The roses that weren't our roses: letters of Sibilla Aleramo and Dino Campana

Literary Review, Summer, 2002 by Minna Proctor

We waited in vain for an answer. Around the 20th we sent another 30 lire, and on the 1st of March another 30, and begged him to explain why he was there and what he was dong and how he was. It's now the 5th and he still hasn't written. His father says that unless he asks, we won't send any more money--he sacrifices so much for someone who is younger and stronger than he.

Our blessed son cannot be well. As far as we can see, he'll be terrible at everything he does and he'll feel terrible.

Dear Lady, I don't know what else to say. My son had a wonderful childhood and adolescence. He was plump, handsome, had a full head of curly hair, so intelligent that at two years old he could recite the Ave in French. Everyone envied me. He was exceptionally obedient and good, his teachers said he was of above average cleverness. About us, his parents, they said, he will be their consolation. Now, I'm obliged to tell you, to share openly with you that even recalling his first years isn't enough anymore. I believe in him, and I pray for another transformation.

After the 20th of January we didn't see him again. He changed his clothes, took his shoes that had been repaired, and his two-week allowance of 30 lire, as was normal. I even begged him to excuse me to you because I hadn't answered your letter yet, because I was waiting for the shoemaker to finish his winter shoes and then I was going to send it all on, like he asked.

Forgive me for writing too much, it's a maternal gushing that you must share.

If I find anything out, I'll let you know. I sent you warm greetings.

Devoted, Fanny Campana

Did Dino take all his broken things? Where did he put it all? And was there a photograph of Dino, too?

March 1917 Sibilla Aleramo to Dino Campana

My dear, do you know they're killing me? Oh, don't be alarmed. Slowly, so slowly no one has noticed. Minute by minute, in this absurd silence swollen with the unspeakable, building the prostration, my gaze fixed in vain, and the taste of dirt in my mouth. Over these last few days I've even managed to work. Nothing very pretty, but everything is useful somehow. Wasn't it you who said "making poetry is so expensive!"? And the motto, Aut mors ... Argh, why do I write you these tales. To think that I woke the other day determined to send you this extraordinary phrase, "Angry dog that bit me, I might die, but they're going to cut off your head." Maybe I dreamed it. Yet I'm still in this reverential stupor thinking about it--the same stupor that aroused your most venomous wrath. Poor us. Dina and Sibilla--or is it, Dinuccio and Rinetta?--can never love each other again. At least I can, for a while longer. But you? Are you gaining weight? Or, are you raving? Addio, my dear. I won't expect an answer. You see? I haven't "suffocated" you with letters.

Addio, Dino, may God watch over you.

March 1917 Sibilla Aleramo to Dino Campana

Dino,

My melancholy is great, my love great--a word, I don't know which one, to say.

I don't know what life wants for me. If I must endure this solitude, this constant prayer: to give up ever seeing you again; to remain forever with this taste of dirt in my mouth; to save you by giving you up; to be loved by you from a distance. To wait for death, my God, for how long?