"Amicizia" by Vincenzo Cardarelli; "Friendship," by Vincenzo Cardarelli, English version, translated by LiteraryJoint

The poet Vincenzo Cardarelli, Portrait by Amerigo Bartoli, 1934

Friendship

We do not know each other. I think of those days

when, lost in time, we met,

of our regrettable intimacy.

We have always left each other

without goodbyes,

with regrets and excuses from far away. 

We indeed respected each other at pace,

cautious beasts,

skilled hunters,

to act laboriously 

our roles of strangers.

Despairing shyness,  

dizzy and insurmountable pauses. 

spoke, in our secrets,

of the avoided contact and vain enchantment. 

Something has always remained with us,

bitter vaunt

not to have caved in to our own abandonments,

something we have always missed.

From the collection "Poesie," 1942, from "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.

Amicizia 

Noi non ci conosciamo. Penso ai giorni

che, perduti nel tempo, c'incontrammo,

alla nostra incresciosa intimità.

Ci siamo sempre lasciati

senza salutarci,

con pentimenti e scuse da lontano.

Ci siam rispettati al passo,

bestie caute,

cacciatori affinati,

a sostenere faticosamente

la nostra parte di estranei.

Ritrosie disperanti,

pause vertiginose e insormontabili,

dicevan, nelle nostre confidenze,

il contatto evitato e il vano incanto.

Qualcosa ci è sempre rimasto,

amaro vanto

di non ceduto ai nostri abbandoni,

qualcosa ci è sempre mancato.

From the collection "Poesie," 1942, by Vincenzo Cardarelli.

"Gone Astray," by Anton Chekhov, from the Collection: "The Horse Stealer and Other Stories," by Anton Chekhov (Анто́н Па́влович Че́хов), Translated in English by Constance Garnett. Full text in English

 

Edvard Munch's "Anxiety," oil on canvas,1894, Munch Museum, Oslo

A COUNTRY village wrapped in the darkness of night. One o'clock strikes from the belfry. Two lawyers, called Kozyavkin and Laev, both in the best of spirits and a little unsteady on their legs, come out of the wood and turn towards the cottages.

"Well, thank God, we've arrived," says Kozyavkin, drawing a deep breath. "Tramping four miles from the station in our condition is a feat. I am fearfully done up! And, as ill-luck would have it, not a fly to be seen."

"Petya, my dear fellow. . . . I can't. . . . I feel like dying if
I'm not in bed in five minutes."

"In bed! Don't you think it, my boy! First we'll have supper and a glass of red wine, and then you can go to bed. Verotchka and I will wake you up. . . . Ah, my dear fellow, it's a fine thing to be married! You don't understand it, you cold-hearted wretch! I shall be home in a minute, worn out and exhausted. . . . A loving wife will welcome me, give me some tea and something to eat, and repay me for my hard work and my love with such a fond and loving look out of her darling black eyes that I shall forget how tired I am, and forget the burglary and the law courts and the appeal division . . . . It's glorious!"

"Yes—I say, I feel as though my legs were dropping off, I can scarcely get along. . . . I am frightfully thirsty. . . ."

"Well, here we are at home."

The friends go up to one of the cottages, and stand still under the nearest window.

"It's a jolly cottage," said Kozyavkin. "You will see to-morrow what views we have! There's no light in the windows. Verotchka must have gone to bed, then; she must have got tired of sitting up. She's in bed, and must be worrying at my not having turned up." (He pushes the window with his stick, and it opens.) "Plucky girl! She goes to bed without bolting the window." (He takes off his cape and flings it with his portfolio in at the window.) "I am hot! Let us strike up a serenade and make her laugh!" (He sings.) "The moon floats in the midnight sky. . . . Faintly stir the tender breezes . . . . Faintly rustle in the treetops. . . . Sing, sing, Alyosha! Verotchka, shall we sing you Schubert's Serenade?" (He sings.)

His performance is cut short by a sudden fit of coughing. "Tphoo! Verotchka, tell Aksinya to unlock the gate for us!" (A pause.) "Verotchka! don't be lazy, get up, darling!" (He stands on a stone and looks in at the window.) "Verotchka, my dumpling; Verotchka, my poppet . . . my little angel, my wife beyond compare, get up and tell Aksinya to unlock the gate for us! You are not asleep, you know. Little wife, we are really so done up and exhausted that we're not in the mood for jokes. We've trudged all the way from the station! Don't you hear? Ah, hang it all!" (He makes an effort to climb up to the window and falls down.) "You know this isn't a nice trick to play on a visitor! I see you are just as great a schoolgirl as ever, Vera, you are always up to mischief!"

"Perhaps Vera Stepanovna is asleep," says Laev.

