FERDINANDO RUSSO Dante Maffia
As did Di Giacomo, Ferdinando Russo also dispersed in myriad publications his writings which, as a well-known journalist, dealt with the most heterogeneous and at times unthinkable topics. He had a penchant, exhibited without ambiguity, for exploring subjects that in the eyes of conventional wisdom seemed "vile and unnecessary," but at the same time he could forcefully examine situations, of a social nature as well, with a confidence that bespoke of a great knowledge of life. Given the impossibility, even in this case, to provide the long list of the bibliography of the works (which in recent years has seen a flowering of clandestine editions, philologically inaccurate even in the critical apparatus, when there is one) we refer to Le poesie, edited by Carlo Bernari: Naples, Guida, 1984.
For the critical bibliography, besides Bernari's work, we suggest Luigi Reina, Ferdinando Russo Popolarità, dialetto, poesia: Napoli, Ermanno Cassitto Editore, 1983.
Ferdinando Russo was born in Naples in 1866. He was a member of the group formed by Arturo Colautti, Gabriele D'Annunzio, Matilde Serao, Edoardo Scarfoglio, Angelo Conti, Roberto Bracco, who undertook a frenzied literary and journalistic activity in Naples between the end of the last century and the beginning of ours. In the Mattino, he ran a column of wordly and literary events, raising endless controversies, to the extent that he even criticized Di Giacomo for possible errors or improprieties in the use of the Neapolitan language. He was passionate and exuberant (he was expelled from the Mattino for one of his disputes) and had contacts with the camorra, even following very well known judicial cases, such as those of Ciccio Cappuccio and Gennaro Cuocolo.
An official of the National Museum, after having married a chanteuse, he devoted himself to the study of Neapolitan poets of the Seventeenth Century (we should mention at least his books on Velardiniello: Rome, Edizioni Modernità, 1913 and, from the same year and with the same editor, Gran Cortese), and his works attained considerable success.
He was always proud of the distinguished friendships he made (Zola, Fogazzaro, Carducci) and of his curiosity as a traveler familiar with several European capitals. He was a "popular" figure, as someone wrote, a "petit bourgeois" who tried to give himself some airs through his culture. Croce did not have a high regard for him, he considered him to be like so many other Neapolitan poets who wrote smooth verses lacking the resonance of real poetry.
One can imagine the dispute Russo gave rise to over the diffidence and shortcomings of the great critic, but also over the comments of other poets, like Murolo, Bovio and Galdieri, who took Croce's side.
But beyond the fracas raised by Russo among friends and enemies, he remained the poet who, in his moments of grace, was able to create unforgettable pages, subtly ironic or "chorally" knowing.
In the conclusion of his book, Luigi Reina describes him as follows: "Russo then was not a champion of regional and dialectal Verismo, stricto senso, but an intellectual typical of the post-unity and southern generation tied to a concept of culture whose features were changing gradually. He was observant of the shifting reality, in which he was able to capture certain postulates in the blossoming of a new conception of culture and the of world, but without giving in to easy enthusiasm or consolidated certainties." A full-relief portrait, truthful, but which does not exclude the critical orientation that sees Russo as an attentive describer of the Neapolitan spirit, indulging here and there in pathos and sentimentality, "which the programmed naturalism is not capable of concealing."
He died in Naples in 1927.
Viene!
"Viene! Quanno te guardo 'a vocca 'e fravula
lucente 'e sole ca me fa 'mpazzì!
Quanno te vedo n'ata vota 'e ridere!
Quanno me credo ca me dice sì!
Quanno te parlo! Quanno te cunzidero
comm'a na cosa prezziosa e amata
comm'a na santa int'a nu scaravattolo,
na perla ca m'avessero arrubbata!
Sto ccà, sto nchiuso a sbarià, penzannote,
e me ricordo sulo 'e juorne belle.
M''e dato tanto ammore! E nun se scordano
pe cient'anne 'e tempeste, 'a luna, e 'e stelle!
