<br />
fatte di mare.<br />
Ecche ‘sta care<br />
Lanciana mé<br />
proprie addò sta.<br />
II<br />
Lanciane
Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani<br />
Aren’t the poppies in this field enough<br />
to set the air on fire this morning?<br />
Concetta, step more s<strong>of</strong>tly as you go:<br />
your hem is stirring up the air too much!<br />
Concetta, my God, why are you running?<br />
A thorn bush could cause you so much trouble<br />
and how much more intense the fire grows<br />
inside my heart that’s already in flames!<br />
Go ahead! ... Take it easy as you walk<br />
or the folds <strong>of</strong> your dress will not fall right!<br />
The needlework will vanish, Concetta,<br />
don’t carry on as if you are tipsy!<br />
You’re trampling on all these lovely poppies<br />
and you don’t want to listen to reason!<br />
You’re making the ears <strong>of</strong> wheat strike each other,<br />
they’re being shaken up and resent it.<br />
The resentment ... <strong>of</strong> my heart and ... these ears<br />
makes your petticoat lose all its worth!<br />
II<br />
Lanciano<br />
Bands and bells!<br />
This is Lanciano:<br />
on top <strong>of</strong> three hills<br />
in between the sun and stars<br />
with the Maiella<br />
almost near<br />
and a drop<br />
to the other side<br />
made <strong>of</strong> sea.<br />
Here is<br />
my dear Lanciano<br />
exactly the way it is.<br />
133
134<br />
Bomme e campane!<br />
Ecche Lanciane:<br />
orte e ciardine,<br />
chiese e funtane,<br />
genta frentane,<br />
cante e camine,<br />
core a la mane,<br />
cipolle e pane<br />
ma... coccia ‘n terre!...<br />
Pure la guerre!...<br />
Ne j’ tuccà’<br />
la libbertà<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Neve<br />
Tutt’arruffate e nche chell’ucchietille<br />
annacquanite, chelu passerette<br />
sott’a chela nenguente, puvirette,<br />
guardè’ lu ciele e ci jettè’ nu strille.<br />
Cerchè pietà a li Sente e a l’Angelille<br />
pe’ nen fa’ nengue almene a chelu tette?<br />
Pure nu San Franscesche, scià bbendette,<br />
da che sta ‘n ciele chiù nen pense a cille!<br />
Zampogne<br />
Cale la neve e sente nu scapiste;<br />
è proprie esse: è lu scupinare<br />
che, quand’ ere quatrale, appena viste<br />
pe’ me ere ‘na feste senza pare!<br />
Ma coma va? Se un - è la scupine<br />
e un - è la canzone che si cante<br />
pecchè, pecchè se l’anne chiù camine<br />
chiù che la feste luce entr’ a lu piante?
Fireworks and bells!<br />
This is Lanciano:<br />
gardens and parks,<br />
churches and fountains,<br />
Frentane people,<br />
songs and walks<br />
heart in their hand,<br />
onions and bread<br />
but...head to the ground!...<br />
Even the war!<br />
Don’t touch<br />
their liberty!<br />
Gil Fagiani/Cesare Fagiani<br />
Snow<br />
All ruffled and with those tiny eyes<br />
soaked through and through, that wee bitty sparrow<br />
under that snowfall, wretched little thing,<br />
looked up at the sky and gave out a cry.<br />
He looked for pity from saints and angels<br />
at least to keep the snow <strong>of</strong>f <strong>of</strong> the ro<strong>of</strong>?<br />
Even a Saint Francis, blessed be,<br />
since he’s in heaven thinks no more <strong>of</strong> birds.<br />
Bagpipes<br />
Snow falls and I hear the sound <strong>of</strong> footsteps;<br />
it is really him, it is the piper<br />
that, when I was a kid, just seeing him<br />
for me was a good time beyond compare!<br />
But how goes it, if one -- is the bagpipe<br />
and the other one -- is the song one sings<br />
why, why, do the oncoming years go by<br />
more than the festival shines through my tears?<br />
135
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by Davide Rondoni<br />
by Gregory Pell<br />
Gregory Pell teaches <strong>Italian</strong> language, literature and cinema at H<strong>of</strong>stra<br />
University (NY). He has published articles on Luzi, Montale, Tobino, and<br />
film. His translation focuses on Paolo Ruffilli and Davide Rondoni. Recently,<br />
he has published a book on cinematic and holographic images in Eugenio<br />
Montale’s poetry.<br />
Poet, essayist, playwright, translator and editor, Davide Rondoni is<br />
one <strong>of</strong> contemporary Italy’s most active and diversified writers. His contribution<br />
to literature includes his recent founding <strong>of</strong> the Centro di Poesia<br />
Contemporanea (Università di Bologna) and his continuous participation<br />
in the journal clanDestino, <strong>of</strong> which he is founder and director. In these capacities,<br />
Rondoni has his finger on the pulse <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> poetry. Spanning 20<br />
years, Rondoni’s own poetic activity, which reflects such influences as<br />
Rimbaud, Luzi, Testori, Bigongiari and Caproni, has most recently culminated<br />
in the works Avrebbe amato chiunque (2003) and Il veleno, l’arte (2004).<br />
Rondoni’s awards are numerous and his poetry is recognized in translation<br />
in such countries as France, Spain, the United States and Russia.<br />
The difficulty in translating Rondoni’s poetry is not the result <strong>of</strong><br />
an elaborate or opulent use <strong>of</strong> language; nor is it necessarily a<br />
result <strong>of</strong> a reliance on impenetrable slang or idiom. Rather the<br />
difficulty can be attributed to his capturing the immediacy <strong>of</strong> the contexts<br />
around him in a language that is exceedingly organic and expressed through<br />
a rhythm that causes the poetry to seem meditated or uttered under the poet’s<br />
breath. Three problems present themselves. First, as a translator, I feel humbled<br />
and unnecessary: his poetic language seems so simple that I am almost<br />
tempted to overjustify my role by implying things in my rendition that were<br />
not implied in the original. Second, in this lyric unpretentiousness, culturallinguistic<br />
differences arise. Rondoni employs the banality <strong>of</strong> a key term like<br />
“autogrill” (in one <strong>of</strong> his most well-known poems, “Bartolomeo”) which<br />
cannot be rendered in English in one word: ‘rest area’, ‘service area’, and<br />
‘highway reststop’ are too clumsy to be poetic. One could say the same thing<br />
for the use <strong>of</strong> “benzinai” in the same poem: “filling station attendants,” “gas<br />
station attendants”, or “gas attendants” take away from the terseness and<br />
the musicality. I chose the latter, for it was the shortest version I could find to<br />
emulate the syllabation, without overlooking the suggestiveness <strong>of</strong> gasoline<br />
found in “benzinai.” Third, there remains the task <strong>of</strong> capturing the vagaries<br />
and contingencies <strong>of</strong> intonation: Rondoni’s is a poetry that must – perhaps<br />
more so than others – be spoken aloud, as it follows broken rhythm and<br />
unfixed, uneven lineation reminiscent <strong>of</strong> Luzi’s poetry, which is, likewise,
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
137<br />
full <strong>of</strong> deliberate horizontal tabulations. Rondoni’s poetry, then, is deceptively<br />
plain, so my role is to take the ordinary <strong>Italian</strong> and marry it to a corresponding<br />
syntax, replete with Rondoni’s deliberate lack <strong>of</strong> punctuation, in<br />
an English version. Rondoni’s primary insistence on the tabulation <strong>of</strong> verses<br />
and the positioning <strong>of</strong> certain types <strong>of</strong> words at the end <strong>of</strong> each verse demands<br />
it. Yet, how does one translate a poetry that sounds like the manifestation<br />
<strong>of</strong> a man’s contemplations, or his remarks about life as it happens<br />
around him? How does one reproduce the cadences that follow a rhythm<br />
found somewhere between thought and dialogue? How does one translate a<br />
word that simultaneously exists as the beginning <strong>of</strong> a new thought as much<br />
as it exists as a continuation <strong>of</strong> a previous thought? At best, one can listen to<br />
Rondoni intone his own verses; but even if solutions presented themselves<br />
in such a reading, I would have to betray the written verse and that could<br />
violate the very primacy <strong>of</strong> Rondoni’s original, albeit unusual, choices for<br />
his verse delineations.
138<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
New York (Avrebbe amato chiunque)<br />
Central Park, fine autunno, alberi<br />
di seta elettrica e color sangue<br />
nel freddo azzurro del cielo che salgono<br />
si aprono<br />
poi piano che si spengono,<br />
che sta venendo, aria<br />
che si oscura.<br />
I.<br />
ombra<br />
E inizia a splendere la corona<br />
ghiacciata dei grattacieli<br />
sulla folla più cupa nelle strade.<br />
Io chiedo a Oonagh: perché tieni i capelli così,<br />
grigi a trent’anni.<br />
Ma lei ballando muove la cenere della testa<br />
e gli occhi celesti impensabili<br />
fa un cerchio magico<br />
a Manhattan, fa di sé un incendio<br />
e apre braccia, remi, ali<br />
nell’oceano delle voci della sera.<br />
Senti che grida di barche invisibili.<br />
Nella baia nera.<br />
II.<br />
Cosa succede in questa poesia?<br />
succede<br />
che ti vedo aprire<br />
il frigorifero e in quel bagliore<br />
sul viso ecco i ventagli luminosi, il tempo<br />
e ti vedo un po’ bevuta<br />
e disperata in modo fantastico<br />
lanciare dalle gallerie della casa<br />
dove dormono le tue bambine<br />
il richiamo che dirama nella nebbia:
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
New York<br />
Central Park, autumn’s end, trees<br />
<strong>of</strong> electric silk and blood hues<br />
in the sky’s cold blue that rise up<br />
pr<strong>of</strong>fer themselves<br />
then slowly they relent,<br />
in its becoming, air<br />
as it dims.<br />
I.<br />
shadow<br />
And it starts, the frosty crown<br />
<strong>of</strong> the skyscrapers,<br />
to glisten on the more somber throng in the streets.<br />
I ask Oonagh: why do you keep your hair like that,<br />
grey at thirty.<br />
But dancing she moves her head’s cinders<br />
and those inconceivable azure eyes<br />
she forms a magic circle<br />
in Manhattan, she sets herself ablaze<br />
and opens arms, oars, wings<br />
into the ocean that is the evening’s voices.<br />
You hear the shouts from invisible boats.<br />
In the dark bay.<br />
What is it that happens in this poem?<br />
it happens<br />
that I see you open<br />
the refrigerator and in that flash<br />
on your face suddenly luminous fans, time<br />
II.<br />
and I see you a bit tipsy<br />
and wonderfully desperate<br />
cast from the balconies <strong>of</strong> the house<br />
where your little girls sleep<br />
your cry that emanates in the fog:<br />
139
140<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
«sono solo una donna che passa le voci<br />
di bocca in bocca, solo<br />
una traduttrice con le sue figlie,<br />
lasciate l’ira che rade<br />
le parole dal viso, lasciate o ci farete tutti<br />
morire»<br />
e mentre tace il buio di alti cristalli di banche<br />
e l’ombra in grandi moschee, in uffici deserti<br />
viene la risposta da un punto invisibile del porto<br />
o da che battello, da che vagone<br />
che trema nella sera su una pianura d’Europa<br />
o da un uomo solo al volante,<br />
sirene lunghe che si cercano,<br />
le voci di chi non si vede<br />
in questo viaggio di sete, di appunti<br />
strappati su biglietti,<br />
di riconoscenza...<br />
Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo)<br />
Quando anche tu ti fermerai in questo grande<br />
autogrill e il viso stancovedrai rapido<br />
sui vetri, sull’alluminio del banco,<br />
sarà una sera come questa<br />
che nel vento rompe la luce<br />
e le nubi del giorno, sarà<br />
un grande momento:<br />
lo sapremo io e te soli.<br />
Ripartirai<br />
con un lieve turbamento, quasi<br />
un ricordo e i silenzi delle scansie di oggetti,<br />
dei benzinai, dei loro berretti,<br />
sentirai alle tue spalle leggero<br />
divenire un canto.<br />
La felicità del tempo è dirti sì,<br />
ci sei, una forza segreta<br />
uno sgomento ti fa, non la mia<br />
giovinezza che cede, non l’età
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
“I’m just a woman who passes voices<br />
from one mouth to another, just<br />
a translator with her daughters,<br />
let go <strong>of</strong> the ire that cancels<br />
words from your face, let go or you’ll cause us<br />
to die”<br />
and while the darkness <strong>of</strong> tall-paned banks hushes<br />
and the shadow in imposing mosques, in empty <strong>of</strong>fices<br />
the reply comes from an invisible point in the harbor<br />
or from some barge, from some rail car<br />
shaking through the night over a European plain<br />
or from a man alone at the wheel,<br />
drawn out sirens<br />
[seeking each other,<br />
the voices <strong>of</strong> the unseen<br />
on this journey <strong>of</strong> thirst, <strong>of</strong> notes<br />
scattered over tickets,<br />
<strong>of</strong> gratitude...<br />
Bartolomeo (Il bar del tempo)<br />
And when you too will pause in this vast<br />
highway rest-area and see your face<br />
flash onto the glass <strong>of</strong> the metal counter,<br />
it will be an evening like this one<br />
where the wind breaks up the day’s light<br />
and passing clouds, it will be<br />
a wondrous moment:<br />
only you and I will get it.<br />
You’ll take your leave again<br />
with slight agitation, almost<br />
a memory and the silence <strong>of</strong> display shelves,<br />
<strong>of</strong> gas attendants, their caps,<br />
all will be turned lightly to song<br />
behind you.<br />
The joy <strong>of</strong> time’s passing is telling you: yes,<br />
you’re really there, a secret force,<br />
a consternation creates you,<br />
141
142<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
matura, non il mio invecchiamento -<br />
la nostra vera somiglianza<br />
è là dove non si vede.<br />
Mio figlio, mio viaggiatore,<br />
sarà il tuo inferno, la tua virtù<br />
questo udito da cane o da angelo<br />
che sente al’unisono il giro dei pianeti<br />
e la pastiglia cadere nel bicchiere<br />
due piani sotto, dove due vecchi<br />
si accudiscono.<br />
Sarà questo amore strepitoso<br />
tuo padre, quello vero.<br />
Fermati ancora in questo autogrill,<br />
dal buio mi piacerà rivederti…<br />
A Giuseppe Ungaretti, visto di notte alla televisione leggere «I fiumi» (Il<br />
bar del tempo)<br />
Non ho fiumi io,<br />
non ho mai vissuto sporgendo<br />
il volto sull’acqua<br />
che quieta o vorticosa<br />
taglia la città, nobilita o nel gorgo<br />
ruba via tutti i pensieri.<br />
Non ho avuto<br />
gradoni di pietra su cui disteso perdere sotto il sole<br />
il lume della mente, addormentando.<br />
Ho avuto viali,<br />
strade larghe, rumorose, il getto alto<br />
di tangenziali,<br />
braccia aperte di povera madre<br />
vene da cui entra in città<br />
ogni genere di roba.<br />
Ho avuto viali d’alberi<br />
o rapide vertigini tra l’acciaio di pareti<br />
e vetro oscuro.<br />
Il caos<br />
li rende identici, sotto la pioggia
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
not my waning youth, not the mature<br />
years, not my growing old –<br />
our resemblance lies<br />
in the unseen.<br />
My son, my traveler,<br />
your hell, your virtue<br />
might be your dog-like or<br />
angel-like hearing<br />
that detects the turning <strong>of</strong> the planets<br />
and a pill falling into a cup<br />
two floors below,<br />
where two seniors citizens<br />
attend to each other.<br />
This roaring love will be<br />
your father, your real one.<br />
Stop <strong>of</strong>f for a spell in this highway rest-area,<br />
from the darkness it will be a pleasure to see you again...<br />
To G. Ungaretti seen at night on the TV reading “I fiumi” (Il bar del<br />
tempo)<br />
Myself, I have no rivers,<br />
I’ve never lived leaning<br />
my face over the still<br />
or turbulent water that carves<br />
the city, ennobling us or stealing<br />
our thoughts in an eddy.<br />
I’ve never had<br />
terraced rocks, outstretched over which<br />
to dampen my mind’s wick,<br />
dozing under the sun.<br />
I had avenues,<br />
wide, noisy streets, tall trajectories<br />
<strong>of</strong> by-passes,<br />
the open arms <strong>of</strong> a poor mother<br />
veins through which all sorts <strong>of</strong> things<br />
come into the city.<br />
I had tree-lined avenues<br />
or swift bouts <strong>of</strong> vertigo between steel walls<br />
and tinted glass.<br />
Chaos<br />
renders them indistinguishable, under the rain<br />
143
144<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
sono l’inferno,<br />
sono frenetici.<br />
Ma la notte, quando cade<br />
la notte<br />
si ridisegnano,<br />
viali nuovi<br />
d’ombra e di solitudine,<br />
quando li illumina il lento<br />
collo dei lampioni e lo spegnersi<br />
delle ultime réclame.<br />
Si muovono allora leggermente,<br />
ramificano, forse rotea un poco<br />
tutta la città;<br />
qualcuno finisce<br />
in faccia a un castello, a una<br />
cattedrale, altri smuoiono<br />
sotto i fari arancio di un nodo autostradale -<br />
i viali la notte respirano<br />
con le foglie dei platani, larghe, nere,<br />
le grate dei metró e l’aria nenia<br />
che dorme sui bambini.<br />
Tirano il fiato quando va<br />
il passeggero dell’ultimo tram -<br />
I viali mi danno<br />
una vita speciale,<br />
che non è pianto e allegria<br />
non è, ma una ventosità,<br />
un andare<br />
ancora andare<br />
che viene da chissà che mari,<br />
da quali valli, da grandi fiumi.<br />
Cosa c’era là fuori (Avrebbe amato chiunque)<br />
Cosa c’era là fuori,<br />
che vuoto<br />
o che cielo in quel vuoto,<br />
il fuoco<br />
tirava giú tutto<br />
che notte<br />
e rompeva
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
they are hell,<br />
they are frenetic.<br />
But during the night,<br />
when night does come,<br />
they recast themselves,<br />
new avenues<br />
shadowy, lonely avenues,<br />
when tall streetlamps illuminate them<br />
and the latest adverts fade out.<br />
Then they move delicately,<br />
branching, perhaps the whole city<br />
turns on itself;<br />
some end at a castle, others<br />
at a cathedral, others dissolve beneath<br />
the orange lights <strong>of</strong> a highway junction –<br />
the avenues breath in the night with their wide black<br />
plane-trees, their subway gates and sad, singsong lullaby<br />
sleeping over the children.<br />
They draw a breath as the last<br />
trolley passenger takes his leave –<br />
The avenues <strong>of</strong>fer me<br />
a special life,<br />
one that’s neither tears nor joy<br />
but a breeziness,<br />
a sense <strong>of</strong> moving<br />
on and on<br />
that comes from who knows what seas<br />
or valleys, from great rivers.<br />
What’s outside there? (Avrebbe amato chiunque)<br />
What’s outside, there<br />
what nothingness<br />
or what a sky in that nothingness,<br />
what a night<br />
the fire<br />
pulled down everything<br />
destroyed everything<br />
stealing your breath.<br />
What was there where you<br />
145
146<br />
togliendovi il fiato.<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Cosa c’era dove hai lanciato<br />
il tuo bambino<br />
il vuoto<br />
del quarto piano, o che vento, che fiato<br />
che oro, che affido di vita nel buio<br />
per salvar lui<br />
via<br />
via, in un respiro.<br />
E mentre lui cadeva<br />
tu bruciavi maternamente.<br />
Ma le tue braccia alla finestra<br />
prima di tornare al carbone e alla memoria<br />
furono comete,<br />
ponti di Brooklyn d’amore<br />
nella notte in periferia di Milano.<br />
E io te le ho prese,<br />
signora, lascia le braccia<br />
a questo ballo lontano,<br />
alla musica che io e te<br />
da due sponde nell’ombra per sempre sentiamo.<br />
Pietà di Michelangelo, vagone (Avrebbe amato chiunque)<br />
Quando si torna da Roma gallerie<br />
si devono passare,<br />
molti bui, lampi, strane<br />
fratture della luce.<br />
E i silenzi del corpo in questi treni veloci<br />
È difficile riconoscere il proprio volto<br />
nel lampo che lo fotografa sul vetro,<br />
gli occhi al magnesio degli anni.<br />
Il tizio che per tutto il viaggio<br />
fissa la borsa chiusa di fronte a sé,<br />
la ragazza coi capelli colorati<br />
e il labbro forato<br />
che vuole raccontare la sua vita ad un estraneo.
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
[hurled<br />
your baby<br />
the nothingness<br />
<strong>of</strong> the fourth floor, oh what wind, what breath<br />
what gold, trust in life itself in the dark<br />
but to save him<br />
away<br />
away from there, in a gasp.<br />
you burned maternally.<br />
And as he fell<br />
But your arms on the windowsill<br />
before turning back to carbon and in a recollection<br />
were comets,<br />
Brooklyn bridges <strong>of</strong> love<br />
in the night outside <strong>of</strong> Milan.<br />
And I have taken them<br />
[from you,<br />
lady, leave those arms<br />
to this faraway dance,<br />
to the music that I and you<br />
from two shores in the shadows eternally share.<br />
Michelangelo’s Pietà, train car (Avrebbe amato chiunque)<br />
Upon returning from Rome, tunnels<br />
must be traveled,<br />
many dark, flashes, odd<br />
fractures <strong>of</strong> light.<br />
And the body’s silences in these fast trains<br />
It’s hard to recognize one’s own face<br />
in the flash that photographs it onto the glass,<br />
magnesium eyes from over the years.<br />
The guy who for the whole trip<br />
stares at the sealed bag in front <strong>of</strong> him,<br />
the girl with the dyed hair<br />
and a pierced lip<br />
who wants to tell her life story to a stranger.<br />
147
148<br />
E l’altro, brutto, gonfio<br />
di medicinali, il cappello<br />
tirato sulla calvizie, piange<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Leggo nella rivista delle Ferrovie:<br />
anni della Pietà di Michelangelo –<br />
e vedo quell’abbandono senza posa<br />
bianche, la madre così<br />
ragazza, il corpo di Dio che dorme<br />
in quell’assorto bianco.<br />
Materia<br />
che non crede a se stessa –<br />
come questi viaggiatori,<br />
nel sonno che ingigantisce<br />
i vagoni nella sera.<br />
o forse ha pianto.<br />
1498, cinquecento<br />
le lunghe braccia
Gregory Pell/Davide Rondoni<br />
And the other, ugly one, swollen<br />
with medications, hat<br />
pulled over his bald spot, crying<br />
or maybe he’s just cried.<br />
I read in the Railway magazine:<br />
years <strong>of</strong> Michelangelo’s Pietà –<br />
and see that incessant abandon<br />
arms, a mother herself<br />
still a girl, God’s boy sleeping<br />
in that rapt whiteness.<br />
Matter<br />
that does not believe in its own being –<br />
like these travelers,<br />
in a slumber that amplifies<br />
the train cars in the evening.<br />
1498, five hundred<br />
the long, white<br />
149
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by<br />
Raffaele Carrieri and <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Poems by the<br />
Translator<br />
di Rina Ferrarelli<br />
Rina Ferrarelli taught English and translation theory at the University<br />
<strong>of</strong> Pittsburgh for many years. She has published a chapbook and a<br />
book <strong>of</strong> original poetry, Dreamsearch (malafemmina, 1992) and Home is a<br />
Foreign Country (Eadmer, 1996) respectively, and two collections <strong>of</strong> translation,<br />
Light Without Motion (Owl Creek Press, 1989), poesie-racconti <strong>of</strong><br />
Giorgio Chiesura, which received the Italo Calvino Prize from the Columbia<br />
University <strong>Translation</strong> Center; and I Saw the Muses (Guernica, 1997),<br />
lyrics from the <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>of</strong> Leonardo Sinisgalli, which was mentioned as one<br />
<strong>of</strong> five “outstanding” finalists in the Landon <strong>Translation</strong> Prize. She was<br />
also awarded an NEA in translation. Winter Fragments: Selected Poems <strong>of</strong><br />
Bartolo Cattafi is being published in the spring by Chelsea Editions.<br />
Raffaele Carrieri (1905-1984) was born in Taranto, and lived a vagabond<br />
life in his teens and early twenties. He quit school at 14 and sailed to<br />
Albania, from where he went first to Montenegro and then to Fiume to<br />
fight with D’Annunzio. He was only 15 when he was wounded, a serious<br />
injury to his left hand. He went back to Taranto, but after a brief stay, he<br />
sailed again around the Mediterranean visiting various ports including<br />
those along the coast <strong>of</strong> Africa. He worked at many jobs to support himself,<br />
and on his return to Italy, worked as tax collector for two years. It<br />
was during these two years that he started writing poetry, the poems that<br />
were collected in Lamento del gabelliere (1945). In 1923 he went to Paris<br />
where he lived for several years among the poets and painters <strong>of</strong> the time,<br />
and where he started writing articles about his travels. He settled for good<br />
in Milan 1930, and worked as art critic. In addition to several books <strong>of</strong><br />
poetry, some <strong>of</strong> which won awards, including the Premio Viareggio, he<br />
wrote many books <strong>of</strong> art criticism, and biographies and studies <strong>of</strong> poets,<br />
sculptors and painters. Some <strong>of</strong> his other collections are La civetta (1949),<br />
Il trovatore (1953), Canzoniere amoroso (1958), La giornata è finita (1963), Io<br />
sono cicala (1967) and Le ombre dispettose (1974) among others.<br />
Translating Carrieri<br />
In the poems that I translated Carrieri uses many <strong>of</strong> his briefly inhabited<br />
identities as masks, creating a multiplicity <strong>of</strong> selves: not only a
Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri<br />
doppio, sometimes like an ancestral other he’s inherited, but a soldier, street<br />
vendor, ditch digger, ragpicker, rope maker, tax collector, emigrant. At<br />
times, he even identifies with the inanimate. The adolescent search for<br />
identity is given body, substance, voice. And all the personae have something<br />
in common but are also different.<br />
In translating his work, the challenge was in creating a voice that<br />
sounded like the Carrieri in my head: restless, homeless, lonely, in danger.<br />
A man who <strong>of</strong>ten looks over his shoulder, and narrowly escapes;<br />
who comes face to face with death and is seriously wounded, his wounded,<br />
damaged hand giving him yet another identity. But also a weary man <strong>of</strong><br />
no age, or even old, who expects nothing, wants nothing. The challenge<br />
was to create this voice, but also to preserve the variation in tone from<br />
poem to poem, the simplicity or complexity <strong>of</strong> narrative, the muted music.<br />
It was important to keep the poems’ slim, hungry look. Their short<br />
takes and sharp images. Their impatient, hurried runs. I decided against<br />
“cerulean,” the cognate <strong>of</strong> “céruli” because its four syllables are too long<br />
for the line, and it’s not a word sdrúcciola as the original. Also, the shade<br />
and connotations are slightly different in English. I kept the focus on the<br />
one poignant image— “The bowl <strong>of</strong> milk/Filling with darkness”; “ . . . the<br />
shoes/That watched like dogs,” or scattered it through the verses, preserving<br />
the unpredictable quality <strong>of</strong> his collages. In poems such as these,<br />
there is no room to move. Like the poet, I put my trust in the image.<br />
151
152<br />
Si era in due a morire<br />
Alla fine di una sera<br />
Io e l’alpino del Friuli.<br />
Ognuno di noi lo sapeva<br />
Ch’era l’ultima sera.<br />
Vedevo sul comodino<br />
La ciotola di latte<br />
Riempirsi di tenebra<br />
E questo ancora vedere<br />
E distinguere il bianco<br />
Dal nero mi dava piacere.<br />
L’occhio e la ciotola<br />
Erano gli anelli<br />
Di una stessa catena.<br />
Il giorno che seguì<br />
Sopravvissi all’alpino.<br />
Altro non ricordo<br />
Di quella sera.<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Raffaele Carrieri<br />
Si era in due<br />
Piccola morte<br />
So questo, era un soldato<br />
Con un paio di scarpe nuove<br />
Che accanto gli stavano<br />
A vegliarlo giorno e notte.<br />
Aveva una fucilata nel petto<br />
E ogni volta che tossiva guardava<br />
Con ceruli occhi le scarpe<br />
Che vegliavano come cani<br />
La branda dell’infermeria.<br />
Morì alle cinque del mattino<br />
Dicendo queste sole parole:<br />
“Mettetemi amici le scarpe<br />
È venuta l’ora d’andarmene.”<br />
Morì alle cinque del mattino<br />
Con gli occhi rivolti alle scarpe.
Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri<br />
Raffaele Carrieri<br />
Two <strong>of</strong> Us<br />
Two <strong>of</strong> us were dying<br />
At the end <strong>of</strong> one evening<br />
The alpine soldier and I.<br />
Each <strong>of</strong> us knew<br />
It was the last evening.<br />
I saw on the night table<br />
The bowl <strong>of</strong> milk<br />
Filling with darkness<br />
And I was pleased<br />
I could still see<br />
And distinguish<br />
White from black.<br />
My eye and the bowl<br />
Were links<br />
In the same chain.<br />
The day after<br />
I survived the other.<br />
That’s all I remember<br />
From that evening.<br />
Small Death<br />
I know this: he was a soldier<br />
With a new pair <strong>of</strong> shoes<br />
Which kept vigil near him<br />
Day and night.<br />
He was shot in the chest<br />
And every time he coughed<br />
He turned his sky-blue eyes<br />
To look at the shoes<br />
That watched like dogs<br />
The infirmary cot.<br />
He died at five in the morning<br />
Saying only these words:<br />
“Friends, put my shoes on<br />
It’s time for me to go.”<br />
He died at five in the morning<br />
Eyes turned toward his shoes.<br />
153
154<br />
In ogni<br />
Luogo<br />
T’ho<br />
Sentito<br />
Passare<br />
E tornare<br />
Come<br />
Passa<br />
E torna<br />
Il vento.<br />
Non ho niente<br />
Proprio niente<br />
Che sia mio.<br />
Dalla camicia<br />
Al berretto<br />
Non ho più<br />
Niente di mio.<br />
Degli occhi<br />
Ho fatto tranello<br />
All’inverno.<br />
Ho asservito<br />
All’astuzia<br />
L’orecchio.<br />
Dall’udito<br />
Al mantello<br />
Non ho più<br />
Niente di mio.<br />
Anche le mani<br />
Hanno cessato<br />
Di essere mie.<br />
Le mie mani<br />
Sono di questo<br />
Sparuto fucile<br />
Che all’oscuro<br />
Mi somiglia.<br />
A ogni fine di giornata<br />
Quando il cielo muore<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Morte<br />
Non ho niente<br />
Fine di giornata
Death<br />
In every Place<br />
I have<br />
Felt you<br />
Passing<br />
And returning<br />
Like<br />
The wind<br />
Passes<br />
And returns.<br />
I have nothing<br />
Truly nothing<br />
That’s mine.<br />
From shirt<br />
To hat<br />
I no longer<br />
Have anything<br />
That’s mine.<br />
Out <strong>of</strong> my eyes<br />
I’ve made a snare<br />
For winter.<br />
I’ve put my ears<br />
At the service<br />
Of cunning.<br />
From my hearing<br />
to my cloak<br />
I no longer<br />
Have anything<br />
That’s mine.<br />
Even my hands<br />
Have ceased to be mine.<br />
They belong<br />
to this bony gun<br />
which in the dark<br />
resembles me.<br />
At every day’s end<br />
When the sky dies<br />
Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri<br />
Death<br />
I Have Nothing<br />
Day’s End<br />
155
156<br />
Con la gola tagliata<br />
Come la gallina nera<br />
Resto solo sul prato<br />
Con gli odori della sera<br />
E il sacco di cenciaiolo<br />
Dove raccolgo la cenere<br />
Delle mie ore terrene.<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Attesa di Niente<br />
La luce non mi è stata compagna<br />
Sulla terra né l’acqua sorella.<br />
L’affabile acqua piovana<br />
Che materna addormenta<br />
Il vecchio gabelliere<br />
E la giovane rana.<br />
Avrei voluto chiudere il cielo<br />
Come una semplice porta<br />
Per restare una giornata<br />
Acquattato nell’erba<br />
In attesa di niente
Rina Ferrarelli/Raffaele Carrieri<br />
Its throat severed<br />
Like the black hen’s<br />
I linger in the meadow<br />
Alone with the evening smells<br />
And the rag picker’s sack<br />
where I gather the ashes<br />
Of my earthly hours.<br />
Waiting for Nothing<br />
Light has not been my friend<br />
On the earth nor water my sister.<br />
The amiable rain water<br />
That like a mother puts to sleep<br />
The old tax collector<br />
And the young frog.<br />
I would have liked to close the sky<br />
Like a simple door<br />
To remain all day<br />
Hidden in the grass<br />
Waiting for nothing.<br />
157
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Poems in English by Rina Ferrarelli translated into <strong>Italian</strong><br />
Dreamsearch<br />
I was back in that other<br />
country again last night<br />
those narrow streets<br />
familiar and strange.<br />
I walked on the worn stone<br />
in the shadow <strong>of</strong> houses<br />
looking for a door<br />
looking for a face<br />
and again<br />
I woke up too soon.<br />
And it’s been thirty years now<br />
I’ve mothered three children<br />
made a warm home for them<br />
and that little orphan girl.<br />
Back to the Source<br />
Granite and river stone<br />
worn by walking,<br />
wide sloping steps with short rises<br />
the steep descent<br />
but not<br />
the straight path <strong>of</strong> a torrent<br />
sharp turns<br />
and small wide bends<br />
where walls jut out<br />
alleys come in<br />
I always go up in my dreams<br />
upstream back to the source.<br />
Someone’s <strong>of</strong>ten missing<br />
from family pictures,<br />
Inside the Frame
Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli 159<br />
Cercando nel sogno<br />
Mi ritrovai in quell’altro<br />
mondo durante la notte<br />
quei vicoli stretti<br />
intimi e strani.<br />
Camminavo sulle pietre consunte<br />
nell’ombra delle case<br />
cercando una porta<br />
cercando un volto<br />
e di nuovo<br />
mi svegliai troppo presto.<br />
E sono già passati trent’anni,<br />
ho dato alla luce tre figli,<br />
ho fatto un nido morbido e caldo<br />
per loro e quella piccola orfanella.<br />
Ritorno alla fonte<br />
Pietre del fiume pezzi di granito<br />
logorati dai piedi<br />
ampi ripiani spioventi piccoli gradini<br />
l’erta discesa<br />
ma non<br />
la diritta via d’un torrente<br />
curve improvvise<br />
e anse piccole ed ampie<br />
dove i muri sporgono<br />
i viottoli rientrano<br />
nei sogni vado sempre in su<br />
contro corrente ritorno alla fonte.<br />
Manca sempre qualcuno<br />
in quelle foto di famiglia<br />
Dentro il Quadro
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
someone you can find,<br />
sometimes, if you look<br />
at the clothes she made<br />
or bought, the colors that go<br />
with your eyes, your hair<br />
slicked with a wet comb<br />
or braided with ribbons.<br />
At your features, your expression.<br />
She wanted you to smile<br />
<strong>of</strong>f the frame, inside the frame<br />
and sometimes you did.<br />
Divestiture<br />
She unpinned the folds<br />
<strong>of</strong> white linen<br />
eloquent <strong>of</strong> place,<br />
loosened the loops<br />
and braided knots,<br />
and combed her hair<br />
into a bun.<br />
She untied her apron,<br />
took <strong>of</strong>f one by one<br />
the pleated skirts,<br />
the black jacket<br />
with wide velvet cuffs,<br />
the padded camisole,<br />
the long shirt<br />
articulate with lace.<br />
Then stepped into a dress<br />
skimpier than a slip,<br />
and naked,<br />
exposed like that,<br />
my grandmother<br />
came to America.<br />
Linens<br />
Plain weaves, twills and herringbones,<br />
woven at home linen on linen, linen<br />
on cotton. Some are still uncut—a band<br />
<strong>of</strong> warp threads separating one napkin,<br />
one towel from the other—but most are decorated<br />
with needlepoint lace. My mother’s older sister<br />
had the broad back and strong constitution
qualcuno che a volte si trova<br />
nei vestiti che ha fatto<br />
o comprato, nei colori<br />
che vanno cogli occhi<br />
i capelli, lisciati<br />
col pettine bagnato,<br />
o intrecciati coi nastri.<br />
Nei tuoi lineamenti,<br />
la tua espressione.<br />
Voleva vederti sorridere<br />
fuori, dentro il quadro<br />
e a volte l’hai fatto.<br />
Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli 161<br />
Divestiture<br />
Tolse lo spillo d’u rituortu,<br />
candido lino<br />
eloquente del luogo,<br />
sfece lacci e nodi intrecciati<br />
e raccolse i capelli sulla nuca.<br />
Snodò il grembiule,<br />
si tolse una dopo l’altra<br />
le gonne fitte di pieghe,<br />
la giacca nera<br />
coi larghi risvolti di velluto,<br />
il corpetto imbottito,<br />
e la lunga camicia<br />
articolata di merletto.<br />
Poi si mise un vestito<br />
succinto come ‘na suttana,<br />
e spogliata, esposta così,<br />
mia nonna<br />
partì per l’America<br />
I Panni di Lino<br />
Intrecci semplici, incrociati, a spine di pesce,<br />
tessuti a casa lino su lino, lino su cotone.<br />
Alcuni non sono stati tagliati, e una striscia<br />
d’ordito separa tovaglie e tovaglioli.<br />
Gli altri sono tutti ricamati ad intaglio.<br />
La sorella maggiore di mia madre, di fibra<br />
forte e spalle larghe, stava intere giornate<br />
piegata sul telaio, e mandava i pedali su e giù,<br />
facendo scorrere a braccia tese, da una sponda
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
to bend for hours, working the pedals, arms<br />
stretching to send the shuttle scuttling through.<br />
My mother, the more delicate one, the one<br />
who wanted to get away, sat where the light<br />
fell on her hands, and pulling out the weft threads<br />
her sister had worked into a tight fabric,<br />
restructured the space with floss, white on white<br />
openwork borders, arabesqued windows.<br />
Rough- or fine-textured, the linens I was saving<br />
were meant to survive soaking in hot water<br />
and ashes, milling on the rocks. I machine<br />
wash them and when the weather is good,<br />
hang them outside, the way women still do over there,<br />
stretching them into shape while damp. Most<br />
are holding up well; a few show signs <strong>of</strong> wear,<br />
but not from use. It was keeping them safe in a trunk<br />
for so many years that weakened the fabric.<br />
The Bridge<br />
Progress has finally come<br />
to the forgotten South.<br />
A new superstrada<br />
wide and straight as none before<br />
bypasses the shelf <strong>of</strong> road<br />
the sharp-angled bridge.<br />
The cross by the roadside<br />
reminds the few <strong>of</strong> us who remember<br />
fewer all the time<br />
<strong>of</strong> the men who died there<br />
hitting the rocks <strong>of</strong> the stream<br />
when their truck went <strong>of</strong>f the road.<br />
Seven men who knew how to do without<br />
how to turn in a small place<br />
taking nothing for granted.<br />
The bridge is crumbling<br />
purple flowers grow out <strong>of</strong> the wall.<br />
The river keeps on going<br />
as it did then<br />
the rocks are mute—
Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli 163<br />
all’altra la navetta. Mia madre, ch’era la più<br />
delicata, quella che sognava d’altri posti, altre<br />
vite, se ne stava dove la luce le cascava sulle mani,<br />
e tirando i fili, tessuti stretti stretti dalla sorella,<br />
strutturava lo spazio colla seta, bianco su bianco,<br />
orli traforati, piccole finestre rabescate.<br />
Ruvidi o fini, i panni che conservavo erano fatti<br />
per superare le prove del ranno e delle pietre.<br />
Io il bucato lo faccio nella lavatrice, e quando<br />
il tempo è bello, metto tutto fuori ad asciugare,<br />
come fanno le donne al mio paese, tirando<br />
e stirando con le mani, modellando la tela<br />
mentre è umida. Per lo più si son mantenute belle<br />
queste cose. Le poche logore, non lo sono<br />
per l’uso. È stato il chiuso della cassa—<br />
per tenerle intatte—che ha indebolito il tessuto.<br />
Il Ponte<br />
È finalmente arrivato il progresso<br />
al sud dimenticato.<br />
Una nuova superstrada<br />
ampia e diritta<br />
come non ce n’erano mai<br />
ha tagliato la mensola di via<br />
le curve strette del ponte.<br />
La croce al lato della strada<br />
ricorda ai pochi<br />
che ancora si rammentano,<br />
ogni giorno più pochi,<br />
gli uomini che morirono<br />
sbattendo contro le pietre del fiume<br />
quando il camion sbandò dal ponte.<br />
Sette uomini che sapevano far senza,<br />
che si muovevano<br />
nello stesso piccolo spazio<br />
senza prendere niente per scontato.<br />
Il ponte si sta sgretolando,<br />
fiori viola spuntano dal muro.<br />
Il fiume continua il suo cammino<br />
come ha fatto quella volta
deep within their heart<br />
the crack <strong>of</strong> bone<br />
the shocked cry <strong>of</strong> pain.<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Broomflowers<br />
Chrome yellow against green stems<br />
in bunches on the reddish dirt<br />
even-spaced rows<br />
like a pattern on a quilt.<br />
Is this new or have I forgotten<br />
as I forgot the nightingale<br />
singing in the trees below the wall—<br />
what did I know then about nightingales—<br />
the row <strong>of</strong> stones holding the tiles down<br />
at the edge <strong>of</strong> the ro<strong>of</strong>?<br />
I’ve missed the Corpus Christi procession<br />
the creweled bedspreads hanging<br />
on the balcony rails, gaudy<br />
against the old walls, the petals<br />
twirling in the air like confetti<br />
a carpet on the street<br />
more dazzling than the gold monstrance<br />
the white and gold canopy.<br />
On the breeze a whiff <strong>of</strong> their scent,<br />
delicate pleasing.<br />
The sun is down now, the sky<br />
turning indigo, but their yellow endures<br />
on the slope below the parapet.<br />
Inside<br />
rough bouquets in earthenware jars.<br />
And the little girl who picked them for me<br />
is saying to her mother, sotto voce,<br />
«She comes from America,<br />
and she likes broomflowers?»
