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How to pronounce silkworm seed in English?

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[Music]
everybody dies
don't they come back
isn't that sir you tried to
[Music]
a wicked voice by vernon lee
[Music]
to mw in remembrance of the last song at
palazzo barbaro
quija intenso intenda
they have been congratulating me again
today upon being the only composer of
our days
of these days of deafening orchestral
effects and poetical quackery
it was despised the newfangled nonsense
of wagner
and returned boldly to the traditions of
handle and gluck
and the divine mozart to the supremacy
of melody
and the respect of the human voice
o cursed human voice violin of flesh and
blood
fashioned with the subtle tools the
cunning hands of satan
oh excretable art of singing have you
not wrought mischief enough in the past
degrading so much
noble genius corrupting the purity of
mozart
reducing handle to a writer of
high-class singing exercises
and defrauding the world of the only
inspiration worthy of sophocles and
euripides
the poetry of the great poet gluck
is it not enough to have dishonored a
whole century in idolatry of that wicked
and contemptible wretch the singer
without persecuting an obscure young
composer of our days
whose only wealth is his love of
nobility in art
and perhaps some few grains of genius
and then they complement me upon the
perfection with which i imitate the
style of the great dead masters
or ask me very seriously whether even if
i could gain over the modern public to
this bygone style of music
i could hope to find singers to perform
it sometimes when people talk as they
have been talking today and laugh when i
declare myself a follower of wagner
i burst into a paroxysm of
unintelligible childish rage and exclaim
we shall see that someday yes someday we
shall see
for after all may i not recover from
this strangest of maladies
it is still possible that the day may
come when all these things shall seem
but an incredible nightmare
the day when ogier the dane shall be
completed and men shall know whether i
am a follower of the great master of the
future
or the miserable singing masters of the
past
i am but half bewitched since i am
conscious of the spell that binds me
my old nurse far off in norway used to
tell me that werewolves are ordinary
men and women half their days and that
if during that period they become aware
of their horrid transformation
they may find the means to forestall it
may this not be the case with me my
reason after all is free
although my artistic inspiration be
enslaved
and i can despise and load the music i'm
forced to compose
and the inexorable power that forces me
nay it is not because i have studied
with the dogginess of hatred this
corrupt and corrupting music of the past
seeking for every little peculiarity of
style
and every biographical trifle merely to
display its vileness
is it not for this presumptuous courage
that have been overtaken by such
mysterious
incredible vengeance and meanwhile
my only relief consists in going over
and over
again in my mind the tale of my miseries
this time i will write it writing only
to tear up to throw the manuscript and
read into the fire
and yet who knows as the last charred
pages shall crackle and slowly sink into
the red embers
perhaps the spell may be broken and i
may possess once more my long
lost liberty my vanished genius
it was a breathless evening under the
full moon that implacable full moon
beneath which
even more than beneath the dreamy
splendor of noontide
venice seem to swelter in the midst of
the waters
exhaling like some great lily mysterious
influences which make the brain
swim in the heart faint a moral malaria
distilled as i thought those languishing
melodies those
cooing vocalizations which i had found
in the musty music books
of a century ago
i see that moonlight evening as if it
were present
i see my fellow lodgers of that little
artist's boarding house
the table on which they lean after
supper is strewn with bits of bread
with napkins rolled in tapestry rollers
spots of wine here and there
and at regular intervals chipped pepper
pots stands of toothpicks and heaps of
those huge hard peaches
which nature imitates from the marble
shops of pisa
the whole penzione full is assembled and
examining
stupidly the engraving which the
american etcher has just brought for me
knowing me to be mad about 18th century
music and musicians
and having noticed as he turned over the
heaps of penny prince in the square of
san polo
that the portrait is that of a singer of
those days
singer thing of evil stupid and wicked
slave of the voice of that instrument
which was not invented by the human
intellect
but begotten of the body and which
instead of moving the soul merely stirs
up the dregs of our nature
for what is the voice but the beast
calling awakening that other beast
sleeping in the depths of mankind the
beast which all great art has ever
sought to chain up
as the archangel chains up in old
pictures the demon with his woman's
face how could the creature attach to
this voice its owner and its victim
the singer the great the real singer who
once ruled over every heart
be otherwise than wicked and
contemptible
but let me try to get on with my story
i can see all my fellow borders leaning
on the table contemplating the print
this effeminate bow
his hair curled in el depigion his sword
passed through his embroidered pocket
seated under a triumphal arch
somewhere among the clouds surrounded by
puffy cupids and crowned with laurels
by a bouncing goddess of fame
i hear again all the insipid
exclamations the insipid questions about
this singer
when did he live was he very famous are
you sure magnus that this is really a
portrait etc
etc and i hear my own voice as if in the
far distance giving them all sorts of
information
biographical and critical out of a
battered little volume called the
theater
of musical glory or opinions upon the
most famous chapel masters
and virtuosi of this century by father
prostochimo sabatelli
parnalite professor of eloquence at the
college of modena
and member of the arcadian academy under
the pastoral name of evander liliban
venice 1785 with the approbation of the
superiors
i tell them how this singer this
balthazachisari was nicknamed zafarino
because of a sapphire engraved with
kabbalistic signs
presented to him one evening by a masked
stranger
in whom wise folk recognized that great
cultivator
of the human voice the devil
how much more wonderful had been the
zafarino's vocal gifts than those of any
singer of ancient
all modern times how his brief life
had been but a series of triumphs petted
by the greatest
king sung by the most famous poets and
finally
adds father prostochimo courted
as if the grave muse of history may
incline her ear to the gossip of
gallantry
by the most charming nymphs even of the
very highest quality
my friends glance one more at the
engraving more insipid remarks i made
i am requested especially by the
american young ladies to play or sing
one of these zafarino's favorite songs
for of course you know them all dear
maestro magnus you have such a passion
for all
old music do be good and sit down at the
piano
i refuse rudely enough rolling the
prince in my fingers
how fearfully this cursed heat these
cursed moonlight nights must have
unstrung me
this venice would suddenly kill me in
the long run
why the sight of this idiotic engraving
the mere
name of that cock's comb of a singer
have made my heart
beat and my limbs turn to water like a
lovesick hobbledy hoy
after my gruff refusal the company
begins to disperse
they prepare to go out some to have a
row on the lagoon others to saunter
before the cafes at some marks
family discussions arise gruntings of
fathers murmurs of mothers
peels of laughing from the young girls
and young men
and the moon pouring in by the wide open
windows
turns this old palace ballroom nowadays
an inn
dining room into a lagoon scintillating
undulating like the other lagoon the
real one which stretches out yonder
furrowed by invisible gondolas
betrayed by the red prowl lights at last
the whole lot of them are on the move
i should be able to get some quiet in my