T'aggio date 'e cchiù belle 'e tutt''e spaseme!
Aggio pruvato 'a freva d' 'a pazzia!
Nfi 'a doppo 'a morte, sempe l'aggia dicere:
Si stata 'o sciore 'e chesta vita mia!"
da Le poesie, 1984
Vieni! "Vieni! Quando ti guardo la bocca di fragola, / lucente di sole che mi fa impazzire! / Quando ti vedo un'altra volta ridere! / Quando credo che mi dica sì! / Quando ti parlo! Quando ti considero / come una cosa preziosa e amata, / come una santa in un tabernacolo, / una perla che mi avessero rubata! / Sto qui, sto chiuso a delirare, pensandoti, / e mi ricordo solo i giorni belli. / Mi hai dato tanto amore! E non si scordano / per cento anni le tempeste, la luna, e le stelle! / Ti ho dato i più belli di tutti i miei spasimi! / Ho provato la febbre della pazzia! / Fino a dopo la morte, sempre dovrò dirlo: / sei stata il fiore di questa vita mia."
(Traduzione di G.Spagnoletti e C. Viviani)
Come!
When I look at your strawberry mouth
alive with sunlight, how it drives me wild!
When I see you laughing once again.
When I think you're saying yes to me.
When I talk yo you. When I see you
as something very dear and precious,
as a saint inside a tabernacle,
a pearl they might have stolen from me.
Here, shut in and raving, I think of you,
and I remember only the good days.
You gave me so much love. For a hundred years
you can't forget the storms, the moon and stars.
I have given you the best of all my longings.
I have felt the fever of my madness grow.
I'll always say it till the day I die:
You've been the only flower of my life.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
Mamma mia ch'a dda sapé!
I
Quanno 'a notte se ne scenne
p'abbrucià chiest'uocchie stanche,
quann'io veglio e tu me manche,
sento 'a smania 'e te vasà!
E te guardo e schiara juorno;
ma è pe' ll'ate stu chiarore!
Tengo 'a notte dint' 'o core
e nun pozzo arrepusà!
Ah, nun me fa' murì!
Tu che ne vu da me?
Mamma mia me vene a di' pecché
chesta smania nun me vo' lassà!
Ah, nun me fa' murì!
Tu che ne vu da me?
Mamma mia ch'ha dda sapé?
Mamma mia ch'ha dda appurà?
Nun me fido d' 'a vasà!
da Le poesie, 1984
Mamma mia che deve sapere! I Quando scende la notte / per bruciare questi occhi stanchi,/ quando io veglio e tu mi manchi, / sento la smania di baciarti! / E ti guardo e arriva l'alba, / ma è per gli altri, questo chiarore! / Ho la notte dentro il cuore / e non posso riposare! / Ah, non farmi morire! / Che pretendi da me? / Mamma mia mi viene a dire perché / questa smania non mi vuol lasciare! / Ah, non farmi morire! / Che pretendi da me? / Mamma mia che deve sapere? / Mamma mia che deve appurare? Non ho il coraggio di baciarla!
(Traduzione di Carlo Bernari)
What Should My Mother Know?
I
When the night begins to fall
and it burns these tired eyes,
when I wake and start to miss you
my one yearning is to kiss you.
And I watch you and dawn rises;
other people enjoy this sunlight.
In my heart I hold the night
and cannot get rest at all.
Ah, don't you make me die.
What do you expect of me?
O dear mother come and tell me
why this longing's such a spell.
Ah, don't you make me die.
What do you expect of me?
What should my mother know?
I don't have the nerve to kiss you.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)
'A mugliera 'e Masaniello
So' turnate li Spagnuole,
è fernuta 'a zezzenella;
comme chiagneno 'e ffigliole
fora 'a via d' 'a Marenella!
