Armgart: Scene I
GRAF. Good-morning, Fräulein!
WALPURGA. What, so soon returned?I feared your mission kept you still at Prague.
GRAF. But now arrived! You see my travelling dress.I hurried from the panting, roaring stream,Like any courier of embassyWho hides the fiends of war within his bag.
WALPURGA. You know that Armgart sings to-night?
GRAF. Has sung!'Tis close on half-past nine. The OrpheusLasts not so long. Her spirits—were they high?Was Leo confident?
WALPURGA. He only fearedSome tameness at beginning. Let the houseOnce ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe.
GRAF. And Armgart?
WALPURGA. She was stiller than her wont.But once, at some such trivial word of mine,As that the highest prize might yet be wonBy her who took the second—she was roused."For me," she said, "I triumph or I fail.I never strove for any second prize."
GRAF. Poor human-hearted singing-bird! She bearsCæsar's ambition in her delicate breast,And nought to still it with but quivering song!
WALPURGA. I had not for the world been there to-nightUnreasonable dread oft chills me moreThan any reasonable hope can warm.
GRAF. You have a rare affection for your cousin;As tender as a sister's.
WALPURGA. Nay, I fearMy love is little more than what I feltFor happy stories when I was a child.She fills my life that would be empty else,And lifts my nought to value by her side.
GRAF. She is reason good enough, or seems to be,Why all were born whose being ministersTo her completeness. Is it most her voiceSubdues us? or her instinct exquisite,Informing each old strain with some new graceWhich takes our sense like any natural good?Or most her spiritual energyThat sweeps us in the current of her song?
WALPURGA. I know not. Losing either, we should loseThat whole we call our Armgart. For herself,She often wonders what her life had beenWithout that voice for channel to her soul.She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs—Made her a Mænad—made her snatch a brandAnd fire some forest, that her rage might mountIn crashing, roaring flames through half a land,Leaving her still and patient for a while."Poor wretch!" she says, of any murderess—"The world was cruel, and she could not sing:I carry my revenges in my throat;I love in singing, and am loved again."
GRAF. Mere mood! I cannot yet believe it more.Too much ambition has unwomaned her;But only for a while. Her nature hidesOne half its treasures by its very wealth,Taxing the hours to show it.
WALPURGA. Hark! she comes.
LEO. Place for the queen of song!
GRAF. (advancing towards ARMGART, who throws off her hood and mantle, and shows a star of brilliants in her hair) A triumph, then.You will not be a niggard of your joyAnd chide the eagerness that came to share it.
ARMGART. O kind! you hastened your return for me.I would you had been there to hear me sing!Walpurga, kiss me: never tremble moreLest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has foundThis night the region where her rapture breathes—Pouring her passion on the air made liveWith human heart throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell themHow I outsang your hope and made you cryBecause Glück could not hear me. That was folly!He sang, not listened: every linked noteWas his immortal pulse that stirred in mine,And all my gladness is but part of him.Give me the wreath.
LEO. (sardonically) Ay, ay, but mark you this,It was not part of him—that trill you madeIn spite of me and reason!
ARMGART. You were wrong—Dear Leo, you were wrong: the house was heldAs if a storm were listening with delightAnd hushed its thunder.
LEO. Will you ask the houseTo teach you singing? Quit your Orpheus then,And sing in farces grown to operas,Where all the prurience of the full-fed mobIs tickled with melodic impudence:Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your armsAkimbo with a tavern wench's grace,And set the splendid compass of your voiceTo lyric jigs. Go to! I thought you meantTo be an artist—lift your audienceTo see your vision, not trick forth a showTo please the grossest taste of grossest numbers.
ARMGART. (taking up Leo's hand, and kissing it) Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent.I will do penance: sing a hundred trillsInto a deep-dug grave, then burying themAs one did Midas' secret, rid myselfOf naughty exultation. O, I trilledAt nature's prompting, like the nightingales.Go scold them, dearest Leo.
LEO. I stop my ears.Nature in Glück inspiring Orpheus,Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips?
GRAF. Truce to rebukes! Tell us—who were not there—The double drama: how the expectant houseTook the first notes.
WALPURGA. (turning from her occupation of decking the room with the flowers) Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart.Did you feel tremors? Leo, how did she look?Was there a cheer to greet her?
LEO. Not a sound.She walked like Orpheus in his solitude,And seemed to see nought but what no man saw.'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-DevrientHad done it better. But your blessed publicHad never any judgment in cold blood—Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise,Till rapture brings a reason.
