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Mary de Rachewiltz at the tomb of her parents, Ezra Pound & Olga Rudge Photo: Cat Bauer, taken November 1, 2015 |
The Italian Ministry of Culture had acquired the Mary de Rachewiltz Archives and the Ezra Pound Library in 2025, which are now, fittingly, in the Marciana Library in Venice, accessible for future generations.
I had the great privilege of knowing Mary. I first met her up in South Tyrol in April, 2008, while I was staying in Merano at Schloss Rubein, the castle of Eliane du Parc, daughter of the artist, Count Robert du Parc. Ezra Pound and Robert du Parc were contemporaries.
After the encounter with Mary, I wrote an essay entitled From Castle to Castle. I thought it was amazing that people still lived in castles, and that I could actually follow the footsteps of an empress to get from one castle to another along ancient pathways that still exist. (And, yes, I really used all those em dashes long before AI gave them a bad name:-.)
I emailed the essay to Mary. Her response is at the end of this post.
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| Schloss Rubein |
by
Cat Bauer
For I am homesick after mine own kind
And ordinary people touch me not.
And I am homesick
After mine own kind that know, and feel
And have some breath for beauty and the arts.
---from In Durance by Ezra Pound
Ten years ago, when I first arrived in Venice, I took the vaporetto to the Island of San Michele to find the tomb of Ezra Pound in the Evangelico section of the cemetery. It was a gray day, the week after Christmas, with a touch of caigo, Venetian fog.
I wandered the grounds alone. I paused at the infants’ section, captured by the distinct objects decorating the tiny graves. A stuffed bunny. A plastic fire engine. A faded balloon. Some infants had lived for several months. Some for only one day. There were fresh flowers on a tomb older than a decade, a grief still borne.
I heard music in the distance, a clinky version of "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star." I followed the sound. I arrived at a wall of tombs, the kind that are stacked one upon another like filing cabinets. Propped open behind a sprig of flowers was a cheerful electronic greeting card playing the nursery rhyme over and over.
Italian tombs often have photos of the deceased embedded in the stone. This tomb, located about midway through the stack, had three photos. Two were of the same woman, photographed as both a teenaged girl and an elderly lady. The frown on her face had not changed in fifty years. I thought, there was a life lived without effect.
The other photo was of her husband, a dashing man about sixty, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. His date of birth was December 23rd, the same day as my father's. The man had been dead for thirty-three years; the woman for thirty-one. I imagined the adult daughter had arrived with the "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" card for her father's birthday, and that her mother would not approve. The card had been playing a constant tune for about a week. (Who knew those batteries lasted so long?)
I then made my way to the Evangelico section, which is enclosed behind a large wall. The entrance is an open portal the size of a door. I felt at home the moment I stepped through the entrance, and thought: I want to be buried here. It was a Nathaniel Hawthorne cemetery, with cypress trees and gnarled bushes. The headstones were crooked and cracked. Many of the names were Anglicized with no photos embedded in the marble. I wandered from tomb to tomb, wondering who these people were, buried together on foreign soil. (I have since decided they are fallen angels.)
Since then, I have spent much time in the Evangelico section tending certain tombs connected to my life in Venice, where I have had my residence since 1998. There are water fountains sprinkled throughout the cemetery, and plenty of colorful plastic watering cans, along with fellow caretakers, mostly widows. In Venice, death is acknowledged as a fact of life; the hospital is strategically located across from the Island of San Michele.
The last time I was out there was a few weeks ago on Good Friday, getting things freshened up for Easter. I stopped by Ezra Pound's tomb, who died in Venice on All Saints Day, two days after his eighty-seventh birthday — a significant day if you live in a town where phantoms of the past share the same streets as the living — and noticed that his side had been tended, but that his companion's, Olga Rudge, had not, so I tidied hers up a bit.
Gods' aid, let not my bones lie in a public location
With crowds too assiduous in their crossing of it;
For thus are tombs of lovers most desecrated.
May a woody and sequestered place cover me with its foliage
Or may I inter beneath the hummock
of some as yet uncatalogued sand;
At any rate I shall not have my epitaph in a high road.
