Arthur Hughes: Ophelia (ca. 1851-1853, Manchester City Art Gallery, Manchester, England)
More flower talk, this time by Gertrude – but of course it relates to Ophelia again. And also, again relating to Ophelia, a scene we never see but are only told about. This time, however, we don't know – and we are apparently not supposed to know, either – whether our narrator was actually present at the scene, or whether she herself is relying on the accounts of others as well. This time, therefore, I am decidedly more skeptical as to the reliability of the account we are given. This doesn't necessarily mean that I want to accuse Gertrude (or any of her own potential sources) of purposely "sanitising" anything – after all, she does give us all the charged flower imagery faithfully enough; including that of the witch tree (the willow), the "testicle" flowers (long purples, i.e., orchids), and the cruel, stinging nettles. I'm just not sure we're getting the whole story ... or the true story, for that matter. To me, it ultimately remains unresolved whether and to what extent there was any deliberation involved in the maid's fall into the brook; and whether she then welcomed the waters' pulling her down ever more, or whether she was no longer even able to understand what was happening to her. (And that's not even considering the question whether we can assume that she had ever learned to swim.) Certainly there are indications in her "mad prophecies" scene(s) suggesting that she might have be contemplating suicide; and after the loss of Hamlet's love and the death of her father, she may indeed have felt that life held no further purpose for her. But these would have been the considerations of a mind still capable of coherent thought at least on some level – even if only on that of a depressed mind – and I am not at all sure that this is what we are looking at. On the other hand, Shakespeare is clearly playing on the floral imagery involved in Gertrude's account, and that of the willow tree alone strongly suggests suicide over lost or abandoned love.
Yet, notably, overall the metaphoric language employed in Gertrude's soliloquy denotes ideas whose precise connotation has undergone fairly radical changes over the course of time. Whereas, for example, in antiquity (at least conceptually) the willow's and the mermaid's powerful feminine symbolism would have been seen as part of the natural order of the world, balancing equally strong forces of good and evil – implications resurrected only comparatively recently under the influence of a growing secularism on the one hand and, yet more recently, interest in various forms of non-Christian spirituality on the other hand – the Catholic Church lost no time identifying mermaids and sirens in particular with Woman the Seductress, the perpetually fallen daughter of Eve, the witch and sorceress – which in turn, due to the close symbolic association of willows and witchcraft (see below) also brings the tree of mourning squarely into the picture even where it is not expressly mentioned:
Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, Malleus Maleficarum (Hammer Against Witches), 1487:
"Let us consider another [witch-like] property of [Woman], the voice. For as she is a liar by nature, so
in her speech she stings while she delights us. Wherefore her voice is like the song of the Sirens, who with
their sweet melody entice the passers-by and kill them. For they kill them by emptying their purses, consuming
their strength, and causing them to forsake God. Again Valerius says to Rufinus: When she speaks it is a
delight which flavours the sin; the flower of love is a rose, because under its blossom there are hidden
many thorns. See Proverbs v, 3-4: Her mouth is smoother than oil; but her speech is as bitter as wormwood."
And indeed, none other than our valiant Prince seems to be making much the same point as well in the nunnery scene, where even the very first words out of his mouth, immediately upon noticing Ophelia after his dialogue with his own conscience in To be, or not to be (and before he really gets going) are: "Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins rememb'red!"
Still, I think even to a sixteenth century audience, Gertrude's report cannot have been entirely free of ambiguity: for garlands have traditionally stood less for entanglement and strangulation than for victory (even in death); and the maid's garland even includes daisies, those paragons of childlike innocence and purity. Thus, Ophelia ultimately dies exactly the creature she has become: a child forced to grow up too quickly and too abruptly, left (and profoundly unable) to cope all alone with the sudden perversion of her world, with a sexual awakening that could hardly have been any more brutal and incisive, and with the sudden loss of all hope of charity, love, and support from others, but particularly from her father and from Hamlet.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook,
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream.