ARMGART. (scornfully) I knew that!The women whispered, "Not a pretty face!"The men, "Well, well, a goodly length of limbShe bears the chiton."—It were all the sameWere I the Virgin Mother, and my stage,The opening heavens at the Judgment-day:Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the priceOf such a woman in the social mart.What were the drama of the world to them,Unless they felt the hell-prong?
LEO. Peace, now, peace!I hate my phrases to be smothered o'erWith sauce of paraphrase, my sober tuneMade bass to rambling trebles, showering downAn endless demi-semi-quavers.
ARMGART. (taking a bon-bon from the table, uplifting it before putting it into her mouth, and turning away) Mum!
GRAF. Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame.
WALPURGA. You first, dear Leo—what you saw and heard;Then Armgart—she must tell us what she felt.
LEO. Well! The first notes came clearly, firmly forth.And I was easy, for behind those rillsI knew there was a fountain. I could seeThe house was breathing gently, heads were still;Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute,And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stoodAs if she had been new-created there,And found her voice which found a melody.The minx! Glück had not written, nor I taught:Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus.Well, well, all through the scena I could feelThe silence tremble now, now poise itselfWith added weight of feeling, till at lastDelight o'er-toppled it. The final noteHad happy drowning in the unloosed roarThat surged and ebbed and ever surged again,Till expectation kept it pent awhileEre Orpheus returned. Pfui! He was changed:My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyesThat quivered like a bride's who fain would sendBackward the rising tear.
ARMGART. (advancing, but then turning away, as if to check her speech) I was a bride,As nuns are at their spousals.
LEO. Ay, my lady,That moment will not come again: applauseMay come and plenty; but the first, first draught!Music has sounds for it—I know no words.I felt it once myself when they performedMy overture to Sintram. Well! 'tis strange,We know not pain from pleasure in such joy.
ARMGART. (turning quickly) Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls,And when full Being comes must call on painTo lend it liberal space.
WALPURGA. I hope the houseKept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealousLest they had dulled themselves for coming goodThat should have seemed the better and the best.
LEO. No, 'twas a revel where they had but quaffedTheir opening cup. I think the artist's star,His audience keeps not sober: once afire,They flame towards climax, though his merit holdBut fairly even.
ARMGART. (her hand on LEo's arm) Now, now, confess the truth.I sang still better to the very end—All save the trill; I give that up to you,To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself,Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were opedThat you might hear heaven clearer.
LEO. (shaking his finger) I was raving.
ARMGART. I am not glad with that mean vanityWhich knows no good beyond its appetiteFull feasting upon praise! I am only glad,Being praised for what I know is worth the praise;Glad of the proof that I myself have partIn what I worship! At the last applause—Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossedThe handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers,Falling like shattered rainbows all around—Think you I felt myself a prima donna?No, but a happy, spiritual starSuch as old Dante saw, wrought in a roseOf light in Paradise, whose only selfWas consciousness of glory wide-diffused,Music, life, power—I moving in the midstWith a sublime necessity of good.
LEO. (with a shrug) I thought it was a prima donna cameWithin the side-scenes; ay, and she was proudTo find the bouquet from the royal boxEnclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wearA star of brilliants, quite an earthly star,Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, ownAmbition has five senses, and a selfThat gives it good warm lodging when it sinksPlump down from ecstasy.
ARMGART. Own it? why not?Am I a sage whose words must fall like seedSilently buried toward a far-off spring?I sing to living men, and my effectIs like the summer's sun, that ripens cornOr now or never. If the world brings me gifts,Gold, incense, myrrh—'twill be the needful signThat I have stirred it as the high year stirsBefore I sink to winter.
GRAF. EcstasiesAre short—most happily! We should but loseWere Armgart borne too commonly and longOut of the self that charms us. Could I choose,She were less apt to soar beyond the reachOf woman's foibles, innocent vanities,Fondness for trifles like that pretty starTwinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair.
ARMGART. (Taking out the gem and looking at it) This little star! I would it were the seedOf a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmerWere the sole speech men told their rapture withAt Armgart's music. Shall I turn asideFrom splendors which flash out the glow I make.And live to make, in all the chosen breastsOf half a Continent? No, may it come,That splendor! May the day be near when menThink much to let my horses draw me home,And new lands welcome me upon their beach,Loving me for my fame. That is the truthOf what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie?Pretend to seek obscurity—to singIn hope of disregard? A vile pretence!And blasphemy besides. For what is fameBut the benignant strength of One, transformedTo joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits comeAs necessary breathing of such joy;And may they come to me!
