Giuseppe Tomasi di Lampedusa

1896–1957

Tomasi di Lampedusa, born in Palermo, was a learned prince, and his literary legacy remains a cause-célèbre. His most celebrated published work was composed within the two years leading up to his death, including the novel, Il gattopardo (The Leopard), feverishly written between 1955 and 1956, only to be rejected by various publishers, including Vittorini, who didn’t think it was the right fit for his Gettoni series. It was another writer, Giorgio Bassani – having received a partial manuscript from the writer Elena Croce, daughter of the famous philosopher – who travelled to Palermo the year after Tomasi di Lampedusa’s death, obtained his papers from his Latvian widow and quickly published Il gattopardo. An engrossing historical and psychological novel about the decline of the Sicilian aristocracy as Italy moved towards unification, it sold over three million copies, was translated into twenty-seven languages, and was turned, in 1963, into a film by Luchino Visconti. In addition to Il gattopardo, Tomasi di Lampedusa had also left behind critical essays and a few short stories, including this one, unquestionably his most powerful. A story within a story, everything about it is doubled: it contains two narrative planes, two central protagonists, two settings, two tonal registers, two points of view. There are even two titles; though published as ‘La Sirena’ (‘The Siren’), it was originally called ‘Lighea’, (the title provided by the author’s wife), which refers to the name of the siren at the heart of this mysterious tale. Fusing elements at once carnal and intellectual, both pagan and modern, it is a story about the revitalizing and transformative things that can happen while learning another language – in this case, Ancient Greek. Tomasi di Lampedusa wrote it in the final months of his life, with certain knowledge of his imminent death from lung cancer.

The Siren

Translated by Stephen Twilley

Late in the autumn of 1938 I came down with a severe case of misanthropy. I was living in Turin at the time, and my local girl no. 1, rifling my pockets in search of a spare fifty-lire note as I slept, had also discovered a short letter from girl no. 2. Spelling mistakes notwithstanding, it left no room for doubt concerning the nature of our relations.

My waking was both immediate and violent. Outbursts of angry dialect echoed through my modest lodgings on Via Peyron, and an attempt to scratch my eyes out was averted only by the slight twist I administered to the dear girl’s left wrist. This entirely justified act of self-defence put an end to the row, but also to the romance. The girl dressed hurriedly, stuffing powder puff, lipstick, and a little handkerchief into her bag along with the fifty-lire note, ‘cause of so great a calamity,’ thrice flung a colourful local alternative to ‘Swine!’ in my face, and left. Never had she been so adorable as in those fifteen minutes of fury. I watched from the window as she emerged and moved away into the morning mist: tall, slender, adorned with regained elegance.