The willow: the tree of forsaken love; of sadness and mourning. Its name derives from the Old English "wilig," "welige," and "withig," all of these names of plants suitable for withes and ties and hints to the use of willow trees in basket and wicker making. Mythologically, the tree was held sacred to poets and linked to the goddess Persephone/Proserpina, who was believed to be reborn as a virgin each spring and in whose grove the singer Orpheus is said to have received his gift of lyrical eloquence, by touching – or carrying – the branches of willow trees growing there. Even Apollo (yes, him again ...), the patron of the arts (and by some accounts, Orpheus's father), was so impressed with Orpheus's gifts that he asked the singer to instruct the Muses. The sound of the wind in the willow was believed to have a powerfully inspirational impact on the mind. (There is also a Celtic version of the Persephone legend, likewise associated with the willow tree.) In ancient Greece, priests placed willow twigs in the beds of infertile women, hoping to thus appeal to Persephone's powers in curing the afflicted. – In addition, the tree is linked to Athena/ Minerva, the goddess of wisdom and the moon; to the love goddess Aphrodite/ Venus; to Apollo's sister, the hunter goddess Artemis/ Diana (likewise in connection with a fertility ritual, of Spartan origin ... and severity); and to the witches Circe and Hecate – indeed, there is a theory according to which the words "willow," "wicker," "wicked" and "witch" all have a common linguistic origin; and witches' brooms are traditionally thought to consist of an ash handle and birch twigs bound with willow. Willow wands are also used in sacred moon rituals. The tree's spiritual connotations include first and foremeost the power of Earth Mother and all things feminine, joyous abandon, fertility, eroticism, May Rites, deep emotions, melancholy, dreaming, enchantment, divination, intuition, understanding, natural flow, water, surrender, acceptance, healing – but also sadness: the bittersweetness of life itself and its cycles, death in fertility and new life springing from death; as well as the tides, the lunar and solar cycles, and the duality of conscience and the unconscious.
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crowflowers, nettles, daisies, and long purples,
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name,
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them.
Garlands and wreaths: symbols of memory, victory in death, glory, saintliness, redemption, and the passing to eternal life – but also of entanglement, strangulation, death and decline.
Crowflowers: identified with companionship; but also with ingratitude, childishness, and bad omens.
Nettles: the floral embodiment of slander, pain, and cruelty, stinging even at the most delicate touch. – According to Roman author Petronius ("Satyricon"), they also improve a man's sexual performance if he is thrashed with them on the kidneys and below the navel. In spiritualism, they signify exorcism, protection, healing, and lust.
Daisies: the paragons of innocence, purity, fidelity, truth, simplicity, beauty, affection, loyal love, dissembling, childhood and youth, gentleness, and the promise never to tell. Their name derives from the Anglo-Saxon "daes eage" ("day's eye"), because they open and close with the sun. Biblically, they are associated with both Christ and the Virgin Mary.
Long Purples: orchids also known as Ladies' Fingers, symbolising love, beauty (particularly in women), magnificence, refinement, wisdom, and thoughtfulness; but also lust, greed, and wealth. The name "orchid" itself originates from the Greek "orchis" (testicle). Popular belief in ancient Greece held that parents could influence a baby's sex by eating orchids: an unborn child would be male if the father ate large, new tubers, whereas if the mother ate small tubers, the child would be female. (On the other hand, flower names containing the word "lady" or "ladies" typically refer to St. Mary; the reference being a short form for "Our Lady's.") – Dead Men's Fingers: a reference to the Long Purples' elongated tubers (which also number more than the otherwise usual two).
There on the pendant boughs her coronet weeds
Clamb'ring to hang, an envious sliver broke,
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.
The implication in Gertrude's version of the story is clear: Ophelia cannot have committed suicide – it must have been an accident. Because if it is not, she could not be buried in hallowed ground ...
Her clothes spread wide
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chaunted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pull'd the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.
The mermaid: the hybrid sea-dweller of ancient times, half woman, half fish, who has existed in numerous mythological incarnations practically from the beginning of human history and lore. Among her better-known incarnations are Atergatis (the mermaid/ moon and fertility goddess said to have been the mother of Babylonian queen Semiramis), who in Greece was known as Derketo and later identified with sea-foam-born Aphrodite/ Venus, whose comb, in turn, overtly referenced the female vulva (the words signifying one – "kteis," "pecten" – were also used to designate the other), and which together with her mirror and long hair eventually became one of the most prominent features of mermaids throughout the ages and cultures. Greek mythology in particular is also populated with several other female water spirits and deities, most prominent among these the sea-nymphs (Oceanids and Nereids), the river nymphs (Naiades – spiritual healers and prophetesses; patronesses of fertility and growth), and the seductive, dangerous sirens. Then, in other parts of Europe there is the Arthurian sorceress Morgan Le Fay, as well as the mermaid-like creatures of Irish, French and German lore (Liban, Melusine, Undine, Loreley), and creatures of poetry like Tennyson's doomed Lady of Shalott, a fairy living near a river flowing down to Camelot.