room and to work a little at my opera
of oggy of the dane but no conversation
revives
and of all things about that singer that
zafarino
whose absurd portrait i'm crunching in
my fingers
the principal speaker is count alvize
an old venetian with dyed whiskers a
great czech tie
fastened with two pins and a chain a
thread bare patrician who is dying to
secure for his lanky son
that pretty american girl whose mother
is intoxicated by all these mooning
anecdotes about the past glories of
venice in general
and of his illustrious family in
particular
why in heaven's name must he pitch upon
zafarino for his mooning
this old duffer of a patrician zafarino
yes to be sure
snuffles the voice of count alvisa who
always repeats the last word of every
sentence at least three times
yes zafarino to be sure a famous singer
of the days of my forefathers yes my
forefathers dear lady then a lot of
rubbish about the former greatness of
venice
the glories of old music the former
conservatoires all mixed up with
anecdotes of rossini
donitzetti whom he pretends to have
known intimately
finally a story of course containing
plenty about his illustrious family
my great grand aunt de prokorates
vendermin from whom we have inherited
our state of mistra
on a hopelessly muddled story apparently
full of digressions
but of which that singer zafarino is the
hero
the narrative little by little becomes
more intelligible or
perhaps it is i who i'm giving it more
attention
it seems as the count that there was one
of these songs in particular which was
called
the husband's heir la aria de mariti
because they didn't enjoy it quite as
much as their better halves
my grandad pizana renye married to the
procreator of endermen was a patrician
of the old school
of this style that was getting rare a
hundred years ago
her virtue and her pride rendered her
unapproachable
zafarino on his part was in the habit of
boasting that no woman had
ever been able to resist his singing
which it appears at its foundation in
fact
the ideal change is my dear lady the
ideal change is a good deal from one
century to another
and that his first song could make any
woman turn pale and
lower her eyes the second make her madly
in love
while the third song could kill her off
on the spot kill her for love
there under his very eyes if he only
felt inclined
my grandaunt vindramin laughed when this
story was told i refused to go to hear
this insolent dog
and addie that it might be quite
possible by the aid of spells and
infernal pacts
to kill a gentile donor but as to making
her fall in love with a lackey
never this answer was naturally reported
to zafarino who picked himself
upon always getting the better of anyone
who was wanting indeference to his voice
like the ancient romans parcheres
subjectis
de beleri superbos you american ladies
was or learned will appreciate this
little quotation from the divine virgil
while seeming to avoid the protests
savendre means affarino took the
opportunity
one evening at a large assembly to sing
in her presence
he sang and sung and sung until the poor
grand aunt pisana
fell ill for love the most skillful
physicians were kept
unable to explain the mysterious malady
which was visibly killing
the poor young lady and the procarator
of endermen applied in vain to the most
venerated madonnas
and vainly promised an altar of silver
with massive gold candlesticks to sense
cosmos and damian
patrons of the art of healing at last
the brother-in-law of the procurates
monsignor almorovindremin
patriarch of aquileia a prelate famous
for the sanctity of his life
obtained in a vision of saint justina
for whom he entertained a particular
devotion
the information that the only thing
which could benefit the strange illness
of his sister-in-law
was the voice of zafarino take notice
that my poor grandaunt had never
condescended to such a revelation
the proclaratore was enchanted at this
happy solution
and his lordship the patriarch went to
see zafarino in person
and carried him in his own coach to the
villa of misra
where the prokhorotessa was residing on
being told what was about to happen
my poor grandaunt went into fits of rage
which was succeeded immediately by
equally violent fits of joy however
she never forgot what was due to her
great position
although sick almost unto death she had
herself arrayed with the greatest pump
caused her face to be painted and put on
all her diamonds it would seem
as if she were anxious to affirm her
full dignity
before this singer accordingly she
received zafarino reclining on the sofa
which had been placed in the great
ballroom of the villa of misra
and beneath the princely canopy for the
vendremeans who had intermarried with
the house of mantua
possessed imperial thiefs and were
princes of the holy roman empire
zafarino saluted her with the most
profound respect but
not a word passed between them only the
singer inquired from the procreator
whether the illustrious lady had
received the sacraments of the church
being told that the prokoratesa had
herself asked to be given extreme
unction
from the hands of her brother-in-law he
declared his readiness to obey the
orders of his excellency and
sat down at once to the harpsichord
never had he sung so divinely
at the end of the first song the
prokhorotessa vindramin had already
revived most extraordinarily
by the end of the second song she
appeared entirely cured and beaming
with beauty and happiness but at the
third air
the aria de mariti no doubt
she began to change frightfully she gave
a dreadful cry and fell into the
convulsions
of death in a quarter of an hour
she was dead zafarino did not wait to
see her die
having finished his song he withdrew
instantly took post-horses and traveled
day and night as far as munich
people remarked they had presented
himself a misra
dressed in mourning although he had
mentioned no death among his relatives
also that he had prepared everything for
his departure as if fearing the wrath
of so powerful a family then
there was also the extraordinary
question he had asked before beginning
to sing
about the procurates having confessed
and received extreme unction
no no thanks my dear lady no cigarettes
for me
but if it does not distress you or your
charming daughter may humbly beg
permission to smoke a cigar
encounter visa enchanted with his talent
for narrative and sure of having secured
for his son
the heart and the dollars and his fair
audience
proceeds to light a candle and that the
candle one of those long
black italian cigars which require
preliminary disinfection before smoking
if this state of things goes on i shall
just have to ask the doctor for a bottle
this ridiculous beating of my heart and
disgusting cold perspiration
have increased steadily during count
alvis's narrative
to keep myself in countenance among the
various idiotic commentaries on this
and bull story of a vocal cox comb
and a vaporing great lady i begin to
unroll the engraving and to examine
stupidly
the portrait of zafarino once so
renowned
now so forgotten a ridiculous ass this
singer under his triumphal arch with his
stuffed cupids
and the great fat winged kitchen maid
crowning him with laurels
how flat and vapid and vulgar it is to
be sure
all this odious 18th century
but he personally is not so utterly
vapid as i'd thought
that effeminate fat face of his is
almost beautiful
with an odd smile brazen and cruel
i've seen faces like this if not in real
life at least in my boyish romantic
dreams when i read swinburne and
baudelaire
the faces of wicked vindictive women oh
yes he is decidedly a beautiful creature
this zafarino
and his voice must have had the same
sort of beauty
and the same expression of wickedness
come on magnus and the voices of my
fellow borders be a good fellow and sing
as one of the old chap's songs
or at least something or other of that
day and will make believe it was the
error with which he killed that poor
lady
ah yes the ariade mariti the husband's
heir mumbles old alvisa between the
puffs
at his impossible black cigar my poor
grandaunt pizana vendreman he went and
killed
her with those songs of his with that
aria de mariti
i feel a senseless rage overcoming me is
it that horrible palpitation by the way