e le pietre sono mute—<br />
in fondo al loro cuore<br />
lo schianto delle ossa<br />
il grido sorpreso di dolore.<br />
Rina Ferrarelli/ Rina Ferrarelli 165<br />
Le ginestre<br />
Luccicano gialle contro i fusti verdi<br />
a mazzi sulla terra rossiccia<br />
file diritte e uguali<br />
come i disegni delle coperte nostrane.<br />
È stato sempre così o mi sono dimenticata<br />
come ho dimenticato l’usignolo<br />
che cantava negli alberi sotto il muro—<br />
che cosa ne sapevo allora d’usignoli—<br />
la fila di pietre sulle tegole rosse<br />
all’orlo del tetto?<br />
Non c’ero per la festa di Corpus Christi,<br />
non ho visto le coperte ricamate<br />
che pendevano da finestre e ringhiere<br />
i colori sgargianti<br />
contro i vecchi muri, i petali<br />
che giravano nell’ aria come coriandoli,<br />
un tappeto sulla via<br />
più vistoso dell’ostenstorio dorato<br />
del baldacchino in bianco e giallo.<br />
Il vento me ne porta l’odore,<br />
delicato e piacevole.<br />
Il sole è dietro i monti, il cielo<br />
è diventato viola, ma il giallo brilla ancora<br />
al di là del parapetto.<br />
Dentro casa<br />
mazzi alla buona in vasi di terracotta.<br />
E la ragazzina che li ha raccolti<br />
dice alla mamma, sottovoce,<br />
«viene dall’America,<br />
e le piacciono le ginestre?»
“Folgori di tempesta”, mixed techniques on canvas.
<strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Poems by W. S. Merwin<br />
by Adeodato Piazza Nicolai<br />
Adeodato Piazza Nicolai, nato a Vigo di Cadore (BL) nel 1944 ed<br />
emigrato negli Stati Uniti nel 1959, è poeta, saggista e traduttore. Laureatosi<br />
nel 1969 dal Wabash College, ha ottenuto il Master <strong>of</strong> Arts dall’Università<br />
di Chicago nel 1986. Ha lavorato per 30 anni presso la Inland Steel Company<br />
di Chicago. Autore di quattro volumi di poesia, il prossimo sarà<br />
L’apocalisse e altre stagioni. Sta traducendo vari poeti dall’italiano all’inglese<br />
e viceversa. Di prossima pubblicazione l’antologia Nove poetesse<br />
afroamericane. Ha insegnato letteratura italiana e “Creative Writing”<br />
all’Università di Purdue Calumet, Indiana. Tuttora vive in Italia, dove si<br />
occupa di poesia, traduzioni e di “workshops” sul ladino del Centro<br />
Cadore.<br />
W. S. Merwin è nato a New York City nel 1927 e cresciuto a Union<br />
City, New Jersey, come pure a Scranton, Pennsylvania. Dal 1949 al 1951<br />
ha lavorato come tutore in Francia, Portogallo e Majorca. Da allora ha<br />
vissuto in vari luoghi del mondo, il più recente a Maui nelle Hawaii, dove<br />
fa il coltivatore di rare piante di palma. Ha pubblicato più di 46 opere di<br />
poesia, prosa e traduzioni. Ha ricevuto una Fellowship dall’Accademia<br />
dei Poeti Americani (di cui ora è cancelliere), il Premio Pulitzer per la<br />
poesia come pure il Premio Bollingen. Recentemente è stato onorato dalle<br />
Hawaii con il Governor’s Award per la Letteratura, il Premio Tanning<br />
come maestro di poesia, il Premio Lila Wallace--Reader’s Digest e il Premio<br />
Ruth Lilly per la poesia.
Da: Flower & Hand – 1977-1983<br />
(The Compass Flower, 1977)<br />
The Heart<br />
In the first chamber <strong>of</strong> the heart<br />
all the gloves are hanging by two<br />
the hands are bare as they come through the door<br />
the bell rope is moving without them<br />
they move forward cupped as though<br />
holding water<br />
there is a bird a thing in their palms<br />
in this chamber there is no color<br />
In the second chamber <strong>of</strong> the heart<br />
all the blindfolds are hanging but one<br />
the eyes are open as they come in<br />
they see the bell rope moving<br />
without hands<br />
they see the bathing bird<br />
being carried forward<br />
bathing<br />
through the colored chamber<br />
In the third chamber <strong>of</strong> the heart<br />
all the sounds are hanging but one<br />
the ears hear nothing as they come through the door<br />
the bell rope is moving like a breath<br />
without hands<br />
a bird is being carried forward<br />
bathing<br />
in total silence<br />
In the last chamber <strong>of</strong> the heart<br />
all the words are hanging<br />
but one<br />
the blood is naked as it steps through the door<br />
with its eyes open<br />
and a bathing bird in its hands<br />
and with its bare feet on the sill<br />
moving as through water<br />
to the one stroke <strong>of</strong> the bell
Da Fiore e mano – 1977-1983<br />
(Il fiore bussola, 1977)<br />
Il cuore<br />
Nella prima camera del cuore<br />
tutti i guanti sono appesi in coppia<br />
le mani sono nude mentre entrano dalla porta<br />
la corda del campanello si muove senza di loro<br />
mentre avanzano unite come una coppa<br />
che porta l’acqua<br />
c’è un uccello una cosa nelle palme<br />
in questa camera non c’è colore<br />
Nella seconda camera del cuore<br />
tutte le bende rimangono appese eccetto una<br />
gli occhi sono aperti mentre entrano<br />
vedono la corda del campanello che si muove<br />
senza le mani<br />
vedono un uccello al bagno<br />
portato in avanti<br />
attraverso la camera colorata<br />
Nella terza camera del cuore<br />
tutti i suoni sono appesi eccetto uno<br />
le orecchie non sentono mentre entrano dalla porta<br />
la corda del campanello si sposta come un respiro<br />
senza mani<br />
un uccello viene portato in avanti<br />
mentre fa il bagno<br />
nel silenzio totale<br />
Nell’ultima camera del cuore<br />
tutte le parole sono appese<br />
eccetto una<br />
il sangue è nudo mentre entra dalla porta<br />
con gli occhi aperti<br />
e un uccello al bagno nelle sue mani<br />
e con i suoi piedi nudi sul davanzale<br />
muovendosi nell’acqua<br />
a battito unico del campanello<br />
qualcuno suona senza le mani.
170<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
someone is ringing without hands<br />
The Snow<br />
You with no fear <strong>of</strong> dying<br />
how you dreaded winter<br />
the cataract forming on the green wheated hill<br />
ice on sundial and steps and calendar<br />
it is snowing<br />
after you were unborn it was my turn<br />
to carry you in a world before me<br />
trying to imagine you<br />
I am your parent at the beginning <strong>of</strong> winter<br />
you are my child<br />
we are one body<br />
one blood<br />
one red line melting the snow<br />
unbroken line in falling snow<br />
Apples<br />
Waking besides a pile <strong>of</strong> unsorted keys<br />
in an empty room<br />
the sun is high<br />
what a long jagged string <strong>of</strong> broken bird song<br />
they must have made as they gathered there<br />
by the ears deaf with sleep<br />
and the hands empty as waves<br />
I remember the birds now<br />
but where are the locks<br />
when I touch the pile<br />
my hand sounds like a wave on a single beach<br />
I hear someone stirring<br />
in the ruins <strong>of</strong> a glass mountain<br />
after decades<br />
those keys are so cold that they melt at my touch<br />
all but one<br />
to the door <strong>of</strong> a cold morning<br />
the colors <strong>of</strong> apples
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
La neve<br />
Tu senza paura di morire<br />
come temevi l’inverno<br />
la cataratta che si formava sulla verde collina di frumento<br />
ghiaccio sulla clessidra e gradini e calendario<br />
sta nevicando<br />
dopo che non eri nato venne il mio turno<br />
di portarti in un mondo che mi precedeva<br />
cercando d’immaginarti<br />
sono il tuo genitore all’inizio dell’inverno<br />
tu sei il mio bambino<br />
siamo un solo corpo<br />
un solo sangue<br />
una riga rossa che scioglie la neve<br />
righa indivisa sulla neve che cade.<br />
Mele<br />
Vegliando presso un mucchio di chiavi diverse<br />
in una stanza vuota<br />
il sole è al massimo<br />
che lunga coda puntuta di note interrotte di uccello<br />
avranno fatto mentre si ammucchiavano là<br />
vicino alle orecchie sorde dal sonno<br />
e le mani vuote come onde<br />
ora ricordo gli uccelli<br />
ma dove sono le serrature<br />
quando tocco quel mucchio<br />
la mano sembra un’onda sull’unica spiaggia<br />
sento qualcuno che si sveglia<br />
fra i ruderi di una montagna di vetro<br />
dopo decine di anni<br />
quelle chiavi sono così fredde che si disfanno al tatto<br />
tutte eccetto una<br />
appartenente alla porta di un freddo mattino<br />
i colori delle mele.<br />
171
172<br />
In a dead tree<br />
there is the ghost <strong>of</strong> a horse<br />
no horse<br />
was ever seen near the tree<br />
but the tree was born<br />
<strong>of</strong> a mare<br />
it rolled with long legs<br />
in rustling meadows<br />
it pricked it ears<br />
it reared and tossed its head<br />
and suddenly stood still<br />
beginning to remember<br />
as its leaves fell<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
The Horse<br />
Alcuni critici hanno scritto:<br />
“La voce di Merwin, sinuosa e infinitamente flessibile, ha creato un nuovo<br />
tipo di verso narrativo: la tragica storia delle Hawaii, s<strong>of</strong>ferta da una famiglia,<br />
raccontata come da un nativo, con una semplicità immediata e uno sciolto<br />
realismo di saga.”<br />
-- Ted Hughes<br />
“Un elettrizzante racconto storico -- compatto e raffinato e pieno di valori<br />
dimenticati. Merwin crea una forte narrativa poetica con grande intimità e<br />
umanità.<br />
-- Michael Ondaatje<br />
“Merwin è sempre stato un poeta contemplativo, attirato dalla lezione<br />
del mondo naturale e il rigore di una visione incontaminata. È anche un<br />
poeta romantico, eroico nella sua ricerca del pr<strong>of</strong>ondo e intenso, dalla forza<br />
e potenzialità della coscienza. Ma soprattutto rimane un poeta che ci<br />
sorprende, che continuamente sorpassa le frontiere di una facile<br />
ammirazione.”<br />
-- J. D. McClatchy, The New Yorker
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
Il cavallo<br />
In un albero morto<br />
c’è lo spirito di un cavallo<br />
nessun cavallo<br />
fu mai visto vicino a quell’albero<br />
ma l’albero era nato<br />
da una cavalla<br />
scorazzava sulle lunghe gambe<br />
attraverso pianure ondeggianti<br />
rizzava le orecchie<br />
s’impennava e scrollava la testa<br />
e d’improvviso restò immobile<br />
incominciando a ricordare<br />
meltre le sue foglie cadevano.<br />
173
Traduzioni da AUTOBIOGRAFIE NON VISSUTE<br />
di Mia Lecomte<br />
Mia Lecomte è nata a Milano nel 1966 e vive a Roma. Ha pubblicato: il<br />
saggio Animali parlanti. Le parole degli animali nella letteratura del Cinquecento<br />
e del Seicento (Firenze 1995); i libri per bambini La fiaba infinita e La fiaba<br />
impossibile (Torino 1987), Tiritiritère (Bergamo 2001); il volume fotografico<br />
Luoghi poetici (Firenze 1996), realizzato con il fotografo Sebastian Cortés, di<br />
cui è autrice e curatrice di testi ed apparato critico; e le raccolte poetiche<br />
Poesie (Napoli 1991), Geometrie reversibili (Salerno1996, Premio Città di Ostia<br />
1997, segnalato Premio Internazionale E. Montale 1997), Litania del perduto<br />
(Prato 2002, testo a fronte in inglese. Con incisioni dell’artista canadese<br />
Erica Shuttleworth), Autobiografie non vissute (Lecce 2004). Per l’ed. “Zone”<br />
di Roma dirige la collana Cittadini della poesia, dedicata alla poesia della<br />
migrazione in italiano. E’ redattrice del semestrale di poesia comparata<br />
ASemicerchio@, del quadrimestrale di poesia internazionale “Pagine”, delle<br />
riviste di letteratura on-line “Kùmà”, “El Ghibli” e “Sagarana”, presso la cui<br />
scuola di scrittura, a Lucca, svolge un laboratorio di poesia all’interno del<br />
Master annuale.<br />
Vita è quello che rimane<br />
quando si è perduto tutto.<br />
È il cane a tre zampe<br />
tutte e tre dritte e forti<br />
e una quarta strappata dall’inguine,<br />
è la quarta zampa del cane<br />
che nessun altro cane ha voluto<br />
e non smette di piangere l’inguine<br />
e tutte e tre quelle altre, dritte e forti.<br />
Vita, quando si è perduto tutto<br />
e ovvia è la taglia sull’incolpevole<br />
della pietra scagliata, il cieco<br />
che senza quell’unica gamba<br />
la gamba strappata dall’inguine<br />
malgrado le altre, tutte e tre dritte e forti<br />
non può più far tornare il suo cane.<br />
°°° °°°<br />
L’anima della tua anima<br />
è un inutile involucro vuoto<br />
la matrioska intermedia già sterile<br />
una cellula di scaglie coriacee
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
Life is what is left<br />
when all has been lost.<br />
It is the dog with three legs<br />
all three straight and strong<br />
and the fourth one ripped from its belly,<br />
it’s the dog’s fourth leg<br />
that no other dog wanted<br />
and the belly doesn’t stop groaning,<br />
and the other three straight and strong.<br />
Life, when all has been lost<br />
and the blame falls on the one who<br />
did not throw the rock, the blind man<br />
who without that singular limb<br />
the leg ripped from the belly<br />
in spite <strong>of</strong> the others, all three straight and strong<br />
cannot make his own dog return.<br />
°°<br />
The soul <strong>of</strong> your soul<br />
is an empty useless envelope<br />
the inner matrioska already dried up<br />
a cell with horny scales<br />
175
176<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
che non può penetrare la voce –<br />
non c’è polpa senza spina<br />
in terra o sulla croce,<br />
ancora gattoni caparbio<br />
alla periferia di te stesso,<br />
il dente è più guasto<br />
nella bocca rifatta di fresco –<br />
parole che qualcuno ha voluto<br />
il suono della loro sconfitta<br />
attraversano l’anima vacua<br />
di quell’anima che dicono tua<br />
e non lasciano traccia di sé.<br />
°°°<br />
Congedo<br />
Spartiamoci ora l’eternità comune.<br />
Eco a caduta dal passato<br />
balena in incaglio sul futuro,<br />
viatico forse a una qualunque vita<br />
l’andare in pace, intanto<br />
alla fine del rito.
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
the voice is unable to penetrate –<br />
there’s no pulp without thorn<br />
on earth or on the cross,<br />
you still stalk stubbornly<br />
around your outer self,<br />
the tooth is more rotten<br />
in the restructured mouth –<br />
words that someone wanted<br />
to be the sound <strong>of</strong> their rout<br />
traversing the hollow spaces<br />
<strong>of</strong> that soul they say is your own<br />
without leaving any trace.<br />
°°°<br />
Leave-taking<br />
Let’s share now one common eternity.<br />
Echo falling from the past<br />
whale beached upon the future,<br />
maybe remedy to an everyday life<br />
such conditional going in peace<br />
at the end <strong>of</strong> the rite.<br />
177
Amelia Rosselli<br />
Amelia Rosselli - figlia di Carlo, l’esule antifascista fondatore del<br />
movimento “Giustizia e Libertà”, poi assassinato da emissari del regime -<br />
è nata a Parigi nel 1930. Qui é vissuta sino all’occupazione tedesca, che<br />
l’ha costretta a fuggire in Inghilterra e poi negli Stati Uniti. Ha più tardi (nel<br />
1950) fatto ritorno in Italia, stabilendosi a Roma, dove ha vissuto fino alla<br />
morte (si è suicidata nel 1996). Musicista, traduttrice, scrittrice in italiano,<br />
inglese e francese, ha pubblicato racconti e soprattutto poesie: Variazioni<br />
belliche (1964), Serie ospedaliera (1969), Documento 1966-1973<br />
(1976), Impromptu (1981), Sleep (1992, in inglese).<br />
Da “DOCUMENTO” (1966-1973)<br />
*<br />
È una suoneria costante; un micidiale compromettersi<br />
una didascalia infruttuosa, e un vento di traverso<br />
mentre battendo le ciglia sentenziavo una<br />
saggezza imbrogliata.<br />
Conto di farla finita con le forme, i loro<br />
bisbigliamenti, i loro contenuti contenenti<br />
tutta la urgente scatola della mia anima la<br />
quale indifferente al problema farebbe meglio<br />
a contenersi. Giocattoli sono le strade e<br />
infermiere sono le abitudini distrutte da<br />
un malessere generale.<br />
La gola della montagna si <strong>of</strong>frì pulita al<br />
mio desiderio di continuare la menzogna indecifrabile<br />
come le sigarette che fumo.<br />
*<br />
La passione mi divorò giustamente<br />
la passione mi divise fortemente<br />
la passione mi ricondusse saggiamente<br />
io saggiamente mi ricondussi<br />
alla passione saggistica, principiante
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
It’s a constant alarm clock; a lethal compromising<br />
a fruitless caption, and a cross wind<br />
while batting my eyelids I formulated a<br />
tangled wisdom<br />
I plan to do away with forms, their<br />
whispers, their contents containing<br />
entirely the strangling box <strong>of</strong> my soul that<br />
indifferent to the problem would do well<br />
to contain itself. Toys are streets and<br />
nurses are habits destroyed by<br />
a general sickness.<br />
The gully <strong>of</strong> the mountain cleanly <strong>of</strong>fered itself to<br />
my wish to continue my undecipherable lie<br />
like the cigarettes I smoke<br />
*<br />
Passion justly devoured me<br />
passion powerfully divided me<br />
passion wisely brought me back<br />
I wisely brought myself back<br />
to the passion with words, a beginner<br />
in the dark wood <strong>of</strong> a boring<br />
obligation, and the burning passion<br />
to sit at the table with the great ones<br />
179
180<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
nell’oscuro bosco d’un noioso<br />
dovere, e la passione che bruciava<br />
nel sedere a tavola con i grandi<br />
senza passione o volendola dimenticare<br />
io che bruciavo di passione<br />
estinta la passione nel bruciare<br />
io che bruciavo di dolore nel<br />
vedere la passione così estinta.<br />
Estinguere la passione bramosa!<br />
Distinguere la passione dal<br />
vero bramare la passione estinta<br />
estinguere tutto ciò che rima<br />
con è: estinguere me, la passione<br />
la passione fortemente bruciante<br />
che si estinse da sé:<br />
Estinguere la passione del sé!<br />
estinguere il verso che rima<br />
da sé: estinguere perfino me<br />
estinguere tutte le rime in<br />
“e”: forse vinse la passione<br />
estinguendo la rima in “e”.
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
without passion or wanting to forget it<br />
I who burned with passion<br />
the passion extinguished in the burning<br />
I who burned with pain at<br />
seeing passion thus extinguished.<br />
To extinguish covetous passion!<br />
To distinguish passion from the<br />
true yearning for extinguished passion<br />
extinguish everything that is<br />
extinguish everything that rhymes<br />
with is: extinguish myself, the passion<br />
the passion burning so fiercely<br />
that it put itself out:<br />
Extinguish the passion for self!<br />
extinguish the verse that rhymes<br />
with itself: even extinguishing me<br />
extinguish all the rhymes in<br />
“e”: maybe passion won out<br />
by extinguishing the rhyme in “e”.<br />
181
Luigina Bigon<br />
Luigina Bigon was born in Padua, where she currently lives. For most<br />
<strong>of</strong> her life she has dedicated her energies and talent to the artistic ornamentation<br />
<strong>of</strong> high fashion women’s shoes. Her creations are exhibited in the<br />
Small Egyptian Room <strong>of</strong> the Villa Foscarini-Rossi Museum in Stra, Venice.<br />
She is also pr<strong>of</strong>oundly interested in poetry and has published three volumes:<br />
Bartering for Dreams (Clessidra, 1989, English translation by Adeodato<br />
Piazza Nicolai), Blacklight (Maseratense, 1995) and Searching for O (Panda,<br />
2001). She originated and edited the poetry series “…in Verse”, publishing<br />
the following titles: Walking…in Verse (Panda, 1996), Gelato…in Verse (Media-<br />
diffusion, 1997) and Eyeglasses…in Verse (Panda, 1998). Founder, in<br />
1989, <strong>of</strong> the poetry group UCAI <strong>of</strong> Padua (Union <strong>of</strong> Catholic <strong>Italian</strong> Artists),<br />
she was its president until 2004. On occasion <strong>of</strong> the 40 th anniversary <strong>of</strong> the<br />
Vajont tragedy, she edited the commemorative volume Vajont. Padua and Its<br />
Artists (Imprimenda, 2003, translated into English by Adeodato Piazza<br />
Nicolai).<br />
I corpi allungati<br />
Salgono le voci al Dio piangente<br />
lamento, anime e lance<br />
sotto la gola, inchiodano<br />
corazze e morsi<br />
nel violetto senza pace.<br />
Calano le brume sui colli<br />
preghiere,<br />
gocce d’acqua sulle pietre.<br />
Si alza il velo della memoria,<br />
un flusso trascende l’accento<br />
posto a confine tra la materia<br />
e lo spirito. Voce solitaria<br />
la parola del mondo<br />
mi grida dentro, quasi urla.<br />
Altre genti popolano l’eco<br />
di un pr<strong>of</strong>ondo umano<br />
che si nutre del tempo<br />
e del luogo, senza misura.<br />
Vestiti di nero, i corpi allungati<br />
quasi si perdono nei volti esangui<br />
di una civiltà che si consuma nello sguardo<br />
di chi implora giustizia<br />
non più nell’ora della morte<br />
ma del perdono.
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
The Long Bodies<br />
Voices lift up to the plangent God<br />
lament, souls and lances<br />
beneath the throat, nailing<br />
breastplates and clamps<br />
in the violet without peace.<br />
The mists wrap around the hills<br />
prayers,<br />
drops <strong>of</strong> water on the stones.<br />
Memory’s veil opens up,<br />
the tide transcends the marker<br />
placed to divide matter<br />
from spirit. A lonely voice<br />
the word <strong>of</strong> the world<br />
that rips me within, almost yells.<br />
Others populate the echo<br />
<strong>of</strong> human depth<br />
feeding itself on the time<br />
and the place, without end.<br />
Dressed in black the long bodies<br />
are almost lost in the drawn faces<br />
<strong>of</strong> a people consumed by the look<br />
<strong>of</strong> one who is begging for justice<br />
no longer in the hour <strong>of</strong> death<br />
but <strong>of</strong> forgiveness.<br />
183
184<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Paragrafo assurdo<br />
Vado da ombra ad ombra<br />
per non scottarmi. Grottesco<br />
come stare seduti sul ramo<br />
di un albero a parlare da soli.<br />
Tutto è talmente lontano<br />
forse mai appartenuto al mondo<br />
(attraverso quale fessura<br />
dovrà passare il cammello?)<br />
La realtà sfila sonnambula<br />
sopra un paese irreale,<br />
insetti dappertutto - bugie in fiore<br />
con panorama in prospettiva<br />
nevai ascetici, linfa superstite.<br />
Non so se vale la pena<br />
fingere che tutto sia ideale.<br />
Paragrafo assurdo:<br />
non buttare via la pura finzione.<br />
Agosto sta volando<br />
come una foglia<br />
sopra le cime degli alberi<br />
e c’è chi s<strong>of</strong>fia sotto<br />
per farla volare.<br />
Forse esclude la ragione<br />
ma il campo si allarga<br />
ovunque ci sia una<br />
misura di grandezza,<br />
e mentre ci si illude<br />
si perdono le radici.<br />
E quel filo d’argento<br />
che lega le anime<br />
al mondo sparisce<br />
scolorando nell’aria.<br />
Vorresti il tuo albero<br />
quercia di luce<br />
con le radici<br />
strette nella terra.<br />
Quercia o foglia
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
Absurd Paragraph<br />
I move from shadow to shadow<br />
in order not to burn. Grotesque<br />
like being seated on a tree’s<br />
branch to talk to the self.<br />
It is so incredibly distant<br />
maybe never a part <strong>of</strong> this world<br />
(across what fissure will<br />
the camel come to pass?)<br />
Reality unravels sleepwalking<br />
across a surreal landscape,<br />
bugs everywhere – blossoming lies<br />
with an overview in perspective<br />
ascetic glaciers, surviving lymph.<br />
I’m not so sure if it is worth<br />
making believe it is all ideal.<br />
An absurd paragraph:<br />
don’t throw away the pure fiction.<br />
August flies <strong>of</strong>f<br />
like a leaf<br />
across the tree tops<br />
with someone who blows<br />
beneath it to make it fly.<br />
Maybe reason doesn’t hold<br />
but the field is expanding<br />
wherever there is | one<br />
measure <strong>of</strong> greatness,<br />
and as we delude ourselves<br />
we lose our roots.<br />
That silvery filament<br />
binding spirits<br />
to the earth | fades away<br />
into thin air.<br />
You would like your tree<br />
as an oak made <strong>of</strong> light<br />
with roots<br />
dug deep into the ground.<br />
Oak Tree or Leaf<br />
185
186<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Scia di zolfo<br />
Dì di sì, dì che credi.<br />
Insistente il falsetto si fa stridulo<br />
sapendo di mentire (io tu e gli altri).<br />
Proclami una promessa:<br />
è solo schermo privo di consistenza<br />
nemmeno un velo.<br />
Mattone su mattone costruisci<br />
il castello invisibile<br />
con le tante serrature a manico.<br />
Nemmeno una nuvola.<br />
La voce crepitante di malizie<br />
lascia una scia di zolfo<br />
(zoccoli sullo sterrato<br />
dopo la pioggia, nell’aria odore<br />
di terra e di escrementi).<br />
A cosa credere se tutto è fumo<br />
e appartiene a longitudini vaghe<br />
a costruzioni inverosimili<br />
come i gorghi delle burrasche?<br />
Non rimane che un feticcio di polvere.<br />
Vortice di specchi<br />
Non è lamento di lupo<br />
a graffiare la porta,<br />
né strazio di colomba<br />
a volare sopra l’incudine<br />
spezzato. Voragine di corvo<br />
strapiomba il sereno<br />
ma non spezza le radici.<br />
Il gesto sonoro segna<br />
soltanto una melodia malata.<br />
Lo sconcerto non spaventa<br />
l’asino, il raglio non ha senso<br />
anche se di notte la luna<br />
gli illumina il pelo.<br />
Alla fine cosa può accadere.<br />
Nulla. È soltanto un vortice<br />
di specchi che scortica l’aria.
Piazza Nicolai-Merwin-Lecomte-Rosselli-Bigon<br />
Trace <strong>of</strong> Sulphur<br />
Say yes, say you believe.<br />
The half-lie scratches insistently aware<br />
<strong>of</strong> its falsehood (me you and the others).<br />
You pronounce the promise:<br />
it’s just a screen devoid <strong>of</strong> substance<br />
not even a veil.<br />
Brick on brick you build<br />
the invisible castle<br />
filled with handles and latches.<br />
Not even one cloud.<br />
a voice creaking with malice<br />
leaves only traces <strong>of</strong> sulphur<br />
(hooves on the earth<br />
after the rain, an aroma <strong>of</strong><br />
humus and shit in the air).<br />
What to believe in if all is smoke<br />
that pertains to pale longitudes<br />
to implausible structures<br />
like eddies in the storms?<br />
A fetish <strong>of</strong> dust hangs behind.<br />
A Vortex <strong>of</strong> Mirrors<br />
It’s not a wolf’s howling<br />
that claws at the door,<br />
nor the dove’s mourning<br />
flying across the shattered<br />
anvil. A raven’s dive<br />
collapses the calm but<br />
won’t demolish the roots.<br />
The musical touch signals<br />
no more than a sickened note<br />
dissonance that does not frighten<br />
the donkey, its bray makes no sense<br />
even if nightly the moon<br />
lights up its pelt.<br />
In the end what can happen?<br />
Nothing. It’s only a vortex<br />
<strong>of</strong> mirrors flaying the air.<br />
187
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by Giovanni Raboni<br />
by Michael Palma<br />
Michael Palma has published The Egg Shape, Antibodies, and A Fortune<br />
in Gold (poetry); translations <strong>of</strong> Guido Gozzano, Diego Valeri, and other<br />
modern and contemporary <strong>Italian</strong> poets; and a fully rhymed version <strong>of</strong> Dante’s<br />
Inferno. His translation <strong>of</strong> Giovanni Raboni will be published this year by<br />
Chelsea Editions.<br />
Giovanni Raboni, born in Milan in 1932, worked as an editor and<br />
critic. His many volumes <strong>of</strong> poetry are gathered in Tutte le poesie (1951-1998),<br />
which was followed by a final collection, Barlumi di storia, in 2002. He also<br />
published translations <strong>of</strong> Baudelaire’s Les Fleurs du Mal and Proust’s A la<br />
recherche du temps perdu, among many others. He died in September 2004.