The mermaid's mythological attributes are womanhood and all things female; fertility; passion; love (including its darker, destructive powers); desirability; vanity; abundance; fluidity; temptation; transformation; regeneration; immortality; the duality of giving and destroying life; and the eternal link of death and extasy, death and sensuality, and death and the maiden. The Catholic Church was quick to condemn mermaids as symbols of vice and licentious sexual pleasures; as soulless, inherently unfaithful, inconsistent, dangerous and fatal temptresses: in the Middle Ages they were often depicted wielding fish trophies, symbols of abducted Christian souls. Christian lore also associates Lilith, according to the Jewish Kabbalah Adam's first wife – a mythological figure of possibly Babylonian origin – with the image of a mermaid. The idea of the evil woman-fish-hybrid was perpetuated with particular power in Michelangelo's "Fall of Man" in the Sistine Chapel's central image, where just such a creature is shown seducing Adam and Eve: the devil and Lilith becoming one, merging into an androgynous being whose sole purpose is to bring ruin and perpetual doom upon the parents of mankind.
In Gertrude's account, for a moment Ophelia thus becomes a fairy tale creature; a sensual, immortal bride of nature and the elements, a water elf chanting to herself (and what but "snatches of old tunes"?). But of course it cannot last: because the maid is in fact all human being and not half fish; an orphaned teenager, not a child of the bottomless depths of lakes, rivers and oceans equipped with darkly magical powers; an abused and abandoned girl rather than a sister to Atergatis, Aphrodite, Melusine or any of their kin of legend and lore – not even of Tennyson's Lady of Shalott, who unwittingly invokes the curse hanging over her by a sole glance at the shining figure of Sir Lancelot, but who nevertheless maintains her beauty even in death, and causes the knight to pray God to be merciful towards her.
Hesiod, Theogony:
And so soon as [Chronos] had cut off [Uranus's – i.e., Heaven's] members with flint and cast them
from the land into the surging sea, they were swept away over the main a long time: and a white foam spread
around them from the immortal flesh, and in it there grew a maiden. First she drew near holy Cythera, and
from there, afterwards, she came to sea-girt Cyprus, and came forth an awful and lovely goddess, and grass
grew up about her beneath her shapely feet. Her gods and men call Aphrodite, and the foam-born goddess and
rich-crowned Cytherea, because she grew amid the foam, and Cytherea because she reached Cythera, and
Cyprogenes because she was born in billowy Cyprus, and Philommedes because she sprang from the members. And
with her went Eros, and comely Desire followed her at her birth at the first and as she went into the assembly
of the gods. This honour she has from the beginning, and this is the portion allotted to her amongst men and
undying gods, – the whisperings of maidens and smiles and deceits with sweet delight and love and
graciousness.
Apollonius Rhodius, Argonautica (Book IV):
[O]n one side appeared the smooth rock of [the nine-headed snake] Scylla; on the other [the monster]
Charybdis ceaselessly spouted and roared; in another part the Wandering Rocks were booming beneath the mighty
surge, where before the burning flame spurted forth from the top of the crags, above the rock glowing with
fire, and the air was misty with smoke, nor could you have seen the sun's light. Then, though Hephaestus
[Vulcan, the god of fire and smithery] had ceased from his toils, the sea was still sending up a warm vapour.
Hereupon on this side and on that the daughters of Nereus met [Jason and the Argonauts]; and behind, [the
sea goddess] lady Thetis set her hand to the rudder-blade, to guide them amid the Wandering Rocks. And as
when in fair weather herds of dolphins come up from the depths and sport in circles round a ship as it speeds
along, now seen in front, now behind, now again at the side and delight comes to the sailors; so the Nereids
darted upward and circled in their ranks round the ship Argo, while Thetis guided its course. And when they
were about to touch the Wandering Rocks, straightway they raised the edge of their garments over their
snow-white knees, and aloft, on the very rocks and where the waves broke, they hurried along on this side
and on that apart from one another. And the ship was raised aloft as the current smote her, and all around
the furious wave mounting up broke over the rocks, which at one time touched the sky like towering crags, at
another, down in the depths, were fixed fast at the bottom of the sea and the fierce waves poured over them
in floods. And the Nereids, even as maidens near some sandy beach roll their garments up to their waists out
of their way and sport with a shapely-rounded ball; then they catch it one from another and send it high
into the air; and it never touches the ground; so they in turn one from another sent the ship through the
air over the waves, as it sped on ever away from the rocks; and round them the water spouted and foamed. And
lord Hephaestus himself standing on the summit of a smooth rock and resting his massy shoulder on the handle
of his hammer, beheld them, and the spouse of Zeus [Hera] beheld them as she stood above the gleaming heaven;
and she threw her arms round Athena, such fear seized her as she gazed. And as long as the space of a day is
lengthened out in springtime, so long a time did they toil, heaving the ship between the loud-echoing rocks;
then again the heroes caught the wind and sped onward; and swiftly they passed the mead of Thrinacia, where
the kine of Helios fed. There the nymphs, like sea-mews, plunged beneath the depths, when they had fulfilled
the behests of the spouse of Zeus.