there is a norwegian doctor in my fellow
countrymen in venice just now
which is sending the blood to my brain
and making me mad
the people around the piano the
furniture everything together seems to
get
mixed and to turn into moving blobs of
color
i said to singing the only thing which
remains distinct before my eyes being
the portrait of zafarino
on the edge of that boarding house piano
the sensual
effeminate face with its wicked cynical
smile keeps appearing and disappearing
as the print wavers about in the draft
that makes the candles smoke and gutter
and i said to singing madly singing i
don't know what yes
i begin to identify it it is the
biondina in gondoletta
the only song of the 18th century which
is still remembered by venetian people
i sing it mimicking every old school
grace shakes
cadences languishingly swelled and
diminished notes
and adding all the matter of
buffooneries until the audience
recovering from its surprise begins to
shake with laughing
until i begin to laugh myself madly
frantically
between the phrases of the melody my
voice finally smothered in this dull
brutal laughter
and then to crown it all i shake my fist
at this long dead singer
looking at me with his wicked woman's
face with his mocking
fatuous smile ah you would like to be
revenged on me also i exclaim
you would like me to write you nice
roulades and flourishes
another nice aria de mariti my fine
zafarino
that night i dreamed a very strange
dream even in the big half-furnished
room the heat
and closeness was stifling the air
seemed laden with the scent of all
manner of white flowers faint and heavy
in their intolerable sweetness
tuba roses gardenias and jasmine's
drooping
i know not where in neglected vases
the moonlight had transformed the marble
flow around me into a shallow shining
pool
on account of the heat i had exchanged
my bed for a big old-fashioned sofa of
light wood
painted with little nose guys and sprigs
like an old silk
and i lay there not attempting to sleep
and letting my thoughts go
vaguely to my opera of ogier the dane of
which i had long finished writing the
words and
for whose music i had hoped to find some
inspiration in this strange venice
floating as it were in the stagnant
lagoon of the past
but venice had merely put all my ideas
into hopeless confusion
it was as if there arose out of its
shallow waters
a miasma of long dead melodies
which sickened but intoxicated my soul
i lay on myself for watching that pool
of whitish light which rose higher and
higher
little trickles of light meeting it here
and there wherever the moon's rays
struck upon some
polished surface while huge shadows wave
to and fro in the draft of the open
balcony
i went over and over that old norse
story how the paladin ogier one of the
knights of charlemagne
was decoyed during his homewood
wanderings from the holy land by the
arts of an enchantress
the same who had once held in bondage
the great empress caesar
and had given him king oberon for a son
how olgia had tarried in that island
only one day and one night and yet when
he came
home to his kingdom he found all changed
his friends dead
his family dethroned and not a man who
knew his face
until at last driven hither and thither
like a beggar
a poor minstrel had taken compassion of
his sufferings
and given him all he could give a song
the song of the prowess of a hero dead
for hundreds of years
the paladin ogier the dane
the story of ogier ran into a dream as
vivid as my waking thoughts had been
vague
i was looking no longer at the pool of
moonlight spreading around my couch with
its trickles of light
and looming waving shadows but the
frescoed walls of a great saloon
it was not as i recognized in a second
the dining room of that venetian palace
now turned into a boarding house
it was a far larger room a real ballroom
almost circular in its octagon shape
with eight huge white doors surrounded
by stucco moldings
and high on the vault of the ceiling
eight little galleries or recesses like
boxes at the theater
intended no doubt for musicians and
spectators
the place was imperfectly lighted by
only one of the eight chandeliers
which revolved slowly like huge spiders
each on its long cord but the light
struck upon the gilt stucco's opposite
me
and on a large expanse of fresco the
sacrifice of ephegenia with agamemnon
and achilles in roman helmets
lapids and knee breeches it discovered
also one of the oil panels led into the
moldings of the roof
a goddess in lemon and lilac draperies
foreshortened over a great green peacock
round the room where the light reached i
could make out big
yellow satin sofas and heavy gilded
consoles
in the shadow of a corner was what
looked like a piano
and farther in the shade one of those
big canopies which decorate the
anti-rooms of roman palaces
i looked about me wondering where i was
a heavy sweet smell reminding me of the
flavour of a peach
filled the place little by little i
began to perceive
sounds little sharp metallic detached
notes
like those of a mandolin and there was
united to them a voice
very low and sweet almost a whisper
which grew
and grew and grew until the whole place
was filled with that exquisite vibrating
note
of a strange exotic unique quality
the note went on swelling and swelling
suddenly
there was a horrible piercing shriek on
the thud of a body on the floor
and all manner of smothered exclamations
there
close by the canopy a light suddenly
appeared and i could see among the dark
figures moving to and fro in the room
a woman lying on the ground surrounded
by other women
a blonde hair tangled full of diamond
sparkles which cut through the half
darkness
was hanging disheveled the laces of her
bodice had been cut
and her white breast shone among the
sheen of jeweled brocade
her face was bent forwards and a thin
white arm
trailed like a broken limb across the
knees of one of the women
who were endeavouring to lift her there
was a sudden splash of water against the
floor
more confused exclamations a hoarse
broken moan
and a gurgling dreadful sound i awoke
with a start and rushed to the window
outside in the blue haze of the moon the
church in belfry of saint george
loomed blue and hazy with the black hull
and rigging
the red lights of a large steamer
mowered before them
from the lagoon rose a damp sea breeze
what was it all ah
i began to understand that story of old
count alvises
the death of his grandaunt pizana
vendramin yes
it was about that that i had been
dreaming
i returned to my room i struck a light
and sat down to my writing table
sleep had become impossible i tried to
work at my opera once or twice i thought
i had got hold of what i'd looked for
for so long
but as soon as i tried to lay hold of my
theme
there arose in my mind the distant echo
of that voice
of that long note swelled slowly by
insensible degrees
that long note whose tone was so strong
and so subtle there are in the life of
an artist
moments when still unable to seize his
own inspiration
or even clearly to discern it he becomes
aware of the approach of that long
invoked idea a mingled joy and terror
warn
him that before another day another hour
have passed
the inspiration shall have crossed the
threshold of his soul
and flooded it with its rapture
all day i had felt the need of isolation
and quiet
and at nightfall i went for a row on the
most solitary part of the lagoon
all things seemed to tell that i was
going to meet my inspiration
and i awaited its coming as a lover
awaits his beloved
i had stopped my gondola for a moment
and as i gently swayed to and fro on the
water
all paved with moonbeams it seemed to me
that i was on the confines of an
imaginary world
it laid close at hand enveloped in
luminous pale blue mist
through which the moon had cut a wide
and glistening path
out to sea the little islands like
murdered black boats only accentuated
the solitude of this region of moonbeams
and wavelets
while the hum of the insects in orchards
hard by
merely added to the impression of
untroubled silence
on some such seas i thought must the
paladin ogier have sailed
when about to discover that during that
sleep at the enchantress's knee
centuries had elapsed
and the heroic world had set and the
kingdom of prose had come
