These are a few (!) of my favorite things ...

     'Tis the season for The Sound of Music to be shown on TV, though I'm not quite sure what-all it has to do with Christmas. Perhaps because it's a "family" movie, it seems appropriate to air it during a "family" time of year.

     At any rate, 'tis also the season for making lists (and, yes, checking them twice).

     My favorite novels and films are already listed in the left sidebar. So here are more of my favorite things:

 

Non-fiction books: Practically everyone who knows me knows I love everything Helene Hanff wrote. In fact, I wrote a whole post about her and her delightfully chatty, autobiographical books. They know, too, how much I love the ever-amusing travel memoirist Emily Kimbrough, of whom I wrote in this post. Like Helene Hanff, I am a tremendous Anglophile, so I also love Beverley Nichols (a man, not a woman, in case you didn't know), especially A Thatched Roof, A Village in a Valley, and his trilogy Merry Hall/Laughter on the Stairs/Sunlight on the Lawn.

 

Food stuff: Wowee. Let's see. I could eat pasta every single day. I like it simply prepared, though if you offered me a plate of cannelloni, I wouldn't spit in your eye. Seafood is a biggie with me, especially salmon, halibut, monkfish, shrimp, scallops, and lobster. And I looooove a good steak, prime rib or rib eye, medium rare. I'd have to say my favorite overall cuisine is Italian (oh, big surprise), then French and Chinese. I only like Filipino if it's my mother's. No one else's can compare. I never go out to Filipino restaurants anymore (heck, I have a hard time even finding Filipino restaurants) because they simply don't measure up to my mom's cooking.

     My most favorite dessert in the whole world (probably) is coconut cream pie. Not coconut meringue – coconut cream. Chocolate silk pie. Chocolate mousse. Chocolate pot de crème. Cream puffs, St. Honoré, St. Tropez (just about anything with pastry cream; I just love pastry cream).

 

Music: Baroque, baroque, and baroque for relaxation and "mood." Corelli first of all, Bach, Handel, Purcell, Monteverdi, all that ilk. I prefer instrumental, however; surprisingly, I seldom listen these days to vocal or choral. Piano repertoire – Mozart, Chopin, Beethoven, Brahms, Rachmaninov, whatever. I'm not fond of Debussy, Ravel, Prokofiev. As to non-classical, I like old standards and singers such as Nat King Cole, Ella Fitzgerald, Jane Morgan, Vera Lynn, Rosemary Clooney, early Doris Day, Helen Ward, Helen Forrest, Mel Torme, Vic Damone. I never tire of the Beatles, especially early to mid-Beatles. Vintage Judy Collins, Joni Mitchell, Bob Dylan. Peter, Paul, and Mary. A special fondness for Blood, Sweat, and Tears and Crosby, Stills, and Nash. Yes, I am a child of the 60's and early 70's.

 

TV: Come on; do you even have to ask? Okay, besides Frasier: The Mary Tyler Moore Show, M*A*S*H, The Paper Chase, The Antiques Roadshow, Chopped!, Iron Chef America, House Hunters International and, of course, Dancing with the Stars. I used to love Candace Olsen's old show Divine Design, and that great travel show of the early to mid-90's, Travelers. I miss Samantha Brown's European show. She's a kook.

 

Ways to spend time: Reading, antiquing, book hunting (in antiquarian bookstores), discovering great restaurants. Movies.

     My favorite part of the day is when I'm in prayer. I dedicate the first hour and a half of the morning to God, plus an hour in the evening and a half hour before bedtime. Nothing, however, compares to sitting in silent adoration before Jesus in the Blessed Sacrament, either exposed in the monstrance or hidden in the tabernacle. If I could, I would spend hours a day doing just that.

Spiritual writers: My favorite go-to books in this area are the ones written by, mysteriously, "A Carthusian," particularly They Speak by Silences. This beautiful little volume is comprised of very short (most of them shorter than one page) meditations and instructions written by a Carthusian monk to a novice. G. K. Chesterton, C. S. Lewis, Elisabeth Leseur, Peter Kreeft, Scott Hahn, Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI (also his writings as Cardinal Joseph Ratzinger) are others I consult regularly. Among the canon of Saints: Catherine of Siena, Thérèse of Lisieux, Teresa of Avila, Francis de Sales, and Pope John Paul II are my top faves. Of course, Thomas a Kempis' great classic Imitation of Christ; and I have also begun to use the Carmelite book of meditation Divine Intimacy by Father Gabriel of Saint Mary Magdalen.

 

Scripture: I find endless strength in the Gospels of John and Luke, as well as John's first epistle and Revelation, Romans (most particularly chapter 8), Galatians, Ephesians, the epistles of Peter, most of Isaiah, much of Jeremiah, Sirach, and of course the Psalms. So much more; impossible to list here.

Tasso's AMINTA (AMYNTAS): Act II, Scene 2

For the cast of characters, click here. 

ACT TWO

Scene 2

Daphne, Tyrsis

 

DAPHNE     Tyrsis, as I have told you, I had noticed that Amyntas loves Sylvia; and God knows I have endeavored to persuade her and gladly continue to do so, just as you now add your prayers. But I would prefer rather to tame a young ox, a bear, or tiger, than to tame a simple girl, a girl as stupid as she is beautiful, who does not yet realize how arousing the weapons of her beauty are, and how sharp; but, with her laughter and her tears she is killing him, without knowing that she does so.

TYRSIS     But what girl, once out of swaddling, is so simple that she does not learn the art of looking beautiful and of pleasing, of tormenting by pleasing, and of knowing which weapon wounds, which one kills, and which one restores life?

DAPHNE     Who is the teacher of such an art?

TYRSIS     You jest and try me: it is she who teaches the birds to sing and fly, the fish to swim, the ram to butt, the bull to use his horns, and the peacock to spread the display of his eyed feathers.

DAPHNE     What is this great teacher's name?

TYRSIS     Daphne.

DAPHNE     Liar!

TYRSIS     And why not? Are you not qualified to teach a thousand girls? Although, to tell the truth, they do not need a teacher. Nature is their teacher, but their mothers and wet nurses also do their part.    
DAPHNE     For goodness' sake, you are both stupid and wicked. Now, to tell you truthfully, I am not certain if Sylvia is as simple as she seems in word and deed. Yesterday I saw something that puts me in doubt of it. I found her near the city in those vast fields where between ponds lies a little island. Just over a clear, tranquil pool she leaned as if to admire herself, and at the same time, to ask advice of the waters about how she should arrange her hair over her brow, and her veil over her hair, and over her veil the flowers that she held in her lap. From time to time she took a privet, then a rose, and put them up to her lovely white neck and to her rosy cheeks, comparing the colors; and then, as though glad of her victory, a smile burst forth which seemed to say: "I still conquer you. I do not wear you for my adornment, but only to shame you, so that they shall see how inferior you are to my beauty." But, while she adorned and admired herself, she chanced to look up and noticed that I had seen her; and she sprang to her feet in shame, letting her flowers fall. Meanwhile, I laughed at her blush and she blushed still more at my laugh. But because she had gathered a part of her hair and the rest had been left scattered loose, once or twice she consulted the spring with her eyes, and looked at herself almost furtively, as if fearing that I would see her look. She saw she was unkempt, yet she was pleased, for she also saw that she was still beautiful. I too saw, and fell silent.