Giovanni Raboni<br />
The more I have read, thought about, and translated the poetry <strong>of</strong><br />
Giovanni Raboni, the more convinced have I become that he is<br />
one <strong>of</strong> the great poets, and perhaps the single greatest <strong>Italian</strong><br />
poet, <strong>of</strong> our time. This judgment was confirmed by Mondadori’s decision to<br />
include him in its Meridiani series <strong>of</strong> standard <strong>Italian</strong> writers while he was<br />
still alive, a fact about which he seemed a bit shy but justifiably quite proud,<br />
when I met with him for the second (and last) time in Milan in February<br />
2004—although, sadly, he did not live to see its realization.<br />
W. H. Auden, the English-language writer that in some ways Raboni<br />
most resembles, famously set out five criteria for a major poet, which can be<br />
summarized here as copiousness, “wide range in subject matter and treatment,”<br />
“originality <strong>of</strong> vision and style,” mastery <strong>of</strong> technique, and development.<br />
Raboni, I believe, more than fulfills all <strong>of</strong> these expectations, and it is<br />
this depth and variety in his work that I have tried to communicate, both in<br />
the book-length selection I am preparing and in the cross-section <strong>of</strong> that<br />
manuscript presented here.<br />
From the terse lyrics <strong>of</strong> his earliest phase to the experiments with widely<br />
varying line lengths and mixtures <strong>of</strong> colloquial and arcane diction, from the<br />
scores <strong>of</strong> sonnets written in his forties and fifties (a trend toward formalism<br />
that reversed the movement <strong>of</strong> so many <strong>of</strong> his American contemporaries) to<br />
the reminiscent poems <strong>of</strong> his last collection (itself reminiscent <strong>of</strong> Lowell’s<br />
Day by Day), his work is a rich blend <strong>of</strong> constancy and change. In keeping<br />
pace with it, I have tried also to keep pace with the smaller effects on which<br />
the larger ones <strong>of</strong>ten depend—not just the hendecasyllabic undercarriage<br />
and the rhymes (where they occur), but also the parallelisms, the alliteration,<br />
the abrupt tonal shifts, the restless enjambment that characterizes so many<br />
<strong>of</strong> the sonnets, and so on.<br />
Technique, <strong>of</strong> course, is merely a means to an end, and it is the ends<br />
that I have tried most to reflect—the striking and <strong>of</strong>ten quirky angle <strong>of</strong> insight<br />
peculiar to his vision (and now and then simply peculiar); the passionate<br />
moral, social, and political concern; the preoccupation, at times almost an<br />
obsession, with illness and death; the tenderness <strong>of</strong> late love. These are the<br />
things that impress us most forcefully and remain with us most deeply as we<br />
watch Raboni bear witness to the private pains and joys <strong>of</strong> his life and to the<br />
public shames and outrages <strong>of</strong> his times.
190<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Risanamento<br />
Di tutto questo<br />
non c’è più niente (o forse qualcosa<br />
s’indovina, c’è ancora qualche strada<br />
acciottolata a mezzo, un’osteria).<br />
Qui, diceva mio padre, conveniva<br />
venirci col coltello... Eh sì, il Naviglio<br />
è a due passi, la nebbia era più forte<br />
prima che lo coprissero... Ma quello<br />
che hanno fatto, distruggere le case,<br />
distruggere quartieri, qui e altrove,<br />
a cosa serve? Il male non era<br />
lì dentro, nelle scale, nei cortili,<br />
nei ballatoi, lì semmai c’era umido<br />
da prendersi un malanno. Se mio padre<br />
fosse vivo, chiederei anche a lui: ti sembra<br />
che serva? è il modo? A me sembra che il male<br />
non è mai nelle cose, gli direi.<br />
Lezioni di economia politica<br />
Cosa vuoi che ti dica. Più tardi<br />
può darsi che la maschera si tagli e tu riesca<br />
a vederli con gli occhi i veri,<br />
i santi moti del tuo cuore... tardi<br />
per assecondarli, magari: ma allora,<br />
a diciotto, diciannove e nessuno<br />
che ci dicesse sul muso « stronzi », il nostro modo<br />
di rivoltarci era quello, il conformismo,<br />
la pacatezza, il freddo disgusto<br />
per le intemperanze giovanili;<br />
aver schifo della rivoluzione...<br />
Uno come lui, capisci, era per forza il nostro uomo<br />
con i suoi colletti rotondi e duri, la spilla,<br />
le scarpe da vampiro. E ti ricordi,<br />
non ne perdevamo una: issati<br />
sui vecchi banchi (dalle porte-finestre il giardino<br />
delle Reali Fanciulle o come diavolo<br />
si chiamavano), immobili, cascando<br />
di sonno, d’incertezza e insieme<br />
impalati d’orgoglio, mi sforzavo<br />
d’essere alla sua altezza, come lui
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
Recovery<br />
Of all this<br />
there’s nothing left anymore (or maybe something<br />
if I had to guess, there’s still a street or two<br />
with cobblestones down the middle, and a bar).<br />
Down here, my father said, you were well advised<br />
to carry a knife with you... Ah yes, the Canal<br />
is just a few steps away, the fog was thicker<br />
back then, before they covered it... But what<br />
they’ve gone and done, destroying all the houses,<br />
destroying neighborhoods, here and other places,<br />
what good does it do? The sickness wasn’t there<br />
inside them, in the stairways, in the courtyards,<br />
in the galleries, if anything it was<br />
the dampness that could hurt you. If my father<br />
were alive today, I’d ask him: Does it seem<br />
good to you? Is this the way? It seems to me<br />
that the sickness is never in things, I’d say to him.<br />
Lessons <strong>of</strong> Political Economy<br />
What do you want me to tell you? Later on<br />
the mask may be cut away in the end and you’ll be able<br />
to see with your own eyes the natural,<br />
the hallowed motions <strong>of</strong> your heart... too late<br />
to follow them, in all likelihood; but then<br />
when we were eighteen, nineteen, with no one<br />
to call us “little shits” right to our faces, our way<br />
<strong>of</strong> rebelling was like that, conformity,<br />
restraint, a cold disgust<br />
for all the excesses <strong>of</strong> youth;<br />
a cultivated disdain for revolution...<br />
It goes without saying, you understand, that someone<br />
like him was our man, with his hard round collars,<br />
his tie-pin, his bloodsucker’s shoes. And you recall,<br />
we didn’t miss one <strong>of</strong> them: sitting up<br />
at those high old desks (through the French windows<br />
the garden <strong>of</strong> the Royal Princesses or whatever<br />
the hell they called it), immobile, falling asleep<br />
and into uncertainty but all the same<br />
stiff with pride, and I made every effort<br />
to be at his altitude, to be clearheaded<br />
191
192<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
lucido e spassionato – di capire<br />
com’è giusto applicare anche ai salari, alle teste<br />
degli operai<br />
la legge della domanda e dell’<strong>of</strong>ferta.<br />
Bambino morto di fatica ecc.<br />
La porta chiusa alle spalle, nel buio, d’età<br />
fra cinque e sei anni sopportando<br />
una crescita d’occhi, improvvisamente,<br />
nella schiena e – il plafone ribàltasi in piancito<br />
e qui, e qui, sul pianerottolo (la porta<br />
da dentro chiusa alle spalle) cosa resta da fare<br />
se non cercare scampo con la testa cioè<br />
incastrarla, tra ferro e ferro, sul vuoto delle scale<br />
scabrosamente non riuscendo più a liberarla,<br />
minuziosamente arrestando<br />
i battiti del cuore<br />
per infarto: tipico dei grandi; questo è uno dei modi.<br />
Adesso che me l’hai detto vedo<br />
com’è finito il bambino:<br />
un medio grumo di sangue sul pavimento<br />
del bagno. E tu che se per caso<br />
svenivi, se non c’era nessuno<br />
potevi morire dissanguata. Del quale<br />
comportamento, suggerisci sentimentale,<br />
bisognerebbe ringraziarlo, nessun<br />
gentile o bestiale medicastro avendoci messo mano<br />
per raschiarlo volontariamente (per nostra volontà)<br />
via.<br />
Anche così, rifletto, si produce<br />
un santino, l’immagine buona, propiziatoria<br />
da appendere dall’altra parte del letto in simmetria<br />
con quelle da trattare con gli spilli...<br />
3<br />
Ha fatto troppo l’amore, dopo, sembra<br />
che t’abbia detto; sembra<br />
1<br />
2
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
and dispassionate like him—to understand<br />
why it was proper procedure to apply even to wages, to<br />
the heads<br />
<strong>of</strong> the laborers, the law <strong>of</strong> supply and demand.<br />
Little Boy Dead <strong>of</strong> Exhaustion Etc.<br />
1<br />
The door closed behind him, in the darkness,<br />
somewhere<br />
between five and six years old enduring<br />
an increase <strong>of</strong> eyes, out <strong>of</strong> nowhere,<br />
in his back and—the ceiling rolling over on the floor<br />
and here, and here, out on the landing (the door<br />
closed behind him from inside) what else is there to do<br />
but look for a way out with his head, that is to say,<br />
jammed between rail and rail, on the emptiness <strong>of</strong> the<br />
stairs<br />
struggling and failing to work it free again,<br />
scrupulously stopping<br />
the beating <strong>of</strong> his heart<br />
with an infarction: just like the grownups; it’s one <strong>of</strong><br />
their ways.<br />
Now that you’ve told me about him I can see<br />
how the little boy came to die:<br />
a medium-sized blood clot on the bottom<br />
<strong>of</strong> the tub. And you, if by some chance you were<br />
to faint, if no one else was there<br />
then you might bleed to death. For which<br />
behavior, you sentimentally suggest,<br />
he really should be thanked, no amiable<br />
or brutal quack having lifted a single finger there<br />
to willingly (according to our will) scrape it away.<br />
That’s how, I imagine, they go about<br />
producing a holy card, a lovely, propitiatory image<br />
to hang from the other side <strong>of</strong> the bed in symmetry<br />
with all the ones already pinned up there...<br />
3<br />
She made too much love, later on, it seems<br />
she said to you; it seems<br />
2<br />
193
194<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
che in questo modo i bambini si fanno – questo<br />
lo sanno tutti – ma alle volte succede di disfarli. Con<br />
l’amore, vedi? (non a me: è da sola che cerchi<br />
d’imbrogliarti),<br />
con l’amore, non con l’indifferenza, il fastidio,<br />
non con la voglia di mandarlo via...<br />
Bambino, leggendo, morto di fatica<br />
nella Svizzera francese o forse sbaglio a ricordare,<br />
in Piemonte – nei pressi<br />
(non all’ombra, assolutamente) di<br />
un cespuglio<br />
o addirittura di una pietra,<br />
questo volevo dire: che la grande madre<br />
per avergli nascosto l’animale (e lui, a rintracciarlo,<br />
in giro<br />
ventiquattr’ore su ventiquattro, in giro come un matto,<br />
alla fine<br />
morto di fatica o per il troppo caldo o assiderato,<br />
alla fine<br />
impossibilitato a distinguere)<br />
non credeva di fare nessun male.<br />
Quando dorme se lo chiami<br />
muove un orecchio solo.<br />
Succhia latte nei sogni<br />
dalla sua mamma morta.<br />
Morde biscotti. Adora<br />
i fondi di caffè.<br />
Con le zampe assapora<br />
scialli e maglioni.<br />
Dorme sui fogli. Usa<br />
un libro per cuscino.<br />
4<br />
Personcina
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
this is the way that babies are made—this<br />
everybody knows—but sometimes it happens they’re<br />
unmade. With<br />
love, do you see? (not to me: you’re looking to get<br />
mixed up all by yourself),<br />
with love, not with indifference, irritation,<br />
not with the wish to make him go away.<br />
A little boy (reading) dead <strong>of</strong> exhaustion<br />
in French Switzerland, or maybe I misremember, in<br />
Piedmont—in the vicinity<br />
(not in the shadow, absolutely) <strong>of</strong><br />
a thicket<br />
or else, to get right down to it, <strong>of</strong> a rock,<br />
this is what I wanted to say: that his grownup mother<br />
in having hidden the animal from him (and he, in<br />
tracking it down, going round<br />
midnight upon midnight, going round like a lunatic, in<br />
the end<br />
dead <strong>of</strong> exhaustion or overheated or frozen, in the end<br />
it was impossible to tell)<br />
didn’t think that she was doing any harm.<br />
Call him while he’s sleeping<br />
and he only flicks an ear.<br />
He suckles in his dreams<br />
at his dead mamma’s breast.<br />
4<br />
Little Person<br />
He gnaws biscuits. He adores<br />
the taste <strong>of</strong> c<strong>of</strong>fee grounds.<br />
He savors with his paws<br />
shawls and thick pullovers.<br />
He sleeps on leaves. He uses<br />
a book for a head cushion.<br />
195
196<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Sta bene sopratutto<br />
in fondo agli armadi, nelle scatole...<br />
Con occhi più verdi, tremando<br />
spia il viavai dei piccioni.<br />
Si lecca i baffi puntando<br />
la mosca che volerà.<br />
Gli addii<br />
Ogni tanto mi sforzo<br />
di ricordarli: il ladro di verdura,<br />
il matto, la servante au grand coeur,<br />
il medico ecc. Strano gioco,<br />
ho paura, e assai poco redditizio.<br />
Tanto tempo è passato! e io<br />
che mi gratto la testa e sto seduto<br />
al tavolo di pietra del mulino<br />
aspettando il sereno, non<br />
sento di quelle spente dolcezze più<br />
che un rauco, degradato miagolio.<br />
*<br />
Invecchiando il corpo vorrebbe un’anima<br />
diversa, ma come si fa? non serve<br />
prendere calmanti, stordire i nervi<br />
e la mente, il problema è proprio l’anima,<br />
l’anima che non vuole pace, l’anima<br />
insaziabile, ostinata che ferve<br />
per sempre più comicamente impervi<br />
labirinti o abissi e si sa che l’anima<br />
non solo è immortale ma immortalmente<br />
immatura. Così, temo, non resta<br />
che rassegnarsi, finché non s’arresta<br />
la fontanella del respiro niente<br />
può cambiare, non è di questo fuoco<br />
spegnersi come gli altri a poco a poco.<br />
Andarsene, tornare, due pensieri<br />
dolci fino alla morte in tre parole<br />
sole, FERROVIE NORD MILANO, ieri<br />
*
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
He’s at his best inside<br />
the bottoms <strong>of</strong> cupboards, in boxes...<br />
He quivers, green eyes marking<br />
the to and fro <strong>of</strong> pigeons.<br />
He licks his whiskers stalking<br />
the fly that’ll fly away.<br />
The Farewells<br />
Every once in a while<br />
I try to recall them all, the vegetable thief,<br />
the madman, and la servante au grand coeur,<br />
the physican, etc. A curious game,<br />
I’m afraid, and one with little enough reward.<br />
How much time has gone by! and I<br />
who scratch my head and go on sitting here<br />
at the stone table <strong>of</strong> the mill<br />
waiting for the sky to clear,<br />
all that I still hear now <strong>of</strong> those dead joys<br />
is the noise <strong>of</strong> a degraded, shrill meow.<br />
*<br />
The aging body wants a different soul<br />
but what can be done for it? It hardly serves<br />
to swallow sedatives, to numb the nerves<br />
and brain, the problem really is the soul,<br />
the soul that wants no peace, the stubborn soul<br />
insatiable in its burning swoops and swerves<br />
through ever more laughably difficult drops and curves<br />
in chasms or labyrinths, and we know the soul<br />
is not just immortal but immortally<br />
immature. I’m afraid it isn’t going to quit<br />
simply because you’re ready to submit,<br />
till the stream <strong>of</strong> breath dries up it’ll never be<br />
any different, for as long as this flame’s still lit<br />
it doesn’t die out like others bit by bit.<br />
*<br />
To go away, to come back home again,<br />
two thoughts that will be sweet till death in three<br />
distinct words, RAILWAYS NORTH MILAN, back then<br />
197
198<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
limpidamente stampate nel sole<br />
del mattino, ora oscillanti sui poveri<br />
trampoli del ricordo. Non ci vuole<br />
molto per capire che i passeggeri<br />
sanno poco o niente di cìò che duole<br />
nella nostra memoria, che per loro<br />
Auschwitz è un nome come tanti, un suono<br />
senza storia. Li sento, più leggeri<br />
dell’aria, sfiorarmi, fendere il buono<br />
dell’aria, oh non esuli, frontalieri<br />
dell’aria in viaggio fra la nebbia e l’oro.<br />
*<br />
Mio male, mio bene, così vicini<br />
ormai che tante volte vi confondo,<br />
che risse facevate quando il mondo<br />
era pieno di luce e i teatrini<br />
del cuore non scritturavano ombre<br />
ma angeli e demoni in carne e ossa<br />
e da tutte le parti, nella fossa<br />
di chi rammenta, nelle quinte ingombre<br />
di macerie, nei cessi, nel foyer<br />
annerito dagli incendi ferveva<br />
l’incauta vita... Certo, si solleva<br />
ancora il sipario, ogni sera c’è<br />
spettacolo – ma senza vincitori<br />
né vinti, senza sangue, senza fiori.<br />
L’autunno ha a volte luci così terse<br />
e, sugli alberi, rossi di così<br />
atroce dolcezza che il cuore si<br />
spezzerebbe vedendoli. In diverse<br />
più innocue incombenze dunque si finge<br />
assorbito e lascia che siano gli occhi<br />
a incantarsene, a impregnarsene, sciocchi<br />
e intrepidi come sono... Poi stinge<br />
*
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
in the morning sun imprinted limpidly<br />
and these days wobbling by upon the poor<br />
stilts <strong>of</strong> recall. It doesn’t take much to see<br />
that all the passengers know little or<br />
nothing <strong>of</strong> things that ache in our memory,<br />
that Auschwitz is just a name to them, just one<br />
like any other, a sound that doesn’t hold<br />
any history. I feel them, lighter than<br />
the air, as they graze me, split the goodness <strong>of</strong><br />
the air, not exiles but commuters <strong>of</strong><br />
the air in transit between fog and gold.<br />
*<br />
My good, my evil, by now so close together<br />
that I confuse you sometimes, I who might<br />
have angered you when the world was filled with light<br />
and the little theaters <strong>of</strong> the heart would never<br />
hire shadows for the roles but filled every one<br />
with angels and demons <strong>of</strong> flesh and bone, from all<br />
sides, in the ditch <strong>of</strong> the one who may recall,<br />
in the toilets, in the wings that were overrun<br />
with debris, and in the foyer that was so<br />
flame-blackened, life was reckless and it blazed...<br />
Yes, it is true the curtain is still raised,<br />
and every evening there is still a show—<br />
but now there are no winners in our plays,<br />
no losers, and no blood, and no bouquets.<br />
*<br />
At times in autumn there are lights so clear<br />
and, on the trees, reds <strong>of</strong> such horribly<br />
outrageous sweetness that your heart would be<br />
shattered to see them. And while you appear<br />
preoccupied by a variety<br />
<strong>of</strong> more innocuous tasks, you still permit<br />
your eyes to charm and warm themselves in it,<br />
brave and foolish as they are... Then gradually<br />
199
200<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
a poco a poco o forse trascolora<br />
come fa, salendo, la luna, quel<br />
tetro fulgore, scrudelisce nel<br />
pulviscolo del tempo, e solo allora<br />
uno ha il coraggio di dire quant’era<br />
bello – più bello della primavera.<br />
Mai avuto, io, il doppio dei tuoi anni.<br />
Ma cosa dico? certo che li ho avuti,<br />
solo che tu non c’eri, eri, vediamo,<br />
a Padova, o forse Venezia, intenta<br />
a qualche tua storia d’irresistibile<br />
ventiduenne – e in fondo cosa importa<br />
in base a quale calcolo o magia<br />
la ragazza che eri è diventata<br />
l’incresciosamente giovane donna<br />
che sarai finché vivo e io per non perderti<br />
un malato da vent’anni s’ingegna<br />
di non morire? Non lasciarmi né ora<br />
né prima, mi sembra a volte di dire<br />
non so con che cuore, e a chi delle due.<br />
L’hanno picchiato a sangue, non a morte<br />
il figlio mezzo scimunito<br />
della fiorista del paese<br />
che girava fischiando «Giovinezza»<br />
due, al massimo tre giorni<br />
prima del 25 aprile.<br />
Era fascista? Certo – come quelli<br />
che l’hanno preso a pugni<br />
erano uno di Masnago, gli altri<br />
di Induno: per esserci nati.<br />
Mai più saremmo stati, lì da noi,<br />
così atrocemente innocenti.<br />
*<br />
*
Michael Palma/Giovanni Raboni<br />
it all begins to fade, but then again<br />
perhaps it’s changing color, as the moon<br />
rising in its somber splendor soon<br />
is warmed in time’s fine dust, and only then<br />
do you dare to say how beautiful a thing<br />
it really was—more beautiful than spring.<br />
There was never a time when I was twice your age.<br />
What am I saying? Of course there was such a time,<br />
only you weren’t here, you were, let’s see,<br />
in Padua, maybe Venice, intent on some<br />
<strong>of</strong> your history as an irresistible<br />
twenty-two-year-old—and really in the end<br />
what does it matter what calculus or charm<br />
transformed the young girl that you were into<br />
the regrettably young woman that you’ll be<br />
for as long as I’m alive, a sick man who<br />
to keep from losing you has managed now<br />
for twenty years not to die. Don’t leave me now,<br />
don’t leave me first, I sometimes seem to hear,<br />
but which heart speaks, and to which one <strong>of</strong> us?<br />
They beat him bloody, though not to death<br />
the halfwit son <strong>of</strong> the woman<br />
who owned the local flower shop<br />
because he went around whistling “Giovinezza”<br />
two, no more than three<br />
days before April 25.<br />
Was he a Fascist? Of course he was—the way<br />
that those who pounded him<br />
were one <strong>of</strong> them from Masnago and the rest<br />
from Induno: by being born there.<br />
Never would those <strong>of</strong> us who were from those parts<br />
be so atrociously innocent again.<br />
*<br />
*<br />
201
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by Giorgio Caproni<br />
by Pasquale Verdicchio<br />
Pasquale Verdicchio has translated the work <strong>of</strong> Pier Paolo Pasolini,<br />
Antonio Porta, Alda Merini and Giorgio Caproni (The Wall <strong>of</strong> the Earth),<br />
among others. He is a poet and essayist whose interests range from contemporary<br />
poetry to photography, to cinema and music. He teaches at the University<br />
<strong>of</strong> California, San Diego.<br />
Giorgio Caproni (1912-1990) Born in Livorno, Caproni is usually considered<br />
to be a Ligurian poet given the fact <strong>of</strong> his family’s move to Genova<br />
when he was young. Most <strong>of</strong> his life was however spent in Rome, where he<br />
was a teacher. His works, carefully exploration into the sparcity <strong>of</strong> language<br />
and expression, generally have dealt with human relations resultant from<br />
war, deracination, existential and spiritual conflict. His poetry has been<br />
recognized with major prizes in Italy: Stanze della funicolare (Viareggio Prize),<br />
Il muro della terra (Premio Gatto), Il Franco cacciatore (Premio Montale e Premio<br />
Feltrinelli). His literary activity included translation from the French <strong>of</strong> the<br />
works <strong>of</strong> Proust, Baudelaire, Celine, de Maupasant, Genete and Apollinaire.<br />
Caproni’s first translated collection in English, the Wall <strong>of</strong> the Earth, appeared<br />
in 1991 through Guernica Editions. The poems here presented are selected<br />
from Caproni’s posthumous work Res amissa (Mondadori, 1991), edited and<br />
introduced by Giorgio Agamben.<br />
From<br />
RES AMISSA<br />
by<br />
GIORGIO CAPRONI<br />
translated by<br />
Pasquale Verdiccho
204 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Non ne trovo traccia<br />
……<br />
Venne da me apposta<br />
(di questo sono certo)<br />
per farmene dono.<br />
……<br />
Non ne trovo più traccia.<br />
……<br />
Res amissa<br />
Rivedo nell’abbandono<br />
del giorno l’esile faccia<br />
bianc<strong>of</strong>lautata…<br />
La manica<br />
in trina…<br />
La grazia,<br />
Così dolce e allemanica<br />
nel porgere…<br />
……<br />
……<br />
Un vento<br />
d’urto – un’aria<br />
quasi silicea agghiaccia<br />
ora la stanza…<br />
(È lama<br />
di coltello?<br />
Tormento<br />
oltre il vetro ed il legno<br />
-serrato – dell’imposta?)<br />
……<br />
……<br />
Non ne scorgo più segno.<br />
Più traccia.<br />
……<br />
……<br />
Chiedo<br />
alla morgana…
Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni<br />
I can find no trace <strong>of</strong> it.<br />
......<br />
He came to me deliberately<br />
(<strong>of</strong> this I am certain)<br />
to make a gift <strong>of</strong> it.<br />
......<br />
I can no longer find trace <strong>of</strong> it.<br />
......<br />
Res amissa<br />
I see again in the leaving<br />
day the thin face<br />
whitefluted . . .<br />
The sleeve<br />
in lace . . .<br />
The grace,<br />
so gentle and germanic<br />
in its <strong>of</strong>fering . . .<br />
......<br />
......<br />
A wind<br />
<strong>of</strong> impact - an air<br />
almost siliceous chills<br />
now the room . . .<br />
<strong>of</strong> a knife?<br />
(Is it the blade<br />
Torment<br />
beyond the glass and wood<br />
- closed - <strong>of</strong> the shutter?)<br />
......<br />
......<br />
I can no longer find sign <strong>of</strong> it.<br />
No trace.<br />
......<br />
......<br />
the morgana . . .<br />
I ask<br />
205
206 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Rivedo<br />
esile l’esile faccia<br />
flautoscomparsa…<br />
Schiude<br />
- remota – l’albeggiante bocca,<br />
ma non parla.<br />
(Non può<br />
- niente può – dar risposta<br />
……<br />
……<br />
Non spero più di trovarla.<br />
……<br />
L’ho troppo gelosemente<br />
(irrecuperabilmente) riposta.<br />
I cardini della luce…<br />
Dell’ombra…<br />
Li conosco.<br />
I cardini<br />
Conosco le cretacee porte<br />
che danno sul mare. Sul bosco.<br />
Ma i cardini della nascita?<br />
I cardini della morte?…
thin the slim face<br />
flutedisappeared . . .<br />
Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni<br />
I see again<br />
Parts<br />
- remote - the dawning mouth,<br />
but does not speak.<br />
- nothing can - anwer.)<br />
......<br />
......<br />
I no longer hope to find her.<br />
......<br />
I have too jealously<br />
(irrecoverably) hidden her.<br />
The reasons for light . . .<br />
For shadow . . .<br />
(She cannot<br />
Reasons<br />
I know them.<br />
I know the cretaceous doors<br />
that lead to the sea. The woods.<br />
But the reasons for birth?<br />
The reasons for death? . . .<br />
207
208 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Così, stentoreamente,<br />
gridava, richiuso, il demente.<br />
(Era, la sua ragione eversa,<br />
la sola Cosa non persa?)<br />
L’ignaro<br />
S’illuse, recuperato<br />
l’oggetto accuratamente perso,<br />
d’aver fatto un acquisto.<br />
Fu gioia d’un momento.<br />
turbato.<br />
Quasi<br />
come chi si sia a un tratto visto<br />
spogliato d’una rendita.<br />
(Lui,<br />
ignaro che ogni ritrovamento<br />
- sempre – è una perdita.)<br />
………. un’ ombra<br />
che stringe la mano d’ombra<br />
a un’altra ombra…<br />
E rimase<br />
Il patto<br />
(In ombra…)<br />
Due ombre che senza lasciare ombra<br />
d’ombra, nell’ombra
Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni<br />
So, straining,<br />
shouted, shut in, the madman.<br />
(Was, his ruined reason,<br />
the only Thing not lost?)<br />
Unaware<br />
He was under the illusion,<br />
having found the accurately lost object again,<br />
<strong>of</strong> having gained something.<br />
It was a momentary joy.<br />
troubled.<br />
And he was left<br />
Almost<br />
like someone who suddenly finds himself<br />
stripped <strong>of</strong> an income.<br />
(He,<br />
unaware that anything found again<br />
is - always - a loss.)<br />
.................. a shadow<br />
that shakes the hand <strong>of</strong> shadow<br />
<strong>of</strong> another shadow . . .<br />
The Agreement<br />
(In shadow. . .)<br />
Two shadows that without leaving a shadow<br />
<strong>of</strong> a shadow, in the shadows<br />
209
210 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
fermano un patto…<br />
(D’ombra…)<br />
Ma I duri corpi viventi?…<br />
Le due compatte masse<br />
tese – quasi acciaiescenti?…<br />
Dove le due persone<br />
proiettanti?…<br />
……<br />
(È dunque<br />
- il luogo d’ogni congiunzione –<br />
perpetua parallasse?…)<br />
Quelle impalpabili voci<br />
quasi trasparenti…<br />
di tutti quegli occhi neri<br />
- inesistenti? – d’acqua<br />
e d’ossidiana…<br />
- sempre più lontana –<br />
da sé, la mente<br />
ne ha perso il nome…<br />
dissolti?…<br />
- afoni - corrieri<br />
di note spente…<br />
Invenzioni<br />
L’azzurro<br />
Lontana<br />
Angeli<br />
Incorporei
Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni<br />
come to an agreement . . .<br />
But the hard living bodies? . . .<br />
The two compact masses<br />
taut - almost steelescent? . . .<br />
Where the two projecting<br />
people?. . .<br />
......<br />
(Of shadow . . .)<br />
(It is therefore<br />
- the place <strong>of</strong> every conjunction -<br />
perpetual parallax? . . .)<br />
Those impalpable voices<br />
almost transparent . . .<br />
<strong>of</strong> all those black eyes<br />
- non existent? - <strong>of</strong> water<br />
and obsidian . . .<br />
- always more distant -<br />
from itself, the mind<br />
has lost the name <strong>of</strong> it . . .<br />
dissipated? . . .<br />
- aphonic - couriers<br />
<strong>of</strong> extinguished notes . . .<br />
Inventions<br />
The blue<br />
Distant<br />
Angels<br />
Incorporeal<br />
211
212 <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Presumibilmente<br />
soltanto vuote figurazioni<br />
di suoni senza più suono…<br />
senza accensioni…<br />
Lumi<br />
Invenzioni…
Pasquale Verdicchio/Giorgio Caproni<br />
only empty figurations<br />
<strong>of</strong> sound without sound . . .<br />
without switches . . .<br />
Presumably<br />
Lamps<br />
Inventions . . .<br />
213
English <strong>Translation</strong>s <strong>of</strong> Poems by Guido Gozzano and<br />
Giovanni Pascoli<br />
by Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock<br />
Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock is the author <strong>of</strong> Weighing Light, and his poems and<br />
translations have appeared in magazines including Poetry, Paris Review,<br />
and The New Yorker. His translation <strong>of</strong> Cesare Pavese’s Disaffections was<br />
named one <strong>of</strong> the “Best Books <strong>of</strong> 2003” by the Los Angeles Times and received<br />
both the PEN Center USA <strong>Translation</strong> Award and the MLA’s Lois Roth<br />
<strong>Translation</strong> Award. He’s also the translator <strong>of</strong> books by Roberto Calasso<br />
and Umberto Eco. A former Wallace Stegner Fellow and the recipient <strong>of</strong><br />
recent fellowships from the NEA and the Guggenheim Foundation, he teaches<br />
creative writing and translation at the University <strong>of</strong> Arkansas. His website is<br />
www.ge<strong>of</strong>freybrock.com.<br />
Guido Gozzano was born in Turin in 1883 and died there in 1916,<br />
after a long battle with tuberculosis. He was a poet <strong>of</strong> substantial accomplishment<br />
and enormous promise, easily the best <strong>of</strong> the so-called “Crepuscular”<br />
poets. That label, coined by a critic as a slight, suggests a particular<br />
attitude toward the past, as if the long day <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> culture were winding<br />
down and nothing remained but dim and fading traces, twilight pieces. In a<br />
land that had produced Rome and the Renaissance, Dante and Leopardi,<br />
such an attitude was perhaps inevitable and was, in any case, pervasive; it<br />
was precisely this sort <strong>of</strong> passatismo against which the futuristi would shortly<br />
rebel. But Gozzano’s poetry also contains the seeds <strong>of</strong> something much more<br />
modern. Like Eliot, he had read his Laforgue, and his monologue “Totò<br />
Merúmeni,” one <strong>of</strong> the centerpieces <strong>of</strong> his second and most important volume,<br />
I colloqui (1911), anticipates by several years elements <strong>of</strong> Eliot’s<br />
“Prufrock.” It is tantalizing (and, <strong>of</strong> course, fruitless) to imagine what the<br />
landscape <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> poetry in the first half <strong>of</strong> the last century might have<br />
looked like had Gozzano not died nel mezzo del cammin.<br />
The poem presented here first appeared in a journal in 1913 and was<br />
not collected during Gozzano’s brief lifetime. Though not typical <strong>of</strong> his bestknown<br />
work, it is pr<strong>of</strong>oundly beguiling. The “unfound isle,” with its “blessed<br />
shore” (Purg. XXXI 97) and “sacred forest” (Purg. XXVIII 2), alludes to the<br />
earthly paradise described in the final cantos <strong>of</strong> Purgatorio. (The final line<br />
also suggests parallels with another famous journey: it is lifted from Pascoli’s<br />
long poem about Ulysses, L’ultimo viaggio.) If the Purgatorio seems today the<br />
most modern and human <strong>of</strong> Dante’s canticles, it is partly because it is the<br />
only one that, as W.S. Merwin has remarked, takes place “on the earth, as our<br />
lives do.” For Dante, <strong>of</strong> course, purgatory is something to transcend, whereas<br />
Gozzano, in this poem, seems to deny the possibility <strong>of</strong> such transcendence.<br />
His paradise remains unattainable, a “vain semblance,” and his sailors
thus remain condemned to their purgatory—which is to say, to this world:<br />
unlike Dante, and like us.<br />
Giovanni Pascoli was born in 1855 in San Mauro di Romagna (a town<br />
later renamed San Mauro Pascoli in his honor) and died in Bologna, where<br />
he had followed Carducci as pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> literature, in 1912. His<br />
personal life was famously full <strong>of</strong> tragedy: his father was shot to death when<br />
he was 11, his mother and oldest sister died the following year, and two <strong>of</strong><br />
his brothers were dead by the time he was 20. In 1891 he published his first<br />
collection <strong>of</strong> poems in <strong>Italian</strong> and also won the first <strong>of</strong> thirteen gold medals<br />
for his Latin poetry from the Royal Dutch Academy. At his best, his quiet,<br />
plain-spoken style provides what Joseph Cary calls “a rough antithesis or<br />
even antidote” to the grandeur, or grandiosity, <strong>of</strong> Carducci and D’Annunzio<br />
(the other two members <strong>of</strong> the great triad that shadows the threshold <strong>of</strong><br />
twentieth-century <strong>Italian</strong> poetry). He is known for his poetics <strong>of</strong> the<br />
“fanciullino,” his term for the innocent, non-rational intuition possessed by<br />
children and poets and associated with lyricism and creativity, and for his<br />
focus on “piccole cose,” small, humble objects, which constitute the essence<br />
<strong>of</strong> Pascoli’s world and which are named with a precision new to <strong>Italian</strong><br />
poetry. Where Leopardi, a notoriously inexact naturalist, refers generically<br />
to “the songs <strong>of</strong> birds,” Pascoli names the exact species and sometimes, like<br />
Audubon, even transcribes its call phonetically. The title <strong>of</strong> his first book,<br />
Myricae, is neatly emblematic <strong>of</strong> this aspect <strong>of</strong> his poetics: taken from a reference<br />
by Virgil to “humilesque myricae” (humble tamarisks), it emphasizes<br />
the humble object, properly named. Subsequent books include Poemetti (Shorter<br />
poems, 1897), Canti di Castelvecchio (Songs from Castelvecchio, 1903), Poemi<br />
conviviali (Convivial Poems, 1904), and several others.<br />
“La cavalla storna” may be Pascoli’s most famous poem, which is not<br />
to say his best. Though the poem is built around a central mystery—the<br />
identity <strong>of</strong> his father’s murderer—the poem itself is not, I think, as mysterious<br />
as his best poems are. It is not without fascination, but part <strong>of</strong> its fascination<br />
surely lies in our knowledge that it is based on actual events. It may<br />
overstate the case to say that it stands in relation to his oeuvre as “O Captain!<br />
My Captain!” does to Whitman’s (Pascoli’s is a better poem), but they have<br />
much in common: both are about father figures who were shot to death in the<br />
mid-1860s, both moistened the eyes <strong>of</strong> generations <strong>of</strong> schoolchildren, and, if<br />
we read them generously, both are indeed moving, in their fashion. But both<br />
also suffer from melodrama that verges on mawkishness. <strong>Translation</strong> can’t<br />
remedy such faults; it can only avoid exacerbating them while trying to do<br />
justice to the virtues. In Pascoli’s case (unlike Whitman’s), the poem’s form<br />
and tone are virtues: the finely balanced, end-stopped heroic couplets and<br />
the gothic air have the effect <strong>of</strong> distancing the poem’s events, <strong>of</strong> making them<br />
seem the stuff <strong>of</strong> ancient legend rather than autobiography. It was such<br />
qualities that I tried hardest to convey.