while my gondola rocked stationary on
that sea of moonbeams
i pondered over that twilight of the
heroic world
in the soft rattle of the water on the
hull i seem to hear the rattle of all
that armor
of all those swords swinging rusty on
the walls
neglected by the degenerate sons of the
great champions of old
i had long been in search of a theme
which i had called the theme of the
prowess of ogier
it was to appear from time to time in
the course of my opera
to develop at last into that song of the
minstrel
which reveals to the hero that he is one
of a long dead world
and at this moment i seem to feel the
presence of that theme
yet an instant and my mind would be
overwhelmed by that savage music
heroic funeral
suddenly they came across the lagoon
cleaving checkering and fretting
the silence with the lacework of sound
even as the moon was fretting and
cleaving the water
a ripple of music a voice breaking
itself in a shower of little scales and
cadences and trills i sank back upon my
cushions
the vision of heroic days had vanished
and before my closed eyes
there seemed to dance multitudes of
little stars of light
chasing and interlacing like those
sudden vocalizations
to sure quick i cried to the gondolia
but the sounds had ceased and they came
from the orchards with their mulberry
trees glistening in the moonlight and
their black swaying cypress plumes
nothing said the confused hum the
monotonous chirp
of the crickets i looked around me
on one side empty dunes orchards and
meadows without house or steeple
on the other the blue and misty sea
empty to where distant eyelets were
profiled black
on the horizon a faintness overcame me
and i felt myself dissolve for all of a
sudden a second ripple of voice swept
over the lagoon
a shower of little notes which seemed to
form a little mocking laugh
then all was still this silence lasted
so long that i fell once more to
meditating on my opera
i lay in weight once more for the
half-court theme but
no it was not that theme for which i was
waiting and watching with baited breath
i realized my delusion when on rounding
the point of the judeka
the murmur of a voice arose from the
midst of the waters
a thread of sound slender as a moonbeam
scarce audible
but exquisite which expanded slowly
insensibly taking volume and body taking
flesh almost and fire
an ineffable quality full passionate but
veiled as it were in a subtle downy
wrapper
the note grew stronger and stronger and
warmer
and more passionate until it burst
through that strange and charming veil
and emerged beaming to break itself in
the luminous facets of a wonderful
shake long superb
triumphant there was a dead silence
rotus and marx i exclaimed quick
the gondola glided through the long
glittering track of moonbeams
and rent the great band of yellow
reflected light
mirroring the couplers of saint mark's
the lace-like pinnacles of the palace
and the slender pink belfry which rose
from the lit up water to the pale and
bluish evening sky
in the larger of the two squares the
military band was blaring through the
last spirals of a crescendo of rossini
the crowd was dispersing in this great
open-air ballroom
and the sounds arose which invariably
follow upon out-of-door music
a clatter of spoons and glasses a rustle
and grating of frocks and of chairs
and the click of scabbards on the
pavement i pushed my way among the
fashionable youths contemplating the
ladies
while sucking the knob of their sticks
through the seried ranks of respectable
families marching arm-in-arm
with their white-frocked young ladies
close in front
i took a seat before florians among the
customers
stretching themselves before departing
and the waiters hurrying to and fro
clattering the empty cups and trays
two imitation neapolitans were slipping
their guitar and violin under their arm
ready to leave the place stop i cried to
them
don't go yet sing me something sing
la camasella or funiculi funicola no
matter what
provided you make a row and as they
screamed and scraped their utmost i
added
but can't you sing louder damn you sing
louder
do you want to stand i felt the need of
noise of yells and false notes of
something vulgar
and hideous to drive away that ghost
voice which was haunting me
again and again i told myself that it
had been some silly prank
of a romantic amateur hidden in the
gardens of the shore
or gliding and perceived on the lagoon
and that the sorcery of moonlight and
sea mist
had transfigured for my excited brain
mere humdrum roulades out of exercises
of bordonia and crescentini
but all the same i continued to be
haunted by that voice
my work was interrupted ever and unknown
by the attempt to catch its imaginary
echo
and the heroic harmonies of my
scandinavian legend were strangely
interwoven
with voluptuous phrases and florid
cadences
in which i seemed to hear again that
same accursed voice
to be haunted by singing exercises it
seemed too ridiculous for a man who
professedly despised the art of singing
and still i preferred to believe in that
childish amateur
amusing himself with warbling to the
moon
one day while making these reflections a
hundredth time over
my eyes chanced the light upon the
portrait of zafarino
which my friend had pinned against the
wall i pulled it down and
tore it into half a dozen shreds then
already ashamed of my folly i watched
the torn pieces float down from the
window
wafted hither and thither by the sea
breeze
one scrap got caught in a yellow blind
below me the others fell into the canal
and were speedily lost to sight in the
dark water
i was overcome by shame my heart be like
bursting
what a miserable unnerved worm i had
become in this
cursed venice with its languishing
moonlights
its atmosphere as if some stuffy boudoir
long unused
full of old stuffs and potpourri
that night however things seemed to be
getting better i was able to settle down
to my opera and even to work at it
in the intervals my thoughts returned
not without a certain pleasure
to those scattered fragments of the torn
engraving fluttering down by the water
i was disturbed at my piano by the horse
voices and the scraping of violins which
rose from one of those music boats that
stationed at night under the hotels of
the grand canal
the moon had set under my balcony the
water stretched black into the distance
its darkness cut by the still dark
outlines of the flotilla of gondolas
in attendance on the music boat where
the faces of the singers
and the guitars and violins gleamed
reddish under the unsteady light of the
chinese lanterns
sang the loud hoarse voices then a
tremendous scrape and twang and the yell
down burden
then came a few cries of beast beasts
from a neighboring hotel
a brief clapping of hands the sound of a
handful of coppers rattling into the
boat
and the awestruck of some gondolier
making ready to turn away
seeing the camisella ordered some voice
with a foreign accent
no no santa lucia i want the camisella
no santo lucia hi sing santa lucia
do you hear the musicians under their
green and yellow and red lamps held a
whispered consultation on the manner of
conciliating these
contradictory demands then after a
minute's hesitation
the violins began the prelude of that
once famous heir
which has remained popular in venice the
words written some hundred years ago by
the patrician gritty
the music by an unknown composer la
biondina in gondoletta
that cursed 18th century it seemed
a malignant fatality that made these
brutes choose just this piece
to interrupt me at last the long prelude
came to an end and above the cracked
guitars and squeaking fiddles there
arose
not the expected nasal chorus but a
single voice
singing below its breath my arteries
throbbed
how well i knew that voice it was
singing as i have said below its breath
yet nonetheless it sufficed to fill all
that reach of the canal
with its strange quality of tone
exquisite and
far-fetched there were long drawn-out
notes of intense peculiar sweetness
a man's voice which had much of a
woman's but even more of a choristers
but a chorister's voice without its
limpidity and innocence
its youthfulness was veiled muffled as
it were
in a sort of downy vagueness as if a
passion of tears withheld
there was a burst of applause and the
