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Read Ebook: The Legend of Monte della Sibilla; or Le paradis de la reine Sibille by Bell Clive Bell Vanessa Illustrator Grant Duncan Illustrator
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Ebook has 16 lines and 5570 words, and 1 pages
THE
LEGEND OF MONTE DELLA SIBILLA
OR "LE PARADIS DE LA REINE SIBILLE"
CLIVE BELL
PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY LEONARD AND VIRGINIA WOOLF AT THE HOGARTH PRESS
HOGARTH HOUSE RICHMOND 1923
Indeed it was a dangerous place. But Germans are a stubborn race, Not to say obstinate, to boot Are fond of ladies: Herr Van Bran Swore that if anyone could do't He, Hans Van Branbourg, was the man; Pushed on to Norcia, then climbed higher, And with him went a single squire, Called Pons--they say an Englishman, I hope he was, because I can Pronounce him brave as brave can be, Yet sensible as Sancho Panza, Wherewith I neatly close the stanza.
It was an abbey of Thel?me, Compounded with Arabian nights; Where every sort of pretty game And wit and wine and all delights Were shared with pretty, clever girls, Who never dreamed of being pals; But were what girls should always be, In manner prim, in fancy free. Thus was there hope for everyone, All were fastidious, none was prude, Which means flirtation's ticklish fun Supplanted dreary certitude. There was the best of everything, Of wine, of song, and all the rest, The best to drink, to kiss, to sing, And taste to know what is the best. A match for every mood: to please The thoughtful, cloisters; polished halls For dancers; vines and olive trees And rivers under ancient walls Flowing, for every heart's delight,-- Were there: and there was rest by day and mirth by night.
Music there was in every part; And almost always you could hear A song or septet by Mozart, And not a note of Meyerbeer. There story-tellers had a way Of being neither dull nor long But, like Voltaire or M?rim?e, Were rarely sweet and never strong. Perrons, parterres and green pelouses Abounded; walks of turf and sand; And restaurants like La P?rouse; Fiddles and horns, and no Jazz Band. There were no bounders and no bores, No reach-me-downs, no general stores, No clubs, no colonels, not a hearty Good fellow there to spoil a party, No district-visitor or pastor, And not a sign of Lady Astor. There were no 'cinemas', no groups Of shop boys, no colonial troops, No one who hit straight from the shoulder, And not a season-ticket holder; There was nor creditor nor debtor, There was not in that pleasant land A soul who wished to make it better, All were content to understand Their happiness; nay, what is more, No lady wanted for her lover That kind of smutty, solemn bore, Who sick with genius, must uncover For our souls' good his nasty sore: Believe me there did not exist A single, small coprologist. So simple-minded were the ladies In that old-fashioned Sibyl's Hades.
Van Branbourg, and his British pup too, Observed that every Friday night, No matter what they might be up to, The partners of their dear delight Slipped off at twelve, upon the stroke, And left them puzzling out the joke, As best they might, till Monday morning; When back their ladies came more kind, More sweet, than ever. But this warning Served to unsettle Branbourg's mind. He had a Lutheran soul. What malice, What mischief might they be about? He tracked them to the Sybil's palace, And there it was he found them out. From Friday night to Monday morning, He found these artless, frolick gadders, Who left their lovers without warning, Lay with their queen, asleep like adders; Not in a peaceful girlish doze, But serpentlike and comatose. "Pish," said the squire, "here are no evils." The German said, "These girls are devils."
His northern soul was deeply stirred, He said--"My man, it's time we went," Which good squire Pons thought quite absurd, And said so. "Pons, d'you know we've spent Here," groaned his chief, "three hundred days, Abounding in lascivious ways. Pack up, and say 'good-bye' my man." Thus spoke the Prussian Knight, Van Bran.
They went to see the Pope at Rome, To beg his Holiness's pardon: And though the Suisse said "Not at home", They caught him reading in the garden: Down furiously the book he slammed, And bellowed "You may both be damned."
In this some hold the Pope was wrong, And went by much beyond his brief: But that's no matter to my song, Nor can it give us great relief That Lettenhove speaks of a stick Which played the old Tannh?user trick, Bourgeoning into buds of pity, After our friends had left the city. The Pope, he adds, was quite upset, And owned he'd spoken out of pet, Was strangely troubled for their fate, Sent absolution--all too late: For which, he thinks, the Pope must go To join his victims down below. You may conceive the lamentation Of our poor knight on this occasion. He was, like others of his nation, A damned good fellow--only flabby-- Who, on the slightest provocation, Would fight or weep. A speech so shabby As this, he took to heart, because His sense of sin increased his fears; So, on the Milvian Bridge it was His squire found him, bathed in tears, And gathered it was his intent To jump from off that monument.
O Hans Van Branbourg, I applaud You first, remembering you're a lord; And next the not-to-be-forgot, Your squire and my compatriot, Him, Pons. For since we're far from sure If Heaven will prove a sinecure, And seeing that it's quite uncertain What fate awaits beyond the curtain; Seeing you wanton down the years, While we are in the vale of tears, And even thus the odds are even On waking up in Hell or Heaven, While many hold the odds not small Against our waking up at all; I can't but think that you were wise To choose the Sibyl's paradise: I say it with a heavy heart, I think you chose the better part.
And so, my friends, though your adventure May get from others only censure, Though curates and idealists May call you 'rank materialists', And pompous atheistic prigs, 'Blind-worms' and 'Hedonistic pigs'; Though other men, and wise ones too, May hold that there is more to do Than laugh and let the world go by Saying "To-morrow we shall die"; Yet in a matter so obscure Wise men may differ to be sure. Myself, I never thought it clever To fuss about the "grand forever", And cultivate a soul with care for That vast but vague hereafter; wherefore In my opinion, you did well To live for love, though love is hell.
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