Guido Gozzano<br />
La più bella<br />
Ma bella più di tutte l’Isola Non-Trovata:<br />
quella che il Re di Spagna s’ebbe da suo cugino<br />
il Re di Portogallo con firma sugellata<br />
e bulla del Pontefice in gotico latino.<br />
L’Infante fece vela pel regno favoloso,<br />
vide le fortunate: Iunonia, Gorgo, Hera<br />
e il Mare di Sargasso e il Mare Tenebroso<br />
quell’isola cercando... Ma l’isola non c’era.<br />
Invano le galee panciute a vele tonde,<br />
le caravelle invano armarono la prora:<br />
con pace del Pontefice l’isola si nasconde,<br />
e Portogallo e Spagna la cercano tuttora.<br />
II.<br />
L’isola esiste. Appare talora di lontano<br />
tra Teneriffe e Palma, s<strong>of</strong>fusa di mistero:<br />
«...l’Isola Non-Trovata!» Il buon Canarïano<br />
dal Picco alto di Teyde l’addita al forestiero.<br />
La segnano le carte antiche dei corsari.<br />
...Hifola da-trovarfi? ...Hifola pellegrina?...<br />
È l’isola fatata che scivola sui mari;<br />
talora i naviganti la vedono vicina...<br />
Radono con le prore quella beata riva:<br />
tra fiori mai veduti svettano palme somme,<br />
odora la divina foresta spessa e viva,<br />
lacrima il cardamomo, trasudano le gomme...<br />
S’annuncia col pr<strong>of</strong>umo, come una cortigiana,<br />
l’Isola Non-Trovata... Ma, se il pilota avanza,<br />
rapida si dilegua come parvenza vana,<br />
si tinge dell’azzurro color di lontananza...<br />
I.
Guido Gozzano<br />
The Loveliest<br />
But loveliest <strong>of</strong> all, the Unfound Isle:<br />
the King <strong>of</strong> Spain received it from his cousin,<br />
the King <strong>of</strong> Portugal, with a royal seal<br />
and the Pope’s bull, scrawled in a Gothic Latin.<br />
Seeking the fabled place, the Infante passed<br />
the Fortunate Isles—Junonia, Gorgo, Hera,<br />
sailed the Sea <strong>of</strong> Darkness and the Sargasso,<br />
eye to his glass... The island was not there.<br />
In vain the sails <strong>of</strong> the stout galleys swelled,<br />
in vain they fitted out their caravels:<br />
with the Pope’s peace, the island hid itself;<br />
Spain seeks it still, and Portugal as well.<br />
II.<br />
The isle exists. Occasionally it appears<br />
between La Palma and Tenerife, beguiling.<br />
On Teide’s peak, the kind Canaryman steers<br />
the foreigner’s gaze: “There, the Unfound Isle!”<br />
It’s marked on the parchment maps <strong>of</strong> privateers:<br />
Wandering ifle? or Ifland to-be-found?<br />
It’s the enchanted isle that rides the waters,<br />
and sometimes sailors see it close at hand:<br />
Their vessels glide along its blessed shore;<br />
the dense green sacred forest scents the air;<br />
over the nameless flowers, huge palms soar;<br />
cardamom weeps, the rubber trees perspire...<br />
The Unfound Isle, announced by fragrances,<br />
like courtesans... And like vain semblances,<br />
when pilots sail too near it vanishes,<br />
turning that shade <strong>of</strong> blue that distance is.<br />
I.
Giovanni Pascoli<br />
La cavalla storna<br />
Nella Torre il silenzio era già alto.<br />
Sussurravano i pioppi del Rio Salto.<br />
I cavalli normanni alle lor poste<br />
frangean la biada con rumor di croste.<br />
Là in fondo la cavalla era, selvaggia,<br />
nata tra i pini su la salsa spiaggia;<br />
che nelle froge avea del mar gli spruzzi<br />
ancora, e gli urli negli orecchi aguzzi.<br />
Con su la greppia un gomito, da essa<br />
era mia madre; e le dicea sommessa:<br />
«O cavallina, cavallina storna,<br />
che portavi colui che non ritorna;<br />
tu capivi il suo cenno ed il suo detto!<br />
Egli ha lasciato un figlio giovinetto;<br />
il primo d’otto tra miei figli e figlie;<br />
e la sua mano non toccò mai briglie.<br />
Tu che ti senti ai fianchi l’uragano,<br />
tu dài retta alla sua piccola mano.<br />
Tu ch’hai nel cuore la marina brulla,<br />
tu dài retta alla sua voce fanciulla».<br />
La cavalla volgea la scarna testa<br />
verso mia madre, che dicea più mesta:<br />
«O cavallina, cavallina storna,<br />
che portavi colui che non ritorna;<br />
lo so, lo so, che tu l’amavi forte!<br />
Con lui c’eri tu sola e la sua morte.<br />
O nata in selve tra l’ondate e il vento,
Giovanni Pascoli<br />
The Dapple Gray Mare<br />
The Villa lay beneath the quiet’s cover.<br />
The poplars whispered by the Salto River.<br />
The Norman horses, each in its stall, fed<br />
on fodder, crunching it like crusty bread.<br />
Beyond them stood the wild mare, who was foaled<br />
upon a piney coast, salt-licked and cold;<br />
her nostrils carried still that tang <strong>of</strong> shore,<br />
and still her cocked ears heard the ocean roar.<br />
A woman leaned beside the horse’s head;<br />
she was my mother. This is what she said:<br />
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,<br />
who bore the man who won’t return away—<br />
you understood his touch, his words, his mind!<br />
The man has left a little boy behind<br />
(first born <strong>of</strong> eight) who never handled reins.<br />
And though your flanks are spurred by hurricanes,<br />
heed his small hand. And heed his childlike speech,<br />
though in your heart there lies a barren beach.<br />
The gray mare turned her bony head to see<br />
my mother as she spoke so mournfully:<br />
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,<br />
who bore the man who won’t return away—<br />
I know, <strong>of</strong> course: I know you loved him, too!<br />
He would have died alone there, but for you.<br />
After the bit between your teeth went slack,
220<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
tu tenesti nel cuore il tuo spavento;<br />
sentendo lasso nella bocca il morso,<br />
nel cuor veloce tu premesti il corso:<br />
adagio seguitasti la tua via,<br />
perché facesse in pace l’agonia...»<br />
La scarna lunga testa era daccanto<br />
al dolce viso di mia madre in pianto.<br />
«O cavallina, cavallina storna,<br />
che portavi colui che non ritorna;<br />
oh! due parole egli dové pur dire!<br />
E tu capisci, ma non sai ridire.<br />
Tu con le briglie sciolte tra le zampe,<br />
con dentro gli occhi il fuoco delle vampe,<br />
con negli orecchi l’eco degli scoppi,<br />
seguitasti la via tra gli alti pioppi:<br />
lo riportavi tra il morir del sole,<br />
perché udissimo noi le sue parole».<br />
Stava attenta la lunga testa fiera.<br />
Mia madre l’abbracciò su la criniera.<br />
«O cavallina, cavallina storna,<br />
portavi a casa sua chi non ritorna!<br />
a me, chi non ritornerà più mai!<br />
Tu fosti buona... Ma parlar non sai!<br />
Tu non sai, poverina; altri non osa.<br />
Oh! ma tu devi dirmi una una cosa!<br />
Tu l’hai veduto l’uomo che l’uccise:<br />
esso t’è qui nelle pupille fise.<br />
Chi fu? Chi è? Ti voglio dire un nome.<br />
E tu fa cenno. Dio t’insegni, come».
Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli<br />
your heart raced, but you trotted gently back;<br />
born beneath pines, between the waves and wind,<br />
you mastered fear so peace might be his end.<br />
The gray mare’s bony muzzle brushed the side<br />
<strong>of</strong> my sweet mother’s visage as she cried.<br />
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,<br />
who bore the man who won’t return away—<br />
whose last few words you know, but can’t repeat!<br />
You brought him back, reins trailing at your feet.<br />
The shot in your ears, in your eyes the flame,<br />
along the whispering poplar road, you came.<br />
You bore him through the dying <strong>of</strong> the day<br />
so we might hear some last word he might say.<br />
The mare’s long head was listening. In her pain,<br />
My mother threw her arms around that mane.<br />
O dearest mare, O mare so dapple-gray,<br />
you bore him home, the man who went away,<br />
who never can come home! Good though you be,<br />
you cannot (others dare not) speak to me.<br />
But oh, there’s one — just one! — thing you must tell:<br />
You saw the killer, yes, you know him well—<br />
who is it? I will say a man’s name now.<br />
Give me some signal. God will show you how.<br />
The horses were no longer champing meal;<br />
asleep, they dreamed the rolling <strong>of</strong> the wheel.<br />
They did not stamp their hooves upon the hay:<br />
asleep, they dreamed the whiteness <strong>of</strong> the way.<br />
221
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Ora, i cavalli non frangean la biada:<br />
dormian sognando il bianco della strada.<br />
La paglia non battean con l’unghie vuote:<br />
dormian sognando il rullo delle ruote.<br />
Mia madre alzò nel gran silenzio un dito:<br />
disse un nome... Sonò alto un nitrito.
Ge<strong>of</strong>frey Brock/Guido Gozzano/Giovanni Pascoli<br />
My mother raised her hand toward the hushed sky<br />
and spoke a name. The gray mare’s neigh rose high.<br />
223
Confronti Poetici/<br />
Poetic Comparisons<br />
Section Edited by Luigi Fontanella<br />
The purpose <strong>of</strong> this “rubrica” is to feature two poets, an American or<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>-American and an <strong>Italian</strong>, who in the opinion <strong>of</strong> the Editor share<br />
affinities or embody different approaches to poetry. The editor will select<br />
one poem for each poet and provide both the English and the <strong>Italian</strong> translation<br />
thus acting as a bridge between them. In this manner two poets,<br />
whose approach to poetry may be quite different, will be conversing through<br />
the translator.<br />
Luigi Fontanella is Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> at Stony Brook University.<br />
His most recent books are Azul (Archinto, 2001); La parola transfuga (Cadmo,<br />
2003); I racconti di Murano di Italo Svevo (Empiria, 2004); Pasolini rilegge<br />
Pasolini (Archinto, 2005). He is the editor <strong>of</strong> Gradiva, and the president <strong>of</strong><br />
IPA (<strong>Italian</strong> Poetry in America).<br />
Valerio Magrelli’s most recent books are Didascalie per la lettura di un<br />
giornale (Einaudi, 1999), and Nel condominio di carne (Einaudi, 2003). In<br />
2002 he was awarded the Feltrinelli Prize for <strong>Italian</strong> poetry. Magrelli is<br />
Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> French Literature at the University <strong>of</strong> Cassino.<br />
Robert Viscusi is Pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> English and American Literature at<br />
Cuny- Brooklyn College, where he has directed the Wolfe Institute for the<br />
Humanities since 1982. His most recent books are the novel Astoria (Guernica<br />
1995, winner <strong>of</strong> the American Book Award in 1996, a collection <strong>of</strong> poems: A<br />
New Geography <strong>of</strong> Time (Guernica, 2004), and Buried Caesars and Other Secrets<br />
<strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> American Writing (Suny Press, 2006).
226<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
ROBERT VISCUSI (from A New Geography <strong>of</strong> Time, Guernica, 2004, p.<br />
53)<br />
Goons and Lagoons<br />
Gangsters in gondolas glide down the streets <strong>of</strong> Las Vegas.<br />
What does it matter that this is a desert?<br />
The water is a form <strong>of</strong> liquidity.<br />
The gangsters are my leaders ins<strong>of</strong>ar as I am an <strong>Italian</strong> in America.<br />
Desert lakes glitter with pumped cash.<br />
Don’t tell me I am not special, because I have been to Italy.<br />
In the Biblioteca San Marco I have read manuscript codices.<br />
The water climbs the marble stairs in the entrance halls.<br />
Seaweed hangs from every stone you can see <strong>of</strong> the library’s<br />
foundation.<br />
Albert Anastasia was murdered in a barber’s chair at the Sheraton.<br />
He had a brother who was a priest at Saint Lucy’s in the Bronx.<br />
Father Anastasia didn’t speak English too well.<br />
We used to go to the Bronx just to make our confessions.<br />
The Cadillacs would silently turn the corner <strong>of</strong> Allerton Avenue.<br />
Gangsters in cherrywood c<strong>of</strong>fins would slide into the church.<br />
The Island <strong>of</strong> San Michele in the lagoon is the cemetery.<br />
That water eats everything.<br />
After a few decades the graves are empty.<br />
Venetians one after another have lain in the same graves.<br />
In America it is the cities we bury.<br />
The money eats them the way water eats corpses.<br />
VALERIO MAGRELLI (inedito, 2005)<br />
Guarda questa bambina<br />
che sta imparando a leggere:<br />
tende le labbra, si concentra,<br />
tira su una parola dopo l’altra,<br />
pesca, e la voce fa da canna,<br />
fila, si flette, strappa<br />
guizzanti queste lettere<br />
ora alte nell’aria<br />
luccicanti<br />
al sole della pronuncia.
Robert Viscusi/Valerio Magrelli<br />
Gonzi e Gondole<br />
Scivolano gangster in gondola per le strade di Las Vegas.<br />
Che importa se questo è un deserto?<br />
L’acqua è una forma di liquidità.<br />
I gangster sono i miei leader solo perché io sono un italiano in<br />
America.<br />
I laghi del deserto luccicano di denarocontante pompato.<br />
Non dirmi che io non sono speciale, perché sono stato in Italia.<br />
Alla Biblioteca San Marco ho letto codici e manoscritti.<br />
L’acqua s’arrampica sulle scale di marmo degli ingressi.<br />
Alghe appese a ogni pietra delle fondamenta della biblioteca.<br />
Albert Anastasia fu assassinato su una sedia da barbiere allo<br />
Sheraton.<br />
Aveva un fratello prete alla chiesa di Santa Lucia nel Bronx.<br />
Un prete che non parlava bene l’inglese.<br />
Noi andavamo nel Bronx solo per confessarci.<br />
Le cadillac giravano silenziose all’angolo di Allerton Avenue.<br />
Gangster incapsulati in bare di ciliegio entravano ed uscivano da<br />
quella chiesa.<br />
Nell’isola di San Michele, in piena laguna, c’è il cimitero.<br />
L’acqua divora ogni cosa.<br />
Dopo appena qualche decennio le tombe si svuotano.<br />
Veneziani, uno dopo l’altro, sono andati ad occupare quelle stesse<br />
tombe.<br />
In America noi seppelliamo le città.<br />
Il denaro le divora così come l’acqua divora i cadaveri.<br />
VALERIO MAGRELLI (unpublished, 2005)<br />
Look at this child<br />
who is learning how to read:<br />
she stretches out her mouth, concentrates,<br />
pulls up word after word,<br />
fishing or them, and her voice acts like a rod,<br />
it spins, bends, tears out<br />
these darting letters<br />
finally high in the air<br />
glittering<br />
in the sun <strong>of</strong> pronunciation.<br />
227
Oil on canvas.
Traduttori a duello/ Dueling Translators<br />
Section Editred by Gaetano Cipolla<br />
It has been said that a text <strong>of</strong> poetry or prose, translated by ten equally<br />
knowledgeable translators, will result in ten different texts. In theory, the<br />
different versions should convey what is known as the kernel meaning,<br />
that is, the basic message contained in the original text. This section <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong><br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Translation</strong> will test this theory by asking our readers to translate<br />
a text chosen by the editors, using whatever style or approach they<br />
consider best. The submissions will then be printed with the original text.<br />
We will try to publish as many entries as possible, space allowing. For this<br />
issue, I selected the following poem by Guido Gozzano. Send your version<br />
<strong>of</strong> this poem and write a paragraph describing your approach.You may<br />
submit additional poems or short prose texts that in your estimation pose<br />
challenging problems. Sendyour submissions to me or Luigi Bonaffini.<br />
Elogio degli amori ancillari<br />
I<br />
Allor che che viene con novelle sue,<br />
ghermir mi piace l’agile fantesca<br />
che secretaria antica è fra noi due.<br />
M’accende il riso della bocca fresca,<br />
l’attesa vana, il motto arguto, l’ora,<br />
e il pr<strong>of</strong>umo d’istoria boccaccesca…<br />
Ella m’irride, si dibatte, implora,<br />
invoca il nome della sua padrona:<br />
“Ah! Che vergogna! Povera Signora!<br />
Ah! Povera Signora!...” E s’abbandona.<br />
II<br />
Gaie figure di decamerone,<br />
le cameriste dan senza tormento,<br />
più sana voluttà che le padrone.<br />
Non la scaltrezza del martirio lento,<br />
non da morbosità polsi riarsi,<br />
e non il tedioso sentimento<br />
che fa le notti lunghe e i sonni scarsi,<br />
non dopo voluttà l’anima triste:<br />
ma un più sereno e maschio sollazzarsi.<br />
Lodo l’amore delle cameriste!
Classics Revisited<br />
English <strong>Translation</strong> <strong>of</strong> Ugo Foscolo’s “Le Grazie” /<br />
Traduzione inglese di “Le Grazie” di Ugo Foscolo<br />
by Joseph Tusiani<br />
Joseph Tusiani, pr<strong>of</strong>essor emeritus, Lehman College, City University<br />
<strong>of</strong> New York, came to the US in 1947, when he was 23. Naturalized in 1956,<br />
he is the translator <strong>of</strong> classics <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>of</strong> poetry into English verse, and a<br />
poet in his own right. The great bulk <strong>of</strong> his translations includes<br />
Michelangelo’s Complete Poems, Boccaccio’s Nymphs <strong>of</strong> Fiesole, Luigi Pulci’s<br />
Morgante, all <strong>of</strong> Machiavelli’s verses, Tasso’s Jerusalem Delivered and Creation<br />
<strong>of</strong> the World, Leopardi’s Canti. He is the author <strong>of</strong> collections <strong>of</strong> verse in<br />
English (Rind and All, 1962; The Fifth Season, 1964; Gente Mia and Other Poems,<br />
1978; Collected Poems 1983-2004, 2004), in Latin (Carmina latina, 1994; Carmina<br />
latina II, 1998), in <strong>Italian</strong> (among others, Il ritorno, 1992), and in his Gargano<br />
dialect (sixteen titles between 1955 and 2004), and <strong>of</strong> an autobiography in<br />
three volumes, La parola difficile (1988), La parola nuova (1991), La parola antica<br />
(1992).<br />
Note on <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Of the two hundred and more <strong>Italian</strong> poets I rendered into English, no<br />
one posed problems that no translator - so I thought - would ever solve. Pulci,<br />
Michelangelo, Tasso, and Leopardi seemed at first so untranslatable to me<br />
that even the most felicitous approximation would diminish them. Ugo<br />
Foscolo’s case is unique in that Le Grazie is the most polished and elegant<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> poem written in blank verse. Its haunting musicality, in which the<br />
subtly shifting dactyls and spondees recreate the magic <strong>of</strong> the Homeric hexameter,<br />
is at times so ethereal, so rarefied, so hypnotic as to make the boldest<br />
translator utterly afraid <strong>of</strong> any attempt at a possible rendering <strong>of</strong> its enchantment.<br />
Lines such as “il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra i mirti,” “scoppian<br />
dall’inquiete aeree fila, quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo,” and “agile come<br />
in cielo Ebe succinta” present no syntactical obscurity but are so charged<br />
with inner grace and melody as to defy description. Yet it is this grace and<br />
melody that (hoc est in votis) must be maintained if we want to keep Foscolo’s<br />
poem as pure and singular as it is. Le Grazie has also been compared to a<br />
spellbinding tapestry with a texture <strong>of</strong> multicolored threads woven by goddesses’<br />
hands. One thing is certain: no other <strong>Italian</strong> poem is as intimate and<br />
astonishing, as fluent and echoing.<br />
Translator’s Note: I have based this verse translation <strong>of</strong> Ugo Foscolo’s Le<br />
Grazie on the edition by Mario Puppo: Ultime Lettere di Jacopo Ortis e Poesie<br />
(Milan: Mursïa, 1965). This translation first appeared in Canadian <strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong><br />
<strong>Italian</strong> Studies: «Hymn One. Venus», Vol. 5, 1-2, Fall-Winter 1981-1982, pp.<br />
101-8; «Hymn Two. Vesta», Vol. 5, 3, Spring 1982, pp. 211-21; «Hymn Three.<br />
Pallas», Vol. 6, N. 4/Vol. 7, N. 1, 1983, pp. 183-88.
232<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Inno primo<br />
Venere<br />
Cantando, o Grazie, degli eterei pregi<br />
di che il cielo v’adorna, e della gioia<br />
che vereconde voi date alla terra,<br />
belle vergini! a voi chieggo l’arcana<br />
armonïosa melodia pittrice<br />
della vostra beltà; sì che all’Italia<br />
afflitta di regali ire straniere<br />
voli improvviso a rallegrarla il carme.<br />
Nella convalle fra gli aerei poggi<br />
di Bellosguardo, ov’io cinta d’un fonte<br />
limpido fra le quete ombre di mille<br />
giovinetti cipressi alle tre Dive<br />
l’ara innalzo, e un fatidico laureto<br />
in cui men verde serpeggia la vite<br />
la protegge di tempio, al vago rito<br />
vieni, o Canova, e agl’inni. Al cor men fece<br />
dono la bella Dea che in riva d’Arno<br />
sacrasti alle tranquille arti custode;<br />
ed ella d’immortal lume e d’ambrosia<br />
la santa immago sua tutta precinse.<br />
Forse (o ch’io spero!) artefice di Numi,<br />
nuovo meco darai spirto alle Grazie<br />
ch’or di tua man sorgon dal marmo. Anch’io<br />
pingo e spiro a’ fantasmi anima eterna:<br />
sdegno il verso che suona e che non crea;<br />
perché Febo mi disse: Io Fidia, primo,<br />
ed Apelle guidai con la mia lira.<br />
Eran l’Olimpo e il Fulminante e il Fato,<br />
e del tridente enosigèo tremava<br />
la genitrice Terra; Amor dagli astri<br />
Pluto feria: nè ancor v’eran le Grazie.<br />
Una Diva scorrea lungo il creato<br />
a fecondarlo, e di Natura avea<br />
l’austero nome: fra’ celesti or gode<br />
di cento troni, e con più nomi ed are<br />
le dan rito i mortali; e più le giova<br />
l’inno che bella Citerea la invoca.<br />
Perché clemente a noi che mirò afflitti<br />
travagliarci e adirati, un dì la santa<br />
Diva, all’uscir de’ flutti ove s’immerse<br />
a ravvivar le gregge di Nerèo,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Hymn One<br />
Venus<br />
By singing, Graces, the ethereal worth<br />
and the adorning heaven–granted bliss<br />
that, bashful still, you shower on the world,<br />
beautiful maidens, dare I ask <strong>of</strong> you<br />
the magical immortal melody<br />
that solely may depict your loveliness:<br />
suddenly Italy, so sorely hurt<br />
by wrath <strong>of</strong> foreign sires, will be reached<br />
by my consoling wingèd song at last.<br />
Here to the valley mid the airy hills<br />
<strong>of</strong> Bellosguardo, in the quiet shade<br />
<strong>of</strong> countless youthful cypresses, where I<br />
have raised to the three Goddesses an altar<br />
surrounded by an ever-limpid stream<br />
and solemnly watched over as a shrine<br />
by fateful laurel trees where through the vine<br />
less verdant writhes, O my Canova, come:<br />
come to the lovely rite and to the song.<br />
‘T is but a gift on this my heart bestowed<br />
by the fair Goddess to whose vigilance<br />
you consecrated all the tranquil arts<br />
flourishing still upon this Arno’s bank,<br />
while in ambrosia and immortal glow<br />
she veiled her holy image utterly.<br />
Sculptor <strong>of</strong> Deities, along with me<br />
maybe (so let me hope) you will soon breathe<br />
a newer life into the Graces hewn<br />
out <strong>of</strong> the marble by your hand. I, too,<br />
breathe into phantoms an eternal soul;<br />
I loathe the line that sounds yet fails to live,<br />
for Phoebus said to me: “I taught Apelles<br />
as well as Phidias with my lyre first.”<br />
Olympus, Thundering Zeus and Fate alone<br />
existed when our pregnant Mother Earth<br />
feared Neptune’s trident; Love, high from the stars,<br />
pierced Pluto, but there were no Graces yet.<br />
One Goddess only over all creation,<br />
to make it fecund, ever lightly flew—<br />
she who was known by Nature’s awesome name<br />
and has a hundred thrones in heaven while<br />
with varied names and altars here on earth<br />
233
234<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
apparì con le Grazie; e le raccolse<br />
l’onda Ionia primiera, onda che amica<br />
del lito ameno e dell’ospite musco<br />
da Citera ogni dì vien desiosa<br />
a’ materni miei colli: ivi fanciullo<br />
la Deità di Venere adorai.<br />
Salve, Zacinto! All’antenoree prode,<br />
de’ santi Lari Idei ultimo albergo<br />
e de’ miei padri, darò i carmi e l’ossa,<br />
e a te il pensier: chè piamente a queste<br />
Dee non favella chi la patria obblìa.<br />
Sacra città è Zacinto. Eran suoi templi,<br />
era ne’ colli suoi l’ombra de’ boschi<br />
sacri al tripudio di Dïana e al coro;<br />
pria che Nettuno al reo Laomedonte<br />
munisse Ilio di torri inclite in guerra.<br />
Bella è Zacinto. A lei versan tesori<br />
l’angliche navi; a lei dall’alto manda<br />
i più vitali rai l’eterno sole;<br />
candide nubi a lei Giove concede,<br />
e selve ampie d’ulivi, e liberali<br />
i colli di Lieo: rosea salute<br />
prometton l’aure, da’ spontanei fiori<br />
alimentate, e da’ perpetui cedri.<br />
Splendea tutto quel mar quando sostenne<br />
su la conchiglia assise e vezzeggiate<br />
dalla Diva le Grazie: e a sommo il flutto,<br />
quante alla prima prima aura di Zefiro<br />
le frotte delle vaghe api prorompono,<br />
e più e più succedenti invide ronzano<br />
a far lunghi di sé äerei grappoli,<br />
van alïando su’ nettarei calici<br />
e del mèle futuro in cor s’allegrano,<br />
tante a fior dell’immensa onda raggiante<br />
ardian mostrarsi a mezzo il petto ignude<br />
le amorose Nereidi oceanine;<br />
e a drappelli agilissime seguendo<br />
la Gioia alata, degli Dei foriera,<br />
gittavan perle, dell’ingenue Grazie<br />
il bacio le Nereidi sospirando.<br />
Poi come l’orme della Diva e il riso<br />
delle vergini sue fêr di Citera<br />
sacro il lito, un’ignota violetta<br />
spuntò a’ piè de’ cipressi; e d’improvviso<br />
molte purpuree rose amabilmente
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
we mortals worship her, who welcomes most<br />
the hymn that calls her Cytherea the Fair.<br />
‘T was she, the holy Goddess, who, one day,<br />
tenderly pitying our wrathful strife,<br />
at last together with the Graces rose<br />
out <strong>of</strong> the waters whereto she had plunged<br />
to charge the flocks <strong>of</strong> Nereus with life.<br />
Glad, the Ionian waves first welcomed them—<br />
the waves that, friendly to the beauteous sand<br />
as well as to its hospitable moss,<br />
longingly come from Cythera each day<br />
to my maternal hills where as a child<br />
the deity <strong>of</strong> Venus I adored.<br />
Hail, Zante: To the Antenorian shores,<br />
last refuge <strong>of</strong> the household Gods <strong>of</strong> Troy<br />
and <strong>of</strong> my ancestors, will I commend<br />
my song and bones; to thee alone my thought,<br />
for with the Graces no one can converse<br />
who impiously forsakes his native land.<br />
A holy town is Zante. Once her temples<br />
and hillocks harbored the restoring shade<br />
<strong>of</strong> woodlands sacred to Diana’s chorus<br />
and festival, before God Neptune strengthened<br />
with siege-resisting towers Ilium<br />
for wicked-hearted King Laomedon.<br />
Most beautiful is Zante. British ships<br />
pour ample treasures on her; from the sky<br />
the timeless sun sheds its most vital rays<br />
on her alone while Jove grants lustrous clouds,<br />
wonder <strong>of</strong> olive-groves, and boundless hills<br />
teeming with vines: a rosy healthiness<br />
is in the air, kept fragrant evermore<br />
by ever-verdant cedars and wild blooms.<br />
The whole sea shone the very day it held<br />
the three fair Graces balanced on a shell<br />
and sweetly fondled by the Goddess: there,<br />
on every wave’s crest, just as many swarms<br />
<strong>of</strong> restless bees onrush and, borne al<strong>of</strong>t<br />
by the first fragile breath <strong>of</strong> Zephyrus,<br />
others and others come in buzzing hives,<br />
which, forming endless clusters in the air,<br />
hover above the nectar <strong>of</strong> each bud<br />
dreaming <strong>of</strong> future honey blissfully,<br />
so many atop the wide, bright billows were<br />
the loving lovely Nereids <strong>of</strong> the deep:<br />
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si conversero in candide. Fu quindi<br />
religïone di libar col latte<br />
cinto di bianche rose, e cantar gl’inni<br />
sotto a’ cipressi, e d’<strong>of</strong>ferire all’ara<br />
le perle, e il primo fior nunzio d’aprile.<br />
L’una tosto alla Dea col radïante<br />
pettine asterge mollemente e intreccia<br />
le chiome dell’azzurra onda stillanti.<br />
L’altra ancella a le pure aure concede,<br />
a rifiorire i prati a primavera,<br />
l’ambrosio umore ond’è irrorato il petto<br />
della figlia di Giove; vereconda<br />
la lor sorella ricompone il peplo<br />
su le membra divine, e le contende<br />
di que’ mortali attoniti al desìo.<br />
Non prieghi d’inni o danze d’imenei,<br />
ma de’ veltri perpetuo l’ululato<br />
tutta l’isola udìa, e un suon di dardi<br />
e gli uomini sul vinto orso rissosi,<br />
e de’ piagati cacciatori il grido.<br />
Cerere invan donato avea l’aratro<br />
a que’ feroci: invan d’oltre l’Eufrate<br />
chiamò un dì Bassarèo, giovine dio,<br />
a ingentilir di pampini le rupi.<br />
Il pio strumento irrugginia su’ brevi<br />
solchi, sdegnato; e divorata, innanzi<br />
che i grappoli recenti imporporasse<br />
a’ rai d’autunno, era la vite: e solo<br />
quando apparian le Grazie, i cacciatori<br />
e le vergini squallide, e i fanciulli<br />
l’arco e ‘l terror deponeano, ammirando.<br />
Con mezze in mar le rote iva frattanto<br />
lambendo il lito la conchiglia, e al lito<br />
pur con le braccia la spingean le molli<br />
Nettunine. Spontanee s’aggiogarono<br />
alla biga gentil due delle cerve<br />
che ne’ boschi dittei schive di nozze<br />
Cintia a’ freni educava; e poi che dome<br />
aveale a’ cocchi suoi, pasceano immuni<br />
da mortale saetta. Ivi per sorte<br />
vagolando fuggiasche eran venute<br />
le avventurose, e corsero ministre<br />
al viaggio di Venere. Improvvisa<br />
Iri che segue i Zefiri col volo<br />
s’assise auriga, e drizzò il corso all’istmo
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
following, near and nimble, in the wake<br />
<strong>of</strong> wingèd Joy, the Gods’ sole harbinger,<br />
pearl after pearl, in throngs, about they strew,<br />
each <strong>of</strong> them sighing—lucky Nereids—<br />
for the ingenuous Graces’ happy kiss.<br />
Then as the Goddess’ footprint and the smile<br />
<strong>of</strong> her escorting virgin maidens made<br />
Cythera’ shore a land <strong>of</strong> loveliness,<br />
an unknown violet was seen to sprout<br />
down at the foot <strong>of</strong> every cypress tree<br />
while many roses that were purple-hued<br />
turned <strong>of</strong> a sudden innocently white.<br />
Thus a most hallowed ritual was born–<br />
libating milk out <strong>of</strong> white-rose-trimmed cups<br />
and singing hymns beneath the cypress shade<br />
while casting on the holy altar pearls<br />
with the first blossom that announces April.<br />
With a refulgent comb one <strong>of</strong> them–look–<br />
most languorously braids Joves’s daughter’s hair,<br />
still dripping <strong>of</strong> the sea’s still azure foam.<br />
The other maiden, bidding every meadow<br />
quickly reburgeon into Spring at last,<br />