GRAF. The auguriesPoint clearly that way. Is it no offenceTo wish the eagle's wing may find repose,As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest?Or has the taste of fame already turnedThe Woman to a Muse . .
LEO. (going to the table) Who needs no supper?I am her priest, ready to eat her shareOf good Walpurga's offerings.
WALPURGA. Armgart, come,Graf, will you come?
GRAF. Thanks, I play truant here,And must retrieve my self-indulged delay.But will the Muse receive a votaryAt any hour to-morrow?
ARMGART. Any hourAfter rehearsal, after twelve at noon.
Words in this poem 41
- graf n.
- A German title of nobility, equivalent to earl in English, or count in French. See Earl. [G. Cf. -grave.]
- orpheus n.
- The famous mythic Thracian poet, son of the Muse Calliope, and husband of Eurydice. He is reputed to have had power to entrance beasts and inanimate objects by the music of his lyre.
- tameness n.
- The quality or state of being tame.
- stiller n.
- One who stills, or quiets.
- trivial a.
- Found anywhere; common. [L. trivialis, properly, that is in, or belongs to, the crossroads or public streets; hence, that may be found everywhere, common, fr. trivium a place where thre]
- crashing n.
- The noise of many things falling and breaking at once.
- murderess n.
- A woman who commits murder.
- wealth n.
- Weal; welfare; prosperity; good. [OE. welthe, from wele; cf. D. weelde luxury. See Weal prosperity.]
- prurience n.
- The quality or state of being prurient.
- melodic a.
- Of the nature of melody; relating to, containing, or made up of, melody; melodious. [L. melodicus, Gr. mélodique.]
- akimbo a.
- With a crook or bend; with the hand on the hip and elbow turned outward. [Etymology unknown. Cf. Kimbo.]
- artist n.
- One who practices some mechanic art or craft; an artisan. [F. artiste, LL. artista, fr. L. ars. See Art, n., and cf. Artiste.]
- naughty a.
- Having little or nothing.
- goodly a.
- Pleasant; agreeable; desirable. [OE. godlich, AS. g. See Good, and Like.]
- chiton n.
- An under garment among the ancient Greeks, nearly representing the modern shirt.
- mart v. t.
- To buy or sell in, or as in, a mart.
- meekly adv.
- In a meek manner.
- minx n.
- The mink; -- called also minx otter. [See Mink.]
- pent p. p.
- Penned or shut up; confined; -- often with up. [From Pen, v. t.]
- awhile adv.
- For a while; for some time; for a short time. [Adj. a + while time, interval.]
- quivered a.
- Furnished with, or carrying, a quiver.
- fain v. t.
- To be glad ; to wish or desire.
- overture
- An opening or aperture; a recess; a recess; a chamber. [OF. overture, F. ouverture, fr. OF. ovrir, F. ouvrir. See Overt.]
- fairly adv.
- In a fairmanner; clearly; openly; plainly; fully; distinctly; frankly.
- clearer n.
- One who, or that which, clears.
- donna n.
- A lady; madam; mistress; -- the title given a lady in Italy. [It. donna, L. domina. See Don, Dame.]
- shrug v. t.
- To draw up or contract (the shoulders), especially by way of expressing dislike, dread, doubt, or the like. [Probably akin to shrink, p. p. shrunk; cf. Dan. skrugge, skrukke, to stoop, dial. Sw. skrukka, skruga, to crouch.]
- needful a.
- Full of need; in need or want; needy; distressing.
- happily adv.
- By chance; peradventure; haply. Piers Plowman. [From Happy.]
- fondness n.
- The quality or state of being fond; foolishness.
- twinkling n.
- The act of one who, or of that which, twinkles; a quick movement of the eye; a wink; a twinkle. Holland.
- ebon a.
- Consisting of ebony.
- shimmer v. i.
- To shine with a tremulous or intermittent light; to shine faintly; to gleam; to glisten; to glimmer. [OE. schimeren, AS. scimerian; akin to scimian, sciman, to glitter, D. schemeren, G. schimmern, Dan. skimre, Sw. skimra, AS. scima a light, brightness, Icel. ski]
- shall v. i.
- To owe; to be under obligation for. [OE. shal, schal, imp. sholde, scholde, AS. scal, sceal, I am obliged, imp. scolde, sceolde, inf. sculan; akin to OS. skulan, pres. skal, imp. skolda, D. zullen,]
- continent a.
- Serving to restrain or limit; restraining; opposing. [L. continens, -entis, prop., p. pr. of continere to hold together, to repress: cf. F. continent. See Contain.]