"She isn't asleep! I bet she wants me to make an outcry and wake up the whole neighbourhood. I'm beginning to get cross, Vera! Ach, damn it all! Give me a leg up, Alyosha; I'll get in. You are a naughty girl, nothing but a regular schoolgirl. . . Give me a hoist."

Puffing and panting, Laev gives him a leg up, and Kozyavkin climbs in at the window and vanishes into the darkness within.

"Vera!" Laev hears a minute later, "where are you? . . . D—damnation!
Tphoo! I've put my hand into something! Tphoo!"

There is a rustling sound, a flapping of wings, and the desperate cackling of a fowl.

"A nice state of things," Laev hears. "Vera, where on earth did these chickens come from? Why, the devil, there's no end of them! There's a basket with a turkey in it. . . . It pecks, the nasty creature."

Two hens fly out of the window, and cackling at the top of their voices, flutter down the village street.

"Alyosha, we've made a mistake!" says Kozyavkin in a lachrymose voice. "There are a lot of hens here. . . . I must have mistaken the house. Confound you, you are all over the place, you cursed brutes!"

"Well, then, make haste and come down. Do you hear? I am dying of thirst!"

"In a minute. . . . I am looking for my cape and portfolio."

"Light a match."

"The matches are in the cape. . . . I was a crazy idiot to get into this place. The cottages are exactly alike; the devil himself couldn't tell them apart in the dark. Aie, the turkey's pecked my cheek, nasty creature!"

"Make haste and get out or they'll think we are stealing the chickens."

"In a minute. . . . I can't find my cape anywhere. . . . There are lots of old rags here, and I can't tell where the cape is. Throw me a match."

"I haven't any."

"We are in a hole, I must say! What am I to do? I can't go without my cape and my portfolio. I must find them."

"I can't understand a man's not knowing his own cottage," says Laev indignantly. "Drunken beast. . . . If I'd known I was in for this sort of thing I would never have come with you. I should have been at home and fast asleep by now, and a nice fix I'm in here. . . . I'm fearfully done up and thirsty, and my head is going round."

"In a minute, in a minute. . . . You won't expire."

A big cock flies crowing over Laev's head. Laev heaves a deep sigh, and with a hopeless gesture sits down on a stone. He is beset with a burning thirst, his eyes are closing, his head drops forward. . . . Five minutes pass, ten, twenty, and Kozyavkin is still busy among the hens.

"Petya, will you be long?"

"A minute. I found the portfolio, but I have lost it again."

Laev lays his head on his fists, and closes his eyes. The cackling of the fowls grows louder and louder. The inhabitants of the empty cottage fly out of the window and flutter round in circles, he fancies, like owls over his head. His ears ring with their cackle, he is overwhelmed with terror.

"The beast!" he thinks. "He invited me to stay, promising me wine and junket, and then he makes me walk from the station and listen to these hens. . . ."

In the midst of his indignation his chin sinks into his collar, he lays his head on his portfolio, and gradually subsides. Weariness gets the upper hand and he begins to doze.

"I've found the portfolio!" he hears Kozyavkin cry triumphantly.
"I shall find the cape in a minute and then off we go!"

Then through his sleep he hears the barking of dogs. First one dog barks, then a second, and a third. . . . And the barking of the dogs blends with the cackling of the fowls into a sort of savage music. Someone comes up to Laev and asks him something. Then he hears someone climb over his head into the window, then a knocking and a shouting. . . . A woman in a red apron stands beside him with a lantern in her hand and asks him something.

"You've no right to say so," he hears Kozyavkin's voice. "I am a lawyer, a bachelor of laws—Kozyavkin—here's my visiting card."

"What do I want with your card?" says someone in a husky bass. "You've disturbed all my fowls, you've smashed the eggs! Look what you've done. The turkey poults were to have come out to-day or to-morrow, and you've smashed them. What's the use of your giving me your card, sir?"

"How dare you interfere with me! No! I won't have it!"

"I am thirsty," thinks Laev, trying to open his eyes, and he feels somebody climb down from the window over his head.

"My name is Kozyavkin! I have a cottage here. Everyone knows me."

"We don't know anyone called Kozyavkin."

"What are you saying? Call the elder. He knows me."

"Don't get excited, the constable will be here directly. . . . We know all the summer visitors here, but I've never seen you in my life."

"I've had a cottage in Rottendale for five years."

"Whew! Do you take this for the Dale? This is Sicklystead, but Rottendale is farther to the right, beyond the match factory. It's three miles from here."

"Bless my soul! Then I've taken the wrong turning!"

The cries of men and fowls mingle with the barking of dogs, and the voice of Kozyavkin rises above the chaos of confused sounds:

"You shut up! I'll pay. I'll show you whom you have to deal with!"