sprinkles the air with each ambrosian drop<br />
that keeps Venus’s breast still dewy-wet.<br />
Bashful, their sister lets the peplos fall<br />
upon the holy limbs, concealing them<br />
from the desire <strong>of</strong> man’s ecstatic gaze.<br />
No suppliant song nor hymeneal dance<br />
but lengthy ululations <strong>of</strong> wild hounds<br />
resounded through the isle, with din <strong>of</strong> darts<br />
and men at fight over the vanquished bear<br />
and cries <strong>of</strong> wounded hunters in between.<br />
In vain had Ceres to those ruthless brutes<br />
given her plough; in vain had she, one day,<br />
begged from beyond Euphrates Bassareus,<br />
a youthful god, to s<strong>of</strong>ten the hard rock<br />
with gentleness <strong>of</strong> tendrils. In great ire<br />
within its narrow groove the sacred tool<br />
was left to rust while tendrils were devoured<br />
before their recent bunches stood a chance<br />
to ripen purple in the autumn sun.<br />
‘T was only when the Graces first appeared,<br />
hunters and squalid virgins and young lads<br />
laid bows and fear aside, and watched in awe.<br />
Meanwhile, its wheels still half inside the sea,<br />
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del Laconio paese. Ancor Citèra<br />
del golfo intorno non sedea regina:<br />
dove or miri le vele alte su l’onda,<br />
pendea negra una selva, ed esiliato<br />
n’era ogni Dio da’ figli della terra<br />
duellanti a predarsi; e i vincitori<br />
d’umane carni s’imbandian convito.<br />
Videro il cocchio e misero un ruggito,<br />
palleggiando la clava. Al petto strinse<br />
sotto al suo manto accolte, le tremanti<br />
sue giovinette, e: Ti sommergi, o selva!<br />
Venere disse, e fu sommersa. Ahi tali<br />
forse eran tutti i primi avi dell’uomo!<br />
Quindi in noi serpe, ahi miseri, un natìo<br />
delirar di battaglia; e se pietose<br />
nol placano le Dee, spesso riarde<br />
ostentando tr<strong>of</strong>eo l’ossa fraterne.<br />
Ch’io non le veggia almeno or che in Italia<br />
fra le messi biancheggiano insepolte!<br />
Ma chi de’ Numi esercitava impero<br />
su gli uomini ferini, e quai ministri<br />
aveva in terra il primo dì che al mondo<br />
le belle Dive Citerea concesse?<br />
Alta ed orrenda n’è la storia; e noi<br />
quaggiù fra le terrene ombre vaganti<br />
dalla fama n’udiam timido avviso.<br />
Abbellitela or voi, Grazie, che siete<br />
presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete.<br />
Quando i pianeti dispensò agli Dei<br />
Giove padre, il più splendido ei s’elesse,<br />
e toccò in sorte a Citerea il più bello,<br />
e l’altissimo a Pallade, e le genti<br />
di que’ mondi beate abitatrici<br />
sentìr l’imperio del lor proprio Nume.<br />
Ma senza Nume rimanea negletto<br />
il picciol globo della terra, e nati<br />
alle prede i suoi figli ed alla guerra,<br />
e dopo breve dì sacri alla morte.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Il bel cocchio vegnente, e il doloroso<br />
premio de’ lor vicini arti più miti<br />
persuase a’ Laconi. Eran da prima<br />
per l’intentata selva e l’oceàno<br />
dalla Grecia divisi; e quando eretta<br />
agli ospitali Numi ebbero un’ara,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
pushed by the fair Neptunians with their hands,<br />
lightly the shell was skimming still the shore<br />
when very gently two most gentle does<br />
willingly to the chariot yoked themselves.<br />
To Cynthia they belonged: the Goddess kept them<br />
in her Dictean forests where, immune<br />
to mortal arrows, they in freedom grazed.<br />
Venture had brought the nimbly faring pair<br />
right there that morning; so they quickly ran<br />
to aid the Goddess’ journey. Suddenly<br />
Iris, who views with Zephyrs in their flight,<br />
sat down as charioteer and onward aimed<br />
toward the Laconian isthmus. Cythera<br />
was not yet queen <strong>of</strong> the encircling gulf:<br />
where now you watch but sails high on the waves<br />
a thick, black woodland hung where not one god<br />
was welcomed by the children <strong>of</strong> the earth<br />
who fought each other for each other’s prey<br />
with human flesh ever the victor’s meal.<br />
Seeing the chariot, they wildly roared,<br />
wielding their clubs in anger. Promptly Venus,<br />
cuddling the shivering virgins to her breast<br />
under her cloak, “Plunge down, thou forest:,” bade,<br />
and <strong>of</strong> that forest there was trace no more.<br />
Such were, alas, man’s primal ancestors!<br />
Hence a delirious readiness to fight<br />
instinctively lies dormant in us all,<br />
which, if the pitying Graces curb it not,<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten rekindles and most wretchedly<br />
flaunts as its trophy but fraternal bones.<br />
Ah, these may I not see now that in Italy<br />
they bleach unburied in the golden wheat.<br />
But who, <strong>of</strong> all the Gods, could ever tame<br />
those beast-like humans? And what help had he<br />
here on this earth upon the very dawn<br />
Venus released her Graces to the World?<br />
High and horrendous is the tale <strong>of</strong> it,<br />
<strong>of</strong> which a timid echo Fame disclosed<br />
to us still groping in our native dark.<br />
Embellish it, you Graces who were there,<br />
and, being Goddesses, know all things well.<br />
When Father Jove distributed the stars<br />
among the Gods, he kept the brightest one,<br />
gave Cytherea the fairest, and Athena<br />
the highest <strong>of</strong> them all: the happy throngs<br />
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vider tosto le pompe e le amorose<br />
gare e i regi conviti; e d’ogni parte<br />
correan d’Asia i guerrieri e i prenci argivi<br />
alla reggia di Leda. Ah non ti fossi<br />
irato Amor! e ben di te sovente<br />
io mi dorrò, da che le Grazie affliggi.<br />
Per te all’arti eleganti ed a’ felici<br />
ozi, per te lascivi affetti, e molli<br />
ozi, e spergiuri a’ Greci; e poi la dura<br />
vita, e nude a sudar nella palestra<br />
[sottentrar] le fanciulle onde salvarsi<br />
Amor da te. Ma quando eri per anche<br />
delle Grazie non invido fratello<br />
Sparta fioriva. Qui di Fare il golfo<br />
cinto d’armonïosi antri a’ delfini,<br />
qui Sparta e le fluenti dell’Eurota<br />
grate a’ cigni; e Messene <strong>of</strong>fria securi<br />
ne’ suoi boschetti alle tortore i nidi;<br />
qui d’Augìa ‘l pelaghetto, inviolato<br />
al pescator, da che di mirti ombrato<br />
era lavacro al bel corpo di Leda<br />
e della sua figlia divina. E Amicle<br />
terra di fiori non bastava ai serti<br />
delle vergini spose; dal paese<br />
venian cantando i giovani alle nozze.<br />
Non de’ destrieri nitidi l’amore<br />
li rattenne, non Laa che fra tre monti<br />
ama le caccie e i riti di Dïana,<br />
né la Maremma Elea ricca di pesce.<br />
E non lunge è Brisea, donde il propinquo<br />
Taigeto intese strepitar l’arcano<br />
tripudio e i riti, onde il femmineo coro<br />
placò Lieo, e intercedean le Grazie.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Ma dove, o caste Dee, ditemi dove<br />
la prima ara vi piacque, onde se invano<br />
or la chieggo alla terra, almen l’antica<br />
religïone del bel loco io senta.<br />
Tutte velate, procedendo all’alta<br />
Dorio che di lontan gli Arcadi vede,<br />
le Dive mie vennero a Trio: l’Alfeo<br />
arretrò l’onda, e die’ a’ lor passi il guado<br />
che anc’oggi il pellegrin varca ed adora.<br />
Fe’ manifesta quel portento a’ Greci<br />
la Deità; sentirono da lunge
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
that firsts inhabited those very worlds<br />
felt soon the empire <strong>of</strong> their deity.<br />
But with no deity, forlorn and lost<br />
the little globe <strong>of</strong> this our earth lay still<br />
with all its children born for war and prey<br />
and, after a brief season, doomed to die.<br />
———————————————————————<br />
The fair approaching chariot and the harsh<br />
fate that had struck their neighbors in a flash<br />
taught the Laconians more peaceful arts.<br />
Untrodden forests and the ocean bed<br />
until that very day had kept them all<br />
utterly sundered from the rest <strong>of</strong> Greece;<br />
but as they raised an altar to the Gods<br />
opulence, regal banquets, and love jousts<br />
at once they knew, and soon from everywhere<br />
princes <strong>of</strong> Argos, warriors <strong>of</strong> Asia<br />
hastened to Leda’s court. Why did you then<br />
yield, Love, to anger? If you still afflict<br />
the Graces so, how will you win my heart?<br />
Sweet ways and idle bliss were born <strong>of</strong> you,<br />
who also stirred the senses with such lust<br />
as brooded treason ‘gainst the Greeks at once.<br />
To save themselves from all your might, O Love,<br />
stark-naked maidens with great toil and sweat<br />
hardened their limbs in fighting manliness.<br />
And yet, so long as envy failed to force you<br />
against the Graces, your own sisters, Sparta<br />
flourished in splendor. Here was Pharae’s gulf,<br />
around which dolphins find their sounding dens.<br />
Yea, Sparta with Eurota’s streams was here—<br />
swans’ cherished home; and here Messene lent<br />
safe refuge in her woods to turtle-doves;<br />
here, too, was seen Augeas’ little sea<br />
never by fishermen disturbed again<br />
since shading myrtle trees around it grew—<br />
the bathing spot for Leda’s beauteous form<br />
and for her divine daughter’s dainty limbs.<br />
Nor could Amyclae, land <strong>of</strong> wreaths, provide<br />
as many buds as there were virgin brides:<br />
the grooms, a-singing, to the nuptials came,<br />
for neither love <strong>of</strong> dauntless steeds nor Las,<br />
where at the foot <strong>of</strong> three high mountains sprang<br />
Diana’s rituals and hunting chase,<br />
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odorosa spirar l’aura celeste.<br />
De’ Beoti al confin siede Aspledone:<br />
città che l’aureo sol veste di luce<br />
quando riede all’occaso; ivi non lunge<br />
sta sull’immensa minïèa pianura<br />
la beata Orcomèno, ove il primiero,<br />
dalle ninfe alternato e da’ garzoni,<br />
amabil inno udirono le Grazie.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Così cantaro; e Citerea svelossi;<br />
e quanti allor garzoni e giovinette<br />
vider la Deità furon beati,<br />
e di Driadi col nome e di Silvani<br />
fur compagni di Febo. Oggi le umane<br />
orme evitando, e de’ poeti il volgo,<br />
che con lira inesperta a sé li chiama,<br />
invisibili e muti per le selve<br />
vagano. Come quando esce un’Erinne<br />
a gioir delle terre arse dal verno,<br />
maligna, e lava le sua membra a’ fonti<br />
dell’Islanda esecrati, ove più tristi<br />
fuman sulfuree l’acque; o a groelandi<br />
laghi, lambiti di [sulfuree] vampe,<br />
la teda alluma, e al ciel sereno aspira;<br />
finge perfida pria roseo splendore,<br />
e lei deluse appellano col vago<br />
nome di boreale alba le genti;<br />
quella scorre, le nuvole in Chimere<br />
orrende, e in imminenti armi converte<br />
fiammeggianti; e calar senti per l’aura<br />
dal muto nembo l’aquile agitate,<br />
che veggion nel lor regno angui, e sedenti<br />
leoni, e ulular l’ombre de’ lupi.<br />
Innondati di sangue errano al guardo<br />
delle città i pianeti, e van raggiando<br />
timidamente per l’aereo caos;<br />
tutta d’incendio la celeste volta<br />
s’infiamma, e sotto a quell’infausta luce<br />
rosseggia immensa l’iperborea terra.<br />
Quinci l’invida Dea gl’inseminati<br />
campi mira, e dal gelo l’oceàno<br />
a’ nocchieri conteso; ed oggi forse<br />
per la Scizia calpesta armi e vessilli,<br />
e d’itali guerrier corpi incompianti.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
nor even fish-replete Elea could<br />
ever restrain their ardor. Also near,<br />
Brisea lies, whence the Taygetus heard<br />
the loud-exultant clangor <strong>of</strong> the rites<br />
whereby a female chorus, strengthened by<br />
the interceding Graces, soothed Lyaeus.<br />
................................................<br />
But where, chaste Goddesses, oh, tell me where<br />
you saw the primal altar dear to you,<br />
so that, if never shall I find its like<br />
upon this earth, I may at least feel in me<br />
the old religion <strong>of</strong> its dazzling site.<br />
Utterly veiled, proceeding toward the l<strong>of</strong>ty<br />
Dorion scanning far Arcadia,<br />
my Goddesses reached Thuria: Alpheus<br />
withdrew his waves, thus laying at their feet<br />
an easy ford that to this very day<br />
a pilgrim crosses worshiping in awe –<br />
a portent that to all the Greeks revealed<br />
the mighty sky: from far away indeed<br />
they felt the fragrant breathing <strong>of</strong> the Gods.<br />
Right where Boeotia ends, starts Aspledon,<br />
a city mantled by the setting sun<br />
in raimen’ts <strong>of</strong> pure gold; not far from there,<br />
right in the boundless Minyan plainland, lies<br />
blest Orchomenus where the Graces heard<br />
the first entrancing hymn, half sung by nymphs<br />
and half by youths in alternating strains.<br />
................................................<br />
When their hymn ended, Cytherea shone<br />
in her unclouded deity: the nymphs<br />
and all the youths that saw her knew full bliss<br />
and, but as Dryads and as Sylvans known,<br />
faithfully followed Phoebus ever since.<br />
Shunning all human vestiges, and deaf<br />
to vulgar poets whose unskillful lyre<br />
lures them in vain, through woods they wander still,<br />
invisible and silent all <strong>of</strong> them.<br />
Just as a Fury now released from hell,<br />
eager to feast on winter-frozen ground,<br />
bathes in Icelandic execrable streams<br />
where waters reek most putrid and most foul<br />
or, searching for blue skies, lights up her torch<br />
from the live sulphur <strong>of</strong> Greenlandic lakes;<br />
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E giunte<br />
le Dive appiè de’ monti, alla sdegnosa<br />
Diana Iride il cocchio e mansuete<br />
le cerve addusse, amabil dono, in Creta.<br />
Cintia fu sempre delle Grazie amica,<br />
e ognor con esse fu tutela al core<br />
dell’ingenue fanciulle ed agl’infanti.<br />
E solette radean lievi le falde<br />
dell’Ida irriguo di sorgenti; e quando<br />
fur più al Cielo propinque, ove una luce<br />
rosea le vette al sacro monte asperge,<br />
e donde sembran tutte auree le stelle,<br />
alle vergini sue che la seguieno<br />
mandò in core la Dea queste parole:<br />
- Assai beato, o giovinette, è il regno<br />
de’ Celesti ov’io riedo; a la infelice<br />
Terra ed a’ figli suoi voi rimanete<br />
confortatrici; sol per voi sovr’essa<br />
ogni lor dono pioveranno i Numi.<br />
E se vindici sien più che clementi,<br />
allor fra’ nembi e i fulmini del Padre,<br />
vi guiderò a placarli. Al partir mio<br />
tale udirete un’armonia dall’alto,<br />
che diffusa da voi farà più liete<br />
le nate a delirar vite mortali,<br />
più deste all’Arti e men tremanti al grido<br />
che le promette a morte. Ospizio amico<br />
talor sienvi gli Elisi; e sorridete<br />
a’ vati, se cogliean puri l’alloro,<br />
ed a’ prenci indulgenti, ed alle pie<br />
giovani madri che a straniero latte<br />
non concedean gl’infanti, e alle donzelle<br />
che occulto amor trasse innocenti al rogo,<br />
e a’ giovinetti per la patria estinti.<br />
Siate immortali, eternamente belle! -<br />
Più non parlava, ma spargea co’ raggi<br />
de le pupille sue sopra le figlie<br />
eterno il lume della fresca aurora,<br />
e si partiva: e la seguian cogli occhi<br />
di lagrime s<strong>of</strong>fusi, e lei da l’alto<br />
vedean conversa, e questa voce udiro:<br />
- Daranno a voi dolor novello i Fati<br />
e gioia eterna. - E sparve; e trasvolando<br />
due primi cieli, s’avvolgea nel puro<br />
lume dell’astro suo. L’udì Armonia
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
wicked, she feigns a rosy splendor first<br />
(people are baffled, and a gentle name—<br />
Aurora Borealis—give to her);<br />
Then, moving onward, she transmutes all clouds<br />
into Chimaeras and horrendous flames<br />
<strong>of</strong> overhanging swords: the silent storm<br />
causes the frightened eagles down to plunge<br />
from their high realm where sudden snakes are seen<br />
couching with lions and wolves’ whining shades.<br />
The city’s glance perceives blood-dripping stars<br />
up in the airy chaos shyly burn:<br />
one conflagration wins the firmament<br />
and underneath that evil-boding light<br />
the hyperborean boundless earth glows red.<br />
The envious Goddess scans the unsown fields<br />
and the wide-frozen seas that steersmen shun,<br />
and at this very moment maybe treads<br />
on arms and banners through the Scythian land<br />
and on <strong>Italian</strong> still unburied braves.<br />
............................................<br />
When our fair Deities at last arrived<br />
in Crete, most willing at its mountain’s foot<br />
Iris surrendered chariot and does<br />
to fierce Diana as a gift <strong>of</strong> love:<br />
Cynthia, whereupon, swore timeless faith<br />
to the three Graces from that very day,<br />
ever to watch with them over the hearts<br />
<strong>of</strong> candid girls as well as candid lads.<br />
Thus very lonely they were seen to roam<br />
Mount Ida’s base where fountainheads abound<br />
until they climbed, one day, as near the Sky<br />
as they could go—right where a rosy sheen<br />
sprinkles the holy mountain’s l<strong>of</strong>ty tops<br />
wherefrom the stars are viewed as lustrous gold.<br />
‘T was then the Goddess rained these glowing words<br />
into her loyal virgins’ very hearts:<br />
“Most blessèd, happy maidens, is the realm<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Celestials whereto I return;<br />
but here you must remain, here to console<br />
the luckless Earth with all her hapless sons.<br />
For you alone will every God bestow<br />
his every gift upon her lavishly,<br />
and you, should Heaven’s ire outweigh its ruth,<br />
will I take there to placate all its storms<br />
and Zeus’s thunderbolts. When I am gone<br />
245
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e giubilando l’etere commosse.<br />
Chè quando Citerea torna a’ beati<br />
cori, Armonia su per le vie stellate<br />
move plauso alla Dea pel cui favore<br />
temprò un dì l’universo . . . . . . . .<br />
Come nel chiostro vergine romita,<br />
se gli azzurri del cielo, e la splendente<br />
Luna, e il silenzio delle stelle adora,<br />
sente il Nume, ed al cembalo s’asside,<br />
e del piè e delle dita e dell’errante<br />
estro e degli occhi vigili alle note<br />
sollecita il suo cembalo ispirata,<br />
ma se improvvise rimembranze Amore<br />
in cor le manda, scorrono più lente<br />
sovra i tasti le dita, e d’improvviso<br />
quella soave melodia che posa<br />
secreta ne’ vocali alvei del legno,<br />
flebile e lenta all’aüre s’aggira;<br />
così l’alta armonia che . . . . . .<br />
discorreva da’ Cieli . . . . . . . .<br />
Udiro intente<br />
le Grazie; e in cor quell’armonia fatale<br />
albergàro, e correan su per la terra<br />
a spirarla a’ mortali. E da quel giorno<br />
dolce ei sentian per l’anima un incanto,<br />
lucido in mente ogni pensiero, e quanto<br />
udian essi o vedean vago e diverso<br />
dilettava i lor occhi, e ad imitarlo<br />
prendean industri e divenia più bello.<br />
Quando l’Ore e le Grazie di soave<br />
luce diversa colorìano i campi,<br />
e gli augelletti le seguìano e lieto<br />
facean tenore al gemere del rivo<br />
e de’ boschetti al fremito, il mortale<br />
emulò que’ colori; e mentre il mare<br />
fra i nembi, o l’agitò Marte fra l’armi,<br />
mirò il fonte, i boschetti, udì gli augelli<br />
pinti, e godea della pace de’ campi.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
E l’arte<br />
agevolmente, all’armonia che udiva,<br />
diede eleganza alla materia; il bronzo<br />
quasi foglia arrendevole d’acànto<br />
ghirlandò le colonne; e ornato e legge<br />
ebber travi e macigni, e gìan concordi
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
such harmonies shall reach you from above<br />
as will, prolonged by you, give more delight<br />
to man’s brief life created but to fret,<br />
thus making it more heedful <strong>of</strong> the arts<br />
and less afraid <strong>of</strong> all-possessing death.<br />
Let the Elysian Fields—should there be need—<br />
be your sole friendly haven; ever smile<br />
on bards whose laurel wreaths are purely earned,<br />
on freedom-minded princes, on young mothers<br />
who do not yield their babes to alien breasts,<br />
on naive maidens innocently thrust<br />
by hidden love on an untimely pyre;<br />
and smile on youngsters fallen for their land.<br />
Be beautiful, and live for evermore!”<br />
She spoke no longer, but her radiant eyes<br />
scattered upon her daughters then and there<br />
the deathless glimmer <strong>of</strong> the new-born Dawn<br />
before she fled. In tears they watched her go,<br />
and as from high above at them she waved<br />
they heard this final message: “From the Fates<br />
new grief and endless triumph you will have.”<br />
She vanished; flying through the first two heavens,<br />
she reached the crowning light <strong>of</strong> her own star.<br />
Harmony heard her come and with her joy<br />
moved the entire universe to song,<br />
for every time sweet Venus shares the bliss<br />
<strong>of</strong> her abode again, dear Harmony<br />
along the starry ways applauds the one<br />
whose tender sovereignty reshaped the world.<br />
As a young lonesome maiden in her room,<br />
watching ecstatic in the spotless sky<br />
the splendent Moon and every silent star,<br />
feels the inspiring Deity and sits<br />
down at her harpsichord which, in her new<br />
excitement, with her feet and hands and eyes<br />
she fast attunes to the awaiting note;<br />
but, if deep in her heart Love comes to rouse<br />
remembrances <strong>of</strong> joy, her fingers run<br />
less rapid on the keyboard, causing soon<br />
the tender melody that lies concealed<br />
right at the vocal bottom <strong>of</strong> the wood<br />
to wander slow and feeble in the air:<br />
so did the mystic harmony descend<br />
from Heaven.......................................<br />
Keenly the Graces heard, and in their hearts<br />
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curvati in arco aereo imitanti<br />
il firmamento. Ma più assai felice<br />
tu che primiero la tua donna in marmo<br />
effigïasti: Amor da prima in core<br />
t’infiammò del desìo che disvelata<br />
volea bellezza, e pr<strong>of</strong>anata agli occhi<br />
degli uomini. Ma venner teco assise<br />
le Grazie, e tal diffusero venendo<br />
avvenenza in quel volto e leggiadrìa<br />
per quelle forme, col molle concento<br />
sì gentili spirarono gli affetti<br />
della giovine nuda; e non l’amica<br />
ma venerasti Citerea nel marmo.<br />
E non che ornar di canto, e chi può tutte<br />
ridir l’opre de’ Numi? Impazïente<br />
il vagante inno mio fugge ove incontri<br />
grazïose le menti ad ascoltarlo;<br />
pur non so dirvi, o belle suore, addio,<br />
e mi detta più alteri inni il pensiero.<br />
Ma e dove or io vi seguirò, se il Fato<br />
ah da gran giorni omai pr<strong>of</strong>ughe in terra<br />
alla Grecia vi tolse, e se l’Italia<br />
che v’è patria seconda i doni vostri<br />
misera ostenta e il vostro nume oblia?<br />
Pur molti ingenui de’ suoi figli ancora<br />
a voi tendon le palme. Io finché viva<br />
ombra daranno a Bellosguardo i lauri,<br />
ne farò tetto all’ara vostra, e <strong>of</strong>ferta<br />
di quanti pomi educa l’anno, e quante<br />
fragranze ama destar l’alba d’aprile,<br />
e il fonte e queste pure aure e i cipressi<br />
e segreto il mio pianto e la sdegnosa<br />
lira, e i silenzi vi fien sacri e l’arti.<br />
Fra l’arti io coronato e fra le Muse,<br />
alla patria dirò come indulgenti<br />
tornate ospiti a lei, sì che più grata<br />
in più splendida reggia e con solenni<br />
pompe v’onori: udrà come redenta<br />
fu due volte per voi, quando la fiamma<br />
pose Vesta sul Tebro e poi Minerva<br />
diede a Flora per voi l’attico ulivo.<br />
Venite, o Dee, spirate Dee, spandete<br />
la Deità materna, e novamente<br />
deriveranno l’armonia gl’ingegni<br />
dall’Olimpo in Italia: e da voi solo,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
treasured that fateful song while running fast<br />
from land to land to breathe it into men.<br />
And ever since men felt within their souls<br />
an incantation, all their thoughts shone bright,<br />
and every novel thing they heard or saw<br />
in beauty grew and most delighted them<br />
if but they tried to imitate its awe.<br />
When with the Graces all the fleeting Hours<br />
colored with varied lights the countryside,<br />
and small birds followed them with carefree sounds<br />
<strong>of</strong> rivulets and forests, mortal eyes<br />
began to copy all those happy hues<br />
and, while the ocean floor was storm-harassed<br />
or agitated by still warring Mars,<br />
looking on rills and woods, they could enjoy<br />
but painted wings and rustic scenery.<br />
.................................................<br />
Easily Art, which heeded Harmony,<br />
made matter elegant: bronze like a leaf<br />
<strong>of</strong> meek acanthus wreathed the columns’ height,<br />
and beams and marble blocks gained frieze and law<br />
till, curved in nimble arches, they reflected<br />
with equal melody the firmament.<br />
But, oh, much happier are you who could<br />
sculpture your lady’s effigy in stone.<br />
Love first engendered in your deepest heart<br />
a yearning for her beauty wholly bare<br />
which man’s pr<strong>of</strong>aning eyes failed to adore.<br />
For where you sat the Graces sat with you,<br />
and on those features, on that very face<br />
such graceful beauty their live breathing left,<br />
such gentle feelings with their gentle song<br />
did they inspire to her nakedness,<br />
instead <strong>of</strong> your true friend you recognized<br />
Venus herself within the marble core.<br />
Hard though it be to decorate with song,<br />
can any man divulge the Gods’ events?<br />
Impatiently this erring hymn <strong>of</strong> mine<br />
shuns the most gracious minds eager to hear;<br />
yet, my fair Sisters, I cannot depart<br />
while this my thought dictates much prouder songs.<br />
But whither shall I ever follow you<br />
if Fate has snatched you from your native Greece,<br />
and Italy, your second home, can boast<br />
but <strong>of</strong> your beauty, heedless <strong>of</strong> your might?<br />
249
250<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
né dar premio potete altro più bello,<br />
sol da voi chiederem, Grazie, un sorriso.<br />
Vesta - Inno secondo<br />
Tre vaghissime donne a cui le trecce<br />
infiora di felici itale rose<br />
giovinezza, e per cui splende più bello<br />
sul lor sembiante il giorno, all’ara vostra<br />
sacerdotesse, o care Grazie, io guido.<br />
Qui e voi che Marte non rapì alle madri<br />
correte, e voi che muti impallidite<br />
nel penetrale della Dea pensosa,<br />
giovinetti d’Esperia. Era più lieta<br />
Urania un dì, quando le Grazie a lei<br />
il gran peplo fregiavano. Con esse<br />
qui Galileo sedeva a spïar l’astro<br />
della loro regina; e il disvïava<br />
col notturno rumor l’acqua remota,<br />
che sotto a’ pioppi delle rive d’Arno<br />
furtiva e argentea gli volava al guardo.<br />
I
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Yet <strong>of</strong> her guiltless children many still<br />
look up to you. So long as living shades<br />
keep Bellosguardo’s laurel trees alive,<br />
to your bright altar will I <strong>of</strong>fer them<br />
together with the fruit the seasons yield,<br />
together with the scents first April stirs,<br />
mixed with pure rills and cypresses and airs<br />
and also with my tears and timid lyre,<br />
thus binding arts and silence to one rite.<br />
Crowned both a painter and a poet, I<br />
shall tell my land your mercy’s risen hour,<br />
that she may once again now honor you<br />
with ampler gratitude and greater pomp<br />
in a more splendid Court: thus will she know<br />
how twice she was redeemed by your bright worth<br />
when on the Tiber Vesta laid her torch<br />
and Pallas gave to Flora for your sake<br />
the Attic olive tree. Come, Deities,<br />
and oh, dear Goddesses, upon the earth<br />
cast your maternal tenderness again.<br />
So here in Italy the greatest minds<br />
will from Olympus draw their harmony,<br />
for, as you cannot give a greater gift,<br />
give us, O Graces, but your happy smile.<br />
Hymn Two Vesta<br />
Belovèd Graces, to your altar now<br />
some most enchanting priestesses I lead—<br />
three ladies whose long tresses Youth enwreathes<br />
with radiant <strong>Italian</strong> roses while<br />
a fairer daylight on their faces shines.<br />
Here, come here quickly, you Hesperian lads<br />
Mars has not snatched from loving mothers’ breasts,<br />
and you who, pallid and in silence dwell<br />
deep in the pensive Goddess’ holy shrine.<br />
Happier was Urania when the Graces<br />
adorned her lengthy peplos with their hands.<br />
Here Galileo sat with them, intent<br />
on studying the planet <strong>of</strong> their queen<br />
yet soon distracted by the nightly murmur<br />
<strong>of</strong> distant waters hiding silver-hued<br />
under the poplars <strong>of</strong> the Arno’s banks.<br />
I<br />
251
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Qui a lui l’alba, la luna e il sol mostrava,<br />
gareggiando di tinte, or le severe<br />
nubi su la cerulea alpe sedenti,<br />
or il piano che fugge alle tirrene<br />
Nereidi, immensa di città e di selve<br />
scena e di templi e d’arator beati,<br />
or cento colli, onde Appennin corona<br />
d’ulivi e d’antri e di marmoree ville<br />
l’elegante città, dove con Flora<br />
le Grazie han serti e amabile idïoma.<br />
Date principio, o giovinetti, al rito,<br />
e da’ festoni della sacra soglia<br />
dilungate i pr<strong>of</strong>ani. Ite, insolenti<br />
genii d’Amore, e voi livido coro<br />
di Momo, e voi che a prezzo Ascra attingete.<br />
Qui né oscena malìa, né plauso infido<br />
può, né dardo attoscato: oltre quest’ara,<br />
cari al volgo e a’ tiranni, ite, pr<strong>of</strong>ani.<br />
Dolce alle Grazie è la virginea voce<br />
e la timida <strong>of</strong>ferta: uscite or voi<br />
dalle stanze materne ove solinghe<br />
Amor v’insidia, o donzellette, uscite:<br />
gioia promette e manda pianto Amore.<br />
Qui su l’ara le rose e le colombe<br />
deponete, e tre calici spumanti<br />
di latte inghirlandato; e fin che il rito<br />
v’appelli al canto, tacite sedete:<br />
sacro è il silenzio a’ vati, e vi fa belle<br />
più del sorriso. E tu che ardisci in terra<br />
vestir d’eterna giovinezza il marmo,<br />
or l’armonia della bellezza, il vivo<br />
spirar de’ vezzi nelle tre ministre,<br />
che all’arpa io guido agl’inni e alle carole,<br />
vedrai qui al certo; e tu potrai lasciarle<br />
immortali fra noi, pria che all’Eliso<br />
su l’ali occulte fuggano degli anni.<br />
Leggiadramente d’un ornato ostello,<br />
che a lei d’Arno futura abitatrice<br />
i pennelli posando edificava<br />
il bel fabbro d’Urbino, esce la prima<br />
vaga mortale, e siede all’ara; e il bisso<br />
liberale acconsente ogni contorno<br />
di sue forme eleganti; e fra il candore<br />
delle dita s’avvivano le rose,<br />
mentre accanto al suo petto agita l’arpa.