TYRSIS     You tell me what I already knew. Did I not know it?
DAPHNE     Certainly you did. Yet I hear it said that at one time there were no shepherdesses or nymphs so spiteful; nor was I such in my girlhood. The world gets older, and as it does so, becomes more and more cruel.
TYRSIS     Perhaps in the past the city folk did not often frequent the woods and fields, nor did our country women habitually go into the city. Now they and their customs are mixed. But let us abandon this subject. Now, will you not someday make Sylvia happy, if only in your presence, that Amyntas thinks of her?
DAPHNE     I know not. Sylvia is unusually reluctant.
TYRSIS     And Amyntas is unusually cautious.
DAPHNE     A cautious lover is done for; advise him then to take another occupation, since he is so cautious. He who wishes to learn how to love must unlearn caution; he must dare, ask, plead, bother, and in the end, steal; and if this is not enough, he must then abduct her. Do you not know how woman is made? She flees, yet wants others to catch her; she denies, yet wants others to take what she denies; she fights, yet wants others to conquer her. You see, Tyrsis, I speak to you in confidence. Do not repeat what I tell you. And above all, do not put it into verse. You know that I would know how to deal with you in one way or another.
TYRSIS     You have no reason to believe that I would say anything that would displease you. But I pray you, Daphne, for the sweet memory of your fresh youth, help me to help poor Amyntas, who is wasting away.
DAPHNE     Oh, what kind spell has conjured up this fool to recall my youth, the past joy, and the present pain! What would you have me do?
TYRSIS     Knowledge and acuity you do not lack. You need only be ready and willing.
DAPHNE     Come then, I will tell you: Sylvia and I must go in a little while to the spring of Diana, where on the calm waters cool shade is made by that plane tree, inviting the huntresses to rest. There I am sure she will plunge her lovely bare limbs.
TYRSIS     And what of that?
DAPHNE     What of that? Spoken like a dullard! If you have any good sense, you shall need it.
TYRSIS     I do understand, but I do not know if he would be so bold.
DAPHNE     If not, then let him stay away and wait for someone to fetch him.
TYRSIS     He may require that; he is so timid.
DAPHNE     But don't we want to talk a little of you yourself? Come now, Tyrsis, do not you want to fall in love? You are still young enough. You are almost twenty-nine, but you remember when you were a youth. Do you want to live indolent and joyless? For only by loving does man know what joy is.
TYRSIS     The man who avoids love does not flee the delights of Venus, but reaps and enjoys the sweetness of love without the bitterness.
DAPHNE     Flavorless is that sweetness whose spice is not somewhat bitter; it satisfies too quickly.
TYRSIS     It is better to satisfy oneself than to be always famished during the meal and after.
DAPHNE     But he is not famished who possesses and likes the meal; and once tasted, it tempts him to taste again.
TYRSIS     But who possesses that which pleases him so that he has it always ready to satisfy his hunger?
DAPHNE     Who finds the treasure, if he does not seek it?
TYRSIS     It is folly to look for something that so amuses when found, but torments much more when not found. Thus you shall never see Tyrsis as lover, for Love on his throne will always disregard his tears and sighs. I have already wept and sighed enough. Let someone else do so.
DAPHNE     But you have not yet enjoyed enough.
TYRSIS     I do not wish to enjoy, if it costs so dear.
DAPHNE     Even if you do not wish, Love will force you.
TYRSIS     He cannot be forced who remains distant.
DAPHNE     But who remains distant from Love?
TYRSIS     He who fears him and flees.
DAPHNE     What use is it to flee Love, since he has wings?
TYRSIS     Love, when born, has short wings. But he can barely hold them up, and cannot spread them to fly.
DAPHNE     Man may not notice when Love is born, and when he does notice, Love is already grown and flies.
TYRSIS     He cannot notice if he has never before seen Love born.
DAPHNE     We shall see, Tyrsis, if you have the ability to flee and the sharp eyes you claim to have. I declare to you that when you become the sharp-eyed runner, I shall not move a step to help you; not a finger, a word, or a single eyelid.
TYRSIS     Cruel woman, you would have the heart to see me dead? If you really want me to love, then you love me: let us agree to make love!
DAPHNE     You mock me, and perhaps you do not deserve such a lover. Ah, now that smooth blushing face betrays you!
TYRSIS     I am not in jest; but you, with such declaration, do not accept my love. Yet that is how all women are. If you do not want me, I shall live without love.
DAPHNE     You will live happier than you ever were, o Tyrsis; for you live now in leisure, and in leisure Love always sprouts.

TYRSIS     Oh, Daphne, my lord made this leisure for me that I may worship him here, where the vast herds and flocks graze from one sea to the other, throughout the most fertile countries' cultivated lands, throughout the rugged peaks of the Apennines. He told me when he gathered me to his flock: "Tyrsis, one man may drive away wolves and thieves, or guard my walled pens; another may give out punishments and rewards to my ministers; and others may feed and tend the flocks; some have care of the wools and milk, and other the larders. You may sing, now you are at leisure." It is surely right, therefore, that I sing not of earthly Love's caprices, but of the forebears of my lord. I know not as I should call him Apollo or Jove, since in deeds and face he resembles both. My lord's forebears are worthier that Saturn or Uranus. My poetry is too coarse to exalt his dignity; yet, though it sound loud or raucous, he does not spurn it. I do not sing of him since I cannot worthily honor him except through silence and reverence; but may his altars never be without my flowers or without the sweet fumes of fragrant incense. And this simple, devoted faith will be torn from my heart only when deer feed on air, and when the Persian has drunk the Saone and the Gallican has drunk the Tigris, changing their beds and courses.

DAPHNE     Oh, you are going too high: come back down a little to our subject.
TYRSIS     The point is this: that you, in going to the spring with her, will try to soften her; and I, meanwhile, will make sure that Amyntas comes. My task will perhaps be more difficult than yours. Now go.
DAPHNE     I go, but someone else has heard our plan
TYRSIS     If I discern the face well from afar, it is Amyntas who emerges there. Yes, it is he.

END SCENE

To be continued. 



1 Thessalonians 5:17

"Pray unceasingly."

I wake and kneel I kneel to pray
My prayer be raised this rise of day

When day is risen rain or sun
This day be prayer thy work be done

When day is set this work is done
So may I rest come rest of sun

I raise my prayer at set of day
To wake come rise of sun to pray


© Leticia Austria 2013
First published in Time of Singing

Tasso's AMINTA (AMYNTAS): Act II, Scene 1

SATYR (alone)

Small is the bee, yet he makes with his small bite wounds truly deep and harmful. But what is smaller than Love, that invades and hides in every small space? Now beneath the shadow of the eyelids, now among the small waves of a blond crown, now in the dimples which a sweet smile makes in a fair cheek; yet it makes wounds so large, so mortal, and so unbearable.

Ah, me, my heart is all wounded and bloodied, and Sylvia's eyes hold a thousand of harsh Love's darts! Cruel is Love, but Sylvia is more cruel and pitiless than these woods! Oh, how your name suits you, and how perceptive was he who gave it you!

Serpents, lions, and bears hide within the green of the woods, and you hide hatred, disdain, and callousness in your comely breast, beasts worse than serpents, lions, and bears, and which cannot be tamed by supplication or gift. When I bring you fresh flowers, you refuse them, contrary girl: perhaps because you have more beautiful flowers in your lovely face. when I bring you pretty apples, you refuse them disdainfully: perhaps because you have prettier apples upon your breast. When I offer you sweet honey, you spurn it spitefully: perhaps because you have sweeter honey on your lips.

But if my poverty cannot give you anything more beautiful and sweet than that which you already possess, I give you myself. Now why, unjust girl, do you scorn and abhor my gift? I am not to be spurned, for I saw myself in the waters of the sea, when day before yesterday the winds were quiet, and it lay calm. This ruddy face, these broad shoulders, this hairy chest, these furry thighs, are signs of virility and health; and if you do not believe this, try them. What would you do with these swains whose soft, downy cheeks have just flowered and who artfully arrange their hair in perfect order? They are feminine in appearance and strength. Yet now you say that they may follow you through the woods and mountains, and fight against the bears and wild boars for you. I am not ugly, no; nor do you spurn me because of how I am made, but only because I am poor. Ah, the villages follow the example of the great cities, and truly this is the golden century, since gold alone conquers and rules.

Whoever you were, the first who learned to sell love, may your buried ashes and cold bones be damned, and may there be no shepherd or nymph who will say in passing: "Have peace." May the rain soak them and the winds stir them, and the crowd tread and wander over them with dirty feet. You made the nobility of love the object of buying and selling; you embittered that sweet happiness. Mercenary love, servant of gold, is the greatest monster, the most abominable and foul, that the earth or the waves in the sea produces.

But why do I complain in vain? Each creature uses those weapons which Nature has given him for his well-being; the hind uses his speed, the lion his claws, the slobbering boar his tusks; and beauty and grace are woman's weapons. As for me, why do I not use violence for my well-being, since Nature has made me fit to do violence and to steal? I will try: I will steal that which she denies me, ungrateful one, as reward for my love. For, as a goatherd told me a little while ago, who has observed her habits, she often goes to refresh herself in a spring, and he showed me the spot. There I plan to submerge myself among the shrubs and bushes, and wait till she comes; and when I see my chance, I will run up behind her.

How could a young girl run away from me, so fleet and powerful? She may weep and wail, use every effort to ask pity, use her beauty; but, if I can entangle my hand in her tresses, she cannot therefore flee: not before I stain my weapon with her blood in revenge.

To be continued. 

From My Big Orange Book: Wild Swans

Wild Swans by Edna St. Vincent Millay

I looked in my heart while the wild swans went over.
And what did I see I had not seen before?
Only a question less or a question more.
Nothing to match the flight of wild birds flying.
Tiresome heart, forever living and dying,
House without air, I leave you and lock your door.
Wild swans, come over the town, come over
The town again, trailing your legs and crying!

Illustration from a vintage calendar



Eleven Halloweens Ago

     I have been rereading all my journals (at a snail's pace), searching for material for poems. So far the search has been quite fruitful. Along the way, I have revisited the journey of my reversion to the Church and subsequent call to the monastery. Though I've reread my journals a couple of times in the past, each revisit reveals something new about the path God laid out for me. Since I wrote about my actual reversion only quite generally in this blog, I will in future be posting some of those pertinent journal entries, a much more detailed account, to be included in the page "My Monastic Vocation Story" (link above).

