Satanella (1932)/Chapter 2
Surely it is not my doing
That for love Spring is selected,
Evening star by love is chosen,
That the rose is lovers' flower,
Nightingale their sacred song-bird,
And the poets' song so gentle,
Lullaby is of their gladness
And the dirge of lovers' blisses.
Two old walls of gloomy ruins
As two sisters, self-embracing
Forward lean their aged arches.
Ivy grows from every crevice,
On the battlement, a hawthorne
And a rug of mossy verdure.
Grass between the stones has settled:
Downward hang dark blades so tender,
Playthings of the blowing breezes
As a woman's flowing tresses.
And within these saddened ruins
—formerly a famous cloister—
Gypsies have their camp erected.
Twilight fell upon the country,
Far away a stream was booming,
Time to time the forest whispered
As if dreaming. . . . Then all quiet. . . .
Out upon this midnight darkness
Gazed the greyish cloister ruins
As a giant of past ages,
Who to earth from grave returning,
After flight of years uncounted,
Stands there now, as if bewildered
By the time's fast fleeting changes.
Yes, these ruins were a giant,
Rock-hewn walls its shoulders forming,
With its arms, two massive arches
Stretching in the darkened distance,
While the windows, now illumined
By the glare of gypsies' fire
Forward shine like eyes aglowing.
Quiet, quiet o'er the country. . . .
But gay life among the ruins!
'twixt the walls of crumbling glory
Fleeting shadows come and vanish.
Toward the darkened vaulted ceiling
Soar the flames of hungry fires;
Through the caverns, nooks and hollows
Used to sleepy rest and quiet,
Or to wint'ry winds' sad howling,
Rustling leaves or birds' sweet singing,
Now resounds the saucy cymbal,
Now ring out song's playful verses.
On a rock, close to the fire
White-haired, hoary man is sitting,
Chieftain of the camping gypsies.
And within the glaring flicker
Shine his cloak's metallic buckles
And the knives from belt protruding. . . .
Straight before him, fair young woman
Part reclining on a carpet,
Shielding with one hand her forehead,
Dreamily stares in the fire.
Strings of dimly shining pearls
And her hair's abundant billows
Decorate, though part concealing
Restless waves of full-formed bosom.
Next to her, a youth is resting
With a knowing eye caressing
Chieftain's daggers shining edges. . . .
On the wall a boy is stretching
Gazing into hazy distance. . . .
There two gypsies play their cymbals
With whose clear metallic music
Blends the gypsies' mournful singing. . . .
Here and there, within the shadows,
Gypsies' reddish cloaks are gathered,
Near the fires sit the women,
While the men sit, freely scattered
On the boulders, partly dreaming:
Time to time their heads go nodding
To the tune ... then weave more fancies.
Motley camp around the fire,
But where is our Satanella?
'neath the ruins in the valley,
In the mountain guarded recess,
Sheltered by a bush of roses
Hangs Madonna's holy picture,
Relic of the days this cloister
For unfortunates was shelter
And a wanderers' oasis.
Age-worn rock before the picture,
On the rock the happy lover,
Roderigo in a dark cloak.
In his arms is Satanella
Softly upward at him smiling
As the Evening Star in heaven,
As Madonna in the picture.
Gone the hair-enclosing 'kerchief,
Gone her tresses' triple garland;
Naught but hundred streams of darkness
Winding out as shining billows
Round the gaily colored bodice
From whose feeble, helpless bondage,
Overcome by their sweet pressure,
Found escape her dusky bosom.
And her hand is now embracing
Roderigo's neck and shoulders
While in truth her eyes are drinking
Lightning, shining 'neath his eye lids;
And her heart with quickened beating
Hastens forth in uncurbed yearning
To blend with his measured heart beats.
Head to head, lips lips enfolding
And one sigh, sweet and caressing,
"Do you love me, Roderigo?"
Head to head, lips lips enfolding
And one sigh, sweet and caressing,
"Yes, I love you, Satanella." . . .
For a long while, all was quiet,
Distant waters barely rippled,
Darkened forests barely whispered.
Just the thicket faintly trembled
With the earth's sweet, heavy breathing,
Just two lips that faintly trembled
'neath a cataract of kisses
As a lotus flower trembles
'neath the faithful moon's caressing,
As the rolling ocean trembles
'neath the rays of golden sunshine.
"Tell me, do you still remember,"
—softly asks the happy lover—
"Years ago when shyly, coyly,
I dared kiss the blooms you offered?
From the blooms I passed to your lips—
And today, see what a difference,
Now I kiss your tan-hued forehead,
Supple cheeks and two lips smiling,
Full-formed breasts and two bare ankles,
Your moist eyes and raven tresses;
All of you now is a flower
And a lip now, all my being,
Satanella! Satanella!"
"Tell me, do you still remember,"
—answers she her knightly lover—
"Years ago, when shyly, coyly
I dared rest one eye upon you?
And today, see what a difference,
Both my eyes I dare submerse now
And with them my soul is sinking,
Everlastingly submersing
In your eyes, blue as an ocean,
In your eyes your soul I see now,
As it beckons me and calls me,
All the earthly bliss I see there,
And I swoon with joy's abundance.
Burning, longing lips repeating:
'Roderigo, Roderigo.'"
For a long while, all was quiet.
Fires dying 'tween the ruins,
Cymbal's final note has sounded.
—In the mountains sleeps its echo.
But with greater, keener brightness
Shines the Evening Star in heaven,
And with melody much sweeter
Shakes the leaf and tremble billows,
Nightingale's throat faintly trembles,
Tremble lovers' lips with kisses.
Midnight onward floats in silence,
Sleeps the grove, the hills are dormant,
Rests the brook, each bird is dreaming.
Quiet, quiet. . . . Like an echo
Floats love's breath into the distance.
"Do you love me, Roderigo?"
"Yes, I love you, Satanella."
"Love for ever?"
"Ever! . . . ever! . . ."
Surely it is not my doing
That for love Spring is selected,
Evening Star by love is chosen,
That the rose is lovers' flower,
Nightingale their sacred song-bird,
And the poets' song so gentle
Lullaby is of their gladness
And the dirge of lovers' blisses.
