Atta Troll, a Summer-Night’s Dream
Caput I.
Hemm’d close in by gloomy mountains
Proudly o’er each other rising,
Lull’d to sleep by wildly-dashing
Cataracts, like some fair vision,
In the valley lies the charming
Cauterets. Its snow-white houses
All have balconies; upon them
Stand fair ladies, laughing loudly.
Laughing loudly, downward look they
On the chequer’d noisy market,
Where there dance a male and female
Bear, to sound of bagpipe-music.
Atta Troll and his dear wife ’tis
(Her they call the swarthy Mumma),
Who are dancing, and with wonder
The Biscayans are rejoicing.
Stately, and with solemn grandeur,
Dances noble Atta Troll;
Yet his shaggy partner’s wanting
Both in dignity and manners.
Yes, I have a shrewd suspicion
That she is too much accustom’d
To the vulgar shameless dances
At the Grand’-Chaumière at Paris.
E’en the excellent bear-leader,
Who with chain conducts the couple
Seems the immorality
Of her dance to notice plainly.
And he oft bestows upon her
With his whip fast-falling lashes,
And the swarthy Mumma howls then,
And awakes the mountain echoes.
This bear-leader six Madonnas
Wears upon his pointed hat,
To protect his head from bullets
Or from lice perchance it may be.
O’er his shoulder there is hanging,
Many-hued, an altar covering,
Doing office as a mantle;
Knife and pistol lurk beneath it.
He had been a monk when younger,
Then became a robber-captain;
Then, to join the two vocations,
Took the service of Don Carlos.
When Don Carlos had to scamper
With the knights of his round table,
And his paladins were driven
To pursue some honest calling,
(Thus Schnapphahnski turn’d an author)
Then our knight became bear-leader,
And across the country travell’d
Leading Atta Troll and Mumma.
And in sight of all the people,
In the market, they must dance now;
Atta Troll must in the market
Of this city dance in fetters!
Atta, Troll, who once was dwelling
Like a haughty desert-monarch
On the airy mountain, dances
In a valley to the rabble!
And for filthy lucre merely
He must dance, who formerly
In the majesty of terror
Felt himself so high exalted!
When his younger days recalls he,
His lost lordship of the forest,
Then growl forth despairing noises
From the soul of Atta Troll.
Gloomy looks he, like a swarthy
Moorish prince of Freiligrath;29
As the latter drums but badly,
So with rage he badly dances.
But instead of pity, wakes he
Only laughter. Even Juliet
From the balcony laughs downward
At his leaps of desperation.—
Juliet has not in her bosom
Any feelings; French by nation,
Outwardly she lives; her outside
Is delightful and enchanting.
Her sweet looks compose a blissful
Net of rays, within whose meshes
Is our heart fast held in prison,
Like a fish, and gently struggles.
Caput II
That a swarthy Freiligrathian
Moorish prince with anxious longing
On the big drum’s skin should rattle,
Till with violence ’tis broken,
Is a very drum-affecting
And a drumskin-breaking matter—
But just fancy the confusion
When a bear has burst his fetters!
Both the music and the laughter
Straight are hush’d; with screams of terror
Rush the people from the market,
Pale as death turn all the ladies.
Yes, from out his slavish fetters
Atta Troll has freed himself
Suddenly, and springing wildly,
Through the narrow streets he hastens—
(Each one civilly makes way),
Up the rocks he nimbly clambers,
Then looks down, as if in scorn,—then
Vanishes within the mountains.
On the empty market stand now
Swarthy Mumma, and bear-leader
All alone. In angry fury
On the ground his hat he flingeth,
Trampling on it,—the Madonnas
Trampling also, tears the covering
From his ugly naked body,
Swears at such ingratitude,
Such black bear’s ingratitude!
For he constantly had treated
Atta Troll in friendly fashion,
And instructed him in dancing.
All he had to him was owing,
E’en his very life. In vain they
Offer’d him a hundred dollars
For the skin of Atta Troll!
Then upon the poor black Mumma,
Who, a form of silent sorrow,
On her hinder paws imploring,
Stood before the much enraged one,
Fell the much enraged one’s fury
With redoubled strength. He beats her,
Calls her even Queen Christina,
Madame Muñoz and Putana.—
All this happen’d in a beauteous
Sultry summer afternoon,
And the night which then succeeded
To that day was quite superb.
Almost half that night consumed I
On the house’s balcony;
Juliet was beside me standing,
Gazing on the stars above us.
Sighing said she: “Ah, in Paris
“Fairest are the stars of all,
“When they on a winter evening
“In the street mud are reflected!”
Caput III
Summer-night’s dream! All-fantastic,
Aimless is my song. Yes, aimless
As our love and as our living,
As Creator and creation!
His own will alone obeying,
Galloping along or flying,
Revels in the realms of fable
My belovèd Pegasus.
He’s no serviceable, virtuous
Carthorse of the citizens,
Nor a battle-steed of party,
With pathetic neighs and stamping!
Golden-mounted are the hoofs all
Of my white and wingèd charger,
Cords of pearls the guiding reins are,
And at will I let him wander.
Bear me whereso’er thou wouldest!
Over steep and merry hill-paths,
Where cascades with mournful shrieking
Warn ’gainst madness’s abysses!
Bear me on through silent valleys,
Where the solemn oaks are standing,
While primeval sweet traditions
From their knotted roots have birth!
Let me drink there, while I moisten
My dim eyes,—ah, now I languish
For the sparkling wondrous water
That imparts both sight and knowledge!
All my blindness goes! my gaze
Pierces to the deepest rock-cleft,
To the cave of Atta Troll,
And I understand his language!
Strange ’tis how familiar to me
This bear-language now appeareth!
In my dear home have I never
Heard those sounds in earlier days?
Caput IV
Ronceval, thou noble valley!
Whensoe’er I hear thy name,
That blue flower so long departed
O’er my bosom sheds its fragrance!
Then the glitt’ring dream-world rises
Which for thousand years had faded,
And the mighty spirit-eyes
Gaze upon me, till I’m awe-struck!
Rattling sounds awake. There struggle
Saracen and Frankish knight;
As though bleeding and despairing
Ring Orlando’s bugle-notes
In the vale of Ronceval,
Hard beside Orlando’s gap—
Christen’d thus, because the hero,
Seeking how to force a passage,
With his trusty sword Duranda
Struck with such death-dealing fury
On the wall of rock, that plainly
To this day are seen its traces—
There within a gloomy hollow,
Close surrounded by a thicket
Of wild fir-trees, safely hidden,
Lies the cave of Atta Troll.
In the bosom of his fam’ly
Rests he after all the hardships
Of his flight and the distresses
Of his public show and travels.
Sweet the meeting! all his young ones
Found he in that happy cavern
Where with Mumma he begot them,—
Four his sons, and daughters two.
Well-lick’d maidens were the latter,
Fair their hair, like parsons’ daughters
Brown the youths, the youngest only
With the single ear is black.
Now this youngest was the darling
Of his mother, who when playing
Happen’d once to bite his ear off,
And for very love she ate it.
He’s a very genial stripling,
At gymnastics very clever,
And he turns a somersault
Like the posture-master Massmann.
Sprig of autochthonic humour,
He his mother-tongue loves only,
And has never learnt the jargon
Of the Grecian and the Roman.
Fresh and free and good and merry,
Soap he holds in detestation,
(Luxury of modern washing,)
Like the posture-master Massmann.
But our young friend is most genial
Where upon the tree he clambers,
Which along the steepest rock-side
From the deep abyss upriseth,
And extendeth to the summit,
When the family at night-time
Gather all around their father,
Toying in the evening coolness.
Then the old one loves to tell them
What he in the world has witness’d;
How he many men and cities
Had beheld, and greatly suffer’d,
Like Laertes’ noble offspring,
But in one thing still unlike him,—
Namely, that his wife went with him,
His dear black Penelope.
Atta Troll then also tells them
Of the wondrous approbation
That he, by his skill in dancing,
Had acquired in ev’ry quarter.
He assured them young and old
Had exultingly admired him,
When he danced upon the market
To the sweet notes of the bagpipe.
In particular the ladies,
Those dear connoisseurs of all things,
Had with vehemence applauded,
And had ogled him with favour.
O the vanity of Artists!
Our old dancing bear with simpers
Calls to mind the time when late he
To the public show’d his talent.
Overcome by self laudation,
He would fain by act exhibit
That he’s no mere boaster only,
But a really first-rate dancer.
From the ground then sudden springs he,
On his hinder paws upstanding,
And, as formerly, he dances
The gavotte, his favourite dance.
Mute, with muzzles gaping open,
The young bears look on with wonder,
While their father in the moonlight
Capers here and there thus strangely.
Caput V.
In the cavern, by his young ones,
Sick at heart, upon his back lies
Atta Troll, while thoughtful sucks he
At his paws, and sucks, and growls:
“Mumma, Mumma, swarthy jewel,
“Whom I out of life’s wide ocean
“Once did fish, in life’s wide ocean
“Once again I now have lost thee!
“Shall I ne’er again behold thee,
“Or beyond the grave p’rhaps only,
“Where, set free from earthly trammels,
“Thy dear soul is glorified?