     But today I'm just posting a "nostalgia" piece! In 2002, Halloween fell on a Thursday, as it does this year. This is what I wrote in my journal on that day. I was still living in Houston at the time.

Thursday, Halloween, 2002     There's a slight autumn nip in the air today, very welcome after long heat and rain. I'm in Panini now; just finished my cold pasta primavera w/chicken, and Vittorio has brought my espresso. There was the usual sudden tidal wave of customers at noon, and now, just 15 minutes later, the place is nearly empty. At 12.30, there should be another wave and a third, smaller, one at 1.00. Wonderful thing, this tunnel system, particularly when it's unbearably hot outside or raining. One can go from building to building, have lunch, get coffee and a bagel, without ever having to step foot outdoors. A lot of lawyers come in to Panini. One day, one of them asked Vittorio if he had any avocadoes, and Vittorio replied, "Yes, we get too many lawyers in here." The lawyer, not knowing that the Italian for "lawyer" is avvocato, took offense.

Most people really like Vittorio. They find him funny and irrepressibly Italian. I suppose he's what they imagine all Italians are like, the ones they see in movies and in pasta commercials. They like being called "signor" and "signora" and hearing his lilting English. Nothing is as charming as an Italian accent, unless it's a French or British one.

I still have on my answering machine __'s message from New York, thanking me for remembering his birthday. I replay it from time to time, just to hear the voice I love so much.

Vittorio has just asked one of the customers, "Ehi—what are you doing, where have you been? It's been a long time!" She laughed and told him she took some time off to be with her new baby. "Oh! I forgot you had a baby." If I haven't come in for a while, he greets me with, "Letì!!! Ehi, dove sei stata?" The only people outside my family that I let call me anything but Leticia are Italians. I love it when they call me "Letì", with the accent on the second syllable. So much more musical than "Letti," which I hate.

I see Scotti (my therapist) tomorrow. Last time, she asked me, "What would be useful to talk about today?" And I was stumped for an answer. If she asks the same thing tomorrow, I'd like to be prepared—but right now I can't think of anything except my recent searching for a spiritual center. Why am I so curious about monastic life, when I'm still struggling to believe in something?

I've resumed work on the Praga translation (La Moglie Ideale) with the intent of finishing it this weekend; but wouldn't you know it—I've run into some passages that have me a bit stumped. Up until now, it's been the easiest play I've translated. Teach me to be complacent.

After the Praga is done, I'd really like to return to older literature. I don't know why, but old Italian appeals to me very much—all those archaic and extinct forms, all the variants in spelling. Fascinating stuff. As for reading, I think I should go back to Dante, Petrarch, and Tasso. Maybe I'll even shake the dust off my aborted Rinaldo translation and see if it'll come any easier, now that some time has passed since my first attempt. I don't know if I'll finish the complete Svevo comedies any time soon, but I will someday. also Alfieri and Manzoni.

I made a reservation at the downtown Hyatt for my birthday. Yea! I think everyone, single or married, should treat himself/herself to a birthday hotel retreat, even if it's in the same town they live in. Amazing what even the smallest change of environment and routine can do in the way of reviving oneself.

 

Tasso's AMINTA (AMYNTAS): Act I, Scene 2

Cast of Characters:
LOVE, in pastoral dress
DAPHNE, friend of
SYLVIA, beloved of
AMYNTAS
TIRSIS, Amyntas' friend
A SATYR
NERINA, messenger
ELPINUS, shepherd
CHORUS

ACT I

SCENE 2



Amyntas, Tyrsis

 

AMYNTAS     I have seen the stones and the waves respond out of pity to my tears, and I have seen the fronds respond to my tears, but I have never seen, nor hope to see, compassion in the cruel and beautiful one whom I do not know whether to call woman or beast. But she denies being a woman because she denies me pity—I, who am not denied it even by those inanimate beings.

TYRSIS     The lamb feeds on grass, the wolf feeds on the lamb, but cruel Love feeds on tears and is never sated.

AMYNTAS     Alas, Love is indeed sated by my tears; now he thirsts only for my blood, and I would that soon he and that pitiless one drink my blood through their eyes.

TYRSIS     Amyntas, what are you saying? Of what are you raging? Now take comfort, for you shall find another if this cruel girl spurns you.

AMYNTAS     How can I find another if I cannot find myself? And since I have lost myself, what conquest could please me?

TYRSIS     Wretched man, do not despair; you shall conquer her. Time teaches man to tame lions and Ircanian tigers.

AMYNTAS     But an unhappy man cannot delay his death for long.

TYRSIS     It will be a brief wait. Woman angers for a short while, then calms for a short while, something more naturally inconstant than the bough in the wind or the tip of the pliant stalk. But I pray you, tell me more of your difficult state and of your love; you have confessed many times to being in love, but you have not told me with whom. Worthy indeed our faithful friendship, and our mutual love of poetry, which reveals to me that which is hidden to others.

AMYNTAS     I am glad to tell you, Tyrsis, what the beasts and mountains and rivers know, and men do not. I am now so near death, that it is only right I leave her who states the cause of my dying, and who would carve it into the bark of a beech, near the place where my bloodless body is buried; so that, in passing, that cruel girl would enjoy treading on my unhappy bones with her proud foot, saying to herself; "This indeed is my triumph", and enjoy to see it noted by all the rustic shepherds and pilgrims that fate leads there; and perhaps (ah, I hope for things too high) one day it may be that she, moved by late pity, will weep for the once living man whom she killed, saying; "Oh, if only he were here, and were mine!" Now listen.

TYRSIS     Go on then; I am listening closely to you, and perhaps with an even better understanding than you think.   

AMYNTAS     When I was a youth, and as soon as my boyish hand could reach to gather the fruit from the supple branches of the saplings, I became the faithful friend of the dearest and loveliest maiden that ever loosed her golden tresses in the wind.

Do you know the daughter of Cydippe and Montanus, most wealthy with herds, Sylvia, honor of the beasts, flame of souls? Of her, alas, I speak.

I lived for some time so united with her that there never was, nor will be, a more faithful companionship between two turtledoves. Our houses were joined, but more joined were our hearts, our ages were equal, but our thoughts were more so. With her I laid snares and nets for fish and birds, and with her I hunted stags and swift does; the pleasure and the prey were shared. But while I wounded the beasts, somehow it was that I myself was wounded. Little by little, I know not from what root, but as grass that germinates through itself, a strange feeling was born in my breast that made me want to be always with my beautiful Sylvia. I drank from her eyes a strange sweetness which in the end left a sort of bitterness. I sighed often, and did not know the cause of my sighs.

Thus was I a lover before I understood what love was. At last, I understood too well. and now, in such state that I am, listen to me, and heed.

TYRSIS     I am listening.

AMYNTAS     In the shadow of a beautiful beech, Sylvia and Phyllis sat one day, and I with them, when a clever bee that went about gathering honey among these flowered fields flew at Phyllis' cheeks, those cheeks scarlet as a rose, and it bit them greedily again and again; for, deceived by the similarity, it perhaps believed them to be a flower. Then Phyllis began to wail, annoyed with the sharp stings; but my lovely Sylvia said: "Hush, hush, do not wail, Phyllis. With magic words I will take away the pain of the tiny wounds. The wise Aresia has taught me the secret, and thankfully these words are written upon my gold-trimmed horn." So speaking, she drew the lips of her lovely and most sweet mouth close to the sore cheek, and with soft whispers, murmured I do not know what words.

Oh, miraculous effect! Soon Phyllis felt the pain subside; either it was the power of those magic words, or, as I believe, the power of Sylvia's mouth, which heals whatever it touches. I, who until then wanted nothing else but the soft shine of her bright eyes and her sweet words, so much sweeter than the murmur of a slow brook that runs its course among small stones, or the wafting of the breeze among the branches, then felt in my heart a new desire to press my mouth to hers. Not knowing how astute and sly I had become (how love sharpens the intellect!), there came to my mind a gentle trick by which I could fulfill my desire; feigning that a bee had bitten my lower lip, I began to wail in such a manner that my face requested the medicine which my tongue could not request.

The naïve Sylvia, pitying my pain, offered to give aid to my fraudulent wound; but alas, she made deeper and more mortal my true wound, when her lips came close to mine. No bee ever gathered from any flower such sweet honey that I then gathered from those fresh roses, though fear and shame restrained the ardent kisses urged by desire to dampen them, or made them slower and less daring.  But while that sweetness, mixed with a secret poison, descended on my heart, such delight had I from it that, claiming the pain from the bite had still not passed from me, I made her repeat the spell again and again.