Homer, Odyssey
(Book XII):
Then queen Circe spoke to me and said:
'First of all, you'll run into the Sirens,
who seduce all men who come across them.
Whoever unwittingly encounters them
and hears the Sirens' call never gets back.
His wife and infant children in his home
will never stand beside him full of joy.
No. Instead, the Sirens' clear-toned song
will captivate his mind. They'll be sitting
in a meadow, surrounded by a pile,
a massive heap, of rotting human bones
encased in shriveled skin. Row on past them.
Roll some sweet wax in your hand, and stuff it
in your companions' ears, so none of them
can listen. But if you're keen to hear them,
make your crewmen tie you down in your swift ship.
Stand there with hands and feet lashed to the mast.
They must attach the rope ends there as well.
Then you can hear both Sirens as they sing.
You'll enjoy their song. If you start to beg
your men, or order them, to let you go,
make sure they lash you there with still more rope.'
"I reviewed these things in every detail,
informing my companions. Our strong ship,
with a fair wind still driving us ahead,
came quickly to the island of the Sirens.
Then the wind died down. Everything was calm,
without a breeze. Some god had stilled the waves.
My comrades stood up, furled the sail, stowed it
in the hollow ship, and then sat at their oars,
churning the water white with polished blades
carved out of fir. With my sharp sword I cut
a large round chunk of wax into small bits,
then kneaded them in my strong fingers.
This pressure and the rays of Helios,
lord Hyperion, made the wax grow warm.
When I'd plugged my comrades' ears with wax,
they tied me hand and foot onto the ship,
so I stood upright hard against the mast.
They lashed the rope ends to the mast as well,
then sat and struck the gray sea with their oars.
But when we were about as far away
as a man can shout, moving forward quickly,
our swift ship did not get past the Sirens,
once it came in close, without being noticed.
So they began their clear-toned cry:
'Odysseus,
you famous man, great glory of Achaeans,
come over here. Let your ship pause awhile,
so you can hear the songs we two will sing.
No man has ever rowed in his black ship
past this island and not listened to us,
sweet-voiced melodies sung from our lips.
That brings him joy, and he departs from here
a wiser man, for we two understand
all the things that went on there in Troy,
all Trojan and Achaean suffering,
thanks to what the gods then willed, for we know
everything that happens on this fertile earth.'
"They paused. The voice that reached me was so fine
my heart longed to listen. I told my crew
to set me free, sent them clear signals
with my eyebrows. But they fell to the oars
and rowed ahead. Then two of them got up,
Perimedes and Eurylochus, bound me
with more rope and lashed me even tighter.
Once they'd rowed on well beyond the Sirens,
my loyal crewmates quickly pulled out wax
I'd stuffed in each man's ears and loosed my ropes.
Dante Alighieri, Divine Comedy, Purgatory (Part 4), Canto XIX
(The Song of the Siren):
It was the hour, when of diurnal heat
No reliques chafe the cold beams of the moon,
O'erpower'd by earth, or planetary sway
Of Saturn; and the geomancer sees
His Greater Fortune up the east ascend,
Where gray dawn checkers first the shadowy cone;
When 'fore me in my dream a woman's shape
There came, with lips that stammer'd, eyes aslant,
Distorted feet, hands maim'd, and colour pale.