“Would that I, alas! could once more
“Lick thy well-belovèd muzzle,
“My dear Mumma, which so sweetly
“Stroked me over, as with honey!
“Would that I again could snuffle
“That sweet smell, thy own peculiar,
“O my dear and swarthy Mumma,
“Charming as the scent of roses!
“But, alas! my Mumma’s pining
“In the fetters of those rascals,
“Who, the name of men adopting,
“Deem themselves creation’s masters.
“Death and hell! These men unworthy
“Aristocracy’s arch-emblems,
“Look down on the an’mal kingdom
“Proudly and disdainfully.
“Take away our wives and children,
“Fetter us, ill-treat us, even
“Kill us, for the sake of selling
“Our poor hide and our poor carcass!
“And they think themselves permitted
“Wicked deeds like this to practise
“‘Gainst us bears especially,
“And the rights of man they call it!
“Rights of man indeed! Fine rights these.
“Tell me who bestow’d them on you?
“Nature certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unnatural!
“Rights of man indeed! Who gave you
“This great privilege, I wonder?
“Reason certainly ne’er did so,
“For she’s not unreasonable!
“Men, pray are ye any better
“Than we others, just for eating
“All your dinners boil’d or roasted?
“In a raw state we eat ours,
“Yet is the result the same
“To us both.—No, food can never
“Make one noble; he is noble
“Who both nobly feels and acteth.
“Men, pray are ye any better
“Just because the arts and science
“With success ye follow? We now
“Never give ourselves the trouble.
“Are there not such things as learnèd
“Dogs, and horses too, who reckon
“Just like councillors of Commerce?
“Do not hares the drum play finely?
“Are not many beavers adepts
“In the art of hydrostatics?
“Were not clysters first invented
“By the cleverness of storks?
“Write not asses criticisms?
“Are not apes all good comedians?
“Is there any greater mimic
“Than Batavia, long tail’d monkey?
“Are not nightingales good singers?
“And is Freiligrath no poet,
“Who can sing of lions better
“Than his countryman the Camel?
“I myself the art of dancing
“Have advanced as much as Raumer
“That of writing. Writes he better
“Than I dance,—yes, I the bear?
“Men, why are ye any better
“Than we others? Upright hold ye,
“It is true, your heads, but in them
“Low-born thoughts are ever creeping.
“Men, pray are ye any better
“Than are we, because your skin is
“Smooth and glist’ning? This advantage
“Ye but share with every serpent.
“Human race, two leggèd serpents!
“Well I see the reason why ye
“Breeches wear; with foreign wool ye
“Hide your serpent-nakedness!
“Children, guard yourselves against these
“Hairless and misshapen creatures!
“My dear daughters, never marry
“Any monster that wears breeches!”
More than this I’ll not report now,
How the bear in his wild mania
For equality, kept reasoning
All about the human race.
For, to say the truth, I also
Am a man, and never will I
Tell again such foolish libels,
Which are, after all, offensive.
Yes, I am a man, and better
Than the other sucking creatures,
And the interests of the race
Ne’er will I renounce promoting.
In the fight with other creatures
Faithfully I’ll ever struggle
For humanity,—the holy
Rights of man that he is born to.
Caput VI
Yet perchance ’tis beneficial
For us men, who form the higher
Kind of livestock, to discover
How they reason down below us.
Yes, below us, in the gloomy
Mournful spheres of fellowship,
In the beasts’ inferior strata,
Brood resentment, misery, pride.
That which natural hist’ry ever,
Equally with common custom,
Has for centuries admitted
Is denied with impious muzzle.
That false doctrine by the aged
In the young ones’ ears is grumbled
Which assails both cultivation
And humanity on earth.
“Children!” Atta Troll thus growl’d,
As he hither roll’d and thither
On his carpet-wanting couch:
“Unto us belongs the Future!
“If each bear but thought as I do,
“If all beasts but thought so too,
“With united forces would we
“Take up arms against the tyrants.
“Then the bear would form alliance
“With the horse, the elephant
“Twine his trunk in loving fashion
“Round the valiant ox’s horn.
“Bear and wolf of every colour,
“Goat and monkey, e’en the hare
“For a time would work in common,
“And our triumph would be certain.
“Union, union is the’ essential
“Requisite; alone, we’re conquer’d
“Easily, but join’d together
“We would overreach the tyrants.
“Union! union! and we’ll triumph,
“And Monopoly’s vile sway
“Be o’erthrown, and we’ll establish
“A just kingdom for us beasts,
“Full equality for all, then,
“Of God’s creatures, irrespective
“Of their faith, or skin, or odour,
“Be its fundamental maxim!
“Strict equality! Each donkey
“Be entitled to high office;
“On the other hand, the lion
“Carry to the mill the sack.
“As respects the dog, indeed he
“Is a very servile rascal,
“Since for centuries has man
“Like a dog ne’er ceased to treat him.
“Yet in our free state we’ll give him
“Once again his olden rights,
“His prescriptive birthright, and he
“Soon again will be ennobled.
“Yes, the Jews shall then enjoy too
“All the rights of citizens,
“And by law be made the equals
“Of all other sucking creatures.
“Only dancing in the market
“For the Jew shall not be lawful;
“This amendment I insist on
“In the interest of my art.
“For a sense of style, of rigid
“Plastic art in motion’s wanting
“To that race, who really ruin
“What there is of public taste.”
Caput VII
Gloomy, in his gloomy cavern,
Squats, in his belov’d home-circle,
Atta Troll, the misanthrope,
And he shows his teeth, and growls thus:
“Men, the pert and vulgar fellows!
“Smile away! From all your smiling
“And from your offensive yoke too
“Shall the coming day release us!
“I am always most offended
“By that sour-sweet kind of quiv’ring
“Round the mouth,—these smiles of man
“Find I really past all bearing!
“When I in his pallid visage
“See display’d that fatal quiv’ring,
“All my entrails in my body
“Turn right round with indignation.
“More impertinently even
“Than by words, a man lays open
“By his smile the deepest hidden
“Insolence of his vile spirit.
“They are always smiling! Even
“When by decency is needed
“Real solemnity of feature,—
“E’en in love’s most solemn moment!
“They are always smiling! Even
“When they’re dancing. In this manner
“They degrade this noble science,
“Which should be a kind of worship.
“Yes, the dance throughout all ages
“Was a pious act of faith;
“Solemnly around the altar
“Turn’d the priests in mystic circle.
“Thus in olden time King David
“Danced before the ark of cov’nant;
“Dancing was an act of worship,
“Was a prayer upon the legs!
“I have ever understood thus
“Dancing, when upon the market
“To the people I was dancing,
“Who with their applause repaid me.
“This applause, I must confess it,
“Often made me feel quite happy;
“For extorting admiration
“From one’s foes is very sweet!
“But in their enthusiasm
“Still they smile. The art of dancing
“Powerless is to make them better,
“And they frivolous remain.”
Caput VIII
Many a very virtuous burgher
Smells but badly, whilst the servants
Of a king with ambergris
Or else lavender are scented.
Virgin spirits may be met with
Which of green soap bear the odour,
Whilst the criminal with rose-oil
May have wash’d himself demurely.
Do not therefore turn your nose up,
Gentle reader, if the cave of
Atta Troll may not remind you
Of Arabia’s sweetest spices.
Tarry in that reeking circle,
’Mid those miserable stenches,
Where to his young son the hero
As from out a cloud thus speaks:
“Child, my child, thou youngest offspring
“Of my loins, now place thy one ear
“Close beside thy father’s muzzle,
“And suck in my solemn words!
“Guard against man’s ways of thinking,
“They destroy both soul and body;
“‘Mongst all men there’s no such thing as
“Any ordinary man.
“E’en the Germans, once so noble,
“E’en the very sons of Tuisco,
“Our own primitive relations,
“They too have degenerated.
“They’ve become now faithless, godless,
“Even preaching atheism—
“Child, my child, be on thy guard,
“‘Gainst both Feuerbach and Bauer!30
“Never be an Atheist,
“Monster void of all respect for
“The Creator—a Creator
“’Twas who made this universe!
“High above us, sun and moon
“And the stars too (both the tail-less
“And all those with tails provided)
“Are reflections of His power.
“Down below us, land and sea
“Are the echo of His glory,
“And each living creature praises
“Evermore His excellencies.
“E’en the smallest silver-louse that
“In the aged pilgrim’s beard
“In life’s pilgrimage is sharer,
“Sings the great Eternal’s praises!
“In yon starry bright pavilion,
“On the golden seat of power,
“World-directing and majestic,
“Sits a mighty polar bear.
“Free from spot and snow-white glitt’ring
“Is his skin; his head is cover’d
“With a crown of diamonds,
“Which illumines all the heavens.
“In his face is harmony,
“And the silent deeds of thinking;
“If he signs but with his sceptre,
“All the spheres resound with singing.
“At his feet bear-saints are sitting
“Piously, who meekly suffer’d
“While on earth, and in their paws they
“Hold the palms of martyrdom.
“Ofttimes one amongst them rises,
“Then another,—by the Spirit
“Seeming mov’d, and straightway dance they
“Their most solemn sacred dance—
“Sacred dance, where mercy’s radiance
“Renders talent quite superfluous,
“And the soul for very rapture
“From the skin attempts to leap!