Little by little the voices die down. Laev feels himself being shaken by the shoulder. . . .

"Alla Morte" by Vincenzo Cardarelli; "To Death," by Vincenzo Cardarelli, English version, translated by LiteraryJoint

A picture of Vincenzo Cardarelli

Presented below is "Alla Morte" (To Death), one of the most well known lyrics by Italian poet Vincenzo Cardarelli (pseudonym of Nazareno Caldarelli, May 1, 1887 - June 18, 1959.)

           To Death

Dying, yes,
not to be assaulted by death!
Dying, persuaded
that such a journey is the best.
And in that ultimate instant to be cheerful
like when one counts the minutes
of the wall clock at the station
and each of them is worth a century.
For death is the faithful spouse
that takes over the deceitful mistress,
we do not want to receive her as an intruder,
nor run away with her.
Too many a time we departed
without a goodbye!
On the verge of stepping, in a moment,
into the time
when even our memory
will desert us,
let us, oh Death, bid farewell to the world,
allow us to linger a moment.
The incommensurable step ought not be
precipitous.
The sheer thought of a sudden death
freezes my very blood.
Oh Death, do not clutch me away
rather announce yourself from afar
and, as a friend, take me
like the ultimate of my habitudes. 

From the collection "Poesie," 1942,From "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.
 

          Alla Morte

Morire sì, non essere aggrediti dalla morte.

Morire persuasi che un siffatto viaggio sia il migliore.

E in quell'ultimo istante essere allegri

come quando si contano i minuti

dell'orologio della stazione

e ognuno vale un secolo.

Poi che la morte è la sposa fedele

che subentra all'amante traditrice,

non vogliamo riceverla da intrusa,

né fuggire con lei.

Troppo volte partimmo

senza commiato!

Sul punto di varcare

in un attimo il tempo,

quando pur la memoria

di noi s'involerà,

lasciaci, o Morte, dire al mondo addio,

concedici ancora un indugio.

L'immane passo non sia

precipitoso.

Al pensier della morte repentina

il sangue mi si gela.

Morte non mi ghermire

ma da lontano annùnciati

e da amica mi prendi

come l'estrema delle mie abitudini.

Vincenzo Cardarelli, dalla raccolta "Poesie," 1942.

"An Enigmatic Nature," by Anton Chekhov, from the Collection: "The Horse Stealer and Other Stories," by Anton Chekhov (Анто́н Па́влович Че́хов), Translated in English by Constance Garnett. Full text in English

Русский: Повозка, запряжённая волами, в украинской степи

English: "Ox-carts in the Ukrainian steppe", Oil on canvas, 1888, by van Konstantinovich Aivazovsky (Russian: Ива́н Константи́нович Айвазо́вский, Armenian: Հովհաննես Այվազովսկի Hovhannes Ayvazovski; 29 July 1817 – 2 May 1900)

AN ENIGMATIC NATURE

 

ON the red velvet seat of a first-class railway carriage a pretty lady sits half reclining. An expensive fluffy fan trembles in her tightly closed fingers, a pince-nez keeps dropping off her pretty little nose, the brooch heaves and falls on her bosom, like a boat on the ocean. She is greatly agitated.

On the seat opposite sits the Provincial Secretary of Special Commissions, a budding young author, who from time to time publishes long stories of high life, or "Novelli" as he calls them, in the leading paper of the province. He is gazing into her face, gazing intently, with the eyes of a connoisseur. He is watching, studying, catching every shade of this exceptional, enigmatic nature. He understands it, he fathoms it. Her soul, her whole psychology lies open before him.

"Oh, I understand, I understand you to your inmost depths!" says the Secretary of Special Commissions, kissing her hand near the bracelet. "Your sensitive, responsive soul is seeking to escape from the maze of —— Yes, the struggle is terrific, titanic. But do not lose heart, you will be triumphant! Yes!"

"Write about me, Voldemar!" says the pretty lady, with a mournful smile. "My life has been so full, so varied, so chequered. Above all, I am unhappy. I am a suffering soul in some page of Dostoevsky. Reveal my soul to the world, Voldemar. Reveal that hapless soul. You are a psychologist. We have not been in the train an hour together, and you have already fathomed my heart."

"Tell me! I beseech you, tell me!"

"Listen. My father was a poor clerk in the Service. He had a good heart and was not without intelligence; but the spirit of the age —of his environment—vous comprenez?—I do not blame my poor father. He drank, gambled, took bribes. My mother—but why say more? Poverty, the struggle for daily bread, the consciousness of insignificance—ah, do not force me to recall it! I had to make my own way. You know the monstrous education at a boarding-school, foolish novel-reading, the errors of early youth, the first timid flutter of love. It was awful! The vacillation! And the agonies of losing faith in life, in oneself! Ah, you are an author. You know us women. You will understand. Unhappily I have an intense nature. I looked for happiness—and what happiness! I longed to set my soul free. Yes. In that I saw my happiness!"