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Here he was shown by moon or rising sun<br />
severe clouds sitting on cerulean hills<br />
or the whole plainland stretching as far down<br />
as the Tyrrhenian Sea—a boundless stage<br />
<strong>of</strong> blissful ploughmen, temples, towns and woods—<br />
or countless hillocks whence the Apennines<br />
adorn with olive groves and marble homes<br />
the splendid city where the Graces live<br />
and share with Flora idiom and wreaths.<br />
Mark the beginning <strong>of</strong> the rite, you lads,<br />
and from the garlands on the threshold strewn<br />
the uninitiated keep away.<br />
Away, you sneering genii <strong>of</strong> Love,<br />
away, O Momus’ livid throng, with all<br />
<strong>of</strong> you who purchase even Ascra’s peak:<br />
No obscene magic here, no wicked praise,<br />
no poisoned dart avails: now you who serve<br />
the mob and tyranny, this altar shun!<br />
Dear to the Graces is the virgin voice<br />
and timid <strong>of</strong>fering: so leave, you too,<br />
O lovely maidens, the maternal rooms<br />
where Love will stalk your very loneliness:<br />
Love promises great bliss, bestows but tears.<br />
Lay on this altar turtle-doves along<br />
with roses and three chalices <strong>of</strong> milk,<br />
bright-garlanded; and till the sacred rite<br />
invites you to the song, in silence wait:<br />
silence, so sacred to the bards, endears you<br />
more than a smile. And you, who dare on earth<br />
dress barren marble with eternal youth,<br />
today, I’m certain <strong>of</strong> it, you will see<br />
beauty’s own harmony, the living breath<br />
that is the charm <strong>of</strong> the three priestesses<br />
I’m bringing to the dances and the hymns:<br />
you will be able thus to leave them here<br />
immortal in our midst before they flee,<br />
on time’s dark wings, to their Elysium.<br />
Gracefully out <strong>of</strong> a most graceful home,<br />
which, gladly laying his fair brush aside,<br />
the handsome master from Urbino built<br />
for one about to choose the Arno’s bank,<br />
the first fair mortal to the altar comes.<br />
A silken veil most lavishly reveals<br />
her matchless contours; her white fingers grow<br />
suddenly bright as roses newly born<br />
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<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Scoppian dall’inquïete aeree fila,<br />
quasi raggi di sol rotti dal nembo,<br />
gioia insieme e pietà, poi che sonanti<br />
rimembran come il ciel l’uomo concesse<br />
alle gioie e agli affanni onde gli sia<br />
librato e vario di sua vita il volo,<br />
e come alla virtù guidi il dolore,<br />
e il sorriso e il sospiro errin sul labbro<br />
delle Grazie, e a chi son fauste e presenti,<br />
dolce in core ei s’allegri e dolce gema.<br />
Pari un concento, se pur vera è fama,<br />
un dì Aspasia tessea lungo l’Ilisso:<br />
era allor delle Dee sacerdotessa,<br />
e intento al suono Socrate libava<br />
sorridente a quell’ara, e col pensiero<br />
quasi a’ sereni dell’Olimpo alzossi.<br />
Quinci il veglio mirò volgersi obliqua,<br />
affrettando or la via su per le nubi,<br />
or ne’ gorghi letèi precipitarsi<br />
di Fortuna la rapida quadriga<br />
da’ viventi inseguita; e quel pietoso<br />
gridò invano dall’alto: A cieca duce<br />
siete seguaci, o miseri! e vi scorge<br />
dove in bando è pietà, dove il Tonante<br />
più adirate le folgori abbandona<br />
su la timida terra. O nati al pianto<br />
e alla fatica, se virtù vi è guida,<br />
dalla fonte del duol sorge il conforto.<br />
Ah ma nemico è un altro Dio di pace,<br />
più che Fortuna, e gl’innocenti assale.<br />
Ve’ come l’arpa di costei sen duole!<br />
Duolsi che a tante verginette il seno<br />
sfiori, e di pianto alle carole in mezzo,<br />
invidïoso Amor bagni i lor occhi.<br />
Per sé gode frattanto ella che amore<br />
per sé l’altera giovane non teme.<br />
Ben l’ode e su l’ardenti ali s’affretta<br />
alle vendette il Nume: e a quelle note<br />
a un tratto l’inclemente arco gli cade.<br />
E i montanini Zefiri fuggiaschi<br />
docili al suono aleggiano più ratti<br />
dalle linfe di Fiesole e dai cedri,<br />
a rallegrare le giunchiglie ond’ella<br />
oggi, o Grazie, per voi l’arpa inghirlanda,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
as to her breast she holds the quavering harp.<br />
Out <strong>of</strong> the restless airy strings break forth,<br />
like rays <strong>of</strong> sun by sudden tempest torn,<br />
mercy and mirth together: in their sound<br />
they will recall how Heaven granted man<br />
triumph and trouble, thus to make his life<br />
an ever-varied, ever-balanced flight;<br />
how grief alone to manly virtue leads;<br />
how smile and sigh touch both the Graces’ lips,<br />
and those who feel their happy presence lodge<br />
sweet joy and sweet lament deep in their hearts.<br />
Aspasia one day, if fame is true,<br />
‘long the Ilissus sang a likely song:<br />
a priestess <strong>of</strong> the Goddesses was she<br />
when, heedful <strong>of</strong> that sound, Socrates smiled<br />
and, while abating at the altar, reached<br />
(or almost) calm Olympus with his thought.<br />
Hence the old man saw Fortune’s chariot,<br />
chased by all people, through the clouds now rush<br />
and now plunge down into Lethean waves,<br />
so that, to pity moved, in vain he cried,<br />
“Blind is your leader, O you wretched men;<br />
she leads you where no mercy ever dwells<br />
and whence in his worst wrath thundering Zeus<br />
drops all his bolts upon the frightened earth;<br />
Men, born to tears and toil, if virtue still<br />
can guide you, from your grief is solace born.<br />
Ah, more than Fortune, still another God<br />
abhors sweet peace and fights the innocent.<br />
See how the lady’s harp is anguish—rent:<br />
She’s anguish-rent that envious Love should touch<br />
so many maidens’ hearts and, in the midst<br />
<strong>of</strong> their sweet dancing, wet their eyes with tears<br />
But happy for herself she seems to all,<br />
most proudly feeling still immune and free.<br />
Hearing her boast, on wings ablaze the God<br />
prepares his sudden vengeance: at those notes<br />
he lets his unrelenting bow fall down.<br />
Faster than ever, by that music won,<br />
the mountain’s ever-fleeting Zephyrs leave<br />
Fiesole’s nymphs and cedars to bring joy,<br />
O Graces, to the jonquils she has woven<br />
around her harp to honor you, and make<br />
this hymn I sing still dearer to your hearts.<br />
Behold: Attuning feet and hands and eyes<br />
255
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e a voi quest’inno mio guida più caro.<br />
Già del piè delle dita e dell’errante<br />
estro, e degli occhi vigili alle corde<br />
ispirata sollecita le note<br />
che pingon come l’armonia diè moto<br />
agli astri, all’onda eterea e alla natante<br />
terra per l’oceàno, e come franse<br />
l’uniforme creato in mille volti<br />
co’ raggi e l’ombre e il ricongiunse in uno,<br />
e i suoni all’aere, e diè i colori al sole,<br />
e l’alterno continüo tenore<br />
alla fortuna agitatrice e al tempo;<br />
sì che le cose dissonanti insieme<br />
rendan concento d’armonia divina<br />
e innalzino le menti oltre la terra.<br />
Come quando più gaio Euro provòca<br />
sull’alba il queto Lario, e a quel sussurro<br />
canta il nocchiero e allegransi i propinqui<br />
lïuti, e molle il fläuto si duole<br />
d’innamorati giovani e di ninfe<br />
su le gondole erranti; e dalle sponde<br />
risponde il pastorel con la sua piva:<br />
per entro i colli rintronano i corni<br />
terror del cavrïol, mentre in cadenza<br />
di Lecco il malleo domator del bronzo<br />
tuona dagli antri ardenti; stupefatto<br />
perde le reti il pescatore, ed ode.<br />
Tal dell’arpa diffuso erra il concento<br />
per la nostra convalle; e mentre posa<br />
la sonatrice, ancora odono i colli.<br />
Or le recate, o vergini, i canestri<br />
e le rose e gli allori a cui materni<br />
nell’ombrifero Pitti irrigatori<br />
fur gli etruschi Silvani, a far più vago<br />
il giovin seno alle mortali etrusche,<br />
emule d’avvenenza e di ghirlande;<br />
soave affanno al pellegrin se innoltra<br />
improvviso ne’ lucidi teatri,<br />
e quell’intenta voluttà del canto<br />
ed errare un desio dolce d’amore<br />
mira ne’ vólti femminili, e l’aura<br />
pregna di fiori gli confonde il core.<br />
Recate insieme, o vergini, le conche<br />
dell’alabastro, provvido di fresca<br />
linfa e di vita, ahi breve! a’ montanini
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
in prompt obedience to the waiting chords,<br />
she prods, inspired, every single note<br />
till all <strong>of</strong> them depict how Harmony<br />
first set in motion stars, ethereal waves,<br />
and this earth floating on the ocean; how<br />
with rays and shadows it broke then the wide<br />
but uniform creation into thousands<br />
<strong>of</strong> faces, quickly blended into one;<br />
and how it joined each color with the sun,<br />
and with the air each sound, and thus with time<br />
and vexing fortune all vicissitudes,<br />
so that, discordant though they be, all things<br />
might render a concordant hymn to Heaven<br />
lifting the human mind above the earth.<br />
Just as when Eurus with his joyous breath<br />
rouses the restless Larius at dawn,<br />
and soon the boatman at that murmur sings<br />
the nearing lutes rejoice, and languidly<br />
the flutes <strong>of</strong> loving lads and nymphs reply<br />
from wandering gondole: in the meantime<br />
a little shepherd’s bagpipe from the shore<br />
echoes once more; from hill to hill the horn<br />
brings terror to the deer; from caves ablaze<br />
Lecco’s bronze-taming hammer soon rebounds,<br />
and, losing now his nets, the fisherman<br />
listens, astounded, to the happy song:<br />
so through our valleys does the melody,<br />
roused by the harpsichord, so dearly sound<br />
that, even when the harpsichordist rests,<br />
the knolls around her still enraptured hear<br />
Now bring to her, young virgins, laurel wreaths<br />
and roses watered in the Pitti’s shades<br />
by Etruscan Sylvans for the greater grace<br />
<strong>of</strong> fair Etruscans’ youth-enamored breasts<br />
ever desirous <strong>of</strong> new buds and charm:<br />
baffled and sweetly tempted, foreigners<br />
who our well–lighted theaters explore<br />
are by the song’s voluptuousness so swayed,<br />
so taken by that sweet desire <strong>of</strong> love<br />
wandering sweetly on our women’s faces,<br />
a whiff <strong>of</strong> flowers floating in the air<br />
perturbs their hearts. And all together here,<br />
dear maidens, bring the alabaster basins<br />
wherein you keep the fresh but fleeting life<br />
for mountain jasmine and for violet,<br />
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gelsomini, e alla mammola dogliosa<br />
di non morir sul seno alla fuggiasca<br />
ninfa di Pratolino, o sospirata<br />
dal solitario venticel notturno.<br />
Date il rustico giglio, e se men alte<br />
ha le forme fraterne, il manto veste<br />
degli amaranti invïolato: unite<br />
aurei giacinti e azzurri alle giunchiglie<br />
di Bellosguardo che all’amante suo<br />
coglie Pomona, e a’ gar<strong>of</strong>ani alteri<br />
della prole diversa e delle pompe,<br />
e a’ fiori che dagli orti dell’Aurora<br />
novella preda a’ nostri liti addussero<br />
vittorïosi i Zefiri su l’ale,<br />
e or fra’ cedri al suo talamo imminenti<br />
d’ospite amore e di tepori industri<br />
questa gentil sacerdotessa edùca.<br />
Spira soave e armonïoso agli occhi<br />
quanto all’anima il suon, splendono i serti<br />
che di tanti color mesce e d’odori;<br />
ma il fior che altero del lor nome han fatto<br />
dodici Dei ne scevra, e il dona all’ara<br />
pur sorridendo; e in cor tacita prega:<br />
che di quei fiori ond’è nudrice, e l’arpa<br />
ne incorona per voi, ven piaccia alcuno<br />
inserir, belle Dee, nella ghirlanda<br />
la quale ogni anno il dì sesto d’aprile<br />
delle rose di lagrime innaffiate<br />
in val di Sorga, o belle Dee, tessete<br />
a recarle alla madre.<br />
II<br />
Ora Polinnia alata Dea che molte<br />
lire a un tempo percote, e più d’ogni altra<br />
Musa possiede orti celesti, intenda<br />
anche le lodi de’ suoi fiori; or quando<br />
la bella donna, delle Dee seconda<br />
sacerdotessa, vien recando un favo.<br />
Nostro e disdetto alle altre genti è il rito<br />
per memoria de’ favi, onde in Italia<br />
con perenne ronzìo fanno tesoro<br />
divine api alle Grazie: e chi ne assaggia<br />
parla caro alla patria. Ah voi narrate<br />
come aveste quel dono! E chi la fama<br />
a noi fra l’ombre della terra erranti
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
sorry not yet to die upon the breast<br />
<strong>of</strong> Pratolino’s ever–running nymph<br />
or shunned by lonely breezes <strong>of</strong> the night.<br />
Give the wild lily that, although it shows<br />
its kindred forms less high, can dazzle still<br />
in the pure mantle <strong>of</strong> the amaranth;<br />
mix all sky-blue and golden hyacinths<br />
with Bellosguardo’s jonquils that Pomona<br />
still for her lover picks, with all the proud<br />
carnations ever new in shades and shapes,<br />
and with the blooms that on victorious wings<br />
the Zephyrs from Dawn’s garden snatched and rought –<br />
a recent trophy—to our very shores,<br />
and now this gentle priestess gently grows<br />
with artful heat and hospitable love<br />
among the cedars hanging o’er her home.<br />
Harmonious and s<strong>of</strong>t both to the sight<br />
and to the soul the very sound exhales;<br />
bright shine the wreaths that <strong>of</strong> so many hues<br />
as well as many fragrances are wrought;<br />
and yet the flower that twelve Gods have made<br />
proud <strong>of</strong> their names can sever all <strong>of</strong> them<br />
and place them on the altar with a smile,<br />
praying that, out <strong>of</strong> all the blooms she grows<br />
and decks her harp with just to honor you,<br />
one you may pick, fair Goddesses, to blend<br />
into the garland that on April sixth,<br />
O lovely Deities, in Sorga’s vale<br />
out <strong>of</strong> all roses wet with tears you weave<br />
for Venus, your own mother.<br />
II<br />
Let now Polymnia, the wingèd Goddess<br />
that plucks many a lyre at one time<br />
and, more than any other Muse, in heaven<br />
owns flower gardens, understand the praises<br />
<strong>of</strong> all her wreaths now that the lovely lady,<br />
the second priestess <strong>of</strong> the Goddesses,<br />
comes to the altar with a honeycomb.<br />
Our own, not other nations’, is the rite<br />
that celebrates the honeycomb’s old lore,<br />
wherefore in Italy heavenly bees<br />
with endless murmur to the Graces yield<br />
abundant honey: he who tastes <strong>of</strong> it<br />
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può abbellir se non voi, Grazie, che siete<br />
presenti a tutto, e Dee tutto sapete?<br />
Quattro volte l’Aurora era salita<br />
su l’orïente a riveder le Grazie,<br />
dacché nacquero al mondo; e Giano antico,<br />
padre d’Italia, e l’adriaca Anfitrite<br />
inviavan lor doni, e un drappelletto<br />
di Naiadi e fanciulle eridanine,<br />
e quante i pomi d’Anïene e i fonti<br />
godean d’Arno e di Tebro, e quante avea<br />
Ninfe il mar d’Aretusa; e le guidavi<br />
tu, più che giglio nivea Galatea.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
E cantar Febo pieno d’inni un carme.<br />
Vaticinò, com’ei lo spirto, e varia<br />
daranno ai vati l’armonia del plettro<br />
le sue liete sorelle, e Amore il pianto<br />
che lusinghi a pietà l’alme gentili,<br />
e il giovine Lïeo scevra d’acerbe<br />
cure la vita, e Pallade i consigli,<br />
Giove la gloria, e tutti i Numi eterno<br />
poscia l’alloro; ma le Grazie il mèle<br />
persüadente grazïosi affetti,<br />
onde pia con gli Dei torni la terra.<br />
E cantando vedea lieto agitarsi<br />
esalando pr<strong>of</strong>umi, il verdeggiante<br />
bosco d’Olimpo, e rifiorir le rose,<br />
e [scorrere] di nèttare i torrenti,<br />
e risplendere il cielo, e delle Dive<br />
raggiar più bella l’immortal bellezza;<br />
però che il Padre sorrideva, e inerme<br />
a piè del trono l’aquila s’assise.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Inaccessa agli Dei splende una fiamma<br />
solitaria nell’ultimo de’ cieli,<br />
per proprio foco eterna; unico Nume<br />
la veneranda Deità di Vesta<br />
vi s’appressa, e deriva indi una pura<br />
luce che, mista allo splendor del sole,<br />
tinge gli aerei campi di zaffiro,<br />
e i mari, allor che ondeggiano al tranquillo<br />
spirto del vento facili a’ nocchieri,<br />
e di chiaror dolcissimo consola<br />
con quel lume le notti, e a qual più s’apre
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
dearly converses with his fatherland.<br />
Oh, tell us how that gift was yours alone.<br />
Who else, O Graces, can embellish fame<br />
for us, still groping in this earthly dusk;<br />
who else but you, who were already there,<br />
and, being Goddesses, know all things well?<br />
Once more to see the Graces since their birth<br />
bright Dawn had climbed four times the eastern sky:<br />
father <strong>of</strong> Italy, old Janus then,<br />
and Adriatic Amphitrite sent<br />
their gifts along with Eridanian girls<br />
and Naiads, with the dwellers who enjoyed<br />
Aniene’s trees, Arno’s and Tiber’s springs,<br />
and all the nymphs from Arethusa’s sea—<br />
and it was you escorted them all there,<br />
O whiter-much-than-lilies Galatea.<br />
.................................................<br />
Till Phoebus sang a hymn-repleted song,<br />
He phrophesied how bards would take the soul<br />
from him, from his glad sisters the sweet lyre<br />
from Love the weeping that would lure a gentle<br />
spirit to ruth, from young Lyaeus life<br />
devoid <strong>of</strong> cares, from Pallas good advice,<br />
and from all Gods the laurel afterwards;<br />
but from the Graces would the honey flow,<br />
inspiring gracious feelings apt once more<br />
to reconcile with Heaven this our earth.<br />
He noticed, as he sang, the fragrance-breathing<br />
excitement <strong>of</strong> the green Olympian woods,<br />
the nectar-running streams, the roses’ birth,<br />
the splendor <strong>of</strong> the skies, and the far brighter<br />
immortal beauty <strong>of</strong> the Goddesses:<br />
indeed the Father smiled on this while, harmless,<br />
his eagle rested underneath his throne.<br />
Unreachable to all the Deities,<br />
in the last heaven shines a lonely flame<br />
which its own fire makes eternal: there<br />
the awesome Goddess Vesta climbs alone<br />
to fetch a cloudless light that with the sun’s<br />
paints in pure sapphire the whole firmament<br />
and the whole sea, now in the tranquil breeze<br />
waving most easy to the seaman’s eyes,<br />
and comforts with its sweetest clarity<br />
each solitary night wherein the humblest<br />
flower that burgeons to bedeck the earth<br />
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modesto fiore a decorar la terra<br />
molli tinte comparte, invidïate<br />
dalla rosa superba.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Dite, o garzoni, a chi mortale, e voi,<br />
donzelle, dite a qual fanciulla un giorno<br />
più di quel mèl le Dee furon cortesi.<br />
N’ebbe primiero un cieco; e sullo scudo<br />
di Vulcano mirò moversi il mondo,<br />
e l’alto Ilio dirùto, e per l’ignoto<br />
pelago la solinga itaca vela,<br />
e tutto Olimpo gli s’aprì alla mente<br />
e Cipria vide e delle Grazie il cinto.<br />
Ma quando quel sapor venne a Corinna<br />
sul labbro, vinse tra l’elèe quadrighe<br />
di Pindaro i destrier, benché Elicona<br />
li dissetasse, e li pascea di foco<br />
Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila correva,<br />
e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Di quel mèl la fragranza errò improvvisa<br />
sul talamo all’eolïa fanciulla,<br />
e il cor dal petto le balzò e la lira<br />
ed aggiogando i passeri, scendea<br />
Venere dall’Olimpo, e delle sue<br />
ambrosie dita le tergeva il pianto.<br />
Indarno Imetto<br />
le richiama dal dì che a fior dell’onda<br />
ergea, beate volatrici, il coro<br />
eliconio seguìeno, obbedïenti<br />
all’elegia del fuggitivo Apollo.<br />
Però che quando su la Grecia inerte<br />
Marte sfrenò le tartare cavalle<br />
depredatrici, e coronò la schiatta<br />
barbara d’Ottomano, allor l’Italia<br />
fu giardino alle Muse, e qui lo stuolo<br />
fabro dell’aureo mèl pose a sua prole<br />
il felice alvear. Né le Febee<br />
api (sebben le altre api abbia crudeli)<br />
fuggono i lai della invisibil Ninfa,<br />
che ognor delusa d’amorosa speme,<br />
pur geme per le quete aure diffusa,<br />
e il suo altero nemico ama e richiama;<br />
tanta dolcezza infusero le Grazie,<br />
per pietà della Ninfa, alle sue voci,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
is granted hues so s<strong>of</strong>t the proud rose envies.<br />
Now tell, O lads, and you, sweet maidens, tell<br />
unto what mortal man, unto what lass<br />
the Goddesses most kindly gave, one day,<br />
most <strong>of</strong> that honey. A blind man came first:<br />
on Vulcan’s shield he saw the world revolve,<br />
high Ilium in ruins, and, outcast<br />
on unknown seas, the lone Ithacan sail:<br />
the whole Olympus to his vision burst,<br />
baring the Cyprian and the Graces’ zone.<br />
But when that savor soothed Corinna’s lips,<br />
mid the Elean coaches it outsped<br />
Pindaric steeds whose thirst Helicon quenched:<br />
Eolus fed them with his fire, the Sun<br />
adorned them with his spurs and, high above,<br />
speeding ahead, an eagle showed the way.<br />
...................................................<br />
The sudden fragrance <strong>of</strong> that honey sprinkled<br />
the nuptial bed <strong>of</strong> the Eolian girl:<br />
Her lyre quavered and her heart leapt up<br />
when in a chariot, drawn by sparrows, down<br />
came Venus to wipe out her every tear<br />
with her ambrosian fingers. Ah, in vain<br />
has the Hymettus called them home again<br />
since the first dawn when, on swift wings <strong>of</strong> bliss<br />
skimming the high Aegean waves, behind<br />
the Heliconian chorus came the Graces,<br />
heedful <strong>of</strong> Phoebus’ fleeting elegy.<br />
For after Mars on slothful Greece unleashed<br />
the all-marauding mares <strong>of</strong> Tartary,<br />
and Ottoman’s barbaric sons were crowned,<br />
Italy gave the Muses a new home,<br />
and those who spun that golden honey placed<br />
its happy beehive for her children here.<br />
Not that the bees <strong>of</strong> Phoebus (others, too,<br />
are cruel equally) shun the laments<br />
<strong>of</strong> the unseen and ever-hopeless Nymph<br />
who, self-expanding through the quiet air,<br />
vents her despair, and calls and calls again,<br />
though unrequited, her despising foe;<br />
but so much sweetness did the graces breathe,<br />
for the Nymph’s sake, into her every word<br />
that, utterly forgetful <strong>of</strong> their work,<br />
those bees, now idle here in Italy,<br />
listen to but the echo that can make<br />
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che le lor api immemori dell’opra,<br />
ozïose in Italia odono l’eco<br />
che al par de’ carmi fe’ dolce la rima.<br />
Quell’angelette scesero da prima<br />
ove assai preda di torrenti al mare<br />
porta Eridàno. Ivi la fata Alcina<br />
di lor sorti presàga avea disperso<br />
molti agresti amaranti; e lungo il fiume<br />
gran ciel prendea con negre ombre un’incolta<br />
selva di lauri: su’ lor tronchi Atlante<br />
di Ruggiero scrivea gli avi e le imprese,<br />
e di spettri guerrier muta una schiera<br />
e donne innamorate ivan col mago,<br />
aspettando il cantor; e questi i favi<br />
vide quivi deposti, e si mietea<br />
tutti gli allori; ma de’ fior d’Alcina<br />
più grazïoso distillava il mèle,<br />
e il libò solo un lepido poeta,<br />
che insiem narrò d’Angelica gli affanni.<br />
Ma non men cara l’api amano l’ombra<br />
del sublime cipresso, ove appendea<br />
la sua cetra Torquato, allor che ardendo<br />
forsennato egli errò per le foreste<br />
“sì che insieme movea pietate e riso<br />
“nelle gentili Ninfe e ne’ pastori:<br />
“né già cose scrivea degne di riso<br />
“se ben cose facea degne di riso”.<br />
...Deh! perché torse<br />
i suoi passi da voi, liete in udirlo<br />
cantar o Erminia, e il pio sepolcro e l’armi?<br />
Né disdegno di voi, ma più fatale<br />
Nume alla reggia il risospinse e al pianto.<br />
...A tal ventura<br />
fur destinate le gentili alate<br />
che riposâr sull’Eridano il volo.<br />
Mentre nel Lilibeo mare la fata<br />
dava promesse, e l’attendea cortese<br />
a quante all’Adria indi posaro il volo<br />
angiolette Febee, l’altro drappello<br />
che, per antico amor Flora seguendo,<br />
tendea per le tirrene aure il suo corso,<br />
trovò simile a Cerere una donna<br />
su la foce dell’Arno; e l’attendeva<br />
portando in man purpurei gigli e frondi<br />
fresche d’ulivo. Avea riposo al fianco
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
a rhyme as pleasant as the song itself.<br />
Those wingèd, winsome bees descended first<br />
right where the mighty Eridanus brings<br />
its largest prey <strong>of</strong> torrents to the sea.<br />
There fate-presaging sorceress Alcina<br />
had copiously strewn wild amaranths,<br />
and there, along the very stream, a thick<br />
forest <strong>of</strong> laurels veiled much <strong>of</strong> the sky<br />
with its black shadow: on their trunks Atlante<br />
would carve Ruggiero’s ancestors and deeds;<br />
and there a silent throng <strong>of</strong> phantom knights<br />
and loving ladies with a sorcerer<br />
awaited still their singer: there he saw<br />
the honeycombs at his disposal placed,<br />
and made a harvest <strong>of</strong> all laurel trees.<br />
But the best honey from Alcina’s wreaths<br />
was left for but one poet yet to taste –<br />
the witty bard that also sang with it<br />
lovelorn Angelica’s unhappy woes.<br />
Yet no less dear is to the bees the shade<br />
<strong>of</strong> the tall cypress where Torquato hung<br />
his harp when, madly burning, through the woods<br />
he wandered “moving shepherds and sweet nymphs<br />
to pity and to laughter at one time;<br />
no longer did he write what made man laugh—<br />
he only did what made man only laugh.”<br />
Ah, why did he<br />
meander, O sweet bees, away from you,<br />
who liked to hear him sing Erminia’s flight<br />
and pious arms and holy sepulcher?<br />
No hate <strong>of</strong> you—a fatal Power brought him<br />
back to a princely court and to new tears.<br />
Such was the venture<br />
<strong>of</strong> all those ever-gentle, pinioned bees<br />
destined to halt their flight upon the Po.<br />
While from the Lilybaean Sea the Fairy<br />
with many soon-kept promises allured<br />
every Phoebean creature come to rest<br />
finally on the Adriatic shores,<br />
the other swarm that, borne by Flora’s love,<br />
had only aimed at the Tyrrhenian sky,<br />
right on the Arno’s estuary found<br />
a lady that had long been waiting there:<br />
Ceres-resembling, in her hands she held<br />
vermilion lilies and fresh olive sprouts.<br />
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un’etrusca colonna, a sé dinanzi<br />
di favi desïoso un alveare.<br />
Molte intorno a’ suoi piè verdi le spighe<br />
spuntavano, e perìan molte immature<br />
fra gli emuli papaveri; mal nota,<br />
benché fosse divina, era l’Ancella<br />
alle pecchie immortali. Essa agli Dei<br />
non tornò mai, da che scendea ne’ primi<br />
dì noiosi dell’uomo; e il riconforta<br />
ma le presenti ore gl’invola; ha nome<br />
Speranza e men infida ama i coloni.<br />
Già negli ultimi cieli iva compiendo<br />
il settimo de’ grandi anni Saturno<br />
col suo pianeta, da che a noi la Donna<br />
precorrendo le Muse era tornata<br />
per consiglio di Pallade, a recarne<br />
l’ara fatale ove scolpite in oro<br />
le brevi rifulgean libere leggi,<br />
madri dell’arti onde fu bella Atene.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Ecco prostrata una foresta, e fianchi<br />
rudi d’alpe, e masse ferree immani<br />
al braccio de’ Ciclòpi, a fondar tempio<br />
che ceda tardo a’ muti urti del tempo.<br />
E al suono che invisibili spandeano<br />
le Grazie intorno, assunsero nell’opra<br />
nuova speme i viventi: e l’Architetto<br />
meravigliando della sua fatica,<br />
quasi nubi lievissime, di terra<br />
ferro e abeti vedea sorgere e marmi,<br />
a sue leggi arrendevoli, e posarsi<br />
convessi in arco aereo imitanti<br />
il firmamento. Attonite le Muse<br />
come vennero poscia alla divina<br />
mole il guardo levando, indarno altrove<br />
col memore pensier ivan cercando<br />
se altrove Palla, . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
o quando in Grecia di celeste acànto<br />
ghirlandò le colonne, o quando in Roma<br />
gli archi adornava a ritornar vittrice<br />
trïonfando con candide cavalle,<br />
miracolo sì fatto avesse all’arti<br />
mai suggerito. Quando poi la Speme<br />
veleggiando su l’Arno in una nave<br />
l’api recò e l’ancora là dove
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Resting one side on an Etruscan column,<br />
she gazed on something right in front <strong>of</strong> her—<br />
a beehive longing still for honeycombs.<br />
Full many a verdant spear <strong>of</strong> wheat burst forth<br />
down at her feet while others, not yet ripe,<br />
amongst the vying poppies perished soon:<br />
though <strong>of</strong> celestial origin, the Handmaid<br />
was hardly known to the immortal bees.<br />
Never has she returned among the Gods<br />
since she came down on man’s first tedious days;<br />
man she consoles but steals his present hours:<br />
her name (she smiles on farmers most) is Hope.<br />
In the last heavens Saturn with his planet<br />
was in the seventh <strong>of</strong> his lengthy years<br />
when, as forerunner <strong>of</strong> the Nine, the Handmaid,<br />
by Pallas so advised, returned to us<br />
bringing the sacred altar where in gold<br />
were carved and shone the free and simple laws<br />
that made the arts and Athens beautiful.<br />
.....................................................<br />
Behold, a forest down is being felled<br />
along with marble blocks and measureless<br />
masses <strong>of</strong> iron by Cyclopes’ hands:<br />
a temple here must rise that will for long<br />
withstand the silent buffetings <strong>of</strong> time.<br />
At the sound scattered by the unseen Graces<br />
the living with new hope join in the deed:<br />
marveling at his work, the Architect<br />
sees, like thin clouds, fir trunks and iron beams<br />
and marble matter, docile to his laws,<br />
rise quickly from the earth and only rest<br />
when, curved in airy arches, they reflect<br />
the firmament. The Muses, all enrapt,<br />
lift now their eyes to the imposing dome<br />
and with nostalgic thoughts try to recall<br />
if Pallas elsewhere ....................................<br />
either in Greece, when the divine acanthus<br />
garlanded every column, or in Rome<br />
when, entering victorious on white steeds,<br />
she decked its arches with triumphal leaves,<br />
had with her presence so inspired the arts<br />
as to behold such glory born at last.<br />
When, sailing toward the Arno on her ship,<br />
Hope afterwards brought there all <strong>of</strong> her bees—<br />
there where the Muses’ regal mansion would<br />
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sorger poscia dovea delle bell’arti<br />
sovra mille colonne una gentile<br />
reggia alle Muse, . . . corser l’api<br />
a un’indistinta di novelle piante<br />
soavità che intorno al tempio oliva.<br />
Un mirto<br />
che suo dall’alto Beatrice ammira,<br />
venerando spendeva; e dalla cima<br />
battea le penne un Genio disdegnoso<br />
che il passato esplorando e l’avvenire<br />
cieli e abissi cercava, e popolato<br />
d’anime in mezzo a tutte l’acque un monte;<br />
poi, tornando, spargea folgori e lieti<br />
raggi, e speme e terrore e pentimento<br />
ne’ mortali; e verissime sciagure<br />
all’Italia cantava. Appresso al mirto<br />
fiorian le rose che le Grazie ogni anno<br />
ne’ colli euganei van cogliendo, e un serto<br />
molle di pianto il dì sesto d’aprile<br />
ne recano alla Madre. A queste intorno<br />
dolcemente ronzarono, e sentiro<br />
come forse d’Eliso era venuto<br />
ad innestare il cespo ei che più ch’altri<br />
libò il mèl sacro su l’Imetto, e primo<br />
fe’ del celeste amor celebre il rito.<br />
Pur con molti frutteti e con l’orezzo<br />
le sviò de’ quercioli una valletta<br />
dove le Ninfe alle mie Dee seguaci<br />
non son Genii mentiti. Io dal mio poggio<br />
quando tacciono i venti fra le torri<br />
della vaga Firenze, odo un Silvano<br />
ospite ignoto a’ taciti eremiti<br />
del vicino Oliveto: ei sul meriggio<br />
fa sua casa un frascato, e a suon d’avena<br />
le pecorelle sue chiama alla fonte.<br />
Chiama due brune giovani la sera,<br />
né piegar erba mi parean ballando.<br />
Esso mena la danza. N’eran molte<br />
sotto l’alpe di Fiesole a una valle<br />
che da sei montagnette ond’è ricinta<br />
scende a sembianza di teatro acheo.<br />
Affrico allegro ruscelletto accorse<br />
a’ lor prieghi dal monte, e fe’ la valle<br />
limpida d’un freschissimo laghetto.