“O shall I, unworthy Troll,
“E’er partake this great salvation?
“And from earth’s debasing sorrows
“To the realms of bliss soar upwards?
“O shall I, all-drunk with heaven,
“In the stars’ pavilion yonder,
“With the palm and with the glory,
“Dance before the Master’s throne?”
Caput IX
Like the tongue as red as scarlet,
Which a swarthy Freiligrathian
Moorish prince with scornful fury
From his sullen mouth protruded,
So the moon from out the gloomy
Clouds of heaven advanced. Afar off
Cataracts are roaring, sleepless
And morosely through the night.
Atta Troll upon the summit
Of his fav’rite rock stands lonely,
Lonely, and to the abyss
Downward howls he in the nightwind:
“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,—
“Him ye christen shaggy bear,
“Growler, Isegrim, and Bruin,
“And heav’n knows how many others.
“Yes, I am a bear, I am so,
“The uncouth and boorish creature,
“I’m the awkward dromedary
“Of your scorn and cruel laughter.
“I’m the butt of all your wit,
“I’m the bugbear, with whose terrors
“Ye at night your children frighten,
“Human children, when they’re naughty.
“I’m the joke of all your idle
“Nurs’ry stories, well I know it,
“And I now proclaim it loudly
“To man’s paltry world below.
“Hear it, hear; a bear am I,
“My descent I’m not ashamed of,
“But am proud of it, as though I
“Sprang from Moses Mendelssohn!”
Caput X.
Two dark figures, wild and surly,
And upon their all-fours gliding,
Force their way across the gloomy
Grove of firs at midnight’s hour.
This is Atta Troll, the father,
And his son, young master one-ear.
Where the wood grows somewhat lighter
By the stone of blood they halted.
“This old stone”—growl’d Atta Troll,—
“Is the altar where the Druids
“In the days of superstition
“Human sacrifices offer’d.
“O their cruelty accursèd!
“All the hair upon my back
“Bristles when I think upon it;
“Blood was pour’d out to God’s honour!
“Now these men are more enlighten’d,
“And no longer kill each other
“Merely in excessive zeal
“For the interests of heaven.
“’Tis no longer pious fancies,
“Madness, nor enthusiasm,
“But mere vanity and self-love
“Makes them now commit their murders.
“On the good things of the earth
“Eagerly they’re ever seizing;
“’Tis an endless round of fighting,
“For himself each person stealeth!
“Yes! the heritage of all
“Is the individual’s booty;
“Of the rights, then, of possession
“Speaks he, thinking of his own!
“Of his own! Possession’s rights too!
“O, the cruel theft, the lying!
“None but man could have invented
“Such commingled fraud and madness.
“Private property was never
“Made by Nature; pocketless,
“With no pockets in our skins, we
“Ev’ry one the world first entered.
“Not a single one amongst us
“At his birth had such a pocket
“In his body’s outer skin,
“Where he might conceal his robb’ries.
“Man alone, that smooth-skinn’d being,
“Who with foreign wool so nicely
“Clothes himself, had e’er the sharpness
“To provide himself with pockets.
“Pockets! They’re as much ’gainst nature
“As is private property,
“As possession’s rights themselves are—
“Men in fact are but pickpockets!
“Fiercely hate I them! My hatred
“Unto thee, my son, bequeath I;
“Here upon this altar shalt thou
“Swear to man undying hatred!
“Be implacably the death-foe
“Of those wicked vile oppressors
“To the very end of life,—
“Swear it, swear it here, my son!”
And the youngster swore, as once did
Hannibal. The moon, all yellow,
On the stone of blood look’d wildly,
And the pair of misanthropes.
By-and-by we’ll tell the story
How the young bear ever faithful
To his oath remain’d. Our lyre shall
In another Epic praise him.
As respects friend Atta Troll,
We will leave him for the present,
Presently to come across him,
All the surer, with a bullet.
All thy stealthy machinations,
Traitor ’gainst man’s majesty,
Now at length are terminated,
And thy hour will sound to-morrow!
Caput XI
Like some drowsy bayaderes
Look the mountains, standing shiv’ring
In their snowy shirts of clouds,
Flutt’ring in the breeze of morning.
Yet they soon become enliven’d
By the sun-god stripping from them
All the veil that’s hanging o’er them
Lighting up their naked beauty!
Early in the morn I started
With Lascaro on our journey
Bound to hunt the bear. At noonday
We arrived at Pont d’Espagne.
So they call the bridge which leadeth
Out of France and into Spain,
To the land of west barbarians,
Who’re a thousand years behind us,—
Yes, a thousand years behind us
In all modern civ’lisation;
My barbarians to the eastward
But a hundred years behind are.
Slowly, almost trembling, left I
France’s sacred territory,
Blessèd fatherland of freedom
And the women that I love!
On the middle of the bridge
A poor Spaniard sat. Deep mis’ry
Lurk’d behind his tatter’d mantle,
Misery in his eyes was lurking.
An old crazy mandoline
With his wither’d fingers pinch’d he;
Shrill the discord which re-echoed
From the rocks, as in derision.
Oftentimes his figure bent he
Downward tow’rd the’ abyss with laughter,
Tinkling harder then than ever,
While the following words he sang:
“In the middle of my bosom
“Stands a little golden table;
“Round the little golden table
“Stand four little golden chairs.
“On the golden chairs are sitting
“Little ladies, golden arrows
“In their hair,—at cards they’re playing,
“But ’tis only Clara wins.
“As she wins, she laughs with slyness;
“Ah! within my bosom, Clara,
“Thou’lt be ev’ry time a winner,
“For thou holdest nought but trumps.”
Wand’ring onward, to myself I
Spoke: “’Tis singular that madness
Sits and sings upon yon bridge,
That from France to Spain leads over.
“Is this madman but the emblem
“Of the interchange ’mongst nations
“Of their thoughts? or his own country’s
“Wild and crazy title-page?”
We arrived not until evening
At the wretched small posada,
Where an olla-podrida
In a dirty dish was smoking.
There I swallow’d some garbanzos,
Heavy, large as musket-bullets,
Indigestible to Germans,
Though to dumplings they’re accustom’d.
Fit companion to the cooking
Was the bed. With insects pepper’d
It appear’d. The bugs, alas! are
Far the greatest foes of man.
Fiercer than the wrath of thousand
Elephants, I find the hatred
Of one tiny little bug,
When across my bed it crawleth.
One must let them bite in quiet,—
This is bad enough,—still more ’tis
If one crushes them. The stink then
Keeps one all night long in torment.
Yes, the fiercest earthly trouble
Is the fight with noxious vermin,
Who a stench employ as weapons,—
Is a duel with a bug!
Caput XII
How they rave, the race of poets,
E’en the tame ones, singing ever
And exclaiming: “Nature’s surely
“The Creator’s mighty temple—
“Is a temple all whose glories
“To our Maker’s fame bear witness,
“Sun and moon and stars all hanging
“In its cupola as lamps.”
Well and good, my worthy people!
Yet confess that in this temple
Are the stairs uncomfortable,
Bad and inconvenient stairs!
All this up-and-down-stairs going,
Mountain-climbing and this jumping
Over rocks is very tiring
To the legs as well as spirit.
Close beside me walk’d Lascaro,
Pale and lanky, like a taper;
Never spoke he, never laugh’d he,
He, the dead son of the sorc’ress.
Yes, ’tis said that he’s a dead man,
Dead long since, but yet his mother
Old Uraca’s magic science
Kept him living in appearance.—
That accursèd temple-staircase!
It exceeds my comprehension
How my neck escaped from breaking,
Stumbling o’er a precipice.
How the cataracts were shrieking!
How the tempest flogg’d the fir-trees
Till they howl’d! The clouds began too
Crashing suddenly—bad weather!
In a little fishing cottage
By the Lac-de-Gobe soon found we
Shelter and some trout for luncheon;
Most delicious were the latter.
In an arm-chair was reclining,
Ill and grey, the ferryman;
On him his two pretty nieces,
Like a pair of angels, waited.
Stoutish angels, rather Flemish,
Seeming from a frame descended
Of a Rubens; gold their tresses,
Full of health their eyes, and liquid.
Their vermilion cheeks were dimpled,
With a secret slyness in them;
Strong their limbs were, and voluptuous,
Giving pleasure to the fancy.
Dear, affectionate young creatures,
Keeping up a sweet discussion,
As to which drink would be relish’d
Most of all by their sick uncle.
If the one the cup should bring him
Full of well-boil’d linden blossoms,
Then the other hastes to feed him
With an elder-flow’r decoction.
“I’ll not drink of either of them,”
“Cried impatiently the old man;
“Fetch some wine, that I may offer
“To my guests some better drink!”
Whether it was wine they gave me
At the Lac-de-Gobe, I really
Cannot say. Methinks in Brunswick
By the name of Mum they’d call it.
Of the very best black goat-skin
Was the wine-skin, stinking foully;
Yet the old man drank with pleasure,
And he seem’d quite well and joyous.
He recounted the achievements
Of the smugglers and banditti
Merrily and freely living
In the Pyrenean forests.
Many old traditions also
Well he knew: amongst the others
Were the battles of the giants
With the bears in times primeval.
Yes, the bears then and the giants
Struggled fiercely for the mast’ry
Of these mountains and these valleys,
Ere by man they were discover’d.