old palaces re-echoed with the clapping
bravo bravo thank you thank you sing
again
please sing again who can it be and then
a bumping of hulls a splashing of oars
and the oaths of gondolias trying to
push each other away
as the red prowl lamps of the gondolas
pressed around the gaily lit
singing boat but no one stirred on board
it was to none of them that this
applause was due
and while everyone pressed on and
clapped and vociferated
one little red prowlap dropped away from
the fleet
for a moment a single gondola stood
forth black upon the black water
and then was lost in the night for
several days the mysterious singer was
the universal topic
the people of the music boat swore that
no one besides themselves had been on
board
and that they knew as little as
ourselves about the owner of that voice
the gondoliers despite their descent
from the spies of the old republic
were equally unable to furnish any clue
no musical celebrity was known or
suspected to be at venice
and everyone agreed that such a singer
must be a european
celebrity the strangest thing in this
strange business was
that even among those learned in music
there was no agreement on the subject of
this voice
it was called by all sorts of names and
described by all manner of incongruous
adjectives
people went so far as to dispute whether
the voice belonged to a man or to a
woman
everyone had some new definition
in all these musical discussions i alone
brought forward
no opinion i felt a repugnance
an impossibility almost of speaking
about that voice
and the more or less commonplace
conjectures of my friend had the
invariable effect of sending me out of
the room
meanwhile my work was becoming daily
more difficult
and i soon passed from utter impotence
to a state of inexplicable agitation
every morning i rose with fine
resolutions and grand projects of work
only to go to bed that night without
having accomplished anything
i spent hours leaning on my balcony or
wandering through the network of lanes
with their ribbon of blue sky
endeavouring vainly to expel the thought
of that voice
or endeavouring in reality to reproduce
it in my memory
for the more i try to banish it from my
thoughts the more i grew to thirst for
that extraordinary tone
for those mysteriously downy veiled
notes
and no sooner did i make an effort to
work at my opera that my head was full
of scraps of forgotten 18th century
hairs
or frivolous or languishing little
phrases and i fell to wondering with the
bittersweet longing
how those songs would have sounded if
sung by that
voice at length it became necessary to
see a doctor
from whom however i carefully hid away
all the strangest symptoms my malady
the heir of the lagoons the great heat
he answered cheerfully had pulled me
down a little
a tonic and a month in the country with
plenty of riding and no
work would make me myself again
that old idler count alvizer who had
insisted on accompanying me to the
physicians
immediately suggested that i should go
and stay with his son
who was boring himself to death
superintending the maze harvest on the
mainland
he could promise me excellent air plenty
of horses
and all the peaceful surroundings and
the delightful occupations of a rural
life
be sensible my dear magnus and just go
quietly to meestra
mistra the name said to shiver all down
me
i was about to decline the invitation
when a thought suddenly loomed vaguely
in my mind
yes dear count i answered i accept your
invitation with gratitude and pleasure
i will start tomorrow for mistra
the next day found me at padua on my way
to the villa of misra it seemed as if i
had left an intolerable burden behind me
i was for the first time since how long
quite light of heart
the tortuous rough paved streets were
the empty gloomy porticos
the ill-plastered palaces with closed
discolored shutters
the little rambling square with meager
trees and stubborn grass
the venetian garden houses reflecting
their crumbling graces in the muddy
canal
the gardens without gates and the gates
without gardens
the avenues leading nowhere and the
population of blind and legless beggars
of whining sacristans which issued as by
magic
from between the flagstones and dust
heaps and weeds under the fierce august
sun
all this dreariness merely amused and
pleased me
my good spirits were heightened by a
musical mass which i had the good
fortune to hear at saint anthony's
never in all my days had i heard
anything comparable
although italy affords many strange
things in the way of sacred music
into the deep nasal chanting of the
priests they had suddenly burst the
chorus of children
singing absolutely independent of all
time and tune
grunting of priests answered by
squealing of boys
slow gregorian modulation interrupted by
jaunty
barolog and pipings an insane insanely
merry jumble of bellowing and
barking mewing and cackling and braying
such as would have enlivened a witch's
meeting or rather some medieval
feast of fools and to make the
grotesqueness of such music still more
fantastic and hoffman-like
there was besides the magnificence of
the piles of sculptured marbles and
gilded bronzes
the tradition of the musical splendor
for which saint anthony's had been
famous in days gone by
i had read in old travellers lalande and
bernie that the republic of saint mark
had squandered immense sums
not merely on the monuments and
decoration but on the musical
establishment of its great cathedral of
terra firma
in the midst of this ineffable concert
of impossible voices and instruments
i tried to imagine the voice of guadini
soprano from whom gluck had written que
faro senza uradicie
in the fiddle of tartini that tartini
with whom the devil had once come and
made music
and the delight in anything so
absolutely barbarously grotesquely
fantastically incongruous
as such a performance in such a place
was heightened by a sense of profanation
such were the successors of those
wonderful musicians
of that hated 18th century
the whole thing had delighted me so much
so very much more than the most
faultless performance could have done
that i was determined to enjoy it once
more
and towards vesper time after a cheerful
dinner with two bagmen at the end of the
golden star
and a piper with the rough sketch of the
possible cantata upon the music which
the devil made for tartini
i turned my steps once more towards
saint anthony's
the bells were ringing for sunset and a
muffled sound of organs seemed to issue
from the huge solitary church
i pushed my way under the heavy leathern
curtain expecting to be greeted by the
grotesque performance of that morning
i proved mistaken vespers must long have
been over
a smell of stale incense a crypt like
damp filled my mouth
it was already night in that vast
cathedral
out of the darkness glimmered devoted
lamps of the chapels
throwing wavering lights upon the red
polished marble the gilded railing and
chandeliers
and plaquing with yellow the muscles of
some sculptured figure
in a corner a burning taper put a halo
about the head of a priest
burnishing his shining bald skull his
white surplus
and the open book before him ah
man he chanted the book was closed with
a snap
the light moved up the apps some dark
figures of women rose from their knees
and passed quickly towards the door
a man saying his prayers before a chapel
also got up
making a great clatter in dropping his
stick
the church was empty and i expected
every minute to be turned out by the
sacristan making his evening round to
close the doors
i was leaning against the pillar looking
into the grayness of the great arches
when the organs suddenly burst out into
a series of cords
rolling through the echoes of the church
it seemed to be the conclusion
of some service and above the organ rose
the notes of a voice
high soft enveloped in a kind of
downiness like a cloud of incense
and which ran through the mazes of a
long cadence
the voice dropped into silence with two
thundering cores the organ closed in
all silent for a moment i stood leaning
against one of the pillars of the knave
my hair was clammy my knees sank beneath
me
and elevating heat spread through my
body i tried to breathe more largely to
suck in the sounds with the
incense-laden
air i was supremely happy and yet