- yearn v. t.
- To pain; to grieve; to vex. [Also earn, ern; probably a corruption of OE. ermen to grieve, AS. ierman, yrman, or geierman, geyrman, fr. earm wretched, poor; akin to D. & G. arm, Icel. armr,]
- pretence n.
- The act of laying claim; the claim laid; assumption; pretension. [LL. praetensus, for L. praetentus, p. p. of praetendere. See Pretend, and cf. Tension.]
- benignant a.
- Kind; gracious; favorable. [LL. benignans, p. pr. of benignare, from L. benignus. See Benign.]
- offence n.
- The act of offending in any sense; esp., a crime or a sin, an affront or an injury. [F., fr. L. offensa. See Offend.]
- needs adv.
- Of necessity; necessarily; indispensably; -- often with must, and equivalent to of need. [Orig. gen. of need, used as an adverb. Cf. - wards.]
- retrieve n.
- A seeking again; a discovery. B. Jonson.
Definitions and etymologies from Webster's Unabridged Dictionary, 1913.
About this text
Armgart: Scene I is in the public domain. This text is taken from The Legend of Jubal and Other Poems (ten poems from The poems of George Eliot, Crowell, 1884, on Wikisource; four from The Spanish Gypsy; The Legend of Jubal and Other Poems, Old and New, Worthington, 1890, Internet Archive spanishgypsylege00elio), Wikisource and Internet Archive; the transcription's header, footer and licence were removed and nothing else was changed. You may copy, print and reuse it freely.
Cite as: George Eliot, Armgart: Scene I, in The Legend of Jubal and Other Poems (1874), text of Wikisource and Internet Archive, Laurel, https://laurelpoetry.com/poem/eliot-poems/armgart-scene-i.html, id L29768.
Form and metre
Armgart: Scene I is 268 lines in 50 stanzas. The metre is iambic pentameter, measured from the stress the words themselves fix (confidence 87%).
See other poems in iambic pentameter.
Measured by Laurel's pipeline, not copied from a handbook: how stress and metre are counted, how rhyme is lettered, how a drifted rhyme is found. Where the dictionary cannot confirm a rhyme the letter is withheld, not guessed.
Rhyme words, stanza by stanza
The word that ends each line, lettered by the rhyme it makes; a dash is a line whose rhyme the dictionary could not confirm.
- 14 -----A-A----- lose · herself · been · soul · limbs · brandA · mount · landA · while · murderess · sing · throat · again
- 23 -A---A- penitent · trillsA · them · myself · trilled · nightingalesA · leo
- 33 ------A-------------A forth · rills · see · still · mute · stood · thereA · melody · taught · orpheus · feel · itself · last · note · roar · again · awhile · changed · eyes · send · tearA
- 37 AA-- houseA · jealousA · good · best
- 41 ---A-A-A---A---- vanity · appetite · glad · praiseA · part · applauseA · tossed · flowersA · around · donna · star · roseA · self · diffused · midst · good
- 44 AA-A-A-- ecstasiesA · loseA · long · chooseA · reach · vanitiesA · star · hair
- 45 ------A-A-------A-- seed · shimmer · with · aside · make · breasts · comeA · men · homeA · beach · truth · lie · sing · pretence · fame · transformed · comeA · joy · me
- 48 AA comeA · comeA
Scansion, line by line
Each line with its syllable count and the stresses the words themselves fix: / stressed, ˘ unstressed, · a syllable the word leaves free and the metre decides. Read against iambic pentameter. How this is done.
