Blog | D’Annunzio Translated by Lindley Williams Hubbell |
Hubbell in his youth had actually seen Duse and fell in love with her acting. Once again, this translation comes from The CD-ROM available from The Iris Press.
TO THE DIVINE ELEANORA DUSE
From the Italian of Gabriele D’Annunzio
In the vault which is filled with fates
like the cave where the Seers rest
beside the fountains of occult life;
in the fixed heavens which Michelangelo
peopled with adverse winds, with the great
breaths of enormous lungs, sitting between
the naked hero who feeds on victory
and, solitary as a beast, the prophet
from whom pours out the future like a river,
the sybil holds her book, shedding light
upon those two beside her, she is most
beautiful because in her deep womb
still sings the greek Apollo.
Thus in my heart I see her and desire
the most benignant one, when at her voice
the better part of me, the untiring soul,
turns into flame, and then I pray the god
that he maintain our arts’ integrity
as measureless as is our human pride,
and great imagination make my pages
worthy of her purest hand that holds them
and lifts them up to the undying light.
This is she that understands our good.
She says: Brother, your fate takes fire from me
when I shine out before the noisy mob,
clothed in your genius.
This is she that strings my clanging bow
with a new string that her own hands have twisted
and rubbed with wax to make it shoot straight.
Into my heart there comes a stubborn courage
and every morning I shoot the golden arrow
until it reaches its predestined mark.
Vainly around me the giggle of the fool
I hear, and the shower of stupid people’s praise
pours down upon me like a tiresome rain.
Well, let it pour. She takes away from me
all my suffering and every ignoble thought.
My will flies onward, winged with my disdain,
until it hits the mark.
Even if the enemy surrenders I give my sword
no truce. It is better that I live in arms,
springing up under redoubled blows.
The heroine is girdled with purple, not the olive.
It is right for her to follow in my steps
through a waving forest of lances and banners.
It is a pleasant thing, hidden in quiet orchards,
to dream in the shadow, looking idly at the soft
feather that trembles in the garrulous nest,
but to the fighter better the surge and the outcry,
the panting of the mob and the flecked red foam
and fury of the great horse with wings
and the Gorgon and Fate’s love without pity.
O proud my song, I stand firm in the field
against savage hate and false love,
and will laugh aloud as I get my revenge.
To her who knows well enough my worth
go and say this: The truth not put in words
burns at my center for your eyes alone.
Your brother asks that in your heart you keep
the torches high, that he may see his way
while he makes ready for a greater task.