as if i were dying then suddenly a chill
ran through me and with it a vague panic
i turned away and hurried out into the
open
the evening sky lay pure and blue along
the jagged line of roofs
the bats and swallows were wheeling
about and from the belfries all around
half drowned by the deep beliefs and
anthony's jangled the peel of the ave
maria
you really don't seem well young count
alvisa had said the previous evening
as he welcomed me in the light of a
lantern held up by a peasant in the
weedy back garden of the villa of misra
everything it seemed to me like a dream
the jingle of the horse's bells driving
in the dark from padua as the lantern
swept the acacia hedges with their wide
yellow light
the grating of the wheels on the gravel
the supper table illumined by a single
petroleum lamp
for fear of attracting mosquitoes where
a broken old lackey in an old stable
jacket
handed around the dishes among the fumes
of onion aliza's fat mother gabbling
dialect and a shrill benevolent voice
behind the bull fights on her fan
the unshaven village priest perpetually
fidgeting with his glass and foot
and sticking one shoulder up above the
other and now in the afternoon i felt as
if i had been in this long rambling
tumble down villa of misra a villa
three-quarters of which was given up to
the storage of grain and garden tools
or to the exercise of rats mice
scorpions and centipedes
all my life as if i had always sat there
in cat alvis's study among the pile of
undusted books on agriculture
the sheaves of accounts the samples of
grain and silkworm seed
the ink stains and the cigar ends as if
i had never heard of anything say the
serial basis of italian agriculture
the diseases of maize the prianospora of
the vine
the breeds of bullocks and the
iniquities of farm labourers
with the blue cones of the uganian hills
closing in the green
shimmer of plane outside the window
after an early dinner again with the
screaming gabble of the fat old countess
the fidgeting and shoulder raising of
the unshaven priest
the smell of fried oil and stewed onions
count alvisa made me get into the cart
beside him
and whirled me along among clouds of
dust between the endless glister of
poplars
acacias and maples to one of his farms
in the burning sun some 20 or 30 girls
in colored skirts
laced bodices and big straw hats were
threshing the maze
on the big red brick threshing floor
while others were winnowing the grain in
great sieves
young alvisa the third the old one was
elvisa the second
everyone is alvise that is to say lewis
in that family
the name is on the house the carts the
barrows the very pales
picked up the maze touched it tasted it
said something to the girls that made
them laugh
and something to the head farmer that
made him look very glum
and then led me into a huge stable where
some 20 or 30 white bullocks were
stamping
switching their tails hitting their
horns against the mangers in the dark
alvisa iii pattied each called him by
his name
gave him some salt or a turnip and
explained which was the mantuan breed
which the apoleon which the romanov and
so on
then he bade me jump into the trap and
off we went again to the dust
among the hedges and ditches till we
came to some more brick farm buildings
with pinkish roofs smoking against the
blue sky
here there were more young women
threshing and winnowing the maze
which made a great golden darnay clown
mobile at stamping and lowing in the
cool darkness
more joking fault-finding explaining
and thus through five farms until i seem
to see the rhythmical rising
and falling of the flails against the
hot sky the shower of golden
grains the yellow dust from the
winnowing sieves
onto the bricks the switching of
innumerable tails
and plunging of innumerable horns the
glistening of huge white flanks and
foreheads
whenever i closed my eyes a good day's
work
cried counter visa stretching out his
long legs with the tight trousers riding
up of the wellington boats
mama gave us some aniseed syrup after
dinner it is an excellent restorative
and precaution against the fevers of
this country
oh you've got fever in this part of the
world have you why your father said the
air was so good
nothing nothing suit the old countess
the only thing to be dreaded are
mosquitoes
take care to fasten your shutters before
lighting the candle
well rejoined young alvisa with an
effort of conscience
of course they are fevers but they
needn't hurt you only
don't go out into the garden at night if
you don't want to catch them
papa told me you have fancies for
moonlight rambles
it won't do in this climate my dear
fellow it won't do
if you must talk about at night being a
genius take a turn
inside the house you can get quite
exercise enough
after dinner the aniseed syrup was
produced together with brandy and cigars
and they all sat in the long narrow
half-furnished room on the first floor
the old countess knitting a garment of
uncertain shape and destination
the priest reading out the newspaper
count alvisa puffing at his long crooked
cigar
and pulling the ears of a long lean dog
with a suspicion of mange and a stiff
eye
from the dark garden outside rose the
human were of the countless insects and
the smell of the grapes which hung black
against the starlit blue sky and the
trellis
i went to the balcony the garden lay
dark beneath against the twinkling
horizon stood out the tall
poplars there was the sharp cry of an
owl
the barking of a dog a sudden whiff of
warm energy perfume
a perfume that made me think of the
taste of certain peaches
and suggested quite thick wax-like
petals
i seem to have smelled that flower once
before
it made me feel languid almost faint
i'm very tired i said the counter visa
see how feeble we city folk become
but despite my fatigue i found it quite
impossible to sleep
the night seemed perfectly stifling i
had felt nothing like it at venice
despite the injunctions of the countess
i opened the solid wooden shutters
hermetically closed against mosquitoes
and looked out the moon had risen and
beneath it
lay the big lawns the rounded tree tops
bathed in a blue luminous mist
every leaf glistening and trembling in
what seemed a heaving sea of light
beneath the window was the long trellis
with the white shining piece of pavement
under
it it was so bright that i could
distinguish the green of the vine leaves
the dull red of the catalpa flowers
there was in the air a vague scent of
cut grass of ripe american grapes
of that white flower it must be white
which made me think of the taste of
peaches all
melting into the delicious freshness of
falling dew
from the village church came the stroke
of one evan knows how long i had been
vainly attempting to sleep a shiver ran
through me and my head suddenly filled
as with the fumes of some subtle wine
i remembered all those weedy embankments
those canals full of stagnant water
the yellow faces of the peasants the
word malaria returned to my mind
no matter i remained leaning on the
window with a thirsty longing to plunge
myself into this blue moon mist
this dew and perfume and silence which
seemed to vibrate and quiver like the
stars that strewed the depths of heaven
what music even wagners or of that great
singer of starry nights the divine
schumann
what music could ever compare with this
great
silence with this great concert of
voiceless things that sing within one's
soul
as i made this reflection a note high
vibrating and sweet rent the silence
which immediately closed around it
i leaned out of the window my heart
beating as the witness burst
after a brief space the silence was
cloven once more by that note
as the darkness is cloven by a falling
star
or a firefly rising slowly like a rocket
but this time it was plain that the
voice did not come
as i had imagined from the garden but
from the house itself
from some corner of this rambling old
villa of misra
mistra mistra the name rang in my ears
and i began at length to grasp its
significance which seems to have escaped
me till then
yes i said to myself it is quite natural
and with this odd impression of
naturalness was mixed a feverish
impatient pleasure it was as if i had
come to mister on purpose
and that i was about to meet the object
of my long and weary hopes
grasping the lamp with its singed green