---from Homage to Sextus Propertius by Ezra Pound
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| Schloss Brunnenburg |
A few days ago, I found myself recounting that story while sitting in Ezra Pound's chair inside Brunnenburg Castle in South Tyrol, sipping tea across from Mary de Rachewiltz, the daughter of Rudge and Pound. Mary was pleased that I had cleaned her mother's side of the tomb.
I had walked from Rubein, the castle where I am staying — a journey of about an hour and a half. The trek took me along part of Sissi's Path, named after the Austrian Empress Elisabeth, who would flee to Merano to walk and walk. Then I hiked up a winding trail called Tappeinerweg, named after the renowned spa doctor, Dr. Franz Tappeiner.
I followed Sissi’s footsteps through a panorama decorated with tulips, poppies and apple blossoms, snow-sugared Alps in the background, and the town of Meran below. (This place, too, feels familiar; German words accent the air, conjuring up my paternal grandparents, and the part of my childhood that was happy.)
Upon arrival at Brunnenburg Castle, a black dog named Cleopatra greeted me — a curious happenstance, since I have a black cat named Cleopatra.
I know only a little about Ezra Pound's work. The small amount I have read always hits me a certain way, with a jolt of recognition — the kind of familiarity I felt when I first saw the Evangelico cemetery. Independently, I have arrived at many of the same conclusions.
I showed Mary the cover of my book, Harley's Ninth. She said, "Ah, there is the sun, and there is the moon. And look at those five candles."
O God of silence,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
Purifiez nos coeurs,
O God of waters,
make clean our hearts within us,
For I have seen the
Shadow of this thy Venice
Floating upon the waters,
And thy stars
---from Night Litany by Ezra Pound
Mary said something that resonated: "Every major civilization has had its epic poem, something that lasts through the centuries. The Greeks have Homer. The British have Shakespeare. The Italians have Dante. The Americans have Ezra Pound. It will take them a few hundred years to realize it, though." Mary said her father was also her teacher, and now spends most of her time reading The Cantos.
I came away with a mixture of emotions — excitement, wonder and a little apprehension. After living in Venice on the Grand Canal, and spending time in South Tyrol inside 12th century castles, life becomes surreal, especially when home was once a tract home in New Jersey.
I feel comradeship with the ex-patriot epic poet, Ezra Pound. Fathers with twinkling eyes... mothers with their smiles upside-down... and daughters who remember their parents... Products of the American suburbs who grow up and live inside fairytale towns and look at the homeland with a distant and distinct eye...
My view of the world from Europe is different from my view from the States. The diversity in the cultures cannot be overestimated. Here, we joke that anyone who lives in Venice must be slightly mad.
In reality, it is only another perspective, fermented for centuries by the isolated waters of the lagoon, together with the presence of the mighty ghosts that left their mighty works behind. (Dare we imagine that the poet once institutionalized by America might one day become an American institution?)
The thought of what America,
The thought of what America,
The thought of what America would be like
If the Classics had a wide circulation . . .
Oh well!
It troubles my sleep.
---from Cantico del Sole by Ezra Pound
Cat Bauer
Merano, South Tyrol
April 17, 2008
----- Original Message -----
Subject: Re: Rubein
Date: Mon, April 21, 2008 3:50
From: "Mary de Rachewiltz"
Dear Cat,
> you evidently are a BORN WRITER and I wish you had been around when my
> father was here -
> he would have kept you busy and would have liked your eagerness and
> curiosity.
> Had you told me you wanted to READ Ezra Pound's work, I could have lent
> you some books, but
> I am glad to hear one finds some in the Merano Public Library.
> Please thank Eliane for her kind invitation, unfortunately I must ask
> for a rain check, this is an impossible week for me. Perhaps a young
> visitor will get in touch with you, or else you could join the students
next
> Sunday for tea ?
> I hope you will be able to get your article on visits to San
> Michele/Brunnenburg published. Thank you for
> e-mail and letter.
> Good luck,
> Mary de Rachewiltz
>
Ciao from Venezia
Cat Bauer
The Venice Gazette
