THE LEGEND OF MONTE DELLA SIBILLA OR "LE PARADIS DE LA REINE SIBILLE" CLIVE BELL PRINTED AND PUBLISHED BY LEONARD AND VIRGINIA WOOLF AT THE HOGARTH PRESS HOGARTH HOUSE RICHMOND 1923 [Illustration 01] _TO POLLY FLINDERS_ [Illustration 02] If you will stop and take a drink Where I did, late one afternoon In April, you may see turn pink A patch of snow, which very soon Yellows to green: it seems quite near; But is, in fact, up Norcia way Or further: the effect's more queer Than beautiful: and should you say To the _padrone_, Gian Mannino, "What peak is that which looks so odd?" He'll answer, "Monte Sibillino-- But they've bunged up the hole, thank God." Herr Hans Van Branbourg, 1310 To 1352 or so,-- (A period, it seems, when men Not unlike us were apt to go Five hundred miles to get a thrill They might have had for sitting still),-- Branbourg, I say, having done the lakes And all the sights of La Toscana, (A jaunt which now a fortnight takes, Less then, because one skipped Verona, "The Tomb" not having found its owner[1]), Came southward by the Val Chiana; Heard of the Sybil, wouldn't wait,--no, Not a moment, at Spoleto, But set off promptly for the cave. The natives told him he was brave,-- Thinking him mad. Had not a monk, Il don Antonio Fumato, There lost his wits, and, in a funk, Five bold young bucks from near Fossato, Who made the same attempt before, At what they heard and what they saw, (Or was that later?) quaked like jelly, Shaming the sires of Gabrielle? They had seen things to make saints curse,-- A gate that kept on clipping, clipping, (Much like a storm-door only worse,) And bound to give you such a nipping As nips the persons, now and then, Of thoughtless, shunting, railway-men. They had felt strange and ghastly winds, They had heard strange and sudden noises, And what in Italy one finds More rarely, gentle, whispering voices: 'Twas woman's doing--never doubt it-- A female influence ruled the air; And what the coarser said about it Was, that although when you got there The place might seem an honest hovel, Inside, they guessed, you'd find a brothel. Indeed it was a dangerous place. But Germans are a stubborn race, Not to say obstinate, to boot Are fond of ladies: Herr Van Bran Swore that if anyone could do't He, Hans Van Branbourg, was the man; Pushed on to Norcia, then climbed higher, And with him went a single squire, Called Pons--they say an Englishman, I hope he was, because I can (As you I think will soon agree) Pronounce him brave as brave can be, Yet sensible as Sancho Panza, Wherewith I neatly close the stanza.