| Line | Syl. | Stress |
|---|---|---|
| GRAF. Good-morning, Fräulein! | 6 | ··/˘·· |
| WALPURGA. What, so soon returned? | 9 | ······˘/˘ |
| I feared your mission kept you still at Prague. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| GRAF. But now arrived! You see my travelling dress. | 11 | ···˘/···/˘· |
| I hurried from the panting, roaring stream, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘/˘· |
| Like any courier of embassy | 10 | ·/˘/˘˘·/˘˘ |
| Who hides the fiends of war within his bag. | 10 | ·········· |
| WALPURGA. You know that Armgart sings to-night? | 11 | ··········· |
| GRAF. Has sung! | 3 | ··· |
| 'Tis close on half-past nine. The Orpheus | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| Lasts not so long. Her spirits—were they high? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Was Leo confident? | 6 | ·/˘/˘˘ |
| WALPURGA. He only feared | 7 | ····/˘· |
| Some tameness at beginning. Let the house | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| Once ring, he said, with plaudits, she is safe. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| GRAF. And Armgart? | 4 | ···· |
| WALPURGA. She was stiller than her wont. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| But once, at some such trivial word of mine, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| As that the highest prize might yet be won | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| By her who took the second—she was roused. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| "For me," she said, "I triumph or I fail. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| I never strove for any second prize." | 10 | ·/˘··/˘/˘· |
| GRAF. Poor human-hearted singing-bird! She bears | 11 | ··/˘/˘/˘··· |
| Cæsar's ambition in her delicate breast, | 10 | ·˘/˘··/˘˘· |
| And nought to still it with but quivering song! | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| WALPURGA. I had not for the world been there to-night | 13 | ············· |
| Unreasonable dread oft chills me more | 9 | ˘/˘˘····· |
| Than any reasonable hope can warm. | 10 | ·/˘/˘˘˘··· |
| GRAF. You have a rare affection for your cousin; | 12 | ·····˘/˘··/˘ |
| As tender as a sister's. | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| WALPURGA. Nay, I fear | 6 | ······ |
| My love is little more than what I felt | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| For happy stories when I was a child. | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| She fills my life that would be empty else, | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| And lifts my nought to value by her side. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| GRAF. She is reason good enough, or seems to be, | 12 | ···/˘·˘/···· |
| Why all were born whose being ministers | 10 | ·····/˘/˘˘ |
| To her completeness. Is it most her voice | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| Subdues us? or her instinct exquisite, | 10 | ˘/···/˘/˘˘ |
| Informing each old strain with some new grace | 10 | ˘/˘······· |
| Which takes our sense like any natural good? | 10 | ··/··/˘/˘· |
| Or most her spiritual energy | 10 | ···/˘˘˘/˘˘ |
| That sweeps us in the current of her song? | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| WALPURGA. I know not. Losing either, we should lose | 13 | ······/˘/˘··· |
| That whole we call our Armgart. For herself, | 10 | ····/···˘/ |
| She often wonders what her life had been | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Without that voice for channel to her soul. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| She says, it must have leaped through all her limbs— | 10 | ·········· |
| Made her a Mænad—made her snatch a brand | 10 | ·········· |
| And fire some forest, that her rage might mount | 10 | ·/·/˘····· |
| In crashing, roaring flames through half a land, | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| Leaving her still and patient for a while. | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| "Poor wretch!" she says, of any murderess— | 10 | ·····/˘/˘˘ |
| "The world was cruel, and she could not sing: | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| I carry my revenges in my throat; | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| I love in singing, and am loved again." | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| GRAF. Mere mood! I cannot yet believe it more. | 11 | ····/˘·˘/·· |
| Too much ambition has unwomaned her; | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| But only for a while. Her nature hides | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| One half its treasures by its very wealth, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Taxing the hours to show it. | 8 | /˘·/˘··· |
| WALPURGA. Hark! she comes. | 6 | ······ |
| LEO. Place for the queen of song! | 8 | /˘······ |
| GRAF. (advancing towards ARMGART, who throws off her hood and mantle, and shows a star of brilliants in her hair) A triumph, then. | 29 | ·˘/˘·········/˘·····/˘····/˘· |