But when man arrived, the giants
Fled away from out the country
Stupified, for little brains
Are contain’d in heads gigantic.
And ’tis said the silly fellows,
On arriving at the ocean,
And observing how the heavens
In its azure depths were mirror’d,
Cleverly supposed the ocean
To be heaven, and plunged down in it,
Full of godlike confidence,
And were drown’d, the whole together
As respects the bears, however,
They are gradually being
Kill’d by man, their numbers yearly
In the mountain still decreasing.
“Thus on earth” exclaim’d the old man,
“One gives place unto another,
“And when men are put an end to,
“Then the dwarfs will be the masters.
“Yes, the clever little people,
“Who the mountain’s womb inhabit,
“‘Mongst the golden mines of riches
“Digging and collecting nimbly.
“How they from their hiding-places
“With their small sly heads keep peeping!
“Oft I’ve seen them in the moonlight,
“And then trembled at the future;
“At the power their gold will give them;
“Ah, I fear lest our descendants
“Fly for refuge, like the stupid
“Giants, to the watery heaven!”
Caput XIII
In the black and rocky caldron
Rest the waters deep of ocean;
Stars, all pale and melancholy,
Peep from heaven. Night reigns, and silence.
Night and silence. Oars are moving.
Like a splashing wondrous secret
Floats the bark. The old man’s nieces
Play the part of ferrymen,
Joyously and nimbly rowing;
Ofttimes glisten in the darkness
Their stout naked arms, illumined
By the stars,—their great blue eyes, too.
By my side Lascaro sitting
Is as pale and mute as usual,
And the fearful thought shoots through me:
Is he but a very corpse then?
I myself,—am I dead also,
And embarking on my journey
With my ghostly comrades by me
To the chilly realm of shadows?
And this lake, can it be Styx’s
Gloomy flood? Has Proserpina,
In default of Charon’s presence,
Sent her waiting-maids to fetch me?
No! I am not yet departed
And extinguish’d; in my spirit
Is the living flame of life still
Glowing, blazing and exulting.
And these maidens, gaily pulling
At their oars, and o’er me splashing
With the water dripping from them,
Full of merriment and laughter,—
These two fresh and sprightly damsels
Are most certainly not ghostly
Chambermaids in hell residing,
Waiting-maids of Proserpina!
That I might be fully certain
Of their upper-worldliness,
And by practical experience
Ascertain my own existence,
Hastily my lips applied I
To their rosy cheeks’ soft dimples,
And then framed this syllogism:
Yes, I kiss, and so I’m living!
When we reach’d the shore, again I
Kiss’d the pair of kindly maidens;
In this coin, and no other,
Would they take the passage-money.
Caput XIV
Violet-colour’d mountain summits
Smile from out the sunny gold-ground;
To the slope a village clingeth,
Seeming like a daring bird’s nest.
When I climb’d up to it, found I
That the old ones all had flown,
And that none were now remaining
Save the young, who could not fly yet;
Pretty boys, and little maidens,
Almost hidden in their scarlet
Or white woollen caps, whilst playing
At a marriage, in the market.
Still they play’d regardless of me,
And I saw how the enamour’d
Mouse-prince knelt pathetically
To the fair cat-emperor’s daughter.
Poor young prince! Alas! he’s married
To the beauty. She morosely
Wrangles, bites him, and then eats him;
When he’s dead, the game is over.
Almost all the day I linger’d
With the children, and we chatted
Like old friends. They fain would ask me
Who I was, and what my business.
“Dear young friends, my native country
“Is call’d Germany,” I told them:
“Bears are found there in abundance,
“And my business is bear-hunting.
“There I’ve torn the skin from many
“Of their bearish ears, and sometimes
“Found myself full sorely handled
“By the paws of Master Bruin.
“Yet with ill-lick’d doltards daily
“I was forced to keep on wrangling
“In my own dear home, and found it
“Get at length beyond all bearing.
“And accordingly here came I,
“Some more noble prey desiring,
“And I fain would try my forces
“‘Gainst the mighty Atta Troll.
“He’s a noble adversary,
“Worthy of me. Ah! I often
“Have in Germany been victor,
“When my victory ashamed me.”
When I took my leave, around me
Danced the pretty little beings
In a rondo, whilst thus sang they:
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Full of charming impudence
Stepp’d at last the youngest tow’rds me,
Bowing lowly twice, thrice, four times,
While with pleasing voice thus sang she:
“When the king I chance to meet with,
“Then I make him two low curtsies;
“When the queen I chance to meet with,
“Then I make her curtsies three.
“But whene’er the devil happens
“With his horns to come across me,
“Then I curtsey twice, thrice, four times—
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Sang the chorus, and with bant’ring
Round my legs kept gaily whirling
With their circling dance and sing-song.
Whilst descending to the valley
That sweet echo still pursued me
Evermore, like birds’ soft chirping:
“Girofflino, Girofflette!”
Caput XV
Rocky blocks, of size gigantic,
All-misshapen and distorted,
Gaze upon me like fierce monsters
Turn’d to stone, from times primeval.
Strange the sight! Grey clouds are hov’ring
High above me, like their double;
They’re the pallid counterfeit
Of those wild and stony figures.
In the distance roars the streamlet,
And the wind howls through the fir-trees;
’Tis a noise inexorable,
And as wretched as despair.
Solitude most terrible!
Troops of jackdaws black are sitting
On the batter’d crumbling fir-trees,
Fluttering with their lame wings strangely.
Close beside me goes Lascaro,
Pale and silent,—I myself, too,
Looking like incarnate madness,
With grim death as my companion.
Wild and wretched is the country;
Lies it ’neath a curse? Methinks I
On the roots of yonder stunted
Tree can marks of blood discover.
It o’ershadoweth a cottage,
Which is modestly half-hidden
In the earth; with meek entreaty
Seems its thatch to gaze upon thee.
They who this poor cot inhabit
Are Cagots,31 surviving relics
Of a race that deep in darkness
Lives a sad despised existence.
In the hearts of the Biscayans
Still is rooted fast the loathing
Of Cagots, dark heritage
From dark days of superstition.
In Bagnères cathedral even
Is a narrow grated entrance;
This, the sacristan inform’d me,
Was the door Cagots went in at.
Once to them all other ingress
To the church was interdicted,
And by stealth they had to enter
In God’s holy house, like felons.
There, upon a lowly footstool,
Sat the poor Cagots, and pray’d there
All alone,—as though infected,
Sever’d from the congregation.
But the consecrated tapers
Of this century flare brightly,
And their lustre scares the evil
Shadows of the middle ages!
So outside remained Lascaro,
Whilst I the Cagot’s poor cottage
Enter’d, and my hand extended
Kindly to my suff’ring brother.
And I also kiss’d his infant,
Who, close-clinging to the bosom
Of his wife, suck’d greedily,
Looking like a sickly spider.
Caput XVI
When thou see’st yon mountain summits
From a distance, they are gleaming
As though deck’d with gold and purple,
Proud and princely in the sunlight.
But when close at hand, this splendour
Vanishes, and, as in other
Earthly loveliness and glory,
’Tis the play of lights deceived thee.
What to thee seem’d gold and purple
Is, alas! but common snow,
Common snow, which, pale and wretched,
Lives a weary life and lonely.
Just above me heard I plainly
How the hapless snow was crackling,
To the heartless cold winds telling
All the tale of its white sorrows.
“O, how slowly pass here,” sigh’d it,
“In the desert waste the hours!
“O these hours that seem quite endless,
“Like eternities hard frozen!
“Hapless snow! O had I only,
“’Stead of on these mountain summits,
“Fallen into yonder valley,
“Yonder vale, where flow’rs are blooming,
“Then should I have softly melted,
“And become a brook, whilst fairest
“Village maidens in my waters
“Would have washed their smiling faces.
“Yes, perchance I should have floated
“To the ocean, there becoming
“Some fair pearl, and so be destin’d
“To adorn a monarch’s crown!”
When I heard this pretty language,
Said I: “Darling snow, I’m doubtful
“Whether such a brilliant future
“Would have met thee in the valley.
“Comfort take! But few amongst you
“Turn to pearls; thou wouldst have fallen
“Probably in some small puddle,
“And become a piece of dirt!”
Whilst I in this friendly fashion
With the snow held conversation,
Came a shot, and from above me
Fell to earth a tawny vulture.
’Twas a joke of friend Lascaro,
Sportsman’s joke; and yet his features
Still continued fix’d and solemn,
His gun-barrel only smoking.
He in silence tore a feather
From the bird’s tail, and then stuck it
On the top of his peak’d felt-hat,
And then hasten’d on as usual.
Wellnigh ghostly ’twas to see him,
As his shadow with the feather
On the white snow of the mountain,
Black and long, was onward moving.
Caput XVII
Like a street there runs a valley,
Known by name of Spirit-Hollow;
Rugged cliffs on either side of’t
Rise to giddy elevation.
On the widest, steepest slope there,
Peers Uraca’s daring cottage
Like a watch-tow’r o’er the valley;
Thither follow’d I Lascaro.
With his mother held he counsel
In mysterious signal-language,
As to how great Atta Troll
Might be best allur’d and vanquish’d.