I look'd upon her; and as sunshine cheers
Limbs numb'd by nightly cold, e'en thus my look
Unloos'd her tongue, next in brief space her form
Decrepit rais'd erect, and faded face
With love's own hue illum'd. Recov'ring speech
She forthwith warbling such a strain began,
That I, how loth soe'er, could scarce have held
Attention from the song. "I," thus she sang,
"I am the Siren, she, whom mariners
On the wide sea are wilder'd when they hear:
Such fulness of delight the list'ner feels.
I from his course Ulysses by my lay
Enchanted drew. Whoe'er frequents me once
Parts seldom; so I charm him, and his heart
Contented knows no void." Or ere her mouth
Was clos'd, to shame her at her side appear'd
A dame of semblance holy. With stern voice
She utter'd; "Say, O Virgil, who is this?"
Which hearing, he approach'd, with eyes still bent
Toward that goodly presence: th' other seiz'd her,
And, her robes tearing, open'd her before,
And show'd the belly to me, whence a smell,
Exhaling loathsome, wak'd me. Round I turn'd
Mine eyes, and thus the teacher: "At the least
Three times my voice hath call'd thee. Rise, begone.
Let us the opening find where thou mayst pass."
I straightway rose. Now day, pour'd down from high,
Fill'd all the circuits of the sacred mount;
And, as we journey'd, on our shoulder smote
The early ray. I follow'd, stooping low
My forehead, as a man, o'ercharg'd with thought,
Who bends him to the likeness of an arch,
That midway spans the flood; when thus I heard,
"Come, enter here," in tone so soft and mild,
As never met the ear on mortal strand.
With swan-like wings dispread and pointing up,
Who thus had spoken marshal'd us along,
Where each side of the solid masonry
The sloping, walls retir'd; then mov'd his plumes,
And fanning us, affirm'd that those, who mourn,
Are blessed, for that comfort shall be theirs.
"What aileth thee, that still thou look'st to earth?"
Began my leader; while th' angelic shape
A little over us his station took.
"New vision," I replied, "hath rais'd in me
Surmisings strange and anxious doubts, whereon
My soul intent allows no other thought
Or room or entrance." – "Hast thou seen," said he,
"That old enchantress, her, whose wiles alone
The spirits o'er us weep for? Hast thou seen
How man may free him of her bonds? Enough.
Let thy heels spurn the earth, and thy rais'd ken
Fix on the lure, which heav'n's eternal King
Whirls in the rolling spheres." As on his feet
The falcon first looks down, then to the sky
Turns, and forth stretches eager for the food,
That woos him thither; so the call I heard,
So onward, far as the dividing rock
Gave way, I journey'd, till the plain was reach'd.
William Shakespeare, The Comedy of Errors
(Act III, Scene 2)
O, train me not, sweet mermaid, with thy note,
To drown me in thy sister's flood of tears:
Sing, siren, for thyself, and I will dote;
Spread o'er the silver waves thy golden hairs,
And as a bed I'll take thee, and there lie;
And, in that glorious supposition, think
He gains by death that hath such means to die: –
Let love, being light, be drowned if she sink!
William Shakespeare, Antony and Cleopatra
(Act II, Scene 2):
The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd throne,
Burn'd on the water. The poop was beaten gold;
Purple the sails, and so perfumed that
The winds were love-sick with them; the oars were silver,
Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke, and made
The water which they beat to follow faster,
As amorous of their strokes. For her own person,
It beggar'd all description. She did lie
In her pavilion, cloth-of-gold, of tissue,
O'erpicturing that Venus where we see
The fancy out-work nature. On each side her
Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids,
With divers-colour'd fans, whose wind did seem
To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,
And what they undid did.
Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
So many mermaids, tended her i' th' eyes,
And made their bends adornings. At the helm
A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle
Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
That yarely frame the office. From the barge
A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
Her people out upon her; and Antony,
Enthron'd i' th' market-place, did sit alone,
Whistling to th' air; which, but for vacancy,
Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
And made a gap in nature.
Alfred Lord Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott:
On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And through the field the road run by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.
Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Through the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four grey walls, and four grey towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.
By the margin, willow veil'd,
Slide the heavy barges trail'd
By slow horses; and unhail'd
The shallop flitteth silken-sail'd
Skimming down to Camelot:
But who hath seen her wave her hand?
Or at the casement seen her stand?
Or is she known in all the land,
The Lady of Shalott?
Only reapers, reaping early,
In among the bearded barley
Hear a song that echoes cheerly
From the river winding clearly;
Down to tower'd Camelot;
And by the moon the reaper weary,
Piling sheaves in uplands airy,
Listening, whispers, "'Tis the fairy
The Lady of Shalott."