| You will not be a niggard of your joy | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And chide the eagerness that came to share it. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| ARMGART. O kind! you hastened your return for me. | 12 | ·····/˘·˘/·· |
| I would you had been there to hear me sing! | 10 | ·········· |
| Walpurga, kiss me: never tremble more | 10 | ·····/˘/˘· |
| Lest Armgart's wing should fail her. She has found | 10 | ·········· |
| This night the region where her rapture breathes— | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Pouring her passion on the air made live | 10 | /˘·/˘····· |
| With human heart throbs. Tell them, Leo, tell them | 11 | ·/˘····/˘·· |
| How I outsang your hope and made you cry | 10 | ·········· |
| Because Glück could not hear me. That was folly! | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| He sang, not listened: every linked note | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘·· |
| Was his immortal pulse that stirred in mine, | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
| And all my gladness is but part of him. | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Give me the wreath. | 4 | ···· |
| LEO. (sardonically) Ay, ay, but mark you this, | 11 | /˘˘/˘······ |
| It was not part of him—that trill you made | 10 | ·········· |
| In spite of me and reason! | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| ARMGART. You were wrong— | 5 | ····· |
| Dear Leo, you were wrong: the house was held | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| As if a storm were listening with delight | 10 | ·····/˘·˘/ |
| And hushed its thunder. | 5 | ···/˘ |
| LEO. Will you ask the house | 7 | /˘····· |
| To teach you singing? Quit your Orpheus then, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| And sing in farces grown to operas, | 9 | ···/˘··/˘ |
| Where all the prurience of the full-fed mob | 10 | ·········· |
| Is tickled with melodic impudence: | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Jerk forth burlesque bravuras, square your arms | 10 | ··˘/˘/˘··· |
| Akimbo with a tavern wench's grace, | 9 | ˘/···/˘·· |
| And set the splendid compass of your voice | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| To lyric jigs. Go to! I thought you meant | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| To be an artist—lift your audience | 10 | ···/˘··/˘˘ |
| To see your vision, not trick forth a show | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| To please the grossest taste of grossest numbers. | 11 | ···/˘··/˘/˘ |
| ARMGART. (taking up Leo's hand, and kissing it) Pardon, good Leo, I am penitent. | 21 | ··/˘·/˘··/˘·/˘·/˘··/˘ |
| I will do penance: sing a hundred trills | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Into a deep-dug grave, then burying them | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| As one did Midas' secret, rid myself | 10 | ···/˘/˘··/ |
| Of naughty exultation. O, I trilled | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| At nature's prompting, like the nightingales. | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘˘ |
| Go scold them, dearest Leo. | 7 | ···/˘/˘ |
| LEO. I stop my ears. | 6 | /˘···· |
| Nature in Glück inspiring Orpheus, | 10 | /˘··˘/˘/˘˘ |
| Has done with nightingales. Are bird-beaks lips? | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| GRAF. Truce to rebukes! Tell us—who were not there— | 11 | ···˘/······ |
| The double drama: how the expectant house | 11 | ·/˘/˘··˘/˘· |
| Took the first notes. | 4 | ···· |
| WALPURGA. (turning from her occupation of decking the room with the flowers) Yes, tell us all, dear Armgart. | 26 | ···/˘···˘/˘·/˘····/······· |
| Did you feel tremors? Leo, how did she look? | 11 | ···/˘/˘···· |
| Was there a cheer to greet her? | 7 | ······· |
| LEO. Not a sound. | 5 | /˘··· |
| She walked like Orpheus in his solitude, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| And seemed to see nought but what no man saw. | 10 | ·········· |
| 'Twas famous. Not the Schroeder-Devrient | 9 | ·/˘··/˘·· |
| Had done it better. But your blessed public | 10 | ···/˘···/˘ |
| Had never any judgment in cold blood— | 10 | ·/˘/˘/˘··· |
| Thinks all perhaps were better otherwise, | 10 | ··˘/·/˘/˘· |
| Till rapture brings a reason. | 7 | ·/˘··/˘ |
| ARMGART. (scornfully) I knew that! | 8 | ········ |
| The women whispered, "Not a pretty face!" | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| The men, "Well, well, a goodly length of limb | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| She bears the chiton."—It were all the same | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Were I the Virgin Mother, and my stage, | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| The opening heavens at the Judgment-day: | 10 | ·/˘/˘··/˘· |
| Gossips would peep, jog elbows, rate the price | 10 | /˘···/···· |