From then on, my desire and impatient suffering increased so that they could no longer be contained in my heart, and they escaped perforce. Then, as we shepherds and nymphs sat in a circle and played one of our games, in which each whispers a secret into the ear of his neighbor, I said to her: "Sylvia, I burn for you, and I will surely die if you do not help me." At those words, she lowered her lovely face. There came from her a sudden, unaccustomed blush which conveyed shame and anger. I had no response but a disturbing and threatening silence. Then she drew away, and no longer wanted to listen or look at me. Already three times has the naked harvester cut down the grain, three times has winter shaken the branches of their green tresses; and I have tried everything to placate her, except dying. The only thing left for me to placate her is to die, and I would die gladly, if I were certain that she would be either sorry or pained by it. I know not which of the two I would covet more. Pity would surely be the greatest prize for my devotion and the greatest recompense for my death; but I must not covet anything that would cloud the serene light of her eyes and afflict that fair breast.

TYRSIS     But is it possible that she could hear such words one day and not love you?
AMYNTAS     I know not. I do not believe so; for she flees from my words like an enchanted asp.
TYRSIS     Then have faith, and confide in me so that I may make her listen to you.
AMYNTAS     You will accomplish nothing; or if you beg me to speak, I will accomplish nothing by speaking.
TYRSIS     Why do you despair so?
AMYNTAS     I have just cause to despair, for the wise Mopsus predicted my cruel fortune; Mopsus, who understands the speech of the birds and the power of the grass and springs.
TYRSIS     Of which Mopsus do you speak? Of he who has honeyed words on his tongue and friendly fleer on his lips, fraud in his heart, and a blade kept beneath his cape? Come now, have courage; the unhappy predictions which he sells with evil cunning and with his serious, grim expression will never have any effect. I know through experience what I am telling you; indeed, the mere fact that he has made these predictions to you makes me hope for a happy end to your love.
AMYNTAS     If you know something through experience that may sustain my hope, do not keep silence about it.
TYRSIS     I will tell you gladly.

Before my destiny first led me to these woods, I met him; esteemed him as you do. Soon there came to me the need and desire to go where the great city lies on the riverbank, and I told this to him, and he said thus to me: "You will go to the great land, where the astute and sly citizens and evil courtiers often treat one lightly, and make ugly jokes of we imprudent peasants. Therefore, my son, go with warning, and do not venture too much where there are colorful and golden clothes, and plumes and uniforms, and strange fashions. But most of all, beware lest an evil fairy or comely girl lead you to the marketplace of chatter. Ah, flee that enchanted dwelling."

"What is this place?" I asked, and he answered, "Where wizards live, who by enchanting make everyone see and hear falsely. That which seems to be diamonds or fine gold is glass and wood; and those silver arches which you would regard to be full of treasures are sacks full of deceiving vesicles. There the walls are made with treachery; they speak, and answer the speaker. Nor do they answer with broken phrase, as Echo does in our woods; but they replicate everything complete, joined also with that which the other did not say. The stools, benches, tables, chairs, beds, curtains, the furnishings in the bedchambers and salon, all have tongue and voice, and they cry out incessantly. There the chatter, in the guise of children, schemes; and if a mute man enters there, he will chatter in spite of himself. But this is the smallest evil which you may encounter. You could remain there forever, transformed into stone, beast, water, or fire; water of tears, and fire of sighs."

Thus he spoke, and I went away to the city with this false vision; and, as benign Heaven willed, I perchance passed this happy dwelling. From it came forth sweet singing voices and heavenly sirens; and there came forth soft, clear sounds, and many another delight; and I stopped in wonder for a long while, enjoying and admiring. On the threshold, almost as if to guard these lovely things, was a portly man of kindly countenance of whom (from what I could grasp) I was in doubt whether he was duke or knight. With brow both kind and grave, he invited me inside with regal courtesy; he great and noble, I common and lowly. Oh, what did I hear? What did I see? I saw heavenly gods, fair graceful nymphs, singular Linuses and Orpheuses; and further beyond, unveiled, cloudless, just as she appears to mortals, the virgin Aurora spreading rays of silver and rosy gold, and brilliantly illuminating everything around them; I saw Phoebus and the Muses; and among them, Elpinus sitting welcomed. At that moment, I felt myself become better than myself, full of new virtue, full of strange godliness, and I sang of wars and heroes, spurning the crude pastoral songs. And though I returned to the wood, as others before me, I retained still some of that spirit; nor does my humble bagpipe play as it once did; but with finer and more resonant voice it emulates trumpets, fills the woods.

This have I told you, that you may know just how credible is Mopsus' word: so you should well hope, only because he would have no one hope.

AMYNTAS     It cheers me to hear what you tell me. In you, then, I place the care of my life.
TYRSIS     I shall have care of it. Be here in half an hour.

CHORUS     Beautiful were you, O golden age!—not because the river ran with milk and the woods oozed honey; not because the unspoiled earth gave its fruits to the plough and the serpents wandered without anger or poison; not because the sky was never covered with dark clouds, but showed itself luminous and serene in a climate of eternal spring, and now burns in summer and freezes in winter; not because ships did not bring foreign war or trade to other shores.

You were beautiful only because that name which denotes no true substance, that false, deceitful idol to whom honor was then given by the common multitude and who tyrannized our nature, did not mix his sorrows with the happy sweetness of his amorous flock. They that were accustomed to freedom noted not his hard law, but the fortunate and happy law that nature has given: "That which gives pleasure is allowed."

And so, among flowers and streams, sweet ring-dances drew forth little cupids without their bows and arrows; shepherds and nymphs sat mingling words with flatteries and murmurs, and murmurs with passionate kisses; the virgin lay bare her fresh roses and the apples of her immature, unripe breast, that she now hides beneath her veil; and in the lake or spring, the lover was often seen frolicking with his beloved.

You, Chastity, then concealed the spring of delight, denying waters to the amorous thirst. You taught beautiful eyes to shut themselves tightly and withhold their secret beauties; in your net you gathered tresses that had once scattered in the wind; and you made sweet lascivious acts shameful and averse; you put a stop to words, and rules to steps. This is your work alone, o chastity; what was once Love's gift now must be stolen. Your eminent deeds are our sorrows and tears. But you, lord of Love and Nature, you tamer of kings, what do you do here in these woods which cannot know your greatness? Go, and disturb the sleep of the illustrious and powerful: let us, the lowly and neglected, live without you in the manner of long-ago people. Let us love, for the sun dies and then is reborn. He will conceal his brief light from us, and death will bring eternal night.

END OF ACT

 

To be continued. 

Tasso's AMINTA (AMYNTAS), Act I: Scene 1

Cast of Characters is found in the Prologue post. Click "Italian Plays in Translation" above for link. 

 

ACT ONE

 

SCENE 1

Daphne, Sylvia

 

DAPHNE     Then, Sylvia, you would not like to spend your youth in the delights of faraway Venus, nor heed your mother's sweet name, nor see yourself frolic among the young boys?

SYLVIA     Let others follow the delights of love, if indeed there is any delight in love. This life pleases me; and my amusement is to care for the bow and arrows, to chase the fleeing beasts, and to terrify the strong in battle. While my quiver has arrows and the woods have beasts, I will always have my sport.

DAPHNE     Truly a dull sport, and a dull life; and if you like it, it is only because you have not tried the other. People who lived before, in a world still simple and naïve, esteemed the sweet drink and food of water and acorns; but now, water and acorns are the food and drink of animal, since the grain and grape have been put to use. Perhaps if you enjoyed even once the tiniest part of the joys which a beloved heart enjoys by loving in return, you would say, repentant and sighing: "All time not spent in loving is lost. O my flown youth, how many widow nights and solitary days have I squandered, that could have been spent in this manner, which, the more repeated, becomes more sweet!" Change your ways, you foolish girl, for it does no good to be sorry in the end.

SYLVIA     When I say, repentant and sighing, these words that you present and embellish as you please, the rivers will return to their sources, the wolves will flee from the lambs, and the greyhounds from the timid rabbits; the bear will love the sea, and the dolphin the mountains.

 

DAPHNE    

I am acquainted with reluctant maidenhood. You are what I once was: in this same way did I lead my life and wear my face; my hair was blond, my lips scarlet, and the rose in my plump, soft cheeks blended with the whiteness. It was my highest pleasure (foolish pleasure, I now perceive) merely to tighten the nets, mix birdlime, sharpen my dart on the whetstone, and to search for the beasts' tracks and dens. And if at times I was eyed by a desirous lover, I lowered my rustic, woodland eyes, full of scorn and shame; for my charm was a displeasure to me, as displeasing to me as it was pleasing to others. It was even a sin, a shame, and an humiliation to be looked at, loved, and desired. But what can time not accomplish? What can a faithful entreating lover not accomplish by serving, meriting, and supplicating? I was conquered, I confess it; and the weapons of the conqueror were humility, suffering, tears, sighs, and pleas for mercy. The shadow of a brief night showed me then what the long light of a thousand days could not; I then recovered, my blindness was cleared, and I said sighing: "Here you are, Cynthia; here is my horn and my bow, for I renounce your arrows and your life."

