The triple foole

Di dolci aspre catene (for five voices) is the fourth chapter of a personal exploration of madrigalistic vocality that began with Dir - In dir (for six voices and six strings), followed by Horrido (for seven voices) and Se taccio, il duol s’avanza (for violin and twelve voices) that share their poetic source with the new madrigals, namely the Rime of Torquato Tasso. This path will continue with a new series of madrigals on texts by English poets of the Elizabethan age. A common characteristic of these works, besides making use of an “ancient” language, is the use of rhetoric – at the basis of the theory of affects that moved musical research so much forward during the golden age of the madrigal – both structurally and expressively. Contemporary vocal techniques, which I widely exploited in my cycles for solo voice and that I haven’t forsaken also in this case (though used in a more moderate fashion) are guided by the linguistic, structural and conceptual values of these texts, very well known also because, before me, they were set by illustrious musicians contemporary to Tasso: texts so impregnated with the artifices of the word, taken to their extreme, fleeting and polysemic, in the subtleties of courtly love. The form, the harmonic course, the general architecture of the pieces and their relation together create values more important than the single moments, aimed at “illustrating” in a madrigalistic style (in the modern sense, that is never in the original conception) the words and their emotional repercussions, and the insufficiency (or the power?) of symbolic language.

S.G. 3.9.14

I - The Expiration

So, so, breake off this last lamenting kisse,
Which sucks two soules, and vapors Both away,
Turne thou ghost that way, and let mee turne this,
And let our selves benight our happiest day,
We ask’d none leave to love; nor will we owe
Any, so cheape a death, as saying, Goe;

Goe; and if that word have not quite kil’d thee,
Ease me with death, by bidding mee goe too.
Oh, if it have, let my word worke on mee,
And a just office on a murderer doe.
Except it be too late, to kill me so,
Being double dead, going, and bidding, goe.

* * *

II-Lettera To the Honourable Knight, Sir ROBERT KARRE

Sir,

THOUGH I have left my bed, I have not left my bed-side; I sit there still, and as a Prisoner discharged sits at the Prison doore, to beg Fees, so sit I here, to gather crummes. I have used this leisure, to put the meditations had in my sicknesse, into some such order, as may minister some holy delight. They arise to so many sheetes (perchance 20.) as that without saying for that furniture of an Epistle, That my Friends importun’d me to Print them, I importune my Friends to receive them Printed. That, being in hand, through this long Trunke, that reaches from Saint Pauls, to Saint James, I whisper into your earre this question, whether there be any uncomlinesse, or unseasonablenesse, in presenting matter of Devotion, or Mortification, to that Prince, whom I pray God nothing may ever Mortifie, but Holinesse. If you allow my purposes in generall, I pray cast your eye upon the Title and the Epistle, and rectifie me in them: I submit substance, and circumstance to you, and the poore Author of both,

Your very humble and very thankfull
Servant
in Christ Jesus
J. Donne.

* * *

III - Negative Love

I never stoop’d so low, as they
Which on an eye, cheeke, lip, can prey,
Seldome to them, which soare no higher
Then vertue or the minde to’admire,
For sense, and understanding may
Know, what gives fuell to their fire:
My love, though silly, is more brave,
For may I misse, when ere I crave,
If I know yet, what I would have.

If that be simply perfectest
Which can by no way be exprest
But Negatives, my love is so.
To All, which all love, I say no.
If any who deciphers best,
What we know not, our selves, can know,
Let him teach mee that nothing; This
As yet my ease, and comfort is,
Though I speed not, I cannot misse.


* * *

IV - The triple Foole

I am two fooles, I know,
For loving, and for saying so
In whining Poetry;
But where’s that wiseman, that would not be I,
If she would not deny?
Then as th’earths inward narrow crooked lanes
Do purge sea waters fretfull salt away,
I thought, if I could draw my paines
Through Rimes vexation, I should them allay,
Griefe brought to numbers cannot be so fierce,
For, he tames it, that fetters it in verse.

But when I have done so,
Some man, his art and voice to show,
Doth Set and sing my paine,
And, by delighting many, frees againe
Griefe, which verse did restraine.
To Love, and Griefe tribute of Verse belongs,
But not of such as pleases when’tis read,
Both are increased by such songs:
For both their triumphs so are published,
And I, which was two fooles, do so grow three;
Who are a little wise, the best fooles bee.

__________________________________________

I-III-IV da “John Donne, Songs and sonnets”
II da “John Donne, Letters to severall persons of honour, a cura di Charles Edmund Merrill, New York, Sturgis & Walton Company, 1910”.

Il termine

Su, su, basta baciarsi fra i sospiri,
Basta, succhiarsi le anime e disperderle.
Per la tua strada, spettro, io per la mia,
Chiudiamo il nostro giorno più beato;
Il permesso d’amarci non chiedemmo
A nessuno, a nessuno chiederemo
Quella morte a buon prezzo che è dir: «Vai»

«Vai»; e se la parola non t’ha ucciso,
Dilla anche a me, aiutami a morire.
O, se sei morta, su di me si volga,
La mia parola, a un assassino renda
Il fatto suo – se non è troppo tardi
Uccidere chi è morto già due volte,
Nell’andar via da te, e nel dirti: «Vai».

* * *

L’amore negativo

Mai mi sono avventato così in basso
Come chi punta a un occhio, a un labbro, a un viso;
Di rado dietro a chi non va più in alto
Che ammirare un cervello o una virtù;
Perché ben sanno senso ed intelletto
Cos’è quel che dà esca al loro fuoco:
Benché sciocco, il mio amore, ha più coraggio:
Possa fare io fiasco, anche se brucio,
Se già conosco ciò che vorrei avere.

Se la cosa più semplice e perfetta
Può essere descritta unicamente
Per negazioni, così fa il mio amore:
A quelli che aman tutto io dico no.
Se una mente più acuta ha decifrato
Ciò che a noi stessi non è dato intendere,
Mi spieghi quel nonnulla; a me per ora
E’ stato di gran comodo, e conforto:
Anche se fo cilecca, nulla perdo.

* * *

Tre volte matto

Sono matto due volte, riconosco,
Perché amo e perché lo dico in versi
Piagnucolosi: ma dov’è quel savio
Che non vorrebbe stare al posto mio,
Se lei lo permettesse? Come l’acqua
Marina spurga il corrosivo sale
Nei meandri sotterra, così io
Pensavo di calmare le mie pene
Mediante la tortura della rima:
Dolore espresso in versi più non punge,
Chi sa metterlo in metrica, lo doma.

Ma appena ho così fatto, c’è chi subito,
Per mostrar la sua arte e la sua voce,
Mette in musica e canta la mia pena,
Che il verso aveva imprigionato: ed eccola,
Di nuovo in libertà, delizia a molti.
Un tributo di versi si conviene
Al duol d’amore, sì, ma un conto è leggerli
E un altro musicarli: amore e pena
Sono entrambi accresciuti, ingigantiti,
Da queste canzonette che sbandierano
In piazza i loro trionfi. E così io
Che ero matto due volte, ora son tre;
A poca testa, un’ottima follia.

__________________________________________

Traduzione italiana di I-III-IV a cura di Fiornando Gabbrielli.
N.B. Della lettera To the Honourable Knight, Sir ROBERT KARREè stata rispettata l’ortografia dell’edizione presso Sturgis & Walton Company.