There she weaves by night and day
A magic web with colours gay.
She has heard a whisper say,
A curse is on her if she stay
To look down to Camelot.
She knows not what the curse may be,
And so she weaveth steadily,
And little other care hath she,
The Lady of Shalott.
And moving through a mirror clear
That hangs before her all the year,
Shadows of the world appear.
There she sees the highway near
Winding down to Camelot;
There the river eddy whirls,
And there the surly village churls,
And the red cloaks of market girls
Pass onward from Shalott.
Sometimes a troop of damsels glad,
An abbot on an ambling pad,
Sometimes a curly shepherd lad,
Or long-hair'd page in crimson clad
Goes by to tower'd Camelot;
And sometimes through the mirror blue
The knights come riding two and two.
She hath no loyal Knight and true,
The Lady of Shalott.
But in her web she still delights
To weave the mirror's magic sights,
For often through the silent nights
A funeral, with plumes and lights
And music, went to Camelot;
Or when the Moon was overhead,
Came two young lovers lately wed.
"I am half sick of shadows," said
The Lady of Shalott.
A bow-shot from her bower-eaves,
He rode between the barley sheaves,
The sun came dazzling thro' the leaves,
And flamed upon the brazen greaves
Of bold Sir Lancelot.
A red-cross knight for ever kneel'd
To a lady in his shield,
That sparkled on the yellow field,
Beside remote Shalott.
The gemmy bridle glitter'd free,
Like to some branch of stars we see
Hung in the golden Galaxy.
The bridle bells rang merrily
As he rode down to Camelot:
And from his blazon'd baldric slung
A mighty silver bugle hung,
And as he rode his armor rung
Beside remote Shalott.
All in the blue unclouded weather
Thick-jewell'd shone the saddle-leather,
The helmet and the helmet-feather
Burn'd like one burning flame together,
As he rode down to Camelot.
As often thro' the purple night,
Below the starry clusters bright,
Some bearded meteor, burning bright,
Moves over still Shalott.
His broad clear brow in sunlight glow'd;
On burnish'd hooves his war-horse trode;
From underneath his helmet flow'd
His coal-black curls as on he rode,
As he rode down to Camelot.
From the bank and from the river
He flashed into the crystal mirror,
"Tirra lirra," by the river
Sang Sir Lancelot.
She left the web, she left the loom,
She made three paces through the room,
She saw the water-lily bloom,
She saw the helmet and the plume,
She look'd down to Camelot.
Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack'd from side to side;
"The curse is come upon me," cried
The Lady of Shalott.
In the stormy east-wind straining,
The pale yellow woods were waning,
The broad stream in his banks complaining.
Heavily the low sky raining
Over tower'd Camelot;
Down she came and found a boat
Beneath a willow left afloat,
And around about the prow she wrote
The Lady of Shalott.
And down the river's dim expanse
Like some bold seer in a trance,
Seeing all his own mischance –
With a glassy countenance
Did she look to Camelot.
And at the closing of the day
She loosed the chain, and down she lay;
The broad stream bore her far away,
The Lady of Shalott.
Lying, robed in snowy white
That loosely flew to left and right –
The leaves upon her falling light –
Thro' the noises of the night,
She floated down to Camelot:
And as the boat-head wound along
The willowy hills and fields among,
They heard her singing her last song,
The Lady of Shalott.
Heard a carol, mournful, holy,
Chanted loudly, chanted lowly,
Till her blood was frozen slowly,
And her eyes were darkened wholly,
Turn'd to tower'd Camelot.
For ere she reach'd upon the tide
The first house by the water-side,
Singing in her song she died,
The Lady of Shalott.
Under tower and balcony,
By garden-wall and gallery,
A gleaming shape she floated by,
Dead-pale between the houses high,
Silent into Camelot.
Out upon the wharfs they came,
Knight and Burgher, Lord and Dame,
And around the prow they read her name,
The Lady of Shalott.
Who is this? And what is here?
And in the lighted palace near
Died the sound of royal cheer;
And they crossed themselves for fear,
All the Knights at Camelot;
But Lancelot mused a little space
He said, "She has a lovely face;
God in his mercy lend her grace,
The Lady of Shalott."
John Donne, Song:
Go and catch a falling star,
Get with child a mandrake root,
Tell me where all past years are,
Or who cleft the devil's foot,
Teach me to hear mermaids singing,
Or to keep off envy's stinging,
And find
What wind
Serves to advance an honest mind.