| Of such a woman in the social mart. | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| What were the drama of the world to them, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Unless they felt the hell-prong? | 7 | ······· |
| LEO. Peace, now, peace! | 5 | /˘··· |
| I hate my phrases to be smothered o'er | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| With sauce of paraphrase, my sober tune | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Made bass to rambling trebles, showering down | 10 | ···/˘/˘/˘· |
| An endless demi-semi-quavers. | 9 | ·/˘/˘/˘/˘ |
| ARMGART. (taking a bon-bon from the table, uplifting it before putting it into her mouth, and turning away) Mum! | 30 | ··/˘·····/˘/·˘···/˘······/˘˘/· |
| GRAF. Yes, tell us all the glory, leave the blame. | 11 | ······/˘··· |
| WALPURGA. You first, dear Leo—what you saw and heard; | 13 | ······/˘····· |
| Then Armgart—she must tell us what she felt. | 10 | ·········· |
| LEO. Well! The first notes came clearly, firmly forth. | 12 | /˘·····/˘/˘· |
| And I was easy, for behind those rills | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| I knew there was a fountain. I could see | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| The house was breathing gently, heads were still; | 10 | ···/˘/˘··· |
| Parrot opinion was struck meekly mute, | 10 | /˘˘/˘··/˘· |
| And human hearts were swelling. Armgart stood | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| As if she had been new-created there, | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| And found her voice which found a melody. | 10 | ·······/˘˘ |
| The minx! Glück had not written, nor I taught: | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Orpheus was Armgart, Armgart Orpheus. | 11 | /˘˘·····/˘˘ |
| Well, well, all through the scena I could feel | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| The silence tremble now, now poise itself | 10 | ·/˘/˘···˘/ |
| With added weight of feeling, till at last | 10 | ·/˘··/˘··· |
| Delight o'er-toppled it. The final note | 10 | ˘/·/˘··/˘· |
| Had happy drowning in the unloosed roar | 10 | ·/˘/˘····· |
| That surged and ebbed and ever surged again, | 10 | ···/˘·/·˘/ |
| Till expectation kept it pent awhile | 10 | ··˘/˘···˘/ |
| Ere Orpheus returned. Pfui! He was changed: | 10 | ·/˘˘˘/···· |
| My demi-god was pale, had downcast eyes | 10 | ·/˘····/·· |
| That quivered like a bride's who fain would send | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Backward the rising tear. | 6 | /˘·/˘· |
| ARMGART. (advancing, but then turning away, as if to check her speech) I was a bride, | 21 | ··˘/˘··/˘˘/·········· |
| As nuns are at their spousals. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| LEO. Ay, my lady, | 6 | /˘··/˘ |
| That moment will not come again: applause | 10 | ·/˘···˘/˘/ |
| May come and plenty; but the first, first draught! | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Music has sounds for it—I know no words. | 10 | /˘········ |
| I felt it once myself when they performed | 10 | ·····/··˘/ |
| My overture to Sintram. Well! 'tis strange, | 10 | ·/˘˘······ |
| We know not pain from pleasure in such joy. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| ARMGART. (turning quickly) Oh, pleasure has cramped dwelling in our souls, | 16 | ··/˘/˘·/˘··/˘·/· |
| And when full Being comes must call on pain | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| To lend it liberal space. | 7 | ···/˘˘· |
| WALPURGA. I hope the house | 7 | ······· |
| Kept a reserve of plaudits: I am jealous | 11 | ··˘/·/˘··/˘ |
| Lest they had dulled themselves for coming good | 10 | ····˘/·/˘· |
| That should have seemed the better and the best. | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| LEO. No, 'twas a revel where they had but quaffed | 12 | /˘···/˘····· |
| Their opening cup. I think the artist's star, | 10 | ·/˘····/˘· |
| His audience keeps not sober: once afire, | 10 | ·/˘··/˘·˘/ |
| They flame towards climax, though his merit hold | 10 | ···/···/˘· |
| But fairly even. | 5 | ·/˘/˘ |
| ARMGART. (her hand on LEo's arm) Now, now, confess the truth. | 14 | ·····/˘···˘/·· |
| I sang still better to the very end— | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| All save the trill; I give that up to you, | 10 | ·········· |
| To bite and growl at. Why, you said yourself, | 10 | ········˘/ |
| Each time I sang, it seemed new doors were oped | 10 | ·········· |
| That you might hear heaven clearer. | 8 | ····/˘/˘ |
| LEO. (shaking his finger) I was raving. | 11 | /˘/˘·/˘··/˘ |
| ARMGART. I am not glad with that mean vanity | 11 | ·········/˘ |
| Which knows no good beyond its appetite | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Full feasting upon praise! I am only glad, | 11 | ·/˘·····/˘· |
| Being praised for what I know is worth the praise; | 10 | /········· |
| Glad of the proof that I myself have part | 10 | ·······/·· |