For we had explored his traces
Carefully, and he no longer
Could escape us. Now are number’d,
Atta Troll, thy days on earth!
As to whether old Uraca
Was in truth a mighty witch
Of distinction, as the people
In the Pyrenees asserted,
I’ll not venture to determine;
This much know I, her exterior
Was suspicious, and suspicious
Was her red eyes’ constant dripping.
Evil was her look, and squinting,
And the poor cows (’tis reported)
Whom she look’d on, in their udders
Had the milk dried suddenly.
It is even said that many
Fatted swine and strongest oxen
She had put to death, by merely
Stroking with her wither’d hands.
She at times for such offences
Was exposed to accusations
To the justice. But the latter
Was a follower of Voltaire,
Just a modern, shallow worldling,
Void of faith and penetration,
And the’ accusers sceptically
Were dismiss’d, wellnigh with insult.
Publicly Uraca follow’d
Quite an honest occupation,
Namely, selling mountain-simples
And stuff’d birds to those who sought them.
Full her cottage was of suchlike
Curiosities, and frightful
Was the smell of fungi in it,
Cuckoo-flow’rs and elderberries.
There was quite a fine collection
Of the vulture tribe display’d there,
With their wings extended fully,
And their monstrous beaks projecting.
Was’t the strange plants’ smell that mounted
To my head and stupified me?
Wondrous feelings stole across me,
As I gazed upon those birds.
They’re perchance enchanted mortals,
Who, by magic art o’erpower’d,
To the wretched stuff’d condition
Of poor birds have been converted.
Fixedly they gaze upon me,
Sadly, yet with much impatience;
Often they appear to throw
Tow’rd the witch shy glances also.
But the latter, old Uraca,
Close beside her son Lascaro
Cowers in the chimney corner,
Melting lead and casting bullets,—
Bullets that by fate are destined
To destroy poor Atta Troll.
How the flames with hasty motion
Quiver o’er the witch’s features!
She incessantly keeps moving
Her thin lips, but nothing says she;
Mutters she the witches’ blessing,
That the casting be successful?
Oft she chuckles and oft nods she
To her son, but he continues
Earnestly his occupation,
And as silently as Death.
Swelt’ring ’neath my awe-struck feelings,
To the window went I, seeking
For fresh air, and then look’d downward
O’er the valley far below me.
What I saw on that occasion
’Tween the hours of twelve and one,
I will faithfully and neatly
Tell you in the following chapters.
Caput XVIII
And it was the time of full moon
On St. John the Baptist’s evening,
When the wild hunt’s apparition
Rush’d along the Spirit-Hollow.
From the window of Uraca’s
Witchlike hut I excellently
Could observe the spirit-army
As it sped along the valley.
Capital the place I stood in
For observing what was passing;
I enjoy’d a full sight of the
Grave-arisen dead men’s pastime.
Cracking whips, and shouts and halloing,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
How they joyously re-echoed!
On in front by way of vanguard
Ran the wondrous game they hunted,
Stag and sow, in herds enormous,
With the pack of hounds behind them.
Huntsmen out of every region
And of every age were gather’d;
Hard by Nimrod of Assyria,
For example, rode Charles X—.
High upon their snowy horses
On they rush’d; on foot there follow’d
The piqueurs, the leashes holding,
And the pages with the torches.
Many in the wild procession
Seem’d to me well-known. The horseman
In the golden glist’ning armour,—
Was he not the great King Arthur?
And Sir Ogier, he of Denmark,
Wore he not his green and glancing
Coat of ringèd mail, that gave him
All the’ appearance of a frog?
In the long train also saw I
Many intellectual heroes;
There I recognized our Wolfgang,
By his eyes’ exceeding lustre.
Being damn’d by Hengstenberg,
In his grave he cannot slumber,
But his earthly love for hunting
With the heathen throng continues.
By his mouth’s sweet smile I also
Knew again the worthy William,32
Whom the Puritans had likewise
Cursed with bitterness; this sinner
Needs must join at night that savage
Army, on a black steed mounted;
On an ass, and close beside him
Rode a man,—and, O good heavens,
By his weary, praying gestures,
By his pious snow-white nightcap,
By his grief of soul, I straightway
Knew our old friend, Francis Horn!
Just for writing commentaries
On the world-child Shakespear, must he
After death, poor fellow, with him
Ride amidst the wild hunt’s tumult!
Ah! he now must ride, poor Francis,
Who to walk was well-nigh frighten’d;
Who ne’er moved, except when praying,
Or when chatting o’er the tea-tray!
Would not all the aged maidens,
Long accustomed to caress him,
Shudder if they came to hear that
Francis was a savage huntsman!
When he breaks into a gallop,
The great William with derision
Looks on his poor commentator
Who at donkey’s pace goes after,
Helplessly and wildly clinging
To the pommel of his donkey,
Yet in death as well as lifetime
Following faithfully his author.
Many ladies saw I also
In the spirits’ wild procession,
Many beauteous nymphs amongst them
With their slender, youthful figures.
They astraddle sat their horses,
Mythologically naked;
Yet their long and curling tresses
Fell low down, like golden mantles.
Garlands on their heads they carried,
And with saucy backward-bending
Supercilious wanton postures
Leafy wands kept ever swinging.
Hard beside them saw I certain
Closely-button’d dames on horseback
On their ladies’ saddles sitting
With their falcons on their fists.
As in parody behind them
On their knackers, lanky ponies,
Rode a troop of gay bedizen’d
Women, looking like comedians.
Full of beauty were their features,
But perchance a little bold;
Madly were they shouting with their
Cheeks so full and wanton-painted.
How they joyously re-echoed,
Notes of hunting-horns and laughter,
Yelping dogs and neighing horses,
Cracking whips and shouts and halloing.
Caput XIX
But, resembling beauty’s trefoil,
In the midst of the procession
Figures three I noticed; ne’er I
Can forget those lovely women.
Easily the first one knew I
By the crescent on her forehead;
Like a statue pure, all-proudly
Onward rode the mighty goddess.
High up-turn’d appear’d her tunic,
Half her breast and hip disclosing;
Torchlight, moonlight both were playing
Gaily round her snowy members.
White as marble were her features,
Cold as marble too; and fearful
Was the numbness and the paleness
Of that face, so stern and noble.
Yet within her black eye plainly
Terribly but sweetly sparkled
A mysterious, glowing fire,
Spirit-dazzling and consuming.
O, how alter’d was Diana
Who, with haughty chastity,
To a stag once turn’d Acteon,
And as prey to dogs abandon’d!
Does she expiate this crime now
Join’d to these gallant companions?
Like a wretched spectral creature
Nightly through the air she travels.
Late, indeed, but all the stronger
She to thoughts of lust awakens,
And within her eyes ’tis burning,
Like a very brand of hell.
All the lost time now laments she,
When mankind were far more handsome
And by quantity perchance she
Now makes up for quality.
Close beside her rode a beauty
Whose fair features were not chisell’d
In such Grecian mould, yet glisten’d
With the Celtic race’s charms.
This one was the fay Abunde,
Whom I easily distinguish’d
By the sweetness of her smile,
And her mad and hearty laughter!
Hale and rosy were her features,
As though limn’d by Master Greuze;
Heart-shaped was her mouth, and open,
Showing teeth of dazzling whiteness.
Night-dress blue and flutt’ring wore she,
That the wind to lift attempted;
Even in my brightest visions
Never saw I such fair shoulders!
Scarcely could I keep from springing
Out of window to embrace them;
Ill should I have fared, however,
For my neck should I have broken.
She, alas! would but have titter’d
If before her feet, all-bleeding,
In the deep abyss I tumbled,—
Ah! a laugh like this well know I!
And the third of those fair women,
Who so deeply stirr’d thy bosom,—
Was she but a female devil
Like the other two first mention’d?
Whether devil she or angel,
Know I not; in case of women
One knows never where the angel
Ceases, and the deuce commences.
On her glowing sickly features
Lay an oriental charm,
And her costly robes reminded
Of Schehezerade’s sweet stories.
Soft her lips, just like pomegranates,
And her nose a bending lily,
And her members cool and slender
As the palms in the oasis.
On a snowy palfrey sat she,
Whose gold bridle by two negroes
Was conducted, who on foot
By the princess’ side were walking.
And in truth she was a princess,
Was the queen of far Judæa,
Was the lovely wife of Herod,
Who the Baptist’s head demanded.
For this deed of blood she also
Was accurs’d, and as a spectre
With the wild hunt must keep riding,
Even to the day of judgment.
In her hands she evermore
Bears the charger with the Baptist’s
Head upon it, which she kisses,—
Yes, the head she kisses wildly.
For she once loved John the Baptist;
In the Bible ’tis not written,
Yet in popular tradition
Lives Herodias’ bloody love.
Otherwise there’s no explaining
That strange fancy of the lady,—
Would a woman ever ask for
That man’s head for whom she cared not?
She was somewhat angry, may be,
With him,—had him, too, beheaded;
But when she upon the charger
Saw the much-loved head lie lifeless,
Sore she wept, and lost her senses,
And she died of love’s delirium.
(Love’s delirium! Pleonasm!
Love must always be delirium!)