If thou be'st born to strange sights,
Things invisible to see,
Ride ten thousand days and nights,
Till age snow white hairs on thee,
Thou, when thou return'st, wilt tell me,
All strange wonders that befell thee,
And swear,
No where
Lives a woman true and fair.
If thou find'st one, let me know,
Such a pilgrimage were sweet;
Yet do not, I would not go,
Though at next door we might meet,
Though she were true, when you met her,
And last, till you write your letter,
Yet she
Will be
False, ere I come, to two, or three.
Giuseppe Verdi, Otello, Act IV
(Libretto : Arrigo Boïto)
M'ingiungse di coricarmi e d'attenderlo.
Emilia, te ne prego,
Distendi sul mio letto la mia candida
veste nuziale.
Senti! Se pria di te morire dovessi
Mi seppellisci con un di quei veli.
Son mesta tanto, tanto.
Mia madre aveva una povera ancella
Innamorate e bella;
Era il suo nome Barbara;
Amava un uom che poi l'abbandonò,
cantava una canzone;
La canzone del Salice.
Mi disciogli le chiome.
Io questa sera ho la memoria plena di
quella cantilena.
"Piangea cantando nell'erma landa,
piangea la mesta.
O Salce! Salce! Salce!
Sedea chinando sul sen la testa!
Salce! Salce! Salce!
Cantiamo! Cantiamo!
Il salce funebre sarà la mia ghirlanda."
Affrettati; fra poco giunge Otello.
"Scorea noi rivi fra le zolle in fior,
gemea quel core affranto,
e dal le coglia le sgorgava il cor,
l'amare onda del pianto,
Salce! Salce! Salce!
Cantiamo! Cantiamo!
Il salce funebre sarà la mia ghirlanda."
"Scendean l'augellia voldai rami cupi
verso quel dolce canto.
E gli occhi suoi piangean tanto, tanto,
Da impietosir le rupi."
Riponi quest'anello.
Povera Barbara!
Solea la storia conquesto semplice suono finir:
"E gli era nato per la sua gloria, io per amar."
Ascolta. Odo un lamento. Taci.
Qui batte a quella porta?
"Io per amarlo e per morire
Cantiamo! Cantiamo!
Salce! Salce! Salce!
Emilia, addio.
Come m'ardon le cigia!
È presagio di pianto.
Buona notte.
Ah! Emilia, Emilia, addio,
Emilia, addio!
[Translation:]
He told me to undress, get into bed and wait for him.
Emila, please
Lay out my pure white wedding garments
upon my bed.
Listen! If I happen to die before you
Bury me in one of those veils.
I am so sad, so sad.
My mother had a poor maid
She was in love and beautiful
Her name was Barbara;
She loved a man that then abandoned her,
And she sang a song;
The song of the willow.
Undo my hair.
This evening I have haunted memories
of this lullaby.
"She wept singing in the lonely land,
the sad girl wept.
O Willow, Willow, Willow!
She sat with her head inclining upon her breast,
Let's sing! Let's sing!
The willow will be my funeral wreath."
Hurry; Otello will be coming soon.
"The brook was flowing between the flowering banks,
She moaned a weary song,
And her eyes were flush with bitter tears
in which her heart sought solace.
Willow! Willow! Willow!
Let's sing! Let's sing!
The willow will be my funeral wreath."
"The birds flew down from branches
towards this sweet song
And her eyes wept so much, so much,
That even the stones pitied her."
Here take this ring.
Poor Barabara!
She used to end her song with this simple saying:
"He was born for glory, I for love."
Listen! I heard a sigh. Quiet.
Who knocks on the door?"
"I to love him and to die.
Let's sing! Let's sing!
Willow! Willow! Willow!
Emilia, farewell,
How my eyes do burn this evening!
Is it the presence of weeping?
Good night.
Ah! Emilia, Emilia, farewell!
Emilia, farewell!
The night was dark and the hour late,
Cold blew the winter air,
And as four farmers homeward walked
Down through Lifford Fair,
They thought they heard a cry,
Both sad and sharp it struck their ear,
Although the winds blew high.
They climbed the wall and searched the tombs
That thickly filled the ground,
And, spreading on a new-made grave,
A sorrowful youth they found:
His wild moans filled the chilly air,
For he looked pale and wild,
His loud cries would have pierced your heart,
For he wept like a child.