'A Riggina 'e ll'otto juorne
s'è arredotta a ffa' 'a vaiassa;
so turnate li taluorne,
'ncopp' 'e frutte torna 'a tassa!
Chella vesta, tuttaquanta
d'oro e argiento arricamata,
ll'ha cagnata sta Rignanta
cu na vesta spetacciata.
'A curona 'e filigrana
mo ched'è? Curona 'e spine!
'E zecchine d' 'a cullana
mo nun songo cchiù zecchine!
Li Spagnuole so' turnate
chiù guappune e preputiente
e mo' a chiammano, 'e suldate,
a Riggina d' 'e pezziente!
E lle danno 'a vuttatella,
e lle diceno' a parola,
e lle tirano 'a vunnella...
Essa chiagne, sola sola.
Pane niro e chianto amaro,
chianto amaro e pane niro
vanno a ccocchia e fanno 'o paro
comm' 'e muonece a Retiro.
Da Palazzo essa è passata
dint' 'o Bbuorgo e venne ammore;
tene 'a mala annummenata,
ma nu schianto mmiez' 'o core!
Dint' 'o vascio d' 'a scasata
mo nce passa o riggimento;
'a furtuna ll'ha lassata
e le scioscia malu viento.
Se facette accussì lota,
morta 'e famma e de fraggiello,
chella llà ch'era na vota
'a mugliera 'e Masaniello!
da Le poesie, 1984
La moglie del Masaniello Sono tornati gli Spagnoli, / è finita la pacchia; / come piangono le ragazze / lungo la via della Marina! / La Regina degli otto giorni / s'è ridotta come una serva; / son tornati i guai, / sulla frutta torna la tassa. / Quella veste, tutta d'oro / e d'argento ricamata, / l'ha cambiata questa Regnante / con una veste sbrindellata. / La corona di filigrana / ora cos'è? Corona di spine! / Gli zecchini della collana / ora non sono più zecchini! / Gli Spagnoli son tornati / più spavaldi e prepotenti / e adesso la chiamano, i soldati, / la Regina dei pezzenti! / E le danno la spintarella / e le dicono la parolina, / e le tirano la gonnella... / Essa piange, sola sola. / Pane nero e pianto amaro, / pianto amaro e pane nero / vanno a coppia pari passo / come i monaci del Ricovero. / Da Palazzo essa è passata / dietro il Borgo e vende amore, / gode d'una cattiva fama, / ma ha uno schianto in mezzo al cuore! / Dentro il "basso" della disgraziata / ora ci passa il reggimento; / la fortuna l'ha lascaita / e le soffia cattivo vento. / Si infangò a tal punto, / morta di fame e rovinata, / quella che una volta era [stata] / la moglie di Masaniello.
(Traduzione di Carlo Bernari)
Masaniello's Wife
The Spaniards now are back in town,
the good times are finally through;
now the young girls walk forlorn
down Marinella avenue.
And the queen of the eight days
is reduced to being a maid
cares and worries are here to stay
a tax on fruits has to be paid.
That fine dress, all inlaid
with fine silver and with gold,
our good queen has had to trade
for the tattered dress of old.
The splendid crown in gold-wrought lace,
what is now? a crown of thorns!
All the sequins of her necklace
are no longer being worn.
The Spaniards now are back in town
yet more scornful and arrogant,
among the soldiers she is known
as the queen of mendicants.
And they give her a light hit,
and they let a word go by,
and they pull her skirt a bit ...
All alone, she starts to cry.
Darkened bread and bitter tears,
bitter tears and darkened bread
walk in step and go in pairs
like monks marching in their stead.
From the Palace then she came
behind Borgo and now sells love;
she's acquired a bad name
but it's pain she's thinking of!
In the slum of the poor woman
now the regiment is moving;
her good luck is finally gone,
and an evil wind is blowing.
She became so wholly mired
in a hungry and wretched life,
the one who once was so admired
as Masaniello's wife.
(Translated by Luigi Bonaffini)