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| Maxfield Parrish, The Sugar-plum Tree, 1904 |
This is Bora Mici's original Italian to English translation of the poem L'amica di Nonna Speranza or Grandmother Hope's Friend by the Italian poet Guido Gozzano. This is Part 2. The poem describes the homecoming from school of a young boy's grandmother Speranza (Hope) and her best friend Carlotta, the romantic center of the boy's eclectic but familiar home life of mismatched objects and savory characters just before Italy's unification. The poem is peppered with literary allusions as well as historical ones.
Grandmother Hope’s Friend by Guido Gozzano, Part 2
That young king of Sardaigne is a man of great judgment indeed!—
“He is certainly a tireless soul…—he’s strong, he’s vigilant, he’s quick!—
“Is he handsome? — Not handsome not a bit…—He likes women above all…
“Hope!” (slowly leaning forward in a sibylline tone, as if begging your pardon)
“Carlotta! Go down into the garden: go and play badminton, go on!”
So the happy friends with a curtsey, in perfect poise,
respectfully leave the noise, of the uncles and aunts in a frenzy.
Alas! While they were at play, a birdie, that was hit much too hard,
never again came downward, from a nearby chestnut tree!
The friends lean over the balustrade, and look out at the Lake,
they dream of love awake, in lustrious daydreams in the shade.
“…if you only saw what teeth, what a smile! — How old? — Twenty-eight.
— A poet? She frequents of late, the salon of the Maffei countess. Been a while.
It certainly won’t die, the day won’t languish. It lights up the lawn
in velvet; like dawn, with bloody stigmatas of anguish;
finally it goes out, but slow. The mountains darken in a chorus:
the Sun sheds its gold flawless, the Moon dons silver aglow.
Oh Romantic Moon, behind a wispy cloud, you kiss the treetops
of the poplars arched in crops, like a child puzzled, young browed.
An entire past’s dream, settles into your crescent:
you are perhaps reminiscent, of the prints in a literary magazine.
Have you perhaps seen the empty houses, of Parisiana La Bella?
Perhaps in the latest novella, you are that which Young Werther espouses?
“Future dreams to come, sigh. — The lake has become more dense
with stars—…what do you think?…— I cannot dispense…—How would you like to die?
“Yes!—It seems like the sky reveals, more stars in the water, brighter.
Leaning over the rails feeling lighter, we dreamed between two azurine seals…
“It’s like I am floating: I am soaring above!… Do you know Mazzini…
— Do you like him?— What divine terzini… He gave me that book on love,
remember? that tells about how a guy, in love but without a farthing,
he kills himself for a darling, a darling who had the same name as I.
Carlotta! A name not elegant but sweet! Which like the perfumes I don’t disparage
you bring to life the carriage, the scarves, the crinoline, what a feat…
Oh grandmother’s friend I know, the flowerbeds where you were reading
the story of Jacopo misleading, in the tender book by Foscolo.
With such sadness and sorrow, in my notebook I mark the date:
the year is eighteen fifty on June twenty-eight, I immortalize you for the day and the morrow.
You stand as if ravished in a hymn; looking deeply into the sky,
and your index on your lip as you try a demeanor romantic and dim.
That day—Woe me!—you were wearing a pink gown,
to have your portrait taken down, by a photographer—What novelty!
But I can no longer see you in the flower, oh Grandmother’s friend! Where are you?
oh alone—so that maybe I too—may love out of love’s power.