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
upon a thousand columns some day rise—<br />
dashed all those bees, attracted by a faint<br />
fragrance <strong>of</strong> new-born plants around the shrine.<br />
A sacred myrtle tree,<br />
which Beatrice from heaven calls her own,<br />
was shining there, and from its very top,<br />
beating his wings, a wrathful Genius, scanning<br />
both past and future, sought abyss and skies<br />
and, in the midst <strong>of</strong> all the seas, a mountain<br />
inhabited by souls; then, back on earth,<br />
upon the mortals cast he thunderbolts<br />
and happy rays, repentance. hope and fright,<br />
singing to Italy disasters true.<br />
Close to that myrtle tree those roses bloomed,<br />
which every year on the Euganean hills<br />
the Graces pick and weave a wreath there<strong>of</strong><br />
to <strong>of</strong>fer, wet with tears, on April sixth,<br />
to their own Mother. Sweetly round those buds<br />
murmured the bees, and felt the rosebush grafted<br />
by him who tasted on th’ Hymettus’ peak<br />
the sacred honey more than others, singing,<br />
first, the religion <strong>of</strong> celestial love.<br />
And yet, despite the orchards and the shade,<br />
a tiny dell <strong>of</strong> youthful oak trees swayed them<br />
where, loyal to my Goddesses, the nymphs<br />
are not mendacious Genii.<br />
From this hill,<br />
when through the towers <strong>of</strong> my lovely Florence<br />
the winds are still, I hear a sylvan guest<br />
unknown in yonder silent hermitage<br />
<strong>of</strong> nearby Oliveto: he, past noon,<br />
makes shady twigs his home, and with his oat<br />
calls one by one his little sheep to drink.<br />
At evening, then, two dark-haired maidens come,<br />
who hardly bend the grasses as they dance<br />
(‘t is he who leads them there). Beneath the hill<br />
<strong>of</strong> Fiesole too many maidens dwelt<br />
in a fair dell that from six circling mountains<br />
like an Achean theater descends.<br />
Mindful <strong>of</strong> all their callings from above,<br />
Africo, carefree rivulet, replied<br />
and, forming there the coolest little lake,<br />
made the entire little valley bright.<br />
Not yet had Fiammetta heard <strong>of</strong> Nymphs<br />
when, telling tales <strong>of</strong> courtesy and love,<br />
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Nulla per anco delle Ninfe inteso<br />
avea Fiammetta allor ch’ivi a diporto<br />
novellando d’amori e cortesie<br />
con le amiche sedeva, o s’immergea,<br />
te, Amor, fuggendo e tu ve la spïavi,<br />
dentro le cristalline onde più bella.<br />
Fur poi svelati in que’ diporti i vaghi<br />
misteri, e Dïoneo re del drappello<br />
le Grazie afflisse. Perseguì i colombi<br />
che stavan su le dense ali sospesi<br />
a guardia d’una grotta: invan gementi<br />
sotto il flagel del mirto onde gl’incalza<br />
gli fan ombra dattorno, e gli fan prieghi<br />
che non s’accosti; sanguinanti e inermi<br />
sgombran con penne trepidanti al cielo.<br />
Dalla grotta i recessi empie la luna,<br />
e fra un mucchio di gigli addormentata<br />
svela a un Fauno confusa una Napea.<br />
Gioì il protervo dell’esempio, e spera<br />
allettarne Fiammetta; e pregò tutti<br />
allor d’aita i Satiri canuti,<br />
e quante emule ninfe eran da’ giochi<br />
e da’ misteri escluse: e quegli arguti<br />
ozïando ogni notte a Dïoneo<br />
di scherzi e d’antri e talami di fiori<br />
ridissero novelle. Or vive un libro<br />
dettato dagli Dei; ma sfortunata<br />
la damigella che mai tocchi il libro!<br />
Tosto smarrita del natìo pudore<br />
avrà la rosa; né il rossore ad arte<br />
può innamorar chi sol le Grazie ha in core.<br />
O giovinette Dee, gioia dell’inno,<br />
per voi la bella donna i riti vostri<br />
imìta e le terrene api lusinga<br />
nel felsineo pendio d’onde il pastore<br />
mira Astrea che or del ciel gode e de’ tardi<br />
alberghi di Nereo; d’indiche piante<br />
e di catalpe onde i suoi Lari ombreggia<br />
sedi appresta e sollazzi alle vaganti<br />
schiere, o le accoglie ne’ fecondi orezzi<br />
d’armonïoso speco invïolate<br />
dal gelo e dall’estiva ira e da’ nembi.<br />
La bella donna di sua mano i lattei<br />
calici del limone, e la pudica<br />
delle vïole, e il timo amor dell’api,
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
with her own friends for pastime there she sat<br />
or plunged into those waters, shunning you,<br />
O Love, who spied upon her furtively,<br />
and found her fairer in the crystal foam.<br />
The wondrous mysteries were then revealed<br />
in that diversion whereby Dioneo,<br />
king <strong>of</strong> the group, displeased the Graces’ sight.<br />
Away he chased the turtle-doves that watched<br />
on full-spread wings the entrance to a cave:<br />
moaning in vain beneath the myrtle’s lashing,<br />
they cast their shadows ‘round him, begging him<br />
not to draw near, but, armless, fast they flee<br />
on bleeding wings in terror to the sky.<br />
The moon that floods the sunken cave with light<br />
shows on a bunch <strong>of</strong> lilies a Napea<br />
asleep and blended in a Faun’s embrace.<br />
By that example spurred, the daring lad<br />
hoped to ensnare Fiammetta, and invoked<br />
as many white-haired Satyrs as he knew<br />
with all the envious nymphs until then banned<br />
from all that playing, all that mystery;<br />
witty and shrewd and idle, every night<br />
to Dioneo they recounted tales<br />
<strong>of</strong> fun and caves and nuptial beds <strong>of</strong> blooms.<br />
Dictated by the Gods, a book still lives,<br />
but hapless is the lass that touches it:<br />
her rose will quickly lose its native hue,<br />
and never will the Graces fall in love<br />
with artful blushing on a woman’s cheeks.<br />
O youthful Goddesses, my hymn’s one joy,<br />
for you the lovely lady now renews<br />
your holy rites and lures the earthly bees<br />
to her Felsinean hillock whence the shepherd<br />
watches Astrea in love with sky and sea.<br />
Shading her hearth with most exotic plants,<br />
her home she lends for fun to wandering throngs<br />
or she invites them to the healthy shade<br />
<strong>of</strong> her harmonious cottage never touched<br />
by winter’s frost or summer’s wrathful storm.<br />
With her own hand the lovely lady wets<br />
the milky calyxes <strong>of</strong> lemon buds,<br />
shy violets, and thyme, to bees so dear;<br />
as balm <strong>of</strong> dew she begs from peaceful stars<br />
and consecrates new honeycombs to you,<br />
deep in her heart she sighes a silent prayer.<br />
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innaffia, e il fior delle rugiade invoca<br />
dalle stelle tranquille, e impetra i favi<br />
che vi consacra e in cor tacita prega.<br />
Con lei pregate, donzellette, e meco<br />
voi, garzoni, miratela. Il segreto<br />
sospiro, il riso del suo labbro, il dolce<br />
foco esultante nelle sue pupille<br />
faccianvi accorti di che preghi, e come<br />
l’ascoltino le Dee. E certo impetra<br />
che delle Dee l’amabile consiglio<br />
da lei s’adempia. I preghi che dal Cielo<br />
per pietà de’ mortali han le divine<br />
vergini caste, non a voi li danno,<br />
giovani vati e artefici eleganti,<br />
bensì a qual più gentil donna le imìta.<br />
A lei correte, e di soavi affetti<br />
ispiratrici e immagini leggiadre<br />
sentirete le Grazie. Ah vi rimembri<br />
che inverecondo le spaventa Amore!<br />
III<br />
Torna deh! torna al suon, donna dell’arpa;<br />
guarda la tua bella compagna; e viene<br />
ultima al rito a tesser danze all’ara.<br />
Pur la città cui Pale empie di paschi<br />
con l’urne industri tanta valle, e pingui<br />
di mille pioppe aerëe al sussurro,<br />
ombrano i buoi le chiuse, or la richiama<br />
alle feste notturne e fra quegli orti<br />
freschi di frondi e intorno aurei di cocchi<br />
lungo i rivi d’Olona. E già tornava<br />
questa gentile al suo molle paese;<br />
così imminente omai freme Bellona<br />
che al Tebro, all’Arno, ov’è più sacra Italia,<br />
non un’ara trovò, dove alle Grazie<br />
rendere il voto d’una regia sposa.<br />
Ma udì ‘l canto, udì l’arpa; e a noi si volse<br />
agile come in cielo Ebe succinta.<br />
Sostien del braccio un giovinetto cigno,<br />
e togliesi di fronte una catena<br />
vaga di perle a cingerne l’augello.<br />
Quei lento al collo suo del flessuoso<br />
collo s’attorce, e di lei sente a ciocche<br />
neri su le sue lattee piume i crini<br />
scorrer disciolti, e più lieto la mira
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Pray, gracious maidens, with her, and with me,<br />
O lads, just look at her. Her secret sigh,<br />
the smile upon her lips, the tranquil flame<br />
exulting in her eyes should tell you what<br />
she prays for, and how fast the Goddesses<br />
listen to her. Surely she begs the Three<br />
to help her do their lovely will on earth.<br />
The worth that Heaven, sorry for mankind,<br />
bestows on the chaste virgins from the sky<br />
will never fall on you, O artisans<br />
and youthful bards <strong>of</strong> futile elegance,<br />
but only on the gentlest lady eager<br />
to imitate them. Therefore, run to her,<br />
and you will sense the Graces as they breathe<br />
feelings <strong>of</strong> love and images <strong>of</strong> grace.<br />
Remember: Love unchaste they ever dread.<br />
III<br />
Come, lady with the harp, and play again!<br />
Look at your lovely friend, arriving last:<br />
she’ll dance around the altar in this rite.<br />
The town whose plainland Pales fills with pastures<br />
through industrious canals and countless poplars<br />
singing sublimely in the l<strong>of</strong>ty air<br />
(fat oxen shade its outskirts) calls her back<br />
to its nocturnal splendor in the midst<br />
<strong>of</strong> gardens fresh with trees and golden-bright<br />
with chariots along th’ Olona’s banks.<br />
Once more the pleasure <strong>of</strong> her country home<br />
this gentle one was seeking, for so near<br />
is still Bellona’s cry she could not find<br />
either upon the Tiber or the Arno—<br />
where the more sacred Italy abides –<br />
a single altar whence a regal bride<br />
could lift her prayer to the Goddesses.<br />
But then she heard the song, she heard the harp:<br />
swiftly she turned to us just as in heaven<br />
Hebe in her long, tucked-up dress would do.<br />
Perched on her arm, she holds a youthful Swan;<br />
now from her forehead she removes a chain,<br />
pearl-studded, and soon binds the bird with it.<br />
Slowly the Swan, with undulating grace<br />
winding his neck around her neck, now feels<br />
her raven hair on his white plumage loose,<br />
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mentr’ella scioglie a questi detti il labbro:<br />
Grata agli Dei del reduce marito<br />
da’ fiumi algenti ov’hanno patria i cigni,<br />
alle virginee Deità consacra<br />
l’alta Regina mia candido un cigno<br />
Accogliete, o garzoni, e su le chiare<br />
acque vaganti intorno all’ara e al bosco<br />
deponete l’augello, e sia del nostro<br />
fonte signor; e i suoi atti venusti<br />
gli rendan l’onde e il suo candore, e goda<br />
di sé, quasi dicendo a chi lo mira,<br />
simbol son io della beltà. Sfrondate<br />
ilari carolando, o verginette,<br />
il mirteto e i rosai lungo i meandri<br />
del ruscello, versate sul ruscello,<br />
versateli, e al fuggente nuotatore<br />
che veleggia con pure ali di neve,<br />
fate inciampi di fiori, e qual più ameno<br />
fiore a voi sceglia col puniceo rostro,<br />
vel ponete nel seno. A quanti alati<br />
godon l’erbe del par l’aere e i laghi<br />
amabil sire è il cigno, e con l’impero<br />
modesto delle grazie i suoi vassalli<br />
regge, ed agli altri volator sorride,<br />
e lieto le sdegnose aquile ammira.<br />
Sovra l’òmero suo guizzan securi<br />
gli argentei pesci, ed ospite leale<br />
il vagheggiano, s’ei visita all’alba<br />
le lor ime correnti, desïoso<br />
di più freschi lavacri, onde rifulga<br />
sovra le piume sue nitido il sole.<br />
Fioritelo di gigli.<br />
Al vago rito<br />
Donna l’invia, che nella villa amena<br />
de’ tigli (amabil pianta, e a’ molli orezzi<br />
propizia, e al santo coniugale amore)<br />
nudrialo afflitta; e a lei dal pelaghetto<br />
lieto accorrea, agitandole l’acque<br />
sotto i lauri tranquille. O di clementi<br />
virtù ornamento nella reggia insùbre!<br />
Finché piacque agli Dei, o agl’infelici<br />
cara tutela, e di tre regie Grazie<br />
genitrice gentil, bella fra tutte<br />
figlie di regi, e agl’Immortali amica!<br />
Tutto il Cielo t’udìa quando al marito
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
and looks upon her with much greater bliss<br />
as she begins to move her lips to say:<br />
“Grateful to Heaven for her man’s return<br />
from the cold rivers, fatherland <strong>of</strong> swans,<br />
my noble Queen to the three virgin Graces<br />
is <strong>of</strong>fering the whiteness <strong>of</strong> this Swan.”<br />
Welcome the Bird, O lads, and lay him down<br />
on the clear waters murmuring around<br />
the altar and the forest: let him be<br />
lord <strong>of</strong> our stream, and let the waves bring forth<br />
his graceful ways and innocence. To all<br />
who gaze upon him may this happy Swan<br />
say, “I am beauty’s symbol.” Happily<br />
dancing, O graceful maidens, pluck the leaves<br />
<strong>of</strong> every rosebush, every myrtle tree<br />
along the winding stream, and cast them all<br />
over the stream itself, thus laying stumbles<br />
<strong>of</strong> blossoms right before the fleeting bird<br />
sailing on pinions <strong>of</strong> pure, dazzling snow,<br />
and, dearly treasuring the sweetest bud<br />
he chooses for you with his purple beak,<br />
conceal it on your breast. Of all the birds<br />
that love air, lakes and meadows equally,<br />
the Swan is gentle king: most affably<br />
he rules his subjects in the Graces’ realm,<br />
smiles at his wingèd mates and joyfully<br />
watches the scornful eagles overhead.<br />
Over his back the fish in sliver spree<br />
most safely wriggle, loving him as guest<br />
when he at daybreak tries their deeper waves<br />
in search <strong>of</strong> fresher cleansings that may lure<br />
upon his feathers the new-risen sun.<br />
Crown him with lilies!<br />
For the beauteous rite<br />
he was donated by Her Ladyship,<br />
who in her villa fresh with linden trees<br />
(lovable plants propitious to cool shades<br />
as well as sanctity <strong>of</strong> wedded love)<br />
in sadness nourished him: from the small lake<br />
the Swan had run to her, causing a ripple<br />
on the immobile waters underneath<br />
her laurel trees. O virtues’ ornament<br />
there in her royal palace <strong>of</strong> Milan!<br />
O (while the Gods allowed it) ever-pleasant<br />
harbor to weeping mortals, gentle mother<br />
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guerreggiante a impedir l’Elba ai nemici<br />
pregavi lenta l’invisibil Parca<br />
che accompagna gli Eroi, vaticinando<br />
l’inno funereo e l’alto avello e l’armi<br />
più terse e giunti alla quadriga i bianchi<br />
destrieri eterni a correre l’Eliso.<br />
Ma come Marte, quando entro le navi<br />
rispingeva gli Achei, vide sul vallo<br />
fra un turbine di dardi Aiace solo,<br />
fumar di sangue; e ove dirùto il muro<br />
dava più varco a’ Teucri, ivi attraverso<br />
piantarsi; e al suon de’ brandi, onde intronato<br />
avea l’elmo e lo scudo, i vincitori<br />
impäurir del grido; e rincalzarli<br />
fra le dardanie faci arso e splendente;<br />
scagliar rotta la spada, e trarsi l’elmo<br />
e fulminar immobile col guardo<br />
Ettore, che perplesso ivi si tenne:<br />
tal dell’Ausonio Re l’inclito alunno<br />
fra il lutto e il tempestar lungo di Borea<br />
si fe’ vallo dell’Elba, e minacciando<br />
il trïonfo indugiava e le rapine<br />
dello Scita ramingo oltre la Neva.<br />
Quinci indignato il sol torce il suo carro,<br />
quando Orïone predator dell’Austro<br />
sovra l’Orsa precipita e abbandona<br />
corrucciosi i suoi turbini e il terrore<br />
sul deserto de’ ghiacci orridi, d’alto<br />
silenzio e d’ossa e armate esuli larve.<br />
Sdegnan chi a’ fasti di fortuna applaude<br />
le Dive mie, e sol fan bello il lauro<br />
quando Sventura ne corona i prenci.<br />
Ma più alle Dive mie piace quel carme<br />
che d’egregia beltà l’alma e le forme<br />
con la pittrice melodia ravviva.<br />
Spesso per l’altre età, se l’idïoma<br />
d’Italia correrà puro a’ nepoti,<br />
(è vostro, e voi, deh! lo serbate, o Grazie!)<br />
tento ritrar ne’ versi miei la sacra<br />
danzatrice, men bella allor che siede,<br />
men di te bella, o gentil sonatrice,<br />
men amabil di te quando favelli,<br />
o nutrice dell’api. Ma se danza,<br />
vedila! tutta l’armonia del suono
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
to three sweet regal Graces, the most fair<br />
<strong>of</strong> the king’s daughters, deathless Heaven’s friend!<br />
All the Gods heard your plea when for your husband,<br />
at war to keep the foe from Elba away,<br />
you raised your prayer to the unseen Fate<br />
that, marching with the heroes, prophesies<br />
a hymn, a l<strong>of</strong>ty tomb, most shining arms,<br />
and, yoked to their quadriga, snow-white steeds<br />
to tread, eternal, the Elysian Fields.<br />
But as, when pushing the Acheans back<br />
onto their ships, Mars on the wall saw Ajax,<br />
bleeding, alone within a storm <strong>of</strong> darts,<br />
stand where a breach had made more Trojans rush,<br />
and, in the midst <strong>of</strong> swords resounding high<br />
on shield and helmet, frighten with his shout<br />
and chase the winners through Dardanian flames<br />
that made him most resplendent as he burned,<br />
until he hurled his broken blade at last,<br />
removed his helmet, and with flashing gaze<br />
made Hector stop, perplexed: in such a way<br />
the lustrous pupil <strong>of</strong> Ausonia’s King<br />
through Boreas’ wailing and lugubrious storm<br />
made Elba his own wall whence a while longer<br />
beyond the Neva with his threat he kept<br />
the Scythians’ triumphant plundering.<br />
The Sun now sways his chariot from here,<br />
mad when Orion with his preying winds<br />
precipitously falls upon the Bear<br />
unleashing all its wrathful, dreadful gales<br />
on deserts <strong>of</strong> horrendous glaciers, high<br />
silence, and bones, and ghosts <strong>of</strong> warring men.<br />
My Goddesses abhor those who exalt<br />
Fortune’s bright lavishness: they only make<br />
splendid the wreath that crowns grief-tested kings.<br />
But, most <strong>of</strong> all, my Goddesses delight<br />
in hymns that with depictive melody<br />
waken to l<strong>of</strong>ty beauty soul and flesh.<br />
Oft for the future ages—if the tongue<br />
<strong>of</strong> Italy retain its purity<br />
(‘t is yours, O Graces; therefore keep it so)—<br />
in these my very lines I try to limn<br />
the sacred dancing lady, oh, less fair<br />
when she sits down, less beautiful than you,<br />
O gentle harpsichordist, less endearing<br />
than you, O foster mother <strong>of</strong> the bees,<br />
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scorre dal suo bel corpo, dal sorriso<br />
della sua bocca; e un moto, un atto, un vezzo<br />
manda agli sguardi venustà improvvisa.<br />
E chi pinger la può? Mentre a ritrarla<br />
pongo industre lo sguardo, ecco m’elude,<br />
e le carole che lente disegna<br />
affretta rapidissima, e s’invola<br />
sorvolando su’ fiori; appena veggio<br />
il vel fuggente biancheggiar fra’ mirti.<br />
Inno terzo<br />
Pallade -<br />
I<br />
Pari al numero lor volino gl’inni<br />
alle vergini sante, armonïosi<br />
del peregrino suono uno e diverso<br />
di tre favelle. Intento odi, Canova;<br />
ch’io mi veggio d’intorno errar l’incenso,<br />
qual si spandea sull’are a’ versi arcani<br />
d’Anfïone: presente ecco il nitrito<br />
de’ corsieri dircèi; benché Ippocrene<br />
li dissetasse, e li pascea dell’aure<br />
Eolo, e prenunzia un’aquila volava,<br />
e de’ suoi freni li adornava il Sole,<br />
pur que’ vaganti Pindaro contenne<br />
presso il Cefiso, ed adorò le Grazie.<br />
Fanciulle, udite, udite: un lazio Carme<br />
vien danzando imenei dall’isoletta<br />
di Sirmïone per l’argenteo Garda<br />
sonante con altera onda marina,<br />
da che le nozze di Pelèo, cantate<br />
nella reggia del mar, l’aureo Catullo<br />
al suo Garda cantò. Sacri poeti,<br />
a me date voi l’arte, a me de’ vostri<br />
idïomi gli spirti, e co’ toscani<br />
modi seguaci adornerò più ardito<br />
le note istorie, e quelle onde a me solo<br />
siete cortesi allor che dagli antiqui<br />
sepolcri m’apparite, illuminando<br />
d’elisia luce i solitari campi<br />
ove l’errante Fantasia mi porta<br />
a discernere il vero. Or ne preceda<br />
Clio, la più casta delle Muse, e chiami<br />
consolatrici sue meco le Grazie.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
while still you speak. But if she dances, oh,<br />
the whole harmonious power <strong>of</strong> the sound<br />
explodes through her fair body and her smile:<br />
each lovely gesture, every graceful turn<br />
gives unexpected pleasure to the eyes.<br />
But who can ever paint her? Ah, the more<br />
I try to hold her beauty in my glance,<br />
the more she baffles me: her dancing steps,<br />
until now slow, become a sudden whirl<br />
and just as breeze on blooms she vanishes:<br />
I hardly see her veil now disappear<br />
as a white gleam among the myrtle trees.<br />
Hymn Three<br />
Pallas<br />
I<br />
Let now the hymns in equal number soar<br />
to yonder holy virgins with the wondrous<br />
sound <strong>of</strong> the same yet diverse music <strong>of</strong><br />
three languages. Canova, hear me still:<br />
I feel the incense all about me spread<br />
such as was strewn on altars when Amphion’s<br />
mysterious lines were sung: the neighing’s here<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Dircean steeds which Hippocrene<br />
refreshed with its own streams, Eolus fed<br />
with winds, and the Sun quickened with his spurs<br />
while, high above, an eagle showed the way.<br />
‘T was Pindar tamed the others, running wild<br />
near the Cephisus, and adored the Graces.<br />
And listen, girls, you too: a Latin Hymn<br />
out <strong>of</strong> the little isle <strong>of</strong> Sirmio<br />
comes with a rhythm <strong>of</strong> a wedding feast<br />
over the Garda <strong>of</strong> the silver light,<br />
whose waters proudly sound as sea-born waves<br />
since golden-voiced Catullus told his lake<br />
<strong>of</strong> Peleus’ nuptials sung beneath the sea.<br />
Give, sacred poets, all your art to me,<br />
to me the spirit <strong>of</strong> your different tongues,<br />
and, bolder than before, I will adorn<br />
with Tuscan elegance the well-known tales<br />
and those that you reveal to me alone<br />
as you appear out <strong>of</strong> the ancient tombs<br />
casting Elysian light on lonely lands<br />
whereto my wandering fantasy has brought me,<br />
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Come se a’ raggi d’Espero amorosi<br />
fuor d’una mìrtea macchia escon secrete<br />
e tortorelle mormorando a’ baci,<br />
guata dall’ombra l’upupa e sen duole,<br />
fuggono quelle impaurite al bosco;<br />
così le Grazie si fuggian tremando.<br />
Fu lor ventura che Minerva allora<br />
risaliva que’ balzi, al bellicoso<br />
Scita togliendo il nume suo. Di stragi<br />
su’ canuti, e di vergini rapite,<br />
stolto! il trionfo pr<strong>of</strong>anò che in guerra<br />
giusta il favore della Dea gli porse.<br />
Delle Grazie s’avvide e della fuga<br />
immantinente, e dietro ad un’opaca<br />
rupe il cocchio lasciava, e le sue quattro<br />
leonine poledre; ivi lo scudo<br />
depose, e la fatale ègida, e l’elmo,<br />
e inerme agli occhi delle Grazie apparve.<br />
- Scendete, disse, o vergini, scendete<br />
al mar, e venerate ivi la Madre;<br />
e dolce un lutto per Orfeo nel core<br />
vi manderà, che obblierete il vostro<br />
terror, tanto ch’io rieda a <strong>of</strong>frirvi un dono,<br />
né più vi <strong>of</strong>fenda Amore. - E tosto al corso<br />
diè la quadriga, e la rattenne a un’alta<br />
reggia che al par d’Atene ebbe già cara;<br />
or questa sola ha in pregio, or quando i Fati<br />
non lasciano ad Atene altro che il nome.<br />
II<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
E a me un avviso Eufrosine, cantando,<br />
porge, un avviso che da Febo un giorno<br />
sotto le palme di Cirene apprese.<br />
Innamorato, nel pierio fonte<br />
guardò Tiresia giovinetto i fulvi<br />
capei di Palla, liberi dall’elmo,<br />
coprir le rosee disarmate spalle;<br />
sentì l’aura celeste, e mirò l’onde<br />
lambir a gara della Diva il piede,<br />
e spruzzar riverenti e paurose<br />
la sudata cervice e il casto petto,<br />
che i lunghi crin discorrenti dal collo<br />
coprian, siccome li moveano l’aure.<br />
Ma né più rimirò dalle natìe
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
searching for truth. Let Clio come now first –<br />
the chastest <strong>of</strong> the Muses – and with me<br />
let her invoke the Graces’ soothing ease.<br />
.........................................................................<br />
As in the glimmer <strong>of</strong> the Evening Star<br />
from the dark thickness <strong>of</strong> the myrtle trees<br />
murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss<br />
till, watched by the resentful hoopoe, back<br />
into the forest terrified they flee:<br />
in such a way the frightened Graces ran.<br />
But luckily for them, right at that time<br />
Minerva climbed those very hills again<br />
to take her mighty deity away<br />
from fighting Scythians whose victory,<br />
which she had granted for a rightful war,<br />
had madly been pr<strong>of</strong>aned by rape <strong>of</strong> women<br />
and slaughter <strong>of</strong> unarmed white-haired old men.<br />
Noticing the three Graces in their flight,<br />
behind a darkened rock she hid at once<br />
the four lionine mares that pulled her coach;<br />
helmet and shield and breastplate she laid down<br />
and wholly bare before the Graces stood.<br />
“Go down,” she said, “dear virgins, to the sea,<br />
go down, and worship your own Mother there.<br />
Such a sweet grief for Orpheus’s death<br />
will she inspire in your hearts, you’ll soon<br />
forget your terror till I here return<br />
with a dear present for you; nor will Love<br />
<strong>of</strong>fend you any longer.” Thus she spurred<br />
her fast quadriga forward till she reached<br />
a l<strong>of</strong>ty royal palace dear to her<br />
as much as Athens – her sole cherished home<br />
now that the Fates gave Athens but a name.<br />
II<br />
...................................................................<br />
Singing, Euphrosyne now counsels me<br />
as she herself was counseled long ago<br />
by Phoebus underneath Cyrene’s palms.<br />
Enamored, down in the Pierian spring<br />
youthful Tiresias, one day, caught sight<br />
<strong>of</strong> Pallas’ sunlit hair that, helmet-free,<br />
fell loose upon her rosy shoulders bare:<br />
a breeze from heaven felt he as he saw<br />
the waves that vied to kiss the Goddess’ feet<br />
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cime eliconie il cocchio aureo del Sole,<br />
né per la coronèa selva di pioppi<br />
guidò a’ ludi i garzoni, o alle carole<br />
l’anfïonie fanciulle; e i capri e i cervi<br />
tenean securi le beote valli,<br />
chè non più il dardo suo dritto fischiava,<br />
però che la divina ira di Palla<br />
al cacciator col cenno onnipotente<br />
avvinse i lumi di perpetua notte.<br />
Tal destino è ne’ fati. Ahi! senza pianto<br />
l’uomo non vede la beltà celeste.<br />
III<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Isola è in mezzo all’oceàn, là dove<br />
sorge più curvo agli astri; immensa terra,<br />
come è grido vetusto, un dì beata<br />
d’eterne messi e di mortali altrice.<br />
Invan la chiede all’onde oggi il nocchiero,<br />
or i nostri invocando or dell’avverso<br />
polo gli astri; e se illuso è dal desio,<br />
mira albeggiar i suoi monti da lunge,<br />
e affretta i venti, e per l’antica fama<br />
Atlantide l’appella. Ma da Febo<br />
detta è Palladio Ciel, che da la santa<br />
Palla Minerva agli abitanti irata,<br />
cui il ricco suolo e gl’imenei lascivi<br />
fean pigri all’arti e sconoscenti a Giove,<br />
dentro l’Asia gli espulse, e l’aurea terra<br />
cinse di ciel pervio soltanto ai Numi.<br />
Onde, qualvolta per desìo di stragi<br />
si fan guerra i mortali, e alla divina<br />
libertà danno impuri ostie di sangue;<br />
o danno a prezzo anima e brandi all’ire<br />
di tiranni stranieri, o a fera impresa<br />
seguon avido re che ad innocenti<br />
popoli appresta ceppi e lutto a’ suoi;<br />
allor concede le Gorgòni a Marte<br />
Pallade, e sola tien l’asta paterna<br />
con che i regi precorre alla difesa<br />
delle leggi e dell’are, e per cui splende<br />
a’ magnanimi eroi sacro il trionfo.<br />
Poi nell’isola sua fugge Minerva,<br />
e tutte Dee minori, a cui diè Giove<br />
d’esserle care alunne, a ogni gentile
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
and, reverent and hesitant, then sprinkled<br />
her still-perspiring face and virgin breast<br />
which her long-streaming hair, tossed by the wind,<br />
protected from man’s gaze. But nevermore<br />
was he to watch the chariot <strong>of</strong> the Sun<br />
golden above his native Helicon<br />
nor would he through Coronis’ poplar trees<br />
lead youngsters any longer to the game<br />
or Amphionian maidens to the dance.<br />
Through the Boeotian valleys rams and deer<br />
roamed safely ever since, for nevermore<br />
did his dart whistle straight up in the air:<br />
heeding the might <strong>of</strong> her omnipotence,<br />
Athena’s godly wrath had then and there<br />
bandaged the hunter’s eyes with endless night.<br />
Such is the Fates’ decree. Through tears alone<br />
must man behold celestial beauty here,<br />
III<br />
There is an island in mid-ocean, right<br />
where its most rounded waves rise to the stars –<br />
according to old tales a boundless land<br />
one day inhabited by men and blessed<br />
with everlasting vegetation. Now,<br />
although invoking stars <strong>of</strong> either pole,<br />
the seaman cannot see it any more;<br />
only, if still deluded by desire,<br />
from far away he scans its whitened peak<br />
and, therefore trying to outspeed the winds,<br />
he calls Atlantis what Apollo named<br />
Heaven <strong>of</strong> Pallas, for it was Minerva<br />
who, fully angered by those dwellers made<br />
by wealthy soil and most lascivious love<br />
thankless to Jove and heedless <strong>of</strong> the arts,<br />
expelled them all into the Asian woods,<br />
girding our golden planet with a sky<br />
accessible to Deities alone.<br />
Therefore, whenever thirst for bloodshed makes<br />
these mortal creatures one another fight<br />
or when to heavenly freedom they lift up<br />
unholy hosts <strong>of</strong> blood or for a price<br />
yield soul and sword to wrath <strong>of</strong> foreign kings<br />
or follow in ferocious enterprises<br />
a greedy tyrant eager to enchain<br />
innocent nations and oppress his own:<br />
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studio ammaestra: e quivi casti i balli,<br />
quivi son puri i canti, e senza brina<br />
i fiori e verdi i prati, ed aureo il giorno<br />
sempre, e stellate e limpide le notti.<br />
Chiamò d’intorno a sé le Dive, e a tutte<br />
compartì l’opre del promesso dono<br />
alle timide Grazie. Ognuna intenta<br />
agl’imperî correa: Pallade in mezzo<br />
con le azzurre pupille amabilmente<br />
signoreggiava il suo virgineo coro.<br />
Attenuando i rai aurei del sole,<br />
volgeano i fusi nitidi tre nude<br />
Ore, e del velo distendean l’ordito.<br />
Venner le Parche di purpurei pepli<br />
velate e il crin di quercia; e di più trame<br />
raggianti, adamantine, al par de l’etre<br />
e fluide e pervie e intatte mai da Morte,<br />
trame onde filan degli Dei la vita,<br />
le tre presàghe riempiean la spola.<br />
Né men dell’altre innamorata, all’opra<br />
Iri scese fra’ Zefiri; e per l’alto<br />
le vaganti accogliea lucide nubi<br />
gareggianti di tinte, e sul telaio<br />
pioveale a Flora a effigïar quel velo;<br />
e più tinte assumean riso e fragranza<br />
e mille volti dalla man di Flora.<br />
E tu, Psiche, sedevi, e spesso in core,<br />
senz’aprir labbro, ridicendo: “Ahi, quante<br />
gioie promette, e manda pianto Amore!”,<br />
raddensavi col pettine la tela.<br />
E allor faconde di Talia le corde,<br />
e Tersicore Dea, che a te dintorno<br />
fea tripudio di ballo e ti guardava,<br />
eran conforto a’ tuoi pensieri e a l’opra.<br />
Correa limpido insiem d’Èrato il canto<br />
da que’ suoni guidato; e come il canto<br />
Flora intendeva, e sì pingea con l’ago.<br />
Mesci, odorosa Dea, rosee le fila;<br />
e nel mezzo del velo ardita balli,<br />
canti fra ‘l coro delle sue speranze<br />
Giovinezza: percote a spessi tocchi<br />
antico un plettro il Tempo; e la danzante<br />
discende un clivo onde nessun risale.<br />
Le Grazie a’ piedi suoi destano fiori,<br />
a fiorir sue ghirlande: e quando il biondo
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
‘t is then, surrendering to Mars her Gorgons,<br />
Athena brandishes her father’s spear<br />
whereby, preceding monarchs, she defends<br />
altars and laws, thus rendering a true<br />
and noble hero’s triumph ever bright.<br />
Back to her island then Minerva runs,<br />
where many minor Goddesses, by Jove<br />
sent as dear pupils to her, she instructs<br />
in every gentle task: chaste dancing there<br />
is seen, chaste music heard; no frost <strong>of</strong>fends<br />
ever the flowers or the verdant lawns;<br />
in golden sunshine the whole day remains<br />
with ever-limpid, ever-starry nights.<br />
She bade her Goddesses around her come,<br />
and then assigned to all part <strong>of</strong> the work<br />
for the completion <strong>of</strong> the gift already<br />
promised to the shy Graces solemnly.<br />
Each, most attentive, to her bidding ran.<br />
Right in the middle, Pallas amiably<br />
over her virgins watched with chaste, blue eyes.<br />
Spinning the golden sun, ray after ray,<br />
three naked Hours their lustrous spindles twirled,<br />
lengthening thus the texture <strong>of</strong> a veil.<br />
With oak-leaves aureoled, in purple clad,<br />
came the foreseeing Fates, and soon they filled<br />
the long-awaiting spool with threads as bright<br />
and varied and celestial as the sky,<br />
fluent and pervious yet Death-untouched –<br />
threads all the Gods employ when spinning life.<br />
No less enamored than the others, down<br />
came Iris with the Breezes to that toil:<br />
reaching for wandering, refulgent clouds<br />
with one another vying for new tints,<br />
she down to Flora rained them one by one,<br />
hers to depict the veil with; Flora’s touch<br />
lent them new sheen and fragrance as they took<br />
on countless faces. And you, too, sat down,<br />
O Psyche, <strong>of</strong>ten saying in your heart,<br />
though uttering no sound, “O Love! O Love!<br />
You promise pleasure but give only tears,”<br />
and with a comb you thickened every thread<br />
while, comforting your work and all your thoughts,<br />
with eloquence Thalia plucked her chords<br />
and heavenly Terpsichore, enrapt,<br />
in boundless jubilation danced about you.<br />
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crin t’abbandoni e perderai ‘l tuo nome,<br />
vivran que’ fiori, o Giovinezza, e intorno<br />
l’urna funerea spireranno odore.<br />
Or mesci, amabil Dea, nivee le fila;<br />
e ad un lato del velo Espero sorga<br />
dal lavor di tue dita; escono errando<br />
fra l’ombre e i raggi fuor d’un mìrteo bosco<br />
due tortorelle mormorando ai baci;<br />
mirale occulto un rosignuol, e ascolta<br />
silenzïoso, e poi canta imenei:<br />
fuggono quelle vereconde al bosco.<br />
Mesci, madre dei fior, lauri alle fila;<br />
e sul contrario lato erri co’ specchi<br />
dell’alba il sogno; e mandi a le pupille<br />
sopite del guerrier miseri i volti<br />
de la madre e del padre allor che all’are<br />
recan lagrime e voti; e quei si desta,<br />
e i prigionieri suoi guarda e sospira.<br />
Mesci, o Flora gentile, oro alle fila;<br />
e il destro lembo istorïato esulti<br />
d’un festante convito: il Genio in volta<br />
prime coroni agli esuli le tazze.<br />
Or libera è la gioia, ilare il biasmo,<br />
e candida è la lode. A parte siede<br />
bello il Silenzio arguto in viso e accenna<br />
che non volino i detti oltre le soglie.<br />
Mesci cerulee, Dea, mesci le fila;<br />
e pinta il lembo estremo abbia una donna<br />
che con l’ombre e i silenzi unica veglia;<br />
nutre una lampa su la culla, e teme<br />
non i vagiti del suo primo infante<br />
sien presagi di morte; e in quell’errore<br />
non manda a tutto il cielo altro che pianti.<br />
Beata! ancor non sa quanto agl’infanti<br />
provido è il sonno eterno, e que’ vagiti<br />
presagi son di dolorosa vita.<br />
Come d’Èrato al canto ebbe perfetti<br />
Flora i trapunti, ghirlandò l’Aurora<br />
gli aerei fluttuanti orli del velo<br />
d’ignote rose a noi; sol la fragranza,<br />
se vicino è un Iddio, scende alla terra.<br />
E fra l’altre immortali ultima venne<br />
rugiadosa la bionda Ebe, costretti<br />
in mille nodi fra le perle i crini,<br />
silenzïosa, e l’anfora converse:
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
Escorted by those sounds, Erato’s song<br />
soared limpid in the air, and with her needle<br />
Flora depicted what the singing meant.<br />
Weave, fragrant Goddess, weave now rosy threads,<br />
and, painted in the middle <strong>of</strong> the veil,<br />
let ever-daring, ever-dancing Youth<br />
join in the singing chorus <strong>of</strong> her hopes.<br />
Time <strong>of</strong>t and dully strikes his ancient lyre<br />
while down a hill that no one climbs again<br />
the dancing maiden’s coming. At her feet<br />
the Graces waken blossoms, that she may<br />
replenish all her garlands happily.<br />
Oh, when your hair will lose its golden glow,<br />
and you, sweet Youth, will lose your very name,<br />
living and living still, those very flowers<br />
around a tomb will shed their final scent.<br />
Now, lovely Goddess, weave snow-dazzling threads,<br />
and from your fingers’ effort let at once<br />
Hesperus on the veil’s right side arise:<br />
through rays and shadows out <strong>of</strong> myrtle trees<br />
murmuring turtle-doves come forth to kiss;<br />
unseen, a nightingale sees them, instead,<br />
listens in silence and then sings <strong>of</strong> love:<br />
bashful, into the forest back they flee.<br />
Mother <strong>of</strong> wreaths, weave laurel leaves with hreads,<br />
and let Dream linger on the veil’s left side<br />
with Dawn’s own mirrors, flashing on the weary<br />
eyes <strong>of</strong> a sleeping warrior the grieving<br />
images <strong>of</strong> a mother and a father<br />
<strong>of</strong>fering at the altar vows and tears:<br />
suddenly he awakes and with a sigh<br />
looks at poor prisoners he still must guard.<br />
Weave, gentle Flora, gold along with threads,<br />
and let the painted right side now exult<br />
with a most joyous banquet: fast about,<br />
let Genius crown the exiles’ goblets first.<br />
Now free is all the joy, cheerful the blame,<br />
and genuine the praise. There in a corner<br />
beautiful Silence sits alone and stares,<br />
wittily warning all to keep their words<br />
under the secret safety <strong>of</strong> the ro<strong>of</strong>.<br />
Weave, Goddess, now, weave now cerulean threads,<br />
and let the painted left side now reveal<br />
a woman in the darkness still awake:<br />
holding a lamp over a cradle lit,<br />
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e dell’altre la vaga opra fatale<br />
rorò d’ambrosia; e fu quel velo eterno.<br />
Poi su le tre di Citerea Gemelle<br />
tutte le Dive il diffondeano; ed elle<br />
fra le fiamme d’amore invano intatte<br />
a rallegrar la terra; e sì velate<br />
apparian come pria vergini nude.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
E il velo delle Dee manda improvviso<br />
un suon, qual di lontana arpa, che scorre<br />
sopra i vanni de’ Zeffiri soave;<br />
qual venìa dall’Egeo per l’isolette<br />
un’ignota armonia, poi che al reciso<br />
capo e al bel crin d’Orfeo la vaga lira<br />
annodaro scagliandola nell’onde<br />
le delire Baccanti; e sospirando<br />
con l’Ionio propinquo il sacro Egeo<br />
quell’armonia serbava, e l’isolette<br />
stupefatte l’udiro e i continenti.<br />
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .<br />
Addio, Grazie: son vostri, e non verranno<br />
soli quest’inni a voi, né il vago rito<br />
obblieremo di Firenze ai poggi<br />
quando ritorni April. L’arpa dorata<br />
di novello concento adorneranno,<br />
disegneran più amabili carole<br />
e più beato manderanno il carme<br />
le tre avvenenti ancelle vostre all’ara:<br />
e il fonte, e la frondosa ara e i cipressi,<br />
e i serti e i favi vi fien sacri, e i cigni<br />
votivi, e allegri i giovanili canti<br />
e i sospir delle Ninfe. Intanto, o belle<br />
o dell’arcano vergini custodi<br />
celesti, un voto del mio core udite.<br />
Date candidi giorni a lei che sola,<br />
da che più lieti mi fioriano gli anni,<br />
m’arse divina d’immortale amore.<br />
Sola vive al cor mio cura soave,<br />
sola e secreta spargerà le chiome<br />
sovra il sepolcro mio, quando lontano<br />
non prescrivano i fati anche il sepolcro.<br />
Vaga e felice i balli e le fanciulle<br />
di nera treccia insigni e di sen colmo,<br />
sul molle clivo di Brianza un giorno<br />
guidar la vidi; oggi le vesti allegre
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
her dear first infant’s wailings she mistakes<br />
for presages <strong>of</strong> death, and in that error<br />
sends nothing but her weeping to the sky.<br />
Blessèd is she, who has not yet been told<br />
that infants would prefer eternal sleep,<br />
and that their cries bespeak a life <strong>of</strong> woe.<br />
As Flora at the song <strong>of</strong> Erato<br />
perfected her embroidery, bright Dawn<br />
wreathed the whole veil’s s<strong>of</strong>t-waving, airy hems<br />
with roses we know not — whose scent alone,<br />
only if God is near, can reach the earth.<br />
And, last <strong>of</strong> all immortal Goddesses,<br />
blonde Hebe full <strong>of</strong> dew descended there:<br />
her hair held fast by myriads <strong>of</strong> pearls,<br />
she emptied the whole amphora she brought<br />
and, silent still, with sweet ambrosia sprinkled<br />
the fated, famous toil <strong>of</strong> all the other<br />
Divinities: that veil eternal grew.<br />
Finally all the Goddesses displayed<br />
before the Graces the whole wondrous work;<br />
in Love’s high flames in the meantime unscorched,<br />
around they wandered to cheer up the earth<br />
and, though so veiled, bare virgins were they still.<br />
The holy veil gives out a sudden sound<br />
as <strong>of</strong> a distant harp most dearly borne<br />
on Zephyrs’ wings: in such a guise, one day,<br />
throughout the isles <strong>of</strong> the Aegean Sea<br />
an unknown harmony was faintly heard<br />
after the fierce Bacchantes bound the lyre<br />
that once was Orpheus’ to his handsome hair<br />
sad plunged it down into the flowing waves:<br />
sighing together with the near Ionian,<br />
instantly the Aegean’s holy tide<br />
echoed that melody till every isle<br />
and Continent was full <strong>of</strong> all its awe.<br />
Graces, farewell. Our festive hymns are yours,<br />
but you will have much more lest we forget<br />
upon the hills <strong>of</strong> Florence this sweet rite<br />
when April’s here again. Your three enchanting<br />
maidens around the altar will adorn<br />
the golden harp with still a modern sound;<br />
still more delightful dances will they weave,<br />
and a more blissful song raise to you still.<br />
Spring, leafy altar, votive swan and wreath,<br />
dark cypress trees and golden honeycombs,<br />
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obliò lenta e il suo vedovo coro.<br />
E se alla Luna e all’etere stellato<br />
più azzurro il scintillante Èupili ondeggia,<br />
il guarda avvolta in lungo velo, e plora<br />
col rosignuol, finché l’Aurora il chiami<br />
a men soave tacito lamento.<br />
A lei da presso il piè volgete, o Grazie,<br />
e nel mirarvi, o Dee, tornino i grandi<br />
occhi fatali al lor natìo sorriso.
