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!