So I hope also to see your Amyntas one day finally tame your rough savagery, and soften your heart of iron and stone. Is it not true that he is handsome and loves you? Is it not true that he is loved by another, yet is not swayed by her love, nor by your hate? And is it not true that he is inferior to you in nobility of birth? For you are the daughter of Cydippe, whose father was the god of this noble river; and he is the son of Sylvanus, whose father was Pan, the great god of the shepherds. The pale Amaryllis is no less beautiful than you, if you look at yourself in the mirror of any spring; yet he spurns her sweet flatteries to follow your spiteful barbs. Now you claim (and may God will this claim to be in vain) that he, angry with you, will certainly in the end like her as she likes him. How would you feel? And how would you regard him if he were another's, happy in another's arms and mocking you, laughing?

SYLVIA     Let Amyntas do as he likes with himself and his love; it means nothing to me. And since he is not mine, let him be hers who wants him. He cannot be mine if I do not want him, nor even if he were mine, would I be his.
DAPHNE     Whence is your hatred born?
SYLVIA     From his love.
DAPHNE     How could such a kind father have begotten so cruel a child? Were tigers ever born of meek lambs? Or ravens of beautiful swans? You are deceiving either me or yourself.
SYLVIA     I despise his love because it threatens my chastity. I did love him, when he felt for me only the same fraternal feelings I bore for him.
DAPHNE     You wanted only friendship; now he feels for you the same sort of love he wishes for himself.
SYLVIA     Daphne, be quiet, or speak of something else, if you want an answer.
DAPHNE     Such manners! Look what a peevish little girl! At least answer me this: if another loved you, would you repay his love in this manner?
SYLVIA     In this manner I would repay every seducer of my chastity. Whom you would call lover, I would call enemy.

DAPHNE

Do you then regard the ram as enemy of the ewe? the bull of the heifer? the dove of its faithful turtledove? Do you then regard the spring as the season of hostility and anger, that happy and laughing spring that now advises the world and the beasts and men and women to love? Do you not see how all things are now lovesome with a love full of joy and health? Look there at that dove—with what sweet murmurings and enticements he kisses his companion. Listen to that nightingale that goes from branch to branch singing, "I love you, I love you!" Though you do not know it, the blood leaves his veins and runs with desire to his beloved. The tigers go about in love, the mighty lion loves. Only you, prouder than all the beasts, harbor denial in your breast. But why do I say that only lions and tigers and serpents have feelings? The trees love, too. You can see with how much affection and with how many repeated embraces the vine twists round her mate; the fir loves the fir, the pine the pine, the ash loves the ash, willow the willow, and the beeches burn and sigh for one another. That oak which looks so rough and savage also feels the power of amorous fire; and if you had the spirit and sense of love, you would hear its silent sighs. Now do you want to be less than the plants by not being a lover? Change your ways, you foolish girl.

SYLVIA     Come now! When I hear the sighs of plants I shall be a lover!

DAPHNE

You take my faithful counsel lightly and laugh at my arguments? Oh, a girl deaf to love is no less than stupid! But go ahead, for there will come a time when you will repent not having heeded them. Yet I shall not say that you will then flee the springs where you now often look at and admire yourself; or that you will flee the springs only for fear of seeing yourself wrinkled and ugly. This will indeed happen to you; for though it is a great misfortune, it is, however, a common one. Do you not recall what the wise Elpinus day before yesterday, said to Lycoris, who can obtain with her eyes what he would have to obtain with song? He said it in the presence of Battus and Tyrsis, those great master of love, and he said it in the cave of Aurora where above the entrance is written: "Go, ah, go far away, blasphemers!" He said this was told him by that great one who sang of weapons and love, who left him the syrinx as he died: "Down there in hell is a dark cavern whence arises smoke full of stench from the furnaces of Acheron. There, forever punished in torments of shadows and tears, are all the ungrateful and ignorant women. There Acheron awaits the lodging of your wounds to be prepared. Right and just is the edict that the smoke should forever draw tears from those eyes, whence it could never draw pity." Change your ways, you obstinate girl! 

SYLVIA     But what then did Lycoris do? And how did she respond to these things?
DAPHNE     You care nothing of your own deeds, yet want to hear of others'. She responded with her eyes.
SYLVIA     How could she respond only with her eyes?
DAPHNE     They answered, smiling sweetly to Elpinus: "We and the heart are yours. No longer must you yearn; we cannot give you more." And it would have been enough to grant complete mercy on the chaste lover, if he judged those eyes to be truthful as well as beautiful, and if he placed all his faith in them.
SYLVIA     Why didn't he believe them?
DAPHNE     You do not know then what Tyrsis wrote of them when, raging and out of his mind, he wandered through the forest so that he aroused both pity and laughter in the nymphs and shepherds? Though he has done things worthy of laughter, he has never written things worthy of laughter. He wrote on a thousand trees, and his verses grew with the trees; and so it is read on one: "Mirrors of the heart, lying, unfaithful eyes, I discern well in you your wiles. But what advantage does that give me, if love prevents me from evading them?"
SYLVIA     I spend time here talking; I have forgot that today is the appointed day that we must go on the organized hunt in the ilex wood. If you like, wait for me to remove first in the usual spring the sweat and dust with which I covered myself yesterday hunting a last doe that in the end I caught and killed.
DAPHNE     I shall wait for you; and perhaps I too shall bathe in the spring. But first I want to go to my swellings, for it is still early, as you see. Wait for me at your place for me to come to you, and think meanwhile of what is more important than the hunt and the spring. And if you do not know, then admit you do not, and believe those who do.

To be continued. 



Midweek Musings & Musicale

     It's the sort of weather outside that makes me want to don a long, flowing, hooded cape and flit through the woods à la Meryl Streep in The French Lieutenant's Woman. Gray and gothic. Damp and dreary. But, to me, very romantic.

     I suppose my idea of romance is somewhat peculiar. Many people find bluesy jazz played on a saxophone romantic; but every time I hear a saxophone, no matter what kind of music it's playing or what kind of sax it is, it always sounds to me like a giant kazoo—which I find romantic not at all. It's the snotty classical musician in me.

     On the other hand, I find baroque music incredibly romantic. The final duet of Monteverdi's L'Incoronazione di Poppea is to me some of the most romantic music ever written (despite the utter depravity of the two characters who sing it, Nero and Poppea). This performance by Marie-Nicole Lemieux and  Philippe Jaroussky is simply sublime.

 

     I remember when we did a production of Poppea at HGO—not the most recent one; I'm referring to one in, I think, the late '90s. I had for years been playing/coaching Verdi, Puccini, Wagner, Strauss, even Gershwin—there was one Dido and Aeneas stuck in there, but mostly it was a steady diet of 19th- and 20th-century lushness and bombast. I was so happy when Poppea came along! While I was studying it, translating the text and listening to recordings, I had the sense of being musically cleansed. And when I listened to the final duet, I wept. I had forgotten how much this music moved the very depths of my soul. Baroque music was my first love; ever since I was a little girl it affected me like no other kind of music could, not even my beloved Mozart or Chopin. There is a purity in it of the blood and bone, beyond mere flesh.

     When I returned to the Church, I began listening to Gregorian Chant. I realized at the time that chant was enjoying a revival of sorts; people were listening to it to be soothed and "zenned." While I recognize that there is some validity in that, I also think people who listen to it in that way miss its true power and beauty. Gregorian Chant is first and foremost the voice of the Church in song. It is the raising of the human spirit to the Holy Spirit, the praise of the soul to its Creator, the heart's expression of love and adoration for its Redeemer, and of veneration towards the Mother of God. It is spiritual in the most religious sense.

 



 

     I have been a musician all my life and have always known that early music in particular put me in touch with my own soul. Perhaps I also knew, deep down beneath the layers of secularism I had built up during my Houston years, that what I was getting in touch with was really the Trinity dwelling within. Perhaps that's why I find early music so romantic. Yes, faith is romantic. It is, in fact, the ultimate romance. 