Joseph Tusiani/Ugo Foscolo<br />
youngsters’ glad hynms and nymphs’ amorous sighs –<br />
may all this be most sacred unto you.<br />
Listen meanwhile, O fair, celestial guardians<br />
<strong>of</strong> the mysterious deep, to this my prayer.<br />
Give days <strong>of</strong> calmness to the only one<br />
who, since my years in greater gladness bloomed,<br />
divinely burned me with immortal love.<br />
Alone she lives, dear burden to my heart,<br />
just as alone and dear she will unbind<br />
her tresses on my sepulcher unless<br />
Fate also sets my tomb out <strong>of</strong> man’s reach.<br />
One day l saw her, beautiful and blest,<br />
on the sweet hillock <strong>of</strong> Brianza lead<br />
dark-haired, full-breasted maidens to the dance;<br />
today, instead, she has forsaken all<br />
her cheerful dresses and her girls’ lament.<br />
And if with bluer light the Eupili<br />
shines to the Moon and to the starry air,<br />
clad in long raiments, she still looks at him,<br />
and with the nightingale still sadly weeps<br />
till Dawn recalls him to a lesser grief.<br />
Graces, come down and walk along with her,<br />
and while, O Goddesses, she looks at you,<br />
let her big, fatal eyes return at once<br />
to the familiar beauty <strong>of</strong> their smile.<br />
291
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294<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
Simonetta Agnello Hornby. The Almond Picker. Translated by Alastair<br />
McEwen. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 2005. Pp. x + 315.<br />
With his translation <strong>of</strong> the novel La mennulara (published by Feltrinelli<br />
in 2002), Alastair McEwen gives English speakers the chance to experience<br />
an enticing slice <strong>of</strong> life in Sicily in the 1960s. Taking place over just<br />
one month in the small hill town <strong>of</strong> Roccacolomba, The Almond Picker <strong>of</strong>fers<br />
a prismatic portrait <strong>of</strong> Maria Rosalia Inzerillo through the reactions<br />
<strong>of</strong> numerous townspeople as they learn <strong>of</strong> her death. Known as “la<br />
mennulara,” (Sicilian for almond picker), Inzerillo was the domestic <strong>of</strong> a<br />
wealthy family, in addition to being a mysterious figure around town.<br />
Rumors regarding her true nature run the gamut, from an illiterate and<br />
insubordinate servant to the lover <strong>of</strong> her boss, to a drug smuggler with<br />
ties to the mafia. Everyone in town seems to know only a small piece <strong>of</strong><br />
the story - if that much - and no one can see beyond their own noses to the<br />
truth. Each character adds another piece to the narrative puzzle until the<br />
surprising truth is revealed. With this - her debut novel - Hornby has<br />
produced an intriguing story full <strong>of</strong> colorful characters, one that surely<br />
merits comparison with some <strong>of</strong> her Sicilian literary predecessors, namely<br />
Verga and De Roberto.<br />
Simonetta Agnello Hornby was born in Sicily but has lived in London<br />
for over 30 years and therefore makes a nod to her new home in the<br />
dedication <strong>of</strong> the translation, which is quite different from that <strong>of</strong> the original.<br />
The <strong>Italian</strong> version is simply “alla British Airways,” whereas the translation<br />
is dedicated as follows: “I owe the ‘illumination’ that led me to this<br />
novel to a delay in the Palermo-London flight <strong>of</strong> 2 September 2000. For<br />
this reason – and perhaps also for the aerial link that permits me to keep<br />
up the connections with both my countries – British Airways has a special<br />
place in this book.” This same text appears in the back <strong>of</strong> the <strong>Italian</strong> version,<br />
included among the acknowledgements, but in the English version it<br />
is placed at the very front <strong>of</strong> the book, so that Hornby may reach out to<br />
her British readers (the translation was also published in the United Kingdom<br />
by Viking in 2005) and establish a personal relationship with them,<br />
drawing them into the intimate setting <strong>of</strong> the story as well.<br />
Indeed, McEwen’s translation reflects his own British usage and the<br />
result is a very appropriate European feel to the language. Overall, the<br />
reader does not get the sense <strong>of</strong> reading a translation, but <strong>of</strong> a British<br />
novel written some forty years ago. There is no question that McEwen -<br />
whose other translations include numerous works by Umberto Eco, as<br />
well Tabucchi, Veronesi, and Baricco - is an accomplished translator who<br />
has mastered George Steiner’s concept <strong>of</strong> hermeneutic motion in translation<br />
(After Babel [Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998]). In this work, McEwen has<br />
gone beyond Steiner’s first three stages <strong>of</strong> trust, aggression and incorporation<br />
to the final stage, restitution. That is to say that he allows the beauty<br />
and character <strong>of</strong> the original language to show through in the translation,
Book Reviews 295<br />
rather than providing a sterile version in which the original language is<br />
assimilated into the language <strong>of</strong> the translation, thereby disappearing completely.<br />
This is no easy feat with The Almond Picker, because McEwen must<br />
actually acknowledge the linguistic variation between <strong>Italian</strong> and the Sicilian<br />
dialect spoken by many characters in the novel, including Mennulara<br />
herself. This task was made somewhat easier for him by the author, who<br />
chose not to include too much Sicilian dialogue. The use <strong>of</strong> Sicilian is referred<br />
to more <strong>of</strong>ten than it is actually included, but the differences between<br />
the two languages are very important from a sociolinguistic standpoint<br />
– <strong>Italian</strong> is the refined language <strong>of</strong> the upper class in Sicily at the<br />
time, whereas Sicilian is the rough speech <strong>of</strong> the uneducated and the illiterate,<br />
like Mennulara. An interesting example <strong>of</strong> this distinction appears<br />
on page 200 <strong>of</strong> the translation:<br />
“’You’re right: it’s not easy to explain her. There’s no<br />
doubt that she was remarkably intelligent and she had even<br />
acquired a degree <strong>of</strong> learning: a complex woman. At home we<br />
used to laugh at her secrecy. My father, who in the carabinieri,<br />
would say that if she had been born a man she would have<br />
become a mafia boss; he said she was a fimmina di panza, a woman<br />
who could keep her mouth shut.’<br />
Gerlando Mancuso spoke the gentle <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>of</strong> the<br />
mainland, with a French r, but he pronounced the Sicilian<br />
expression perfectly. Gian Maria pointed this out tactfully.<br />
‘Unfortunately, we were born and brought up in the north. I<br />
have never been in Sicily, but we kept up the dialect to<br />
communicate with Aunt Rosalia, who stubbornly refused to<br />
speak <strong>Italian</strong>. I think she was ashamed <strong>of</strong> her lack <strong>of</strong> education<br />
and her limited knowledge <strong>of</strong> etiquette.’ Again Mancuso feared<br />
that he had spoken out <strong>of</strong> turn, giving the impression that a<br />
Sicilian accent was unusual, and turning to Lilla he added, ‘If I<br />
may say so, signora Bolla, your Sicilian accent shows through<br />
delightfully in your perfect <strong>Italian</strong>.’”<br />
COLCLOUGH SANDERS<br />
Kean University<br />
Lucio Mariani. Echoes <strong>of</strong> Memory: Selected Poems <strong>of</strong> Lucio Mariani. Bilingual<br />
Edition. Translated by Anthony Molino. Middletown (CT):<br />
Wesleyan University Press, 2003. Pp. 118.<br />
Echoes <strong>of</strong> Memory includes an introductory translator’s note, as well<br />
as an afterword by Thomas Harrison. The text <strong>of</strong>fers the reader the original<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> with a facing English translation. When possible, I find, it is<br />
always best to include the original language, along with the target lan-
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guage. This becomes especially important with Mariani’s poetry, for his<br />
linguistic richness and his use <strong>of</strong> mythologies (old and new), when contrasted<br />
with the English-language rendition, make for an exceptional exercise<br />
in the whole process <strong>of</strong> translation, which entails more than just<br />
conversion from one lexical term to its equivalent in another language..<br />
Because Mariani’s cultural and historical references might escape the non-<br />
<strong>Italian</strong>, Molino has rightly chosen to include a list <strong>of</strong> brief notes at the end<br />
<strong>of</strong> the volume. One, however, could argue that his gloss is inconsistent in<br />
its intent. For example, he includes an explanation <strong>of</strong> the city <strong>of</strong> Elea (in<br />
the poem “Ombre dei martiri”), but does not mention the other city cited<br />
along with it, Miletus. For that matter, if Elea needs a brief note, should<br />
not the mention <strong>of</strong> the Cimmerians (in “Ephesus”) merit one, as well?<br />
Molino’s endeavor, at any rate, is commendable. After all, Mariani’s<br />
poetry speaks as much <strong>of</strong> antiquity as it does <strong>of</strong> contemporary society,<br />
and is therefore replete with archaic terms as much as with unusual coinages<br />
that reflect a man comfortable in moving between the two worlds.<br />
The translator is forced to accommodate a whole range <strong>of</strong> polysemous<br />
expressions, all the while paying mind to structures that equally betray<br />
Mariani’s dual allegiances. In his afterword, Harrison notes Mariani’s “remoteness,”<br />
which “is harbored in time and culture. It calls for archaeological<br />
excavation, a critique <strong>of</strong> tradition. Like Janus bifrons, Mariani the<br />
Roman has double vision, looking forward and backward” (p. 111). I would<br />
argue further that Mariani is organic and yet isolated, like a man alone on<br />
a cold planet (somewhere) making connections with humanity through<br />
memories <strong>of</strong> even the most banal detail as well as through classical allusions.<br />
For, what is an allusion but an ‘echo <strong>of</strong> memory’. For this reason, I<br />
wonder if Mariani could be likened to Quasimodo in his own time; the<br />
Quasimodo <strong>of</strong> Acque e terre, <strong>of</strong> Erato e Apòllion. Generally speaking,<br />
Mariani’s verses are difficult and reveal a sort <strong>of</strong> hermetic quality (though<br />
not necessarily in the political sense) <strong>of</strong> a Quasimodo or a Montale. However,<br />
occasionally his sensibility for post-modern affect reveals itself in<br />
lines <strong>of</strong> utter nonsense like: “Per lui / l’amo talvolta e l’ancora comunque<br />
/ son superfetazioni” (“For him, / the hook, at times, and the anchor /<br />
always, are superfetations.”).<br />
Judging the quality <strong>of</strong> Molino’s translations is another matter. He<br />
values fidelity to structure, verse length and nuance. For example, in<br />
“Alfabeti della resa” (“Alphabets <strong>of</strong> Surrender”), Molino <strong>of</strong>fers a clever<br />
solution for imitating Mariani’s anaphora in the original. “Piú voci” (“Several<br />
Voices”) serves as an example <strong>of</strong> attention to verse length: where<br />
Mariani had left “sento” on a line <strong>of</strong> its own (without the optional subject<br />
pronoun, “io”), Molino chose to mirror this in the English, even at the risk<br />
<strong>of</strong> seeming grammatically awkward, with “felt.” His insistence works to<br />
instill the same sense <strong>of</strong> quiet obliviousness ‘felt’ in pondering the “workings<br />
<strong>of</strong> silence.” (This remains consistent with Molino’s ability to handle<br />
verbal phrases quite well.) In terms <strong>of</strong> lexicon, Molino chooses to keep the
Book Reviews 297<br />
more obscure terms like “caique” and “meltemi” (for “caicco” and<br />
“meltemi,” respectively) in his poem “Mikonos,” rather than opting for<br />
more accessible, if not less accurate, terminologies for the corresponding<br />
boat and wind. In the same poem, he also recognizes the limits <strong>of</strong> the<br />
translator as he avoids a rendition <strong>of</strong> “lagartiglie”; instead, he shifts the<br />
untranslatable modulation <strong>of</strong> “lizards” into the adjective, opting for<br />
“brownish” in place <strong>of</strong> ‘brown’ for “brune.” In “Morte di cane” (“Dog’s<br />
Death”), though “whimsy” is not a direct equivalent <strong>of</strong> “allegria,” Molino<br />
elects the word so that it will form an alliteration with “war” to mirror<br />
that found in Mariani’s “allegria e guerra.” But this attention, even fidelity,<br />
to detail is quite irregularly applied.<br />
One drawback <strong>of</strong> Molino’s translations figures as the general drawback<br />
<strong>of</strong> all translators. At times, reticent to reduce their own value, translators<br />
highlight themselves instead <strong>of</strong> the original writer’s intent. That is,<br />
if the equivalence <strong>of</strong> the languages facilitates the translation as a natural,<br />
logical transfer from original to target, a translator almost feels obligated<br />
to impede that flow; even when a perfectly good equivalent exists a variant<br />
will be chosen. In one case, perhaps Molino does it for the sake <strong>of</strong><br />
euphony or realism, rendering the ‘I’ in “e io là nello stesso abbandono /<br />
del cane grattato” with the ‘me’ in “and me, mellow as a dog / whose<br />
back has been stroked.” He renders “platano” first as “sycamore” in<br />
“Vienna 29 febbraio” and then as merely “tree” in “Faire part.” Why use<br />
two options, none <strong>of</strong> which is the plane-tree? One might question the failure<br />
to include an equivalent <strong>of</strong> “magistero” in the line “per magistero<br />
naturale” from “Odisseide”; in the English, this expression becomes “by<br />
its very nature.” Why not include an approximation <strong>of</strong> “magistero?” Why<br />
insist on “brier” for “tralcio” in “L’eternità” when Molino had proven his<br />
mettle with more difficult vocabulary? This may be all well and good, but<br />
in other cases, avoiding the direct equivalent changes the meaning, causing<br />
the reader to miss a potential thematic connection. When, in “Lettera”<br />
(“Letter”), Molino translates the “songino” as “blackberry” instead <strong>of</strong> as<br />
the valerian plant, or the setwall, he was not simply replacing the name <strong>of</strong><br />
a plant which would have seemed obscure to English speakers with a<br />
more well-known one. For in the same poem the “tiglio” (linden tree)<br />
appears four lines later. The fact that both plants are known for their causing<br />
sleepiness is missed because the first term was changed to a different<br />
plant, and the linden tree was altogether changed to simply “berries” – an<br />
aspect <strong>of</strong> many a non-specific plant. Again, in “Miele” (“Honey”), Molino<br />
inexplicably avoids an ‘easy’ equivalent. For “sciarra ignobile” he writes<br />
“muck and mayhem.” Nothing <strong>of</strong> the moist, organic nature <strong>of</strong> muck is<br />
found in “sciarra” (admittedly, an uncommon term, but one for which<br />
“mayhem” seemed appropriate enough). Yet, many <strong>of</strong> these examples can<br />
be understandable, for <strong>of</strong>ten as a translator works his craft, a new work<br />
emerges. There must have been something in the integral text that allowed<br />
for this insight in Molino’s interpretation/translation. What is less excus-
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able, however, is a complete misreading or misunderstanding <strong>of</strong> the text.<br />
In “Verso un concerto in Val d’Orcia” (“Concert-going, Orcia Valley”),<br />
we find such a case. Molino, perhaps in haste, translated “al tessere dei<br />
merli e delle bigie” as “In a weave <strong>of</strong> blackbirds and chariots.” He has<br />
mistaken barred warblers for chariots. No doubt the similarity <strong>of</strong> “bigie”<br />
(warblers, sylvia nisoria) to “bighe” (chariots) was heightened by the reference<br />
to “legendary battle” in the successive line.<br />
Weighed in the whole <strong>of</strong> the work, however, it will be up to a reader<br />
to decide if these are slight matters or heavy ones. But these examples<br />
which I have just cited are few and far between in the course <strong>of</strong> Molino’s<br />
work. His translations, overall, are more than adequate. In fact, as I have<br />
already noted, the fact that he even attempted to transcribe Mariani into<br />
English speaks volumes on his confidence and range in <strong>Italian</strong>. If one were<br />
to be dissuaded from reading Molino’s translations based on these few<br />
objective criticisms <strong>of</strong> some <strong>of</strong> the linguistic inconsistencies found within<br />
them, one would be missing an important voice in <strong>Italian</strong> poetry; a voice<br />
which reminds us that in every line we write, we are old and new, constantly<br />
re-evaluating the power <strong>of</strong> rhetoric. In this sense, Mariani reminds<br />
us to avoid surrendering to the codifications <strong>of</strong> language in his “Alphabets<br />
<strong>of</strong> Surrender”: “salvo un grave allarme che detta nuovi alfabeti della<br />
resa / e fa piangere a ognuno il suo poema” (“If not for the grave alarm<br />
that sounds new alphabets <strong>of</strong> surrender / And prompts each <strong>of</strong> us to cry<br />
the poem that is ours alone.”).<br />
GREGORY PELL<br />
H<strong>of</strong>stra university<br />
Dante, Alighieri. Inferno. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander,<br />
intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2000.<br />
Dante, Alighieri. Purgatorio. Trans. Robert Hollander and Jean Hollander,<br />
intro., and notes Robert Hollander. New York: Doubleday, 2003.<br />
<strong>Translation</strong> is a challenging and complex enterprise <strong>of</strong>ten resulting<br />
in failure. Even the most excellent effort, at best, accurately approximates<br />
the communicative power and beauty <strong>of</strong> the original. In an attempt to<br />
find the right balance between rhyme and tone, sense and syntax, too<br />
<strong>of</strong>ten the translator sacrifices one for the sake <strong>of</strong> the other. In the case <strong>of</strong><br />
the “poema sacro”, Dante’s Commedia, the challenges and complexities<br />
are compounded by its intricate form, “terza rima” and polymorphic sense.<br />
Given the fact that so many will only know Dante in English, the<br />
choice <strong>of</strong> translation is most crucial. The decision <strong>of</strong> which translation to<br />
choose is further complicated by the fact that through the years, several<br />
fine translations have surfaced. John Sinclair’s (1939), Robert Durling’s<br />
(1996), and Charles Singleton’s (1970) prose versions are well-recognized<br />
standards. The list <strong>of</strong> verse translations is a longer one and includes those<br />
by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1867), John Ciardi (1954), Robert
Book Reviews 299<br />
Pinskey (1994), Mark Musa (1995), Allen Mandelbaum (1980), Michael<br />
Palma, and the one presently under review, Robert Hollander and Jean<br />
Hollander’s, Inferno (2000), Purgatorio (2003).<br />
The collaborative effort <strong>of</strong> a renowned Dante scholar, Robert Hollander,<br />
and poet, Jean Hollander, this new verse translation with facingpage<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> text, is a crisp, clear, and graceful rendition <strong>of</strong> the first two<br />
canticles <strong>of</strong> Dante’s masterpiece. With an original intent to “clean up”<br />
John D. Sinclair’s prose translation <strong>of</strong> its archaism, the end result is a harmonious<br />
balance between sense and syntax, accuracy and poetry, a synthesis<br />
between scholarship and grace. Without pretense <strong>of</strong> replicating the<br />
<strong>Italian</strong> original, the Hollanders unveil Dante to the English speaking reader<br />
with the least amount <strong>of</strong> distortion possible, thus, their use <strong>of</strong> free verse.<br />
Remaining faithful both to the sense and feeling <strong>of</strong> the original, without<br />
compromising the naturalness <strong>of</strong> English syntax, the translation accomplishes<br />
the not so easy task <strong>of</strong> rendering the vitality, force and briskness <strong>of</strong><br />
Dante’s idiom, while avoiding forced poetry, dismissing such expressions<br />
as, “the good master said.” A few examples from Inferno and Purgatorio<br />
will serve to convey the clarity and poetic beauty <strong>of</strong> this translation.<br />
Hollanders’ faultless and emphatic “wretchedness” (miseria) fully<br />
captures Francesca’s moral tragic pathos as she recalls happier times:<br />
“…There is no greater sorrow/than to recall our time <strong>of</strong> joy/ in wretchedness-<br />
and this your teacher knows.” (Inferno 5, 121-123). Compare<br />
Longfellow’s less pregnant “misery”, and archaic “thy Teacher”: “…There<br />
is no greater sorrow/Than to be mindful <strong>of</strong> the happy time/ In misery,<br />
and that thy Teacher knows”, and Ciardi’s feeble “pain” and more obscure<br />
“double grief” “The double grief <strong>of</strong> a lost bliss/ is to recall its happy<br />
hour in pain.”<br />
Farinata’s majestic pride in Inferno X is succinctly exposed with Hollanders’<br />
choice <strong>of</strong> “utter scorn” (gran dispetto), “chest” (petto), “brow”<br />
(fronte), also depicting a clear image <strong>of</strong> the deliberate and composed movement<br />
<strong>of</strong> his rising torso, “was rising” for (s’ergea): “And he was rising,<br />
lifting chest and brow/ as though he held all Hell in utter scorn.” Here<br />
again, Longfellow resorts to a more antiquated “despite” “uprose”, and<br />
rhetorical “breast” “front.” Ciardi’s less weighty “disrespect” diminishes<br />
the sense, requiring him to add “great chest great brow” so as to convey<br />
the depth <strong>of</strong> Farinata’s pride, just as his less accurate “he rose” leads him<br />
to add “above the flame.” Other such examples are also found in Purgatorio.<br />
In Purgatorio XXX, 139-141, Hollander accurately renders the sense<br />
<strong>of</strong> the <strong>Italian</strong> text without sacrificing poetry. Beatrice’s depth <strong>of</strong> love and<br />
commitment are clearly conveyed as she recounts for the angels her descent<br />
to Limbo for the sake <strong>of</strong> Dante’s salvation: “And so I visited the<br />
threshold <strong>of</strong> the dead/ and, weeping, <strong>of</strong>fered up my prayers to the one<br />
who has conducted him this far.” Compare the <strong>Italian</strong>, “Per questo visitai<br />
l’uscio d’i morti,/e a colui che l’ha qua su’ condotto,/ li preghi miei,<br />
piangendo, furon porti.” Conciseness and naturalness <strong>of</strong> sound are
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achieved with: “And so” “Per questo”, “threshold” “l’uscio”, and “to the<br />
one who has conducted him this far” “e a colui che l’ha qua su’ condotto.”<br />
For the same terzina, Singleton uses the less accurate “gate” and medieval<br />
“hither”, while Mandelbaum chooses “gateway”, and gives a rather unclear<br />
if not awkward rendition: “..to him who guided him above/my<br />
prayers were <strong>of</strong>fered, even as I wept.”<br />
It is my hope that the above examples have sufficed to convince the prospective<br />
reader <strong>of</strong> the great merits <strong>of</strong> this translation. In addition to clarity, precision,<br />
and eloquence, it also <strong>of</strong>fers an informative introduction, canto outlines,<br />
and in-depth notes, drawn from Robert Hollander’s many years <strong>of</strong> scholarship<br />
and teaching. The Hollanders’ translation is a true work <strong>of</strong> mastery, a gift <strong>of</strong><br />
poetry <strong>of</strong>fered in a spirit <strong>of</strong> grace to novices and pr<strong>of</strong>essionals alike.<br />
We anxiously await the Hollanders’ translation <strong>of</strong> Paradiso-Robert<br />
Hollander is presently completing the commentary to the third canticle.<br />
FINA MODESTO<br />
Humanism and secularization from Petrarch to Valla, by Riccardo<br />
Fubini. Translated by Martha King. Durham: Duke University Press, 2003,<br />
pp. viii + 306.<br />
Riccardo Fubini, pr<strong>of</strong>essor <strong>of</strong> Renaissance History at the University<br />
<strong>of</strong> Florence, has authored several fundamental studies on <strong>Italian</strong> Humanism.<br />
This volume, first published in Rome in 1990 and originally entitled<br />
Umanesimo e secolarizzazione da Petrarca a Valla, serves as a collection <strong>of</strong><br />
essays on <strong>Italian</strong> Humanism, almost all <strong>of</strong> which had been previously<br />
published in journals and symposia proceedings between 1966 and 1987.<br />
Although composed <strong>of</strong> individual essays, this is, without doubt, a coherently<br />
argued book. Dedicated to writers <strong>of</strong> great stature such as Petrarca,<br />
Poggio Bracciolini, Lorenzo Valla, Flavio Biondo and Leonardo Bruni, this<br />
volume concentrates on a unique topic <strong>of</strong> research which Fubini defines<br />
as the following: “My primary aim is to identify an ideological movement<br />
that develops out <strong>of</strong> Petrarch’s work and that is given its most precise and<br />
structured configuration by the aforementioned authors <strong>of</strong> the first half <strong>of</strong><br />
the fifteenth century” (p. 1).<br />
The movement analyzed by Fubini is not Humanism in its entirety,<br />
but, rather, only a part <strong>of</strong> it: “I have not intended to propose a paradigm<br />
<strong>of</strong> humanism in my discussion <strong>of</strong> the humanist movement from Petrarch<br />
to Valla; indeed quite the opposite. Existing simultaneously and in competition<br />
is a patristic humanism that finds its most authoritative voice in<br />
Ambrogio Traversari, as well as a genuine expression in the letters <strong>of</strong><br />
Francesco Pizolpasso” (p. 7). In particular, Fubini is strongly interested in<br />
defining the intellectual movement that, in the first half <strong>of</strong> the fifteenth<br />
century proposed and defended a secular model <strong>of</strong> culture. The <strong>Italian</strong>
Book Reviews 301<br />
historian states very clearly that the secularization <strong>of</strong> culture defended by<br />
Bruni, Bracciolini and Valla must not be interpreted as a condemnation <strong>of</strong><br />
religion, but rather as a criticism <strong>of</strong> the principle <strong>of</strong> authority dogmatically<br />
imposed by the Church and by its cultural institutions. According to<br />
Fubini, secularization consists both in a strong reaction, begun with<br />
Petrarch, against the late-medieval Aristotelism and in a criticism <strong>of</strong> the<br />
medieval Christian tradition and its rigid scholastic method: “Such insistence<br />
on Petrarch’s influence also requires the explanation <strong>of</strong> an important<br />
term in the title <strong>of</strong> this collection, that is, the concept <strong>of</strong> “secularization”.<br />
This term is not intended to denote any kind <strong>of</strong> an all-embracing<br />
Weltanschauung. Still less is it to be understood as the opposite <strong>of</strong> “religiousness,”<br />
even though in the sphere <strong>of</strong> secularized culture religious devotion<br />
seems weakened and at times even absent. This investigation is<br />
not concerned with religious sentiments (or even with those irreligious),<br />
but rather with indirect cultural aspects. The opposite <strong>of</strong> “secularization,”<br />
as it is defined here, would be “prescriptive,” to be understood in the<br />
sense <strong>of</strong> a culture that obeys canons established by the common agreement<br />
<strong>of</strong> ecclesiastical, ethical, and educational institutions” (pp. 2-3).<br />
In other words, Humanism and Secularization from Petrarch to Valla<br />
describes and documents the rise <strong>of</strong> “an avant-garde culture, establishing<br />
itself outside a definite institutional base, conscious <strong>of</strong> its separate existence<br />
and marked by the refusal <strong>of</strong> age-old scholastic and ecclesiastical<br />
traditions” (p. 44). Each <strong>of</strong> the five essays in the English version (which, as<br />
we will see, is different from the <strong>Italian</strong> edition) is devoted to a particular<br />
episode that represents a significant moment <strong>of</strong> discussion <strong>of</strong> the idea <strong>of</strong><br />
authority. In the first chapter “Consciousness <strong>of</strong> the Latin Language among<br />
Humanists. Did the Romans Speak Latinî”, the debate between Leonardo<br />
Bruni and Flavio Biondo on the true nature <strong>of</strong> Latin spoken and written in<br />
ancient Rome shows that the humanists had a pragmatic idea <strong>of</strong> language<br />
that was opposed to the grammatical and rhetorical categorizations <strong>of</strong> the<br />
scholastic tradition. The second chapter (“Humanist Intentions and Patristic<br />
References. Some Thoughts on the Moral Writings <strong>of</strong> the Humanists”) is devoted<br />
to the innovative use <strong>of</strong> classical authors and <strong>of</strong> the Church Fathers’<br />
writings shown in the works <strong>of</strong> Petrarch, Bruni, Bracciolini and Valla.<br />
Chapters Three and Four are on Poggio Bracciolini’s production (“Poggio<br />
Bracciolini and San Bernardino. The Themes and Motives <strong>of</strong> a Polemic”; “The<br />
Theater <strong>of</strong> the World in the Moral and Historical Thought <strong>of</strong> Poggio<br />
Bracciolini”). In the first essay, Fubini analyzes the individualism <strong>of</strong> Poggio<br />
and his polemic – witnessed in the dialogue De Avaritia – against the rigid<br />
morality <strong>of</strong> the Observant movement and, in particular, against the teaching<br />
<strong>of</strong> the Franciscan Observant preacher Bernardino da Siena. In the second<br />
essay, Fubini composes a complex and articulate portrait <strong>of</strong> Bracciolini<br />
and his literary and historical production, with special attention paid to<br />
the dialogue De variegata fortune. The last chapter “An Analysis <strong>of</strong> Lorenzo<br />
Valla” De Voluptate. His Sojourn in Pavia and the Composition <strong>of</strong> the Dia-
302<br />
<strong>Journal</strong> <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> <strong>Translation</strong><br />
logue”) describes the history <strong>of</strong> the composition <strong>of</strong> the famous De voluptate<br />
and its “ideological dissidence” (p. 172).<br />
In this volume, Fubini not only shows his encyclopedic knowledge,<br />
but he also distinguishes himself for the pr<strong>of</strong>ound analysis <strong>of</strong> the complex<br />
cultural phenomenon that was Humanism, and provides us with an important<br />
lesson <strong>of</strong> critical methodology.<br />
The translation is very clear and precise despite the complexity <strong>of</strong><br />
the original characterized by an evident preference for digressions as well<br />
as for long and articulated sentences. It is noteworthy that all the quotations<br />
have been translated into English (while instead, in the original edition,<br />
they remain in Latin). Thanks to this precious translation (enriched<br />
also by numerous bibliographical updates), Fubini’s fascinating and seminal<br />
work is now available for a broader public, and not restricted to <strong>Italian</strong><br />
readers. Moreover, it is unfortunate that the English edition does not<br />
reproduce exactly the <strong>Italian</strong> volume in which there are several chapters<br />
and appendixes that have not been translated. For the sake <strong>of</strong> precision,<br />
the missing chapters are as follows: the section entitled “La coscienza del<br />
latino. Postscriptum”, in which Fubini wrote a fundamental discussion <strong>of</strong><br />
Mirko Tavoni’s volume, Latino, grammatica, volgare. Storia di una questione,<br />
(1984); the chapter “Tra umanesimo e concili. L’epistolario di Francesco<br />
Pizolpasso” and the “Appendice” in which Fubini published important<br />
letters between the humanists Pier Candido Decembrio and Nicola di<br />
Acciapaccia; a very short “Appendice” to the aforementioned chapter “The<br />
Theater <strong>of</strong> the World in the Moral and Historical Thought <strong>of</strong> Poggio<br />
Bracciolini” in which an unpublished version <strong>of</strong> Poggio’s proem to the<br />
Istorie fiorentine is presented; lastly, the chapter “L’orazione di Poggio<br />
Bracciolini a Costanza sui vizi del clero (1917). Premessa e testo”.<br />
I hope that this book will be followed by translations <strong>of</strong> other essays<br />
published in Italy and yet still little known in America beyond a restricted<br />
group <strong>of</strong> specialists. I am not only thinking about the other fundamental<br />
volumes by Riccardo Fubini (Italia quattrocentesca. Politica e diplomazia<br />
nell’età di Lorenzo il Magnifico, Milano 1994; L’umanesimo italiano e i suoi<br />
storici. Origini rinascimentali-critica moderna, Milano 2001; Storiografia<br />
dell’Umanesimo in Italia da Leonardo Bruni ad Annio da Viterbo, Roma 2003),<br />
but am also referring to the groundbreaking studies <strong>of</strong> <strong>Italian</strong> scholars<br />
such as Mario Martelli (Angelo Poliziano. Storia e metastoria, Lecce, 1995 e<br />
Letteratua fiorentina del Quattrocento. Il filtro degli anni sessanta, Firenze, 1996),<br />
and Francesco Bausi (Machiavelli, Roma, 2005).<br />
ALESSANDRO POLCRI<br />
Fordham University<br />
1. During this period <strong>of</strong> time, Fubini also published the editions <strong>of</strong> Voltaire’s<br />
works (1964) and Poggio Bracciolini’s writings (1964-69). He also edited the first<br />
two volumes <strong>of</strong> the monumental edition <strong>of</strong> the epistolary <strong>of</strong> Lorenzo deí Medici<br />
(1977)..
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