# 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.