Tasso's AMINTA (AMYNTAS): Prologue

AMYNTAS  (AMINTA) by Torquato Tasso (1544-1595)
Prose translation by Leticia Austria, completed July 2000

This was my very first translation of an Italian work, and what a work to start with! Written in 1573, its language is of course quite antiquated, and difficult even for a native Italian to comprehend. However, I had a number of good tools with which to make my translation: the Zingarelli all-Italian dictionary (1996 edition), the Harper-Collins Sansoni Italian-English dictionary, and a booklet of defunct verb forms which was distributed to students at an Italian language school in San Francisco. I also used an English dictionary that, along with the etymology and definition of a word, gives the date of its earliest known usage. This last thing was very important to me, as I wanted to write a translation using only period vocabulary. At the time I wrote, there was only one English translation of Aminta available, that of Leigh Hunt, published in 1820. I did not have a copy of this, so I was truly "flying blind." Later, however, I found an all-Italian edition with copious footnotes (the edition from which I worked had zero footnotes), and by checking my translation of the most difficult passages against these footnotes, I was assured that I was indeed on the right track.

 

There is now a new dual-language edition of  Aminta available which I believe retains the blank verse in which Tasso wrote it; still, I'm glad I chose to write my translation in literal prose, as my intention was to further my understanding of archaic Italian.

Cast of Characters

LOVE, in pastoral dress
DAPHNE, friend of
SYLVIA, beloved of
AMYNTAS
TIRSIS, Amyntas' friend
A SATYR
NERINA, messenger
ELPINUS, shepherd
CHORUS

PROLOGUE

 

LOVE

Who would believe that under human form and beneath this pastoral garb a god was hidden? Not a mere woodland god, nor one of the lesser gods, but the most powerful among the great and heavenly, who often makes the bloody sword of Mars and the perpetual lightning bolt of the might Jove fall from their hands.

Surely in this guise and in these clothes Mother Venus would not so easily recognize me, her son Love. I am forced to flee and hide myself from her, for she wants that I myself and my arrows do her bidding. That vain, ambitious woman urges me even among the courts and crowns and scepters, where she wants me to employ all my tests; and she allows only the more lowly of my ministers, my lesser brothers, to live within the woods and work their weapons into rustic hearts.

I, who am no child, though I may well have the face and ways of a child, wish to dispatch myself as I please, for to me, not to her, were destined the all-powerful torch and the golden bow. But often when hiding myself from my hounding mother, escaping not her power, which she does not have over me, but her supplications, which can be powerful, I take shelter in the woods and in the houses of the humble people. She pursues me, promising to give sweet kisses or something even more precious to whomever discloses me to her. Perhaps what I would give in exchange to whomever is silent about me, or hides me from her, e they sweet kisses or something more precious, would not be sufficient. This much, at least, I surely know: that my kisses are always dearer to the young girls, since I, who am Love, am an expert in loving; so my mother often looks for me in vain, inasmuch as the girls do not want to betray me and are silent.

But in order to remain even more concealed so that she cannot find me by the usual indications, I have put aside my wings, quiver, and bow. I have not, however, come here unarmed: for this, which has the appearance of a staff, is my torch (thus have I transformed it), which emanates invisible flames; and this dart, though it has not a golden point, is divinely made and implants love wherever it wounds.  

Today, with this dart, I mean to inflict a deep and incurable wound in the hard heart of the cruelest nymph that ever followed Diana's band. Let not Sylvia's wound (this is the reluctant nymph's name) be less than that which I myself made in the soft heart of Amyntas many years ago, when as a youth he followed that young maiden in the hunt and in sport. But so that my stroke may penetrate even deeper in her, I shall wait for pity to soften that hard ice surrounding her heart, which has made firmer the severity of her forthright and virginal pride; and in that moment when it has softened, I will shoot my dart into it.

Then to make my great deed a truly good work, I will mingle among the crowd of celebrating and festooned shepherds, feigning to be one of their number. She is already on her way there, where one disports during feasting days. It is precisely in that place I will strike, and no mortal eye will be able to notice. Today these woods will hear Love spoken of in a new way, and they will see that my very godhead itself, not merely my ministers, is present here. I shall breathe noble sentiments into rustic hearts; I shall sweeten the sound of their tongues; because wherever I may be, I am Love, no less in shepherds than in heroes. I shall make the inequality of my subjects equal as I please. This shall be my supreme glory and greatest miracle: to render alike the rustic bagpipes and the most cultured lutes. And if my mother, who loathes to see me wander in the woods, cannot accept this, then she is blind: but not I, whom the ignorant commoner wrongly calls blind. 

To be continued. 

Random Fragments from My Fractured Mind

I flunked algebra. Twice. So is it any wonder I've forgotten how we were taught to do long division back in the '60s and '70s? That I forgot we used the decimal point method in long division? A Facebook friend shared this video illustrating how to do it the way he teaches it, using a "rounding up" method:

 

 

I like it this way a whole lot better than the old way. Maybe I would have even passed algebra the first time, had I had this foundation going in.

 

There's something invigorating and uplifting about stepping outside first thing to crisp, cool air and that peculiarly slanted light of an autumn morning. It's certainly a relief and welcome change after so many months of stepping outside at 8 a. m. and already feeling beaten by the oppressive heat and humidity.

 

Will I ever tire of Honey Nut Cheerios in the morning? Or Trader Joe's Granola with 3 Berries mixed into their vanilla bean Greek yogurt in the evening? I doubt it.

 

The two small dogs next door are prodigious barkers; they bark at every sound and every passing creature, human or non-. While it was annoying at first, it has become white noise to me, even at night, and I'm actually grateful to have such alert watchdogs next door.

 

One thing I deeply miss about monastic life is being able to talk about my Catholic faith with people who automatically understand what I'm talking about. While I love and cherish all my Protestant friends, my atheist friends, and my friends who are indifferent to religious matters, I so long to talk in depth about my love and thoughts of the Eucharist, Mary, the Saints, etc. This is not to say that I don't share my general faith with them; I have absolutely no qualms about that, as my Facebook friends can testify! But I long to discuss specific points in the Catechism, the papal encyclicals, and the documents of Vatican II—everything. In many ways I feel isolated and alone, though I love this semi-reclusive life I live now. As you know, I serve as organist and cantor at a small chapel in a retirement village, and I love the elderly people who attend Mass there; but I have yet to find someone with whom I can sit and have a really good chin-wag about doctrine and dogma. There's my family, of course, but sometimes you need a friend.

 

I'm losing my Italian. My own fault; I'm a lazy bum. I really should rouse myself off my big fat duff and dust off my grammar books.

 

See, this is why I've never been any good on Twitter: even in writing these so-called "fragments," I just can't seem to limit myself to 140 characters. So now my Twitter activity is limited to following a handful of people and checking my handful of regular searches.

 

I still have my Tumblr blog, but I mostly reblog art and photography I like, and post random Niles Crane quotes. Guess what gets the most "likes" and "reblogs"—yup, that's right; the Niles Crane quotes. Just like on this blog.

 

By the way, one of my posts here recently reached over 1000 hits, and you know which one it is? Wrong! It's "Regret"! And I still have no earthly idea why!



Sunday Scrapbag

Reading: Oh, several things. In the Office of Readings (Liturgy of the Hours), lately I've been substituting the prescribed second readings with passages from Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI's encyclical Spe Salvi. I'm ashamed to say that this will be the first papal encyclical I will have read straight through, all the way through. Always before, I've only read excerpts of various encyclicals through the Liturgy of the Hours, or in articles and blogs.

     I'm also still reading bits and pieces of Robert Gibbings' books and have begun re-reading Elizabeth Taylor's The Sleeping Beauty which I read many years ago and have completely forgotten. I'm very bad about remembering the plots of books. So if I recommend a novel to someone and they ask me what it's about, I always say, "I forget—but I do remember I absolutely loved it."

     Also, I'm reading through all my journals in search of material for new poems. An enlightening experience.

Watching: I seem to have lost interest temporarily in movies. I own on DVD all the movies I like to watch (the most recent being Quartet, that lovely little film starring Maggie Smith and directed by Dustin Hoffmann). Sometimes (not often, admittedly) I regret having such limited tastes in film; were my tastes broader and more varied, I could watch and enjoy so many more things. But what I don't like in films is pretty much identical to what I don't like in books, which I wrote about in this post. 

     The cheesy part of me is psyched that the new season of Dancing with the Stars is in full swing. Can I just say that, though he seems like a very nice guy, I'm not sorry to see the football player go? I'm so tired of football players winning the DWTS mirror ball trophy! I haven't picked a favorite yet.

Writing: Lately, prose poems. I've written two posts in this past week alone about this new venture in Poetry Land (new for me, that is), this form that I used to despise as being fancified prose or free verse bound up in paragraph form. Now I see its merits as well as its many difficulties. But other than my prose poem experiments and this blog, I haven't been writing anything, not even my journal. Bad, bad girl!

Listening: To the wonderful Romanian pianist Clara Haskil (d. 1960). I tend to go through phases with pianists, concentrating on one for a few weeks, then going back to others before fixating on a "new" one. Haskil is my fixation at the moment. Her Mozart is impeccable in both style and technique. It's the kind of Mozart I myself always wanted to play, the kind I think is "true" Mozart. Poetic, profound, yet not over-sentimentalized as so many contemporary pianists are wont to do. Playful when playfulness is called for, but not overly so. Of course, she played many other composers brilliantly as well.