They roused him from the cold wet earth,
Inviting him away,
He says, Move me not from this sad spot,
For here I mean to stay;
This is my true-love's grassy bed,
And here all night I'll lie,
All by the side of my long-lost bride,
I will remain and die.
In early life we were both joined
In love both fond and true,
There's not a care but touched my heart
But touched my Fanny's too;
The times were bad and I was poor,
It was then I went away,
To make a fortune in strange lands,
I crossed the roaring sea.
Scarce before I went away,
In wedlock's bands we joined,
It was then I left my tender bride,
So lonely, young and fond;
For three long years I stayed away
And I won my fortune in strange lands,
I crossed the roaring sea.
But oh, alas, begins my grief,
My woe it then begun,
When I came home they had her wed
Unto another one,
And with false letters they imposed
All in her heartless ear,
And told her I had died abroad
All in a second year.
It being on a summer evening,
Calm and fragrant was the air
She sat before her father's door
And never looked more fair;
I stood before her suddenly
And when I caught her eye,
She clasped her hands before her face
And gave a piercing cry.
The sudden shock had reached her heart;
The story soon was told:
When I came home her father gave
His hands to ancient gold,
But all the gold that e'er was shown
Did fail to ease her mind,
And like a tender flower crushed,
Away she drooped and pined.
Mark what followed after this –
I need not stop to tell –
In that day month, sure I could hear
The tolling funeral bell.
Now I have done all with this earth,
And it has done with me:
My love lies dead in her cold clay bed
Beneath yon willow tree.
They stopped, but neither force nor word
Could raise him from the ground,
All night he lay on the cold clay,
And the next day was found,
And when they touched him he was dead
And where he lay he died;
They dug his grave and, side by side,
They laid him with his bride.
William Shakespeare, Othello,
(Act IV, Scene 3):
He says he will return incontinent.
He hath commanded me to go to bed,
And bade me to dismiss you.
Dismiss me?
It was his bidding; therefore, good Emilia,
Give me my nightly wearing, and adieu.
We must not now displease him.
I would you had never seen him!
So would not I. My love doth so approve him,
That even his stubbornness, his checks, his frowns –
Prithee, unpin me – have grace and favor in them.
I have laid those sheets you bade me on the bed.
All's one. Good faith, how foolish are our minds!
If I do die before thee, prithee shroud me
In one of those same sheets.
Come, come, you talk.
My mother had a maid call'd Barbary;
She was in love, and he she loved proved mad
And did forsake her. She had a song of "willow";
An old thing 'twas, but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it. That song tonight
Will not go from my mind; I have much to do
But to go hang my head all at one side
And sing it like poor Barbary. Prithee, dispatch.
Shall I go fetch your nightgown?
No, unpin me here.
This Lodovico is a proper man.
A very handsome man.
He speaks well.
I know a lady in Venice would have walked barefoot to
Palestine for a touch of his nether lip.
"The poor soul sat sighing by a sycamore tree,
Sing all a green willow;
Her hand on her bosom, her head on her knee,
Sing willow, willow, willow.
The fresh streams ran by her, and murmur'd her moans,
Sing willow, willow, willow;
Her salt tears fell from her, and soften'd the stones –"
Lay be these –
"Sing willow, willow, willow –"
Prithee, hie thee; he'll come anon –
"Sing all a green willow must be my garland.
Let nobody blame him; his scorn I approve –"
Nay, that's not next. Hark, who is't that knocks?
It's the wind.
"I call'd my love false love; but what said he then?
Sing willow, willow, willow.
If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men –"
So get thee gone; good night. Mine eyes do itch;
Doth that bode weeping?
O take me in your arms, love
For keen doth the wind blow
O take me in your arms, love
For bitter is my deep woe.
She hears me not, she heeds me not
Nor will she listen to me
While here I lie alone
To die beneath the willow tree.
My love hath wealth and beauty
Rich suitors attend her door
My love hath wealth and beauty
She slights me because I am poor.
The ribbon fair that bound her hair
Is all that is left to me
While here I lie alone
To die beneath the willow tree.
I once had gold and silver
I thought them without end
I once had gold and silver
I thought I had a true friend.
My wealth is lost, my friend is false
My love hath he stolen from me
While here I lie alone
To die beneath the willow tree.
Copyright 2002 – 2009: Ulrike Böhm, all rights reserved.
