D'Annunzio

A review of a recent biography of aesthete practitioner Gabriele D'Annunzio (above right, next to his protege, Mussolini, in 1925) -- with no mention of Trump! Ah, but the review is dated 2013, when a Trump presidency was unimaginable. (Berlusconi's term as Italy's prime minister ended in 2011; you would think he might warrant a mention.)

A highlight of Margaret MacMillian's Paris 1919 is her summary (pp. 302-303) of D'Annunzio's fifteen month residency at the Croatian port of Fiume (now Rijeka). According to MacMillan, "priests demanded the right to marry and young women stayed out all night. The city reverberated, said observers, with the sounds of lovemaking." Not surprising, given that Europe was still "fresh" from what H. G. Wells called "the war to end all wars."

Below is Stefi's translation of D'Annunzio's 1902 poem "La Pioggia nel Pineto".

Rain in the Pinewoods

Be silent. At the edge

of the woods I do not hear

the human words you say;

I hear new words

spoken by droplets and leaves

far away.

Listen. It rains

from the scattered clouds.

It rains on the briny, burned

tamarisk,

it rains on the pine trees

scaly and rough, 

it rains on the divine

myrtle,

on the bright ginestra flowers

gathered together,

on the junipers full of

fragrant berries, 

it rains on our sylvan

faces, 

it rains on our

bare hands

on our light

clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed, 

liberates, 

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled you

yesterday, that beguiles me today, 

oh Hermione. 

Can you hear? The rain falls

on the solitary

vegetation

with a crackling noise that lasts

and varies in the air

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage.

Listen. With their singing, the cicadas

are answering this weeping, 

this southern wind weeping

that does not frighten them, 

and nor does the grey sky.

And the pine tree

has a sound, the myrtle

another one, the juniper

yet another, different

instruments

under countless fingers.

And we are immersed 

in the sylvan spirit,

living the same

sylvan life;

and your inebriated face

is soft from the rain,

like a leaf,

and your hair is

is fragrant like the light

ginestra flowers,

oh terrestrial creature

called Hermione.

Listen, listen. The song

of the flying cicadas

becomes fainter

and fainter

as the weeping

grows stronger;

but a rougher song

rises from afar,

and flows in

from the humid remote shadow.

Softer and softer

gets weaker, fades away.

One lonely note

still trembles, fades away.

No one can hear the voice of the sea.

Now you can hear the silver rain

pouring in

on the foliage,

rain that purifies,

its roar that varies

according to the thicker,

less thick foliage.

Listen. 

The child of the air

is silent; but the child

of the miry swamp, the frog,

far away,

sings in the deepest of shadows

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on your lashes,

Hermione. 

It rains on your black lashes

as if you were weeping,

weeping from joy; not white

but almost green,

you seem to come out of the bark.

And life is in us fresh

and fragrant,

the heart in our chests is like a peach

untouched

under the eyelids our eyes

are like springs in the grass

and the teeth in our mouths

green almonds.

And we go from thicket to thicket, 

at a time together, at a time apart

(the vegetation, thick and vigorous,

entwines our ankles

entangles our knees)

who knows where, who knows where!

And it rains on our sylvan

faces, 

it rains on our

bare hands

on our light

clothes,

on the fresh thoughts

that our soul, renewed, 

liberates, 

on the beautiful fable

that beguiled me

yesterday, that beguiles you today, 

oh Hermione.