 

Considering: Cancelling my Tumblr account. I very much enjoy following art and photography blogs, and I enjoy following Catholic blogs on Tumblr. But I got a huge dose of disillusionment and disgust yesterday, when one of the Catholic blogs I follow got hacked and I found a number of pornographic posts on my dashboard. I realize hacking goes on everywhere, but Tumblr seems to be particularly susceptible. Plus which, there's no way (at least that I can find) to delete or hide posts you don't want to see on your dashboard; on Facebook, you can do this, which I really appreciate. When I saw those porn posts on my Tumblr dashboard, all I could do was "unfollow" that particular blogger until he realized he'd been hacked and cleaned out all those offensive images. But I think I will leave Tumblr altogether. I already follow a lot of Catholic blogs on Blogger and Wordpress anyway, and I follow many art and photography pages on Facebook.







Twenty Years Ago, I Wrote ...

     This post is not just a selection of journal entries from twenty years ago; more specifically, it is an homage to a little café in Houston called Epicure. I frequented Epicure during my many years living in Houston, always finding it to be, as the Germans say, a most gemütlich retreat with good food and coffee. It's on West Gray in River Oaks, a street that twenty years ago was one of the most charming commercial streets in the city; I believe it's changed a bit since.

     Epicure Café began rather humbly, as a true konditorei run by a certified Konditormeister; now, looking at its website, it seems to have evolved into a full-fledged café. If I ever visit Houston again, Epicure will definitely be on my list of places to go.

 

19 September 1993

     I'm having breakfast before a long day of chorus rehearsals. Epicure serves their coffee with hot milk, as it should be served, and their ham and cheese croissant is very substantial and comes with nice fresh fruit.

     The most beautiful child just came in—can't tell whether it's a boy or girl; I think boy—a Botticelli cherub crowned with copper curls. The parents are foreign, but I don't recognize the accent. She's very striking, strong dark features in a small face. The child is having gelato for breakfast, and his older brother is entertaining him by rolling his red toy convertible across the table. The cherub shrieks with delight, little pink mouth covered with vanilla gelato.

     I do love watching children, especially babies and toddlers.

     Epicure has retained the European way of not issuing bills—when you finish eating, you simply remind them of what you had.

     It's starting to get busy in here. Late-rising single women, older ladies just come from church, middle-aged bespectacled gentlemen reading the paper while their breakfast cools. Above it all, the white ceiling fans whir away, the soft lights casting small rainbows on their blur of blades. Sunday morning, a time of quiet recovery from the bustle of the week and the gaiety of Saturday night.

     The cherub is wandering around on his little unsteady feet, flourishing a menu. Maybe when he grows up he'll be a maître d'.

     And now, off to work and the stark, sterile surroundings of the opera house.

 

1 October 1993

     What a wonderful place this is. In the mid-afternoon, the bookish and artistic come in and read, or in my case write, with a pot of coffee. Just like Europe. A middle-aged couple has come in, obviously friends of the owner, speaking German. I wish I could really understand; I can catch a word here and there but can't put anything together. They always have good music playing; today it's Strauss waltzes. Sunday morning it's usually Mozart. Breakfast with Wolfie. I think I'll make it a custom to come here every Sunday, a mini-retreat of sorts.

 

26 October 1993

     There are two people that are almost always here when I am: a middle-aged woman with carrot-colored hair and matching glasses, and a young man who reminds me of James Stephens in The Paper Chase television series. Like me, they each sit at the same table every time. There's something very comforting about that. It's good to know that other people need these little rituals too. Both of them are writing something, too.

     The Paper Chase guy speaks French and Spanish. The other day, he spoke to the owner in French; now he's speaking to a companion in Spanish.

James Stephens

 

 

31 October 1993

     A quick sweet and a pot of coffee before going to Butterfly second cast piano dress. Saw, at the table behind me, someone writing in a cloth-bound blank book. A fellow journalizer.

     It gets dark so much earlier now. I much prefer it to stay bright as long as possible. This way, the day has such an early death.

     The street lights have just turned on. The sky is an iron gray, a strange transition from the brilliant blue it was an hour ago. West Gray is a fun street—all the buildings have been restored and done in stark white with black trim. Most of the street is lined on both sides with tall palm trees which are lit up at Christmas with tiny white bulbs. The shops are mostly of the "yuppie" type, upscale but not too; and of course there is the inevitable Pier 1 Imports. Two types of bookstores—one chain discount (Crown Books) and one independent (River Oaks Bookstore). Two types of movie theaters—one multi-screen mainstream, and one artsy-fartsy (the latter is still showing Like Water for Chocolate). The restaurants range from Black-Eyed Pea at one end to Café Express at the other, with a moderately priced seafood kitchen and moderately priced southwestern eatery in between. There is a pizza joint, a Chili's, and a grocery store. You can buy futons and antiques, coffee beans (at the wonderful Café Maison) and apple strudel, wilderness equipment and gently worn evening gowns. Or you can do as I do: hole up in Epicure three or four times a week and write in your journal. West Gray is probably my very favorite street in Houston.

Drink or Drown: Part Four

     Wow, it's been so long since I posted Part Three of this one-act play by Castelnovo! You can read it, along with Parts One and Two, by clicking "Italian Plays in Translation" above. Here's a reminder of the cast of characters:

     BEATRICE GUIDOBALDI, niece and ward of
     ARIBERTO GUIDOBALDI, father of
     MARCELLO
     A SERVANT

     A summary of the action to this point: Ariberto's deceased uncle has stipulated in his will that his fortune be divided equally between his nephew, Ariberto, and his grand-niece, Beatrice, who is also Artiberto's ward. However, Beatrice will receive her inheritance only if she marries a Guidobaldi. Ariberto, therefore, has arranged that she marry his son Marcello, a seaman. However, Marcello has already promised himself to another woman. Marcello suggests to Beatrice that she marry his father instead.

BEATRICE has just run out of the room after telling ARIBERTO of MARCELLO'S suggestion.

 

SCENE 7

 

ARIBERTO     (For a few minutes, he is ecstatic. In the long pause, he reveals the strange battle of his emotions; by and by, he persuades himself and exclaims:)  "—provided she marry a Guidobaldi."  (Reflecting.)  But—Marcello? No! I cannot insist upon this with such certainty of making them both unhappy. Another man? Even worse! She would lose everything. And to whose advantage? Her good uncle's—her guardian's—mine! I, who have the sacred duty, in the face of the law and of the world, to protect her interests!  (Soberly.)  It is a matter of conscience. I cannot allow it! I cannot allow her to condemn herself to a life of isolation, without family—poor girl—without a husband who would wish for her all the good fortune she deserves! But not a featherbrain—that sort, God forbid, would perhaps cause her to pine away. Whereas a serious, settled man ...  (Approaches the mirror, but then turns back.)  It is a matter of conscience!  (Trying to convince himself.)  Oh, if Marcello had not declared that he did not want to ... if she ... I am a good father! but since Marcello does not want to ... nor does she ... (Little by little simplifying the facts.)  And then, what are forty years? To a fit man, forty is nothing! It is usually said that for a ... and then ... (He again approaches the mirror and looks at himself stealthily, afraid of being observed)  ... and then, Beatrice has said that I possess a certain carriage ... elegance ... (Appraising himself.)  Ppuh! Not at all bad! She mentioned my hair ... (Smooths his hair.)  There is a bit of greying ... but not very noticeable! She said as much to Marcello! It distresses her when I tug at my whiskers ... (Curls them.)  Not bad, not at all! And the notion did occur to my son. I had not thought of it!  (Brightening in his own contemplation.)  How impossible things seem—but then, they grow more and more possible—so that they are very nearly probably!  (Again at the mirror.)  What a lovely rose! How becoming! "It was the only thing you needed"! She said so herself. Heavens, how flushed I am! I no longer know where my head is!  (MARCELLO enters, sees him at the mirror, and halts in the doorway.)

 

SCENE 8

 

MARCELLO    (To himself.)  Looking at himself in the mirror! It's done, then!  (Entering.)  Papa!

ARIBERTO     (Moving quickly away from the mirror.)  Oh!

MARCELLO     Did I startle you? I beg your pardon. It is that I have urgent need to speak to you.

ARIBERTO     And I to you!  (Fondly.)  Marcello—you are a good son, a loyal man. I have discovered in you some excellent qualities. Come, let me embrace you!

MARCELLO     (Goes to him and allows himself to be embraced.)  It's done, it's done!  (Aloud.)  Dear Papa, your words are a great comfort to me. I thank you from the depths of my heart! And what is more, to prove to you that I am not ungrateful, I am come to tell you something.