shade i gently opened the door and made
my way through a series of long passages
and the big empty rooms in which my
steps re-echoed as in a church
and my light disturbed whole swarms of
bats
i wandered at random father and father
from the inhabited part of the buildings
the silence made me feel sick i gasped
as under a sudden disappointment
all of a sudden there came a sound
chords
metallic sharp rather like the tone of a
mandolin close to my ear
yes quite close i was separated from the
sounds only by a partition
i fumbled for a door the unsteady light
of my lamp was insufficient for my eyes
which was swimming
like those of a drunkard at last i found
a latch and after a moment's hesitation
i lifted it and gently pushed open the
door at first
i couldn't understand what manner of
place i was in
it was dark all around me but a
brilliant light blinded me
a light coming from below and striking
the opposite wall
it was as if i had entered a dark box in
a half-lighted theater
i was in fact in something of the kind
as sort of a dark hole
with a high balustrade half hidden by an
up-drawn curtain
i remember those little galleries or
recesses for the use of musicians or
lookers on which exist under the ceiling
of the ballrooms in certain old italian
palaces
yes it must have been one like that
opposite me was a vaulted ceiling
covered with gilt moldings which framed
great time blackened canvases
and lower down and the light thrown up
from below stretched a wall
covered with faded frescoes where had i
seen that goddess in lilac and lemon
draperies foreshortened over a big green
peacock
but she was familiar to me and the
stucco tritons also who twisted their
tails around her gilded frame
and that fresco with warriors in roman
curiouses and green and blue lapids
and knee breeches where could i have
seen them before
i asked myself these questions without
experiencing any surprise
moreover i was very calm as one is calm
sometimes in extraordinary dreams
could i be dreaming i advanced gently
and leaned over the balustrade
my eyes were met at first by the
darkness above me where like gigantic
spiders
the big chandeliers rotated slowly
hanging from the ceiling
only one of them was lit and its murano
glass pendants
its carnations and roses shone
opalescent in the light of the guttering
wax
this chandelier lighted up the opposite
wall and that piece of sealing with the
goddess and the green peacock
it illumined but far less well a corner
of the huge room where
in the shadow of a kind of canopy a
little group of people were crowding
round a yellow satin sofa
of the same kind as those that lined the
walls on the sofa half screened from me
by the surrounding persons
a woman was stretched out the silver of
her embroidered dress and the rays of
her diamond gleamed
and shot forth as she moved uneasily and
immediately under the chandelier in the
full light
a man stooped over a harpsichord his
head bent slightly
as if collecting his thoughts before
singing
he struck a few chords and sang yes
sure enough it was the voice the voice
that had been
so long persecuting me i recognized it
once that delicate voluptuous quality
strange exquisite sweet beyond words but
lacking all youth and clearness
that passion veiled in tears which had
troubled my brain that night on the
lagoon
and again on the grand canal singing the
biodina and yet again
only two days since in the deserted
cathedral of padua
but i recognize now what seemed to have
been hidden from me till then
that this voice was what i cared for
most in all the wide world
the voice wound and wound itself in long
languishing phrases
in rich voluptuous rifturas all fretted
with tiny scales and exquisite crisp
shakes
it stopped ever and on swaying as if
panting in languid delight
and i felt my body melt even as wax in
the sunshine
and it seemed to me that i too was
turning fluid
and vaporous in order to mingle with
those sounds as the moonbeams mingle
with the dew
suddenly from the dimly lighted corner
by the counter became a little piteous
whale
then another followed and was lost in
the singer's voice
during a long phrase on the harpsichord
sharp and tinkling
the singer turned his head towards the
deus and there came a plaintive little
sob
but he instead of stopping struck a
sharp cord
and with a thread of voice so hushed as
to be scarcely audible
slid softly into a long cadenza at the
same moment he threw his head backwards
and the light fell full upon the
handsome effeminate face
with its ashy palla and big black brows
of the singer zafarino
at the sight of that face sensual and
sullen of that smile which was cruel and
mocking like a bad woman's
i understood i knew not why by what
process
that his singing must be cut short that
the accursed phrase must
never be finished i understood that i
was before an assassin
that he was killing this woman and
killing me also
with his wicked voice i rushed down a
narrow stair which led down from the box
pursued as it were by that exquisite
voice
swelling swelling by insensible degrees
i flung myself on the door which must be
that for the big saloon
i could see its light between the panels
i bruised my hands in trying to wrench
the latch
the door was fast and tight and while i
was struggling with that locked door
i heard the voice swelling swelling
rending asunder that downey veil which
wrapped it leaping forth
clear resplendent like the sharp and
glittering blade of a knife that seemed
to enter
deep into my breast then once more a
whale
a death groan and that dreadful noise
that hideous gurgle of breath strangled
by a rush of blood and then
a long shake a cute brilliant
triumphant the door gave way beneath my
weight
one half crashed in i entered i was
blinded by a flood blue moonlight
it poured in through four great windows
peaceful and diaphanous
a pale blue mist of moonlight and turned
the huge room
into a kind of submarine cave paved with
moonbeams
full of shimmers of pools of moonlight
it was as bright as at midday
but the brightness was cold blue
vaporous
supernatural the room was completely
empty like a great hayloft
only they hung from the ceiling the
ropes which had once supported the
chandelier
and in a corner amongst stacks of wood
and heaps of indian corn when spread a
sickly smell of damp and mildew
there stood a long thin harpsichord with
spindle legs
and its cover cracked from end to end
i felt all of a sudden very calm the one
thing that mattered was the phrase that
kept moving in my head
the phrase of that unfinished cadence
which i had heard
but an instant before i opened the
harpsichord and my fingers came down
boldly upon its keys a jingle jangle of
broken strings
laughable and dreadful was the only
answer
then an extraordinary fear overtook me
i clambered out of one of the windows i
rushed up the garden and wandered
through the fields among the canals and
embankments
until the moon had set and the dawn
began to shiver followed pursued forever
by that jangle of broken strings
people express much satisfaction at my
recovery it seems that one
dies of those fevers recovery
but have i recovered i walk and eat and
drink and talk
i can even sleep i live the life of
other living creatures
but i am wasted by a strange and deadly
disease
i can never lay hold of my own
inspiration my head is filled with music
which is certainly by me since i have
never heard it before
but which still is not my own which i
despise and abhor
little tripping flourishes and
languishing phrases
and long drawn echoing cadences
o wicked wicked voice violin of flesh
and blood made by the evil one's hand
may i not even execrate thee in peace
but is it necessary that at the moment
when i curse
the longing to hear thee again should
parch my soul like hell first
and since i have satiated thy lust for
revenge
since thou hast withered my life and
withered my genius
is it not time for pity may i not hear
one note
only one note of thine o singer
a wicked and contemptible wretch
[Music]
everybody dies don't they
[Music]
[Laughter]
isn't that
[Music]
that was a wicked voice by vernon lee
despite sounding so masculine vernon lee
was actually a woman
called violet padgett born in france in
1856 and who died in italy in 1935.