Every night arising, bears she
As I’ve said, the bloody head
In her hand as she goes hunting,
Yet with foolish woman’s fancy
She at times the head hurls from her
Through the air, with childish laughter,
And then catches it again
Very nimbly, like a plaything.
And as she was riding by me,
On me look’d she, and she nodded
So coquettishly and fondly,
That my inmost heart was shaken.
Three times up and downward moving
The procession pass’d, and three times
Did the lovely apparition
Greet me, as she rode before me.
When the train at last had faded,
And the tumult was extinguish’d,
Still that loving salutation
Glow’d within my inmost brain.
And throughout the livelong night
I my weary limbs kept tossing
On the straw (for feather beds
Were not in Uraca’s cottage),
And methought: What meaning was there
In that strange, mysterious nodding?
Wherefore didst thou gaze upon me
With such tenderness, Herodias?
Caput XX
’Twas the sunrise. Golden arrows
Shot against the white mist fiercely,
Which turn’d red, as though sore wounded,
And in light and glory melted.
Finally the victory’s won,
And the day, the triumphator,
Stood, in full and beaming splendour,
On the summit of the mountain.
All the birds in noisy chorus
Twitter’d in their secret nests,
And a smell of herbs arose too,
Like a concert of sweet odours.
At the earliest dawn of morning
To the valley we descended,
And whilst friend Lascaro follow’d
On the traces of the bear,
I the time to kill attempted
With my thoughts, and yet this thinking
Made me at the last quite weary,
And a little mournful even.
Weary, then, and mournful sank I
On the soft moss-bank beside me.
Under yonder mighty ash-tree,
Where the little streamlet flow’d,
Which, with its mysterious plashing
So mysteriously befool’d me,
That all thoughts and power of thinking
From my spirit pass’d away.
And a raging yearning seized me
For a dream, for death, for madness,
For that woman-rider, whom I
In the spirit-march had seen.
O ye lovely nightly faces,
Scared away by beams of morning,
Tell me, whither have ye fleeted?
Tell me, where ye dwell at daytime?
Under olden temples’ ruins,
Far away in the Romagna
(So ’tis said) Diana refuge
Seeks by day from Christ’s dominion.
Only in the midnight darkness
From her hiding place she ventures,
And rejoices in the chase
With her heathenish companions.
And the beauteous fay Abunde
Of the Nazarenes is fearful,
And throughout the day she lingers
Safe within her Avalun.
This fair island lies deep-hidden
Far off, in the silent ocean
Of romance, that none can reach save
On the fabled horse’s pinions.
Never there casts care its anchor,
Never there appears a steamer,
Full of wonder-seeking blockheads,
With tobacco-pipes in mouth.
Never reaches there the languid
Sound of bells, so dull and tedious,—
That incessant bim-bom clatter
Which the fairies so detest.
There, in never-troubled pleasure,
And in youth eternal blooming,
Still resides the joyous lady,
Our blond dame, the fay Abunde.
Laughingly her walks there takes she
Under lofty heliotropes,
With her talking train beside her,
World-departed Paladins.
Well, and thou, Herodias, prythee
Say where art thou? Ah, I know it,
Thou art dead, and liest buried
By the town Jerusalem!
Stiffly sleeps by day thy body,
In its marble coffin prison’d;
Yet the cracking whips and halloing
Waken thee at midnight’s hour,
And the wild array thou followest
With Diana and Abunde,
With thy merry hunting comrades,
Who hold cross and pain detested.
O what sweet society!
Could I hunt with you by night-time
Through the forests! By thy side
Always would I ride, Herodias!
For ’tis thee I love the dearest!
More than yonder Grecian goddess,
More than yonder Northern fairy,
Love I thee, thou Jewess dead!
Yes, I love thee! Well I know it
By the trembling of my spirit;
Love thou me, and be my darling,
Sweet Herodias, beauteous woman.
I’m the very knight thou wantest!
Little truly it concerns me
That thou’rt dead and damn’d already,
For I’m free from prejudices.
My own happiness ’tis only
That concerns me, and at times I
Feel inclined to doubt if truly
To the living I belong!
Take me as thy knight, I pray thee,
As thy Cavalier servente,
And thy mantle will I carry
And e’en all thy whims put up with.
Every night I’ll ride beside thee,
With the army wild careering;
Merrily we’ll talk and laugh then
At my frenzied conversation.
Thus the time I’ll shorten for thee
In the night; but yet by day-time
All our joy will fly, and weeping
On that grave I’ll take my seat.
Yes, I’ll sit by day-time weeping
On the regal vault’s sad ruins,
On the grave of thee, my loved one,
By the town Jerusalem.
Aged Jews, who chance to pass me,
Then will surely think I’m sorrowing
For the temple’s desolation,
And the town Jerusalem.
Caput XXI
Argonauts without a ship,
Who on foot the mountain visit,
And instead of golden fleeces
Aim at nothing but a bear’s skin,—
We’re, alas! poor devils only,
Heroes of a modern fashion,
And no classic poet ever
Will in song immortalize us.
Yet we notwithstanding suffer’d
Serious hardships! O what rain
Fell upon us on the summit,
Where no tree or hackney-coach was!
Fierce the storm, its bonds were broken,
And in buckets it descended;
Jason surely was at Colchis
Never drench’d in such a show’r-bath!
“An umbrella! Gladly would I
“Give you six-and-thirty kings33
“For the loan of one umbrella!”
“Cried I,—and the water dripp’d still.
Fagg’d to death, and out of temper,
We return’d, like half-drown’d puppies
Late at night, as best we could,
To the witch’s lofty cottage.
There beside the glowing fire-place
Sat Uraca, busy combing
Her great fat and ugly pug-dog;
Quickly she dismiss’d the latter,
To attend to us instead,
And my bed she soon got ready,
Loosening first my espardillas,
That uncomfortable foot-gear—
Help’d me to undress, my stockings
Pulling off; I found them sticking
To my legs, as close and faithful
As the friendship of a blockhead.
“Quick! a dressing-gown! I’d give you
“Six-and-thirty kings for only
“One dry dressing-gown!” exclaim’d I,
As my wet shirt steam’d upon me.
Freezing and with chattering teeth, I
Stood awhile upon the hearth;
By the fire then driven senseless
On the straw at length I sank.
But I slept not. Blinking look’d I
On the witch, who by the chimney
Sat, and held the head and shoulders
Of her son upon her lap,
Helping to undress him. Near her
Stood upright her ugly pug-dog,
And he in his front paw managed
Cleverly to hold a pot.
From the pot Uraca took some
Reddish fat, and with it rubb’d the
Ribs and bosom of her son,
Rubbing hastily, with trembling.
And while rubbing him and salving,
She a cradle-song was humming
Through her nose, whilst strangely crackled
On the hearth the ruddy flames.
Like a corpse, all yellow, bony,
On his mother’s lap the son lay,
Sorrowful as death, wide open
Stared his hollow, pallid eyes.
Is he truly but a dead man
Who each night by love maternal
Hath a life enchanted giv’n him
By the aid of strongest witch-salve?
Wondrous the half-sleep of fever,
Where the leaden limbs feel weary
As though fetter’d, and the senses
O’er-excited, wide awake!
How the herb-smell in the chamber
Troubled me! With painful effort
Thought I where I had already
Smelt the same, but vain my thoughts were.
How the wind a-down the chimney
Gave me pain! Like sighs it sounded
Of dejected dried-up spirits,—
Like the sound of well-known voices.
Most of all was I tormented
By the stuff’d birds, which were standing
On a shelf above my head,
Near the place where I was lying.
They their wings were slowly flapping
And with awful motion, bending
Downward tow’rd me, forward pushing
Their long beaks, like human noses.
Ah! where have I seen already
Noses such as these? At Hamburg,
Or at Frankfort, in the Jews’ street?
Sad the glimmering recollection!
I at last was overpower’d
Quite by sleep, and in the place of
Wakeful, terrible phantasmas,
Came a healthful, steady dream.
And I dreamt that this poor cottage
Suddenly became a ball-room
Which by columns was supported,
And by candelabra lighted.
Some invisible musicians
Play’d from out Robert-le-Diable
That fine crazy dance of nuns;
All alone I walk’d about there.
But at length the doors were open’d,
Open’d wide and then advanced
With a step both slow and stately
Guests of wonderful appearance.
They were solely bears and spirits!
Walking bolt upright, each bear
Led a spirit as his partner,
In a snow-white grave-cloth hidden.
In this manner pair’d, began they
Waltzing up and down with vigour
In the hall. The sight was curious,
Laughable, but also fearful!
For the awkward bears soon found it
Difficult to keep in step
With the white and airy figures,
Who whirl’d round with easy motion.
But those poor unhappy creatures
Were inexorably driven,
And their snorting overpower’d
E’en the’ orchestral double bass.
Oftentimes one couple jostled
’Gainst another, and the bear
Gave the spirit that had push’d him
Some hard kicks on his hind quarters.
Often in the dance’s bustle
Would a bear tear off the shroud
From the head of his companion,
And a death’s head was disclosed then.
But at length with joyous uproar
Crash’d the trumpets and the cymbals,
And the kettle-drums loud thunder’d,
And there came the gallopade.
To the end of this I dreamt not,—
For a stupid clumsy bear
Trod upon my corns, and made me
Cry aloud, and so awoke me.