"Exquisite creature!" murmured the author, kissing her hand close to the bracelet. "It's not you I am kissing, but the suffering of humanity. Do you remember Raskolnikov and his kiss?"

"Oh, Voldemar, I longed for glory, renown, success, like every— why affect modesty?—every nature above the commonplace. I yearned for something extraordinary, above the common lot of woman! And then—and then—there crossed my path—an old general—very well off. Understand me, Voldemar! It was self-sacrifice, renunciation! You must see that! I could do nothing else. I restored the family fortunes, was able to travel, to do good. Yet how I suffered, how revolting, how loathsome to me were his embraces—though I will be fair to him—he had fought nobly in his day. There were moments —terrible moments—but I was kept up by the thought that from day to day the old man might die, that then I would begin to live as I liked, to give myself to the man I adore—be happy. There is such a man, Voldemar, indeed there is!"

The pretty lady flutters her fan more violently. Her face takes a lachrymose expression. She goes on:

"But at last the old man died. He left me something. I was free as a bird of the air. Now is the moment for me to be happy, isn't it, Voldemar? Happiness comes tapping at my window, I had only to let it in—but—Voldemar, listen, I implore you! Now is the time for me to give myself to the man I love, to become the partner of his life, to help, to uphold his ideals, to be happy—to find rest—but—how ignoble, repulsive, and senseless all our life is! How mean it all is, Voldemar. I am wretched, wretched, wretched! Again there is an obstacle in my path! Again I feel that my happiness is far, far away! Ah, what anguish!—if only you knew what anguish!"

"But what—what stands in your way? I implore you tell me! What is it?"

"Another old general, very well off——"

The broken fan conceals the pretty little face. The author props on his fist his thought—heavy brow and ponders with the air of a master in psychology. The engine is whistling and hissing while the window curtains flush red with the glow of the setting sun.

"Incontro in circolare" by Vincenzo Cardarelli; "Encounter on the tramway," by Vincenzo Cardarelli, English version, translated in English by LiteraryJoint

"Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.

Encounter on the tramway

Tall, brunette, strong hips,
beneath a unpretentious coat,
the pretty girl confused
amongst the wretched crowd
of an inner ring's tramway car,
appeared wholly free from any trouble.
Standing on the corridor, keeping slightly apart, 
her legs like those of a statue
withstood any bump
as a solid bridge on a swollen river.
Not glory through her was revealed,
not frenzy of life or youth,
rather a decided and stern indifference
shone in her pensive and sharp eyes.
She was one of those 
Roman beauties
that are rare even in Rome,
where one can never meet them
without a dumb wonder.
It was a great secret
of life in Rome
that made its appearance in the least propitious place,
in its most dignified form.
Whence was coming, or whither was going
the pretty Roman with her
shiny and curled hair?
What profession could one ascribe to her?
Having shifted toward the door
she found someone to converse with
with familiarity.
And she was turning to me her shoulders,
high like stretched wings.
At the Colosseo she alighted with lightness, 
vanishing from my eyes, alas, forever.

From the collection "Poesie Aggiunte," 1949. From "Vincenzo Cardarelli: The Forgotten amongst the Great. A Collection of the Best Poems by Vincenzo Cardarelli, Translated in English," available as e-book on Amazon Kindle, iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch, on NOOK Book, on Kobo, and as printed, traditional edition through Lulu.
 

Incontro in circolare

Alta, bruna, fiancuta,

sotto un soprabito disadorno,

la bella ragazza confusa

nella misera folla

d'una vettura circolare interna,

pareva sorda a ogni affanno.

Ferma sul corridoio, un po' appartata,

le sue gambe di statua

sostenevano gli urti

come solido ponte un fiume in piena.

Non gloria in lei spirava,

non frenesia di vita o giovinezza,

ma una decisa e forte indifferenza

luceva nei suoi occhi assorti e aguzzi.

Era di quelle

romane bellezze

che son rare anche a Roma,

dove mai non s'incontrano

senza un muto stupore.

Era un grande segreto

della vita di Roma

che m'appariva in luogo men propizio,

nella forma più degna.

Donde veniva, ove andava

la bella romana chiomata

di lucidi e ricci capelli?

Quale mestiere o cura attribuirle?

Spostandosi verso l'uscio

trovò qualcuno con cui discorrere

famigliarmente.

E mi volgeva le spalle

alte com'ali tese.

Al Colosseo discese leggermente,

scomparendo ai miei occhi, oimé, per sempre.

Dalle raccolta "Poesie Aggiunte," 1949.