despite these locations she identified
as english
her biographer vanetta colby says that
lee was english by nationality
french by accident birth and italian by
choice as well as the ghost stories for
which she is most famous now
vernon lee was an essayist who wrote
about travel and art and especially
aesthetics
she was very intellectual and artistic
woman
her parents were globetrotting or at
least europe trotting intellectuals and
in 1873 they
stopped moving around europe and settled
in florence
she was only 17 at the time she moved
a couple of times and was not in italy
during the first world war
but um she lived within the vicinity of
florence
until she died in 1935. she published
her first collection of essays when she
was 24
and these were about italian writers and
opera
lyricists and dramatists she also wrote
on
william shakespeare and the influence of
renaissance italy
so she was a very clever woman she was
also
tactless and in her writing would
make fun of people so she had a wrote a
novel called mrs brown which wasn't a
great commercial success
published in 1884 and she made fun of
the
famous pre-raphaelites of course very
influential
and she also made fun of people other
writers
and henry james thought that he saw a
slur
about him certainly she fell out with
edith wharton as well
henry james warned his brother their
famous psychologist william james
one of my great heroes actually when he
went to florence you should be careful
because
vernon lee was the most able mind in
florence and he said she was as
dangerous and uncanny
she is intelligent the story itself a
wicked voice
if you remember we've done a few
european-based
stories and i wanted to continue that i
was looking for anything really based in
europe
mostly the tradition of writing ghost
stories appears to be more or less an
anglo-saxon one
and although there are certain
supernatural stories in other languages
most mostly french the germans and the
spaniards and the italians don't really
write many so i was reduced to looking
for
stories written by anglophone writers
rather than in
translation in any case i wanted also
i'm very fond of venice
last was there last year in the winter
which was very atmospheric wandering
around
the mist haunted alleys and streets
if you've never been to venice you
should really go it's a place of great
atmosphere
very not many ghost stories set in it of
course one of the ones
set in it most famously is don't look
now which was made into a
movie in the 1970s fantastic movie i
read the story recently
daphne du maurier wrote it um and it's a
great story
unfortunately it's still in copyright it
was published in 1971
so that means i would have to get
special permission from penguin i think
to read it out and or they would sue me
can you imagine that not that i'm
exactly making a lot of money
um so they can they're very welcome to
you know 30 of my profits which is about
nothing actually but never mind so
i came across a wicked voice and she is
an east feat and we see as i was reading
out
this all the moon beams on the lagoon
and the purple the blue
mist and the smell of peaches and white
flowers and then we go to the farms at
the very end and there's the threshing
and the colored skirts of the girls and
the we
it's very pretty and
but in fact probably in terms of a ghost
story she could cut a lot of that
the story is of course as you just heard
i i it took me three
readings really to to fully appreciate
it
and our narrator the norwegian
opera writer who can't find his theme
he's got his words down but he's looking
for this musical theme
bit like death in venice really than in
some cases
another film he's haunted by this the
voice of this dead
beautiful but effeminate singer zafarino
and this the singer has the power and
there are certain hints that it's been
given to him by the devil he's got a
ring with kabbalistic
engravings on it and we talk about
tartini he was given powers by the devil
so that's i think that's meant to
unless i'm missing something obvious
that is meant to
suggest to us that zafarino's power to
make people fall in love with him
particularly women
is devil given and the final power that
he has is to kill people by the power of
his voice i mean that is a great idea i
love that it's so original
and we see the narrator falling under
the spell
of this um haunted voice in the
same way that the woman the the lady
who's related to count alvisa who dies
at
misra um is killed
you know and there's a threefold power
she falls in love despite what she said
she would
and then she seems cured and then she's
dead
now he vernonly she violet padgett
makes our narrator have a fever and
hints at malaria
and people die of this fever so there's
a kind of a rational explanation for the
illness and
this is common in older stories
of this period where there was a lot of
rationality going around thank goodness
we've got less of that now
so anyway it wasn't a bad story i did
like all the
the moon beams and things but um
i think if it was written today would be
a life stephen king wrote it'd be a very
different story
so there we are okay but it was a good
story and it it
it did its job it was one of the longer
ones as well
okay so that's about the story just the
housekeeping now really so thanks to the
patrons for support
i there haven't been any new ones this
week so if you feel like stepping up you
know i would very welcome that
welcome that very much so that is on the
show notes the list of names
also we've got uh ghost events coming up
so if you want to come and stay in a
haunted castle and be shown around
and hear some ghost stories by
candlelight
after a lovely dinner and then not sleep
all night well
you're very welcome we won't really
scare you i'll do one of those puck
things at the end from mid summer
midsummer night's stream when he says
come on exactly it's all just messing so
then which of course it is then the
so we've done ghost stories we've done
support
links to the music on the show notes
uh the take a look at the facebook page
if you're not
if you're not i haven't done that yet i
post some things about ghost stories and
stuff up there
so it is the classic ghost stories the
facebook page
easy-peasy you can find that one yeah
that's about it
anyway it has been lovely reading for
you again it was a long one
i may do i may do a shorter one because
i'm actually going to a
horror murder mystery event this weekend
so i won't have time to do it
so it's set in 1967 i'm going as a as a
as a rock guy a sound engineer called
xander's i'm going to do an american
accent as well you better believe it
xander starbright and he's been working
with it's 1967 he's been working with
tangerine dream
he's going to claim he works he's a bit
of a fraud that he works with pink floyd
they brought out their first album uh
piper at the gates of dawn
so he's a bit he's a bit psychedelic
he's also
messing with the occult and so something
terrible is going to happen i can just
feel it we're going to this
remote house to be chased around
and kept up all night i used to do this
a lot when i was younger i'm a bit too
old for it now we'll see
how much i like staying up all night now
okay well in any case another story next
week
i'm gonna come back to england probably
but uh there we are take care
[Music]
[Applause]
everybody dies don't they let's
come back
[Music]
is

[Music]

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silkworm seed::noun | Spocien Dictionary

silkworm seed

noun

eggs of a silkworm

Type	Words
Type of	egg

How to pronounce silkworm seed in English?

silkworm seed::noun | Spocien Dictionary

abandonment

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