“I had one of those precocious, agitated, stormy adolescences that are full of dreams and illusions that become tears and songs at the merest sound, that speak in the voices of the dark and in fantastic moonlit nights, that give life and eyes to all dead things, that hear words and whispers rise from every flower shoot.” Virgilia D’Andrea (from «Torce nella notte»).

ANIMA ROSSA   Virgilia D’Andrea     Era bambina e la testina bruna Quella sera vegliava… E tra le siepi il raggio della luna Un sogno mite all’ombra ricamava. «Mamma», disse, d’un tratto, dolcemente: «Che cosa è dunque il mondo? Perchè s’allarga e s’agita la mente E il cuor diventa sempre più profondo?». Ella rispose, cuore contro cuore: «Per amare, piccina. Non senti attorno attorno quanto amore S’alza e divampa e l’anima trascina?» Più tardi, adolescente, ella sentiva Nel collegio remoto, Mentre dal Tronto un alito saliva E della vita l’affannava il vuoto, Balzar, d’un tratto, la domanda antica: «Che cosa è dunque il mondo? Perchè si lotta invano e si fatica E il vuoto si fa sempre più profondo, E l’essere si frange e s’avventura Ne le trame fiorite E l’anima s’angoscia e s’impaura E serba aperte tutte le ferite?». «Perchè vita è l’amore e tu, purezza, Apri la mente al sole, Di canti adorna intatta giovinezza, Da’ campi strappa fasci di viole». Ma quando alla ribalta ella si fece Della scena sognata, E della gioia e dell’amore invece Sentì l’assillo d’anima affannata, E vide reggie mäestose, altere, Nei tramonti dorati, Sognanti baci delle pure sere Sopra giardini vasti e imbalsamati, E soffitte poi vide ed il tormento D’antri luridi, impuri, Miseria, fame e sibilo di vento E fonde piaghe di martirî oscuri, E gemme, argento e seriche vestaglie E schiamazzi di feste, E cenci, angoscie e lacrime e gramaglie E serti d’oro su le bionde teste, Questa, disse, è la vita e noi si vive Per vederci soffrire: Questa è, dunque, la vita e noi si vive Per puntellare i troni e poi morire. Schiavi e vigliacchi noi, che assecondiamo D’essere cenci e strame, Bruti ammansati noi, che l’accettiamo Il nodo acerbo di catene infame. E verso il sole alzò la pura fronte E disse: «Alla riscossa» Gettò dal mare, a la pianura, al monte La sfida calda di giornata rossa. Firenze, Gennaio 1919.

RED SOUL Virgilia D’Andrea She was a child and her dark head That night was awake… And the moon’s ray through the hedge A timid dream in the shade did create. “Mamma”, all at once she softly said: “So, what is the world? Why does the mind open and stir And the heart become evermore profound?” She replied, heart to heart: “For love, my little one. Don’t you hear all about you how love Soars and burns and transports the soul?” Later, in adolescence, she sensed, In the distant college, While from the Tronto rose a breath And from life the ache of emptiness, Spring, all at once, that ancient doubt: “So, what is the world? Why do we fight in vain and labour And does the void become evermore profound, And the self break and adventure Into plots in bloom And does the soul suffer and fear And keep open all its wounds?” “Because life is love and you, pure, Open your mind to the sun, Of song adorn intact your youth, From fields pick violets in bunches.” But when she came to the fore In the scene so coveted, And for joy and love however Her heavy soul thirsted And she saw majestic palaces, proud, In the golden sundown, Entranced kisses of evenings pure Over gardens vast and embalmed, And attics then she saw and the anguish Of lurid impure rooms, Misery, hunger and the hissing winds And deep scars of dark martyrdoms, And gems, silvery and silky garbs And the din of feasts, And rags, agony and tears and distress And golden crowns on blonde heads, This, she said, is life and we live it To witness our woe: So, this is life and we live it To support thrones and then die. Slaves and cowards, we, who submit To being rags and hay, Brutes amassed, we, who accept The bitter knot of infamous chains. And towards the sun she raised a pure head And said: “To the rescue!” From the sea, to the plain, to the mountain She cried the burning defiance of red day. Translation ©Matilda Colarossi 2024

Virgilia D’Andrea (Sulmona, 11 February 1888 – New York, 12 May 1933) was an Italian revolutionary.

Virgilia D’Andrea was born in Sulmona, in the province of L’Aquila. An orphan at an early age, she was placed in a convent. She spent a solitary childhood there, but the rigid Catholic upbringing was not able to condition her and her future choices. In those years of solitude, she became passionate about literature and the Italian authors who would later influence her, both in literature and ethically, such as Giacomo Leopardi, Giosuè Carducci and Ada Negri.

She first encountered the word “anarchic” in 1900, when Umberto I was killed by the anarchic Gaetano Bresci and the nuns forced the girls in the convent to pray for the dead monarch. Virgilia, however, was overcome with a sense of curiosity and sympathy for the young radical. After receiving her teaching certificate, she quickly abandoned the convent and began teaching in Sulmona. This experience exposed her to the real world, to the poverty and isolation of the townsfolk, but also to their dignity: this would be fundamental for her future in politics and for her art.

As WWI approached, Virgilia was among the many who demonstrated against the war. She met numerous young people with similar ideas. One of these was Armando Borghi, an anarchic and trade unionist who was confined in Abruzzo at the time. They would become inseparable, living together as husband and wife for the rest of their days.

At the end of the war, Armando and Virgilia toured Italy to spread anarchist political propaganda and in 1920 Virgilia joined the national secretariat of the USI whose headquarters were in Milan at that time.

Virgilia was able to combine her ability as a writer with her political views, and in 1920 “La resa e presa delle fabbriche” [The Taking and Surrendering of the Factories] was published. She was imprisoned on the charge of conspiracy against the state and had to interrupt her writing until she was released from prison when she published “Non sono vinta” [I am not won], clearly her motto. She then started writing for Guerra di classe and Umanità Nova, and at the same time she published Tormento, dedicated to Errico Malatesta, who in the preface calls her the poet of anarchy. This work, however, brought on a new charge against her and she was forced, like many others, to leave the country, the political ‘fuoriuscitismo’, at the advent of fascism. She would live and continue to write in numerous countries before moving to America to join her partner in 1928 where she would die of cancer in 1933.

Her accusations during public rallies are unequivocal: they were directed against religion and the concept of fatherland as a hidden undercurrent to perpetuate class domination and justify Fascism.

Today is mother’s day…My mother was Abruzzese like the poet and revolutionary Virgilia D’Andrea: she would have liked this woman, who was born the same year as her own mother; they, too, hated injustice. -M.C.

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