Caput XXII
Phœbus in his sunny droschka
Lash’d his flaming horses onwards,
And had half his course already
Through the spacious heavens completed,
Whilst I still in slumber lay,
And of bears and spirits, strangely
Intertwining with each other
In quaint arabesque, was dreaming.
Midday ’twas ere I awaken’d,
And I found myself alone;
Both my hostess and Lascaro
For the chase had started early.
In the hut the pug-dog only
Still remain’d. Beside the hearth he
Stood upright before the kettle,
While his paws a spoon were holding.
Admirably had they taught him
Whensoe’er the broth boil’d over
Hastily to stir it round,
And to skim away the bubbles.
But am I myself bewitch’d?
Or still blazes there the fever
In my head? I scarce can credit
My own ears—the pug-dog’s talking!
Yes, he’s talking, and his accent
Gentle is and Swabian; dreaming,
As though buried in deep thought,
Speaks he in the foll’wing fashion:
“Poor unhappy Swabian poet!
“In a foreign land I sadly
“Languish, as a dog enchanted,
“And a witch’s kettle watch!
“What a shameful sin is witchcraft!
“O how sad, how deeply tragic
“Is my fate,—with human feelings
“Underneath a dog’s exterior!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With my trusty school companions!
“They’re at any rate no wizards,—
“Ne’er bewitch’d a single being!
“Would that I at home had tarried
“With Charles Mayer, with the fragrant
“Wallflow’rs of my native country,
“With its pudding-broth delicious!
“I’m half dead now with nostalgia—
“Would that I could see the smoke
“Rising from the chimneys where they
“Vermicelli cook at Stukkert!”
When I heard this, deep emotion
Came across me; quickly sprang I
From the couch, approach’d the fireplace,
And address’d him with compassion:
“Noble bard, say how it happens
“That thou’rt in this witch’s cottage?
“Tell me wherefore have they changed thee
“Cruelly into a pug-dog?”
But with joy exclaim’d the other:
“Then thou’rt really not a Frenchman,
“But a German, understanding
“All my silent monologue?
“Ah, dear countryman! how sad that
“Counc’llor-of-legation Kölle,
“When we o’er our pipes and glasses
“Held discussions in the beershop,
“Always harp’d upon the thesis
“That by travelling alone we
“Could obtain that polish, which he
“Had from foreign lands imported!
“So, that I might wipe away all
“That raw crust which stuck upon me,
“And like Kölle might acquire
“Elegant and polish’d manners,
“From my country I departed,
“And while thus the grand tour making,
“Came I to the Pyrenees,
“To the cottage of Uraca.
“I an introduction brought her
“From Justinus Kerner34, never
“Thinking that this so-called friend
“Was in wicked league with witches.
“Kindly welcomed me Uraca,
“Yet, to my alarm, her friendship
“Kept on growing, till converted
“At the last to sensual passion.
“Yes, immodesty still flicker’d
“Wildly in the wither’d bosom
“Of this wretched, worthless woman,
“And she now must needs seduce me!
“Yet implored I: ‘Ah, excuse me,
“‘Worthy madam! I’m no friv’lous
“‘Goethe’s pupil, but belong
“‘To the poet-school of Swabia.
“‘Modesty’s the muse we worship,
“’And the drawers she wears are made of
“‘Thickest leather—Ah, good madam,
“‘Do not violate my virtue!
“‘Other poets boast of genius,
“‘Others fancy, others passion,
“‘But the pride of Swabian poets
“’Is especially their virtue.
“‘That’s the only wealth we boast of!
“‘Do not rob me of the modest
“’And religious simple garment
“‘Which my nakedness doth cover!’
“Thus I spoke, and yet the woman
“Smiled ironically; smiling
“She a switch of mistletoe
“Took, and then my head touch’d with it.
“Thereupon I felt a chilly
“Strange sensation, like a goose-skin
“Being o’er my members drawn;
“Yet in truth a goose-skin ’twas not—
“On the contrary, a dog-skin
“Was it rather; since that fearful
“Moment have I been converted
“As thou see’st me, to a pug-dog!”
Poor young fellow! Through his sobbing
Not a word more could he utter;
And he wept with so much fervour,
That in tears wellnigh dissolved he.
“Listen now,” I said with pity:
“Can I possibly relieve you
“Of your dog-skin, and restore you
“To humanity and verses?”
But the other raised his paws up
In the air disconsolately
And despairingly; at length he
Spake with sighing and with groaning:
“Till the Judgment Day, alas! I
“In this dog-skin must be prison’d,
“If I’m freed not from enchantment
“By a virgin’s self-devotion.
“Yes, a pure unsullied virgin,
“Who ne’er touch’d a human being,
“And the following condition
“Truly keeps, alone can free me.
“This unsullied virgin must,
“In the night of Saint Sylvester,
“Read Gustavus Pfizer’s35 poems,
“And not go to sleep one moment!
“If she keeps awake while reading,
“And her modest eye ne’er closes,—
“Then shall I be disenchanted,
“Be a man,—yes, be undogg’d!”
“In that case, good friend,” replied I,
“I at any rate can never
“Undertake to disenchant you,
“For I’m no unsullied virgin;
“And still less should I be able
“To fulfil the task of reading
“All Gustavus Pfizer’s poems,
“And not fall asleep instanter!”
Caput XXIII
From the witch’s entertainment
To the valley we descended,
And our footsteps to the region
Of the Positive return’d.
Hence, ye spirits! Nightly spectres!
Airy figures! Fev’rish visions!
We find rational employment
Once again with Atta Troll.
In the cavern, by his young ones,
Lies the old bear, soundly sleeping,
With the snore of conscious virtue,
And at length he wakes with gaping.
Near him squats young Master One-ear
And his head he’s gently scratching.
Like a bard whose rhyme is wanting,
And upon his paws he’s scanning.
Likewise by their father’s side
On their backs are dreaming lying
Innocent four-footed lilies,
Atta Troll’s belovèd daughters.
Say, what tender thoughts are pining
In the softly blooming spirits
Of these snowy young bear-virgins?
Moist with tears their eyes are glist’ning.
Most of all appears the youngest
Deeply moved. Within her bosom
She a blissful twinge is feeling,
And to Cupid’s might succumbs she.
Yes, that little god’s sharp arrow
Through her thick skin penetrated
When she saw Him—O, good heavens
Him she loves, a living man is!
Is a man, yclept Schnapphahnski;—
Whilst before his foes retreating
He arrived by chance one morning
At the mountain in his flight.
Woes of heroes touch all women,
And within our hero’s features
Were depicted want of money,
Pale distress and gloomy sorrow.
All his military chest,
Two-and-twenty silver groschen,
Which he had when Spain he enter’d,
Was the prey of Espartero.
E’en his watch was not preserved him,
But remain’d at Pampeluna
In a pawn-shop. ’Twas an heirloom,
Costly and of genuine silver.
And with long legs swiftly ran he,
But unconsciously whilst running
Won he something that’s far better
Than the best of fights,—a heart!
Yes, she loves him, him, the archfoe!
O thou most unhappy bearess!
If thy father knew the secret,
He would growl in frightful fashion.
As the aged Odoardo36
Stabb’d Emilia Galotti
In his pride of citizenship,
So would also Atta Troll
Sooner have destroy’d his daughter,
Yes, with his own paws destroy’d her
Than permitted her to tumble
In the arms of any monarch
Yet he at this very moment
Is of tender disposition,
With no wish to crush a rosebud
Ere the hurricane has stripp’d it.37
Tenderly lies Atta Troll
In the cavern, by his young ones.
O’er him creep, like death’s forebodings,
Mournful yearnings for the future.
“Children,” sigh’d he, as his great eyes
“Suddenly ’gan dripping, “children,
“All my earthly pilgrimage
“Is accomplish’d, we must part now.
“For to-day at noon whilst sleeping
“Came a vision full of meaning,
“And my soul enjoy’d the blissful
“Foretaste of an early death.
“Now, I’m far from superstitious,
“I’m no giddy bear,—yet are there
“Certain things ’twixt earth and heaven
“Unaccountable to thinkers.
“Over world and fate whilst poring,
“Fell I fast asleep, with yawning,
“And I dreamt that I was lying
“Underneath a mighty tree.
“From the branches of this tree there
“Trickled down some whitish honey,
“Gliding in my open muzzle,
“And I felt a sweet enjoyment.
“As I blissfully peer’d upwards,
“Saw I on the very tree-top
“Seven tiny little bears
“Sliding up and down the branches.
“Tender, pretty little creatures,
“With a skin of rose-red colour,
“While, like silk, from their dear shoulders
“Hung a something, like two pinions.
“Yes, those rose-red little bears
“Were adorn’d with silken pinions,
“And with sweet celestial voices,
“Sounding like a flute’s notes, sang they!
“As they sang, my skin turn’d ice-cold,
“And from out my skin there mounted,
“Like a soaring flame, my spirit,
“Radiantly to heaven ascending.”—
Thus spake Atta Troll in quivering
Tender grunting tones; a moment
Paused he, full of melancholy—
But his ears with sudden impulse
Prick’d he up, and strangely shook they,
Whilst from off his couch upsprang he,
Trembling, bellowing with rapture:
“Do ye hear that sound, my children?