| In what I worship! At the last applause— | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| Seeming a roar of tropic winds that tossed | 10 | /˘···/˘··· |
| The handkerchiefs and many-colored flowers, | 11 | ·/˘˘·/˘/˘/˘ |
| Falling like shattered rainbows all around— | 10 | /˘·/˘/···· |
| Think you I felt myself a prima donna? | 11 | ·····/·/˘/˘ |
| No, but a happy, spiritual star | 10 | ···/˘/˘˘˘· |
| Such as old Dante saw, wrought in a rose | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Of light in Paradise, whose only self | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Was consciousness of glory wide-diffused, | 10 | ·/˘˘·/˘·˘/ |
| Music, life, power—I moving in the midst | 10 | /˘·/·/˘··· |
| With a sublime necessity of good. | 10 | ··˘/˘/˘˘·· |
| LEO. (with a shrug) I thought it was a prima donna came | 15 | /˘········/˘/˘· |
| Within the side-scenes; ay, and she was proud | 10 | ·········· |
| To find the bouquet from the royal box | 10 | ···˘/··/˘· |
| Enclosed a jewel-case, and proud to wear | 10 | ˘/·/˘····· |
| A star of brilliants, quite an earthly star, | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Valued by thalers. Come, my lady, own | 10 | /˘·/˘··/˘· |
| Ambition has five senses, and a self | 10 | ˘/˘··/˘··· |
| That gives it good warm lodging when it sinks | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| Plump down from ecstasy. | 6 | ···/˘˘ |
| ARMGART. Own it? why not? | 6 | ······ |
| Am I a sage whose words must fall like seed | 10 | ·········· |
| Silently buried toward a far-off spring? | 10 | /˘/˘······ |
| I sing to living men, and my effect | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| Is like the summer's sun, that ripens corn | 10 | ···/˘··/˘· |
| Or now or never. If the world brings me gifts, | 10 | ···/······ |
| Gold, incense, myrrh—'twill be the needful sign | 10 | ·/·····/˘· |
| That I have stirred it as the high year stirs | 10 | ·········· |
| Before I sink to winter. | 7 | ·····/˘ |
| GRAF. Ecstasies | 4 | ·/˘˘ |
| Are short—most happily! We should but lose | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| Were Armgart borne too commonly and long | 10 | ·····/˘˘·· |
| Out of the self that charms us. Could I choose, | 10 | ·········· |
| She were less apt to soar beyond the reach | 10 | ·········· |
| Of woman's foibles, innocent vanities, | 11 | ·/˘/˘/˘˘/˘˘ |
| Fondness for trifles like that pretty star | 10 | /˘·/˘··/˘· |
| Twinkling beside her cloud of ebon hair. | 10 | /˘˘/···/˘· |
| ARMGART. (Taking out the gem and looking at it) This little star! I would it were the seed | 22 | ··/˘····/˘···/˘······· |
| Of a whole Milky Way, if such bright shimmer | 11 | ···/˘····/˘ |
| Were the sole speech men told their rapture with | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| At Armgart's music. Shall I turn aside | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| From splendors which flash out the glow I make. | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| And live to make, in all the chosen breasts | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Of half a Continent? No, may it come, | 10 | ···/˘˘···· |
| That splendor! May the day be near when men | 10 | ·/˘······· |
| Think much to let my horses draw me home, | 10 | ·····/˘··· |
| And new lands welcome me upon their beach, | 10 | ···/˘····· |
| Loving me for my fame. That is the truth | 10 | /˘········ |
| Of what I wish, nay, yearn for. Shall I lie? | 10 | ·········· |
| Pretend to seek obscurity—to sing | 10 | ˘/··˘/˘˘·· |
| In hope of disregard? A vile pretence! | 10 | ····˘/···· |
| And blasphemy besides. For what is fame | 10 | ·/˘˘˘/···· |
| But the benignant strength of One, transformed | 10 | ··˘/˘···˘/ |
| To joy of Many? Tributes, plaudits come | 10 | ···/˘/˘/˘· |
| As necessary breathing of such joy; | 10 | ·/˘·˘/˘··· |
| And may they come to me! | 6 | ······ |
| GRAF. The auguries | 4 | ···· |
| Point clearly that way. Is it no offence | 10 | ·/˘·····˘/ |
| To wish the eagle's wing may find repose, | 10 | ···/˘···˘/ |
| As feebler wings do, in a quiet nest? | 10 | ·······/˘· |
| Or has the taste of fame already turned | 10 | ······˘/˘· |
| The Woman to a Muse . . | 6 | ·/˘··· |
| LEO. (going to the table) Who needs no supper? | 12 | /˘/··/˘···/˘ |
| I am her priest, ready to eat her share | 10 | ····/˘···· |
| Of good Walpurga's offerings. | 8 | ·····/˘˘ |
| WALPURGA. Armgart, come, | 6 | ······ |
| Graf, will you come? | 4 | ···· |
| GRAF. Thanks, I play truant here, | 7 | ····/˘· |
| And must retrieve my self-indulged delay. | 10 | ··˘/··˘/˘/ |
| But will the Muse receive a votary | 10 | ····˘/·/˘˘ |
| At any hour to-morrow? | 8 | ·/˘/˘·/˘ |
| ARMGART. Any hour | 6 | ··/˘/˘ |
| After rehearsal, after twelve at noon. | 10 | ··˘/˘····· |
The reader shows the same poem with its rhymes coloured and a stress row above each line, the notes beside their stanzas, and any word's definition on a tap; the analysis page takes the whole book apart. How every part of this site was made.