ARIBERTO     (With hearty affection.)  Speak up, with no reticence! You know your father has always helped you when he could—even when you did not deserve it! Go on, speak up!

MARCELLO     (Gravely.)  I have considered.

ARIBERTO     What?

MARCELLO     Marrying my cousin.

ARIBERTO     (Startled.)  Oh! And?

MARCELLO     And ... I examined my conscience and said to myself: Papa is only acting in my interests. I am blind in both eyes! A wife such as Beatrice is a veritable little treasure!  (Enthusiastically.)  Her ingenuousness, her spirit, her sense, her heart—all these things are enough to turn the head of the most serious man in the world! After our interview, I have decided to—

ARIBERTO     (Anxiously.)  To—

MARCELLO     To satisfy you, dear Papa! And as soon as possible. I hope this time, you are truly happy with me!

ARIBERTO     (Very agitated.)  Well, naturally—of course!  (Hesitantly.)  But—I don't understand. Just a few moments ago, you—

MARCELLO     I changed my mind—and also myself. I wish to obey you.

ARIBERTO     (With much effort.)  Excellent!  (Hesitantly.)  But—Beatrice—after all you confessed to her—is she—?

MARCELLO     I shall say it was merely a scheme.

ARIBERTO     And if she does not believe you?

MARCELLO     You must help me to persuade her.  (Emphatically.)  She greatly esteems and—loves you. You need only to say the word!

ARIBERTO     (Searching for excuses.)  Marcello—what if both of you were to be unhappy in this marriage? For you do not love her! Did you, or did you not, tell me that you do not love her?

MARCELLO     Aye, I did tell you that. But you answered: "Once you come to know her, you shall adore her!"

ARIBERTO     Surely! I believed that. But then, in speaking with Beatrice, she considered the disparity in your ages. You are two years younger! and this, you must know, is a great misfortune. If you were, let us say—

MARCELLO     Ten ... fifteen years older ...

ARIBERTO     Precisely! Then we should not worry. But since you are not—

MARCELLO     I shall compensate for it with good judgement.

ARIBERTO     (Blurting out unintentionally.)  A fine judgement you have!

MARCELLO     I am your son. I shall follow your example.  (Softly, mischievously, glancing around.)  As for the other—the lady with the almond-shaped eyes—she shall console herself.

ARIBERTO      Easy enough to say so! And if she does not? I should not like to have any regrets, you understand.

MARCELLO     That is not my business. I am a good son—my father commands; I obey.

ARIBERTO     (At his wit's end.)  But I did not mean to force you! It is a matter of conscience! I absolutely do not want to be accomplice at any wrongdoing!

MARCELLO     (Pretending astonishment.)  What? Now it has become wrong? Papa! Either I deceive myself, or you are retracting your own words!

ARIBERTO     I? No, indeed! I am not retracting anything—I am merely reconsidering.

MARCELLO     Reconsidering! I am dumbstruck! You, who at first found everything so simple? You, who just moments ago, shouted, "Either we drink, or we drown"? To which I responded: "That other lady shall die of a broken heart." And you: "Rubbish! Youthful whims! Heed you father—for he has the experience of forty-one years!"

ARIBERTO     (Interrupting.)  I believe I said forty years.

MARCELLO     "Heed your father, with his grey hair and wrinkles!"

ARIBERTO     (Disconcerted.)  Leave my hair and wrinkles out of this! I only mentioned them to say something.

MARCELLO     and now, I come here and say to you: "Here I am!" You, for some strange reason to which I am not privy, have had a change of heart!

ARIBERTO     That is not true!

MARCELLO     You are confused!

ARIBERTO     I, confused?

MARCELLO     Aye. You very nearly make me suspect—

ARIBERTO     What?  (To himself.) I'm perspiring!  (Aloud.)  Suspect what?

MARCELLO     (Intentionally hesitating.)  That you—pardon me saying so—that you are acting in your own best interests?

ARIBERTO     (At the peak of his confusion and embarrassment.)  I? Well—that is—I mean to say—I— Oh, dash it, it is not true! Even if it were—

MARCELLO     (With wonderment.)  If it were! Did you say, "if it were"?  (As if scandalized.)  Who'd have thought it? The father is the son's rival! Oh, if the world only knew!

ARIBERTO     Don't shout so! Quiet! You are mad. I said nothing of the kind. You are but imagining—it is not true!

MARCELLO     It is too late, Papa, too late! You have betrayed yourself!  (Aside.)  Now to fan the flame!  (Aloud.)  Listen, Papa—a son is always a son. He owes his father respect, obedience—and, in some cases—enough, let us forget it! But in this particular case, I tell you loud and clear:  (Loudly and resolutely.)  My cousin belongs to me! It was you gave her to me, and woe to whomever may try to take her from me!

ARIBERTO     (Confused, bewildered.)  Why, yes, yes! Your cousin belongs to you. If you want her, marry her—and may God bless you both!  (Very distressed, he paces up and down the room.)

MARCELLO     Amen!  (Hurrying to the door.)  Cousin! Cousin!

ARIBERTO     (Also hurrying to the door.)  Beatrice! Beatrice!

 

FINALE

 

BEATRICE     (Entering quickly.)  Here I am! What is it?

ARIBERTO     (With effort.)  Marcello has confirmed what I myself told you—and has finally asked—

MARCELLO     (Interrupting in a tone much altered than before.)  One moment! Before tying the knot, I must beg a favour of my cousin.  (Takes from his pocket a telegram.)  Please read this telegram to my father. It has been burning a hole in my pocket these two hours. The reason I did not show him it earlier shall not be difficult to imagine. Listen carefully, Papa, for it concerns a very grave matter.  

BEATRICE     (Reading.)  "Landed safely at Genoa. Made good railway connection. Shall arrive in few hours."  (BEATRICE and ARIBERTO are puzzled. She continues reading.)  "Young Ariberto in excellent health"—young Ariberto?—"With heart full of trepidation and hope, I embrace you. Irma."  (Looks at MARCELLO).

ARIBERTO     What is this business? Who are these people?

MARCELLO     (Quietly.)  My wife and son.

BEATRICE     You are married?!

MARCELLO     (Half laughing, half serious.)  And a father.

ARIBERTO     (Half disbelieving, uncertain how to take it.)  It—it cannot be!  (Grasps MARCELLO's arm and looks into his eyes.)  Marcello?

MARCELLO     (Bowing his head.)  It is so!  (Straightens up with conviction.)  They are my wife and son. She is an honest woman who may enter the house of my ancestors with her head held high.  (Tenderly.)  And he is a blond angel, named Ariberto—for my father.

ARIBERTO     (Not quite convinced, but essentially happy.)  Married?

MARCELLO     These three years. And now you see that, already possessing a wife, I naturally cannot take another!

BEATRICE     But Cousin, why did you not say so immediately?

MARCELLO     (Jokingly.)  Ungrateful girl! She asks me why!  (Soberly.)  First of all, I had two difficult tasks to fulfill: to render myself disagreeable in such a way as to leave you with no regrets; and to obtain, in some way, absolution from my father. Needless to say, I was born with a silver spoon in my mouth. I return home after five years under rather unusual conditions; and find the old home hearth diligently arranged with good pieces of log, and beneath the log, young, sweet wood—and beneath that, all the kindling and dry cones, which require but a spark to set the whole thing afire! So I light a match—and suddenly, the dry cones crackle to life—they spew forth smoke and sparks—then up, up, up! They illuminate the whole room with a lovely glowing flame, so cheering to see!  (To his father.)  Papa—if, in order to light that flame, I used a bit of friction and, for just a moment, acted disrespectfully towards you—and Cousin—if, for just a moment, I deceived you and pretended to be something I am not—I ask you both to forgive me.  (Little by little becoming moved.)  Forgive me! Let my own hands warm themselves by the flame that they themselves lit. Let us all gather round it! And allow also those two poor souls who shall arrive shortly, wearied by the stormy ocean crossing, numbed and shaking with fever, emotion and cold—  (Forcefully.)  —welcome those two poor people, who are the innocent cause of your happiness!

ARIBERTO     (After a pause.)  Beatrice?

BEATRICE     (In a resigned tone, but smiling at him.)  Uncle?

MARCELLO     (Returning to high spirits, shouting:)  Drink or drown!  (To his father.)  I use your words!  (Linking arms with both, one on either side of him.)  Usually it is the father who blesses the marriage of the son. This time, for the first time, it shall be the son who gives his blessing to the father.  (Hears a carriage outside.)  It is they!

ARIBERTO     (Looking at BEATRICE.)  They?  (Solemnly.)  Very well—five places round the hearth are ready and waiting.  (Offers his arm to BEATRICE, who understands and smiles.)  Let us go and greet our daughter and grandson!  (The curtain falls as they walk towards the door.)

 

FINIS