gripped by the same fantasy.
The difference between those chinless toothpicks and myself is that I could be there if I wanted. I know the manager of this place and it would be the work of a few minutes to have him owe me a tangible favor.
The story onstage plays itself out to its inevitable conclusion. The heroine averts her sweet eyes as the hero delivers the villain,swaddled in chains, to her feet. She even throws herself on her knees to beg mercy for the man who had desired to ruin her.
It must be the pain of Tom’s dying that has wedded my eyes to this woman, and it must be lust for life, provoked by his stark lack of it, that gives me such a sheer molten need to have her.
After all, the preliminaries have already been played out on the stage. It but rests with him to conclude the act, to perform the act of generation itself upon the woman. It is natural; it is fitting. He is panting ripe to have her. He’ll briefly rub off the sadness upon this actress, this cunning little piece of Venice, this Mimosina Dolcezza.
It’s a fine idea, with some handsome curlicues upon it.
There’s the clatter of hands rising. The opera is over. Valentine simmers in his chair while his neighbors jump to their feet, clapping their hands at her like twinned castanets. They call the actress back, again and again. She feigns reluctance and the stage manager is forced to march her back onstage and to hold her in front of him, where she droops with downcast eyes, as if she is too fragile to withstand the power of their rampant adoration. Yet, from those lowered lids, she shoots off grateful glances like sparks in a foundry. Men caught in their direct trajectory jerk with pleasure, ducking their heads and shrugging bashfully.
Valentine gazes up at her now, and thinks rapidly: How many men before me? Will she cry out someone’s name? I wonder if she speaks God’s own English. Does it matter? Tom would have loved those green eyes.
• 2 •
Spleen Ale
Take Barks of Tamarisk 4 ounces; of Capers and Ash-tree, Woods of Guaiacum, Sassaphras, each 1 ounce; Herbs of Agrimony 4 handfuls; Wormwood, Dodder, each 2 handfuls; cut and boil these in 6 gallons of new Ale to 4 gallons, into which hang Filings of Needles half a pound; Crude Antimony 4 ounces .
When it hath Fermented enough, and is become clear, give half a pint twice a day.
So the thing is, how to get her.
Stepping out under the star-stuttered sky, Valentine is pummelled by a bitter wind. He feels the sudden tiredness of a man who has fought a battle and changed the landscape. It is true. In the scenery of his heart, his rage and pain have smelted down into something else entirely.
Mimosina Dolcezza, the pride of Venice, the miraculous beauty who has enchanted courts and Royal Families from Russia to Naples —so declares the playbill he still holds in his hand as he strolls west of Drury Lane, his carriage following at a discreet distance. He halts under a lamp to smooth it out and look at her likeness etched on the paper.
The delicacy of her has already informed Valentine that it would not do to send a purse and scrawled card to her dressing room, the coachman curling his whip like a dog’s tail in his hand and averting his eyes while she read and felt for the purse’s bulge.
He has no scant feeling that this lady is of the type that requires to be forcibly adored all the way from her high horse to her last, grateful whimper.
And this meets nicely with my own feeling that a quick once is not going to give more than brief respite from all the hurting.
No, he wants a sought-after coupling, one that costs him something and so is worth something. He craves a spending that is waited for, hoped for, not even inevitable. The more intricate the plot of getting her, the more he can soak his mind in it, the more it will crowd out those insupportable images of Tom.
He had no small eye for those Italian ladies, Tom, unpetticoating them by the dozen, with a great tongue on him for their
The difference between those chinless toothpicks and myself is that I could be there if I wanted. I know the manager of this place and it would be the work of a few minutes to have him owe me a tangible favor.
The story onstage plays itself out to its inevitable conclusion. The heroine averts her sweet eyes as the hero delivers the villain,swaddled in chains, to her feet. She even throws herself on her knees to beg mercy for the man who had desired to ruin her.
It must be the pain of Tom’s dying that has wedded my eyes to this woman, and it must be lust for life, provoked by his stark lack of it, that gives me such a sheer molten need to have her.
After all, the preliminaries have already been played out on the stage. It but rests with him to conclude the act, to perform the act of generation itself upon the woman. It is natural; it is fitting. He is panting ripe to have her. He’ll briefly rub off the sadness upon this actress, this cunning little piece of Venice, this Mimosina Dolcezza.
It’s a fine idea, with some handsome curlicues upon it.
There’s the clatter of hands rising. The opera is over. Valentine simmers in his chair while his neighbors jump to their feet, clapping their hands at her like twinned castanets. They call the actress back, again and again. She feigns reluctance and the stage manager is forced to march her back onstage and to hold her in front of him, where she droops with downcast eyes, as if she is too fragile to withstand the power of their rampant adoration. Yet, from those lowered lids, she shoots off grateful glances like sparks in a foundry. Men caught in their direct trajectory jerk with pleasure, ducking their heads and shrugging bashfully.
Valentine gazes up at her now, and thinks rapidly: How many men before me? Will she cry out someone’s name? I wonder if she speaks God’s own English. Does it matter? Tom would have loved those green eyes.
• 2 •
Spleen Ale
Take Barks of Tamarisk 4 ounces; of Capers and Ash-tree, Woods of Guaiacum, Sassaphras, each 1 ounce; Herbs of Agrimony 4 handfuls; Wormwood, Dodder, each 2 handfuls; cut and boil these in 6 gallons of new Ale to 4 gallons, into which hang Filings of Needles half a pound; Crude Antimony 4 ounces .
When it hath Fermented enough, and is become clear, give half a pint twice a day.
So the thing is, how to get her.
Stepping out under the star-stuttered sky, Valentine is pummelled by a bitter wind. He feels the sudden tiredness of a man who has fought a battle and changed the landscape. It is true. In the scenery of his heart, his rage and pain have smelted down into something else entirely.
Mimosina Dolcezza, the pride of Venice, the miraculous beauty who has enchanted courts and Royal Families from Russia to Naples —so declares the playbill he still holds in his hand as he strolls west of Drury Lane, his carriage following at a discreet distance. He halts under a lamp to smooth it out and look at her likeness etched on the paper.
The delicacy of her has already informed Valentine that it would not do to send a purse and scrawled card to her dressing room, the coachman curling his whip like a dog’s tail in his hand and averting his eyes while she read and felt for the purse’s bulge.
He has no scant feeling that this lady is of the type that requires to be forcibly adored all the way from her high horse to her last, grateful whimper.
And this meets nicely with my own feeling that a quick once is not going to give more than brief respite from all the hurting.
No, he wants a sought-after coupling, one that costs him something and so is worth something. He craves a spending that is waited for, hoped for, not even inevitable. The more intricate the plot of getting her, the more he can soak his mind in it, the more it will crowd out those insupportable images of Tom.
He had no small eye for those Italian ladies, Tom, unpetticoating them by the dozen, with a great tongue on him for their
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