“Is it not the darling accents
“Of your mother? O, well know I,
“’Tis the roaring of my Mumma!
“Mumma! Yes, my swarthy Mumma!”
Atta Troll, these words pronouncing,
Hasten’d, like a crazy being,
From the cavern to destruction!
Ah, he rush’d to meet his doom!
Caput XXI
In the vale of Ronceval
On the very spot where whilome
Charlemagne’s unhappy nephew
To the foe his life surrender’d,
There, too, fell poor Atta Troll,
And he fell by cunning, like him
Whom the base equestrian Judas,
Ganelon of Mainz, betrayed.
Ah! that noblest bear’s-emotion,
Namely his uxorious feelings,
Was a snare which old Uraca
Cunningly avail’d herself of.
She the growl of swarthy Mumma
Copied with such great perfection,
That poor Atta Troll was tempted
Out of his secure bear’s-cavern.
On the wings of yearning ran he
Through the vale,—oft stood he, gently
Snuffing at a rock in silence,
Thinking Mumma was conceal’d there.
Ah! conceal’d there was Lascaro
With his musket, and he shot him
Through the middle of his heart, whence
Gush’d a ruddy stream of blood.
Once or twice his head he waggled,
But at last with heavy groaning
Fell he down, and wildly gasp’d he,
And his latest sigh was—“Mumma.”
Thus the noble hero fell;
Thus he died. And yet immortal
Will he in the poet’s numbers
After death arise in glory.
Yes, he’ll rise again in numbers,
And his glory, grown colossal,
On four-footed solemn trochees
O’er the face of earth stride proudly.
And his tomb Bavaria’s monarch
Will erect in the Walhalla,
Writing on it this inscription,
In true lapidary style:
“Atta Troll; a bear of impulse;
“Devotee; a loving husband;
“Full of sans-culottic notions,
“Thanks to the prevailing fashion.
“Wretched dancer; strong opinions
“Bearing in his shaggy bosom;
“Often stinking very badly;
“Talentless; a character!”
Caput XXV
Three-and-thirty aged women,
Wearing on their heads the scarlet
Old Biscayan caps we read of,
Stood around the village entrance.
One, like Deborah, amongst them
Beat the tambourine, and danced too,
And she sang a song of triumph
O’er Lascaro, the bear-slayer.
Four strong men upon their shoulders
Bore the vanquish’d bear in triumph;
Upright sat he on the seat,
Like a sickly bathing patient.
And behind, as if related
To the dead bear, went Lascaro
With Uraca; right and left she
Bow’d her thanks, though much embarrass’d.
And the Mayor’s Assistant gave them
Quite a speech before the town hall,
When the grand procession got there,
And he spoke on many subjects,—
As, for instance, on the increase
Of the navy, on the press,
On the weighty beetroot question,
On the curse of party spirit.
After fully illustrating
Louis Philippe’s special merits,
He proceeded to the bear,
And Lascaro’s great achievement.
“Thou, Lascaro!” cried the speaker,
As with his tricolour’d sash he
Wiped the sweat from off his forehead,
“Thou, Lascaro! Thou, Lascaro!
“Thou who bravely hast deliver’d
“France and Spain from Atta Troll,
“Thou’rt the hero of both countries,
“Pyrenean Lafayette!”
When Lascaro in this manner
Heard officially his praises,
In his beard with pleasure laugh’d he,
And quite blush’d with satisfaction,
And in very broken accents,
One word o’er another stumbling,
Gave he utt’rance to his thanks
For this most exceeding honour!
Every one with deep amazement
Gazed upon this sight unwonted,
And the aged women mutter’d
In alarm, beneath their breath:
“Why, Lascaro has been laughing!
“Why, Lascaro has been blushing!
“Why, Lascaro has been speaking!
“He, the dead son of the witch!”—
Atta Troll that very day was
Flay’d, and then they sold by auction
His poor skin. A furrier bought it
For one hundred francs, hard money.
He most beautifully trimm’d it
With a lovely scarlet border,
And then sold it for just double
What it cost him in the first place.
Juliet then became its owner
At third hand, and in her bedroom
Lies it now in Paris, serving
As a rug beside her bed.
O, with naked feet how often
Have I stood at night upon this
Earthly brown coat of my hero,
On the skin of Atta Troll!
And o’ercome by sad reflections,
Schiller’s words I then remember’d:
“What in song shall be immortal
“Must in actual life first die!”38
Caput XXVI
Well, and Mumma? Ah, poor Mumma
Is a woman! Frailty
Is her name! Alas! all women
Are as frail as any porcelain.
When by fate’s hand she was parted
From her glorious noble husband,
She by no means died of sorrow,
Nor succumb’d to her affliction.
On the contrary, she gaily
Went on living, went on dancing
As before, with ardour wooing
For the public’s daily plaudits.
Finally she found a solid
Situation, and provision
For the whole of life, at Paris
In the famed Jardin des Plantes.
When I chanced the other Sunday
With my Juliet to go thither
And expounded Nature to her,
Of the plants and beasts conversing,
Showing the giraffes and cedars
Of Mount Lebanon, the mighty
Dromedary, the gold pheasants,
And the zebra,—as we chatted
It so happen’d that at length we
Stood before the pit’s close railing
Where the bears are all collected,—
Gracious heavens, what saw we there!
An enormous desert-bear
From Siberia, white and hairy,
With a lady-bear was playing
A too-tender game of love there.
And the latter was our Mumma!
Was the wife of Atta Troll!
Well I knew her by the tender
Humid glances of her eye.
Yes, ’twas she! the South’s black daughter!
She it was,—yes, Madame Mumma
With a Russian is now living,
With a Northern wild barbarian!
With a simp’ring face a negro
Who approach’d us, thus address’d me:
“Is there any sight more pleasing
“Than to see two lovers happy?”
I replied: “Pray tell me whom, Sir,
“I’ve the honour of addressing?”
But the other cried with wonder:
“Don’t you really recollect me?
“Why, the Moorish prince am I
“Who in Freiligrath was drumming;
“Things in Germany went badly,
“I was far too isolated.
“Here, however, where as keeper
I am station’d, where I’m living
’Mongst the lions, plants, and tigers
Of my home within the tropics,
“Here I find it much more pleasant
Than your German fairs attending,
Where I day by day was drumming
And was fed so very badly.
“I quite recently was married
To a fair cook from Alsatia;
When within her arms reposing
Feel I then at home completely.
“Her dear feet remind me closely
Of our darling elephants;
When she speaks in French, her language
My black mother-tongue resembles.
“Oft she scolds me, and I think then
Of the rattling of that drum
Which had skulls around it hanging;
Snake and lion fled before it.
“Yet with feeling in the moonlight
Weeps she, like a crocodile
Peeping from the tepid river
To enjoy a little coolness.
“And she gives me charming tit-bits,
And I thrive upon them, eating
Once again, as on the Niger,
With old African enjoyment.
“I am getting fat; my belly’s
Grown quite round, and from my shirt it
Is projecting, like a black moon
From the snow-white clouds advancing.”
Caput XXVII
(To Augustus Varnhagen Von Ense.)
“Where in heaven, Master Louis,
Did you pick up all this crazy
Nonsense?”—these the very words were
hich the Card’nal d’Este made use of.
When he read the well-known poem
Of Orlando’s frantic doings,
Which politely Ariosto
To his Eminence inscribed.
Yes, my good old friend Varnhagen,
Yes, I round thy lips see plainly
Hov’ring those exact expressions,
By the same sly smile attended.
Often dost thou laugh whilst reading,
Yet at intervals thy forehead
Solemnly is wrinkled over,
And these thoughts then steal across thee:
“Sounds it not like those young visions
That I dreamt once with Chamisso,
And Brentano and Fouqué,
In the blue and moonlight evenings?39
“Is it not the dear notes rising
From the long-lost forest chapel?
Sound the well-known cap and bells not
Roguishly at intervals?
“In the nightingale’s sweet chorus
Breaks the bear’s deep double-bass,
Dull and growling, interchanging
In its turn with spirit-whispers!
“Nonsense, which pretends to wisdom!
Wisdom, which has turn’d quite crazy!
Dying sighs, which suddenly
Into laughter are converted!”—
Yes, my friend, the sounds indeed ’tis
From the long departed dream-time;
Save that modern quavers often
’Midst the olden keynotes jingle.
Signs of trembling thou’lt discover
Here and there, despite the boasting;
I commend this little poem
To thy well-proved gentleness!
Ah! perchance it is the last free
Forest-song of the Romantic;
In the daytime’s wild confusion
Will it sadly die away.
Other times and other birds too!
Other birds and other music!
What a crackling, like the geese’s
Who preserved the Capitol!
What a twitt’ring! ’Tis the sparrows,.
While their claws hold farthing rushlights;
Yet they’re strutting like Jove’s eagle
With the mighty thunderbolt!
What a cooing! Turtledoves ’tis;
Sick of love, they now are hating,
And henceforward, ’stead of Venus,
Draw the chariot of Bellona!
What a humming, world-convulsing!
’Tis in fact the big cock-chafers
Of the springtime of the people,
Smitten with a sudden frenzy!
Other times and other birds too!
Other birds and other music!
They perchance could give me pleasure
Had I only other ears!